#and had to scramble to fix his body with whatever magic she could muster in a nearly dead host

[shalpilot]

official yesui lore dump. I guess

[cassiecasyl]

nibble, nibble, little spider

By @cassiecasyl for @an-odd-idea 

Rating: Teen and Up  Relationships: Peter & Morgan, Peter & Tony  Characters: Peter Parker, Morgan Stark, Tony Stark, a witch  Summary: Peter and Morgan are lost in a forest, alone and hungry when they stumble upon a house made of bread and candy. It couldn’t harm to take a bite, could it? Well, yes, it very much could. 

Hunger weaved through the trees, riding on the wind directly into Peter’s lungs, causing the boy to cough. It was a screaming and scratching complaint of displacement. His stomach rumbled in answer to its sneaking sibling. Peter stumbled from the effects of their argument, catching himself against a trunk. The bark tickled his senses, the rough surface scratching at his skin. He recoiled from the sensation. The quick motion made him sway, and he fell back against the very thing he tried to avoid. He didn’t know what was wrong. He just felt so—

“Peter?” Morgan asked, watching him with big, brown eyes. They were the perfect mix of Tony’s eye color and Pepper’s concerned expression stabbing right into him. He could see the same pain reflected back at him. Peter closed his eyes. 

“I’m fine,” he assured her. 

She moved closer and leaned against his leg, tucking at his shirt. His spidey senses barely objected, uselessly hiding behind a headache. Peter looked down at his adoptive sister. Her intensive gaze looked right through his lies in the same way her father always did. They were heartbreakingly similar. 

“Can you try your phone again?” she asked, searching for hope. Peter fumbled it out of his pocket with shaking fingers and blinked against the artificial light. His heart sank into the void the lack of bars at the top of the screen signaled. He sighed. “Still no signal.” Morgan deflated slightly. 

Peter tried to swipe over to the GPS settings, to maybe get some information this way, but right as he did the screen froze. He grunted in frustration, shaking the device lightly. His head pounded as if obnoxiously cheering the phone on. Peter remembered the time he had landed near a stadium during one of his sensitive episodes, leading him right into a sensory overload then and there. -20/10, would not recommend. He’d needed two days in the soundproof tower to recover from that before even trying to go into louder environments again. 

Peter winced as the screen suddenly flashed bright with an app loading screen before turning completely black. Great. Any buttons proved useless. “Looks like it’s dead,” he confessed to Morgan. She nodded bravely, clearly holding back tears, little erosions in Peter’s heart.  

Peter slid down the trunk, shuddering at the sensation, until he was on eye level with her. He stretched out his arm, nudging Morgan closer and into his embrace. She buried her face in the nook of his neck as she cried. “It’s gonna be alright,” Peter promised, rocking her gently, “Tony will find us, you’ll see.” 

“Dad can fix everything,” she mumbled into the hug and Peter chuckled. 

“That’s right! So don’t give up hope, Mo.” 

They stayed in the relative silence the forest provided for a while. Peter stared up into the leaf-obstructed sky, the gears in his head scraping by just barely. The leaves whisper-sung false promises, inviting him to climb up towards the first stars visible in the darkening sky. He entertained the thought of climbing up to see where the damn woods ended, but the bark’s texture made him want to crawl out of his own skin. His stomach acted up again, not a fan of possible altitude, and his headache became nauseating in a warning. He hated it when his body conspired against him. But, he also couldn’t just leave Morgan alone on the ground. Especially not with night approaching. 

“I’m hungry,” whispered Morgan. 

“I know, Mo,” Peter answered and rubbed her back soothingly. There was nothing he could do. If only he knew enough about flora to know what was safe to eat. Though they didn’t have the option to wash whatever they found, adding further danger. “I’m too.” 

The nagging feeling only grew as they sat there, calling and pulling them away, as it caught them with an invisible string. It was a weird by-taste of hunger, one Peter had never experienced before. If they were at home - where he knew where to find food - the pull would make sense, but here, in the middle of nowhere, it puzzled him. He couldn’t even remember how they got here. All there was, was the forest and hunger, slowly taking over them. His spider sense buzzed loudly, sounding slightly like a radio without a proper signal. He wondered dully whether ghosts could speak through it. 

Suddenly, Morgan sat up, tearing Peter from his dazed thoughts. “I know what we have to do!” she exclaimed, standing up. “We can only follow the path we know,” she said and took off. Peter scrambled to his feet. 

“Wait, Mo,” he called out, “What do you mean?” The girl didn’t answer. 

The hunger’s call became louder as they walked. Peter could almost hear it now, the ringing in his ears resembling more and more a feast. He meant to smell chocolate and his stomach grumbled as if to ask how much longer? Huh, he realized, Morgan must feel it too. 

Old leaves crackled underneath their feet, a crystal clear signal of where they were. A deer looked up a few trees over, mustering them before fleeing, its flock following. But Morgan paid it no mind as she walked towards her goal with Peter on her heels. 

The boy couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. It felt like a trap almost, leaving them no choice but to fall for it to survive. His dizzy mind screamed for food, growing more excited the more signs of it hit Peter’s senses. 

They came to a brook and Peter signaled for Mo to stop. He leaned down to drink, hoping the water would quill some of the overwhelming hunger he felt. It was better than nothing. Underneath the pull, his stomach ached, begging, as if what had been there before was only a phantom, an illusion rather than the real thing. Peter blinked. 

A bird landed on the other side of the stream, picking at something on the ground. The spider looked up, meeting the animal’s eyes just for a moment, before it rustled its feathers and took off, carrying a big breadcrumb in its beak. Something was definitely wrong. 

Something about this all rang a bell, but he couldn’t find it. It rang and rang, a warning of impending nightfall, so annoying Peter wished he could just turn the sound off. It didn’t help in the slightest with remembering. An old story, he mused. A fairy tale, maybe?  

“Morgan?” he called, but she didn’t answer. He spun around, almost hitting a tree as he swayed in response. He felt sick and weak, and the moss on the ground looked so invitingly soft. He briefly closed his eyes in an attempt to regain focus. Morgan. Where was Morgan? She couldn’t be gone. Mr. Stark would kill him. His mind conjured up her image, covered in blood, gnaw marks on breaking her tender skin, half-rotten. His stomach grumbled, sending everything it had upwards, a meek army marching to attack his mind. Not one soldier passed the cavity of his mouth. 

“Morgan?” he called again after swallowing, panic inviting nausea to dance. 

“Peter, look!” the girl's voice finally sounded to the right of him. Peter breathed and steadied himself with the aid of a tree. Nodding a short thanks to his involuntary crutch, he stepped into the bushes to find his little sister. 

Now that he was back on the path, his muscles didn’t protest as much anymore. A strange peace joined the hunger-inducing air, washing over him and taking his care. Like gravity, he was pulled towards a place in the middle of the woods, and tired as Peter was, he let himself fall right into it. 

The woods smelled like freshly baked bread, like those obnoxiously sweet candies Morgan loved, like the brownies Happy baked one time, the best goddamn brownies he had ever eaten, like the hot chocolate he would drink with May on late nights when they would just talk and catch up with each other or simply enjoy each other’s company. 

Peter was positively drooling, sludging out into the little opening. A house stood there, idyllic in the middle of the forest, glowing with magic, promising every meal Peter had ever had and more. Its walls were covered with a little flour like a bread’s crust, and Peter could see the softness inside from where something had bitten into it. The windows were adorned with sugar, whipped cream, and colorfully sprinkled candies. The roof was the color of Minecraft’s dark oak, sturdy and soft. Peter reached up and broke off a piece before he could think. Morgan grinned at him, stuffing her mouth with candy. He tiredly smiled at her, taking in her happiness, gleaming louder than the sun. It was all washed away as the brownie roof touched his tongue. It was just the right temperature and consistency, and it filled his mouth with the taste of chocolate without being overly sticky. It was heavenly, it was every peaceful late night conversation and every birthday party combined. This was what ambrosia must taste like. 

His mind stopped screaming, and he was wholly content in his body with only one bite. The overwhelming hunger was suddenly satisfied, yet his stomach still rumbled. He didn’t feel it. Peter looked at the piece of heaven in his hand, smiling brightly in childish wonder. He wanted more. So, he devoured it and took another piece from the house. 

Dully, shushed by peace, a noise drummed on in the back of his head. It was hidden behind a labyrinth, closed off by heavy prison doors. It didn’t matter. Yet, why was it loud enough to bug him? Why couldn’t it just shut up? He rolled his eyes and reached out towards the soft bread wall. 

But, before his fingers touched the food, he stopped. This was wrong. He was stealing, wasn’t he? The buzzing grew louder. A warning. It was his spider senses, Peter then realized. They were in danger. He turned towards Morgan, panic slowly overriding the happiness, weaseling past every magic firewall. He opened his mouth to call out to her. They needed to go, to get away from here. 

“Knusper, Knusper, Knäuschen, wer knuspert an meinem Häuschen?” a high, scratchy voice sang behind them. Peter froze in horror. “Or should I say ‘nibble, nibble, little mouse, who’s nibbling at my house’? Such a peculiar translation…” 

~~~

A warning was drumming on his head, shaking him until he blinked his eyes open against the stabbing light. It roasted him and hung him up to cool down. Peter groaned. A stagger of noise opened his skull, and he flinched. Only after a moment did he recognize words, let alone the voice. 

“Let him out!” Morgan demanded with as much rage as the five-year-old could muster. Which was a lot, Peter knew from experience. She was an angry embodiment of human wrath, her narrow eyes staring down the witch towering above her. Morgan did not back down. 

“I can’t do that, Sweety. It’s for your own good,” the witch talked down to her with a voice like sugary wood. A shudder ran through Peter as he remembered the rough bark under his hands outside. He clenched his teeth, waiting for an onslaught of pain from somewhere as he slowly sat up. 

“He’s my brother,” Morgan argued, “let him out!” Her eyes turned the sunlight into weapons. The witch, a shadow, did not yet realize the danger she was subjected herself to, as self-assured as she was. 

“He is corrupted,” the witch judged, “You, on the other hand, are still young, little lady.” 

Morgan blinked up at her. “Do you know who my dad is? He’s Iron Man. He’s a hero. And he’s gonna come and rescue us,” she threatened. 

“Oh, I’m counting on it.” Her smile sent little spiders crawling down Peter’s back. They examed the walls of his cage for any way of escape, the tiniest crack, but ultimately, they gave up and settled in the farthest corner. She mustered Peter with predatory eyes, pressing her lips together in disappointment. “It’s really a shame you’re all muscle and bone. It’ll take longer to get you tender enough for the grand meal.” 

Peter’s wide eyes met Morgan’s deer-ey ones as they processed the words. “You don’t wanna fight Iron Man,” the girl threatened again. 

The witch sighed. “This is gonna be harder than I expected. He’s really grown his vines around you, didn’t he?” 

“What’s your plan here?” Peter asked. “Kidnapping children, provoking Iron Man while you’re at it, and now what? Waiting for your trial?” 

The witch laughed. “Stark’s a warmonger, but I am not afraid of him.” She quenched any protest from the kids with her next words: “He’s only made himself believe that he’s better now, that he somehow redeemed himself. It’s a mask. We’ll see how good the great Tony Stark really is soon enough.” 

She turned to her sugar windows as a crow landed on the windowsill, picking up some bread crumbs that had fallen from the damaged wall. Her yellow teeth showed in her evil smile, and Peter suddenly felt very self-conscious about the fact that he hadn’t brushed his teeth since the day before. Granted he hadn’t lost more time unconscious in a crazy fairytale witch’s cage. 

“Frolick, my children, he is on his way,” she cheered, spinning around in a dance towards the stove in the corner. “We will have a grant meal to greet the powerful.” Peter strained his ears in hopes of hearing the familiar sound of repulsors. He wanted to scream out, get out himself so Tony wouldn’t have to walk into this weird trap. He wasn’t even sure what the witch’s plan really was. 

The witch grabbed Morgan’s hand and pulled her with her. The girl struggled, hitting and scratching, grounding her feet into the ground as much as she could. She looked back at Peter in pure fear, mouthing a word. Peter frowned at her. 

“A wild one, are we?” The witch addressed Morgan, leaning down to her level. The girl spat at her. “Now, this is really not a way for a lady to behave,” the witch chastised, sighing. “Maybe you’re further gone than I thought. I really had faith… Maybe, we will have you for dessert.” 

Finally, Morgan tore her hand free. She stepped back, suppressing a shiver. “You’re joking like a pirate,” she said, emphasizing the last word and waving one hand at Peter behind her back. Peter frowned, and then observed the cell door he was sitting in front of. Half pin barrel hinges. With the right kind of leverage, he could open them no problem. They had recently watched the first Pirates of the Caribbean movie, much to Happy’s dismay, but Peter couldn’t be prouder of Morgan at that moment. 

He examined his cell as inconspicuously as he could. There was a blank in the corner, probably meant as a sort of bed, with stains Peter rather wouldn’t know about. He grabbed and pulled at it, and, with a crank, it broke free. Unfortunately, it also brought attention to him. 

“What are you doing?” With two big steps, she stood next to him behind the bars. Peter kept still, ignoring her to the best of his abilities. Morgan followed her and then clung to her hand demandingly. It did nothing but annoy the hag more. “I asked you a question, boy. What are you doing?” She spat out every word, spelling it out for him. 

Peter shrugged and finally looked up at her. “I just thought, if you plan on keeping me here, I might as well redecorate.” Morgan snorted and quickly ducked to avoid the veiny hand flying her way. 

“Do you think this is funny? Tony Stark waged war and I’m going to give him what he’s earned and you think this is all a joke?” Peter shook his head, slightly retreating. “And you, little lady, are truly your father’s daughter, aren’t you? I thought there was hope for you, other than for the boy who got drawn into the family that he doesn’t share blood with, but it seems it’s already too late.” 

She grabbed Morgan in retaliation, holding her even tighter than before. The girl screamed out in surprise and pain before going back to fighting. Suddenly, a rope snaked into the air and approached them curiously. It gently wrapped around Morgan, keeping her in place. The tears on his sister’s face might as well have been acid poured over Peter’s head. 

The witch sighed. “I should’ve done this earlier.” She turned to Peter then. “And now to you…” 

“Let her go,” Peter demanded. “You can do whatever you want with me, just, please, let her go.” 

“The time of bargaining has long passed, boy.” She looked back at the giant pot on the stove. “It’s time to get to work.” The door creaked as it opened, as ominously warning and high-pitched as his spidey sense. He stumbled backward, more crawling than walking, until the wall stopped him. It was giving into his touch, and it took all in Peter to not recoil from the touch that felt a little too much like mold. 

The rope peered over the witch’s shoulder, mustering its prey. Just as she reached out to grab his hand, Peter opened his mouth in protest and let the first words that came to his mind tumble out. “Do you know the Muffin Man?” 

The witch stopped mid-motion. “The Muffin Man?” she asked with raised eyebrows, entirely bamboozled. 

“Yeah, the Muffin Man,” Peter repeated, allowing himself to breathe a little, “You know, the one who lives on Drury Lane?” The hag’s eyes narrowed at those words and Peter suppressed a flinch. Fuck. 

“This is another of your jokes, isn’t it?” Before he could answer, the rope shot forward, rolling tightly around him, leaving no place for air. Soon enough, he joined Morgan on the floor, just as Peter’s ears picked up a familiar, wheezing sound. 

“I’m sorry,” Morgan whispered. 

Peter shrugged to the best of his abilities. “It was worth a try.” 

~~~

A knock on the door disrupted the sharp, unruly tension in the room. Peter tried to breathe, hoping, knowing it to be Tony. He heard the telltale sound of the repulsor de-powering and the suit landing. Yet, fear still continued its marathon through his veins. 

The witch sighed. “It’s a real shame,” she mumbled, “I will have to cook you with magic. Things always taste better if you let them cook naturally, but he’s not giving me much of a choice, is he?”  A shudder ran through the siblings’ bodies. 

“You could also just not cook us. Just a suggestion, you know,” Peter spoke up, earning a slap. Heavy air climbed onto his tongue, rolling up and falling asleep like a cat. He opened his mouth again, but nothing came out except for a quiet grunt. The witch was clearly amused by his attempts to speak. Without another word, she turned around and opened the door just wide enough to slip out. 

“Hello, Forest Lady,” Tony greeted the witch, “I’m searching for two kids. Have you seen—” 

“Well, if it isn’t the great Tony Stark.” Peter could hear the malicious grin in her voice. “The fabled merchant of death.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Tony dismissed her, “Listen, there are two kids missing, it’d be a great help if you could just tell me— Wait a minute, what did you just call me?” 

“You are who they call the merchant of death, are you not?” 

Tony was stunned into silence. Peter strained to hear his quickening heartbeat, wanting to cry out, Tony, we’re here, don’t listen to her!, but the airy cat on his tongue wouldn’t budge. Everybody knows that one doesn’t wake a cat, even if they trap you, and the spell took it to another level. It didn’t stop him from trying, however. The rope hit his thigh, annoyed by his constant movement. 

“That’s what they used to say, yeah,” Tony now admitted, “now they call me ‘Earth’s best defender.’” His cocky voice could not hide the anxiety in his veins, not to Peter. 

“Still, you’re wrapped in armor and weapons,” the witch pointed out. 

“Look, it’s not my job to justify myself to random women I encountered in the woods, which is not something that happens a lot, I must say. Actually, I think this is the first time. I’ve got better things to do at the moment. I’m looking for two kids, a girl of five years and a boy of 16. Have you seen them?” 

“Tony Stark, always so ready to fight,” the witch said, completely disregarding his recent words, “Take off that armor and I might tell you.” 

“So you know where they are,” he stated. Peter closed his eyes, letting the familiar clank of the Iron Man suit lull him in, but instead, it just cut into his skin. They were so close. So close to being found, so close to being rescued. 

“I was just preparing dinner. Why don’t you just sit down and stay? It’ll only take a few minutes.” The witch’s steps were silent on the grass. Tony’s vibrated through the ground, which meant he was still in his suit. 

“Now wait just a moment here, lady. You know where my kids are. Why don’t you tell me?” 

“You’re a warmonger, Tony Stark. Why would you ever think I’d leave kids in your care?” Peter laughed out loud in irony, but it was muffled by winding fur catching in his fur. Coughing made it only worse, so he took a deep and slow breath to take back control. 

Tony sighed. Iron Man opened his suit, and it cracked and screeched slightly, and Peter was reminded of the joint he had been meant to oil. His heart sank. “There, I’m out of the suit. Now, will you tell me where my kids are?” 

After a moment of silence, the witch asked: “Did you ever count?” 

“Count what?” 

“How many children were killed with your weapons.” Peter sucked in a breath in shock. 

“Roughly 2.47 million people were killed by Stark missiles. Approximately 9.4% were kids. Probably more. It’s hard to tell. Plus, about 50 billion dollars damage to property—”

“Money,” the witch spat out, “Of course you care about the money more.” 

“It’s just easier to estimate that number,” Tony tried to defend himself, but the witch wouldn’t hear it. 

“All that money will never buy back your soul,” she judged. With that, she walked back to the door, leaving Tony to stand outside. Peter stared at her through tears as she came inside. He almost missed the slight hand wave she pointed at the door, presumably to prevent Tony from following her. 

He changed, you know, he wanted to tell her, but still found his tongue pinned down. He’s a better man now. He’s not responsible for his father’s sins and being dragged into that business. 

The witch glared at him. “Don’t fool yourself, boy. Stark has blood on his hands. People like that don’t change.” Peter blinked up at her in surprise. 

You can hear me. 

The witch groaned and rolled her eyes. “You’re too loud,” she decided and grabbed him by the living rope enwrapping him. Peter tried to kick her, but it was more a battle with the snake of a rope than with the witch. She laid him down next to the stove. The steam from the pot wandered down to caress his cheeks, whispering false welcomes into his over-heating ears. He was sweating, staring into the fire that burned high in the fireplace opposite the kitchen. The taunting flames danced, showing off their relation to hell. 

“Stark Tower is falling down, falling down, falling down. Stark Tower is falling down, my fair lady,” the witch sang quietly as she prepared the last few things. Peter couldn’t tell whether the shiver he felt was from the sweat cooling his skin or from fear. 

Finally, the rope loosened. He stretched his limbs while moving as little as he could. Then, just as the witch came to pick him up, Peter sprang up. The hag waved her hands at him while she mustered him with raised eyebrows. As if he wasn’t intimidating her one bit. Peter channeled his hate into his stare and shot forwards, grabbing her hands to prevent her from casting her magic. All the while, he tried to keep Morgan out of the witch’s view. 

The witch pulled him back, making Peter stumble. He caught himself and kicked at her feet. His feet connected with something soft and he inwardly cheered. Though, somehow, the witch fell forward right towards him. Peter panicked. He did not want an old witch on top of him, not ever. He could already imagine the jokes Tony would make and ew. Stepping back, he evaded her falling body barely. 

Only then did he realize that he had let go. Shit, he thought, somehow dodging a spell. It whirled in the air next to him, wooing before splatting against the wall. The cat on his tongue moved a little and Peter almost hoped it had woken up. 

He launched at her again, struggling to grab her hands. Something hard bumped into his back, sending pain up his spine. Peter tried to push forward with the stove as his leverage, but the witch was heavier than expected. She didn’t budge, instead continued to struggle against the hold he had on her hands. 

Somehow, in the whirl of their fight, Peter’s elbow connected with something hot. He wailed and jumped as it burned him, pressing it protectively against his body. But the witch didn’t follow him. Peter watched as she stumbled back with burns everywhere on her body. In a disoriented attempt to get away from the pot of steaming water Peter had knocked over, she staggered and bumped against the fireplace. 

The witch fell into the flames with an ear-piercing scream and was never heard of again. Peter was shaking, staring at her, heavily breathing even as the air cat left him. Morgan came up next to him, hugging his legs. 

Peter barely registered as the door opened. In a frown, he remembered  the knocks and blasts he had heard during the battle but had ignored. He was there, frozen, forever entranced in the flames’ deadly dance. 

“Daddy!” Morgan screamed and left his side. Peter flinched at the noise. 

Despite the warmth, Peter knew that hell was freezing. It was frightening and un-moving and icy and he had just killed a person. He had ended someone’s life. Watched as they burned without any attempt to help them. I’m a terrible person, he thought. His pledge or morality to never kill was broken forever. 

Warm arms wrapped around him, trying to melt the ice that had claimed him, and Peter broke. “I—I killed her. Oh my god, I killed her. I killed someone. I didn’t mean to. Tony, you have to believe me, I didn’t mean to.” He sobbed into a shoulder he didn’t deserve to.

“Shh,” Tony soothed, gently rocking them and moving his hand in circles over his back. “It’s okay.” 

“No, it’s not okay. I killed someone, Tony. I’m a murderer.” Peter couldn’t tell whether he was snapping for air or snapping in self-directed anger and disgust. Yet, as much as he wanted to recoil, to flee, and just run, he couldn’t move. He was trapped here in comfort that he didn’t deserve. 

“You did it in self-defense. She was gonna— God, I don’t even wanna think about what she was going to do to you.” Tony held him even closer if that was possible. Though, his right hand left him briefly to invite Morgan into the hug. 

“You saved us,” Morgan said as if that was all that was needed to be said about the situation. 

“Let’s go home,” Tony decided, and Peter melted into the touch as all the tension suddenly left his body and he was drowned in exhaustion. Home sounded like heaven, it sounded exactly like the place he wanted to be right now, and the place he may didn’t deserve to reside in anymore after what he’s done. But Tony pulled him along, guiding his kids home, never once faltering to assure himself that they were safe and that Peter was welcome. 

[desktopdust]

Forge Ahead

In the dead of night, two iron candlesticks created an island of luminescence in the vast sea of darkness that filled the chamber.  Between them, a spear stood upon a wooden pedestal, shaft made of gold, rings of colorless jewels embedded down its length; a head of untarnished silver shone at its end, carved into elegant designs that all met back into a single point.  Sitting before it was a young man of olive complexion, black hair short and neat, having an athletic body that did not quite fit the timid aura he exuded.

He sat perfectly still, focusing entirely upon the spear.  His soul reached out to it, finding a wellspring of otherworldly power bursting forth from the weapon, and he steadily waded into its depths.  He breathed deeply.  Reaching even farther, he drew from the spring, pulling only the tiniest sliver of the power into himself, and at once new strength exploded throughout him.  He called upon his training to temper the power, quieting its wildness and merging it with the natural energy already flowing through his body.

It was exhilarating and terrifying and humbling.  This primordial magic was old, older than the air he breathed and the ground beneath his feet, perhaps even older than the darkness he drifted through.  According to legend, even the gods did not fully understand this spear, only able to deduce that it was made from the bones of the very entity that thought their entire world into being.  They had entrusted it to humans as a sign of good faith, but even after two thousand years, there was not a single one in existence who could adequately describe the truly alien feeling that waited in the depths of the spring.

“Gerulf.”

He scrambled to his feet, letting go of the magic as he spun to face the one who had called him.  Emerging from the dark sea was a man with scraggly, snow-white hair and skin that looked pale compared to Gerulf, supporting his weight with a simple wooden staff, a frayed eyepatch covering one side of his face while the remaining eye stared straight through him.

“Yes, Master Serhan!” Gerulf said, stiffening his back.

The old man came closer, not making any efforts to disguise his pronounced limp. “So much tension?  Don’t mistake it for focus.”

Gerulf tried to relax his shoulders, only partly succeeding.  “Y-Yes, Master, my apologies.”

Serhan came to a stop beside Gerulf, staring up at the spear with an almost weary familiarity.  “Working to the last minute, huh?  If you’re not confident in your ability to commune with Gungnir, then postpone the trial and continue your training.”

Gerulf was no longer surprised by his teacher’s bluntness, but still he fumbled for words.  “No, no, I’m ready!  I only...er, well…”  He rubbed his neck, feeling a bead of sweat taking form on his brow.  Serhan waited for him to continue.  “...I...want to be as sure as possible.  I do not want to waste any time, not when I could be honing my ability further.”

Serhan closed his eyes as he stroked his beard.  “Remind me again why you’re here.”

“I have been chosen to protect one of the Seven Sisters of my home country of Pleiades, contingent upon completing training at one of the Four Schools of the Primordial Arms.”

“Hm? There’s seven?”

Gerulf nodded.  “Yes, always seven.  When the time comes for a successor to be chosen, a Sister will receive a vision from Celestial Zempyst making that choice.  Three years ago, the current Sister of the Southeast received such a vision...and in it, she saw only one Satellite protecting her successor.  Me, apparently.”

Serhan glanced at him.  “You doubt?”

Gerulf’s hand twisted of its own accord.  “...I do.”

“Yet you accepted.”

“How could I not?  It is the will of a goddess—of one of the Nine Geneses!  I had hoped that I would understand it by the time my training neared completion, but still I do not.”  Gerulf fixed his gaze on Gungnir, watching the candlelight glint off of it.  “I must not fail.  I must be ready as I possibly can be, so I cannot waste any time.”

“Hm. Quite a duty.  Answer this!”  Serhan pressed the head of his staff against Gerulf’s chest, making the man flinch. “Is time spent caring for a spear a waste?”

Gerulf blinked.  “...I’m sorry?”

“That time could be spent training.  Should a spear only be thrust into battle?”

After thinking a moment, he answered, “Um...well, were that the case, the spear would be worn down at a considerable speed, Master.  Some time should be taken to maintain the weapon, so that it can be dependable for a long time to come.”

He jumped slightly as Serhan beat his staff against the floor. “Exactly!  Without rest, a weapon grows dull.  People are the same.  Hard work is good, but don’t dull your edge, Gerulf.”

“Oh...I see.”  Slowly, Gerulf’s shoulders lowered, the remaining tension gradually seeping out of him at last.  “Thank you, Master.”

Serhan nodded once.  “Alright. What now?”

Gerulf turned back to Gungnir.  His shoulders began to tighten.

“Haah...hesitation.”

Gerulf tried to speak, but Serhan raised a hand.

“A spear is meant to be thrust at a single point with all your might.  To carry one, you need to be decisive.  Good night, Gerulf.”

Serhan retreated back into the darkness.  Gerulf continued to stare at the spear for a minute or so, and then picked up his candlestick and ventured towards the chamber’s exit.

And that is precisely why… he thought.

The hall sported several candles of its own, holding the night at bay but unable to stop the formless shadows dancing along the stony walls.  Gerulf snapped to attention as a door opened up ahead. Out stepped a man of fair skin nearly a foot taller than Gerulf, carrying himself with a sureness that one could simply feel was unearned.  Spotting Gerulf, he paused and laughed, saying, “Look who’s up!  Shouldn’t you be resting, pal?  You’re gonna need all the help you can get.”

“Good evening, Achard,” Gerulf greeted.  “I was just retiring for the night, actually.”

“Heh, right.  Man, I still can’t believe you and I are the only ones from this class who passed the assessment.  I was sure Prem had you beat!”

Gerulf fidgeted.  “Ah, I’m a bit surprised myself.  I suppose the points I lost in combat were made up elsewhere.”

“Guess that makes sense,” Achard said with a shrug.  “Still, combat’s all that really matters—the whole reason we’re here is to learn to fight using Gungnir’s power!  And what a power it is, right?”

Trying to smile, Gerulf said, “It’s, uh, certainly very potent.  The primordial magic it’s made from is unlike anything I’ve ever felt before.”

A toothy grin crossed Achard’s face.  “One of the four weapons older than the whole world...with power like that, I’m gonna be able to do anything!”

“Ahah...I suppose.  So, um...what is it you plan on doing when you pass?”

“Head back home first of all—got to give everyone a chance to be proud of me and all.  After that, I’ll probably go on a world tour and see how many heads I can knock!  Who knows, maybe I’ll come to Pleiades and kick you around a bit.”

Swallowing hard, Gerulf tried to reply, but his jaw was frozen shut.

“Haha, don’t be so serious, man!  ‘Sides, you’re probably in for another course anyway.”  Achard walked past Gerulf, smacking him in the shoulder. “Sweet dreams, pal!  I’ll see you at the trial tomorrow.”

Gerulf glanced over his shoulder at Achard’s receding form.  Facing forward once more, he shook his head and resumed walking.

***

The island where Gungnir was kept was a lush valley within a ring of mountains, an unusually temperate spot for being so far North.  From where he stood atop one of the border peaks, Gerulf could trace the rivers as they sectioned off the forests and plains, several of them coming together to feed the central lake.  The school was built on the edge of this lake, a stone keep half the height of the mountains surrounding it, sturdy enough to withstand a siege of several months and lined with metal spikes that seemed to taunt some unknown enemy into attempting just that.

He shivered a bit as he tightened the straps of his leather training armor, taking a step back from the edge.  Master Serhan stood not far away, staring off and letting the salty breeze and rays of the rising sun soak into his body, and Achard (having forgone the training armor) was warming up nearby as well.

Stretching his finely-toned arms, Achard said, “Hey, is it time to start yet, Master?”

Not looking away from the point on the horizon he was staring at, Serhan said, “Patience, Achard.  I’ll explain everything in just a moment.”

The student grumbled under his breath as he moved on to stretching his muscular legs.  “Yeah, alright.  How about you, Gerulf: you ready for a challenge?”

Chuckling quietly, Gerulf said, “Aha...we’ll see, I suppose…”

Achard sprang up.  “Pfft! What kind of answer is that? You’re never gonna pass with such a wimpy attitude!”

Gerulf shrank back, saying nothing.

“Heh, whatever.  Guess I shouldn’t complain, being the only one from this class to make it out at the first trial point!  I’ll see ya in another three years, buddy.”

Serhan walked past them and up to the edge, saying, “Learn the difference between confidence and arrogance, Achard.  There’s no guarantee either of you will pass.”

Achard rolled his eyes, choosing to hold onto his smirk just the same.

“First time I’ve seen so few taking the trial.  This lot—you’ve all got potential, but you’re all chipped blades.”

Serhan faced the two men and spun his staff around, two simple spears materializing in its wake.  Grabbing the weapons, he tossed them into the hands of his students, and then struck the ground with his staff.

“Now!  You two’ve completed a three year course and earned a chance at the Forge Trial.  The only tools you have are these spears, and whatever strength you can muster.”  Serhan turned and waved his staff over the valley.  “You have until midday to find enough ore to craft a spear of your own!  If you can do that and make it back to the keep in time, you’ll show your skills by channeling Gungnir’s power in a fight.  Show me you’ve learned something, and I’ll let you forge your own spear and send you on your way.”  He turned back to his students.  “Any questions?”

Gerulf shook his head.  Achard tested the weight of his spear.

“Good.  Begin!”

Instantly, Achard rushed over the edge and bounded down the mountain. Gerulf instead approached the edge and stopped, carefully scanning the wall below to plan his way down, and then began a long, slow climb.  As he went, Gerulf cast a look over his shoulder to note Achard’s progress: the other man was just disappearing into the trees, his hollering just barely audible even from such a great distance.  Gerulf’s hand slipped slightly, so he pressed himself against the mountain and froze until he verified his handhold.

I wonder how quickly he’ll make it back?

He reminded himself that speed was not the determining factor.  Cautiously, Gerulf resumed his climb.

Finding a spot to procure ore wasn’t difficult for Gerulf: he had paid close attention to Serhan’s lessons on where to search for deposits, and once in an appropriate area he tapped his spear on the ground a few times before giving a satisfied nod.  Calling out to Gungnir, he again mixed its energy into his own, this time directing that energy through his hand and into the spear to give it a subtle shine. He then began to gradually chip away at the ground with his spear, carefully positioning his strikes so as not to damage the glittering ore he quickly uncovered.

The task took not even an hour.  Bundling up the ore, Gerulf made his way back to the school that had been his home these past three years, glancing about for any sign of Achard.  He made his way across the wide-open foyer and down the central staircase, no company aside from his echoing footsteps at first, but slowly he felt the temperature rise, and the smell of smoke and slag came to meet him. The stairs terminated in a great sprawling chamber where the air itself stung like flames, rivers of magma flowing along its edges and across its width towards a massive furnace in the distance. When Gerulf made it there, he found Master Serhan sitting upon an anvil, arms crossed and staff balanced on his shoulders as he watched Gerulf with a stony expression.

Gerulf choked on the heat as he tried to speak up.  “Master...I have gathered the necessary amount of ore.”

Serhan grunted.  “Well done.  Take a seat.”

Gerulf complied, sitting on the floor next to a rack of tools.  Nearly two hours passed before Achard finally appeared, his dark scowl made all the more menacing by the chamber’s orange light.

“How the hell did you get here so fast?!” Achard demanded.  “I left you in the dust!”

“Achard,” Serhan said. “You had trouble mining, didn’t you?”

Achard glanced aside. “I mean...it didn’t take me too long to find a place.  But it kept breaking into such tiny pieces, and I couldn’t tell what was ore and what was rock—rounding it up was a pain in the ass.”

Serhan grunted again. “I thought as much.  Set down what you’ve got.  The two of you step back and get ready.”

Achard wasted no time getting in position and brandishing his spear, white light coating it as he drew upon Gungnir’s wellspring of magical energy.  Gerulf’s body was rigid as he did the same.

“I won’t outright forbid anything, but don’t overdo it.  I didn’t teach you to be murderers.  Begin.”

Gerulf leapt aside as Achard thrust at him.  A pinpoint shockwave flew from the weapon’s tip, blasting a hole in the wall.  He tried not to think of the destructive power he was dealing with, instead focusing on the flow of his and Gungnir’s energy, directing a bit more than usual to linger in his feet.  Achard thrust again, so Gerulf dodged again. With a yell, the taller man rushed forward, and Gerulf jumped away as he unleashed a flurry of blows.

“Is dodging all you’re good at?” Achard said.  “Draw this out all you want!  No way am I losing a battle of stamina!”

Gerulf realized he was now teetering on the edge of a magma duct.  Achard moved to strike a finishing blow, but Gerulf leapt up and over his spear, realizing his opponent would take a second to regain his own balance.  Gerulf aimed his spear…but then spun, kicking Achard in the face instead.  As Achard stumbled back, Gerulf landed and moved to a safer location.

“Huh…lucky hit,” Achard said.  “Won’t happen again!”

Achard sprang into the air, falling spear-first towards Gerulf.  The maneuver was easy enough to dodge, but when Achard’s spear pierced the ground, energy pulsed out from it, blasting away some of the rock and surprising Gerulf.  Achard stepped forward and swung his spear in a wide overhead arc, now topped with a rectangular chunk of stone.  Gerulf only narrowly avoided the makeshift hammer, the head bursting apart and spraying him with stone shrapnel; Achard pressed his advantage, and after keeping Gerulf on his toes with a few spear thrusts, followed one immediately with a punch that sent Gerulf sprawling.

“Gotcha!”

Achard lunged.  Gerulf suffered a grazing blow as he scrambled to his feet, but thankfully it only hit his armor.  He made ready to attack, so Achard hovered at the edge of his range, keeping his own weapon ready.  Pointing his spear, Gerulf shouted.  The head of the weapon lit up, and the spear surged forward under its own power, dragging Gerulf along behind it.  Achard sidestepped and retaliated.  Thinking quickly, Gerulf ducked and swept one leg out, successfully tripping up Achard just as his spear began to slow.  Gerulf turned to see Achard’s exposed back, but instead of attacking, he created more distance between them.  Achard came up fuming.

“Damn you!  Annoying little…you won’t even take advantage?  Are you insulting me?!”

“N-No, not at all!” Gerulf said.  “I simply…I mean, you’re not…”

The aura around his spear flaring higher, Achard shouted, “Spit it out!”

“You…you don’t have armor!  If I’m not careful, I could seriously injure you…is all…”

Achard could only gape at this.  Serhan stroked his beard, murmuring to himself, “So that’s what you’re afraid of. Now I get it.”

Grinding his teeth against each other, Achard said, “You…don’t you dare pity me!  I can sure as hell take a hit from a wimp like you!”

He hurled his spear upward, it transforming into a bolt of energy until it impacted with the ceiling.  Willing the weapon to teleport back to his hand, Achard advanced as stalactites loosed from the cavern roof began to fall at random, bearing down on Gerulf with deadly focus.  Put into a panic, Gerulf acted on instinct, running away from Achard while deftly dodging any stalactite headed his way.  Achard eventually drove him into a narrow space between two magma flows, pausing for just a moment to channel even more power to make the finishing blow. At the same time, Gerulf realized he had no room to dodge the next stalactite falling towards him.  With no other choice, Gerulf dug his heels in—he gripped his spear with both hands, and with all his strength, thrust it up at the falling rubble, hitting it dead on its point and splitting it neatly in two. One half fell into the magma behind him, and the other fell towards an Achard in mid-thrust.  The taller student was struck by the debris, losing his wits all at once, and stumbled back towards the magma.

“Dammit…!”

Serhan prepared to act.  However, he didn’t need to.  Gerulf jolted forward, plunging his spear into the bank of the river, and yelled. With a tremendous flash of light, a new trench was blown into existence perpendicular to the existing one, disrupting the lava flow just long enough for Achard to safely land in the recession and roll clear.  Gerulf dropped to his knees with a long sigh.

“…Hm,” Serhan said.  He popped one shoulder, knocking his staff into the air where he could snatch it up, and then dismounted his seat and approached his students.  “Interesting.”

Achard put a hand to his head as he sat up.  Looking around, he said, “What…how did this happen…?”

Gerulf got back on his feet.  Examining the new results of his handiwork more closely, Serhan said, “A lot of power you called on just now.”

“I…well, I really just acted on reflex,” Gerulf said between pants.

“Doesn’t matter.  I’ve seen what I need to see.”

Serhan began to walk back.  Climbing out of the trench, Achard said, “Hang on!  I’m not done yet!”

“No. You’re not.”  Coming to a stop behind the anvil, Serhan again faced his students.  “Achard. You can use Gungnir’s power easily, but you still don’t know how to use it properly.  You’ll be taking another course.”

Achard’s eyes shot wide.

“Gerulf.  Truth is, your position isn’t all that different.”

Gerulf hung his head.

“However.  Your problem is that you lack conviction.  I don’t think there’s any more I can do to teach you that…but carrying out your duty ought to do it.”

Looking back up, Gerulf said, “Master?”

Serhan beckoned.  “Come here. It’s time for you to forge your own spear.”

Gerulf’s eyes widened, yet he still didn’t see Achard storm off.  Serhan tossed Gerulf the sack of ore he had gathered and gestured to a mold laying near the furnace.  Still in a surreal haze, Gerulf crossed the chamber and emptied the bag into the indented metal, only coming to as he carefully lifted the mold onto the metal rack reaching out from the furnace’s maw.  He turned towards the tools to find Serhan already passing him a long pair of tongs.  Gerulf pushed the mold into the flame, closed the window, and then waited.

“Master,” Gerulf said, “I—”

“No,” Serhan interrupted.  “Focus. You’ll know when the time is right.”

Gerulf watched the furnace in silence.  Eventually, after only a moment’s hesitation, he uncovered the window and reached in with the tongs, retrieving the mold from the fiery depths to find it now filled with molten metal.

“There,” Serhan said, pointing to a slotted section of the rack.

Once Gerulf fit the mold into it, Serhan detached the segment of rack, its wheeled legs squeaking as it was pulled a short distance away from the furnace. Serhan then pointed his staff at the ceiling, where Gerulf now noticed an odd carving; suddenly, Serhan’s staff lit up and extended into an impossibly long pike, puncturing the carving, and after giving it a turn, Serhan willed it to retract and take the chunk of ceiling with it.  Water poured from the hole, dousing the mold and unleashing a monstrous cloud of steam. Extending his staff once again, Serhan plugged the opening, and then faced Gerulf and gestured toward the anvil.

“Take a hammer,” Serhan said as Gerulf moved the spear.  “Call upon Gungnir, but focus its power farther than before. Don’t stop at the hammer—pour it into the spear.”

Gerulf held the tongs in one hand, keeping the spear steady, while raising the hammer with his other.  He took a few seconds to focus Gungnir’s magic, and when he was ready, he struck the spearhead with the bludgeon, releasing a shower of white sparks with a thunderous clanging that shocked him.

“Focus.”

Furrowing his brow, Gerulf breathed deeply and swung again.  More noise, more sparks.  This time light surged down the length of the spear.  He struck it again, and again, and again, infusing more and more of Gungnir’s primordial magic into his work.  The spear was beginning to change shape: no longer was it the simple form the mold had been carved into, but now a thick-shafted weapon with an aerodynamic, almost star-shaped head with two long, thin tails that spiraled three times around the shaft before terminating.  When he delivered the final strike, Gerulf felt all his breath leave him at once. The spear glowed white-hot, a hypnotic shine in which Gerulf saw his own soul reflected.  Not stopping to think, he dropped his tools, reached out, and took hold of the spear—instantly, the heat and light burst out from the weapon, rendering it cool to the touch.

A smile could be seen within Serhan’s beard.  “Well done, Gerulf.  Now, name it.”

Over the years, Gerulf had wondered many times what to name his spear if he ever completed his training.  But now, holding it aloft in his hand, he somehow knew exactly what this weapon’s name was.  “Heliacal Asterism.”

Serhan nodded.  “A fine name for a fine weapon.”

Gerulf lowered the spear and turned back to Serhan.  With a bow, he said, “Thank you for everything, Master.  I am forever in your debt.”

“Just remember what I’ve taught you.  Find your conviction.  I’ll summon a boat to take you back to Pleiades first thing tomorrow.”

Gerulf nodded and headed back for the staircase, marveling at Heliacal Asterism as he went.  It slowly sank in that finally he was headed home, and when he arrived, he would begin an even greater task laid before him by Celestial Zempyst herself.  His next few steps were stilted.

I must not hesitate. If I am the only one who can protect the Sister of the Southeast, then I must work as hard as possible.  No one will suffer from my inaction ever again.

[diziar]

One.

Soooooo who remembers my fic called Six? (If you havent read it, go read t first as this follows on directly from the end of it). Well just after I have written that I mentioned about maybe one day writing a second part, and as it’s Warriors Week over on the Discord, here we are. I promise one day I will write a fic that isnt angst, but today is not that day

Six.

Wind was gone. Dead. Warriors knew that no matter how much he prayed and wished to whatever Goddess or Goddesses that were out there, he wasn't coming back. No fairies were around. No great fairy fountain was hidden away somewhere nearby. Not even some sort of magic could fix this.

Wind was gone.

It had been hard. He had closed the poor boy's eyes whilst they had still sat on the floor - the blood and mud still under his legs, seeping into his clothing - and he had wiped his face free from any smeared blood tracks and tears in an attempt to at least make him look a bit peaceful in rest, in contrast to the angry and savage red wound across his entire stomach. At least it was no longer bleeding and he was no longer suffering.

With a little bit of assistance he had managed to stand still holding the body of his brother - or the closest thing he had ever had to one - and although his legs felt like they would give out any second, he would never forgive himself if he dropped Wind. His blood stained, blue scarf stayed over his form, moved around slightly so it had covered Wind completely, both face and body, and he had allowed Legend and Time to lead the way to somewhere nearby to camp for the night.

Even if there was a chance of Wild and Twilight coming back.

They couldn't stay at the Yiga Camp.

The fire had been set up in complete silence by Hyrule and Time, everyone had else just sat and watched. Numb: that was all Warriors could feel. A heavy and sluggish numbness running through his brain, through every limb. He had carried Wind to where they had finally decided upon setting up camp for the night, and now he could hardly even lift an arm to run his hand through his hair.

He wanted to cry, he could feel all the distraught emotions in his chest and behind his eyes, but by something twisted he couldn't. The tears wouldn't fall. The shaking wouldn't stop. His chest would never stop aching.

He couldn't sleep, in fact none of them could, but unlike him they all at least seemed to at least be trying. Everyone was exhausted, both mentally and physically, and shock was very much still running through everyone's system. Wind was gone, and Wild and Twilight were still missing.

Nine was now just Six.

Wind's body lay off to the side, just away from the rest of them so that they didn't have to look at him. It was a horrible thing really, but now that it was hours later none of them could bare to look at him. Now that he was so pale, so cold, so obviously lifeless with every blush now gone from his body. Any bruises the boy had stood out so obviously against the paled tanned skin.

No longer was he covered by Warriors scarf, but instead his blanket, which is some way mocked them all by making it seem like he was just asleep. They all knew otherwise.

Wind was never a still sleeper.

Never would he lie on his back and not move around constantly, eventually flipping himself over onto his stomach.

He wasn't asleep.

For that second time that day Warriors watched as another light slowly started to die out, though unlike last time, this one flickered and held onto the life.

It was something he would never be able to forget. Deep green eyes, filled with such fear and hurt, wet with unshed tears, fading as Wind tried to lift his arm up to reach for him.

His strangled attempt at saying the nickname he had given to Warriors, as both a nod to where Warriors had come from but also Wind's pirating ways. Had it been to say an apology, or in attempt to make Warriors feel better? He'd never know now.

Weak and shallow gasps that attempted to take in a full breath but kept failing and dying out with a pained wince.

The warm and heavy scent of blood being the only thing Warriors could smell. It soaked Wind's skin, his face, hair, and torso. It stained Legend's hands, Wind's tunic, and Warriors’ scarf. It spread and marked everything it touched, making the harsh realisation only more brutal.

He watched the fire, unable to tear his gaze from it, eyelids drooping heavily shut more and more progressively as time passed. Fingers stayed clenched in the material on his scarf that draped over his lap.

He had wanted to clean it, to get the blood out of his beloved blue scarf, but exhaustion wouldn't let him move.

His eyes fell once again, the low red and orange light being replaced by a dark and suffocating black which welcomes him into sleep as it finally takes over his drained body.

Waking up from a sleep that he wasn't fully rested from was something Warriors was used to in one way or another. Every muscle screamed out to him in pain before he could even register that he was actually awake. Heavy fog clouded his brain and dulled every sense.

In a weak attempt and using every effort he could muster in his dazed state, Warriors moved his arms slowly underneath him and pushed on the ground to try and get himself up.

Aching limbs protested in moving, something that finally registered in his brain after he had exhausted himself further in his endeavour. He managed to turn his head slightly, his cheek now laying flat against the cold and dewy grass-

No. A sense of touch had finally come back to him, and it wasn’t the grass of the field wet from the morning dew he felt but something else.

Hot and dry sand, scratching and irritating his skin as he moved his head back and forth, small granules rubbing in an unpleasant and unexpected way.

Why…

Why was he lying on sand?

No longer did the tall trees of the forest edge cool him from the morning sun, in fact nothing did now.

He could feel the blazing hot sun beating down on him, and underneath all the layers of his fabric, chainmail, and armour he was was roasting. Perhaps if he was more dressed for the weather he'd be able to cope, but as he currently lay face down in the sand unable to move or shade himself it was just another pain to add on the list.

The faint morning breeze was cool as it blew through his hair and over his skin. It was gentle and kind, and not unpleasant.

Another sense finally cleared, and he could hearing the waves lapping at the shore nearby. The seagulls crying and wings flapping overhead, a loud oink rumbling low, people talking and a child laughing, and finally the sound of footsteps approaching closer as they ran along the loose sand.

Along with that came his sense of smell. No longer did the scent of blood, heavy and metallic, filled his nose but instead that of fresh air. It was easy to breathe in and completely clear, it helped wash away the last remaining aches from deep within him. The salt from the ocean and brush of the waves against the sand help wash away the last horrifying memories he could recall...

Wind.

Warriors hadn't yet tried to open his eyes, the darkness still being the only thing he could see, but all too suddenly did that get replaced by a bright light behind his eyelids. He squinted his eyes tighter shut, wincing slightly as he did then slowly beginning to open then again, rapidly blinking and squinting as he did so.

Vibrant yellow sand and blue water immediately filled his sight, both so bright and almost like that of a painting. It all seemed far too perfect and lush to be real. Once again he tried lifting himself up, his arms no longer protesting so much.

Green grass and trees, wooden houses, and sheer rock grey cliff faces covered the small island, and the footsteps that he had heard approaching had now stopped. It took him a few moments to tear himself away from the peaceful scenery, and he looked to his right to see a young girl.

Tanned skin and bright blonde hair. Deep green eyes and a light blue sundress.

Immediately he began feeling sick. Panicked. After being dazed for so long and slowly having his senses coming back to him, focusing on feelings and sight again, had he forgotten what had happened.

Not just that, but where were the others?

Warriors scrambled to stand up, the end of his blue scarf flowing out behind him in the breeze and no longer was it stained, nor were his clothes.

“I'm glad you're not dead, or wounded for that fact. You were lying out here for so long Granny was beginning to worry, so she asked me to come see if you were okay.”

He recognised this place, recognised this girl, but how he couldn't recall. His mind was a mess. Wind was dead. He had died in his arms! But now… there was no trace of that ever happening.

A shaky hand pushed itself through his hair as he tried to make at least some sense of what had happened. How he had gotten here? Here being…

Outset Island.

Wind had shown him a pictograph of the place before, told him about his sister and even shown Warriors a picto of her and a group of people all standing in front of a pirate ship. That was missing from the scene but the rest of the Island and this girl…

Aryll.

This was Wind's home.

“If you're not feeling too good, Granny said I could take you back to ours.”

This time Warriors manages to take it what she had said, instead of just listening to the words but not taking any of it like he had last time. He gave Aryll charming smile, at least the best one he could muster up currently, and knelt down to be level with her.

“My name is L- Warriors, you can call me Warriors. May I ask what yours is?” He needed to be sure. Nothing was making sense and he needed answers.

He needed answers so he could try and make a plan.

“Aryll! My name is Aryll, and I have a big brother who's away right now but Granny is at home so we should go see her. We don't want to keep her waiting.”

Warriors watched as she ran easily across the sand back inland, stopped, turned back to him and pointed towards a house on the right. With a deep breath and by moving one foot in front of the other, he followed her off of the beach, along a small path and then to the lone wooden house on the right side of the island.

Aryll had already run inside, holding the door for him as he made his way in, giving her a brief nod of thanks before she had gone off again. The inside of the house was simple, with stone floor and wooden furniture, but it felt like a true home.

From the small ornaments that sat on the window frame or the chest of drawers, to the pictos hanging on the walls.

It was a home full of love and warmth.

He turned the corner and there sat in a wooden rocking chair was to only he could assume was “Granny” that Aryll had spoke of.

And if Aryll was Wind's brother.

And this was her grandmother.

Once again Warriors felt sick. No longer did the calming waves remove any footsteps in the sand, but they instead washed up those feelings of despair and anguish.

“You'll have to excuse me dear, my old bones aren't quite what they used to be so getting up is a bit of trouble… Are you okay?” Her voice was so gentle and smooth.

Warriors could feel his heart break as his chest began to ache.

He gave her a faint nod as he stepped towards her, her hand extended out for him to take.

“I'm-” How could he say anything to her… he didn't deserve her kindness, her trust, not after what he had allowed to happen.

“Oh, such a strong handshake. You remind me so much of my grandson with that blond hair and green clothing of yours.” With her other hand she pointed to a chair next to hers for him to take.

“You have a grandson? I wouldn't have ever thought you to be of that age.” He joked, taking a seat and still holding onto her hand.

Honestly, he didn't want to let go.

He had already let go once.

She gave him a small chuckle, the wrinkles in her face moving, and shook her grey haired head. “Oh you, you're far too kind, but yes I do have a grandson. He's off exploring the seas and being a hero all on his own. It's been some time since I last saw him but I know he'll be home soon. He promised me he'd come back.”

Warriors choked on the words in his throat, the feeling around his heart and lungs tightening like vines and making it hard to breathe.

‘How am I supposed to tell her?’

He gave her hand a small squeeze, his head drooping as he looked down once again to the blue material that had pooled on his lap. It was clean.

“Can you tell me more about him, please? He seems like a good kid.”

Granny gently placed her other hand on top of his, giving it a small pat as she glanced out to the sea outside her window.

“His name is Link, and he's such a bright boy. Always smiling and laughing, and he's oh so expressive! He does everything he can for those he loves and cares for, and I'm glad that my daughter's son grew up to be such a brave boy.”

Wet.

Warriors could feel wet on his face, warm and heavy as the tears finally began to fall. His shoulders shook softly as he silently sobbed.

All the unshed tears from the night before finally came to the surface and it wrecked him. To hear Wind's grandmother speak of him just like he had spoken so fondly of her, so proud and hopeful…

It broke him.

The image of Wind's dying body once again filled his mind, his quivering lip as he spoke and shaky arm and he moved.

The image of Wind's lifeless body once again filled his mind, still cradled in his arms and hidden under the blanket.

“He sounds like such a good kid.” He finally managed out, his voice wavering as he tried not to become obvious that he was crying.

She squeezed his hands again and made a small humming sound in agreement.

“He is. Always looking out for others, putting them and their safety before his own. I know him well, but even when he was scared he went out and did so much for the sake of another person.”

Whilst it may have been a beautiful day outside with gentle blue and warm waves lapping at the golden sands, with the shining sun above them and pleasant warm breeze allowing for everyone to enjoy the weather, inside of Warriors head there was a storm.

A vicious and dark storm causing the deep blue waves to grow heavy and violent dragging him beneath into the icy depths. There was no warm sun or gentle breezes, just darkness and heavy winds knocking him all around as he tried to stay above water.

“I'm so sorry.” The words fell from his mouth before he even realised what he had said. She just shook her head again, turned back to him and sighed.

“Oh my dear boy, whatever do you have to apologise for? Worry not if you think you've made me miss him more by talking about him, that isn't the case. If it's something else, then whatever it is I can assure you that it wasn't your fault. Now, would you like some soup?” Slowly she began to get up from her chair, both her and the wood creaking with the movement. He nodded, watching once again as his scarf changed colour from a pale blue into a deeper one from his fallen tears.

She passed him a bowl, and when he looked up to her, she gave him a knowing smile.

Wind - no, Link - was dead.

Twilight and Wild were still gone

And Warriors was alone on Outset Island eating the very soup that Wind once talked so highly about.

One.

[eleeria]

Shadowfang Keep

As many thousand as the Eleventh Legion had on Kalimdor, they seemed to have twice that amount in Silverpine. For every line that Eleeria and the combined archers of the Horde and the Warband’s Fifth Cohort managed to down, another rose to take its place. They seemed to be endless -- and though the Forsaken stationed in their homeland were tireless, the Fifth Cohort were not. The constant barrage of attacks from the Alliance both day and night frayed the nerves of the living combatants. By the second day of nonstop assault, it made even the undead nervous. Eleeria moved through the injured, a Dreadguard Captain handling the allied movement on the walls for the moment to bring the living General a reprieve. And although he would never admit as such, her positive attitude was sorely needed among the injured.

“I know it hurts. Let me fix it, then you can get back to fighting after a few minutes’ rest.” Callused and bloodied hands hovered over an orc’s leg, magic pouring into the injury. Normally, she would not expend so much magic on a single broken leg -- but she needed people back on the wall as soon as possible. Men and women were screaming and flailing around her, breathing their last breaths in a room full of blood and shit. Such was the way of a busy infirmary, with no time to clean between bodies hitting the cots and straw. Seeing bone and muscle mend, she patted the man on the shoulder and stood, moving through the infirmary with haste to head back towards the wall. Though the world was nothing but screaming and death in their makeshift healers’ ward, people still seemed to pause and stare. That’s General Silverwing. She took Northwatch. She was there when we held the Keep the first time. Eleeria could hear the words murmured nearby, and slowed enough to check in on the patients nearby who were conscious.

“How are you feeling?” Golden eyes met those of an undead; the woman grinned with half-missing teeth, offering a thumbs up.

“Right as rain, General! Just was missing a hand, but I got another one fast. Heard tell I’ve got you to thank for the supplies they brought with all the new body parts.”

“That you do.” Eleeria smiled despite herself. Forsaken were always so much easier to speak to than anyone else; perhaps she spent too much time with the Royal Apothecary Society and her wife, but they were more approachable than elves and less obsessed with proving she was an utter failure, like the rest of the races of the Horde. As if being an elf automatically disqualified her age and experience, reduced to nothing but the length of her ears and her choice of clothing. The Forsaken took everything in stride, with the candidness granted to those who had already seen the grave. Eleeria appreciated it. “Put it to good use when the menders clear you, aye?”

“Aye, General!”

Eleeria nodded as the Forsaken woman saluted with her new appendage, and stopped a few more bunks to check on the soldiers before she made her way into the courtyard and up the stairs to the wall. The lieutenant in charge of the archers and apothecaries stationed there offered a salute; Eleeria waved it away, stepping close to wall to survey the ongoing siege. The Eleventh Legion continued to attempt to pick off the archers and alchemists, along with building up siege weaponry to take down the walls. Eleeria glared at the humans running along outside of the Keep.

“Have they been at this all night?” She shifted her head to ask the lieutenant hovering behind her. The elven man seemed eager to show how much he had learned and could show to the small woman; despite the fact that he could easily dwarf her in size, her personality seemed to carry weight and strength of its own, enough that it made even those taller than her seem small when she was in her element.

“Yes, General. They seem to rotate out on shifts, bringing in fresh soldiers when the ones that work during the day tire.” He shakes his head, sighing softly. “Those siege weapons seem almost finished. Probably another hour or so and we’ll need to think about--”

“GET DOWN!” Eleeria’s eyes widened as a volley of fire and arcane shot at the walls, a magic-infused test shot from one of the siege machines. She managed to shove the lieutenant to the ground, the man’s helm hitting the stone with a clang. Eleeria hissed in pain as her armor melted and flesh sizzled from contact with the barrage of magic. She slapped her hand to it and stood, light magic healing what it could in the immediate aftermath as she offered her other hand to the lieutenant. “You alright?”

“Y-yes ma’am, what was--”

But Eleeria was not taking questions at the moment about whatever that blast had been infused with. Her attention was already on the men and women reeling on the wall. “Take down that siege machine!” Her voice rose over the din, Orcish sharp. “NOW!”

“Yes, General!” The call came from the engineers on the wall, as alchemists scrambled to give back what they had received in turn. Eleeria herself ran to help, carrying reagents to the waiting artillery -- some of E’risse’s makes, she noted with slight pride for her friend. Her entire face, shoulder, and neck stung to the hells and back from the heat of the burn -- but she didn’t have time to see to it. Even those medics down below who had been working on patients could be seen running out, streaming for the walls. Anyone but the most critically injured could live for the moment. They needed continued magical support on the walls, quickly.

She couldn’t think about how many would die because they didn’t have enough healers to split the duties. Not right now.

“They haven’t beaten us yet!” Eleeria continued to offer support, even as the walls trembled slightly with new attacks from the Alliance. “We can still hold them! Redouble our efforts to take down those siege engines; we’ll show them who the better engineers are!”

“How long do we fight them?” There-- a tremulous query from down the wall, though Eleeria did not catch the person who uttered it. Silence held for a moment after the terrified statement, as if waiting for Eleeria’s reply. She took a breath, pushing force and as much optimism as she could muster in this desperate hour into her voice as she stood tall. Her eyes met several of the men standing near her; a few glanced away, ashamed. As if Eleeria’s mere presence reminded them that they ought to fight harder, do better.

“We fight them as long as it takes to win. Now go! For the Horde!”

The scream of siege engines did not drown out the roar of support as people rallied to the call.

@blackheart-warband @theirondragon for mentions.))

[winsister91]

Make Amends

Part Fourteen - No

This series is a sequel to Breaking A Promise.

Characters: Dean x reader, Sam, Cas

Warnings: Language, ANGST, violence and gore, sad boys, one fucked up reader

Word Count: 2200~

A/N: This...for some reason hurt.

Series Masterlist Full Masterlist

~ Series and forever tags are open! ~

You watch Dean, Sam, and Cas looking up at you. Sam and Cas’ eyes are wide as they scan the destruction around, the bodies, the ceiling still engulfed in fire. Dean’s eyes are firmly on you, narrowed and his jaw clenched sternly. Your jaw trembles, still clutching the Bartender Demon in your grasp and not knowing what the fuck to do.

“I-I’m sorry,” you stutter with a choked voice, “I can’t stop it.”

“We’re going to help you,” Sam urges desperately, weary as the building groaned threateningly, “Just stop and come back with us.”

You exhale shakily, your heart thumping erratically, “She won’t let me.”

“She?” Dean questions, taking a daring step forward.

The Demon in your hold squirms, trying to wriggle free. You keep a tight hold on him while your heart thuds erratically against your rib cage, “Dean,” you look to him with wide, pleading eyes, “I don’t know what to do.”

A sharp pain floods your head and you cry out, dropping the demon and clutching at your temple.

“No!” you scream, the pain seers white hot, a sharp ringing attacking your eardrums.

S’not my fault you wasted your moment.

With another cry of agony, you notice your limbs moving against your will. A smile spreading on your face that you didn’t want. You got back up to your feet, turning back to the Demon who was now trying to scramble away. Your hand raises and he freezes on the spot, an aura of blue light surrounding him. Clenching your palm into a fist, you hear yourself giggle as his head literally pops into a bloody mush on the ground.

“Oh I do love magic tricks,” you hear yourself giggle, your heart thumps with panic as you try to fight back for control.

“Y/N,” Dean starts, his face flinching slightly at the gory mess you created, “Whatever is going on, we’re going to fix it, okay?”

“That isn’t Y/N,” Cas intervenes, scanning you up and down with suspicion, “She’s...changed…”

“Oh I think you’ll find it is Y/N,” you taunt, shrugging and folding your arms on the stage, looking down at the trio, “Think of me as...an upgrade.”

The building groans again, larger chunks of burning debris crashing to the floor, prompting a giggle from your lips.

You are not me.

“I’m the part of her with no filter,” your eyes glow and the fire across the ceiling burns brighter and fiercer, “The part of her that loves the power…” you look at Dean, poking your tongue between your teeth in a tease, “The part that ‘likes the disease’.”

A small growl rumbles from Dean's throat as he scowls. Seeing him look up at you with such disgust like he is now, makes your heart clench before it breaks.

“The part of her that will do anything to reach that endgame,” you continue, moving your gaze to the younger Winchester, “Even though she knows it’s wrong and addictive.”

Sam breathes out heavily, his chest heaving and the corner of his lip twitching as he furrows his brow.

“That rebellious anger she constantly buries,” you sigh, now dropping to sit on the edge of the stage, picking up a discarded blade and balancing the handle perfectly on your fingertip, smiling at the blue aura that kept it stable, “Go against her family and use this amazing power to…” you giggle, now winking at Cas, “Become a God in her own right.”

“You are not a God,” Castiel’s shoulders bunch up as he glares back at you, “You are human, and the human body can’t take this much power, at this rate you’ll burn out.”

“And what do you know huh!?” you snap, the blade on your fingertip suddenly flying through the air and hovering in front of the angel’s unflinching face, “How many people like me have even existed huh!? I’m a freaking powerhouse!”

Stop it. Please.

“Y/N that’s enough!” Dean bellows, his eyes burning angrily straight to your soul, “I know you’re still in there somewhere and I am not losing you!”

“Sweet Prince…” you pout and hold your heart overdramatically, “You’re making my heart all fluttery.”

Your eyes drop to your palm holding your chest, it’s trembling involuntarily and your head tilts in surprise.

“Oh ho!” you cheer in shock, holding the shaking hand out, “What do you know? Humanity can muster up some strength occasionally.”

“Y/N!” Dean shouts again, and your hand shakes more violently, “Come back to me Baby, fight it!”

“I’m bored of this now,” you tut, dropping from the stage onto the floor and idly strolling towards the boys who all arch up defensively in sync, “This is me now boys, you don’t like it? You’ll have to kill me.”

Your eyes flit to black, and a simple flick of your wrists send Sam and Cas hurtling through the air and into the walls behind them. You giggle as Dean charges forward, and you effortlessly stop him in his tracks, holding him still on the spot with your powers.

Stop it!!

You sidle up to Dean, hovering your lips over his and smirking. You can see him shaking with an uncontrollable rage, the mark on his arm suddenly glowing brightly as he struggled to fight against your magic.

“Hey…” you coo, biting your lip and summoning the still floating blade into your grasp, “D’ya think if I go ahead and slice that pretty little throat of yours, the irresistible Demon Dean comes back to play? I liked him, so….wicked.”

“Y/N, please, fight this,” he growls through gritted teeth.

You so much as lay a fucking finger on him...

“You’ll do what huh!?” you shout out loud at yourself. Dean’s brow furrows again as he watches you, “So many empty threats girl! You want this to stop then, by all means, stop me!”

There’s a moment’s silence. Dean watches you, internally pleading for anything to happen. Something to end this fucking torture. He couldn’t watch you turn into this monster, if it came down to it, he knew what had to be done.

Your ears prick up to the sound of shuffling. Sam and Cas coming around.

“Well, time’s up,” you shrug, shooting Dean a mock look of sympathy, “Sorry, Prince. I was going to keep you alive and slowly tap that fucking wonderful nectar that pumps through your veins. But if I just end you, she might shut up and cower into some dark quiet corner of this over-crowded head.”

Twirling the blade in your hand, you swing, aiming for a direct jab at his throat.

The sound of Sam and Cas’ cries flood your ears. You can hear them scrambling, running to stop you. There was no doubt in your mind they were ready to take you down, you kind of wanted to let them, but you weren’t going down without mustering every last ounce of fight in you.

“No!!” you scream harshly, and your swing stops mere centimeters away from Dean’s jugular.

The flames that licked at the ceiling melted away into nothing. Whatever hold you had on Dean was suddenly gone, and he was quick to realize it. A half-moment passes before you feel the knife slapped from your wrist and it clatters to the ground. You gasp heavily, looking up into his eyes as he watched yours turn back to normal.

“Y/N?” he breathes.

“Dean…” you whisper shakily, your entire body trembling, “I...I’m-”

Oh please, you caught me off guard. That’s all.

You feel your head instantly begin to throb like before. You pull at your hair, grimacing at the pain and pressure already began to build back up.

“S-she’s fighting back,” you panic, losing your balance and stumbling into a nearby table, “I- I can’t…”

“Baby,” Dean grabs your arms, holding you firm and steady as he looks intently into your eyes, “You can. Stay with me.”

You whimper in pain. Before you can speak another word you feel his lips on yours. You melt into him, your heart stopping for a moment in shock. You couldn’t believe after everything he still refuses to give up on you. Clutching him back, you let his kiss keep you at the helm.

Do you hear that?

You notice a thumping sound. Rhythmic like a heartbeat. It pounds in your eardrums, louder with each thump. Something stirs in your guts. A hunger. A too familiar hunger.

You hear that sweet blood coursing in his veins? The Mark’s blood. So much power you can taste it. You could so easily just take it.

The pain in your head reignites with ferocity, making you whine and shove Dean back.

“No,” you mumble, shaking your head and repeating the word over and over again as again you clutched at your hair, “No. I won’t!”

“Y/N?” Dean looks at your, his eyes full of pain and worry. You can still hear his pulse, thudding endlessly in your ear drums no matter how much distance you put between the two of you.

“No!” you shout, dropping to your knees and hunching over.

“What do we do?” Sam questions aloud, at a total loss at the entire situation.

Cas approaches you, trying to get close and see if he could help but every time you shook him off as the Demon voice in your head continued to taunt.

Man, you are so fucked up. What even are you anymore? So much hunger and you really don’t want to feed it? Look at this buffet! We got Mark of Cain blood, Angel grace...Hey! Maybe even some Azazel tainted blood huh? Three perfectly good sources to feed and you really think you won’t succumb eventually? C’mon now. You’re a freaking monster, start acting like one.

“I don’t know,” Dean growls, his shoulders dropping hopelessly and frustration evident in his voice, “Fucking knock her out or something!?”

Your eyes widen, an idea striking you. Risky, but...doable.

“Dean,” you strain to speak through the pain, “G-get some dream root.”

“What?” he narrows his eyes at you in bewilderment.

“Why do we need dream root?” Sam lowers himself to meet your eye level, “You’re not making sense.”

“I tried to finish it, the-” you stop and wince in pain, hastily trying to explain while your head screams, “I-I haven’t tested it yet…” A hot sticky sensation covers just above your top lip as your nose begins to bleed from all the pressure building. Time was nearly out, you had to do it now before you lost control again.

You quickly mumble an incantation you never thought you’d ever speak, and the boys watch as your body suddenly becomes limp and falls the floor.

“Y/N!!” Dean cries, dropping to your side and lifting you into his lap. He brushes the hair from your face, holding you tightly as his eyes began to burn, “Y/N!?”

°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。

The Bunker was eerily quiet. Dean was at your bedside, refusing to leave. You’d been completely KO the entire drive back. Not even the smallest sound passed your lips. Cas had tried to bring you out of it to no avail, he had no clue what was wrong or what you had done, but you were alive.

Dean held your hand tightly, the iron shackles around your wrist cold against his skin. They weren’t taking any chances that you’d still be you if and when you awake. It had been an entire day now, and Dean stayed by you. He hadn’t slept or eaten, he couldn’t bring himself to. Much to Sam and Cas’ protest.

“C’mon Sweetheart,” Dean wiped a hand down his face, groaning as his eyes were painfully heavy, “I need you. Fucking, yell at me for not sleeping or eating or something. I can’t handle another day of this..”

As expected, you don’t react or stir. Just like the past numerous times he’d helplessly tried to talk you out of this apparent coma.

“How did we end up back like this…?” Dean sighs, his face grimacing while his heart wrenches painfully, “I thought we were finally past all this...potion crap. Then the whole Angel Radio stuff started happening…”

His words trail off into a deep sigh. Every fiber of his being wanted you to be able to hear him, but he knew the reality that you couldn’t. Your face blank and eyes firmly shut. He could see your eyelids twitching with movement constantly, like you were having some kind of endless vivid dream.

He feels his eyes beginning to burn again and he fights to hold it back. He kisses firmly on the back of your palm that he held and then sucks in a deep breath. His foot taps on the floor anxiously, the click from the sole of his shoe hitting the hard floor becoming the only audible noise.

“It’ll be okay Baby,” he mutters, more to try and convince himself, “We’ll get through this. We always do.”

Tags! Forever Posse: @sofreddie @chelsea074298 @ria132love @untitled39887 @chicagolove88 @akshi8278 @sis-tafics @younoeatcheeseyounobefat @mandilion76 @teamfreewill92 @supernaturalmagicfolk @emoryhemsworth @musicistobeheard-blog @pheonyxstorm @mrswhozeewhatsis @turnttoverr @itspronouncedsatanbitch @the--real-wombat @xagateophobiax @samisimportant @jensen-gal @castiel11235 @waiting-to-find-myshadows @19agbrown @mogaruke @nyxveracity @cole-winchester @esoltis280 @maui137 @internationalmusicteacher @meganywinchester @sweetness47 @roonyxx @imperiusimpala @lazinessisalliknow @thisismysecrethappyplace @choosemyname @dean-winchesters-bacon  @stoneyggirl @hunterswearingplaid @bella-ca @curly-haired-disaster @rainflowermoon

Dean Darlings: @annoyingpeople-postingthings @hobby27 @sleepless-sin @keira1416 @imascio08 @starry-chaos @xalgaliareptx @polina-93 @andkatiethings @assassinofmasyaf @adoptdontshoppets Make Amends Squad @rosethesupernaturalhunter @shayla-markele @justballoonfishthings @iamcraving @disneychic8 @earthtokace @drakelover78 @cookiechipdough

[hurt-care]

Secrets

Set during the first Wizarding War. This might be one of my favs, but it’s a bummer. 

Remus/Sirius, Remus with a cold

---

They were all gathered at a long table in Dorcas Meadowes' country home where the Order had established one of their safe houses for meetings. Albus Dumbledore sat at the head of the table listening while Marlene McKinnon gave an update on her recent mission with Edgar Bones. James, Lily, and Peter were all seated together toward the middle while Remus, ever punctual, was closer to the front.

And Sirius Black was running late. Again.

He circled his motorbike high above the fields, searching for the glimmer of the enchantments that hid the house. Finally he spotted them in the distance and sent the bike into a sharp dive, landing at such speed that he nearly sent himself toppling over the handlebars. He performed a few quick charms to hide the bike and a few more to get past the safe house's security spells. Finally, he was at the door visible to only those who had been given the location by the secret keeper. He let himself inside and rushed down the hallway to the kitchen, rounding the corner and entering with a grin on his face.

“Mr. Black, I see you've managed to join us,” Dumbledore said cooly. “We've just begun.”

“Sorry, sorry,” Sirius groveled, making his way through the jumble of chairs to the only remaining open spot at the far end of the table next to Sturgis Podmore. A few seats down at a spot across the table, James gave a small wave and stuck his tongue out at his friend. Sirius returned the gesture and gave a nod to Lily and Peter.

“Where's Moony?” he mouthed at James.

James inclined his head over to where Remus was sitting further along.

Sirius craned his neck to see, silently cursing Emmeline Vance for blocking his view. Then, by either his newly gained skill of mind-control or just simple luck, she pushed back her chair a bit and Remus came into view.

He was wearing a dark green wooly cardigan over his t-shirt despite the relatively mild spring weather and his head was inclined down, apparently studying the tabletop. It'd been weeks since Sirius had seem him. Dumbledore had sent Remus off on some mission up north that Sirius wasn't privy to...at least not yet. It didn't take much prying to get Remus to give up some little details.

Look up, Sirius thought as he stared at the man, but Remus remained still. Sirius definitely didn't have the power of mind control....too bad.

“Will you update us on your work, Sturgis?” Dumbledore was saying and Sirius snapped back to reality as Sturgis began speaking beside him.

Sirius feigned interest in the report, listening with as much attention as he could muster. He was counting the knots in the wooden kitchen cabinets to stay awake when a sound caught his ear.

Hrrhhh-tsKGHHH!

It was a heavy and tired-sounding, congested sneeze. His head turned just in time to see Remus' face emerge from behind a plaid flannel handkerchief. Their eyes finally met and Remus looked away quickly, but not before Sirius got a decent look at him. Remus' eyes were heavily circled and tired, like he'd been dragged out of bed after a full moon to attend the meeting. But Sirius knew that wasn't true. The moon had been over a week ago, because Sirius spent that night staking out a suspected Death Eater hideout with James. The majority of the mission involved them sitting in a grove of trees watching a house while the full moon hung ominously above them, a constant reminder of their friend.

“Fuck Dumbledore and his sodding missions,” Sirius had said, perturbed, as he'd poked a stick into the dirt at the base of the tree where he sat next to James. “We should be with Moony.”

“Dumbledore doesn't know, about Prongs and Padfoot,” James had replied with the sort of rational thinking that he'd apparently acquired with the threat of his impending fatherhood.

“Wonder where he is."

“He never can tell us.”

“He'll tell me,” Sirius had insisted.

Now, here they were, nearly reunited. By the looks of him, wherever Remus had been wasn't a pleasant place. A small swell of rage rose in Sirius' gut as he thought about Remus being sent to do whatever ridiculous dirty work Dumbledore always seemed to be putting him up to.

“Thank you, Sturgis,” Dumbledore was saying. “And Hestia?”

Sirius kept his gaze fixed on Remus, who sat facing away with his head propped up by his hand, elbow resting on the table. For someone who usually excelled at feigning attention, Remus looked a bit like he might drop off to sleep at any second. His head began to dip and Sirius thought that he might be starting to doze, but the sharp sound that followed told otherwise.

Ngh'tXHT!

The stifled sneeze was barely audible over Hestia's Order report. Remus' shoulders rose and fell as he sniffled thickly.

Sirius reached for his quill and a scrap of parchment from his bag.

Your flat after? I'll make tea. You look terrible.

He folded the scrap and tapped it with his wand before dropping it casually on the floor. The parchment slid silently along the ground under the long dining table before rising up and hovering just above Remus' lap.

It took a moment for Remus to notice to note but when he unfolded it, he paused to scrub a hand wearily across his eyes before reading the parchment. His head moved slightly, as if tempted to turn and look down the table, but his gaze remained downward and he scribbled a response before dropping the scrap back on the floor.

Sirius caught the paper as it returned to his lap, unfolding it to reveal Remus' familiar script.

Have to debrief w. Dumbledore after. Then I want my own bed. Won't be good company.

With a sigh, Sirius pocketed the note and tried to refocus on the meeting. Why did Remus need private debriefing with Dumbledore? Couldn't it wait? Clearly he wasn't well and sitting in an Order meeting was probably the last place he wanted to be. And Remus hadn't seen any of them in weeks...why didn't he at least want to say a brief hello?

The meeting seemed to drag on for a decade longer until finally Dumbledore clapped his hands together and thanked everyone for attending. Sirius scrambled to his feet, grabbing his bag and trying to fight the crowd to get over to Remus, but by the time he'd made it across the room, Remus and Dumbledore were gone.

“What's going on?” James asked, coming up behind Sirius. “He looked terrible.”

“I don't know,” Sirius replied, frustrated. “He said he needed to meet with Dumbledore privately for a debrief. Whatever the hell Dumbledore has him doing, I don't like it.”

“It's strange that he can never tell us,” Peter chimed in, joining the group. “Whatever it is, I don't understand why only Remus can know about it.”

“Dumbledore knows he's smart,” Lily added. “If he's trusted Remus with something secret, we should respect that.”

“Marauders don't keep secrets,” Sirius huffed, staring daggers at the closed door at the end of the room where he guessed Remus and Dumbledore had gone.

“We've got to get going,” James said, putting an arm around Lily. “Let us know if you get anything out of him.”

“I've got to run too,” Peter said. “Appointment. Catch you later, Pads?”

Sirius nodded.

When the others had gone, he thought briefly about barging in on the meeting between Dumbledore and Remus, but a better idea came to him and he went outside to his motorbike instead.

He rolled the bike over behind a large shrub and cast several disillusionment spells on it, hiding it away for later retrieval. Remus' flat wasn't close at all to the safe-house and if he wanted to get there before Remus, he'd have to Apparate.

Concentrating on the location of the Muggle neighbourhood in North London where Remus lived, he spun on his heel and disappeared, returning back to the ground in the alley beside Remus' building.

It took him several minutes gain entry, carefully removing layer after layer of protective spells. Then, it was a simple 'alohamora' and he was inside.

Remus' flat didn't have much in it to warrant that many locking spells, Sirius thought as he looked around the space. It was a bachelor flat consisting of one small room and an adjacent washroom. There was a tiny desk and chair in one corner, piled with books and parchment and an assorted array of other magical instruments and tools. The far wall had a counter with a sink, an electric kettle, a hot plate, and a fridge. Remus' bed and dresser took up the remaining wall.

Sirius inspected the cupboards, coming up with a box of teabags and he fiddled with the Muggle sink and kettle, finally figuring out how to get the damn thing to start boiling (you had to match that tail on the kettle up to the hole in the wall? A plug, was it?). With the tea prepped, he moved to Remus' bed, inspecting the chaotic pile of blankets and pillows. Nothing matched and nothing seemed to be in its proper place, with pillows on the floor and the quilts all tangled in a ball. He tossed them all off the bed and went about layering them back on the bed in neat stacks.

He was just fluffing the last pillow when he heard a sound at the door. Turning with a smile, he saw the door open quickly and the next thing he knew, he was on the ground unable to move.

“For fucksake, Sirius!” Remus' voice cried. It sounded hoarse and tired.

Sirius couldn't move his mouth to reply, so instead he gave a small groan from his spot on the floor.

Remus pointed his wand at the prone body on his floor and said “Rennervate!”

Sirius sat up slowly, rubbing the back of his head where it'd smacked the hardwood.

“Hello to you too, Moony.”

“I put locking spells on my door for a reason, Sirius.”

“And I am remarkably good at removing them."

“I'll have to get stronger ones, then,” Remus replied dryly. “Thank you for the housewarming, but I just want to—teh....”

Remus paused mid-sentence and furrowed his brows, mouth dropping open and nostrils flaring threateningly. He dug in the pocket of his trousers for his handkerchief and barely got it to his face in time to smother two violent sneezes.

Hurhh'TSGHHTT! Nhh..gh'TSGHTT!

“Bless you,” Sirius said. “Sit. I made tea. I figured out your strange kettle with the tail.”

“Sirius....” Remus said from behind the cloth shield as he wiped his nose and gave a short, wet blow. “Please, I'll owl you later. I just want to go to bed.”

“Then go to bed. I'll stay.”

“I don't want you skulking around my flat while I'm sleeping,” Remus said, his voice starting to sound frustrated.

“You're gone for weeks without so much as a peep and then you turn back up looking and sounding like hell and wanting absolutely nothing to do with your best friends,” Sirius replied, exasperated. “What exactly do you have to hide, Moony, because you're not doing yourself any favours with this act.”

“What's that supposed to mean?” Remus snapped back. “I don't want to argue with you. Please, Sirius. You should just --”

He was about to say “go” but his words caught in his throat and he began to cough. Sinking down to sit on the edge of his bed, Remus tucked his face into the crook of his arm, body shaking with each pained hack.

“Moony...” Sirius began, approaching the coughing man.

“Just go,” Remus choked out between spasms. His pale face was turning pink and sweaty with exertion.

“Let me get you some water first,” Sirius insisted, hurrying to the kitchen and pouring a glass. He returned to Remus' bedside and sat down, offering the cup over with one hand and placing the other on the man's back. Remus kept coughing, his back rising and falling under Sirius' touch. He took a sip of the water, then another, until the coughs slowly died away and Remus was left breathing shallowly as his strained lungs rested.

“There,” Sirius said, taking the empty water glass from Remus' grip and setting it down on the nightstand. “Now, tell me what drawer you keep your pyjamas in and I'll fetch them.”

“You don't have t—teh...heh'tsgHTT!”

Remus' sneeze was blocked by his wrist but when he pulled his hand away, his nose was shiny around the edges with moisture.

“I'm going to fetch your pyjamas for you whether you like it or not, Remus Lupin,” Sirius insisted. “Tell me where they are or I'll go digging through your drawers and make fun of all your pants.”

“Bottom drawer,” Remus said, defeated. He stood and plodded over to the washroom, shutting the door behind him. As Sirius picked out a pair of pyjama bottoms and a soft t-shirt, he could hear the muffled sounds of Remus trying to blow his nose over and over.

Sirius knocked on the bathroom door.

“I've got your clothes. I'll toss them in.”

He opened the door and threw the pyjamas inside before shutting it again. A few moments later, Remus emerged red-nosed and sniffling, now wearing the change of clothes. He walked past Sirius and straight to his bed, pushing back the stack of quilts and sliding under.

“You can go now,” he said, pulling one of the layers up and over his head.

“Or course,” Sirius replied. “Sleep well, Moony.”

But Sirius wasn't planning on going too far. Just down to the corner store for some medicine and food. It was painfully obviously that Remus had little of either thing in his flat.

Though Remus' neighbourhood was almost entirely Muggle, there was a small Wizarding shoppe located about a ten minute walk from the flat. Sirius found it relatively easily and stocked up a bag with instant self-warming soup, some more tea, and a variety of balms and tonics that claimed to ease colds. He bypassed the Pepper Up and other potions. Remus' werewolf physiology was generally hearty against the more common bugs cured by Pepper Up, so anything that managed to get him this sick tended to remain impervious to readily-available potion remedies.

Bag of supplies in hand, he went back to Remus flat and crept back inside.

Remus was asleep, snoring with the quiet wheezing sound of someone with a heavy cold. He'd thrown off some of the blankets and was splayed out, arms tangled in his sheets.

Sirius set the parcel of food and medicines down on the table and crossed to get a good look at his sleeping friend. Remus' face had a thin sheen of sweat across it and his normally pale cheeks were flushed an unnatural pink. Sirius pressed a tentative hand to the man's brow to confirm what he already worried was true; Remus definitely had a fever.

Sirius found a clean dishcloth in the kitchen and soaked it in cool water, wringing it out so it was damp but not dripping. Returning to the bedside, he pressed it against Remus' forehead.

The man shifted in his sleep, making a small moaning sound that near broke Sirius' heart.

“Oh, Moony,” he said softly. “What the hell did Dumbledore have you doing?”

Remus slept on, breathing noisily.

Just as Sirius was turning to busy himself with unpacking some his purchased supplies, there was the sound of someone Apparating outside in the hallway. Sirius grabbed his wand, gripping it tightly as he crept towards the door.

There was a knock. Behind him, Remus stirred and began to cough.

“Remus? It's me, Madam Pomfrey,” the person on the other side of the door called.

Sirius swung open the door, wand still at the ready, to indeed find the Hogwarts matron waiting in the hallway with her medical bag in hand.

“Mr. Black,” she said, sounding surprised. “Professor Dumbledore has asked that I come look in on Mr. Lupin.”

Sirius stepped aside a little to allow the matron to enter the flat. Across the room, Remus struggled to sit up in bed, still sputtering with coughs.

“Madam Pomfrey,” he choked.

“Don't sit up for my sake, lad,” she said, crossing to the bed and gently easing Remus back down into his nest of pillows. “I didn't realize your friends were already looking in on you, but I better take a look just to put the Headmaster's mind at ease.”

“Sirius was just leaving,” Remus said. The coughs had died away and he was lying with his eyes closed, looking utterly spent by the short fit.

Madam Pomfrey looked at Sirius who shrugged and shook his head.

“I'll leave you to it then,” he said.

Grabbing his bag, he went out into the hall but didn't leave. Instead, he stood against the closed door, ears straining to hear.

“How long have you been ill, dear?” Sirius heard the matron ask. Remus' response was muffled, but it sounded like he'd said “a while now.”

“And the others in the pack,” Madam Pomfrey said. “Were any of them ill with the same? Did they use any remedies?”

“Some,” Remus croaked but the rest of his response was lost to coughing. Sirius stumbled, reeling from this revelation. Others in the pack? What pack?

Had Remus been out with other werewolves?

He tried to picture it...their gentle, dry-humoured Moony out in the moors with a pack of feral werewolves who practiced only raw, primal magic and had no love for the Wizarding world. No wonder Remus was acting cagey.

He'd barely wrapped his mind around the idea of it when the flat door opened and Madam Pomfrey emerged.

“Oh, you're still here,” she said. “I was just saying to Remus that it would be ideal to have someone looking in on him, at least for the next day or two so he doesn't have to fix his own meals or potions. Will you be staying, Mr. Black?”

“Yes,” Sirius replied firmly over the sound of Remus' own quiet voice hissing “no” from the bed.

“Good. I've left the potion instructions on the table. Do owl me if you have any questions,” she said before looking back into the flat towards her most frequent patient. “Get some rest, Remus. I'll come by to check in on Tuesday."

“Thank you, Madam Pomfrey,” Sirius said, putting on his most charming grin. “I'll make sure he gets plenty.”

The matron smiled back and patted his shoulder before turning on her heel and apparating away.

“I guess you're stuck with me now, eh Moony?” Sirius said as he stepped back into the flat.

“I'm capable of taking care of myself,” Remus croaked. The flat now smelled strongly of some sort of mentholated balm and Remus was re-tucked back under the covers with a fresh enchanted cooling cloth on his brow.

“Might want to blow your nose then,” Sirius said, picking up a handkerchief from Remus' nightstand and handing it over. “You're leaking.”

Remus grabbed the cloth and pressed it to his nose with a scowl. The action seemed to irritate his red, inflamed nose and he soon was pinching the handkerchief over his nostrils, stifling a painful-sounding sneeze.

Ehh-GHXT!

“Bless,” Sirius said, taking a seat crosslegged at the end of Remus' bed. “Don't hold them in like that or you'll make your head explode.”

“You're going to make my head explode if you don't let me be,” Remus retorted.

“You know, you're normally a much more cheerful invalid than this,” Sirius said, a hint of joking in his voice.

Remus didn't respond but instead rolled over to his side, his face hidden in the pillows.

“Hey...” Sirius said after a moment, touching Remus' leg through the stacks of blankets. “I heard what Pomfrey said. About the pack? Do you want to talk about it?”

Under the quilts, Sirius could see Remus' shoulders rise and fall with a shuddering sigh.

“Moony?” Sirius asked again, scooting further down the bed. His hand found the curve of Remus' back and he settled his palm there, rubbing a small circle. From the nest of pillows came the quiet sound of a muffled sob.

“Talk to me,” Sirius urged gently. Remus head moved with a small shake.

“I can't,” Remus' voice said, tiny and hoarse.

“You can,” Sirius replied. “You always can. I won't tell Dumbledore that I know where he's been sending you. Frankly, I don't know why it's been such a secret all this time.”

Hurh'TSMPHHH!

Remus' body jerked with a sneeze and a moment later, his voice asked “can you pass me a handkerchief?”

Sirius found a clean one on the nightstand and passed it over. Remus emerged from his shield of pillows with the cloth over his face, eyes teary and cheeks flushed. He blew his nose with a very wet gurgle and then wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.

Sirius looked at him solemnly. He could barely count on one hand the number of times he'd seen Remus cry. When they'd found out about him, of course. And when his mother had died.

And the prank.

And now. What had life been like with these werewolves that had him so upset?

“I'm tired,” Remus said when he'd finally given up trying to clear his nose.

“I know,” Sirius said. “Why don't you rest some more and we'll talk once you've had some rest?”

“You don't have to stay,” Remus murmured, rolling back over.

“You're not getting rid of me now,” Sirius said. “Not now that I have Pomfrey's orders.”

Remus gave a small sound of agreement.

“Can Padfoot stay?” Sirius asked. Sometimes, after particularly painful transformations, the warmth and bulk of the large black dog against Remus' tired body seemed to help. More than once, Sirius had snuck into the hospital wing and curled up under the standard-issue white sheets and scratchy wool blankets to help Remus' recovery.

“Okay,” Remus agreed.

A second later, the shaggy black dog leapt up onto the bed and circled twice before settling down against Remus' hip. The young man heaved a weary sigh and curled a hand through Padfoot's thick fur before he was back to sleep.

Sirius managed a little bit of sleep as Padfoot, but most of the time he lay curled up against Remus was spent awake, thinking. As Padfoot, his mind was simpler and clearer, with thoughts coming and going more as feelings and images than concrete ideas. He thought about Moony, alone and cold in an unfamiliar place, probably living somewhere that would make the Shrieking Shack look like Versailles.

Remus slept soundly at first, clearly exhausted and in need of the rest. But after a while, his breathing was beginning to sound noisier and he started sniffling and sputtering between snores. The sputters turned into small coughs that grew until he was coughing himself awake. He writhed under the sheets, pushing them back as he struggled to sit up. Beside him, Padfoot rose up and with a single fluid motion turned back to Sirius.

“Hey,” Sirius said, grabbing Remus' arm and helping to prop him up with a pillow. Remus' chest rattled audibly as he sputtered with the phlegmy coughs. He reached over to his nightstand for a handkerchief and held it to his face, trying to clear his nose but only making a squelching, honking sound instead.

“Fucking drowning in this post-nasal stuff,” he murmured as the coughing finally stopped. He blew his nose in one final attempt to clear the congestion and balled up the handkerchief for later laundering.

“Pomfrey left something that'll help,” Sirius said. “Just a second.”

He untangled himself from the mess of blankets and limbs, crawling over Remus and heading for the kitchen table where the matron had left supplies. He returned carrying a small pot with a lid dotted with holes.

“Says just to set a heating charm,” he told Remus, setting the pot down on the nightstand. He tapped it with his wand and said the spell. Almost instantly, the pot began to release a heavy steam.

“Humidifier,” Remus said. “Never seen a magical one.”

“Smells funny.”

“It's just more menthol,” Remus replied, leaning back into the pillows and closing his eyes. “I imagine I'll stink of it for the next week or so.”

“Better than stinking of other things,” Sirius quipped. “Did you get some decent rest, at least? You were out for quite a while.”

“I think so,” Remus replied wearily. “Still beat but I'll stay up a while and see if that thing does any good.”

“D'want something to eat, then?” Sirius asked. “I got some soup, or there's toast?”

“Soup?”

“Aye, when you were sleeping before, I walked down to MacMurray's. Got some instant soup and a few other things. Didn't know at the time that your personal physician would be stopping by.”

“She's not my-”

“I'm joking, Moony,” Sirius interrupted. “Relax. What do you want to eat?”

“I'm fine, thanks.”

“You have to eat, Remus.”

“The soup then,” Remus relented. “Just a little bit.”

Sirius went to the kitchen area and opened the tin, which was enchanted to be magically warmed when exposed to air. He poured the steaming broth into two bowls, careful to make sure that Remus' had the bulk of the chicken bits for protein.

“There,” he said, returning to the bed and handing a bowl over to Remus. “Eat up.”

Remus took the bowl with cupped hands and held it close to his face, quietly slurping a few spoonfuls. Sirius sat at the opposite end of the bed, eating his own portion.

Hehh...

Between slurps, Remus' breath hitched and his eyes widened in panic. With the quick reflexes, Sirius flicked his wand and took hold of Remus' bowl with a spell, just in time to allow the man to turn his head and shield his nose with his shoulder.

Hhehh-TSGHTT! Nhhh...hehh'tsh-GSHGXT! Tshh'GHGHTT!

Dazed and blinking in the aftermath of the fit, Remus raised his head back up with a thick sniffle and wrinkled his nose.

“Thanks,” he said, taking hold of the bowl of soup once more. “That could have been a disaster.”

“This is precisely the reason Pomfrey recommended that someone stay,” Sirius teased, releasing the bowl from the levitation spell and returning to his own meal.

“Doubt it,” Remus replied, focusing on his soup as if he could see the future in the noodles like tea leaves.

“Hey,” Sirius said, grabbing Remus' leg lightly through the piled blankets. “Did Dumbledore send you on a mission to lose your sense of humour or something?”

Remus scowled at him over the soup bowl.

“Moony,” Sirius urged, setting his empty bowl down on the ground. “Talk to me. You said you would.”

With a sigh, Remus put his own bowl down on the nightstand and huffed a few coughs into the crook of his elbow. Lying half propped-up against the stack of pillows, he looked possibly worse than he had a few hours before. His cheeks were still flushed with fever and his nose was red and raw.

“There's not much to tell,” he said.

“You met other werewolves?” Sirius asked.

“I did,” Remus confirmed. “At Dumbledore's request. Not everyone in the Order knows about me, so we've kept it quiet.”

“But why from us?” Sirius asked.

“I suppose it made it easier,” Remus confessed. “Less explanation.”

“We're you're friends, Moony. What I can't understand is why you went alone without telling any of us. And why when you turned back up looking like hell, you wanted nothing to do with us.”

“You can't possibly understand this, Pads,” replied Remus earnestly. “And I didn't want to try to explain it.”

“Try me,” Sirius challenged. “What about it can't I understand? Tell me what it was like. Were they nice or were they terrible?”

Remus looked down at his hands.

“Some were nice,” he said softly. “And some weren't. Mostly it made me angry. Angry and sad.”

“Sad?”

“It took me ages to find them,” Remus began, crossing his arms across his chest and hugging himself tight. “The one pack I was trying to find this time, I mean. They live way out in rural Wales, farther from any town than you can walk in a day. They have what I suppose you could call a camp, but that implies there's some shelter and supplies. They don't have much of either. It's a few lean-tos and fires, and a couple of stolen cots and such.”

“What do they do for food?” Sirius asked, his stomach sinking with each new detail.

“Hunt for what they can find, at least during the new moons. Mostly rabbits and sometimes they'll get lucky and trap something larger. During the full, they'll take down any prey they're able. They got a few deer while I ran with them, but no men, thankfully.”

“How many of them?”

“Fifteen in this pack. Ten men, five women.”

“And they let you stay with them?” Sirius asked.

“After some convincing, yes,” Remus replied. “They weren't very trusting of someone they tracked for twelve kilometres before he noticed them. A wolf that was freshly shaven and smelling of candle-smoke and parchment. At least I didn't have my wand. I locked it in a safety deposit box at a bank in Cardiff.”

“You didn't have your wand?” Sirius exclaimed.

“I couldn't,” Remus said. “Not if I wanted to earn their trust. It was the first time since I got it at Ollivander's that I've been without it. I don't think I've ever been so scared walking away from somewhere than I was leaving that bank.”

“Rightfully so,” Sirius scoffed. “Wandless magic talents aside, I would never!”

“I didn't have a choice,” Remus replied, his voice pained. With every word, he was getting hoarser. “They hate wizards, Sirius. And after I spoke to them, I can say that I understand why.”

“You can understand why they hate wizards?” Sirius said incredulously. “You're a bloody wizard, Remus!”

“I was turned long before I learned magic,” Remus said. “I am only a wizard because of a ridiculous streak of dumb luck granted by the sheer idiotic kindness of Dumbledore. If not for him, I would be them. I would hate us too.”

“Were some of them wizards...before?” Sirius asked.

“No,” Remus replied. “I've heard about wizards who get turned. They don't usually last very long. If you don't grow up with this, it isn't an adjustment that you can easily make. There are some who can do magic, but it's primitive. Mostly wandless spells for fire and tracking. A few know some healing spells.”

“You must've impressed them, then,” Sirius said. “I remember McGonagall saying that your wandless magic was the best she'd ever seen.”

“There's a reason for that,” Remus said darkly. “A natural talent, one might say.”

“If they hate wizards, why would they align with You-Know-Who?” asked Sirius. “He has all the worst sorts of wizards who especially hate werewolves. If they knew how many of his followers actively campaign for stronger restrictions...”

“He's offering free blood,” Remus interrupted. “The chance to hunt openly and ruthlessly. There are those of them who want that. And for the others, he's making empty promises about power and glory. I'm trying to convince them that none of it is true.”

He pulled his legs up and hugged his knees to his chest, suddenly looking much younger than his twenty years. Sirius reached out and touched Remus' arm, giving it a gently squeeze.

“I'm sure you did convince some of them,” Sirius said. “Who wouldn't trust you?”

Remus gave a barking laugh that turned into coughing. When he managed to get it under control, he wiped his mouth and looked at Sirius with a dark expression.

“I don't know,” he said. “I don't know who trusts me and who doesn't.”

“You're delirious,” Sirius replied.

“M'not,” Remus said, stifling a yawn. His voice was barely above a whisper from all the talking.

“Do you want to sleep again?” Sirius asked. “You need it.”

Remus shook his head.

“I don't know if I could. And my head is so congested, I think laying down will make it explode.”

Sirius scooted up the bed until he was sitting beside Remus, leaning back against the headboard.

“C'mere,” he beckoned, patting the spot in front of him.

“What?” Remus asked.

“Just trust me, Moony,” Sirius said. “It'll help.”

He stretched his legs out and guided Remus to sit between them, leaning back against Sirius' chest. Guiding Remus' head back to loll against his shoulder, Sirius reached up and slid his fingers gently along Remus' sinuses, tracing paths beneath his eyes and across his forehead in long, soothing strokes. Remus' whimpered a little at first with the pressure but was soon relaxing against Sirius' body, letting himself go limp.

“Sirius,” he muttered after a few moments, his voice sleepy and hoarse.

“Shh,” Sirius urged. “Just relax.”

“No, Sirius,” Remus replied, more insistent. His chest began to tremble with rapid shivers of breath and Sirius felt the man's eyebrows furrow beneath his touch.

“Oh,” Sirius said, realizing what was about to happen. He released his grip on Remus in time for the man to pitch forward, sneezing openly.

Hurh'tsSGHHHH!

Remus moaned and covered his nose with his arm, gasping for air as another sneeze built....

Hehh....hehh-TSGHTTT!

He waited with his nose tucked behind the shield of his arm for several seconds before falling back into Sirius' waiting arms.

“Do you need a handkerchief?” Sirius asked.

Remus shook his head and sniffled with a thick snort.

“Nothing's moving,” he moaned, shutting his eyes and letting Sirius go back to work massaging his swollen sinuses.

“Maybe some hot compresses would help,” Sirius suggested.

Remus shrugged.

“I don't know. What you're doing is helping a bit,” he said. Sirius continued his work, gradually working back to massage Remus' scalp and temples. Before long, Remus was asleep, snoring loudly as he lay reclined against Sirius' chest.

Sirius pushed back Remus' fringe and felt his brow, relieved to discover it relatively cool. Whatever potions Madame Pomfrey had given him seemed to be at work.

“C'mon then,” he said, gently lifting Remus' head and guiding him down into a stack of pillows, keeping him propped up enough to breathe. Remus stirred a little but didn't wake.

Sirius lay down alongside his friend, watching Remus intently as he slept. Suddenly, spending hours in a ditch staking out Death Eater haunts didn't seem so terrible compared to a week in rural Wales with a pack of werewolves. They'd have to compare notes on that later.

[sapphicalexaandra]

Impossibility Is a Kiss Away from Reality (5/?)

Pairing: Jace/Alec

Rating: M+

Summary: What. The. Fuck?! What in all seven hells had happened?! Alec wakes up in a hospital bed.

Notes: Chapter 5 of Sense8 AU. When a link appears, open it in another page ;)

Too Good

His eyes felt heavy and pasty as they twitched tentatively.

Immediately, a groan escaped out of him, only worsening the soreness he felt on his entire face. Scratch that, his entire body was sore. It took Alec a moment to remember why…he had been shot in the back. Fuck. Alec’s brain scrambled to remember if he had worn a vest or not; he should have, as usual. And since he didn’t feel the aftereffects of coming out of an operation, with a bit of luck he wasn’t in too bad a state.

But as his vision regained focus, Alec wished he was still asleep, because pain and family didn’t need to go hand in hand more than they already did. Especially when one had just got shot at.

“Alec? He’s awake, guys, he’s awake, shh,” Izzy half-whispered, but in vain, since his family had never been quiet one day in Alec’s life, not even when Alec’s head throbbed as incessantly as it did now.

As a matter of fact, his parents and Max all rushed towards his bed like a herd of elephants.

“Alec, baby, how are you feeling?” his mother asked in the lowest tone of voice she could muster, which wasn’t saying much.

Shutting down the loud memories that were knocking, demanding to enter at the back of his mind, Alec tried moving a little. His hands felt competent enough, even if they tingled a bit, but when he tried to get himself upright his entire upper torso shot up in pain.

“Don’t do that, Alec,” his sister warned. “You cracked a few ribs. The doctor said you can’t move too much for the next few weeks, and you need to take slow breaths.”

Alec nodded slightly, but he regretted it as soon as he did it. Just great.

“They’ll give you more pain killers in a bit,” his father told him, and Alec refrained himself from nodding again.

“You scared us, you know,” his mother said, taking his hand. That touch felt…weirdly wrong, somehow. That was the hand that was tingling the most.

“I’m fine,” Alec croaked out. “Hey, Max, don’t make that face.”

Max shrugged from his place at the foot of the bed. “I told you your work would get you killed. There are a lot of crazy people around.”

“Well, it seems that your big brother will be around for another while, though,” was Alec’s attempt at levity.

“Whatever.”

Alec managed to form a smile, as Izzy rolled her eyes.

Right then, the door opened, and Lydia, still in uniform, walked, or rather marched in, going to stand next to Izzy.

Everyone fell dead silent, and Alec’s stomach sank as Lydia sent him her sternest stare.

But he couldn’t let a word out before she did, “I’m glad you’re awake, Alec.” That was all the niceties he deserved, Alec knew it. “I still need to be out and deal with the situation, but I wanted to check. I’ll come back later, and we’ll talk, partner.”

Not even his mother had ever made a talk sound so threatening.

“I’m sorry, Ly-”

“Save it for later,” she said, a bit more kindly. She looked at Izzy, then, and the latter nodded at her before leaning in for a kiss. Lydia was out of the room a moment later.

Izzy turned towards him, and she was regarding him severely now, too. Alec sighed.

“Really, Alec, what happened? Lydia said you completely froze in the middle of the shooting.”

Four pair of eyes were fixed on him, and Alec didn’t know what to say. He knew that it was not characteristic of him, at least not since his academy days, to freeze on the field. And he didn’t freeze, he just got…distracted. But he could never explain that to his family; he didn’t understand it himself!

Still determined not to think about it, not until he was alone at least, Alec tried for a somewhat plausible answer. “I know, I just…I don’t know. It happened, okay? But it won’t again, I promise.”

“You better,” his mother warned, only half teasing. At least now that she knew he wasn’t about to die, she could go back to her usual self. Not that his mother was heartless, just…she hadn’t called him baby ever since he was a baby, and he rather preferred it that way.

The door opened again. This time it was the doctor, which they all greeted.

“How are we feeling, Officer?” he – Alec had forgotten his name - asked good-naturedly.

Alec cleared his throat. “Could be better.” Then he added, “But I’m just bruised, am I not? The bullet didn’t pierce, so I should be released soon?”

“Soon, but not quite yet. We want to keep you for the night in case you have a concussion.”

Alec groaned internally. “I don’t feel concussed.” Not technically a lie, because whatever he might have hadn’t been caused by this.

“It’s often not that obvious, at first,” the doctor still replied.

“What could be the worst-case scenario, Doctor Pangborn?” his mother asked.

(Right, that was his name).

 “Oh, don’t worry, Mrs. Lightwood. It’s just a precaution. We’ll keep an eye on him, but I think you can all go back home serenely enough.”

Alec’s throat, however, only closed in on itself. He knew that something was wrong. He’d have to ask the doctor more questions once his family had gone away.

Eventually, finally, they did leave, even though Izzy promised she’d come back later with Lydia. Still, despite that not-very-pleasant prospect, Alec could breathe more easily. Not literally, since his chest was still wrapped tightly around his bruised ribs, while one particular spot on his back, where the bullet had hit him, kept pounding more painfully than the others; but at least he now had the space to think…

What. The. Fuck?!

What in all seven hells had happened?!

He had simply been doing his shitty job in a shitty situation and then…what?! A blond guy had just stood there in the middle of the screaming crowd, and Alec had rightly - heroically, anyone would say - tried to help him…instead that guy had been made of smoke, and he had plunged him into some kind of hallucinated state during which Alec had thought to be somewhere completely different. And, most of all, that guy had looked like a model straight from a magazine, and he had stared at Alec as if he was his favorite snack…in the middle of a shooting! He dreaded to know what his sister would say – see what being a sexually frustrated workaholic will bring you to? – but she’d be wrong, because that’d be simply too crazy for anyone. It didn’t matter that he might, might have stared back a little bit, because he had not wanted any of this! Surely not being landed in a hospital.

He needed to quickly figure out how to ask for a brain scan casually.

But first, he’d let the pain killers do their magic on him, and maybe he’d even manage a nap…

When he had to stifle a scream. That guy had just appeared at the foot of his bed.

A moment later, Alec found himself standing in a poorly-furnished apartment, still facing that guy, who was looking at him far too intently for Alec’s tastes. Alec started palming at his chest, pain sparking up in it at his every movement, but he had to check to see that he was still solid. He appeared to be, but that only meant that he was far more elaborately going insane than any normal insane person.

“Great! I’m really going crazy, then!” he burst out, more directed at himself than at the other one. “It’s probably a tumor, I might have to soon leave this world, but in that case at least this,” he gestured at the guy with both his hands, “will stop.”

The guy crossed his arms. “Are you quite done?”

Alec didn’t let himself get distracted by his definitely unattractive British accent, or by the fact that it was the first time he ever heard his voice. “Wha- Excuse me? If I’m done? What gives you, a smoke man, the right to ask me-”

“A smoke man? What the hell did you smoke? And I’m the one asking questions here. Who the hell are you?”

“What? Who the hell are you!”

The guy shrugged. “I’m Jace.”

“Jace?” Alec paused. “Whatever. I’m Al-”

“Alec, I know. I heard.”

“You heard. Right, of course. Well, Jace, this has been interesting, but now I must wake up.”

“You must wake up.”

“Yes. From this dream or hallucination or whatever that I’m having.”

“Yeah, no. You’re the dream, I’m the one hallucinating.”

“I don’t think so, smoke man.” Alec gritted his teeth. “And where I am anyway? This is a dump.”

The guy – Jace – scoffed. “My apartment is not a dump, you tosser. And we’re in London, for your information.”

“London.” Alec paused again. “I’ve never been to London.”

“Well, of course not, since you’re not real,” Jace said as if that made it final.

“I’m not real?” Alec let out a sound that was part amusement part exasperation. “You are not real!”

''I’m very much real, thank you very much.”

Another sound escaped Alec, as he twirled around the room to find any sense somewhere. 

“Ehm…”

Alec heard a snort, and he turned – he should stop moving, damn the pain! – infuriated. “What, now?”

“Your, ehm…your hospital gown…” Jace seemed to be trying very hard not to laugh.

Alec froze internally. Don’t tell me…

But, of course, he had forgotten that he was literally naked, under that damnably short and open from behind thing that the hospital had put on him. He had been flashing Jace his ass…of-fucking-course.  

“I mean, not that I mind,” Jace smirked, and Alec didn’t need to see himself in the mirror to know that he had lit up bright red.

And as he fumbled with his vest, trying to face Jace not with his ass, his mouth was gaping open like a fish, and all he could think about was that that situation resembled far too closely the start of every damn porn ever…and he wasn’t liking it at all. At all. That was not the way things should go in a fantasy; he shouldn’t want to crawl under the bed instead of over it!

“You…what…just, go away, will you! Get out of my head!”

Jace’s brow furrowed. “Not until you get out of mine!”

Alec shut his eyes closed, then, and for some miracle it worked. He felt himself back on the hospital bed, and he opened his eyes again with a sigh of relief. Not that he felt very relieved, because his emotions were so tangled together that he didn’t know what he felt. He only knew that his heart was pumping wildly, and that dreaming about a hot blond liking his ass would’ve been great if it hadn’t literally landed him in that hospital.

He had barely calmed down by the time Lydia arrived and he had to face another conversation he didn’t want to have.

“We’re in this together, Alec, I want you to tell me if you have something going on that makes you freak out at work. We need to be able to rely on each other, you know that.”

“I know, I know, Lydia, I’m sorry.” Alec pinched the bridge of his nose with a hand. “Nothing’s going on, I swear.”

The lie left his lips far too easily, unlike the guilt that sprung up in him as a result. Still, no matter how much he trusted Lydia as his partner, he couldn’t put this whirlwind on her life (and on his sister’s as a result). Alec knew he must’ve scared the living daylights out of her, and this would only freak her out more about something that he still didn’t understand himself. If it turned out to be serious, he swore to himself that he’d tell her.

“Then what happened?” Lydia asked.

“Will you believe me if I say I don’t know?”

Lydia raised a critical eyebrow. “You’ll have to work on that. Take these weeks of leave to figure it out, okay?”

“God, right, I can’t go back to work.” Damnit. Work occupied most of his time. Without it, what would distract him from this literal shitstorm? “I can’t believe I’m leaving you on your own…I bet they’ll partner you up with Raj again.”

Lydia sighed. “Being shot myself would’ve been better.”

Izzy entered the room, carrying a bag. “Proper clothes for the patient,” she chirped out.

“Bless you, Iz.”

He’d hate hospital gowns forever from now on.

After placing the bag on the floor next to the bed, Izzy went to seat on Lydia’s lap, while Lydia hugged her around the middle, laying her chin on Izzy’s shoulder. It had been a long, tragic day, Alec mused.

Izzy leaned into the hug, interlocking her hands with Lydia’s, before she looked at him, “So how are you feeling, big bro?”

“Better.” At least that wasn’t a lie. “This is just a precaution, I’ll be home tomorrow.”

Izzy nodded. “Did you give him an earful, babe?” she said to Lydia, who smiled.

“No, I was actually very nice.”

“Then I’ll tell you that you’re an idiot, Alec.”  

“I love you too, Iz. Sorry I scared you,” Alec said genuinely.  

That seemed to satisfy her, because she sighed, but didn’t add anything else.

“Go home, I’m okay,” Alec told them. “I know you’re tired.”

Izzy and Lydia shared a look, but Izzy still seemed reluctant when she addressed him. “Are you sure? I could stay here with you.”

“I don’t think they’ll let you stay.”

“But…” Alec raised an eyebrow, “ugh, fine.”

They got up and, after bidding him goodnight, Lydia squeezing his hand as Izzy kissed him on the forehead, they left the room.

He thought he would’ve preferred being alone, but in actuality Alec was left with nothing more but his panic over the entire situation.

So, eventually, he just couldn’t take it anymore, and he had to call up to ask for a brain scan, under the excuse of a bad headache that he didn’t want to find out was something serious too late. Not that it was a lie, because his head was killing him, and he would have all the reasons to worry. He didn’t even have a lot of convincing to do, and when he got back in his room after the scan he felt far more serene. One less thing to worry about.

He still had a hard time falling asleep, the scene at the shooting and at…Jace’s apartment replaying in his mind over and over and over again.

How people had walked right through Jace while Alec was touching him - he should’ve noticed that there was something weird about that touch, but how could he have had in such a terrible moment?

How the world had seemed to stop, every sound drained, everything else forgotten, nothing else that mattered except them as they stared at one another…

How infuriating Jace actually was, because of course even a fantasy couldn’t be perfect.

Most of all, Alec didn’t understand how he could hallucinate things so vividly, and still have them make so little sense. Why that London guy? Why in the middle of the shooting? Why so randomly and why him?

If only this headache would stop. It didn’t help at all in trying not to be anxious.

And if only the people next door would turn off the volume? They were in a hospital, not at a damn concert!

Alec pressed the emergency button, regretting it a moment later - because apparently he was that kind of patient who complained about every little thing - but especially when the nurse told him that he couldn’t hear anything too loud. No concert.

Alec was left speechless, and more than a little embarrassed, as he left. Another weird thing happening to him that day.

When a piano started playing so clearly that he could’ve been wearing headphones, however, Alec felt betrayed…had the nurse been shitting him? 

Scared my love You'll go

Alec froze, feeling his mouth fall open. Where…who…what? A voice - a deep, damn near angelic voice - was singing as if directly into his brain and…

Spend my love Heart broke

Alec didn’t even care about the noise anymore. He could listen to that music forever, as if his life depended on it…

So my love don't show

Alec could only close his eyes, vibrations spreading through his entire body …

Scared my love You'll go

…and when he reopened them, he wasn’t surprised at all to find himself in a crowd, all looking up at a stage where…he sang. Jace. He had just known that it was him.

Too good to be good for me Too bad that that's all I need

Jace had his eyes closed, his fringe messily styled on his head, as his mouth was pressed to the microphone as if he wanted to tell secrets right into it. The guy with glasses at the piano behind him had started harmonizing with him, and the result was even more astonishing.  

Too good to be good for me And too bad that that's all I need All I need

Jace opened his eyes, and they didn’t hesitate, didn’t struggle to focus, they fixed themselves directly on Alec as if he had known beforehand that he’d be there, and where he’d be. Alec looked right back, somehow falling, and falling, drowning into the brightness of his eyes…

And when those eyes were suddenly far closer than they’d been, Alec didn’t even flinch, didn’t even mind about the optical impossibility in front of him, with a Jace slowly walking towards him a few meters away, and one on the stage.

Fingers walk your thigh Breathe my love, get high

Jace now sang to him, and to him alone, and there was no cell in Alec that wasn’t shaking, pulsing and aching indescribably.

And oh, I'm so scared Oh I'm so scared It's just for tonight

Alec followed the movement of Jace’s mouth, transfixed, a prey to a hypnotizing serpent, as the space between their chests got smaller and smaller, until it couldn’t be fit by another body.

So I take a sip, wait 'til it hits That liquid guilt is on my lips I'm wasted on you

Jace sang a few breaths away from his face, and Alec found himself bending his head down to get even closer, his eyes drooping, his mouth still open, drawn towards the other man as if they were two magnets…

Too good to be good for me Too bad that that's all I need All I need

Jace sang the chorus right in his ear, and then he traced all the way around Alec’s neck until it reached the other ear. They weren’t touching, not one limb, but their bodies moved and leaned against one another, in some sort of slow-downed figurative dance, as they somehow knew exactly the shape they should’ve formed. The music around them quickened, and they were caught in their own little bubble, their own little world, Alec still weirdly able to think that he was glad he wasn’t in his hospital gown anymore, until…

So I take a sip, wait 'til it hits That liquid guilt is on my lips I'm wasted on you

Jace, tentatively, shakenly, placed his hands on Alec’s chest, and Alec stopped breathing as Jace’s palms traced it, until he was circling his neck. Alec didn’t know what that felt like, it was like nothing else he had ever known…but it was something that he couldn’t escape, nothing that could keep him from bringing his own hands on Jace’s waist, and hide his face against the side of his face, breathing in a scent that didn’t seem to be of this world, but which he already knew intimately as it embedded into his brain. And he could swear he also felt in that same way Jace’s cold breath hitting his neck. At that point, he could no longer keep his eyes open.

(Wasted on you)

As soon as everything became dark, he was surrounded by Jace, and Jace alone, in a way that wasn’t tangible, but all-engulfing nonetheless. As their arms tightened around each other, Alec’s fingers trembling over the skin they traced, he thought that that must’ve been what it felt like being able to hold water.

Too good to be good for me Too bad that that's all I need

When, suddenly, Alec felt the need to raise his head from its spot. Jace looked back up at him in that very moment, and Alec could see every freckle, every line, every color on his face. For the first time he took notice of the fact that Jace’s eyes were the bluest, but the left had also a speckle of brown…Alec didn’t think he had ever seen eyes more beautiful.

Too good to be good for me Too bad that that's all I need All I need

Alec didn’t want to stop the urge that gripped him then, because it wasn’t a sudden, conscious thing that he thought about, he simply found himself inching closer and closer to Jace’s mouth with his entire being, as if it was only right. Only natural. His lips already felt the ghost of it, and he could tell nothing would ever compare to this…

A spark of pain shot up in his chest as Alec leaned up on his bed, and his eyes were wide open a second later, looking up at a white, empty ceiling. He fell back on his pillow, groaning in pain as his breathing raced wild, straining his ribs, exactly the opposite of what it should’ve been doing.

As Alec tried to get it back down, however, he couldn’t ignore the other sensations lingering in his body. The butterflies swarming in his stomach weren’t just a ghost, they were all too real, as were the tingles spreading under his skin, as was his erection throbbing painfully between his legs. And when the pain subsided, everything only heightened.

Fuck.   

[azvolrien]

The Lady of Kaltara - Chapter Eight

Onto the home straight now - since I didn’t post anything last night (I fell asleep), I’m putting up both this final chapter and the epilogue now.

~~~

           The bladehounds lunged in one movement. They were smaller than the great metal beast Wygar had fought during his final exam, each about the size of a large dog, but much faster; they crossed the full length of the hall in barely a second, steel claws clattering on the stone floor. On pure reflex, Wygar raised a shield that would normally have stopped a charging aurochs, but as promised the two bladehounds ripped through it like it wasn’t even there. He dodged the first swiping claw and threw himself upwards, channelling power into a levitation spell long enough to hook one arm over a rough iron chandelier. One of the bladehounds sprang after him, jaws snapping, but fell mercifully short. It and its double paced in a circle below, for all the world like a pair of dogs that had cornered a cat up a tree. He swung his other arm down, conjuring a wave of concussive force that cracked the flagstones, but it didn’t even sway the constructs.

           Kovar folded her arms and watched the tableau impassively. “How long do you think you can stay up there?” she asked, raising an eyebrow. “You might have a strong grip, but I give you about two minutes until that thing comes loose from the ceiling.”

           Fayn leapt onto Kovar’s back, teeth bared in a silent snarl, and wrapped the loose chain twice around her neck. The gladius fell to the stone floor as Kovar – no longer impassive – dropped to her knees, scrabbling at the chain with both hands.

           “Don’t kill her!” blurted Antoni. “Please – she’s still my sister.”

           Fayn paused at his words, not loosening the chain but not pulling it any tighter either. Kovar seized both the moment and Fayn’s arm, stood, and flipped her over her shoulder to slam flat on her back on the floor.

           “Little trick a wanderer from the Sunrise Islands taught me, back in my arena days,” said Kovar, her voice hoarse as she freed her neck from the chain. “You’ll be feeling that impact for a while, so best just stay down and – ouch! What the hell?”

           Fayn had bitten her ankle hard enough to draw blood. At the same moment, Wygar let go of the chandelier and dropped to plant both feet on the head of one of the bladehounds, driving its chin against the floor with a ringing clang, and something hurtled into the room to charge headlong into the other construct. Whatever spells let it shrug off a concussive wave did nothing against brute non-magical force, and its small size acted against it: it was thrown right across the room and crashed into the opposite wall.

           The tiny red-furred karkadann reared up on her hind legs, pawing at the air with a battle cry. On all fours she was barely knee-high to Wygar and what would have been a deep bellow from a full-sized beast came out as more of a squeal, but the long, sturdy horn on her forehead still curved to a wicked point. As the bladehound swung back on the attack – aiming for Wygar as ordered – Una shifted form from the karkadann to an equally tiny mammoth and charged to meet it again, this time catching it on her curving tusks and wrapping her trunk around the pottery-and-metal neck. The hooked steel claws dug into her shoulders as the bladehound struggled, but she braced all four legs against the broken flagstones and did not loosen her grip, even as blood began to speckle the floor.

           Fayn let go of Kovar’s ankle and lurched for the bladehound, slamming the chain down in the middle of its back and pinning it long enough for Una to free herself and shift to the form of a wolf. Behind her, Kovar retrieved her gladius, only to drop it again when the wire-wrapped hilt glowed red-hot with a single glance from Wygar. Antoni backed up against the far wall, where Cruon still cowered in a ball by the throne. The other bladehound scrambled back on its feet and turned on Wygar again. He lifted a hand and engulfed the construct in white-hot fire, but it leapt from the flames as if they were no more than mist, not even glowing with heat.

           “Fayn!” shouted Wygar. “Get Una, stand back! I have an idea!”

           She didn’t even give him a quizzical look. Instead she snatched Una up and retreated as far as the chain – still tangled in the bladehound’s knife-like spines – would allow. Wygar raised both hands, gritting his teeth, and instead of adding heat, removed it. Both bladehounds slowed as the temperature rapidly dropped around them, their joints creaking and seizing up as frost spread across their armour. Soon they had frozen completely, unable to do more than twitch as they still tried to follow their orders.

           Still holding Una under one arm, Fayn grabbed Kovar’s cooled gladius and threw it at the nearest bladehound with all the strength she could muster. Brittle from the cold, both the sword and the construct shattered into pieces. Wygar thumped the other one in the forehead with the butt of his staff, cracking the metal skull clean in two. The fire of activation faded in its eye sockets, and it too collapsed in a useless heap.

           Kovar stared at the remains for several long seconds, then slowly looked at Wygar. He looked back and raised one eyebrow, drumming his fingers against his staff in a meaningful fashion. Kovar took a deep breath, held it for a moment, and lifted both hands in surrender. Una wriggled out of Fayn’s grasp and limped over to stand guard on their new prisoner, teeth bared and hackles up despite the blood on her fur.

           “You might want a healer, sweetheart,” said Wygar, at last allowing himself to catch his breath.

           “Cruon should be able to help,” Kovar quickly offered without lowering her hands.

           Wygar frowned. “Who?”

           Fayn pointed towards the throne. Cruon shakily uncurled and stood up. “What should I be able to help with?” he asked, his voice trembling as badly as the rest of him.

           “Healing this little one,” said Kovar, nodding down at Una. “She took on one of the bladehounds single-handed.”

           “Oh. Well. I, um. It’s been a long time. I’d need to consult my books…”

           “Why?” asked Kovar. “They look like pretty straightforward flesh wounds to me.”

           Wygar narrowed his eyes and crossed the room. He towered over Cruon by more than a head. “And you are… who, exactly? The court mage?”

           “He’s the one who’s been making all the, the blood-potions Mara gives me,” said Antoni. “I’m not sure they’ve ever really worked, but-” He fell silent when Wygar held up one hand.

           “I’m going to need you to speak very clearly, and with absolute truth,” said Wygar, fixing his eyes on Cruon’s. “You’ve been using Fayn’s blood and others’ to… make potions?”

           “Yes,” said Cruon, too terrified to mumble.

           “And do these potions work?”

           Cruon swallowed and glanced to the side. Wygar grabbed the front of his shirt in one hand and twisted the fabric into a bunch, hoisting Cruon onto his toes. “Well?”

           “No!” Cruon yelped. “No, they don’t! It’s all just superstition, but I thought-”

           “Last question,” said Wygar. “Do you, in fact, possess any magical ability at all?”

           Cruon swallowed again. “No,” he finally whimpered. “I don’t.”

           “I see.” Wygar let go of his shirt. Cruon slumped back against the wall, but before he could fall to the ground, Kovar took Wygar’s place, pinning Cruon to the wall with a forearm pressed across his throat. Fayn knelt beside Una and pulled her into a tight hug, pressing the little wolf’s brow to her chest and hiding Cruon from her sight.

           “I gave you a home,” Kovar said. “I gave you a work space. I gave you all the resources you said you needed, from glassware to blood. And you lied to me. You lied to Antoni. I thought you could help to make him better, and you were just feathering your own nest the whole time.”

           “I… I’m sorry, Lady Kovar, I just-”

           “Save it for the gods.” Before anyone could move, Kovar drew a long, concealed knife from the back of her belt, and drove it up into his heart with a savage twist. Blood oozed down over her hand and splattered from his mouth; she pulled the knife out and let both it and Cruon drop to the floor, then sat down on the throne and lowered her forehead into her clean hand. Antoni shook off his shock, looked around, bit his lip, and pulled down a wall-hanging to cover the body.

           Fayn let go of Una, breathing heavily. Wygar pulled off his coat and laid it over Una before she shifted back to human form and straightened up, wrapping the coat around herself. She moved easily; the cuts from the bladehound’s claws were not as deep as they had first looked, and the blood was already clotting.

           “I told you to stay with Rathus,” said Wygar reproachfully. “He’s smart enough to protect you now.”

           “Yeah… Well.” She shrugged. “It doesn’t hurt much.”

           Wygar chuckled despite himself, shaking his head. “There’s wound tincture in the first-aid kit,” he said. “At the very least, those will need to be properly cleaned.”

           The chain rattled as Fayn stood up. Wygar turned to face her, and they all but fell into each other’s arms. Una wrinkled her nose as Wygar buried his face in Fayn’s hair, holding her so tightly her toes almost left the floor, while Fayn closed her eyes and pressed an ear to his heart, digging her fingers into his back with a kind of desperation. It was a couple of minutes before Antoni awkwardly cleared his throat and they released each other and drew back to arm’s length.

           “They collared you!” said Wygar, gently tilting Fayn’s chin up to let him see the metal clearly. ���Those runes, blocking shapeshifting and… speech?” He turned a furious glare on Kovar, but she was still looking at the floor.

           “The lock’s been fused,” said Antoni. “I… I don’t know how you can open it. Maybe a file or something?”

           Wygar frowned. “Turn your head to the side, cariad,” he said more gently. “Let me see. No, he’s right, an unlocking spell won’t help, and I don’t want to try the same trick we used on the bladehounds – the shards might cut your neck. But… this should work.” He worked the fingers of one hand in between the collar and Fayn’s neck and raised a hair’s breadth of the metal to a red heat, carefully controlling it to avoid burning either himself or Fayn. Weakened almost to the melting point, the steel broke and the collar swung open. Fayn pulled it free and dropped it to the floor with a unceremonious clank.

           “You brought Una with you!?” was the first thing she said. “Wygar!”

           “Believe me, cariad, it wasn’t my first choice – but she made a very compelling argument!”

           “I told him I’d just follow by myself if he tried to leave me behind,” said Una.

           “All right, that is compelling,” admitted Fayn. “Though I’d have preferred it if you’d gone to stay with your grandparents…”

           “That was what I told her!” said Wygar. “But – she’s very determined that way, and I thought she would at least be safer with me than trying to go across country by herself.”

           “I suppose that’s true enough.” Fayn squinted up at Wygar for a moment, and her eyes widened. “You cut your hair!” She reached up to brush her fingers through it. “Oh, my love…”

           “It was a sacrifice worth making,” said Wygar, taking her hand in his. “Besides, it’ll grow back eventually.”

           “Which… brings us to Antoni,” said Fayn.

           Wygar looked over his shoulder. “Ah.”

           Antoni gave a weak smile and a little wave. “Hello.” Kovar sat up just enough to stare incredulously at him.

           “Andari Sickness,” said Fayn quietly. “He needs a hospital, Wygar.”

           “I see.” Wygar let go of Fayn and walked to face Antoni. “I’m not a healer,” he said. “But I have studied the Andari Event – I think I even have a pretty good idea of how it happened – and naturally the Sickness comes up in the literature a lot.”

           “Can it be cured?” asked Kovar.

           “Not completely, no,” said Wygar. Antoni hung his head. “At least, not yet,” Wygar added. “But it can be managed. Some of the damage will likely stay with you for the rest of your life, but with proper treatment there’s no reason that shouldn’t be a good few decades. We can get you to the Crown Hospital in the Imperial City; I understand the healers there have the most experience of treating the Sickness, and they’re getting better at it all the time.”

           “The guards at the Wall probably should have sent you straight there when they found you,” said Fayn.

           “Never mind the guards,” sighed Kovar. “I should have sent you there. I’m sorry, Toni. I should never have even given Cruon the time of day.”

           “Am I really the person you should be apologising to?” asked Antoni.

           “I suppose not,” said Kovar. “Fayn-”

           “Don’t – even – bother,” said Fayn. “You had me kidnapped. You stole my blood. You chained me in a cell. You tried to kill my husband. You injured my daughter. You think an apology will cut it? Your brother is the only reason I haven’t torn your throat out myself.”

            “I-”

           “You want to make it up to me?” Fayn continued. “Stay here. Do your job. Look after the people of the Basin, since you’ve set yourself up as their ruler. Make their lives better. If Antoni wants to leave, let him. Just – leave us alone. I never want to see you again.” She laid one arm around Una’s shoulders and the other around Wygar’s waist. “Come on. Let’s get out of here. Antoni?”

           “Give me a few minutes to pack a bag,” he said. “I’ll be down soon.”

           They left the hall and walked down the spiral staircase to the door. On one of the landings, Steward Brennar peered cautiously out from behind a door she had barricaded, but slammed it shut again at a glare from Fayn. Una picked up her clothes from where she had left them on the stairs and ducked into a side-room, reappearing a minute later fully-dressed and with Wygar’s coat draped over her arm.

           Calm reigned in the courtyard once again. The surviving soldiers – which was most of them, surprisingly enough – had been disarmed and shut in one of the outbuildings, under heavy guard from the beast-blooded both in human and animal forms. Varr had taken some luckless guard’s cloak and wore it around his waist as a makeshift sarong, while Milo had elected to stay as a lion. Neither had so much as a scratch on them, but some of the other beast-blooded had not been so lucky; by some miracle none had been killed, but one of the otter twins had almost lost an eye and there was no shortage of spear-cuts and arrow-wounds among the rest.

           Varr combed his fingers briefly through Milo’s mane and stood up from where he lounged at the foot of the wall steps. “You must be Fayn,” he said. “Are you really Falkari?”  

           “I am.”

           “You – oh, wow. I mean – it’s an honour. You hear the stories, everyone in the beast-blooded refuges knows them, but to actually meet you, it’s-” Milo padded up and laid one paw on his side. Varr shook his head and cleared his throat. “That is, I’m glad we could help rescue you.” He looked up at the keep. “Did you kill her? Kovar, I mean.”

           “No,” said Wygar, rummaging in Rathus’s saddlebag for the first-aid kit. “Ah, here’s the wound tincture. Roll your sleeves up, sweetheart – let me clean those cuts.” He knelt beside Una and tipped a little of the dark liquid onto a soft cloth.

           “Kovar’s alive?” said Varr.

           “Only because I asked them to spare her, I think.” They looked over at Antoni as he hurried down the steps with a bag over his shoulder. “I’m, uh. Antoni Kovar. Mara’s younger brother. I think she’ll behave better now.”

           “I’ll explain later,” said Fayn when Varr looked doubtful. He sighed, shrugged, and wandered back to Milo. “Who was that?” Fayn whispered to Wygar.

           “A new friend,” said Wygar. “His name is Varr. He’s… sort of been acting as the spokesman for the beast-blooded we allied with.” He screwed the cap back onto the bottle of wound tincture and handed it to the nearest of the beast-blooded, a middle-aged woman who had charged into the fray as a powerful hyena. “Here, dab some of this on people’s wounds,” he instructed. “It kills infection and speeds healing. It’ll help a lot until people can get to a proper healer.” The woman nodded and walked off to attend to the first of the injured.

           “So these people – they’re all shapeshifters?” asked Fayn.

           Wygar nodded. “I’m sure you’ll get more of an explanation once we get back to their village. Maybe not from me, I can only give you the most basic parts, but Varr or Nira – sort of the village elder – will be happy to give you more of their story.” He glanced down at Una, who was looking up at the keep with an unreadable expression on her face. “Varr?”

           “Yes?”

           “Can you start organising the beast-blooded? I think we all need to get out of this place.”

           Varr nodded. “Yeah, will do. I was toying with the idea of just taking over the fort ourselves… but honestly, this place gives me the creeps. Will that ice hold long enough for us to get back to shore?”

           “I give it about an hour until it melts,” said Wygar. “I don’t think I have it in me to freeze it again.”

           “Right. C’mon, Milo – might need your help with this.”

           Only a handful of the wounded were too badly injured to walk, and there were plenty of volunteers willing to carry those few back to land. Some seized the opportunity to break the boats at the fort’s jetties free and abscond with them, sliding them across the ice and into open water; once the ice melted, Kovar and her soldiers would have to wait for help to come from Vosta before any of them could leave the fort. Soon only the soldiers remained within the walls, still shut in their makeshift prison. Antoni trekked off across the ice, walking alongside Varr – leopard-formed again, though still with the cloak wrapped around his middle – and Milo, while Wygar, Fayn and Una brought up the rear on Rathus.

           Wygar climbed down from the saddle once they were halfway across the ice bridge.

           “What are you doing?” asked Fayn.

           “This.” Wygar took up a steady stance on the ice and raised both hands, palms facing each other a few inches apart. Immediately, the air began to twist and shimmer between his hands, faster and faster until a faint hum of power could be heard and he threw both hands out to face the keep. The bolt surged from his hands and struck the gatehouse with force that put a siege catapult utterly to shame; wood, stone, metal and glass alike shattered under the impact and both the stone archway and the gatehouse above it collapsed into the water below, taking several feet of the walls to either side with them.

           “What was that for?” asked Fayn, not quite able to keep the smile from her face.

           Wygar shrugged and climbed back up in front of her. “I reason she might be a little keener to do as you told her and start paying more attention to her people if she doesn’t have her walls to hide behind,” he said as he nudged Rathus back into a walk. He paused for a moment, gazing pensively into the distance. “Also, she kidnapped you and I wasn’t going to let that go with a slap on the wrist.”    

           “She didn’t do the actual kidnapping,” Fayn pointed out in the spirit of fairness.

           “Maybe not,” said Una, scowling, “but it was still her fault. Those two – Vil and Edri – wouldn’t have done anything if she hadn’t kicked them out and told them to bring her a gwyndri.”

           “You met them?” asked Fayn.

           “He threatened them into giving us a lift to the edge of town,” said Una, her scowl swiftly changing to a grin.

           Fayn looked at Wygar, raising her eyebrows.

           “They’re waiting for us at one of the islands outside Vosta,” he said, a little sheepishly. “But we can arrange other transport if you never want to see them again either.”

           Fayn sighed. “They didn’t seem all that bad in themselves,” she admitted. “It’s fine.”

           Most of the beast-blooded melted back into the marshes to make their own ways back to their homes, but Varr, Milo and the otter twins – one with a bandage wrapped securely over her eye – followed them out to where Vil and Edri waited with Vidra. Edri reeled in the fishing line she trailed in the water when she saw them coming.

           “They got you out all right, then,” said Vil with careful politeness as everyone climbed one-by-one into the boat.

           “Yes, they did,” said Fayn.

           “Right. Well… I’m sorry. Sorry about everything. I just – wait, is that Kovar’s brother?”

           “Yes, I’m coming too,” said Antoni.

           Vil stared for a few seconds while he processed this. “…All right,” he finally said with a shrug. “So. Back to Pike Hollow, then?”

~~~