#and similarly it would be strange if he really felt it was a ‘mercy kill’

[lawyer-of-louis-de-lioncourt]

He could not prevent it because he was set in his decision.

CLAUDIA AND A SPINELESS CUNT INTERVIEW WITH THE VAMPIRE (2022—)

[sanders-sides-fic]

There are no nice deathworlders! (Right?) [Chapter 5]

AU-masterpost: here

Patton, on the other hand, was too shocked to move. A deathworlder! A real deathworlder! Right in front of him. And it just looked as though the deathworlder had been crying. At least that was what Logan had said deathworlder’s crying looked like. Apparently Logan cried similarly, but Patton had to admit that he had never seen Logan cry. He was shy about his emotions.

But more importantly, the deathworlder in front of Patton was looking at him right now. He should probably run, hide in the remains of their space ship as he had done for the last day, since his leg was healed enough to move again. But running was pretty much out of the question. Not to mention that the very thought of outrunning a deathworlder was ludicrous, especially for a sylemn. Logan read once that they could run about 28 miles in an hour! Patton highly doubted Logan’s book could be far enough off for him to have a single change to flee, especially in his current state.

Maybe, if he would just stand here, looking vulnerable and cute, the deathworlder would take pity on him and leave him alone? Hopefully?

Patton watched as the deathworlder looked him up and down. What did they see, he wondered? Of cause the deathworlder didn’t tell him, though, so he couldn’t be sure. But the way they pulled up their lip and hissed couldn’t have been very good. Was that a threat? A demand? If so, what did the deathworlder demand from the sylemn?

And then his hearts skipped a beat one after the other, when the deathworlder took a step towards him. Oh, stars, no! Maybe running was the better option after all? He could at least try.

But then the deathworlder stilled and raised their hands slowly. Could a deathworlder attack from this far? Patton was sure that those arms, though pretty long, were too far away from him to reach. Did deathworlders have some other way of attacking with their hands? No one had lived long enough to confirm something like that, at least not to Patton’s knowledge. However, before Patton could think of any possibility, the deathworlder hid their hands behind their head.

…

Huh? Okay, that surely wasn’t a predatory position. And when the deathworlder even bent their legs to appear smaller, Patton started to get excited. Could it be that the deathworlder tried to communicate peaceful intentions?!

No, surely not. He could basically hear Logan telling him to calm down and think more logically. No way a deathworlder would do this for no reason. But they didn’t attack Patton either, so maybe they wanted to strike a deal? But what could Patton possibly give them, a strong and fearsome predator like that?

The deathworlder started to move towards Patton again. This time, he didn’t dare jump or flinch again. If the deathworlder really did want a truce or a deal with him, he should do his best to avoid aggravating them. No matter what Logan and Roman said, Patton was not so clueless or naive as to think that a literal deathworlder would show him any mercy if he were to go against them.

A few agonizing moments later, the deathworlder stopped. If they wanted to, they would have been able to crush Patton in an instant from this distance. But they didn’t, they just continued to look at him strangely. He wondered whether eyes like that were normal for deathworlders. Such warm brown surrounding a black circle Patton believed to be the pupil. And were those hairs on their eyelids? Kind of similar to Logan’s actually. What had he called that mutation of his again? Right, eyelashes.

There was a pause in which neither of them moved. But then the deathworlder slowly moved their hands. The way they held it against their head almost looked like horns? What were they trying to communicate here? Patton was convinced that they wanted to tell him something, but he just didn’t know what it was.

“Are you… Are those… horns?”, Patton guessed out loud. The deathworlder pulled up the corner of his mouth and moved the head up and down. Then they moved one hand in front of them and drew a line across their chest. Were they… motioning slicing themselves open? No, it didn’t look malicious.

Patton really wished they would talk right now. Even if they wouldn’t speak common or any language he would be able to understand, he would at least have the intention to go on. But this way? Nothing. The sylemn whistled softly in frustration - before he covered his mouth, spikes raised in alarm. That wasn’t a deathworlder threat display, right?

The deathworlder raised the corner of their mouth again. Wait, didn’t they say that that was the motion that one famous deathworlder always did? The empty threat? No one really knew what it meant, but at least Patton thought remembered that the deathworlder wouldn’t attack. Or, at least not outright. Pictures from the iperile emnyama, trashed and blown up, with unrecognizable alien strewn about filled his mind for a moment. But at least the deathworlder wouldn’t attack right away, right? So he had a chance still. At least he hoped so.

The deathworlder seemed to keep calm for now. But they repeated the motion again and again, faster and more urgent with every time. What could that mean? Horns and a slash across their chest…

Patton gasped. “A creathen? Roman and Remus? Do you mean Roman and Remus?!”

Again with the up and down motion of their head. Was that some sort of confirmation? A deathworlder nod, maybe? Patton strongly hoped that he was right, because that would mean that he would get so know what happened to his friend before whatever the deathworlder had planned with him at least. And then the deathworlder pointed in the direction they had come from. Did they mean that they saw Roman and Rems there? Was that it?

Or maybe he was hoping too much and only saw what he wanted to see. Still, if there was any chance he’d find Roman and Remus in that direction, especially if the deathworlder knew where they were, Patton just had to go there. So, when the deathworlder took a deep breath and grabbed Patton with their scarily strong claws, he didn’t resist. It was one of the actions Logan would scold him for eons for, but he just swallowed his fear and went along with it.

He always half expected the deathworlder to change their mind and kill him after all, eat him or something like that. Instead, they continued to walk. At first they crossed the beach, then they started to run incredibly fast - fast enough that Patton was absolutely sure he wouldn’t have been able to outrun them before - through tall bushes and trees, along a river and finally to a cliff towering above them. Would the deathworlder climb that? With Patton still clutched in their arms like a newborn? It was already getting dark and Patton could barely see anything. He knew deathworlders had better eyes than him, but he was still afraid of them overlooking something and falling. Maybe the deathworlder would survive that, but Patton would surely not.

Fortunately, they did not decide to climb. Instead they walked into a cave almost next to the cliff. Patton let out a soft purr of relief. Being in a cave with a deathworlder surely wasn’t his first choice when it came to how he would spent the night, but it was better than being crushed like a hayepra nut.

The cave was dark and moist. Patton could see the remains of a small fire, next to some wood. Had the deathworlder started a fire on purpose? Was that a thing? What good would that do, though, playing with something that dangerous? The sylemn felt confused by this, but didn’t dare question the deathworlder.

They brought him deeper into the cave, where he could barely see anything anymore. Patton wasn’t sure what to expect, but then they put Patton down next to a pile of large leafs and, after short hesitation, took a vine and knotted it around his leg. Were they shackling him? For what reason? Patton guessed that the deathworlder must be pretty paranoid if they were able to survive on their planet, so maybe it was for their own safety? Patton wondered…

They took a stone from close by and cut down another vine, with which they bound a stick around his leg slowly, almost carefully. Then they did that thing where they raised the corner of their mouth again. Was that… Did the deathworlder just provide medical help? What a strange deathworlder. But still, it helped, so Patton looked up to them and whispered softly: “Thank you.” The deathworlder repeated their up and down motion with the head, before walking over to where the fire had been before.

Patton watched in astonishment as they took one stick and twirled it around until a new fire lit up. The deathworlder took a deep breath and raised their hands towards the flames, almost like Logan did with the heating component when he was cold, and started watching the flames. Apparently Patton was uninteresting to them now. He sighed. Hopefully he did get them right earlier and they actually would lead him to his creathen friends. He really missed them…

Pulling his wings around himself, Patton tried to pretend what he felt was the warmth of his friends’ body. They loved cuddles just as much as him, very differently from Logan.

Suddenly, the pile of leafs next to Patton started to rustle and a single, red horn poked out of it. Then the rest of a head. A very familiar head. Roman’s head. Patton chirped in delight when he realized just who had been hiding in the pile of leaves without his knowledge, rubbing his head against his friend’s stomach. “Roman! Thank the stars you’re okay.”, he breathed relieved, half afraid that Roman was only an illusion that would vanish any second now.

But instead strong, cold claws caressed his head. “Pat? Oh, I’m so glad to see you…” However, as soon the tension started to fall from Roman it returned and he turned to where the deathworlder sat quietly by their fire. “Oh no!”

“Roman, it’s okay.”, Patton tried to calm him down. It did little to help, but Roman’s attention shifted back to Patton, a soft look in his eyes. “They didn’t hurt me. I think they tried to tell me about you and, look, they helped me with my leg!” Roman looked down towards the makeshift cast and scoffed: “Patton, padre, you truly are the only one I know who would think a deathworlder would try and help him.”

“But they did! What else do you think this could be?”, Patton defended. Roman only looked at him unimpressed, though, repeating urgently: “Deathworlder, Patton. A deathworlder literally tied up in a cave. I don’t call that very helpful.”

A few feet away, Virgil rolled his eyes. Of cause that stuck up, arrogant creath thought so. But he was glad that his intentions hadn’t passed by the sylemn at least. Patton was his name? And Remus’ twin was called Roman, right?

He continued to watch the two of them. Not because he was lonely ever since he lost Janus somewhere in this never ending odyssey of cause. No, his interest was purely to make sure they wouldn’t device some plan to kill him in his sleep and run away with their injured, movement-restricted states. That was everything, it didn’t have anything to do with a small part of himself wishing that it was him and Janus who would be reunited after all this uncertainty.

And lying was still Janus’ forte, wasn’t it?

Virgil leaned back, blending out the conversation the two aliens had with each other. After a little while he went out to get more berries for them, a larger portion this time. He also realized that the bush he’d gathered them from was almost empty now. He would have to find another eatable plant for them soon. Another sigh left his lips. Alright then.

When he returned, both aliens shut up immediately. Okay, then. Not suspicious at all. He just ignored it as he brought them their food, though. He himself didn’t feel like eating, so he just went back to his little space by the fire and warmed up again. The wind here was starting to get colder by the day. It was probably close to this planet’s winter. Great. He should really wrap this up soon.

He didn’t sleep that night. Instead he continued to silently watch the fire and his two guests. The only time he made himself known was when Patton tried to stand up on his injured leg, and he let out a soft growl as a warning. It did its job, even though Roman didn’t seem to like it. When the two of them went to sleep, Roman curled around the smaller sylemn protectively.

Okay, maybe Virgil was a little jealous.

taglist :)

@the-ultimate-a @bunny222 @elvis-has-been-dug @what-is-love-babey-dont-hurt-me 

[bountybossier]

animal crackers & pbr | mercy & nicodemus

Setting: A week or so after Mercy got her sight back. Summary: After she breaks into his home, Mercy and Nicodemus crack open a couple cold ones and have a much needed chat. Warnings: Brief death and emotional abuse mention. With: @cryxmercy

From a distance, the sounds of someone rummaging through the fridge weren’t all that strange. The dim yellow light illuminating the otherwise dark kitchen. Bottles clinking, cartons being shuffled around, plastic crinkling. The occasional mutterings about the variety of choices- or lack there of - for a late night snack. The fact that it was also well past midnight wasn’t even all that strange. What was strange was that the person doing the digging didn’t live there. Nor had she ever met the home’s occupants. Other than that one time. At the lake. Which hadn’t gone so great. Considering she’d died. Sort of. It was… complicated. To say the least.

But… she wasn’t dead. And now that her vision had finally returned, Mercy wanted to make sure the man that thought she was - the same man that thought he’d been the one to murder her, by proxy of being mind-controlled by a demon squid… - knew otherwise. So Mercy had tracked down one Nicodemus Bossier, followed him a time or two to find out where he lived - in a house under someone else’s name - and when the time was right, she let herself in (see: picked his locks) and made herself a snack while she waited on the hunter to realize she was there. Shouldn’t be long now, Mercy thought as she snagged two bottles of beer and set them on the counter next to an open bag of animal crackers she’d snagged from the cabinet (which she’d also gone through).

Hopping up on the counter herself, she popped the top off the bottles, set one aside for Nic - who would probably need a drink before this was all said and done - and took a long pull off her own. Legs swinging idly, she snagged an animal cracker - a lion - bit it’s head off, and chewed thoughtfully while she waited.

A pair of earbuds and an old music player called a Zune had become a cherished item lately for Nicodemus. Or maybe, as he checked the device, it was a Zune. Who fucking cared. After the unfortunate bullshittery at the lake, he listened to every sound and beat with an intensity not felt before. He had to snort. There wasn’t fuck all underneath his floorboards but it had crossed his mind once or twice to check it regardless. With a crackle of Creedence Clearwater Revival through his headphones, he set to work. He hadn’t reached for a knife. Instead, a small paintbrush as he squinted through a magnifying glass to paint a seal the right grey and black. As the song ended and before it transitioned to a new one, he paused. It wasn’t quite a ruckus that he heard through the seconds of silence but it was enough to stop him. It was work to slow his breath, his heartbeat, and listen.

Plastic rumpling, a bottle or two opening. The faint smell of beer. Last he checked, it wasn’t like Skylar to rifle through the beer he bought. He set the brush down and that time, he did reach for the knife. Took it in hand as he stood up and went to his bedroom door. Dundee stirred from beneath the table. When Nicodemus opened the door and passed through, the dog followed with. Fearless fuckin’ hunter already, he thought. Without hesitation, he went to the kitchen.

There was a goddamn ghost on his counter and she had opened his beer. Helped herself to his animal crackers while she was at it. Mercy looked better than he last saw her. In that she wasn’t dead in the lake with a fucking squid corpse behind her. He paused at the threshold between the living room and the kitchen.

“Weird fuckin’ way to haunt somebody,” Nicodemus said gruffly, voice held together on an edge. He glanced between her and the beer on the counter. If she had come to kill him, he hoped to hell it wasn’t with a goddamn PBR. “So, d’you phase through the front door or what?”

Mercy was reaching for another animal cracker - a bear this time - when Nic finally appeared in the doorway. She waited on him to say something, knowing that he was going to need time to process what she was about to tell him. The poor guy already had that deer in headlights look. If the person driving the car attached to those headlights was supposed to be dead. And it had been you (the aforementioned deer) that had done the killing.

In the past, Mercy had often taken a perverse sort of pleasure in situations like this. Scoping out her ‘murderer’ and scaring the shit out of them before getting some well-earned revenge. But this wasn’t like that at all. It wasn’t the deers fault. It was the fucking squid-demon that had it’s psychic fuck-all tentacles all up close and personal with the deer’s brainstem. So. Mercy used one finger to slowly push the second bottle a bit further down the counter - a cold, frosty peace offering - before taking a long pull from her own. “I wasn’t jokin’ when I said you couldn’t kill me.”

She scraped her hair back from her face and shrugged - “Nah. I just picked your locks.” - before patting the countertop. “Have a seat, Nicky. We need to talk.”

“Apparent-fuckin-ly,” Nicodemus muttered. “What, only the good die young?” Even though she didn’t move to attack him or recreate Squid Night in the recently mopped kitchen, the apprehension didn’t waver. Funny how that went when someone broke into your house. The hunter had to stop and wonder just how pissed Death was getting. What with it being treated like a pitstop. A place to grab an energy bar and a shit drink before they got back on life’s highway. Except the snack of choice this time was animal crackers and beer. He wouldn’t argue.

The beer made its way into his hand.

“Nic works just fine,” he said as he leaned against the countertop. Close but not too close. “And yeah, reckon we do. Considerin’ I killed you an’ all. Or didn’t, I suppose.” His brow furrowed. Not that he was disappointed that she hadn’t died. That was the furthest thing he felt. He had met many creatures, beasts, over the years. Even undead. But last he checked, Mercy had been very much alive. “The hell’s that about?”

Mercy gave a rueful laugh around a sip of her beer. “Guess so. We’re both still here ain’t we?” If that were true, then that made Mercy the Samuel L. Jackson of White Crest: one bad motherfucker. Nic too, considering he had to be pushing forty. An age that many a hunter never saw. But Mercy didn’t worry how Death felt about the quick-stops she’d made over the years. They were old friends, the Fury and the Reaper. But damn if Mercy didn’t get tired sometimes. And this time in particular had taken it’s toll.

So she waited, lowering her bottle to roll it slowly between her hands as Nic took up his own. She made no move towards him, no move at all really, other than to look at him as he spoke. “I know what killed me, Nic. And it wasn’t you.” Mercy didn’t bother to say what it had been. That would’ve been insulting. Nic knew. How could he not? She’d already noticed the faded mark on the back of his hand. A mark that looked like just another old scar. And maybe it was. But Mercy didn’t believe in coincidence. Not in this instance. In this one, Nic knew because it had happened to him before. At least that was her assumption.

The question that followed was a given. And although Mercy had - strangely enough - been asked the same question - or variations of it - several times over the last few weeks, every person that had asked was different, and therefore required a different response. So she took a moment to consider things before speaking. The beer bottle started it’s slow roll between her hands again, a focal point while she explained.

“When I said you couldn’t kill me, that wasn’t me giving you shit, Nic. It was the truth. You can’t kill me.” Mercy shook her head. “No one can.” It was her turn to frown now, as the weight of all her years seemed to press down all at once. And it was a long moment before Mercy spoke again.

“Do you know what a Fury is?”

Nicodemus snorted and glanced away. Shook his head and squinted some. “Shit, got me on that one,” he said with a shrug as he turned the opened beer in his hands. As much shit had been happening, he hadn’t looked towards a bottle as much. He supposed he was too busy having friends all of a sudden. Yet another thing for him to wrap his head around. His. Not some fucking squids. He glanced at Mercy and then tilted his bottle toward her. “To still bein’ here, huh?”

It surprised him, really, how quick people were to tell him that what happened hadn’t been his fault. He was coming around to that idea. Raised on the idea of purging demons for a righteous cause, he had to laugh. Why wouldn’t Nicodemus get his brain hijacked by some sea demon squid? But hearing it from Mercy was different. It wasn’t a form of absolution but he wondered if maybe his head wouldn’t be as heavy when he finally went to sleep. “Yeah, still shitty all the same,” he grunted out. He took a harsh pull of his beer. “Sorry. Won’t happen again.”

He didn’t know Mercy much but he could tell. The hunt or battle weary had that look to them that he understood. “No one, huh?” He doubted that for some reason. Everybody and everything died. Saints and sinners alike. The hunter glanced over at her, his face pensive.

“Nah,” Nicodemus answered with a shake of his head. “Not really. Ain’t exactly my department. Just that they’re hard to kill.” The corner of his mouth lifted slightly. “Apparently.”

Mercy glanced down at her own bottle as Nic looked away. The glass was cool beneath her fingers, slick with tiny beads of condensation. A tiny smirk lifted the corner of her mouth. “I still say fuck Billy Joel for makin’ that phrase popular. ‘Specially since it’s pretty much a song about wantin’ to bang his high-school crush.” She took a long pull of her beer. Unlike Nic, Mercy had been doing a fair bit of drinking lately. And had no plans to stop. Similarly, however, Mercy found herself with a few extra people on her side. Friends. People that actually gave a shit about what happened to her. Funny old world, ain’t it? Mercy thought to herself.

A softer expression replaced her smirk as Nic held his bottle out, and Mercy clinked their bottles together. “To still bein’ here.”

Nic might’ve done bad things in his life, just like Mercy certainly had, but that didn’t make him a truly bad person. Just as being a hunter didn’t make what had happened his fault. Mercy knew that. Even if she didn’t know Nic that well - or at all really - she’d seen the look in his eyes that night, before she’d gone under. She had felt the cold, clinical way he’d taken hold of her, not even flinching when she’d struck him repeatedly. She’d been the one that tore bloody half-moons into the skin of his arms as she tried to use what remained of her waning power to make him let go. She’d been the one that had seen the flicker of recognition, of terror, in his otherwise emotionless expression, just before the world went dark.

So, yes, Mercy would make it right. As best she could. No matter what anyone else thought.

She nodded at the apology, appreciating it regardless of the fact that she didn’t blame him. “Thank you.” The words were soft and sincere, with a small hint at the fact that Mercy wasn’t used to hearing such things often. But speaking of apologies: “I’m sorry for… tryin’ to break your jaw. And your ribs. And your arm.”

Mercy shook her head slowly, inhaling a long, slow breath and letting it out just as slowly. “No one,” she said, her tone unintentionally weary. “Not yet at least.” Though Nic (brainwashed Nic, that is) had come closer than anyone. But Mercy didn’t feel that was necessary to mention.

Nic’s comment on what he knew of Furies earned him a small huff of laughter. “Apparently,” she agreed. Another moment of silence followed, her laughter fading away as her frown returned. The mostly empty bottle rolled between her hands again. “But you’re not wrong. We can’t be killed.” Other than cutting off her head, or wasting away from a lack of feeding properly, but that wasn’t necessary information at the moment. “Cut my throat, I’ll heal while you watch. Manage to break one of my bones, a minute or two is all I need. Shoot me in the head, my body’ll push the bullet back out and I’ll wake up pissed off but good as new.” She glanced at him. “Perks of being immortal I guess.”

It surprised Nicodemus how...well Mercy seemed to be taking what happened. In a selfish, gut deep way, he supposed he needed that. Absolution wasn’t something he would ever ask for. If it happened, it happened. If it didn’t, he would die one day and it would be all the same anyway. The dirt and mud didn’t care for such things. “You a Billy Joel historian?” He snorted out a laugh and shook his head. Seconds ticked by on the clock over the stove and his shoulders eased.

He nodded at her as their bottles clinked and he took a slow sip. For someone he had tried to kill, Mercy was alright. Even if she had broken into his house and into his animal crackers. Compared to the last time they met, it wasn’t so bad. Or even out of place. Without much thought, Nicodemus relaxed some. Allowed the heavy, leaden weight of his bones finally settle rather than hold it up as he had been. A breath tinged with booze left him as he shifted and brought himself to sit up on the counter a little ways from her.

“I guess we sorta broke even on that one, huh?” Nicodemus crossed his ankles as he held the bottle slightly over his lap. It would be a waste of time to tell her that there was no apology necessary. They could say it and be done with it, move on to something else. It didn’t do well to linger and be haunted by things that weren’t there anymore. “All good here. We made it out alright in the end. River current goes on and shit.”

As he emptied his bottle, he set it beside him and folded his arms as he listened. How long she had been around, he couldn’t know, but he doubted that weariness changed over the decades. Centuries. Whatever it was. He could hear it, see it, as he glanced over at her. It was a slow process, but he was getting there. Suddenly able to look at her without the memory of water. It helped that she was alive, he thought with a grimace. He listened intently, forehead slightly creased as he processed.

“Well, for starters, I ain’t gonna cut your throat,” Nicodemus said with a long sigh. “Just had the floors waxed.” It wasn’t much of a smile but it was something that he offered her way. He shook his head and dipped it to look down at said floor. “God, I’m only fuckin’ forty, forty-one now. And I feel old as shit but then you’re over here…” He trailed off and picked his head up again. “How do you do it? Get by with this whole not dyin’ thing?”

It wasn’t the ‘dying’ - or the act of being ‘killed’ - that had truly affected Mercy. It sucked, sure. How could it not? What had truly affected her was the after. The cold, dark, lonely, terrifying limbo she’d been stuck in. For what seemed like an eternity. A place she’d never been before. Not in 1200 years. A place she never wanted to return to. “Among other things,” Mercy smirked lazily at the Billy Joel comment.

Their bottles clinked in the mostly silent kitchen, and for a moment afterwards they both fell silent. It would be hard for most people to understand how Mercy could be so… forgiving… of what Nic had done. But Mercy knew evil. She had looked it in the eye, felt it’s hot, stinking breath on her neck… smelled the rot and ruin of creatures without either soul or conscience, that didn’t care for anyone or anything; creatures whose only desire was to hurt, devour or destroy. So no. Nic wasn’t evil.

A small laugh worked it’s way past the lip of Mercy’s bottle as she took a drink. “Guess we did.” She turned her head to look him over, her eyes moving from his face to the rest of him and back. “Good.” She gave him a small nod. “And yes. It does.” Life went on too, whether they were ready or not.

He was quiet while Mercy explained as best she could. She didn’t rush. She didn’t push or prod. She didn’t ask if he wanted to hear more. Or less. She just said what needed saying, and then waited. It took time to process, she knew, even for someone like Nic who knew about supernaturals. Furies weren’t exactly a dime a dozen. His comment earned a snort and a similar smile shot his way. “Yeah, you’d never get that stain up. And then to carry an ass-kicking on top of it?” Mercy tutted and shook her head. “Not worth it.”

The next thing he asked was far more difficult to answer. Even if she’d done so a thousand times. It never got easier. Mercy’s beer bottle started its slow roll between her hands again. “The long answer is a story in itself. And I’ll tell you sometime, if you want.” Mercy paused, and her smile turned softer while her cheeks tinged slightly pink. “But the short answer?” She glanced at him, her expression completely serious even as she wondered if he’d laugh at her answer. Not that Mercy cared. It was the truth, after all. The only truth that mattered. The only truth that had ever mattered.

“Love.”

Some things stained more than blood. Nicodemus understood that and as he listened to Mercy, completely still save for the occasional nod or pull of his beer, he had a feeling she might as well. The hunter didn’t linger on the strangeness of what it meant to come to understanding with someone he had tried to kill. Because in truth, a truth he had come to accept slowly, was that it had not been him. It was a haunting he had allowed to go on for long enough. It wasn’t the water he would wallow in any further.

“Wouldn’t mind hearin’ that story one day.”

He never once anticipated that he would share stories of all things but he didn’t mind it. He reckoned her story was a bloody one and between the both of them, Nicodemus figured they might be able to do without blood for a little. For a sunset at least. Let the sky bleed for a bit. Have its turn. A dry smile followed after the thought like a lazy dog and went down just as easily. Her short answer prompted his brows to raise. Then furrow. Love? The word rolled around in his head as he shifted on the counter. Something akin to discomfort stretched its fingers over his shoulders. It occurred to him, in that single moment, how little that word ever occurred to him. It had occurred to him. Quietly. Recently, at that. He half-expected his head to start aching the way it always did but it didn’t.

Nicodemus had gotten as far as he had without such a thing. Farther than most hunters he had come and gone by. Outlived. Sometimes, he wondered if the absence of such a thing was what had dragged it out for him. Life.

“Huh,” was his response. He shook his head, relaxed the crease of his brow as he looked at Mercy. “Didn’t expect that one. How do you figure with that?”

It was a strange sensation to feel empathy towards someone who had tried - and technically succeeded - to kill you. Even more strange to feel a camaraderie of sorts. But as strange scenarios went, Mercy would rather be here, sitting on Nic’s counter, drinking his beer and biting the heads off his animal crackers, than a thousand other places she’d found herself over the centuries. She had an inkling that Nic might just feel the same way. That he understood what it meant to never truly leave something behind, no matter how far or fast you ran from it. Because some stains were too deep to ever fade completely. You learned to live with them. To cover them up, hide them away, as Mercy had tried to do. But every now and then, those stains seeped through even the strongest camouflage, and you were forced to look at them regardless of if you wanted to or not.

“Alright then.” They would make time at some point, and Mercy would tell him her story.

Part of her wondered about his own story. About the people and places that existed in his past, and what all he’d seen in his lifetime - short as it was compared to her own -  but now wasn’t the time to ask. Maybe later, once everything wasn’t so fresh on both their minds. They were both silent for a moment, each lost in their own thoughts. What would it be like, Mercy wondered (not for the first time in her long life), to stop fighting? To stop chasing monsters, real or otherwise. What would it be like to finally find peace? To let the sky bleed for just a little while, as Nic wondered. Arthur had made it sound so easy when he’d told her maybe it was time to lay down her sword… to take off her armor and simply be Freyja again. But… who was Mercy without those things? It was a question she hadn’t been able to answer. Not yet anyway. But she was trying.

She idly watched Nic’s reaction to her one word answer. The way his brow rose in surprise and then fell back down as that surprise turned to something else. Something that made him shift slightly before he looked at her again.

Mercy grinned. “Does anyone?” But it softened after a moment, and she looked away, back to studying the bottle in her hands. “When I was human, I fell in love with my best friend. It was… complicated, but long story short, it turned out that he was like me: immortal. But not a Fury. He’d been born that way, whereas I’d chosen it. And as much as I despise the thought of our lives being planned out by Fate or… something else… how could that not be something that was meant to happen?”  

She was quiet for a moment. “About 70 odd years ago, Tolkien wrote: ‘I would rather spend one lifetime with you, than face all the ages of this world alone.’ I remember reading that for the first time and thinking… that’s it.” The bottle spun slowly between her fingers. “That’s exactly what I’ve felt for almost 1200 years.”

Mercy wasn’t sure if that answered Nic’s question or not, but it was the best she had. Even if the words didn’t belong to her.

“So yeah. Love.” Mercy smiled, one side of her mouth lifting slightly. “Just don’t tell anyone, hm? I’ve got a reputation to uphold.”

Nicodemus had never bothered to put much weight into notions of love. He had gotten as far as he had without it. Had cast it aside when he learned that love was shaped like a fist or the sharp-lined words of some distant god. And often the word was violence. It confused him when he slipped away at night, not yet thirteen, to watch television through the closest neighbor’s window a couple miles away. A family sat around a TV with their microwaved dinners while a group of kids went to look for some treasure in an abandoned pirate ship. It seemed to have been a favorite of theirs. A ritual of some kind. Different from the way he and his grandfather sharpened knives in silence. Tended to blood. But they had looked happy. The brother and sister play fought but made sure to check on one another to the tune of laughter when it was all said and done. They laughed the same as they helped each other through homework. The husband had his arm slung loosely across his wife’s hips as they watched, smiles in place. That, to him, had been what love was supposed to be. Confused and full of questions, he had gone back home. The morning had seen the floorboards of his room screwed in tighter. The next time he saw that family, the movie had changed and the wife was solemn. The kids even more so.

It took him a few years to understand what a smile was. A real one, not the kind of twist his face took when he got stressed. It was something Nicodemus had been doing a lot more of lately. Around Rio. Blanche. Skylar. Alain and Kaden, even, when the day’s hunt was behind them. Adam too. Around Erin and like that, the thought of her, of them, had the corners of his mouth lifting by a fraction. Softly. He didn’t fight against it. As Mercy spoke of fate, he remained quiet. Fate would have seen him back in Louisiana, faceless and soulless, if it had its ways. He supposed it might thread through others differently. A puff of air left his nose at the mention of Tolkien.

“‘Spose some writers get things right every once in awhile,” Nicodemus said with a slight tilt of his head. “That was one of the, uh, first things I read when I left home and could get my hands on my own readin’. Didn’t know much about it, thought it looked like somethin’ interesting.” He offered the information freely as he adjusted himself again. “Never thought much of that whole love thing. Thought it was bullshit. The kinda thing bought and paid for, blood or otherwise.” His tone was neutral as he spoke. He quickly downed his beer and cleared his throat. Thought of quiet Sunday mornings and more than one chair at the table being filled.

“Don’t suppose that’s the case much anymore.”

His smile, small and faint, tried to match Mercy’s.

“Right, your reputation,” Nicodemus said with a rough and quiet laugh. “Sure, your secret’s safe with me. I’ll take it to the grave.”

“Spose they do.” Her smile remained, small but genuine, as Nic gave her a small fact about himself. And Mercy tucked it away, knowing he didn’t have to tell her anything about himself personally, but pleased that he had. 

What followed wasn’t nearly as pleasant to think about, but Mercy suspected Nic had far more memories of this type than the former. Gods knew she did. She hummed quietly. “There’s another name for that,” Mercy said, her tone somber. “And it ain’t love.” Though it seemed that Nic knew that just as well as Mercy did. And for that, she felt grateful. Because somewhere along the way, the world (or someone in it more likely) had chosen to be kind to him. Maybe not for long, and maybe not recently, but it had happened. 

So Mercy’s faint smile returned, and her own quiet laughter joined Nic’s. And for just a little while, all was well.

[stonebreakerseries]

Day 2: Mercy + “That’s the easy part”

Day 2 of @oc-growth-and-development​’s OC-tober challenge and the @fictober-event​. Another successful merging of the two prompts, which I think paired rather well today!

Series: Stonebreaker (Original Fiction) Characters: Sylda & Valesha Warnings: descriptions of blood, language

“Act natural. We’re being followed.”

Sylda’s spine stiffened, her shoulders rising, her grip on the leather-wrapped bundle tightening as she clutched it to her chest. “What?” she breathed. She didn’t dare speak louder than a whisper, ears straining, hairs rising on the back of her neck and arms. On either side, the walls of the buildings rose two storeys high, their crumbling stone and sun-bleached wood giving the alley a ghostly, forgotten appearance. It was unsettling at the best of times, yet alone in the middle of the night. “Val, you’d better not be messing with me. This isn’t funn--” 

Beside her, Valesha continued her ambling stroll, one hand buried in her pocket, the other swinging casually by her side. Lanky, with knife-cropped hair and a face full of sharp angles, most readily mistook her for a young man. Wandering about after dark in her loose shirt and trousers only enhanced the effect. While Valesha’s posture gave nothing away, it was the look she shot, dark but burning like hot coals, that silenced Sylda mid-sentence.

“Shut up,” Val hissed. The hand in her pocket shifted slightly, adjusting its grip on something. “Behind us. Left side.” The silver light from Anayh, the smallest but brightest moon, cut the alley at an angle, illuminating the taller woman’s head and shoulder. “Just keep walking.”

Mustering the faintest of nods, Sylda did as she was told, continuing forward, heart stammering. Her arms and legs seemed to vibrate, palms sweating as nervous energy coursed through her. The awkward bundle pressed to her chest suddenly felt uncomfortably heavy. Uncomfortably obvious, like a beacon to every thief and cut-purse looking for an easy mark.

Gods above and below, why did we have to take the alleys? 

It wasn’t their territory. The Copper Hawks owned the rooftops - everyone knew that. It made for risky travel and easy escapes, the two often balancing each other out among their less skilled members, but serving the veterans well. But some jobs didn’t lend themselves to running along ridges and leaping between eaves. This time, it was the weight of the parcel and the delicacy of its contents. One wrong step on a rooftop, and the entire job would have been for nothing. She didn’t even want to imagine Davros’ face if that happened. No, Sylda was not going back to the nest empty-handed. Not again.

Never again.

“Drop!”

Valesha’s voice was a whip, cracking through the alley. Immediately, Sylda threw herself forward, twisting mid-air to keep the satchel skyward. Her back struck the broken cobbles, a shock of pain ringing from her spine to her teeth as she clutched their prize to her chest, both arms wrapped over it like a scaly creshek guarding its egg. Inside, she felt something creak slightly, but nothing seemed to to crack of splinter. Maybe it was true what everyone said, and The Errant Queen really was watching over her.

Or maybe the goddess was just biding her time.

Even as Sylda fell, Valesha was moving. She spun, heel grinding against the ground, her hand a blur as it snapped from her pocket and sent something bright and curved whistling into the dark side of the alley. Sounds pierced the thrum in Sylda’s ears; a yelp of shock, a wet wheeze, boots scrabbling frantically over dust and stone. Valesha, now facing into the alley, already had the tip of another talon jutting from between her thumb and forefinger, arm poised for a second throw. Sylda used to fall asleep to the sound of her practicing, the thud of the curved metal biting into wood strangely comforting as she hit her mark over and over again.

This time was no exception.

As Valesha positioned herself in the center of the alley, Sylda pushed herself further towards the street, careful not to lose grip on the leather-wrapped bundle. Distance is your friend, girl. Find it. Strike from it. Flee towards it. Just past Val, two shapes were moving, one stumbling out of a side alley, the other hanging back, hesitant to follow. As one of the figures - a man with stringing black hair and a close-cropped beard - spilled into the light, he fell to his knees, hands groping at the side of his neck. Throat tight, Sylda could only watch as he tugged - once, twice, three times - the warning on her tongue unable to make it past her bloodless lips. 

Don’t. Don’t try to pull it out.

On the fourth try, he succeeded. Val’s talon ripped free, the hook halfway up its length tearing through flesh, taking a chunk of his neck with it. The silver light made the blood appear black as it sprayed then pulsed in hideous gouts from the wound. The man, panicking, tried to stem the flow, but his hands were clumsy and shaking. It was over in seconds. With a final judder, fingers straining, eyes wide with shock, he slumped to the side. Limp. Lifeless.

There was still one more.

“Last chance, little rat.” Valesha’s voice was colder than the steel at her fingertips. She had never been a warm person, but something about her, half-washed in moonlight, a corpse framed by the stance of her legs, sent a shiver across Sylda’s skin. “Run back home before I change my mind.”

The sound of footsteps fading into the distance was Sylda’s only clue that their second tail had taken Valesha’s sage advice and fled. Breathing hard, she slowly struggled to her feet as Val knelt beside the dead body, hands patting along his limbs, hunting for hidden pockets, pieces of paper, something to sell. By the time Sylda was standing again, her breathing leveling out, Valesha had returned empty-handed, a sour look pinching her narrow face. “Fucker could have at least had some sicets on him,” she muttered, then held up her bloody talon. “Look at this shit. By the time we get back, it’ll be all dried on. I’ll be stuck for hours scratching it off.”

It was a little hard to feel sympathetic, all things considered. Luckily, Val never wanted anyone’s sympathy, yet alone Sylda’s. Muttering darkly, the woman shook it once, scattering tiny droplets on the alley wall, then shoved it back in her pocket. Lovely.

As Valesha beckoned her over to check the parcel, Sylda found her eyes drifting back to the corpse. She’d thought he was an old man, at first. The way he moved seemed stilted, like the grind had set itself deep in his bones. But up close, she could see she was wrong. Lying in a pool of black, his skin was still smooth, his hands dirty and stained but unmistakably youthful. If she had to guess, she might have placed him in his mid-twenties. Certainly no more than thirty dry seasons.

And now, he was dead.

She supposed it wasn’t so bad. Most barely made it halfway before meeting similarly ugly fates.

“Sylda?” Valesha’s voice tugged her attention away from the body. She was frowning, her dark brows angled sharply down as she readjusted the bundle’s leather wrapping. “What’s the matter with you? You’re acting like you’ve never seen blood before.”

Of course she had. As much as any of the others. Probably almost as much as Val, who had been in this business from the day she could walk. But, strangely, it wasn’t the dead man that had her so unsettled.

“You let the other one go.”

Val stepped back, jaw tightening, expression closing off. “So? Got a problem with that?”

They started walking again, faster than before, not wanting to linger. Even though most of the grey coats patrolling the streets turned a blind eye to murders among thieves, it was still never a good idea to be caught with a fresh body. You never knew when one of them might actually feel like doing their job. Swallowing, Sylda hurried to keep pace, Val’s long legs leaving her scampering.

“I just… didn’t expect it, that’s all.”

“Yeah? Why not.”

This was dangerous territory. Sylda had to choose her next words carefully unless she wanted to be sleeping alone for a turn or two. “It’s just… you always say that if you’re going to make a kill, you’ve gotta do it once and do it right. Mercy just seems…”

Sylda trailed off, knowing she was toeing a very fine line. Luckily, Valesha seemed strangely willing to continue the thread. “It seems like taking the easy way out.”

Feeling a little sheepish, Sylda just nodded. It wasn’t that she thought mercy was weak. It as just... unusual, given who they were. What they did.

“C’mon, Sylda.” Val shook her head sharply. It was clear she was still on edge, all senses on the look-out for trouble. “Killing some idiot in a back alley? That’s the easy part. That sorry bastard didn’t stand a chance. But knowing when to let them go…” Pausing to check their surroundings, the pair exited onto the street, crossing quickly before slipping into an even narrower alley on the other side. “Mercy’s a lot harder,” Val continued, finishing her thought as they made a left, then a sharp right, losing themselves in Yelen’s tangled warren.

In a way, Sylda supposed what she said made sense. Death was just death. Letting someone live had a lot more uncertainty involved.

“I guess he might be a problem, in the future.”

Val nodded. “He could be.”

Sylda glanced across, regarding her partner for a moment. The moon was higher now, and the shadows rushed to full the hollows of Val’s cheeks, making her appear unusually gaunt.

“But you don’t think he will, do you?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Why?” She adjusted her grip on the package, arms starting to ache now that the nervous energy had worn off. “I just don’t get it. How can you know something like that?”

“I never know. I just… get a feeling, sometimes.” As their surroundings grew more and more rundown, they slipped under a section of broken wall, only a few feet between its crumbling base and the dust-covered ground. Val paused on the other side to take the bundle from Sylda, allowing her to navigate the tight space. “This one tonight? He was just a fucking kid. Couldn’t have seen more than ten or eleven dry seasons.” She shrugged and, to Sylda’s quiet dismay, passed the bundle back once she was through the gap. Turning, thrusting her hand back in her pocket, Val led the through the abandoned building’s ground floor. “I guess I just ask myself: will killing this person make my life easier? If the answer is ‘no’, then...”

She shrugged, the gesture seeming to suggest the conversation was over.

Unfortunately, Sylda had always been good at ignoring those kinds of cues.

“What if he comes looking for you?”

Val scoffed, the sound echoing around the broken building. “Then he’s an idiot and I’ll go ahead and finish him off. But I really don’t see that happening. Do you?”

If he was as young as Val claimed, Sylda supposed she had a point. Besides, the kid hadn’t exactly caused them any trouble. Gods, he didn’t even bother trying to help his companion as he bled out in the alley. Knowing the way of the streets, there probably wasn’t any kind of bond between them. Just necessity. A set of eyes to watch your back, and report back if you die. Such was the way of things.

They walked in silence for a time, both women lost in their own thoughts. Sylda’s were split between her own doubts and the ache in her arms, but Val seemed unusually troubled. Her hand shifted in her pocket rhythmically, and Sylda could imagine the motion of her fingertips as they traced the talon’s wicked edge. One wrong move, and she’d be adding her own blood to the mix. She liked to play those sorts of games; test herself in strange, unsettling ways. Inevitably, she would slip up, then spend the rest of the evening glaring sullenly at her bandaged fingers.

Nope. Not on my watch.

“Well,” Sylda said, rolling her shoulders as they finally reached the last stretch of their journey, “I guess one good thing came of letting that kid go.”

“Oh yeah?” It was nice to hear a bit of humour back in Val’s voice. Her dark brown eyes flicked across. “And what’s that?”

A playful smile spreading across her face, Sylda nudged her with an elbow. “You don’t have to spend the night scratching blood off two talons.”

Rolling her eyes, Val groaned. But she slid her hand out of her pocket, reached across, and draped her arm over Sylda’s shoulders, so she figured her tasteless comment had been worth it.

“Wow. Morbid,” Val said. Then she grinned, and immediately set Sylda’s heart into an energetic flutter. “That’s why I like you.”

[sleepyfan-blog]

Um..hello! Can you do DreamMare with the prompt mercy? I hope this doesn't bother you.

Fandom: Dreamtale

Characters and pairing: Nightmare, Dream, Dreammare

Warnings: none

Word count: 1,331

Summary: Dream pleads for Nightmare’s mercy.

Dream was panting hard, and shaking a little as one of Nightmare’s tentacles had his arms pinned above his head. He tried to kick out at the other, but his legs were similarly pinned by the other’s extra appendages. The light spirit squirmed and panted, exhausted, golden eye lights dim as he pleaded “M-Mercy! Please… N-Nightmare…”

The lord of darkness hummed a little and smirked as he leaned in a little closer, his visible eye light glowing with delight that Dream could feel within the other’s aura “So you yield to me, hmm? No more sneak attacks or attempting to escape?”

Dream nodded, still panting a little as he caught his breath and answered earnestly “I promise…Ju-just… Ahahahaha! Ni-nightlight! Please… Ngh… S-stop tickling me! Hahahaha!

Nightmare hummed for a moment as he paused his feather-light attack on his beloved’s sides, a small smirk appearing on his face as he leaned over the other and pressed a light kiss to the other’s teeth, letting Dream go and flopping on top of the other, purring quietly "Very well. I have elected to grant you mercy… However this is conditional on the two of us cuddling for a while longer.”

“I happily accept those conditions to my surrender and you ceasing your tickle attack, my king.” Dream responded, grinning up at the other, using a term that some of his other half’s people used to refer to him. He still thought it was very strange that anyone referred to him like that… But Dream was well aware of the fact that Nightmare had been very busy while he’d been trapped in stone for the better part of three hundred years.

Nightmare froze for a moment, and a light cyan blush appeared on his cheeks before the taller guardian buried his face into one of Dream’s shoulders, a rumbling purr starting in the negative being’s chest “Hmm…. You’re playing with fire, my love. I may just insist that you call me that around other beings… But I probably won’t.” He gave Dream another kiss, purring a little louder.

The positive guardian happily purred back and wrapped his arms around the other’s waist and he nuzzled into the other, content to stay close… It helped that the two of them had been tickle-fighting on their bed. “Are you going to be able to play Confession Time at dusk today?” He asked softly after a moment, unsure as to what the other’s schedule was like. Nightmare ruled over dozens of different timelines and usually had time to play that particular game no more than twice a week. But Dream knew that there were things that weighed heavily on the other’s shoulders that he hadn’t yet shared.

Nightmare hesitated for a moment, sighing softly before murmuring quietly “I… Unless something unexpected comes up, yes I will be able to.” He’d killed hundreds, terrorized millions, and told Dream about none of it while he’d been conscious. He didn’t… He didn’t want to lose his beloved, even if he might deserve it. Little steps, and he had been taking Dream’s often too-gentle suggestions into considerations, softening some of his policies a little. Not that anyone outside of his inner circle and the dark Papyri were aware that Dream existed. He didn’t care to think about what would happen should his enemies find out about him.

Dream frowned a little, sensing his change in mood, and gently pet the top of his skull “…. Nightmare? You know you can tell me anything, right? I don’t know how much I can help you… But at least I can listen, and offer you comfort?”

“I… I know. You’re far too good to me…” Nightmare murmured, hugging his other half closer to him. No one who could take Dream from him would ever find out about him. The thought of being separated from the other was a misery that he didn’t want to endure again.

Dream went a lovely shade of yellow before shaking his head “That’s not true… I should have… I should have tried harder to get the villagers to leave you alone… That way you might not have been pushed into eating most of the apples…. I should have done more to support you. You’re wonderful and entirely too forgiving of me.”

Nightmare frowned a little, sitting up and looking Dream squarely in the eye lights “We’ve talked about this, Dream. You tried reaching out to me… And for a while it was working. Hell, you even had a plan to start getting the villagers to permanently leave the village if they kept bothering me, which would have prioritized my happiness over yours… You just didn’t have time to implement it before things came to a head with the mortals.”

“I… Okay.” Dream murmured quietly, holding the other’s gaze and nodded. He still sometimes felt as if he’d rather terribly failed the other from time to time… But he did his best to support Nightmare now. While he very much wanted to explore other worlds now that he knew for sure that they could… But he hadn’t quite recovered all of his magic yet, and he knew that Nightmare was still unsure about him going too far from the castle, just in case something happened. “Thank you, Nightmare.”

“Anytime, my love.” The negative spirit responded, a warm and gentle smile appearing on his face as he pressed a little bit closer to the other, sighing softly. He really wished that he’d been the first one to be there when the stasis spell wore off on Dream, but Hatchet had ensured that Killer and dust hadn’t frightened him before he had gotten there.

There was a light knock on the door, and both of the guardians groaned a little, before Nightmare reluctantly stood up and walked over and opened it, couldn’t he enjoy his lunch break with the love of his life in peace? No rest for the wicked, he supposed. “Yes, what is it, Dust?”

“The Rainbow asshole and his band of starry-eyed minions are currently causing trouble in Outerfell 9734. Are we going to fight them, boss?” Dust reported swiftly.

Nightmare nodded and ordered “Tell Hatchet and Killer to be ready in five minutes.”

“Yes boss.” Dust nodded and teleported off.

The overlord scowled a little and walked back over to Dream, sighing a little as he pressed another kiss to the other’s teeth “Trouble is brewing, and I need to help the inhabitants of an Outerfell repel invaders from another timeline.” This so-called protector of the AUs was an incredibly annoying thorn in his side as of late.

“Oh… Good luck in the fight? I’d offer to help, but-” Dream started, perking up hopefully after a moment, wondering if perhaps this time, Nightmare would-

The negative spirit shook his head, answering quickly “Not yet… You still haven’t fully recovered all of your magic. He’s a powerful fighter, and his minions aren’t weak, either. I know it’s been a little over a month since you’ve gotten free of the stasis spell.. But you were trapped in there for… For centuries. It’s going to take a while.”

Dream pouted a little, but nodded. He wanted to help… But if he was a distraction on the battlefield, then that could lead to Nightmare getting hurt, which he definitely didn’t want. “Okay… Good luck fighting this paint-wielding stranger. I know that you’ll send him and his people packing again.”

Nightmare hummed softly and nodded. They had no counter to his negative aura and fled before they weakened to the point that he could capture them. “That I will… See you in a few hours, love.”

“See you then! I’ll be sure to make yours and your friends’ favorite food in the meantime, to celebrate your victory.” The positive spirit responded with a bright grin.

“Hmm… You spoil me so. Well, I shall see you soon.” Nightmare murmured, and he teleported off - lest he linger for a while longer, cuddling and kissing his beloved.

[noa-halevy]

SENDING A MESSAGE:

Introducing our first London Basement victim! So, this got way longer than I was intending, and I am sorry for that, but I really have missed writing mob violence, so you’ll have to forgive me. Introducing two upcoming Russian characters in the best way possible! This will set off plenty of drama, now. You’ll see when you read. Enjoy!

Date: May 8th, 2019. Warnings: To be fair, it’s not as violent as I was intending, but...you know. There are Russians so it’s a little bleak. Blood and all that.

“Wake up.”

A startling phrase when the last thing she remembered doing was running.

It would’ve been difficult to describe the pain she felt as she begrudgingly returned to consciousness because everything fucking hurt. All she could taste was blood. All she could hear was a throbbing in her skull so intense she was sure she remembered nothing because they’d bludgeoned it out of her. As Noa was pulled abruptly from her knees to her feet—a merciless tug on the chains that bound her wrists above her head more than enough to encourage another grunt of pain—the sullen realisation that this was only going to get worse settled quickly.

Well, fuck.

Did she jog all the way to Launceston and not fucking realise it?

“I said wake up, pizda. There’s somebody who wants to see you.”

And all it took was that one word for her blood to run cold.

When Noa finally opened her bloodshot eyes, regret came in an instant. The dim lights that hung overhead were enough to make her wince in pain, and illuminated a room so eerily familiar that she wished, albeit briefly, that she hadn’t woken up.

It took a moment to focus. To make sense of just what the fuck her complacency had her stumbling into this time. London was safe, she’d said; safer than there. Yeah, until it wasn’t so safe anymore. Until she was chained up in a warehouse, with what she could only assume to be a body underneath the tarpaulin to her left, and a smug looking prick reeling off Russian curses purposefully enough that it had to be to identify himself.

“You came all this way for little old me? I’m flattered.”

“Yeah? Well make the most of it. You killed two of his men in the attempt to get you here. Good luck feeling flattered when you’re fucking dead.”

Noa was certain that some of her ribs had been broken in the struggle to subdue her—each new breath with her arms above her head was a blaze of agony—but the way the lackey said ‘his’ was enough to make her feel like she’d been booted all over again. Was that a hint at familiarity? Was she supposed to know? Whilst she’d dealt with more Russians than most in her time (even if it was usually out of choice) there were a few that’d stood out as more meaningful than the rest—one in particular. The last thing she wanted when she felt like she was dying was a reunion with the antichrist that would end in her actually fucking dying.

The sound of the door opening was enough to rip her away from her very angry thoughts, and the man who waltzed through enough to stun the pain out of her momentarily.

What the fuck were they doing in London, and how the fuck hadn’t anybody picked up on it?

When their eyes met across the damp and derelict shit hole she was now sure would stage her final moments, her stomach felt as though it was about to fall out of her ass. So it was the one she’d dreaded the most; uncomfortably familiar after all this time and yet still like a stranger. Noa wondered if he felt the same. If the reason she was chained up like this was because she was familiar enough for it to be gratifying, but now so strange to him that their once inconvenient aversion to murdering each other had expired. When he smiled she realised that she really did hate him more than any of the others.

“It’s been a while, Noa.” Even the sound of his voice exacerbated her rage. “Miss me?”

“Which part?” It eventually came out as a scoff, and the pain in her chest immediately punished her for it. To show weakness in front of him, however, was very different from showing it in front of that little fuck watching them from his corner. He was stood in front of her now, face to face, and she cared little for the disdain she offered the one who had her life in his hands. “Your sixteen brain cells, your weedy arms, or the disappointingly small dick?”

The woman could see the soldier shift uncomfortably out of the corner of her eye.

“That’s funny,” the man before her said sarcastically. “I don’t remember you ever complaining.”

“Did you really go through all this effort to have a conversation about���”

Before Noa could finish her characteristically flippant comeback, an unforgiving fist collided with her stomach with force enough she was reminded why he was so good at instilling terror in his enemies. It took a minute to get her breath back. The way she was restrained meant she couldn’t keel over, even if her body needed it. Her eyes watered as she fought the pain with every ounce of energy she could muster. She cursed him in his dirty fucking language.

“You always did talk too much, Halévy.”

Noa could practically feel the glare radiating from the man as he looked down at her, and as much as she wanted to tell him to get fucked—to go back to Launceston and rot like him and his scummy family deserved—when he reached out his fingers to tuck stray strands of hair behind her ear, none of it manifested. She remained silent, and his hand found her jaw in a way it hadn’t for years. It startled her and it didn’t; the stark contrast to his violence a moment before summing him up perfectly. If she hadn’t known him, known what he was, it could’ve been mistaken for an act of concern as he ran his thumb slowly across her split bottom lip.

It was more likely he was admiring the handiwork of his friends.

He was so close she could feel his breath against her skin.

The proximity was decidedly not helping her nausea.

When his fingers threaded into her hair, she knew what was coming, but still couldn’t bring herself to turn away and stop it. It was like muscle memory; she hadn’t kissed him like this in nearly ten years, and yet her body hadn’t forgotten a thing. It wasn’t chaste, and it wasn’t gentle, and with a hand at each side of her face, he was the one with all the leverage. For a minute she was fucking lost. The shitty reincarnation of the basement was gone, the pain was gone…everything but an empty reminder of a relationship that had died over a decade ago—if it had ever even lived—was lost in their heated exchange. Even when he parted for air, his lips remained; hand trailing around to take a loose hold of her throat.

“I’m pretty sure married women aren’t supposed to kiss like that,” he said, blunt but quiet. Noa could practically feel his smirk. “How is Daniel, by the way?”

If she hadn’t been terrified of the consequences, she’d have bitten his fucking lip off.

Noa tilted her head up slowly, teasing him with the idea of a second. The words that followed were sharp. Deliberate. “How’s Katya?”

It was then the hand around her throat began to squeeze. Hard.

His grip was like a fucking vice and if it hadn’t been for the interruption soon after, she was sure she’d have been seeing stars.

“Maksim, we’ve got to hurry this up. You almost done?”

Aviv Kasyanenko. Noa should’ve known. They didn’t go anywhere without each other.

Even though the Kurylenko had since let go of her throat, she didn’t feel any relief with the knowledge that his best friend was still present. The Russians might’ve had a reputation for violence because they needed it to maintain control of their interests, but few enjoyed it as much as Aviv. When she glanced over to see him entering the frame, she couldn’t help but wonder whether strangulation at the hands of an ex-boyfriend might’ve been an act of mercy. When Maksim finally leaned in to whisper in her ear, Noa realised that this would no longer be a spiteful exchange of words.

“I’m going to hurt you now.”

It sent a chill up her spine.

She believed him.

“Unchain her,” Maksim ordered, backing away slowly.

Even though she’d been in similarly dire situations before, the panic was setting in quickly now. It didn’t take a fucking genius to figure that these odds were not in her favour. Noa might’ve taken down men like Aviv in the past, but only when she had worked to give herself the upper hand. Usually, she wasn’t so fucking beat up and disoriented from head trauma, either. Fuck. This was it. She was fucking dead. How the fuck was this happening? In London?

“Wait,” Maksim interrupted calmly as the soldier reached for the chains. “Break her leg.”

Noa froze.

“What?! No.”

“What?” The soldier echoed, looking uncomfortable. Perhaps he was new at this. “Really?”

“Have you ever been hit in the face by this cunt? If we’re about to unchain her, break her fucking leg. I don’t want her to be able to walk, let alone kick.” The Russian grabbed a metal bar and tossed it toward the soldier. “Take out her knee.”

“Don’t you fucking dare!” The protest exploded out of her. Her eyes were wide. Her struggle was pointless. It didn’t matter how much she tried to back away from the man who slowly approached like a fucking executioner when she was still chained to the ceiling. There was nowhere to run. No way to protect herself or fight back. “I swear to fuck, I will ram that thing so far up your ass if you touch me. I will fucking kill you, you little prick!”

It was amazing how quickly pain was dulled by adrenaline.

As soon as he was within striking distance, and with considerable effort to lift herself via her chained hands, she managed to swing just close enough to deliver one of the aforementioned kicks right to the side of his head. Whilst she might not have wielded anything close to her usual strength, and she paid for the action with a terrible cracking in her restrained arm, it was enough to put him on his ass. Enough to halt him if only for a moment whilst she figured out what the fuck she had to do to get out of this. The soldier shouted. So did Maksim and Aviv as they approached.

“You can’t just make this easy, huh?”

Everything felt like a blur. The whole fucking scenario was surreal.

Noa writhed as Aviv grabbed at her feet. No matter how desperately she tried to get another kick off he was too strong to overpower, and she had no room to manoeuvre. Whilst he held her ankles, it was Maksim that snatched the metal bar from the stunned soldier who was still rolling around on the floor. The crashing of the chains as she fought his grip was loud, but nothing compared to the shout that followed as he slammed the bar right into the side of her head. It wasn’t enough to knock her out but that was no doubt the point. He wanted her to feel the pain. He wanted her to be awake for whatever was coming next. There was fury in his eyes as he repositioned himself, and brought back the bar once more to slam it into her knee with so much aggression he must’ve been waiting for this moment.

With the way Aviv was holding her legs? It was shattered.

The woman was sure that she’d never experienced anything more painful in her life and she’d been fucking stabbed.

All thoughts of not looking weak dissipated. Noa cried, until they finally unchained her and she fell to the floor, where the sobs became guttural.  

It took her a moment to remember how to breathe. They seemed to allow it.

“Why are you doing this?” Even though she managed to choke the question out, it didn’t sound like her anymore. “Why are you here? What the fuck do you want?”

The words were stunted, between gasps, strangled by her sobs. Noa had never sounded more pathetic in her life and they were no doubt enjoying every second of her suffering.

“We’re doing this because we hate you,” Aviv reminded her bitterly.

“We’re here because we were invited,” Maksim cut him off, crouching down near the woman who was now pretty close to foetal. “We want you to relay a message to your boss. Not just that we’re in town, and that we’re here to stay, but that the Rutherfords invited us.”

Even in her sorry state, where she could focus on little more than the pain in her leg, those words registered. They registered because they were so fucking ridiculous he had to be lying.

The Rutherfords invited them?

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“It’s a pity you didn’t make Commandant,” Aviv segued before she could question it further, kicking at her hand as if to point out her lack of signet ring. “You’re a waste of fucking space.”

“Think you can do that for me, Noa?” Maksim asked, raising an eyebrow as though it was the most reasonable request in the world. “I’m going to let you leave if you make sure to tell Laurent everything I just told you. Maybe follow it up with a reminder that he’s next.”

“What about Danny, does Danny still have his ring?”

The two lines of questioning were enough to make her brain feel like it was in meltdown given the fact she was teetering on total fucking incapacitation. Never had she hated anyone more in her life than she hated them at that moment. She was sure she was going to be sick. Doubly so as Aviv pulled out the jangling chain that hung around his neck; the one that sported seven silver St. Clair signet rings and one gold that he arguably wore with more pride than those they’d been awarded to.

Noa let her head fall against the concrete, reaching up to wipe away the tears still streaming down her face.

All of this to send a message. How fucking Russian.

“Noa?”

“All right,” she snapped. “All right. I’ll tell him. I’ll tell them.”

“Good girl.”

“You could’ve just written a fucking letter,” she sniffed, rolling over onto her back. “Fucker.”

“And miss out on all of this fun?”

Now it was Aviv’s turn to step forward, and she flinched reflexively; never naïve enough to believe that shit with the Russians was over until it was really fucking over.

“Think if I took that ring, he’d come for it?” Aviv asked Maksim, kicking once more at her left hand. “He always struck me as a bit of a sentimental pussy.”

Maybe it was because she was hurting. Maybe it was because her mind was racing at a million miles an hour at the realisation the Russians were here. Maybe it was because she was still terrified that she wasn’t going to make it out of here alive. But she missed the subtle hints, and she sure as fuck missed that he was reaching into his bag for an implement that definitely wasn’t a gun.

It wasn’t until the sole of his boot crushed her wrist into the floor that she understood what was coming.

Aviv had collected those rings he wore around his neck.

Whilst she might not have had one of the Commandant’s Fleur-de-Lis signets he’d been hunting down for years, she had an engagement and wedding ring from one of the men who did.

It only took a second for the horror of what was to come to register.

Of course, a broken leg was far too tame.

Her heart stopped.

“Don’t struggle, all right? It just makes it messy.”

None of the French knew why he did it. They didn’t know why he removed the whole finger instead of just the ring. They didn’t know whether his victims were alive or dead when he took them.

Unfortunately for Noa, she had to leave alive if she was going to play messenger.

“Maks…” It came out as a plea. “Maks, please.”

“It was an honest mistake, Noa,” he said, sighing as though it was a trivial matter. “I thought you made Commandant, and might’ve promised him he’d get a ring out of this.”

“This will do,” Aviv said with a shrug, increasing the pressure on her wrist as he leaned down with what appeared to be a particularly nasty pair of cable cutters. “Just hold her still.”

“No. Fuck you, no—” each word that left her lips got louder “—Maks, if you let him do this, I will kill you. I swear it, I will fucking murder you.”

There was no way to snatch her hand away but oh fuck, she tried.

“Get the fuck away from me, Aviv!”

The struggling, the tugging, the screeching as he made his attempts to grab a hold of her ring finger; it would’ve given pause to anyone with a conscience, but these men had nothing close. In the struggle, she dislocated her elbow. Swung her legs up, despite the pain, in an attempt to boot the sick fuck in the head. It was all in vain. He had beaten stronger opponents than her.

“Please. I’m begging you, please don’t do this. No!”

The more she struggled, the more pissed off Aviv got, but she was too busy looking up at Maks—desperate to appeal to anything he had left—to notice.

It was just in time for the sole of another boot to smash down on her mouth.

Noa could feel herself choking on teeth. She could feel those that remained cutting into her lips. She could feel the pressure against her broken nose as she struggled once more to breathe through the panic and frustration and terror, and all she could taste the blood she couldn’t escape.

“What did I say about talking too much, huh?”

It might’ve been a solid attempt to gag her on Maksim’s part, but despite her shock—as Aviv finally managed to get the end of the cable cutters around her finger—there was nothing in the world that could’ve quietened the blood-curdling scream that followed. Though she’d pressed her eyes shut, body tensed in an attempt to ride out the pain, she failed.

Soon the screams faded into nothing.

Tomorrow, Noa would thank God that she was, once more, granted the mercy of unconsciousness. Just as she would ask forgiveness for what she would do on the day she finally crossed paths with the bastards responsible...

[adhoption]

GAME OF FINALES

There were many things to love about the finale:

Seriously, the aesthetic of that whole start, a broken city of ashes, the Targaryen banner slung over the ruins, that shot with the dragon wings, Dany’s zealous speech... nice. 

She’s been getting away with being a power-mad, egotistical, vengeful white saviour for years, killing anyone who dares to even disrespect her, and it’s been presented as WOO STRONG FEMALE CHARACTER and fans encouraged to believe the hype about her destiny to save the world and right to rule as much as she does. It’s nice that they did the twist of ah, actually this kind of person is bad news, it’s only a matter of time before they cross the line and start killing innocents. It was coming. 

But at the same time, it wasn’t really coming when it did? They didn’t lead up to it at all, and if anything she’d been more tamed since meeting Jon and friends than in the early days. They could have shown her arc going towards madness, not in the opposite direction. They could have shown her grieving, being consumed with a need for vengeance, rather than go from a speech about mercy to massacring children with no reason. They could have made them collateral damage as she tried to go for Cersei who was using them as human shields and Dany decided she didn’t care, or have the newly orphaned children try to defend their city and throw rocks or toy horses at Drogon and Dany burn them just seeing them as enemies. That would have been a way to cross the line, rather than winning the battle and then deciding to go for an impromptu barbecue.

What’s weird is that they spent the first half an hour of the episode explaining how it was actually inevitable and reminding us of the bad stuff she’d done before, like the characters were actively trying to justify the way the plot had turned in retrospect, like the opposite of foreshadowing, the opposite of build-up. These episodes were filmed at the same time, but it felt almost like this was a weekly show and the writers were responding to the criticism of last week’s. Outrage that Jon didn’t say goodbye to Ghost? Quick, reunite them and make him tickle him behind the ears (I was on my edge of my seat chanting Ghost Ghost Ghost the moment Jon went north again, I was so afraid they’d forget about him again). Laughter that a coffee cup was left on a table? Quick, tuck a plastic water bottle under a chair.

It’s also important that whenever the atrocity was mentioned it was explained that poor Dany lost her best friend and her dragon, whereas Cersei was just pure evil and hadn’t, say, lived her whole adult life under a prophesy that she would see her children dead and a young queen would come and destroy her, then watched all three of them die, seen her parents die, her whole world come crashing down, lurch from an abusive relationship to co-dependent incest and alcoholism and grief, and then simply decide to give no quarter to prisoners just like Dany burns them alive.

There’s a lot of things like Mad-Dany that which would have been nice and fitting if they weren’t rushed. Varys went from servant to traitor to bonfire in one poorly-lit, mumbled minute where you had to guess what was going on. Jamie went from ‘I’ve decided to stay with Brienne, the culmination of my years of character development’ to ‘actually no’ in a minute of her blubbing as out of character as him losing all moral fibre. This used to be a show of elaborate over-lapping plots, and characters who grew year-on-year. So yes, Dany-goes-bad, Jon-kills-her, Jon-has-to-go-back-to-Night’s-Watch, all nice and fitting ends to their stories. Nobody-sits-the-throne is a good resolution, symbolically melting it and starting afresh, electing somebody who wasn’t one of the main leaders. Gendry would have been nice, a fitting end to the story which began with the mystery around Robert’s bastards and Ned saving his life exactly like he did Jon, two children in danger as secret heirs to dynasties, and the irony of Dany having legitimised him only for him to usurp her as his father did hers. 

But not Bran. This isn’t Bran’s story. Bran’s war was the Great War. He spent years of character development journeying beyond the wall to meet his destiny, learning from and becoming the Three-Eyed Raven, clashing with the Night King, gaining the ability to see through time and space and weirwoods, gaining the ability to warg into direwolves and ravens and Hodors. But he has zero of the aptitudes needed to be a king. He is barely even human any more. He has no strength or compassion, no steel or charm.

Here are some particular points that I loved:

I loved the way how, after years of patiently watching Bran crawl around in the dark to gain the ability to go back in time and influence past events, or the power to take over the mind of a dragon, he didn’t just... use none of those powers in the pivotal moments of the last couple of seasons apart from to do a few seconds of raven-scouting and volunteer himself as bait. It was important after all that build-up that there would be a pay-off, that the gun Chekov’s character had spent the whole play building would actually be used.

So it was satisfying the way that after the Night King won and conquered Winterfell, walked into the Godswood and reached out to claim Bran, Bran touched the heart tree and his eyes went white before they were brutally turned blue. Then, after we watched the army of the dead sweep south with a terrible inevitability, the last stand of the living as Cersei realised her mistake and all the forces of King’s Landing were similarly overwhelmed, scorpions aimed at the White Walkers on dead dragons, confused Night King coming face-to-face with the reanimated Ser Gregor, Qyburn staring in fascination as the dead tear him apart, wights of Jon and Dany and Arya and Sansa and the Hound coming to claim their living enemies, the living finally fall and the Night King sits the Iron Throne, it fades to black... and we are in the weirwood with Bran, making a crucial change in the past, perhaps in that vision of the creation of the Night King, perhaps in another pivotal moment in the series. Then the next episode opens and the dead are bearing down on Winterfell again, but this time, something small has changed, making all the difference. This time, they won’t win.

Or perhaps it was revealed that Bran had gone back and become the Night King, and that was why he was able to control the dead, using his warging and Three-Eyed Raven powers, and then Jon or Arya had to kill him. Or perhaps he was able to warg into one of the dragons and fight the way that Jon and Dany riding them couldn’t. I can’t remember exactly what happened, but I do remember how satisfying it was that the skills he’d learnt actually meant something. It would be disappointing if he only came back to sit making cryptic comments from the corner for two seasons, saying he was no longer Bran Stark and couldn’t be Lord of Winterfell because he was a bird now, only to then randomly be chosen as a king of a distant city on his first visit. 

It would then be especially weird if, after being named the first ever Stark king and uniting the north with the other six kingdoms as rightful king of both, the north then decide that they can follow Ned and Sansa as Starks but not him because as someone who was previously Lord of Winterfell and just left the north for the first time in his life they aren’t going to follow him as a southron king, whereas they will follow Sansa who grew up in King’s Landing.

In the same way I love the way that, after patiently watching Arya crawl around in the dark to learn how to see without eyes, learn how to wear other people’s faces and become them, she didn’t use any of those skills in the last two seasons, only stabbing with a dagger which she already knew how to do. It’s exciting watching Chekov’s character bludgen an intruder with a rolling pin, but a bit strange when you know the gun is hanging on the wall. 

After years of hearing her list recited, it was satisfying that she ended up crossing off the final name and killing the people she was supposed to kill, rather than just claiming the person that Jon and Dany and Bran and Beric were destined to kill and had built up their character arcs around, and making it look easy, thus derailing not only her own narrative arc but theirs as well.

Similar to Bran, it was also important that she had a fitting end that matched her character development to date, like how she spent the last episode building up motivation to avenge the innocents Dany had just burnt, and to protect Jon who she knew was rightfully the first in line but would never have the heart to move against Dany, so she bravely went to kill her herself, moving in darkness or wearing a face as a disguise, and was killed by Drogon, but not before taking him down at the same time, proving herself a dragonslayer and assassin worthy of legend, which finally gave Jon the heart he needed to do what he needed to do and kill Dany to avenge the little sister whose hair he used to ruffle and whose sentences he used to always finish, finishing her final act for her instead. 

Or did she go back to the riverlands and take up the mantle of Beric and the Hound who had saved her life, becoming the leader of the Sisterhood without Banners, a protector of the smallfolk and innocents everywhere against the tyranny of lords and soldiers whose atrocities she had witnessed at Harrenhall and The Twins and across the riverlands (and now at King’s Landing), riding around on her white horse and delivering the justice that Beric and Thoros used to give with their hanging ropes, or she and the Hand had given to the likes of Polliver, or that she had given to the Freys. There was that poignant scene where a little girl came to her with the names of men who had done unspeakable things to her village, and Arya calmly added the names to a list. There was that scene where she found Nymeria again, leading her pack of a hundred wolves around the riverlands, and joined forces with her to ensure that evil had refuge in the towns or in the trees, and turned to her and finally said “Yes. This is me.”

It was important that she had a satisfying, fitting end that matched her path and her background and her newly earned skills, like Bran, rather than say, him becoming king, or her randomly deciding to become a sailor having previously shown precisely zero inclination or aptitude for a life on the seas. It would have been especially ridiculous for her to start her nautical career by heading out with a single ship across the open ocean, which the books tell us has been tried before by whole fleets of ships and they have been torn apart by storms, and just doing it immediately with no real planning, in a jarring contrast with a scene where everyone else is talking about how they have no ships and are about to start building the sort of fleet that might be able to support her.

I loved the way the writers remembered they’d left Ellaria Sand to be kept alive in a dungeon beneath the Red Keep and had her released as leader of Dorne to take part in the council, rather than just replacing her with some randomer and not even acknowledging if she was dead or not.

I loved the way Brienne got over her rollercoaster emotional journey from stoic professional to sobbing teenager after one night of lovemaking and took the time to ensure Jaime’s memory was honoured correctly, such as by writing his biography with all the things he’d told her, and especially remembering to correct the single most important thing he’d told her (that he’d only killed the Mad King to save the whole city which was about to be blown up), and not just... leaving it written in his biography that he’d infamously broken his vows and killed the king and was known as Kingslayer since without providing any of the vital context, which she was one of the only people in the world who knew. It’s also a nice end to her character journey, which is based around her oath to protect Sansa and Arya, that she just leaves them both to take on huge risks and responsibility on her own and gets a new job wheeling Bran’s chair around.

‘Bran the Broken’ was definitely the best name they could come up with to describe a disabled character who definitely couldn’t have gone without an epithet (because all the others had to have one, like Cersei the Sassy and Joffrey the Juvenile Delinquent and Tommen the Timid and Dany the Deluded) and who had no other qualities, such as literal super-powers, which could have lent themselves to better ones. Bran the Raven had a ring to it.

I loved the way that the most teased and important plot twist, R+L=J, which they spent ages having characters explain to each other in hushed, important scenes, turned out to be important to the plot in any way. It would have been a bit disappointing if, say, only a handful of characters ever found out about it, or if the whole story could have happened in exactly the same way without it ever having been mentioned (beyond one episode where Jon rides a dragon and crashes it after achieving nothing).

[cherryjuicegf]

Wraith

A/N: Basically pain. That's it. That's the chapter. Enjoy.

chapter 3

Chapter 4th

Third Bottle: Cold

"You have to go!"

"I'm not gonna leave you!"

"You have to!"

"You'll get killed!..."

"All of us will, Grantaire, so get the hell out of here!!!"

The blood of a soldier splashed on his face as the bullets were mercilessly hitting the bodies. He was breathing heavily, his eyes red and full of tears due to the smoke floating on the air, his golden hair stuck on his sweaty forehead, filled with blood. He had no wounds, as if the bullets were heading for his body but were stopped by the sharp and cold look on his sparkling eyes that made them tremble and shake, only to divert from their route and distort their intentions. The blood that painted his shirt red, like the color of a flourished rose, like a falling sunset that shined its flame weakly after the rainy day that had preceded it, was not his. If it was his, the day would have ended for Grantaire as if the blue of the sky was ripped with a knife only to reveal the dark night lurking behind it. The birds had stopped their morning song as if they returned to their nests to grieve the fallen, as if every fallen revolutionary took the song of a bird with them like their stolen youth, leaving their souls still hanging helpless from the branches of the blossomed trees, mourning with complaint and agony, crying for the dry and lifeless eyes to shine once more. The sun was rising.

He looked around him for a moment, his blue eyes covered in tears, the left sleeve of his red coat ripped to reveal his shirt that could not be discerned under the blood flooding it. They were falling like raindrops, hitting the ground and withering or never stirring again. They were his friends. Oh God, he could not leave them alone. But then he turned at Grantaire. He couldn't leave him alone either. He could not die alone. Yet he would. Because he had to.

"Grantaire!", he screamed one more time to the young man fighting some meters away from him and shot the soldier attacking him. Grantaire turned at him frowning. He coughed and shook his head negatively again, refusing to abandon him and all his friends that were dying around him. Enjolras' look suddenly became softer, he raised his eyebrows in plaint like a little child and bit his lips.

"I beg you."

His voice sounded hoarse, pleading and it took great heart for Grantaire to refuse once more, resisting the urge to do anything those two blue eyes told him to do. He sighed and aversed his look, always keeping an eye on Enjolras, always in alert to prevent him from dying, always wanting to be with him. It felt like his duty to protect him, though knowing it was the last thing Enjolras would ever want, though knowing this was hurting his pride. He had to keep him alive. He wouldn't stand watching him suffering, dying. He couldn't even face him or look at his shirt, always terrified at the thought of the blood being his. He had never seen anything like this before, this couldn''t be what a fight looked like. This was a merciless massacre of innocents, of students, of children, all of them falling in front of his eyes as if they were a nothing, a boundary that the soldiers got rid off only because it was on their way. For God's sake, they were people too. Yet they didn't seem willing to show mercy or sympathy, as they pierced them with their bullets and their bayonets, as they kicked their bodies away or even stepped on them in a desperate yet successful attempt to go through the barricade and probably take revenge for their great artillery sergeant who was nothing more than a young man that hadn't lasted to taste more of the youth's wine. Just like them.

Enjolras coughed harshly, feeling the smoke flooding his lungs and looked around him almost desperately, sensing the smell of blood floating in the air. He bit his lips breathing heavily and swallowed. Oh, it was lost. Everything was lost, even that bright hope that shined his way once, even that was gone now, leaving his heart deserted and dry, thirstly yearning for the redemption he was yet to reach. He couldn't save anyone, he couldn't manage to reach anyone before they fell on the pavement. He could hear them screaming and suffering, as though every death nailed its own bullet in his body. Every death of his friends was his death. And he had died seven times until now, begging for the eighth to come towards him, even if his eyes would close forever. He turned his head abruptly, he met Grantaire's eyes staring at him. He knew what he was thinking, it was the same thought that tortured their minds. But the end game was yet to come.

Humans make promises because they are ambitious by nature. No one is born to be hopeless. Few are raised to be hopeless. But the final piece, what shapes their characters in the end, is the nature itself, by proving constantly that humans are to be guided and not to guide. Because they are humans and their fate pulls them in different ways, with different paths to walk and different traits to discover. Asking for a promise from a man whose paths were all rough and dark night was always covering their sky would be like asking from the leaves not to abandon their trees in autumn, only to retain a permanent form we consider as beauty. Asking from someone to change themselves doesn't make them beautiful, it makes them desperate, foolish as they search for this strange beauty that will never be theirs, because they are already beautiful themselves. But they don't know it. Just like the leaves that can't remain on their branches in autumn due to their nature, similarly one can't keep a promise if he's hopeless by nature, despite any willingness, impulsive or not. Because it will not be kept and guilt will follow before self-hatred dominates. And it never goes away.

Time is strange. It flies either in seconds or ages, or seconds that seem ages or ages that seem seconds. A second is enough to feel like whole hours, it passes when you don't want it to pass, it doesn't when you want it. Enjolras would do anything, intrepid by nature, passionate, fierce. And this anything finally took flesh and bones in front of his eyes, with a blue uniform and a bayonet that headed where he had to intervene. He didn't think, he opened his mouth with no voice coming out as though drowned, he felt his body moving. He knew what he was doing. Grantaire found his rifle finally empty, he made to turn until he heard a sound that resembled to choking and realised he would rather have kept his look away. Because there, in front of his blurried eyes, he saw a man, a really beautiful young man with his eyes wide open staring at him, his lips parted in shock as if he was unable to scream, to breathe, and a silver blade transfixing his stomach for some seconds and then being pulled back violently, leaving him empty, as his hands were fondled on his body in pain and his feet stopped supporting him, his body falling writhing on the pavement. Grantaire felt his heart skipping a beat, maybe more, maybe it was not beating anymore as his voice hardly came out weak, shaking, lost.

"Enj... Enjolras?..."

He wasn't dreaming. Oh God, he was not dreaming at all. He felt himself kneeling, he couldn't control his movements anymore, he saw Enjolras looking at him hardly breathing, with loud, painful groans escaping his mouth along with red blood that was flowing down his lips, his neck, reaching his chest, painting the white shirt red. He heard himself speaking.

"You'll be okay, Enjolras, stay with me, you're okay..."

He took him in his arms, he looked around desperately trying to find a way out of the chaos, reaching breathless the back of the cafe without taking his eyes off the bleeding young man in his hug.

"You are alright, stay with me..."

He didn't even hear what he was saying, as if an invisible hope was putting the words in his mouth. Maybe what he mostly wanted to believe. He kneeled, resting Enjolras body on the wall without pulling his arms as he was shaking and screaming in pain, the suffer flooding his dried blue eyes with tears as sweat was flowing down his blood-painted face. He stared at Grantaire as if begging for help, like a little child with fear reflected on his look. His voice was hardly heard between the coughs and groans as more blood was gushing from his wound with every fatal breath.

"Grantaire..."

Grantaire couldn't tell if he was aware of what was happening around him, looking right and left searching desperately for the help he wouldn't get.

"Don't worry, I'll find someone, don't..."

Panic was cutting his words like a knife, his hands were trembling as he was nervously removing the bloody curls from Enjolras' forehead.

"Grantaire, listen..."

"I will get some help, oh, I'll call Combeferre..."

Enjolras felt his breath cut though he wasn't to go yet. He groaned loudly in an attempt to make Grantaire calm down and listen, shaking his head desperately.

"Combeferre is dead, Grantaire, listen to me..."

But it was vain. Grantaire seemed lost, sinking in the darkness of his own thoughts, trying to do the impossible to save something already lost.

"I'll find someone, you will be fine, don't worry, you..."

"Grantaire listen to me, dammit!!!"

His voice sounded hoarse, distant, helpless, for a moment he thought he was dead. Grantaire was suddenly brought back to reality, as he lowered his look, his breath shaking, still unable to focus. Enjolras swallowed, for a second closing his eyes, hissing in pain and then spoke, his voice weak, tender, shaking.

"Look at me, Grantaire, look at me...", he raised his hand and capped his cheek, making him fix his tearing eyes on him. He grinned slightly. "There..."

Grantaire sobbed, fondling his hair and bit his lips, trying to hold back his tears. Enjolras nodded.

"Smile at me, Grantaire..."

He tried to, he really did. But his lips were deformed as a sob choked his throat. He swallowed. Enjolras winced in pain and clenched his fists, intensely staring at him.

"I beg you."

His body was convulsing violently, he had never felt suffer like that before. Grantaire snorted. Not again. He could not deprive him of his last desires, could he? He looked at him. Oh, so beautiful, even now, even almost gone. A faint, bitter yet loving smile was curved on his lips. He was feeling Enjolras' body trembling in his arms. He sighed. Oh, it couldn't be. Enjolras smiled back a smile broken from pain, and then reached for his hand, squeezing it tightly in his.

"Listen...", his voice was cut by a cough that brought out more blood, "Listen to me...", he winced, shuting his eyes for a moment and then looked back at him, his stare intense, his voice shaking with as much strenght and imposition as had remained in him. "I die for you and you live for me. Promise?"

Grantaire opened his mouth without thinking. Oh, that's not how it worked. But, for God's sake, he loved him too much.

"Promise."

Enjolras' face was suddenly brightened by a weak, childish smile and his crystal eyes sparkled, maybe for the last time. He nodded in joy.

"Good..."

And he snuggled in Grantaire's warm hug still trembling, feeling his fingers sinking in the blood that flowed down his hands, his breath getting shorter and shorter. Grantaire kissed his head, holding him tightly, unable to swallow his tears anymore as they came streaming down his face. He was watching his angel breathing for the last time. And he could do nothing. Nothing except for keeping the first grave promise he had ever given in his life, a promise which he could not guarantee anything for. And he didn't know if he could do it. Their game was over and none of them had won.

He felt the body in his hug calming, with just short breaths escaping the red lips that constrasted with the pale, angelic face under his look. Enjolras suddenly held more tightly on him, feeling his body going numb from pain as his eyes, half-open, gazed him yearningly. His hands were trembling.

"Grantaire...", he stuttered weakly, his voice shaking, sounding scared, pained yet childish and soft, just like he remembered it once. "I... I'm cold, Grantaire..."

Grantaire felt his heart breaking, so succumbing and exhausted sounded his tone, as if his soul that was slowly abandoning his body didn't want to leave yet. He snorted and rubbed his arms tenderly, caressing his marble cheek, faking a fade smile, just to let him go with the memory.

"Shhh...", he whispered, his voice almost cracking and held him gently, as if lulling him to sleep at last. "Hush now my love...", the tears were falling like rivers, flooding his eyes, his body refusing to let go and admit the truth, trying to convince himself that he was sleeping. Nothing more. "Hush..."

Enjolras leaned his head on his arm and swallowed gasping, feeling unable to receive the air he needed anymore. It hurt, it hurt too much. A tear came down his face. He felt Grantaire's hand under his head, he saw him leaning, maybe the last thing he saw and gazed his green eyes one last time, before he felt warm lips touching his and his heart fluttered, its beat loosening at last as he heard happy songs full of hope echoing in the distance. He exhaled. Grantaire felt the cold lips on his going limp, yet he didn't stop, kissing in denial, tasting the blood that painted the soft, parted lips and breathing heavily, as if trying in despair to provide more air, as if trying to bring him back to life. He knew it was vain. He knew it was over. He knew it was too late.

He slowly raised his look, slightly fending off the now dead body in his hug, breathing shakily. He gazed him wistfully, his blue eyes that had remained open, empty, staring lifeless into the void, his beautiful, well-lined lips slightly curved in a smile that failed to be finished, his voice still echoing in his ears drown in a suffer that was finally over. He laughed, a laughter that was broken by a heartwhrenching cry that sounded cracked and then comfortless sobs followed as he held him tight, not afraid of hurting him anymore, leaning on his head with his shoulders shaking and his body moving back and forth in agony as incomprehensible raving was escaping his trembling lips. One would have thought he had gone crazy. And they could be right.

"The sun is up, my love...", he whispered in stutter as he instensely fondled the golden locks. "I never needed the sun though... I had you...", he chuckled as he glanced to the skies, bitting his lips, his look begging to give him back what he had lost. "Don't worry, my love, don't... don't cry...", his voice cracked, he spoke to him as if he would listen, so blurried his mind. "You are okay now... It's warm in my arms... I will carry you home...", the tears were flooding his eyes as denial grew stronger in him. "We'll lay on our bed again... I will sing you to sleep, I remember many songs you know...", a mad smile was curved on his lips. "We will dance again as we did... I will never leave you, I will be with you always, always, always..."

His voice cracked from the sobs, he could have laughed with himself. He seemed ridiculous. His mind was shadowed by despair, by a pain deeper than any wound, he refused to surrender to reality. He shivered. He felt the air getting cold around him and, as though instinctively, he tightened his arms around the dead body. He had to keep him warm. Enjolras shouldn't feel cold, not again.

"So will I."

It was nothing. It was just the wind. But he heard it, he felt it, a distant, gentle voice caressing his ears in response, in a promise for requitement. He froze for a moment and glanced at the body, a fake hope sparkling in his heart. But then he shook his head. It couldn't be. He would never be back. Yet he heard it again, a voice closer than the previous one, weaker, more childish. He knew that voice, he loved hearing it, because it would always be for good.

"Help... Please..."

He bit his lips, his breath cut. That was real. That was near. Dear God, could such things be? He breathed shakily and turned his head, his heart beating fast.

"Jehan?..."

*

A soft music was echoing in the room, twirling along with the breeze and the raindrops that had started falling again. That's what they wanted it to be, beautiful, if not real. They needed no music to dance. They knew the moves and the sound of their hearts beating was enough to give a rhythm. But this time Grantaire's heart was beating faster and Enjolras' heart was not beating at all. Dance moves of ghosts, while they thought they were holding hands, while they thought they heard each others heart, while they thought eveything could be the same again, dancing in a fake melody as the one thought that they saw the other, just because of another promise that they thought they had given. But it was nothing. It was just the wind.

They stopped. Grantaire raised his head with tears in his eyes, flowing down his cheeks. He tried to wipe them. Enjolras' look didn't let him, loving and bitter, as a sad smile curved his lips. Grantaire raised his look and stared at him for a moment. He knew what he was waiting for. He always knew. And for a moment, he thought that he could do it. He shook his head.

"This time was your best..."

And he bowed. But his heart couldn't stand more as sobs started shaking his body and he violently pushed the table that prevented him from sitting down again and taking the third bottle in his hand. Enjolras didn't move. He just closed his eyes with a deep sigh and stood there as if facing an invisible partner, his head slightly bowed. He chuckled.

"I wish I could cry with you..."

Grantaire remained still for a moment. His lips curved an ironic smile.

"Angels don't cry", he said sharply and took a sip of wine frowning. Enjolras swallowed and looked at him, but his look wasn't requited. His lips were parted hesitantly.

"Then why are you crying?"

Grantaire flounced and turned his head abruptly only to meet Enjolras' blue eyes nailing him like stabs, as they always did. He snorted in surrender and nodded sarcastically. But Enjolras was not ready to yield. He approached him.

"I heard you that day, you know...", his tone sounded cold, just like he was once. Grantaire felt shudders passing through him. He avoided eye contact, but Enjolras was now in front of him, with his forever imposing posture. He sobbed, feeling unable to escape.

"I can still feel the warmth of your arms around me, Grantaire...", his marble voice cracked, suddenly became hoarse, drown in a sob he held back. "I can still feel you, my love."

Grantaire stared at him for some seconds, his breath cut, and then placed the bottle on the table with a loud bang, hidding his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking, his fingers gripping his black curls in despair. Enjolras made to console him, to touch him. Oh, but he had forgotten. He was a ghost.

"Look at me, Grantaire..."

He remembered those words. He felt his heart breaking, as his tears were flowing between his fingers and he put so much effort in meeting Enjolras' eyes that his body went numb. He tried to swallow the sobs. He couldn't. He could only look at him, begging for this suffer to end, he could only feel the coldness on his cheek, the frozen fingers of a hand he was not able to keep warm anymore. He closed his eyes. But Enjolras didn't want to stop.

"Smile at me."

He could do it. He always could, as he gazed him lovingly and his lips curved a small smile, the only honest smile he had let himself form in a long time. And Enjolras smiled back, shaking his head. Oh God, he had found a home. But the road was long. And he was still cold.

chapter 5

[kindaangelic]

All in One

For Batfamweek 2018 Day 4: AU

Universe A

Alternate timelines were such a bitch to navigate. Damian mentally chastized himself for cussing, even in the privacy of his own head. He was becoming more like crass, boorish, Todd every day.

Damian plodded up to the Wayne Manor in this timeline, and fervently hoped that he existed in this timeline. He rang the doorbell and waited with bated breath as the door cracked open to reveal...

“Father,” Damian sighed with relief.

Bruce’s eyebrow hiked up his forehead. “...Damian. Unless you’ve managed to clone yourself, then I suggest that you explain this.”

“Universe clash,” Damian said. “Can I come in?”

The man Damian had dubbed Bruce-A stepped aside to let his tiny alternate-son stomp through. As soon as he entered the house, Damian saw his entire family, and for once, he was glad to see them. They all looked up with varying reactions.

His alternate brother, Dick-A, rather predictably, squealed and ran to hug the new Dami. Damian was yanked over to the couch so that Dick-A could now cuddle both Damians to maximize his Love efficiency. “Hello Grayson,” Damian said amicably. Dick-A’s greeting was lost in the shower of butterfly kisses that he was pressing on top of Damian’s head.

“Hello Alternate self,” Damian grinned at his doppelgänger.

“And a good day to you, my counterpart,” Damian-A greeted him in return. “Tell me, do we still fight crime in your universe?”

“We do,” Damian affirmed. “We are beloved by the people, revered by our peers, and feared by our enemies. The name of Robin holds great significance across universes.”

Dick-A peered at him. “You’re Robin?” Damian nodded. “Oh. That’s strange.”

Damian’s heart sank. “I am not Robin in this universe?”

Damian-A shook his head. “No, I never was. I am Flamebird, the partner of Grayson’s Nightwing.”

Dick-A beamed. “When Damian first came to stay with us, he was having a hard time of it. We gravitated towards each other, since I know what it’s like to come from a different culture with a different way of life. He knows that he can ask questions and be himself around me.”

And I’ll love him no matter what, went unsaid. Dick-A and Damian-A smiled at each other.

“...so who is Robin?” Damian asked, dreading the answer. Not Fatgirl, please, not Fatgirl, he prayed.

“Drake,” Damian-A said, pointing out the still stringy Tim-A, who was trying to pilfer some Cheez-Its from Jason-A.

“Oh,” Damian said. That wasn’t too bad. In fact, this arrangement allowed him to work with Grayson all of the time. Just then, Damian felt a tug at his consciousness. “I think that I am about to be transported back to my universe,” he said. “Farewell, Alternate family.”

“Bye Dami, I’ll miss you,” Dick-A cooed, and pressed a kiss to his forehead.

“Ahem,” Dami-A coughed pointedly.

Dick-A went back to smothering his rightful Dami, and Damian had just a second to commit the scene to memory before he was flung through time and space once more.

Universe B

This was most definitely not his universe, Damian thought dourly. He was going to call this Universe-B. This time, fate had chucked him into what he had recognized as Todd’s room in the manor. He scrambled off of the floor, and was dusting himself off as the door opened to reveal the man himself, Todd-B.

Damian braved himself to battle his older and no doubt peeved brother, and was surprised to see Todd smiling at him softly. Strange. Todd only smiled like that when Grayson fretted over him, or when Drake was asleep and made little snuffling noises.

“There you are,” Jason-B said. “Come down for lunch, Alfie’s made lasagna.”

Damian could not reconcile this benign version of his brother with the roughshod familiarity of his own Todd. Therefore, he was not prepared when Todd-B reached down and picked him up and put him on his hip.

“Release me this instant!” Damian cried.

“Aw, pipe down, Dames,” Jason chuckled.

“Release me, I am not who you think I am!” Damian cried, panicking slightly.

“What do you mean you’re not-oh,” Jason-B stooped short, looking at the dining table occupied with the rest of the family and his own Damian.

“TODD! YOU JEZEBEL! How dare you place another in my rightful hip spot!” Damian-B screamed.

“Oh boy.”

***

After Damian had explained that he was here as a result of a universe displacement, and everyone had quieted down, Alfred set an extra place at the table for him and Damian sat down.

“In my universe, I am Robin,” he informed his universe-B family.

“In this universe, you’re not,” Dick-B said.

“Ah, is it Drake again?”

Dick-B smiled. “No, Timmy’s not Robin now. He’s Flamebird, my partner.” Seated besides Dick-B, Tim-B smiled.

“Then who is Robin!?” Not Fatgirl, please god, not Fatgirl!

“Cass is Robin.” Phew.

“Then what are you?” Damian asked his counterpart, “if not Robin or Flamebird?”

Jason-B cleared his throat. “Actually, you’re with me.” Damian’s eyes popped in disbelief. “Little Hoodie.”

“No one actually calls me that,” Damian-B hurried to say. “My code name is Demon Bird.”

“I chose the name,” Tim-B said proudly.

“I voted for sparrow, because you’re cute and small like one of them, Dami!” Dick-B said.

“I wanted to name you Red Cardigan, but you were all like nooo-“

“Todd, we are not having this conversation again-“

“-and Flannel Boy was a great choice too!” Jason-B went on. “Dick was totally on board with Sequin Lad, weren’t you, Dickie?”

Damian goggled at his counterpart. “You work with Todd?”

“He rescued me from the League,” Damian-B shrugged. “He brought me home and had to face his worst demons prematurely in Gotham. But he did it for me. He is a good and noble warrior.”

Damian pondered this. He wondered if his Todd would have acted similarly, had he known of Damian during his time with Talia.

However, there was no time to ponder this, as Damian felt the telltale tug of the space-time continuum. He hurriedly bid his family-B goodbye, and went tumbling into the void once more.

Universe C

This time, Damian came to in the Batcave. Perhaps in this universe, he was Batman. Damian smiled and got to his feet, eager to check out his surroundings, only to see Drake looking down at him.

“Time travel or alternate universe?” He asked succinctly.

“The latter,’ Damian grumbled.

Tim-C nodded, and then smiled. “I take it that you’re a vigilante in your universe too, then. What are you?”

“I am Robin.”

“Huh,” Tim said, surprised. “What am I, then?”

“You are called Red Robin,” Damian said, careful to not let slip anything about their sibling rivalry from his own world.

“I’m Red Robin here too,” Tim-C said.

“Then Robin is...” Could it be? Oh god-

“Duke.”

“Praise be!” Damian shouted, and threw up his hands to the heavens. “The Fates are merciful, that Fatgirl does not sully the mantle of Robin!”

Tim-C chuckled. “Steph is Batwoman here.” Damian gasped. The horror.

“And I?”

Tim-C studied Damian for a second before replying. “You’re called...Blackbird,” he said, before quietly adding, “you’re my partner.”

Damian could feel the muscles in his jaw drop. He was working with Drake? How on earth had that come to be?

“Things weren’t great at first between us,” Tim-C admitted. “Then...Bruce was...”

Killed. Thrown through time by Darksied.

“We were all in a bad place. I was convinced that Bruce was alive. Mostly, I couldn’t stand the thought of losing the man I’d just started to love as my father. It was the same with you, I suspect.

“You were the only one who trusted my word when I said that I was going to find Bruce. You helped me while I was working out what was happening. All those late nights, sifting through information and guzzling coffee together really strengthened our bond.”

“Grayson let me have coffee?” Damian asked.

“Oh no,” Tim-C smirked. “You only got warm milk with honey, because Dick wanted you to have strong bones and because you were his little bumblebee”

Damian smiled. Stupid, emotional, Grayson. “Where is everyone else?”

“They’re at work, or at school. I caught a cold, so I can’t go,” Tim-C sniffled. “It’s been kinda fun, actually. My Dames been plying me with ‘home-remedies’ that he’s been bugging his mom and grandfather for on the phone. R’as sent over Lazarus Pit water.”

Tim-C finished and stared down at Damian. Damian let the silence fall, and contemplated his life in this universe. “My Drake is...quite alright,” he said. “We did not get along at first, but now, he seems to be better with having me around.”

“I’ll let you in on a secret,” Tim-C said. “When I was growing up, I always wanted a younger sibling. A brother.”

Damian stared. “Truly?”

“Yeah. I was so psyched when you showed up. It took us a while, but I’d say we’re pretty tight now,” Tim said. “So I guess I did get what I wanted after all.”

Damian had barely a second to hug Tim-C goodbye before the portal opened up and swallowed him again, sending Damian hurtling back to his universe.

Home

The portal spat Damian out into the Batcave, where he was greeted with cheers. “He’s back!” Tim cried.

Damian registered Bruce’s voice demanding to run diagnostics, and Jason telling him to shove his diagnostics in an unspeakable place. They were both knocked aside as Dick came hurtling forward, scooping Damian up and away from the portal.

“Dami, you’re home!” Dick sobbed, dripping fat, love-saturated, tears on top of Damian’s head. “I’ll never let you go again!”

“He has to use the bathroom sometime,” Jason pointed out. “Leggo of the kid, Dick, you’re suffocating him.” Instead, Dick passed him to Jason, who spluttered, “not what I meant, idiot.” Nevertheless, Damian felt Jason’s heart pounding a mile a minute.

Huh. That was...touching.

“Todd, you are experiencing tachycardia,” Damian pointed out.

Bruce startled. “Jason! I won’t lose you again, son!” He ran forward and tugged Jason to the medical wing, despite the younger man’s protests of oh my god, Bruce, get off of me, I’m fine, stop touching!

Free of Jason’s hold, Damian took a moment to look at Tim, who had successfully closed the portal and was now passing tissues to a still emotional Dick. He snagged a tissue for himself, to dab his own streaming nose, the beginnings of yet another allergy.

“Drake.”

“Yeah?”

“Ginger and honey. With lemon.”

Tim’s shy smile filled Damian with a warmth that went to his fingertips. It was good to be home.

[starcaller-lunarsong]

"The time for mercy is over."

I finally finished this precious, angry druid! I love Luna so, so much, and I'm really proud of the digital painting of her I did. I didn't keep track of how long it took, but definitely took a few weeks on and off for sure! I also wrote a small story to go along with her transformation into a Night Warrior. Hope you enjoy!

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Sounds of fighting filled the midnight air, Lunarsong panting heavily as she slashed her way through yet another orc. For every one she killed, two more seemed to take their place. The tide of the Horde was endless in her homeland, and the thought filled her with murderous anger. The hand of a dying orc reached up, grasping her long, silver cloak, and ripped it off the druid. She looked down at him with cold amber eyes, feeling pleasure well up inside her at the terror in his own. The Horde thought her dead after the War of Thorns, her body rotting in the depths of the Veiled Sea.

Oh how terribly wrong they were… She allowed them to think she was dead, and any who discovered her identity never lived to tell their superiors. Her scythe blade dove down to his throat, hot blood splattering her cloak before she put it on once again. She didn’t bother to pull up her hood. None of the Horde soldiers here would live to see another sunrise, anyway.

She had seen what had become of Darkshore. The goblins were cutting the land dry and didn’t even bother collecting the wood they had made, leaving it to rot away. Such waste made her sick, and she wanted nothing more than to bury her scythe in the skulls of those despicable goblins. Especially their oh-so ‘beloved’ Trade Prince. But she supposed these orcs and trolls and forsaken would have to do. For now...

“By Elune, they’re everywhere!” Maiev’s voice brought her out of her bloodlust-induced haze, licking her lips to taste the crimson life fluids of her enemies that splattered her so thoroughly. She let herself get carried away yet again. Golden eyes flickered around the battlefield, and she could see that slowly, ever so slowly, her people were losing ground.

She looked back toward her High Priestess. Tyrande’s eyes were sealed shut as she levitated in the air, cool and soothing moonlight illuminating her in the form of a beam. She was more like a beacon, almost inviting any stray arrow to strike her. Never, Lunarsong snarled silently. She will not fall. She will become the Night Warrior. She has to…

She needed more time. The ritual wasn’t complete yet, and she needed more time. Arcane magic crackled fiercely around the druid, her eyes taking on a violet sheen. She was done hiding who she was. She was Lunarsong Fel’lendar, former heir of the House of Stelleris, a former member of the Highborne. She was the Starcaller. She would make damn sure the Horde remembered her name - and feared it.

Moonfire flared down to those who dared approach her, and roots grabbed those who survived. Slowly, she closed her open palms into fists, each small movement sending the unfortunate soldiers deeper and deeper into the earth’s cold embrace. Their screams were muffled as the roots continued to grow, covering their mouths. No one would remember them. No one would grieve for them, least of all her.

The old her would’ve been appalled at the methods she used. At her using the same arcane magic she swore to never use, as a rejection of her family’s legacy. But she died the day Teldrassil burned. The day that orcish scum ran her through with a blade from the back - a cowardly blow. The day he ripped off her moonstone pendant, the only gift from her mother she still cherished, clean off of her throat, and threw her into the Veiled Sea. The day she was left for dead, just barely clinging to life because of the intervention of her father. The day her entire world turned to ash…

Mother, father, Elyssa… To think that they could actually follow Sylvanas and her twisted Horde, after all the atrocities she has committed. How could they be so blind? Cold anger filled her as she continued to fight, the power of her spells fueled by her emotions and pain. Fueled by the need for justice for her butchered people, for the families and lives erased in mere moments, all for what?

We were just an example for Sylvanas to use. To show what happens to those who defy that evil, slimy and treacherous banshee!

Elunara Voidcaller fought at her side, her tabard of the 7th Legion covered so thoroughly in orcish, troll and forsaken blood that you could barely see the lion of the Alliance poking through the crimson fluids. Her blue and gold armor was covered similarly. Void energies swirled around the mage, Elunara’s blue eyes alight with a vengeful fury that paled only in comparison to Lunarsong’s own. She sent those who advanced too close tumbling and screaming into the endless void, turning others into sheep, and many more dead to the ground, arcane magic lacing through their bodies brutally.

There was Lindrith Icebloom, screaming the names of the dead night elves in Teldrassil, and the countless innocents butchered in the War of Thorns, of the fallen Alliance soldiers at Lordaeron, over the clamor of the battle. The death knight was a flurry of blades, striking out at any Horde member with brutal mercilessness, but their lives didn’t end there. She raised the dead as skeletons, sending them upon the other soldiers without care. Thaldryn fought beside her, his frost spells freezing anyone foolish enough to attack his mate. They were like a well-oiled machine, freezing and shattering the Kaldorei’s enemies with brutal efficiency.

And then there was Lunarsong’s own mate and daughter. Tehlmar and Lilyura had taken the form of their demons, great wings of shadow sweeping orcs and trolls and forsaken off their feet before their warglaives beheaded them easily and cleanly. Lilyura’s demonic form melted away to reveal the night elf once again as she vaulted over another orc, landing on his shoulders before twisting, slamming him into the ground. There she dispatched him with brutal efficiency, her revealing armor and blindfold already splattered with blood. Tehlmar turned toward Lunarsong’s direction, noticing her staring. He grinned at her before winking, charging once again into the fray.

She grinned back, continuing to fight before the hand of her general, Shandris Feathermoon, gripped her shoulder tightly as she turned the druid around. “The ritual is nearing completion! Lunarsong, release the Eye of Elune!” The druid nodded silently before putting away her weapon. She swiftly embraced her husband and child once she ran to them, each sticky with the same crimson fluid that was on her.

"I swear to Elune, if you two die on me, I'm going to kill you..." Tehlmar chuckled softly at that, kissing her lips gently.

"Bold of you to assume they'd even be able to land a hit on me, Luna." He kissed her one last time before breaking away to rejoin the fray as Luna ran to the Eye of Elune - and to her High Priestess.

Her hands glowed with starlight as she began the process of releasing the eye, calmness washing over her as she communed with her goddess. She had never felt so at peace, despite the raging battle behind her. Tyrande lowered to the ground, opening her eyes at last.

The moonwell surged with power from the ritual, Lunarsong’s breath catching in her throat as her High Priestess finally spoke. Rage was evident in her voice, transforming the once beautiful, melodious sound into something akin to a war chant. “With ancient words, I invoke your most ruthless phase.” As the water in the moonwell turned dark, she took a severed orc head from her side, tossing it into the center of the well. It sank into it, stars glittering on the surface of the darkened water, shadow and moonlight crawling up the sides of the ancient, pristine stone.

“With this offering, I demand to wear your darkest face.” As she continued on, she walked into the well slowly. She lifted up her face to the night sky, the crescent moon high above. A beam of moonlight flared down to her, Tyrande opening her arms wide to embrace it as if it were a lover. “Elune, make me the instrument of your vengeance!" She raised her hands that were now glowing with starlight, releasing the power that was welling up within her.

Lunarsong could barely make a sound before she doubled over, gasping out in agony. She could feel it. Elune’s rage, her wrath, pure and overwhelming, and yet she welcomed it with open arms. She welcomed the agony, the rage, the power and glory of her goddess. She wanted this power more than anything. Wanted the chance to claim vengeance more than anything. Her fingers curled upwards, her nails digging into the palm of her hand before she collapsed on her hands and knees.

Time felt as if it slowed down to her. Her golden eyes turned the colors of the night, the irises of her eyes taking on the form of eclipsed moons as stars once again twinkled to life within. She felt...whole, and strangely calm.

The silver leaf armbands on each arm turned as dark as the night, the metal gleaming in the moonlight, and the rest of her armor changed similarly. Her silver robes turned a dark blue, stars twinkling on the fabric, and the gems a gradient of black and blue. Elune listened to her heart during the moment of judgment, and found her worthy. Her heart, once crying out for everlasting peace, now screamed for vengeance and retribution. She wouldn’t declare her hunt over until Sylvanas was rotting on her throne of bone and hides, until those who allied with the banshee willingly and forsake all sense of honor paid for the blood they had spilled.

Her crescent moon just inches from her face began to crack, the lines racing across the glowing metal before it completely shattered. The shards sliced across her face, her arms, and before she even realized what was happening, her voice was raw and scratchy from her scream of terror, agony, and rage. A dark blue moonfire poured from her fingertips, swirling around her before condensing before her very eyes. It took the shape of her former headpiece, the raging flames just barely contained, waiting to consume everything in their path. All the while memories flashed through her head. Elyssa telling her why the Nightborne constructed the shield around Suramar City, the sickening sense of betrayal eating away at her. The invasion of her home, and her endless grief when she came across the massacred civilians in Astranaar. Her piercing scream of horror and rage when she beheld the burning husk of her beloved home - her beloved Teldrassil. Every memory, every emotion, burned white-hot in her mind. They all led her to this very moment, led her to seek out vengeance for the slain.

She felt as if her new moon was a reflection of her pain, her rage. It reflected her burning desire for vengeance and retribution - and she gladly welcomed the pain that accompanied it.

The time for mercy is over.

She looked up at Tyrande, the High Priestess appearing as a beautiful, yet terrifying warrior maiden. The silver armor gleamed in the moonlight, her dark eyes glowing with unbound rage. She made a gesture with her hands, starlight crashing down upon the remaining Horde soldiers, wiping them out in one fell swoop. “Now we shall have vengeance. The night warrior lives...within me.”

Lunarsong stood up with difficulty, her braid falling over her face, hiding her features before she raised her head. All the other night elves and worgen could see the changes in the Starcaller, but none look horrified. They all wanted what she did. They wanted Sylvanas to pay.

Her lips curved into a dark smile.

Her people would reclaim their lands and drive the Horde before them. Nothing would stop them now, not with the Night Warrior on their side. Not when her people were the children of Elune, and now the vessels of her wrath. She, and they, would stop at nothing until Sylvanas’ Horde was in ruin, and the Kaldorei’s ancient lands were reclaimed.

She now understood her husband and daughter’s hunger for vengeance, for their willingness to sacrifice anything and everything to achieve it. She once chided them for turning into the very things they swore to destroy, turning into demons. Now, she felt the same, and they stood by her side. She felt Tehlmar’s arm wrap around her waist, pulling her close to him as he kissed her cheek. “We will have our vengeance, my Lunar Light…” She stared at him for a long moment, smiling widely at him, but it wasn’t cruel. It was full of love and warmth. For him, for their daughter, and for their infant son.

She laid her head down on his shoulder, closing her eyes and allowing herself a much-needed sigh of relief. The battle was over, for now, but the war would keep raging on until a winner emerged. She prayed to her goddess that for Azeroth’s sake, the Alliance would be victorious. If not, she trembled at the possibility for what could become of her beloved home, her beloved Azeroth. In her mind, Sylvanas was no different from Arthas now. The banshee would stop at nothing until Azeroth was hers and both the Alliance and Horde were her mindless servants. Instead of dying as a hero, freeing her Forsaken from the Lich King’s legacy, she pushed them deeper into his shadow.

Tehlmar’s fingers ran through her hair as he planted a kiss on her again. “You don’t need to worry, we’ll win. The Horde will know ruin, and Sylvanas will pay dearly for her crimes…” She smiled again at that.

“With Elune as our witness, they will know ruin,” she breathed, echoing his words. She opened her eyes to stare at him. They agreed silently. They were on the same path now, and they would be each other’s anchors.

The time of reckoning was at hand.

We are coming, Sylvanas...

[gotham-city-tales-blog]

Jerome Imagine: “Retirement Plan”

Prompt: “Can you write an imagine where the reader is pregnant and afraid to tell Jerome because she doesn't want to tie him down and so she starts avoiding him, thinking he wouldn't care” -by Anon

Summary: I kind of strayed buuuuut I’d like to think it’s cute. The reader is pregnant and thinks she has to leave Jerome for obvious reasons but the message is intercepted by Jeremiah who is after Jerome.

M A S T E R L I S T

This is my first shot at writing in like a year so I am very sorry it this is a little rusty ad not my best! and as a disclaimer: any messages about his being “unrealistic” will be deleted. these are characters. and i’m my writing i will manipulate them as please for a story. i understand that maybe my taste isn’t yours but then another writer may be just in your lane. i am a fluffy writer and will never write something with abuse or a horrible ending-life is depressing enough.

SPOILERS: If you don’t know who Jeremiah is you probably don’t want to read this.

Bruce Wayne fought everyday for a better tomorrow in Gotham. Selina fought to empower the systematically powerless. James Gordon wanted a city which was civilized and just. Lee only wanted to help the people. Bullock was bored but fought for his friends.

Even the worst of the worst needed a reason to live. They fought everyday too-just for different things. For The Riddler, he wanted to remain unforgotten, never again in the shadows as Ed Nygma existed. Barbara Kean, to prove her depths of her strength and never be helpless at the mercy of others again. For Penguin, to be love by a kingdom he has created. 

Jerome had one too-not that anyone knew it. 

You’d asked many times, feigning curiosity. But you knew deep down that you just wanted to hear it was you. Unreasonable as it may be, you wanted to be Jerome’s reason. Looking back on it now you knew it was selfish and a childish take on real love. Jerome wasn’t your reason for waking up and living everyday. As he shouldn’t be. You loved him more than anything or anyone, but you fought for yourself. Created your own life, your own path and your own strength. You lived everyday because you owed it to yourself to create a life and a purpose. And now, in your older age, that’s all you ever really wanted for Jerome too-because that’s what you want for the people you love. But you were younger then, naive and a bit egotistical-all normal for someone in their early 20′s. If only you knew what you know now. 

He always said he wasn’t sure what drove him or joked that it was a part of his madness. 

You knew he was lying though.

22 was a tender age. You were working part time at a small food store and spending the other working time in classes. Technically you were an adult. You paid rent by yourself. Filed your taxes and had a savings account. But that didn’t mean you were ready to be a mom.

You missed your period and were irresponsible enough to have spontaneous unprotected sex with your boyfriend. You went to the doctor and they told you that you were indeed pregnant.

When those words fell from the nurse’s lips you were actually excited. You had always wanted children and were in a loving, albeit strange, relationship with someone who thought the world of you. Jerome was the person you wanted to spend your life with and have a family with. But despite your own desires and a year long relationship, you an Jerome never really talked about having a family and kids. It certainly wasn’t the time. 

Jerome was mad. He was insane. He was apathetic and controlling. But with you.. well... he was normal. A normal 24 year old. He’d sneak away to your apartment and bring you flowers that he paid for. He’d watch movies with you and hold your hand. The only trace of insanity were his scars. 

To you it was insanity. But to him it was sanity. 

Jerome loved having a person that remained in his life. He reveled in the continuity of your stability. When he was with the others like him and doing the unspeakable things they did, no one saw Jerome. They saw a villain, a criminal, a killer. You brought a light to his life and a relaxation.

Never before would he just sit own and watch a movie or go to the small park by the water’s edge. Before he was always on the run. Making narrow escapes and looking over his shoulder. When he started seeing you it was usually once a month in passing, quick conversations. Eventually he realized he was excited about seeing you so he started meeting you at the park an then once at your place. That was when he realized you were stupidly trusting.

But he loved you for it. You made him forget about the bad in the world. You made him feel safe and happy, you made him feel at home.

Lately he started feeling even stranger things.

He didn’t want to die during some escapade. He wanted to impress you. He wanted to come home to you and go for walks and fall asleep with you an wake up next to you. He wanted you to be his home.

He didn’t want a kingdom. He wanted you.

But now you were here. 

After a long and frigid walk home from the clinic, you silently heated up a microwave meal. The television was on but it was mute. Everything seemed too loud, too bright. 

Jerome may come home to you more nights than not but that didn’t mean he wanted a baby. You never even talked about marriage as a concept, let alone having children. He was a creature of the night, born out of chaos. There was no place in his life for a child and you knew that meant there would be no place for you.

It was time to release Jerome of this burden before it had a chance to fall on his shoulders. You wouldn’t ask him to give up his nature and livelihood, all he’s ever know, to raise a baby with you. 

You felt trapped. You stared at your keyboard for what felt like seconds but the minutes were passing. How could you say this? How could you write it when you couldn't even say it... 

The keyboard looked as though the letters were in Mandarin. Your fingers were shaking and your mind was numb. Feeling exhausted and exasperated, your breaths were shaky just like your hands. Hovering above the keys, you just couldn’t find the words.

The emotions an desires and wants and fears were all so crystal clear at the forefront of your mind, flooding you with an overwhelming warmth and love but the fears and loneliness were crashing in too. You finally knew what you wanted to say-but there was no real way to say it. 

You still don’t really remember the trip to his then residence, a vacated and foreclosed apartment in the Narrows, just that you felt nothing but a great sadness. The cab ride home is similarly hazy but you remember a deep seeded  relief that cushioned the blow of your feeling of loss. 

The time in between was filled with clumsy venturing and fumbling as you told the cab driver to keep the meter and the engine running. Under a broken rail, through a wedged door and under a tarp, you then climbed to the second floor and walked passed the abandoned domains. Dusty doors and damp carpets lined the halls-Jerome was in 2D, the fourth one down. 

The molding rugs squished beneath your shoes as you quickly ran towards the door, slipped the note under and ran back to the waiting taxi.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t Jerome on the other side of the busted door, but Jeremiah.  

After two years of tracking him through his escapades and newspaper clippings alongside some gossip from low level informants, Jeremiah finally found where Jerome was living. He knew he would never be safe as long as Jerome was alive. It didn’t make sense to him that Jerome never came back after him years after their first adult encounter. 

He was sitting quietly on a pile of clothes. There was no furniture aside from a lone chair which seemed as though his weight would make it buckle. So he opted for the cushioning of the ratty clothes and started at just four walls whose siding was peeling and a window which was wedged open. All of the sudden there was a quiet swoosh and a letter slid under the door. No one knocked and nothing followed so Jeremiah stood and went to the letter. It was just a paper folded in three with Jerome’s name.

Curiosity bubbling over, Jeremiah read the letter. 

When he did he nearly fell over. Not only has his horrible brother had a willing girlfriend but... she was pregnant? And Jerome was the father.

Jeremiah had about three hours to process this earth shattering news and plan for when Jerome walked through the door. He used every second of those three hours. He thought about how Jerome must be manipulating you and that the baby must be cursed. Jeremiah sunk deeper and deeper into his rabbit hole thoughts: he wanted to kill you-and your baby. How could you spawn with someone like Jerome? He hated you already. 

He was shaken from his pool of thoughts by a rattling from the fire escape.

Of course Jerome wouldn’t use the door.

Jeremiah slid behind a piece of siding that was separating from the wall and wielded a knife in front of his face. 

Jerome’s criminal experience became apparent in his match against his brother. Within moments of his clumsy entrance through the open window he had spotted his meager twin. It took less than a minute for Jerome to both subdue his brother by bounding him to the rickety chair and take control of the carving knife.

Stepping back from his handy work, Jerome looked at Jeremiah tied to the chair. His has were secured behind him and his legs both bound to the old legs of the chair. “So to what do I owe this pleasure?” Jerome cackled.

“We need to talk.” Jeremiah deadpanned as he pulled at his ties.

“That’s where you’re wrong.” Jerome smiled wide and turned with his back facing his brother. “I’ve been busy but planned on taking care of your prying rodent self in the future, but...”

He swiveled around on his heel and peered into Jeremiah’s eyes. “I never would have imagined you’d be stupid enough to walk right in front of my gun-or knife or whatever, you get the picture.” He chuckled. 

“Kill me and your girlfriend is dead.” Jeremiah spat. He may not have been criminally insane but he could be cunning. “Did you really think I’d come here alone? If I don’t walk out of here in 20 minutes one of my men who is sitting on her apartment will take care of her.” He spoke quietly but with conviction, silently thanking the universe for that unexpected bit of leverage. 

Jerome looked at his twin through narrow eyes, “Touch her and I swear I will burn down everything and everyone you’ve ever come into contact with.” He growled.

“I’m not sure what she sees in you,” he sneered. “You’re a complete lunatic, you killed our mother and our father and now you’re going to kill your brother. No wonder she’s leaving you.”

“Your tricks won’t work on me.” Jerome barked in response. “There’s no way you’ve met her, you probably on’t even have anyone at her apartment. Who would work for a geeky little freak like you?” He hollered. 

“It’s true. Read the note,” He nodded toward the pile of clothes, “Over there.” 

Jerome leaped toward the note and scrambled to read what you’d said.

He was unreadable, a solid poker face as he stared at the type written note. You told him you loved him that you didn’t want to take away from his life. You were leaving to give him the freedom he loved. You didn’t want him to hate you. There was so much in only 7 sentences.

He quietly turned toward his brother and ripped up the note. A large smile graced his face as and he sprinkled the note at his face. 

“It will be resolved.” Jerome spoke slowly and surely. 

“Sure,” Jeremiah scoffed, “she’s leaving you Jerome. You’re a psychopath! She wants to protect her baby from you.” He spat. 

Jerome leaped towards his subdued brother and pulled the knife up and to his throat. “Don’t you dare.” He growled lowly. “I love her and will love that baby. I’m the one that keeps her safe! She used to live in the Narrows! Do you know the people that hang around there? I saw her, we used to cross paths before she finally moved uptown!” He was screaming in his brother’s face now. “Men watching her, leering at here! One of them tried to follow her and I pulled him off! I made it go away! I KEPT HER SAFE!”

“By what? Killing people? Killing him? Did you follow her that night? Tell her you were a hero then fuck her in the stairwell-” 

Jerome’s hand clamped around Jeremiah’s throat with such force the chair rocked backwards.

“I didn’t talk to her until three months after that.” Jerome whispered hoarsely, grip still tight on Jeremiah’s neck. “I respect her, she’s strong and kind. That man wanted to hurt her and would have. Maybe I’ve hurt the wrong people, but he was the right one. He was going to hurt her. If not that night, the next.” He released Jeremiah’s throat and leaned back slightly.

“Well fine, he was scum but you’re about to kill your last remaining relative. You know she’d hate you so you won’t tell her. There’s no way she could possibly love you for the real you.” Jeremiah was grasping at straws now, desperate to live, realizing he had pushed the wrong buttons. He may be cunning and manipulative but Jerome was unhinged, his tactics wouldn’t work on such an abstract mind. 

“That’s where you’re wrong.” Jerome laughed. But it was a genuine laugh. “She does know me, all of me and she sees passed it and believes in my potential and ability-she sees me for who I am.” He leaned back into Jeremiah’s face. “Now,” he paused, “don’t be so rash brother!” Jerome laughed, flicking his knife upward. “I must celebrate! You just delivered the greatest news of my life!” He cackled as he pushed his tied up brother back and onto the floor. “I created a family.” He spoke as he stood over Jeremiah's body. 

“I got a woman who’s making an honest man-I’m sorry, father-,” he winked, “outta me. It’s your dream come true.” 

Jerome knelt down and pulled his brother’s head towards his own but the short tufts of hair that sat atop his skull. “I’m gonna be a better father than anyone. And her? Shes gonna be the best mom, I know it. Shes caring and understanding.” He tightened his grip and his brother winced as Jerome’s hot breaths raped his cheeks. “She can love a psycho like me, and care for me-she’ll be the best damned mom I’ve ever seen. Our mother was a drunken whore who beat us for shits and giggles.” Jerome growled as he dropped the knife and placed both hands around Jeremiah's throat. 

“But [Y/N]? Never.” His grip subconsciously loosened. “She’s light and strong and beautiful and loving. And she wants me.” Just barely gripping Jeremiah's throat he raised his brother’s ear towards his lips, “And that is very lucky for you dear brother,” he whispered closely. 

With no warning Jerome dropped his brother cold onto the floor and stood up. Taking three large, tentative steps back, he folded his arms neatly behind his back. Adorning a large, sinister grin, Jerome spoke carefully, “See, I have a point to prove, therefore you are spared.”

“But make no mistake,” he hissed toward’s the helpless man still tied to a chair, “If you give me a real reason dear brother, I will take you out with no hesitation.” He bowed his head and let the silence sit for a heavy moment. 

Jerome ran out through the busted door this time. Leaping with joy and hollering in the now empty nighttime streets of the Narrows. He left Jeremiah on the floor the chair was crap he’d eventually break free. 

You really never expected him to come back. So when you answered your door all disheveled you really were expecting the pizza guy. 

He wasted no time pulling you in for a kiss and walking you backward. At that moment you didn’t care if he was here to yell at you or only here to throw a fit, you just wanted to feel whole again. You wanted to feel him. 

He pushed the door shut but held you close as he broke the kiss. Holding your hands in one hand, he brushed your cheek with the other. 

“You are my freedom. My escape from insanity.” Jerome breathed. “When I’m with you nothing else matters, please, let me do this with you.” His smile was so wide you couldn’t tell the scars were there. “When I’m with you I’m free of reputation and expectations, I can just exist.”

“Really?” And that was all you could say. Tears welled in your eyes as your stomach finally felt whole again. 

“Really.” He laughed lightly. “You’re my family.” He kissed your forehead as your snaked your arm around his neck.

“We’re gonna be parents.” You whispered, looking up at him. “You’re gonna be a dad.” Smiling gently you pecked his lips. 

“Yes, yes I am.” He chuckled. “And you’re gonna be a mom.”

“Well I have a savings account Hon, it’s time we talk about the Joker’s retirement.” You laughed as he swung you off your feet and into his arms. 

“How about I get some guys we do some stuff at a bank...” He drawled on as he dropped you on your couch. “Then you and me, outta Gotham in the night ever to return.” He climbed over you and laid down on top of you. And indescribably warmth spread through your body like when you wake up and before sun rise and the first rays of sun touch your skin during the rise. 

“I like that.” You giggled as he kissed your cheek. 

“Yeah?” He laughed as you pulled him further into your body.

“Yeah.”

[unchained-lightner]

Drabble; The Hero They Needed

     Kris had been seen many different ways in their life. They could have been just about anything at all, depending on who you asked. To some they were a notorious troublemaker and prankster. To others, a creepy, sadistic little freak who indulged in others’ torment. Some suspected they were merely a lonely kid who just couldn’t seem to connect with the other children. A few pitied the teen who had never really belonged anywhere, and likely never would, either.

     But, nobody ever would have called them brave, or selfless, or... Kind. Kris was far closer to being a villain than a hero, if you asked the town where they’d grown up.

     Yet, here, that was what Kris finally was... The one identity they really wished they could be, but knew would forever be out of their grasp. This time, Kris would write their own story. They would make choices that mattered. They would help people, and save the day, and maybe just maybe... Their life would mean something after all.

     Today, Kris was the hero that everyone needed, just not the one they wanted.

     They couldn’t afford to let everyone down. Not this time.

     This was it, the final confrontation. There was no denying the cruelty of the beastly creature before them, the King himself... Lancer’s father, who now held the boy aloft before them. After everything they’d faced, the shift in tone was utterly baffling. Susie looked ready to bash the guy with her ax, but Kris held back, anxiety gripping their chest like a vice. In all their time in this world... Kris had never felt like they encountered someone truly, unquestionably evil.

     Until now.

     “Then how about this...?” The shadow’s grip shifted, somehow terribly casual for a man who was threatening the life of their own son. “I’ll drop him off the edge and let him splatter... Unless you all KNEEL and learn your place!” An awful, sick feeling sunk in the kid’s stomach. Maybe Lancer was a bit of an oddball, and sure, he’d attacked them a few times, but... After everything they’d gone through, Kris might have even called him a friend.

     Under the shadow of their hair, a glitter of red sparked faintly... One fist clenched, trembling slightly. Yet, they knew they had no choice. For the first time, Kris really wanted to follow Susie’s lead and pummel this guy into the ground.

     But, if it meant sacrificing someone’s life... It just wouldn’t be worth it.

     They cast a meaningful, cautious glance Susie’s way... Her ax was quivering, still raised threateningly. Then it lowered back to her side as the monster’s arm fell limp, her head slightly lowered in defeat. Kris looked to Lancer with a melancholy frown, the kid was begging them not to do it, but... What other choice was there? Stand there, and watch him die..?

     As Susie fell to one knee, Kris and Ralsei followed suit. But even as Kris watched for an opening, an opportunity, something... Several white spades sparked to life before them, gleaming with deadly malice. The teen lowered their head, shoulders tensing... Bracing for impact. Is this really how it ends? It didn’t seem like the death of a hero. It sure wasn’t how Kris had wanted to go out. I’ll have to try harder next time. Maybe if I prepare a bit better...

     WHAM!

     Kris jolted with shock as... Something struck the king from behind, causing the diabolical figure’s assault to vanish. A magic attack--? It wasn’t until Lancer bolted off past them, the king snarling in rage, that the teen realized what had happened. Lancer saved them. That little, goofy spade prince... He’d just saved all their lives.

     The trio stood, their purpose as one. That fire in Kris’s spirit blazed, and they knew... This time, there would be no mercy. A faint, dangerous grin curved their lips as their weapon glittered into existence, the magenta blade glowing faintly in the darkness. Beside them Susie shared the sentiment, the monster’s ax gleaming as brutally as her bared fangs. Good. They would still try for a peaceful resolution, but, if one couldn’t be attained...

     Well, Kris wouldn’t feel too bad about teaching this guy a lesson he’d never forget.

     “Who the hell do you think you are?” Susie growled, her gravelly voice laced with venom.

     The dark figure cackled grimly... “To my people, I am a hero... To you?” They straightened, drawing a weapon from... A demented, grinning mouth that stretched open across their stomach. Kris felt a deep revulsion as the king’s laughter burst forth in stereo, filling the dark precipice with the sound of madness.

     “I’m the bad guy!”

     In that moment, Kris had to admit... If anyone in the Dark World could make that claim, it was certainly the twisted creature before them. You can be the bad guy all you want, Kris decided firmly, sword readied... You aren’t a hero to your people. Just yourself. And that was when Kris understood, really understood, what it meant to be a hero... And what made Susie and Ralsei so much different from the madman before them.

     They weren’t heroes just for the fame, or the attention, or the glory...

     They were heroes because there were people they needed to protect. And as Kris steadied their blade, glaring at the King... They knew that now they, too, had people they wished to protect. Their friends needed them, just as Kris needed them, too. Playing hero was all well and good, but this time... This time they would be a hero.

     We can’t lose, because I refuse to let you win.

     It was a long battle, longer than Kris had intended. Everyone was exhausted, as was the king before them. Even with some strange, hidden power pulsing within the kid’s soul, they still felt the wear of battle in every rough pant. Their sword hung loosely at their side; Kris wasn’t sure they could have swung it again if they tried. The others seemed to be similarly beaten down; Ralsei’s hat was lopsided, but he didn’t even seem to notice. Susie was grasping her ax with both hands, her snout displaying a wicked, fanged snarl. Too much more, and Kris worried she might start foaming at the mouth.

     Yet, as the king submitted... Somehow, even as Kris gratefully sheathed their weapon, they couldn’t shake that feeling in their gut that this was too good to be true. People like the king... They didn’t just turn on a dime.

     “My body is... Getting weak...” Kris watched the Darkner with faint apprehension... Had they really hurt the king that badly, or...?

     “Oh, don’t say another word!”

     As Ralsei approached the king, Kris realized what he was doing a moment too late. There was a soft flash of light, magic illuminating their adversary and healing the injured king’s wounds.

     “Ralsei...!” Kris managed, but the young prince didn’t seem to have heard them.

     The next words were a blur. An overwhelming dread gripped Kris’s heart, yet they felt frozen in place. Their feet just wouldn’t move, no matter how much they wanted to back away. And then... It was too late.

     CRACK.

     A sharp bolt of pain shot straight through Kris’s body. For a moment, everything flickered black. They were vaguely aware of tumbling forward onto the rocky ground, but it all seemed so hazy, so... Far away. Their soul flickered dimly, a few dark fissures working across the scarlet surface...

     There was a rustle, someone was moving. Dim red eyes peered from under Kris’s bangs, making out a violet shape struggling to right herself beside them... Susie.

    “Did I say you could get up?” A flash of white registered, somewhere in Kris’s peripheral vision. Another spade attack, sharp points aimed straight at Susie, at... Their friend. The scarlet soul flickered again with pain, but... Even as it threatened to shatter, fragile as glass, pushed to its very limits...

     It refused.

     There was no time to think, no time to prepare. Their mind dulled by pain and desperation, Kris wasn’t sure they could have considered their actions even if they’d attempted to. Deadly blades shot towards the purple monster, and-- CLANG. They struck a solid barrier and vanished, leaving the girl unharmed.

     At the last moment, the blue-skinned teen had thrown themselves in the way, that signature shield materializing on their arm just in the nick of time. Truthfully, it was the bravest thing Kris had ever done. If there had been time to really think about it, they surely would have taken pride in such quick thinking. But... There wasn’t. Another brutal, heavy strike came from above, and it was over, just like that.

     Consciousness flickered in and out. The king was talking, but Kris couldn’t make out the words. Something about leaders, and plans... They were so tired. They felt a sudden, agonizing pressure on their chest, they were being lifted... Kris’s gaze attempted to focus on the face hovering before them, yet... It just kept blurring, in and out...

     Suddenly, they made out a dull thud, the world abruptly falling away. It took Kris a moment to realize it was the sound of their own body hitting the ground. A voice faded in... A familiar voice.

     “Get away. From my. Friend.” Susie..? Who’s she talking about...? Footsteps were receding, moving towards the speaker. Kris managed to lift their head, just slightly... The king was facing away, towards Susie. They tried to move more than that, to get up, to... say something, anything, but nothing would respond. Yet, the reptilian monster stared the king down in defiance, her gaze fiercer than Kris had ever seen it. They had to admit, she really looked like a force to be reckoned with. A... Hero.

     And here I am, laying on the ground... In the end, Kris hadn’t been able to protect Susie. No, she was the one protecting them. And now... Now... One fist clenched, the earth felt like it was rumbling but... That was impossible, right? He’s going to kill all of us.

     Then the world spun and spun as that rumbling continued to grow, and then... Everything dissolved into oblivion.

     “Kris, y’alright?” Susie’s voice drifted through Kris’s head, like a whisper. At first, they mistook it for a dream, but... No, that ache in their ribs made it clear this was no fantasy. The teen returned to their senses slowly; what happened? Where...

     Ralsei and Susie were in front of them, looking down worriedly. Judging by the black-furred boy’s anxious fidgeting, Kris had really given the pair a scare. With a quiet grunt, the teen pushed themself to sit up, leaning on one arm. That’s right, we fought the king and... The teen felt a hint of anxiety trickle sweat down their forehead, and glanced around cautiously... The king was nowhere to be seen, though it looked like there were a lot of fresh footprints in the dust behind them. The teen briefly considered asking just what, exactly, they’d missed, then decided... Maybe it was better not to. Kris looked to their friends apologetically, managing what they hoped was an encouraging grin.

     “... Hey.” They nodded feebly... Fortunately, it seemed that Ralsei had thought to use a healing spell while they were out. Though both the other kids seemed relieved, Kris didn’t miss the guilt in Ralsei’s expression... Even before the fluffy boy opened his mouth, Kris already had a pretty good idea of what he was going to say.

     “Kris, Susie, I’m... I’m sorry.” But, before Ralsei could say anything more, Kris raised one hand slightly to stop him, taking a wobbly step forward.

     “Nobody gets everything right the first time...” The human’s hand lowered a bit, coming to rest on their friend’s shoulder. Trust me, I don’t get anything right the first time, either. “But it’s okay. We made it through. So don’t worry about it, okay?” That seemed to lift Ralsei’s spirits slightly, though he still seemed a bit depressed...

     “... This isn’t a world where kindness always wins, is it...?”

     “Eh. It’s complicated.” This time, it was Susie who piped up. Kris peered over, and was surprised to see that they could actually make eye contact; her eyes squinted out from under dark violet hair, as though they’d only just been exposed to light for the first time. As she spoke, Kris couldn’t help feeling a sort of... Pride. Back in that hallway, just before falling into this strange land of darkness and living toys, they never would have expected Susie to be capable of comforting someone.

    Back then, Kris would have thought it a stretch to uncover any redeeming qualities in the reptilian monster at all. Nearly having their face chomped off didn’t exactly leave a great impression-- if the years of bullying preceding that altercation weren’t enough.

     Now... Neither of them was the same person they’d been before stepping through that strange, eerily glowing closet door.

     “... I suppose you and Kris should return home now.” Those words snapped Kris from their thoughts, and their smile vanished abruptly. Home? They’d only been in this place a day, but, somehow... The human had almost forgotten why the group came all this way to begin with. For some reason, the thought of returning to their life, just as it’d been before... It didn’t make them happy.

     Everything after that just felt like they were drifting along, a sense of great foreboding weighing down their crimson soul. I don’t want to go back. Susie seemed to mistake the look, believing Kris just wanted to say goodbye-- just as she did, even if she wouldn’t admit it-- but the truth was... Kris didn’t want to ever say goodbye. Not to these people, and not to this world.

     And certainly not to the person they’d become, the hero they would have to leave behind.

     They said their goodbyes, speaking to each of the people they’d helped, but it all felt hollow, empty... Pointless. A thought was sinking its claws into Kris’s mind, a terrible thought. And part of them felt guilty for even considering it, throwing all of this away, this happy ending... The ending they’d all worked so hard for.

     But, even as they stepped towards the fountain of darkness, their soul igniting with Determination, Kris already knew what they were going to do, what they... Had to do.

     I’m sorry. I guess I’m not really the hero you needed after all.

     They stepped into the darkness, and as the world illuminated with a pure, mysterious light... Everything was swept away, carrying all feeling away with it.

     ‘Let’s go back tomorrow, okay?’

     Kris was seated on their bed, silent. Light poured in through their window, painting the carpet with pale gold. Asriel’s side of their shared bedroom normally comforted the teen, but... Not today. If anything, it served as a reminder of just how alone they really were.

     The whole way home, Kris hadn’t been able to banish that thought from their head, that terrible, awful idea... Resetting. Going back to square one, trying all over again. It felt wrong to toy with time in such a way, and yet... That was the one power the human had in this world. It was the one thing they could control. They’d made mistakes, Kris reasoned. They hadn’t done everything quite perfectly. There were other choices they could have made, places they didn’t go. Maybe... Maybe if they tried again, they could find a better ending. A happier ending.

     That was the lie Kris told themself, justifying what they were about to do.

     Kris closed their eyes, drawing on that strange power from deep within. It had awoken there in the darkness, and it was still present, glowing like a precious ruby in their heart. It pulsed with a strange, unknowable energy, illuminating the child with scarlet light.

     One eye sparked with a flash of red, shining brilliantly...

     Just one more time. I’ll get it right, and then I’ll come back.

     Next time... I’ll be the hero they need me to be.

     > RESET

[tragicbeauty1991]

POTC 5: Barbossa, Salazar, and an Alternate Ending

WARNING: SPOILERS

I have been a big fan of the POTC franchise since the beginning, and while I honestly think that Disney is trying too hard to milk every last penny from it and that POTC 5 should be the last of the series (or perhaps that it should have ended before now), I will say that, despite its flaws, the most recent installment wrapped up a lot of loose ends nicely and gave us some great additions to POTC lore and character development. While Jack, unfortunately, suffered a bit in this film--his usual wit and charm replaced almost entirely with attempts at comic relief--Barbossa and Salazar generally make up for it.

Throughout the series, Barbossa has been, in my opinion, one of the most morally ambiguous and well-developed characters, and this installment only furthered my convictions. Originally viewed as a villain opposite Jack, Will, and Elizabeth in the first film, by film number three, he has teamed up with the main couple to help rescue Jack and fight against the "bigger" Big Bads Davy Jones and the British Navy. Here, he is portrayed as being a bit more noble (well, by pirate standards, anyway) and shows great respect for Elizabeth as the Pirate King when she steps up and leads them into battle. By film number four, he has apparently become a privateer (though primarily out of a desire to hunt down Blackbeard in revenge for taking The Pearl, and with it, his leg) but this endeavor doesn't last long, and as soon as Blackbeard is off the radar, he goes back to his pirating ways. And even AS a privateer, we see a moment of what cruelty he is capable of when he leaves his crew to die at the hands of the mermaids. Nevertheless, he pretty much fully redeems himself in the most recent film through his relationship with his daughter. While, admittedly, it was a bit cheesy and perhaps somewhat out of character at times, I loved the implication that there was once a woman Barbossa genuinely loved and that, upon her death, thinking himself incapable of raising the child, he was actually strong enough to do the right thing and find a place to take her in. It was strange yet incredibly touching getting to see this softer side of Barbossa. The moment Carina slapped him for (supposedly) insulting her father, you could see it in his eyes that he was torn between feeling hurt and ashamed of what he was and simultaneously being proud of her for having the guts to stand up to a pirate of his stature in defense of her father. I would honestly have loved to get an entire film's worth of father/daughter moments between these two, and after seeing him come so far as to be willing to sacrifice himself for her safety, I really hated to see him go. More on that later...

As for Salazar, I am not yet quite sure what to think about him or how to categorize his character. On the one hand, we have to remember that we are (technically) rooting for the "bad guys" by society's standards, and while we all love Jack & co., pirates were a real and troubling threat to merchant vessels, the navy, etc. Not everyone they attacked deserved it, and not all pirates are as morally decent as Jack, Will, Elizabeth, etc. usually are. In his mind, Salazar is doing his duty to society and protecting the innocent. Yes, we get a glimpse of him refusing to show mercy to a group of pirates who have surrendered, but to be fair, had their roles been reversed, many pirates might not have shown mercy either. Additionally, Salazar has a personal motivation to dislike pirates, as they were responsible for the deaths of both his father and grandfather--men whom he looked up to, respected, and probably loved. We don't know exactly how old he was when this happened, but if he was still a child at the time, it would have been EXTREMELY difficult for his mother, as a single woman during a time when most respectable women were not employed much outside the home, to support him and herself. Furthermore, Jack--as a boy--both humiliated him and doomed him to what must have felt like an eternity of a ghostly/undead existence trapped in the Devil's Triangle. I was reminded, here, of a parallel between the Salazar/Jack relationship and that of Captain Hook and Peter Pan... Jack, much like Peter, is the young, cocky boy who somehow manages to get the best of the more experienced, older sailor. In the original novel, there is actually a line about how Hook (who is stuck in a place which for a child is paradise but for an adult is a living nightmare) feels like a lion in trapped in a cage into which a sparrow has flown. Similarly, Salazar himself tells us that he is the one who gave Jack the surname "Sparrow" because he was "up in the crow's nest...like a...like a little bird." Whether or not the parallels were intentional, I don't know, but as a long-time fan of Hook, it definitely made Salazar a more interesting and sympathetic character to me. On the other hand, Salazar is incredibly legalistic (like Inspector Javert on steroids), obsessive, merciless, and unnecessarily cruel. I realize the Spanish and English navies weren't exactly friendly toward each other, but you have to admit, Salazar and his crew slaughtering the members of the British navy who enter the Devil's Triangle was rather uncalled for. It's like he did it just because he could. He is also so focused on ending Jack's life that he leaves his newly un-cursed crew to drown at the bottom of the sea. Then again...Barbossa did almost the exact same thing with his privateer crew in the previous film when he left them for the mermaids, and we still root for him... Why is it that when Will Turner seeks revenge on Davy Jones for cursing his father or when Barbossa seeks revenge on Blackbeard for stealing the Pearl and the loss of his leg, we root for them, yet when Salazar has an equally legitimate reason to hate Jack, he is a villain? (I know, I know... Because it's Jack's story and you can't really dislike the protagonist. But still...) Salazar is an interesting guy, and it just seemed WAY too easy to have him turn mortal for all of five minutes and then immediately kill him off. Plus, I felt bad because DID YOU SEE THE LOOK ON HIS FACE WHEN HE TURNED HUMAN AGAIN?!?! He was practically on the verge of weeping for joy! I really wish they would have allowed for him to potentially return in human form for future films. I also have to wonder, having earlier mentioned his likeness to Javert, if put in a similar situation in which the pirates shattered his illusion of the world as morally black and white, he might have had a change of heart (or ya know...a mental breakdown...). Either way, I wish we got more Salazar.

...Which brings me back to the point I was making before... As moving and poignant as Barbossa's death was, I don't believe that was actually necessary. Realistically, with Salazar mortal and his entire crew swept away by the sea, it would have been easy for Jack's crew to take him out once the anchor was raised and everyone was back onboard the Pearl. He would have been severely outnumbered, and they could have easily killed him or taken him captive. True, you could argue that Barbossa was worried Salazar would get to Carina first and harm her before they were back on the ship, but with him in mortal form, all Carina would really have to do to disable him is give him a swift kick in the face. Besides, if she hadn't been so overwhelmed in the moment, I don't think Carina would have willingly let go of her father's hand. She literally JUST found out that the man who saved her life, the infamous pirate captain of Blackbeard's former ship The Queen Anne's Revenge, is the man she has spent her entire life searching for. You can't convince me that she wouldn't have clung to him for dear life if she had been in her right mind. I don't blame her, mind you--it's a lot to take in in such a short amount of time, and I don't think she had time to fully process it all, but if she had thought about it, I'm certain she would have refused to let him go.

So imagine it, for a moment....

xxxxx

Barbossa guided her hand to the chain, telling her to hold on as he began to loosen his grip, a sad smile on his face. He only just met his daughter but he was already so proud of her. It was a shame he wouldn't get to spend more time with her, but perhaps it was better this way.  She had slapped him when he had insulted her father before she knew who he was. If she had known then, he thought, she might have slapped him a second time. Perhaps now, at least, she might see him as something more heroic than the disappointment that he was.

It didn't take long for Carina to realize what he was doing, her face turning white with horror as his fingers began to slip.

"NO!" she screamed, latching onto his wrist. "I've spent all my life searching for you, and now I've finally found you! I'm not letting you go now!"

He had not planned for this. He had hoped to go out in figurative blaze of glory, hoped that in his death he might redeem himself in her eyes and make up for the years he had left her alone in the world. But she wouldn't let him have that satisfaction. She wouldn't let him go that easily. There was a fierce determination in her eyes, eyes that remind him of another woman he had once loved. And so for her sake, he held on--tighter than he has ever held onto anything in his life.

As the anchor rose from the water, he saw the crew of the Pearl coming to their aid.

"Hector!" Jack shouted down at him from the deck where the others have helped him aboard. There was genuine worry in his voice.

Strange, he mused, how far they have come. For as long as they had known each other, they had always alternated between being at each other's throats and being brothers in arms. He had once gone to the ends of the earth--to hell and back, as it were--for the Pearl...but also partially for Jack, he admitted. And seeing his current expression, he had no doubts that Jack would do the same for him because, at the end of the day, pirates though they were, they would always have each other's back.

He climbed aboard, soaked to the skin and looking far more like a wet rat than the fearsome captain that he was, Jack and Gibbs each grabbing an arm to steady him while Henry helped Carina. He recalled, for a moment, the highly unorthodox wedding ceremony he'd performed on the deck of this very ship all those years ago and smiled almost fondly at the boy, wondering if perhaps he'd be performing another in a couple of years. He had missed so much of his daughter's life... He hoped it wasn't too late to change that.

Apparently, it wasn't because the moment her feet hit the deck, she was embracing first Henry, then him.

"Father," she whispered.

And for the first time in many, many years, he felt the sting of tears behind his closed eyes.

But the moment was cut short as the last few feet of the chain holding the anchor rose from the depths of the sea, carrying with it a final passenger who hoisted himself over the railing and onto the deck--Captain Armando Salazar, in the flesh, at last. Long strands of dark hair, no longer floating freely as they had in his ghostly form, were plastered against his face, but his uniform--though stuck to his skin with the weight of the water it had absorbed--was as pristine-looking as ever. His face had a bit of color now--more olive than the ghastly chalky complexion they'd seen before, but it hardly diminished his intimidating presence, his eyes still hard and cold.

But intimidating or not, he was no longer immortal. And without a weapon in his hand or at his side--the sword he usually carried having been lost to the sea in the midst of all the chaos--he was, for all intents and purposes, defenseless. He was outnumbered, out gunned, and on a ship which was not his own. He was at their mercy.

Almost immediately, there were a half a dozen swords pointed at his throat and nearly twice as many pistols aimed at his chest, no longer permeable as mist but made of flesh and bone beneath which lay the beating heart of a man. His weakness became apparent at nearly the same moment that he felt the heat of the sun upon his cheek and the gentle sea breeze ruffle his hair for the first time in what seemed like an eternity. In the span of seconds, his face displayed a vast array of emotions almost too quickly for his mind to keep up--the proud, determined look of a hunter having cornered his prey replaced instantaneously with that of immeasurable joy, realization, fear, rage, and defeated resignation.

Surprisingly, Jack was the first to lower his weapon, but it wasn't so much a gesture of mercy as it was an insult. There was no need  for a weapon now. The Spaniard had climbed aboard the Pearl without any men of his own and was now its captain's prisoner. His only choice was between Jack's crew and the sharks...and the latter would be much less forgiving. Having experienced death himself before, Jack knew that no sane man who had escaped such a fate would ever take his own life, no matter how desperate. And even if he had considered it, Salazar's pride would not allow it.

"It would seem," Jack said, striding across the deck, "that El Matador del Mar has once again met his match. The butcher's bill has been paid in full. You and your crew have had your humanity restored--that counts for something, I should think. I took your life once. I've no desire to take it again, so what say we simply call it even and agree to disagree until I can drop you off on some nice, deserted island, savvy?"

"My crew," Salazar spat, "is at the bottom of the sea."

"Well, that's not my problem, now, is it? I'm not their captain who left them there to drown."

The Spaniard took a step toward him, forgetting for a moment that he no longer held the sword which often doubled as his cane. He stumbled, then, landing in a heap at Jack's feet, as his knees buckled at the searing pain that shot up his leg. He was spewing curses, swearing like the sailor that he was in a garbled mix of Spanish and English so viciously that an onlooker who did not speak a word of either language wouldn't have needed a translation.

"You...!!!" he seethed. "You took EVERYTHING from me!"

He was clawing at the deck, trying desperately to pull himself up, but his leg was too weak. His mortality had returned in full force, bringing with it the fresh pain of an old wound that he had not been able to feel for years. He dragged himself over to the mast that he might have something to brace himself against, crawling on his hands and knees.

"My pride, my ship, my crew, my family, my life, my very soul..." He propped himself up against the mast, too tired and too ashamed to struggle any further. "What more do you want from me?!"

Jack's gaze softened. "Nothing," he said quietly. "I never wanted anything from you but my freedom. I wanted you out of my way, I wanted you lost at sea...but I swear on my life I never intended for you to end up..." He gestured to his face, trailing his fingers in lines of imaginary squid ink dribbling down his chin, smacking his lips as though even the thought left a horrid taste in his mouth and shuddered. "Wouldn't wish that on anyone."

"You have no idea what sort of hell I have been through."

"Oh, I think I can imagine..."

It was not Jack but Barbossa who had spoken.

Perhaps it was only because Carina was watching and being a father made him want to be a better man, but for whatever reason, Barbossa felt compelled to take pity on the man. Jack had been to The Locker, it was true. And that in and of itself was enough to drive a man to madness... But he had not spent years cursed in an undead state like he and the original crew of the Pearl had. That was something entirely different and drew forth memories of a time which Barbossa did not recall with any fondness. He stepped forward, his own bejeweled peg leg dragging slightly as he walked--another area in which he could all too easily empathize with the man propping himself up against the mast.

"Ye're always starvin' but food turns tah ash in your mouth. Always dyin' of thirst, yet nothin' ever quenches it. Ye cannot feel--not the sun or the rain on yer face nor the softness of a woman's touch nor the fiery sting of cold steel slicin' yer skin. Yer heart no longer beats, yet somehow ye're still alive. Everything that once had meanin' is empty and hollow. Ye're a dead man walkin'."

Salazar bore a pained expression. For a moment, he could not find his voice. Then...

"How...?" he croaked.

"Yer not the only man what has been cursed in such a manner and lived to tell the tale. Or rather...come back from the dead to tell it."

At this, Carina gave a start. Realizing that the undead were real was one thing. Realizing that her long-lost father (who also happened to be a pirate captain) had once been among them was quite another. But that, she supposed, was a story for another day. She had so many questions already. Life with her father, it seemed, would be much more complicated than she had anticipated. Yet she could not deny a slight thrill at the thought of more adventures at his side.

"'Twas our greed and our pride that did us in," Barbossa continued. "Aztec gold, cursed by the pagan gods... We were warned of the consequences, but we heeded them not. 'Twas yer own pride that did ye in as well, I suspect. Nothin' would do but tah take yer revenge on every last pirate sailin' in the Spanish Main for the deaths of yer father and his father before him. I can't rightly say that I blame ye for that... Ye say that we're not worthy of bein' called men at all, that we are loathsome creatures lower than the bilge rats and the barnacles on the hull of a ship. That may be so. I am hardly an honest man."

He glanced briefly at Carina, looking somewhat ashamed, then returned his attention to Salazar.

"Yet ye do it in the name of honor and justice. But if it's vengeance yer seekin', then ye ought to at least have the decency tah call it what it is like the rest of us... There's as much blood on yer hands as there is on ours. Perhaps more. If ye be satisfied knowin' that, then by all means, continue yer reign as El Matador del Mar--that is, assumin' ye make it off this ship alive. But if ye want tah keep tellin' yerself yer better than us humble pirates, now's the time tah prove it. Not all men make it to hell and back alive, and one thing I can tell ye, when yer given a second chance at life, ye ought not tah waste it."

He looked back at Carina.

"Take it from someone who's wasted too many second chances already."

The Spaniard laughed bitterly. "You think that by sparing me you may spare yourselves of my wrath when I am free? My life was devoted to hunting down men like you--murderous thieves who take what they can and give nothing back. Without that, what am I?" He glared at Jack. "Give me a weapon, and I will fight you to the death. Or kill me now, like a man. But stop this foolish pretense! We both know what you are, Jack Sparrow!"

"Firstly," Jack replied, "there should be a 'captain' in there somewhere. Secondly, despite what you may think, I am neither stupid enough to give you a weapon nor cruel enough to kill an unarmed man. So it seems we are at an impasse."

He began pacing the deck.

"You know, I once knew a man who thought like you."

He paused to glance at Henry.

"His father was a pirate...AND a good man. Took him awhile to accept that."

His gaze returned to Salazar.

"Truth is, the world's not all black and white, mate, and thank goodness for that because it would be a dreadfully dull place if it was. For example..." He spread his arms wide, taking a mock bow. "I am a pirate. I admit to that. But I am not a cold-blooded killer. You, on the other hand..." He pointed at Salazar with the tip of his sword. "Well, let's just say they don't call you 'The Butcher' for nothing. Now tell me, mate, which one of us is the better man?"

For a moment, Salazar was silent. Then, he looked to Henry.

"You, boy...your father is the captain of the Dutchman?"

"Yes, sir."

Salazar nodded soberly. "A good man."

"And a former pirate, I might add," Jack interjected.

But a deadly glare from the Spanish captain quickly silenced him.

"Right," he apologized. "Sorry. Continue."

"He tried to come for us, once. To ferry us to the next world...to set us free from this curse, that we might be at peace." He laughed darkly. "But there are some places too cursed for even the Dutchman to go."

Henry nodded soberly. "I'm sorry. He would have done more if he could have, I'm sure."

Salazar returned the gesture. Though he could not fully explain why, he had a great deal of respect for the boy. He had seen the terror in the boy's eyes when his crew attacked the British naval ship, yet despite his fear, he did not run but looked death in the face. He was confident, yet not cocky like Jack; quiet, yet he did not hesitate to speak his mind when necessary. And there was another quality the boy had which he did not expect of one with such close ties to pirates--honor. Possessing the boy had given him a glance into the heart and soul of the young man before him, their consciousness merging until one man's thoughts and emotions were barely distinguishable from the other. He had seen Jack, then, through the boy's eyes...and he had seen the monster he had become--internally as well as externally, his humanity all but gone. It had been deeply disturbing. Recalling the boy's thoughts now, he remembered something which he hadn't taken notice of before, a troubled frown forming on his lips. His eyes shifted tentatively to Jack, and for a moment, he merely held his gaze, causing the pirate to squirm uncomfortably.

"While I was controlling the boy's mind," he began, "I saw something...not a memory--at least, not a memory of his... More like a dream...like visions of a legend...a story he had been told as a child.... His father was still a mortal then.... He was dying. You had the heart of Davy Jones in your hand, ready to become the next captain of that otherworldly ship that you yourself might gain immortality.... But you chose to save him instead.... Is this true?"

"Well, now, 'saved' is a rather strong word, given that becoming the captain of said ship comes with its own curses which is how we ended up in this bloody mess to begin with, searching for the trident...."

Salazar scowled impatiently.

"But technically speaking, yes."

"I see..." The Spaniard looked to Henry. "You trust this man? This...this pirate?"

Henry slowly lifted his eyes to Jack, then smiled. "With my life, sir."

Salazar grunted.

"Captain..."

"Yes?" Barbossa, Jack, and Salazar answered simultaneously.

Realizing the need for clarification, Henry started again. "Er...that is...Captain Salazar... If I may ask... While I was subject to your power, I endured a nightmare like nothing I had ever experienced before. I felt...so cold, so isolated... It was as if I were drowning in a darkness and despair so deep that it smothered everything else--all thoughts and emotions consumed by what must have been the last thing that you felt in life...a burning, blinding rage. It was suffocating, as though I was so far removed from humanity that I had forgotten everything and everyone else in the world... My entire identity was gone, my own memories were unreachable--a distant, foggy dream. And yet...one name remained on the tip of my tongue, a name I do not know...."

"Maria," Salazar whispered reverently.

"The Silent Mary.... It isn't just the name of a ship, is it?" Henry asked. "Who was she?"

There was a wistful gleam in his eyes. It was the most vulnerable, the most human, he had looked since regaining his mortality.

"The most beautiful woman in all of Spain...my wife." He smiled sadly. "She was with child when I left. She didn't want me to go. Of course, I told her not to worry, and I promised her that that mission would be my last.... But then...I never came home." He looked at Jack. "That is why I was so angry." He sighed. "I do not know what became of them. She has probably long forgotten about me. If she is even still alive...I doubt she or the child would want to see me now. They would not believe my story...and if they did, they would be repulsed by what I became. I have nothing now. Nothing. No crew at sea, no one waiting at home...." He eyed Jack's sword almost pleadingly. "What is left but to fight one last fight and at least die with a little honor? Perhaps this time, I will have peace."

"You do your family a great disservice, sir." This time, it was Carina who spoke. "If she loved you as much as you love her, then I am certain she never gave up hope. Nor did her child."

"Oh? How do you know that?"

She was addressing Salazar, but her eyes were on Barbossa, bright with unshed tears.

"The same way that I knew someday, somehow, I would find my father.... And if you truly care about them, who you are...or who you were...none of that will matter when they finally see you."

"Ah, but you forget... I have neither ship nor crew--"

"We'll help you find them," Henry blurted.

"We will?" asked Jack.

"Aye," Barbossa slapped Jack on the back. "We will."

"Wait a moment! Wait a moment!" Jack waved his hands. He gestured to Barbossa. "You're a pirate." He pointed to Salazar. "He's a pirate hunter. You want to help him, yet he wants to kill us. DID I BLOODY MISS SOMETHING?!?"

"Well, seein' as we are aboard MY ship, I don't see why it should concern ye, Jack," Barbossa grinned.

"I believe you mean MY ship," Jack corrected him. "You may have your Queen Anne's Revenge, but the Pearl is mine. I saved her from Blackbeard's stash of shrunken ships and protected her with me life."

"Aye, but I'm the one who freed her for ye. Mister Gibbs," he addressed the first mate.

"Aye, sir?"

"Set a course fer Spain. We've a long journey ahead of us, so we'd best be gettin' started."

Gibbs, who had long grown used to the two captains bickering over the ownership of the Pearl, nodded, assuming they would eventually come to some sort of agreement, as they always did.

"Aye-aye, sir."

"Oh, and Gibbs?" Barbossa stopped him. "Don't fly the colors."

"Do I get any say in this at all?" Jack protested.

Barbossa, Carina, and Henry answered in unison. "No!"

Jack sighed. "Alright... Well, then..." He offered Salazar his hand. "I suppose we have a truce?"

Salazar hesitated, then grudgingly accepted the offer, bracing himself against the mast as he pulled himself up to his full height.

"Truce." Salazar leaned in so his mouth was just above Jack's ear. "But know this, Sparrow... If I happen to end up on the seas again, if you ever attack a Spanish ship...."

"I know, I know.... You'll hunt me down and destroy me." He grinned. "Wouldn't expect anything less from you, Captain."

He turned to leave but was stopped by a hand on his shoulder.

"Sparrow...."

Jack looked back at the man who had spent a lifetime of hating men like him and saw the faintest gleam of something that almost resembled respect.

"Gracias."

Jack nodded. As he walked away, he breathed a sigh of relief, striding up beside Barbossa. "Hector, you owe me one for this," he grumbled.

Barbossa, who had uncorked a bottle of rum, took a large swig and offered a sip to Jack, who graciously accepted.

"Go easy on it, Jack. We've naught but a few barrels left, and as we be sailin' away from the Caribbean, it may be awhile before we get the chance to restock."

Jack sighed again and shook his head, looking sadly at the bottle. "Why is the bloody rum always gone?"

[moonlightfiction]

Chapter 16 - Part 3

Even when the things are at its peak, sometimes we have to leave without goodbye - and that’s how chapter 16 ends!

Start here Previous Part

That archer and that mage were much faster than Inarya had expected. As they were travelling with a goddess, she thought of them much like priests. But priests didn’t need to fight – they had guardians for that, just like Falenyo and Zesa.

But these two were different and Ina fit right in. Two ranges to take care of the soldiers’ attention.

On the griffon, Falenyo had had the advantage that none of the enemies were archers. So, she couldn’t be shot down easily. The problem was, that there was still Lady Ludis and Apophis.

Ina had heard about the god of war. He once even set one of the titan’s palace on fire in his rage. Of course, he was punished for that. But because of his area, there was no way to actually put him down.

Stupid gods and their stupid rules.

But now, Apophis was just standing around lazily with a smile on his face as he watched the fight unfold.

As long as he didn’t touch Falenyo, everything would be alright. Ina didn’t care about the other one – the foolish mortal that betrayed her own kin.

A loud thud announced Frecker’s arrival on the battlefield. He had unsheathed his sword. Yet for now, he long swung his shield around. Despite his heavy weapons, the man moved quick.

In small but decisive steps, he rushed towards one soldier and pushed that one out of the way with his shield.

The sheer force either sent the soldier to the ground or at least stunned them for a moment. If the soldiers didn’t fall, Shijira would make sure to send them flying with a kick or a punch, before returning to Zesa’s side, who also just entered the fray and was concentrated on the lady with the red hair.

On the other side of the field, that lady’s – Stacia’s – fire ate its way through the enemies. Those who were not fast enough to avoid those burning tongues, quickly got their skin scorched.

The mage didn’t show any mercy. She was simply concentrated on keeping the soldiers at bay.

To her balance, Zesa had infused his arrows with the magic of the god of sea, Aruna. Water had healing abilities; Ina had seen her master using it before. But with the blessing of a god, it was completely different.

In comparison to Acha, Zesa only shot his arrows above the soldiers. He was really careful not to hurt anyone. But wherever his arrow went, a little shower came down, easing the burns.

A smile played around Ina’s lips. What an interesting bunch. And they were all fighting with each other.

The thought alone made her heart pound. Until now, she had always fought by herself. But now she could read the movements of the others. There was no reason for her to find their weakness, except to shield that weakness from the enemies.

It was easy to blend in – to hide behind Stacia’s blinding fire or the loud clashing of Frecker’s weapons. Shijira could give her a boost if she needed to jump somewhere quickly and if she got any blow, she could simply find her way under Zesa’s rain.

YOU’RE DOING WELL, KEEP IT UP, FALENYO IS ALMOST THERE.

Ina’s motions stayed fluid, but she could clearly see how the others paused. To be precise, the others that she knew better. In contrast to that, Stacia and Acha didn’t seem to be fazed.

With furrowed brows, the lady threw a glance to the wall. She could make out the four people that stayed there. Constance, Filian, Enver, and that suspicious man called Guarin. It had been the voice of the last of those four.

THAT GOD AND THAT LADY DON’T SEEM TO WANT TO JOIN THE FIGHT. SO, USE THAT TO YOUR ADVANTAGE – BUT DON’T HURT THE LADY!

Was that … telepathy? The voice seemed to be right inside of her head. Ina couldn’t say that she could stand the feeling.

While she avoided an attack and appeared behind her opponent to knock him out, she frowned. That was strange. She was no telepath. Neither a sender nor a receiver. But how could Guarin talk to them like this – and yes, to them. Not only to her.

The people here sure had strange abilities. Looking at Zesa and Falenyo who were similarly especially gifted … was it maybe a blessing of Selena? Not like Ina had heard that the goddess of the moon had such abilities before. But that might be an explanation.

Ina stopped thinking about it. Instead, she adjusted and listened to Filian’s instructions that were relayed by Guarin. Once more the lady felt uneasy, as now it was Filian’s voice directly speaking to them. Such telepathic abilities were unheard of!

SHIJIRA, FRECKER, YOU’RE THE ONES WITH THE STRONGEST POWER HERE. KEEP THE SOLDIERS AT BAY AND PUSH THEM OUT TO TWO SIDES TO MAKE A WAY IN THE MIDDLE. STACIA, ACHA, FLANK THEM AND KEEP THEM FROM BRANCHING OUT. INA, KNOCK THEM OUT IF YOU MUST, BUT DON’T KILL ANYONE. ZESA, YOU’RE A PRIEST, YOU SHOULD KNOW HOW TO DEAL WITH A GOD. COVER FALENYO.

“Tch.”

Don’t kill anyone. As if she would have. She was here with a few priests and their guardians. How could she simply kill?

Ina felt a bit offended. Yet, Filian had grasped her ability to hide in the shadows well. So, she could only comply and disappeared behind Frecker who already started doing what he was told.

There were not many soldiers left. Some of them had been able to use magic. But they were not able to withstand the power of a group that fought with each other like they have done for their whole life.

Now, they even had a tactician who stood at a point where he could oversee the whole battle.

It was clearly the advantage of the stronghold.

Despite it seeming like an easy victory, Ina couldn’t shake off the bad feeling she had. There was a god here. There was no way he was just standing around and watch his side fall. Especially not the god of war.

What was he planning?

Ina looked at Falenyo. The griffon had been flying in circles, just like was watching his prey closely and waiting for the right moment to strike. In this case, it was not its prey but the one it wanted to save – the Grand Duke of Gladisu.

There were still two or three soldiers guarding Lady Ludis. With them there, it was still hard for the griffon to come down with the priestess. But Ina could see, that Falenyo had already started the healing process.

There was hope for Gladisu.

So now, everyone else just to had to clear the way to get the Grand Duke out of there.

Ina appeared behind the man who was still standing after taking a hit from Frecker to give him the final blow.

This was going too well.

She looked at Apophis – and froze. Just now did she notice that he had been watching Falenyo the whole time. A smirk on his face. Patient like a lion waiting for its meal.

What was he waiting for?

Ina lifted her gaze to the priestess.

The petite cleric had become still. The griffon stopped moving as Falenyo pulled her staff. Closing her eyes, she began muttering a prayer.

No way.

“Get Apophis!”

GET APOPHIS!

Enver noticed it the same moment as Ina. Their roar combined gave the others a start.

Before Stacia’s flames faded, the god of war took them over. With a flick of his hand, he sent them up to the griffon.

With unstoppable speed, they rushed to Falenyo. The girl opened her eyes in terror. An arrow from Zesa shot towards the fire, shielding most of the damage they’d do.

But the prayer was disrupted, and the connection severed. The forceful breach set a wave of power free, yanking the priestess from the griffon. Falenyo shrieked in pain as she fell.

“Falenyo!”

Everyone dropped whichever fight they were picking with the soldiers to rush to the girl or to turn hostile towards the god.

Ina was dumbfounded for a moment.

This was insane. A god actually attacked a priestess during her prayers. This was not just a war declaration against the mortals.

Through the connection, Apophis had attacked the goddess of light herself. It was utterly insane. If the heiress of the house was to join this war …

Ina snapped out of her thoughts to rush forward. She was the quickest of all, she would be able to catch Falenyo.

“Inarya!”

An angry voice reached the lady through the uproar.

Inarya stopped in her tracks and clenched her fists. She forgot.

Seeing as everyone else was occupied with Falenyo and Apophis, she used the moment to slip away. Just below the wall, were the tactician and the others wouldn’t see her. Out of the sight of the fighting ones.

Inarya dropped on her knees and stared at the ground. “Master.”

She didn’t dare to look up. But she felt his trembling anger.

The assassin had forgotten her place.

Without a word, the polished boots turned around. As the cape fluttered in the wind and disappeared in a portal, Inarya rose.

Her heart ached as she looked back once more at the battlefield.

Then she followed.

Next Part

[dear-saxifrage]

yesterday, I performed Caroline shaw’s “to the hands” and Mozart’s requiem in d minor with the collegium at Harvard. I don’t know what I'm going to do without collegium: an elite group of musicians who take it so, so seriously, and who dedicate significant portions of their life to this type of creation. of communication. how could it have really happened?

the choir concert was nearly canceled in full. due to the coronavirus pandemonium, Harvard put a halt to any 100+ gatherings, and that included our concert. we were informed of this only twenty-four hours beforehand; so, we ended up performing on-stage with our orchestra to eight camera, live-streaming and recording, and an empty house. it felt strange. it felt romantic. I couldn’t help but think of the moment as a true requiem. we sing to the dead who we cannot see, but ‘know’ are with us; similarly, we sung to a non-physical audience only reached through a camera. we sang to the dead; we sang to a nonexistent audience; we sang with ‘people watching over us’ from all over the world. it felt exhilarating. it was, in fact, the most exhilarating concert I've performed in. who was responsible for bringing the energy? the choir. we couldn’t rely on audience electricity, and at first, it was shocking! to turn to the right, to sneak a peek at the faces of audience members before your conductor runs out -- we couldn’t. I still tried to, anyway, and felt for the second time a puzzlement at the empty pews.

I think I blacked out during the concert. I went to that special place in my head -- the one all musicians have -- and sung there. it’s so strange, to immerse yourself in that zone so fully. it was a reverie of a type, I think. when I finished a movement, I'd “look up” at Andy and consciously think, “oh right. I'm here, in sanders.” of course, we’re canonized from likely the earliest age to the sound and style of Mozart -- everyone follows and copies him -- so when say that his music ‘feels right,’ it certainly does, because of how he rules the musical hegemony. in spite of that, though, I did feel a certain respite in the music. there was so much cooperation in the piece. not on voice part outshone the other. we all depended on the other to do well; yesterday may as well have been a masterclass in learning to let go. 

I don’t think I'll ever forget that beautiful, beautiful, beautiful melismatic line of the altos and trombones in the Kyrie of movement one. the dynamic and physical lowering of the choristers and conductor during this part too -- just so beautiful -- we all build up together. that’s what hope feels like, I think. an alto, a trombone, and a forthcoming bass line. there is something so heart-beatingly rhythmic in the sixteenth note ascents: da-da-da-da and da-da-da-da. it was actually during this part that I teared up. I couldn’t believe how lucky I was to be performing this gorgeous piece with this particular choir, under this particular director, with this particular situation: an empty audience. what is the music for, then, if no audience? CAN the music be for ourselves? I think... I think the music can be “for” anyone. it seemed to have special meaning though yesterday... who was I singing for, if anyone?

I have to think about this. right now, I think I was singing for past versions of myself; specifically, Sydney last year during this very time. I fell into a deep depression last year during this time, and I sung a requiem then, too. then I fell into it. I couldn’t stop mourning the dead. I couldn’t stop couldn’t stop, wouldn’t stop. grief took over my life -- grief for myself, for my utter resignation, to my disenchantment, for my cousin, for sora, for the kind of person I was allowing myself to become when I was with Tyler. it was all so shocking. that requiem inside of me lasted for a long time. hints of it would come out, too: I would just cry in my bd sometimes, wanting to just clench my toes and kick out, feeling absolutely helpless about my entire situation. that requiem came out when Tony stark died -- I sobbed that entire night, especially on my solitary drive to the gym. I was just throttled. so utterly hopeless and without light in my eyes. I didn’t think I would ever be myself again; I couldn’t smile, bring myself to experience satisfaction.

that requiem haunted me in South Africa, too, but a small part of it was opened by the friends I made there. to see that others cared about me -- were interested in me beyond sex -- that felt interesting. I am so thankful for that beautiful, gorgeous experience in life. I don’t think I'll fully comprehend its place in my life; the people I needed came to me, even when it felt like I would collapse inside of myself. scared, I left phoenix for boston and stayed in that airport for twelve hours, and met my choir for the first time in a month. I had jetted out of boston a month before because Chris had died and I just couldn’t take it. I had to leave. but when I saw my friends, it felt like everything would be OK, even if I wouldn’t be. I remember seeing Kat’s beautiful haircut and feeling at ease. (beauty and change and choices were still possible.) Emma said hi to me, and I breathed again. Hirsh hugged me hello and I thought that new friendships were possible, and even worth pursuing again. then I sat next to Jon on that extraordinarily long flight, then on the bus, and my world burst open. to have been in the proximity of such a thoughtful, smart human and to have never known! I am still so scared of the blinders we put up, as humans.

we sang every day. we sang in nelson Mandela’s house. we saw wild birds; sunsets burning red. hiked the drakensburg mountains and rejoiced in the exquisite beauty of hanertsburg. 

when that next semester started, fall 2019, I felt rejuvenated and okay. parts of me were still unkempt, but my friends had rejuvenated me -- as they have done, again and again, in different locations and at different times -- and I experienced a wonderful semester. started dating. failed in every dating scenario possible. failed some more. started a newer, more robust gym routine; wrote more; sang more; slept more. over December, I even tried out dating an ex; it failed, obviously, because he’s my ex for a reason, but I tried. it was fun, then it became irritating. I clipped its wings.

then something really amazing happened -- I was told we were to sing the Mozart requiem. I entered my spring semester scared of a few things: 1) that I might get sick like I did last year, with all those illnesses, 2) that I would become depressed again, 3) sinking into a pit of listlessness, 4) losing friendships, and 5) failing in my attempt to forge a meaningful sexual relationship. 

in order, I'll address these things. I have been exceptionally healthy; sleeping has done wonders for me, and it seems so basic, and it is. it is the panacea. I haven’t become depressed; for one, I didn’t play a video game that killed off my main character since I was seven. I also didn’t isolate myself; in fact, I became hyper-social, and started to seek comfort in rekindling friendships and solidifying others. this relates to my fear of losing friendships. I think I've finally learned that friendships don’t end, not really; they fade, and that’s it. you pick up where you left off. you text or call each other sometimes. but most of all, you don’t give up. you just don’t -- or at least I don’t. I'll never give up on my friendships; each and every last one is important to me, no matter how minuscule our interactions may seem. and lastly, I don’t want a partner; I can’t have a partner. I'm moving soon, and the last time I did some shit like this, it went awry. I know now, going forward, if I move, I must put a clean end to something in order to maintain the benevolence and integrity of the relationship.

yesterday, then, may have been a type of loving exorcism. I gave up the ghost, yes, and everything followed, in the midst of chaos. I sang my heart out in this requiem and prayed for my dead self. the self that saw no way out; she saw blackness and felt neither resistance nor encouragement. to the Sydney that thought it was over last year, it is not, and it wasn’t. I also think I sang to Chris, too. I have an image of viewing him from the top of the water, seeing his white face shocked at the cold and the roughest of the waves, hands reaching up. then I also have an image of his view: seeing the light filtering in from the waves, the bubbles gushing up -- everything but him rushing to the surface -- and realizing with horror that he is sinking as the water becomes darker and the waves slam him into the rocky cliffside. 

dies irae. it is the song of apocalypse; of death. but what followed this? what preceded it? following dies irae is tuba mirum, one of the most beautiful and triumphant trombone solos ever written. preceding it is the requiem and Kyrie itself; lord have mercy. I think the point is that death and the spark of life are literal seconds. they happen. a candle flick. it just happens, it means nothing good nor bad. and, god, the requiem has finally left my body. I needed it gone. I needed to let you go. 

because while the grief of losing you will come again -- a tidal wave, a one-hundred-foot wall of blue -- it will not be soon. it will come when I can sense it. I never want my grief to stop hurting, ever, but it needs to stop in its consistency. 

and that’s all I have to say for tonight.

-sm