#blending with her skin and she must keep moving because she cannot burn but her skin feels like it's burning

[allthecastlesonclouds]

the headcanons do, in fact, headcanon

(ayda aguefort with dermatographia)

[secret-engima]

I concur. The last option is the best. Maybe a few headcanons or snippets on how Angeal got roped into being a Braincell again? (Bonus if he originally refuses the call because *cough* Genesis *cough* but still ends up bundling up Ardyn and giving him some calming tea while in complete denial)

Hmmmm finally up for rambling this ask so buckle up!

-Angeal has no desire to be anyone special. He has had a good childhood this time around, with two loving parents and no scientific experimentation whatsoever. His father is one of the gardeners for the Oracles themselves and Angeal is perfectly content to follow in those footsteps once his father retires. He hopes for a peaceful life and carefully hides his lingering guilt and trauma from another life under the mental carpet, and refuses to admit he still dreams of the people he failed (Sephiroth who he abandoned, Genesis who he couldn’t save, his mother who committed suicide because of her guilt at what he’d become, his son apprentice Zack whom he forced to kill him).

-He is befriended by the young Princess, who smiles at him and is content to talk for hours about the flowers and plants he helps maintain. She follows him around sometimes, both asking for advice and giving it impulsively, and even though she is just a child, she has an impressive green thumb and an even more impressive kind heart. He knows that everyone says the Princess is ... odd. And she is. She is too old for her skin sometimes, too wise and too silly by turns in the way only someone who has seen it all and come out the other side can be.

-Privately, Angeal thinks she might be like him. Someone who remembers another life. But he never asks. He never admits. It doesn’t matter anyway. They are both content in their respective new lives, there is no need to drag up ghosts.

-Then one day Fenestala Manor ... burns. A lot of people are killed. A lot more are terrified and grieving and angry. There are whispers of rebellion, of defiance, but none dare when the late Oracle’s children are within Niflheim’s grasp.

-Angeal (who now wears the name Theseus like a suit he refuses to admit doesn’t fit right) keeps his head down and makes no moves to step out of line. He played hero once and he became the monster instead. He will not make that mistake a second time. He does, however, try to make his garden a sanctuary for the poor Princess. He can’t imagine how she must feel, to lose her mother so young, to be held captive by her mother’s killers, to have a brother who rages and cries and pulls bitterly away because he cannot see that his sister is grieving, just in a different way.

-Then the Chancellor of Niflheim visits for the first time, and Angeal only knows because he spots the Princess leading the bemused, sharp-tongued man around the garden, smiling and gentle and welcoming, like she is speaking to an old friend and not one of the leaders of the nation holding her hostage. Angeal keeps his head down, but the Princess trusts him and seems to think he makes fine company for a princess and an enemy politician, and she drags him over to talk about the flower crown she is making their guest.

-The Chancellor smiles and verbally cuts open Angeal in only the most veiled, politest ways. It’s almost impressive, if it didn’t remind him too much of Genesis. So Angeal pretends to not notice and hopes the man goes away and never comes back.

-He goes away.

-He keeps coming back.

-And Angeal keeps finding them in his garden, the Princess and her dangerous, half-mad guest (and Angeal knows madness, he has seen it in faces of friends and mirrors alike, he knows what the Chancellor hides behind his flowery words and indulgent smiles it is not anything nice), and he keeps getting dragged into the conversation, and somewhere along the way he notices that it’s almost always raining on the days the Chancellor visits. A pleasant, faint sort of rain that is almost as nice to be out in as sunshine. If it’s not raining before he arrives, it is within the hour he appears, and it always leaves within the hour the Chancellor does. And that the rain itself whispers against his skin like magic, like the faintest, most persistent of cure spells that Angeal hasn’t felt since he woke up as Theseus.

-Its a coincidence until it’s not. It’s happenstance until Angeal spots the glimmers of something quieter and saner appearing in the man with each visit and flower crown and long, rainy day conversation with the young Oracle.

-It’s not his problem until he stumbles on the man in question vomiting his guts out behind the gardening shed while the Princess has briefly been called away by nervous servants who make up any excuse to keep her away from the Chancellor she seems set on befriending.

-And Angeal has no desire to take another self-destructive, sharp-tongued, venom-fanged, art-loving, idiot redhead under his wing, but he likes to think he isn’t a horrible person in this life, so he gently rescues the man’s hat before it can fall into the smoking black (???) bile and gently steers the man to the nearby plastic chair Angeal sits on when maintaining his tools. He steps into the shed and comes back out with the thermos of tea he was saving for his own lunch and gently pushes the cup into the man’s hands while gold eyes stare at him and toy with his murder (Angeal has seen this powerful man in a moment of weakness, if Angeal disappears in the next two weeks, he won’t die surprised).

-“You should drink,” Angeal tells him softly, “It will help your stomach settle.”

-“Oh will it now.” Ardyn Izunia drawls even as he takes a slow sip of the herbal blend and makes the tiniest face at the taste. They stay in silence for a while, with the Chancellor recovering his breath on the chair and Angeal debating what to do with the patch of very dead ground where black bile was moments ago and healthy grass had been long before that. In the end he covers it with a piece of old tarp and decides to brave the potential radioactive spot later. Once the man who apparently had that stuff inside him has calmed down and hopefully left.

-“You’re taking this very calmly,” Izunia drawls, and Angeal can feel the barbs on the other man’s tongue, waiting to be unleashed at the slightest provocation.

-“You’re hardly the first man to get an upset stomach,” Angeal deflects calmly, “It’s perfectly normal.”

-A scoff that is startled enough to count as a genuine laugh, “Normal, he says.”

-Angeal ignores the question in there and instead turns around to look thoughtfully at the Chancellor. Without his hat to hide his face and his venomous smiles to discourage scrutiny the man looks ... exhausted. Rung dry. And very, very thin. Like he hasn’t eaten a good meal (or anything at all) in days.

-A workaholic maybe? Or something worse. The Princess is an Oracle after all, her duty will be to heal the sick of the otherwise incurable. It isn’t that much of a jump to say she could sense that Ardyn Izunia was sick and was trying to help even while untrained. Either way it’s not his problem. He’s just a gardener. He has no business interacting with this man beyond the times the Princess insists he does.

-He keeps telling himself that as he disappears back into his shed and comes out with another thermos, this one of soup (it’s a good thing it’s chilly weather, otherwise he would have brought a sandwich and that might be too hard for this man to stomach). He offers a cup of still warm soup to the Chancellor, who stares at it like he doesn’t remember what it is. Angeal keeps holding it out until the man takes it from him, “...You have no idea what is going on do you,” Izunia rasps as he sips almost experimentally on the soup.

-Angeal shrugs, “No. But you look like you could use a sit down, some tea, and some food, and my mother would kill me herself if I refused to share what I had with someone who might need it more.”

-A sneer and a flicker of something furious in gold eyes, “Pity then.”

-Angeal turns back from where he had been about to wander off and resume gardening, because he knows that tone and he knows where it leads and it hurts too much to walk away (this lifetime), “No.” He snaps and the Chancellor blinks in surprise at Angeal’s sudden fire. Angeal picks up the tools he needs for the next hour and says more quietly, “Kindness.”

-“Are they not the same thing?”

-Angeal thinks of a blinding smile from a boy in another life who didn’t know the darkness of the world and made it better in the process, of the Princess who welcomes a leader of the enemy into her home and gives him flowers like he is a long-lost friend. He thinks of another redhead who once said something very similar before the end. He dares to meet golden eyes again, “No,” he tells the Chancellor, “they aren’t. But you’re a smart man. I think you knew that already.”

-Ardyn Izunia stares at him and is, for once, speechless. Angeal turns and hurries away before he can give in to the urge to grab a spare picnic blanket out of the shed and drape it on the man’s shoulders.

-That man is dangerous. He is broken and mad and feral and good at hiding all those things which makes him even more dangerous than he otherwise would be. Angeal cannot (will not) get attached. Not again. He won’t fall into that trap. He isn’t a good friend for anyone, let alone a good moral compass or shoulder to cry on. He’ll just make things worse. He knows that.

-Yet somehow that doesn’t stop him from packing a thermos of soup whenever it starts to lightly rain, and passing out cups of it when the Princess and the Chancellor inevitably wander into his corner of the gardens.

-(And maybe, weeks later, Ardyn Izunia corners Angeal where the Princess cannot see and stares at him for a long time. Maybe Izunia’s face shifts and pales as black blood weeps from his eyes and mouth until he looks not like a man but like a ghoul from a nightmare. Maybe he smiles like a predator looking for a kill and asks “Theseus” if he is frightened. If he is horrified.)

-(Maybe Ardyn is left stunned when the simple gardener looks him in the eye and with painful, gentle honesty says no.)

-(”Why not? I am a monster. You should be afraid.” Ardyn growls, his Scourge on display, his monstrous nature bared for this strange, mild-mannered man to see. And he is stunned when the gardener gently touches his pale, purple-veined hands and guides him down to a familiar plastic chair, as he disappears into the shed and comes back with a familiar thermos of soup and presses the cup into his hands.)

-(He is left speechless when this gardener, this human, this mortal, foolish man, finally answers his question, “This,” the gardener taps one of Ardyn’s deathly pale hands, “doesn’t make you any more or less human, or more or less a monster than me.”)

-(“Then what does?” Ardyn asks in a whisper, not sure if he is curious or insulted or ... desperate.)

-(The gardener just smiles, and in the expression there is something unnervingly old and sad and knowing for someone who has not lived two thousand years and not seen his own humanity crumble before his eyes, “You’re a smart man, Chancellor” he hums, “you tell me.”)

-(And Ardyn finds that he is, once again, speechless.)

[fascination-street-writing]

Stealing Past the Windows | Platonic Leone Abbacchio x Reader

You want him to see the anguish that he has caused for you and your mother. You hope it is enough to keep him awake at night.

Content Warnings: Prostitution & Dubious Consent

You wish you were a mortician so that maybe – just maybe – you could be used to death. You long for the ability to shut away your grief, to turn it off as if it is nothing more than a lightbulb that hangs above your head – to flip the switch.

Your mother leads you towards the parking lot behind the cathedral. You have only just fastened the seatbelt over your lap when you notice him: the mortician standing next to a dumpster, a cigarette dangling from his lips. His necktie is loose and his hair a disarray. He pinches the bridge of his nose and exhales a cloud of smoke. Perhaps morticians were not as used to death as you thought.

Something taps against the windshield. Pattering, uneven beats, not unlike the pianist’s scant repertoire from the procession. You wish that your mother would have hired someone better, someone who was not the sostituo commissario coordinatore’s daughter.

“It’s raining,” your mother remarks, her voice no louder than a whisper. Rain – of course it rains today of all days. She sighs and grips the steering wheel. If her hands were not covered by her black gloves, you might see that her knuckles are white. “They never said it would rain. How are we supposed to bury him in this?”

You realize that, perhaps instead of death, you long to become better acquainted with unpredictability: the death of your father, rain during a funeral, a lousy pianist . . . And Leone Abbacchio’s sunset-colored eyes meeting your gaze from across the parking lot. You bring your hand to your mouth and bite down on your curled pointer-finger to keep from calling out to him – what are you doing here? Permanent suspension and a slanderous newspaper article were not enough to satiate the part of you that yearns for his retribution.

Your mother follows the hearse, but you do not dare to look away, even as the car turns onto the street. You want him to see the anguish that he has caused for you and your mother. You hope it is enough to keep him awake at night.

If, even after everything, a mortician and death are no more than steely work associates, then surely a distance exists between a prostitute and sexual intimacy. You never let the men take you from the front: your fleeting decency is preserved by the sorrow that suffocates you each time you are forced to solicit yourself to pay off your mother’s debts. You tell yourself that it is better this way – better than starving on the streets or lying dead in a dumpster, a proper unmarked grave.

Adaptability has helped you to cope with unpredictability. Now, you pray for blindness. Blindness so that you no longer face the men who leer and lead you into alleyways and dingy hotel rooms; blindness to forget that home is nothing more than a moth-ridden mattress, vacant memories, and a box fan; blindness, so the sounds of mice scurrying in the rafters become your mother teetering on loose floorboards as she stands over the kitchen table and prepares dinner.

Blindness so that you might forget the callousness of solitude.

A gust of air reaches for you. You tug your skirt over your thighs, a feeble attempt to ward of the chilling temperature.  The waiting comes with confliction, for in the moments when you are alone, you are glad to be untouched. And yet, trepidation reminds you that a prostitute who does not meet her nightly quota is expendable. Your mother learned that – her final anecdote to you was a bullet.

Two women stand across the street. The glow of a cigar illuminates the space between them. An emaciated feline stalks down the sidewalk; she carries a kitten in her mouth.  Footsteps – a man approaches you, his hands buried in the pockets of his striped dress slacks. He leans into the wall, only inches from you. He smells of tobacco smoke – you never cared for tobacco smoke. You blame it on your father’s influence.

You name your price, and he grabs your wrist. “I just want you to suck me off,” he sneers before pulling you into the alley. The air there is heavy: already, you have forgotten how to breathe.  “You only get paid if you swallow. Got it, puttana?”

You nod. The pavement bites the skin of your knees. Your palms grow clammy. A knot forms in your belly. It never gets easier. The reflective surface of his belt’s silver buckle is an unwanted mirror. Sunken eyes stare back as you fumble with the latch. You no longer recognize yourself – it is a stranger’s gaze that watches your movements. You are a woman drowning, yet desperate for a glass of water.

Fingers pry at your arms. For a moment, you are airborne as he lifts you from the ground and pins you to the wall. His breath curdles in your ear – the rasp of his tone and the overwhelming scent of charred leather confirms that he is indeed a smoker and not a victim of secondhand exposure: “I’ve changed my mind. Ti sto fottendo.”

You shiver, but not because you are cold, even though the night air assaults your bare legs, which have been freed of your tight mini-skirt; pink polyester gathers at your ankles, tethering you. His teeth graze the crook between your shoulder and neck. His body cages you. The breeze wafts through your hair, gentle tresses clinging to his skin. In another life, he might have been a lover. But a lover does not pay you for sex.

Your fear turns to ash and dies on your tongue. Every gasp for air is an inhalation of his scent – stale cigarettes. It laces through your throat and burns you alive.

You wait until you are sure that he is gone before you pull your skirt up. Your core throbs. Your legs tremble. Your backend meets the ground as your knees fail you. The money lies just beyond your reach, but you cannot bear to touch it. The mere thought of even looking at it sends a jolt of nausea through you.

It can stay there a little longer – it is not pride that compels you to leave the money be: it is dignity.

You do not notice that you are crying until you feel the familiar sting in your eyes.  An anguished scream tears itself from your mouth as you slap the ground and kick into the rusted trashcan beside you. It topples over – you wish to be buried alive in food scraps and disposed condoms because it is not better this way.

A tawny colored beer bottle shatters at your feet: a mosaic of glass shards. In each broken piece laid out before you, you see your reflections – in every groove, ripple, and adhesive spotting that has been left behind by a missing label. One shard is your father’s funeral and a smoking mortician, and another shard is the eternally frozen face of your dead mother, and another shard is the first man whom you sold your virtue to.

And yet, one shard is a series of train tickets, from Napoli to the lavender fields of Aix-en-Provence, and another shard is a glass of Bordeaux Red that you share with a lover on a balcony overlooking the plaza of Place Richelme, and another shard is a newborn babe nestled in the white laces of her bassinet, the glow of the setting evening sun stealing past the window of the nursery and painting the walls with a glorious apricot light. And among them all, shards of men whose touches and faces blend together, shards of hands that wring your neck. Perversion, starvation, and seclusion. Mice in the rafters, a battered mattress, and a box fan.

What good is a pretty future if you must suffer for it first? You realize, as your fingers float over the glass shards, that you have been on this journey to Aix-en-Provence – to somewhere better than Napoli – your entire life: that you are sitting on a train, still, though once you thought it moving. You are forever rooted in place.

Your scuffed stiletto grinds the glass into the concrete. Happiness demands too much from you. You stomp each shard until they split and become a million more pieces – so small that they no longer speak to you.

The final shard is a pair of sunset-colored eyes and silver hair. You freeze, your foot suspended above the piece of glass. You meet his gaze from across the alley. You want to bite your finger – it is a nervous habit that you had promised to quit after the funeral, after your mother had found you bandaging your bleeding hand with toilet paper in the bathroom at the burial site; she had never forgiven you for staining your dress.

You cannot look away from him, even as he drops the paper brown grocery bag snagged around his wrist in favor of ushering you into his arms and onto your feet – your head on his chest, held in place by a single hand that coaxes through your hair. You do not bother to push him away, because it feels good to be held; though every fiber of your being tells you to loathe this man, you find that you cannot. Hatred costs too much energy, causes too much stress; you do not need either. When he pulls away to inspect your face, you do the same to him. His mouth moves, but you do not hear the words that fall from his lilac-painted lips. The dark rings beneath his eyes are rival to yours. You wonder how much sleep he has lost, for every night spent thinking of you.

Steam from the coffee mug wafts into the air in a delicate spiral. At this hour, the café is nearly empty. A man with lavender-blonde hair types into his laptop computer; he lifts his beverage to his lips without tearing his gaze from the screen. Aside from him and an older woman, who is clipping coupons from a newspaper, you and Leone Abbacchio are the only other customers. It is a sharp contrast to the usual bustle during the day; without the business men fighting for their morning espresso shots or the mothers stopping for a pastry after sending their children off to school for the day, it feels like a graveyard.

The soft hum of the kitchen radio echoes through to the dining room. The coupon-clipping woman taps her foot to an offbeat cadence. You tug Leone’s jacket by the lapels, securing it tautly to your skin. He had insisted that you wear it, because of the cold. Truthfully, you know that it is for modesty’s sake. Regardless of the reason, you are grateful. He clasps his own porcelain mug but does not drink. Perhaps it is still too hot, you wonder.

“I don’t know if I should thank you or not,” you finally say. Macchiato pools on your tongue. It has been far too long since you have had coffee that was not made from instant crystals; you savor it. “I wouldn’t be in this situation if not for you, after all. But, the caffè is a nice gesture.”

His teeth graze his bottom lip. “I’m sorry,” he says with hesitation. “I’m sorry for what happened. For what I did.”

“You’re wasting your time, saying you’re sorry, because there aren’t enough apologizes that could even begin to make things right. An apology won’t bring my father back. An apology won’t bring my mother back.”

He shudders and sighs. “I know . . . I know that.”

An uncomfortable silence hovers over your heads. At last, Leone drinks his coffee; it is a much-needed distraction from the conversation that has haunted him until this moment. His greatest fear has been to face the family of the man he had indirectly killed. It was a mistake to have gone to the funeral – he knows that; he was never sure what to expect that day. The sight of your mother following the hearse in her station wagon while you stared him down, until finally you disappeared, had shaken him – he fell to the bottle that very night.

Leone’s cellphone vibrates atop the table. The green screen casts a reflection upon the window beside you. Flashing digital numbers tell you that is is 23:13 – you only have forty-seven minutes to give the money to your procurer. You instinctively pat your pocket. The money is not there. Upon the realization that you have forgotten it back in the alley, where it is no doubt buried under the fallen trash of your breakdown, you down the rest of your drink. “Thank you for the coffee,” you say to Leone. “I should get going – I need to get back to work.”

His brow furrows. “You’re not going back there,” he says to you, a strange inflection in his tone – worry or anger, you cannot tell the difference.

“I don’t have a choice.”

“Yes, you do.” His bark is beguiling, and it commands you to stay seated. For every moment that he stalls, the knot in your belly constricts tighter and tighter, until it feels as though your intestines might burst. When he speaks, a gust of air rushes through you: “Let me . . . Let me try to make things right. Let me start by getting you out of there.”

You tense at his words. “You speak as if you think it’s easy to get ‘out of there,’” you sneer. “As if you think you could actually help me.”

“I’ll pay off your mother’s debt,” he insists with a sudden burst of confidence.

It is your turn to stiffen. “How do you know about that?” It is then that you take in his appearance in earnest – his clothing looks expensive, even though he is clad in only a sweater and jeans. You doubt that his makeup came from a drug store. If exorbitance had a scent, it would be that of his cologne: woodsy and sweet. He could never have afforded these things on a poliziotto’s salary. “You work with them, don’t you?”

“No.” The waitress leans over the table to top off Leone’s mug. He offers her a nod and she pledges a smile. She scurries back to the counter in a flurry of floral-pattern skirts. The way he avoids answering your first question tells you enough: you understand that it is far too complicated to be uttered aloud in a public space. “I just know the right people.”

“I don’t want your help,” you tell him, albeit too quickly. Dignity compelled you from taking the money in the alleyway. But it is not dignity that holds you from accepting money from a former dirty cop: it is ego laced in hubris. And it is his bribery, shrouded in penitence, that beckons for your clemency. “I don’t need your help.”

“Stop this.” His words scorn you. “Don’t let yourself get killed because of your pride. I know what happens to women like you. You’re not a human being to them: you’re nothing more than a money-maker. Damn it, I’ve seen girls younger than you that – “ he cuts himself off. “Getting killed over the grudge you hold against me – it’s not worth it.”

“I can’t accept help from the man who ruined my life. It means you’ll expect me to forgive you.”

“I’m not looking for forgiveness. I just want to prove to you that I am sorry.” When you bring your pointer-finger to your mouth and bite down on your knuckle, he can see you in the station wagon again. Although, instead of a mourner’s garb, you wear a scanty skirt and a cropped blouse. “What about your father?”

You pull your finger away; a thread of saliva connects from your skin to your quivering lip. “Don’t you dare mention him,” you hiss. “Don’t act like you knew him: he was nothing more than a coworker to you.”

“It’s not for forgiveness. Let me help you because he would never want to see you like this.” You can practically hear the twitching of his jaw. A tear falls, and then another. And another. He wipes the back of his hand over his dampened cheeks. “He loved you – so much. More than I think he ever loved your mother, if you’d heard the way he spoke about you . . . One of the last things he ever said to me was how he couldn’t wait to see the type of person you’d become. Un dottore o un insegnante: it didn’t matter to him, so long as you were happy.” He looks away, as if he is ashamed to face you, though rightfully so. “I did know him. I knew the man who would have given anything for his famiglia – for you.”

Your heart aches – for your father or Leone or even yourself, you are not sure. While it pains you to admit it, the man sitting before you has uttered the truth. Your father would want you to accept Leone’s help. It might be your only chance for a fresh start – to usher the still train along. Suddenly, the lavender fields feel so close that all you need do is reach out to feel the purple tendrils within your grasp. Paradise is not too far.

You sigh, shakily, before you give him your answer: “Okay.”

You thought your response would satiate him – instead, the tears he sheds fall faster. He brings a hand to his forehead to pinch his temples between his thumb and ring-finger, to shield his face: a man torn apart by his own chagrin. His other hand is outstretched before him, fingers formed into a taut fist. You are sure that his nails will puncture his skin if he squeezes any tighter. The music from the kitchen stops. The woman places down her scissors and her newspaper. The man with lavender-blonde hair closes his laptop. The ticking of the wall-clock is the only sound that reverberates through the café. It is only minutes until the new day.

Leone Abbacchio is man frozen in his past. Despite the turmoil, despite the grief and accrued traumas, you do not hate him: though unable to move on, he is driven by audacity. You once thought him cowardly, but a craven would never have reached out to you: a craven would rob you of your second chance at life. You respect the weeping man seated across the table, so much so that you clasp your own hand over his fist as a gesture of solidarity. His breath catches in his throat as his quaking body stills. You have nothing to say to him – but no words could convey the thoughts that weave through your mind. His wrist rotates beneath your touch. Palm to palm, his fingers reach for yours and entwine.

Forgiveness is a virtue you cannot afford. You will not forgive him – not now – but you will heal: together.

| 3170 Words |

[noire-pandora]

The colours of the sky

This is my Satinalia present for @i-am-not-that-gamer​. Thank you so much for allowing me to write about Lora, she is lovely. I hope you like your gift. 

Special thanks to @musetta3​ for being my beta! 

Also on my ao3

Wordcount:  2687

Pairing: Solavellan

Warnings: none.

Lora Lavellan frowned from her place on the couch as muffled shouts reverberated from the hallway and interrupted her reading. It took a moment for the Inquisitor to notice the yelling, at first, too absorbed by Leliana’s reports. The Venatori continued to be a problem for the Inquisition and now the scouts finally acquired the necessary information to locate their stronghold in the Hissing Wastes.

She sat on the couch, in the safety of her private quarters, away from any intruder, enjoying the rare moment of solitude Skyhold offered. The fire crackled amicably in the chimney, warming the sizable room she owned. She preferred to work in here, far off from any prying eyes. The quietness of solitude brought her peace and serenity.  And now, the shouts shattered the stillness. Lora squeezed her eyes and hoped the owners of those heated voices would stop soon, but as minutes passed, it became clear they would not cease to disturb the whole castle.

She abandoned the comfort of her spot and paced around the room, in an attempt to ignore the shoutings. She urged her mind to stay put and focus on the words, but the heated voices proved troublesome to ignore. 

As she shuffled around, she began reading the report out loud to memorise the crucial information and coordinates, but with no success. The voices rose above her voice and the words jumbled and mixed in a ridiculous cacophony. Lora shook her head and gave up on reading. If the owners of the voices were this furious, then it had to be an important matter, one that required her attention, but instead of making her way towards the hallway, Lora stood silent, arms hanging around her body, fingers clutching the papers.

No matter how many times she had to broker peace with angry people, it never became easier. As the Inquisitor, she had the duty to choose the best outcome, but it took a great toll on her. She laid awake many nights in a row, contemplating the events and hoping she took the right choice and now she had to decide again: stay here until Leliana or Josephine solve the matter and put all the responsibility on their shoulders, or take a stand and do her duty?

Lora bit her lip, contemplating those choices.Fragments of sentences reached her ears and her stomach clenched. Words like “mage”, “abomination” and “knife ear” boomed in the silence of the morning. She pursed her lips to push away the anxiety and put on the mask of the leader, the Inquisitor, hoping it will be sufficient to stop them.

With a heavy sigh, she abandoned the documents on the small table and left the safety of her room to investigate the events. She moved slowly, in no hurry to deal with the angry people, but this was the right choice. She had to stop this on her own. Lora doubted her sister would stroll around to clear the situation, as she left Skyhold a few hours ago with Iron Bull, to help the refugees in Hinterlands.

In the hallway, Leliana and Josephine faced an Orlesian noble. His mask glittered in the light filtered through the massive stained glass above the Inquisitor’s throne. Judging from the richness of his attire, Lora realised the man held significant titles, and for an unexplained reason, he yelled his displeasure with no control. She wondered what bothered him so much to make him neglect his manners.

“And now, three of my farms are ablaze, all because of your unqualified Inquisitors who decided to fraternize with abominations. I demand the culprit’s head on a golden plate and reparation in full from the Inquisition.” The Orlesian stomped his foot on the floor and spittle flew from his mouth as he shouted.

“We are sorry for your monetary loss, but you must understand that we cannot do as you ask,” Josephine responded, in an attempt to appease him. “ We do not know who--"

“You!” he yelled, spotting Lora stepping towards them. “It’s your fault, knife ear! You did this, you and your band of heretics.” He rushed at her, finger pointed in accusation.

Lora stopped in her tracks,eyes widened in surprise at his fierceness.She took a few steps back, bracing herself. The man’s fury made her skin crawl.

“Watch your mouth, Vicomte, you are forgetting your place,” Leliana growled at him, placing her hand on his shoulder to stop him from advancing. “You are speaking with the Inquisitor, the Herald of Andraste. Show the due respect.”

“Her? The Herald of Andraste? A knife ear, a heretic, and a lover of abominations!” he yelled and spat on the floor. “I refuse to believe it. Our Lady is cursing us for declaring two bizarre women as her Champions. They are not my Heralds or my Inquisitors. I’ve heard rumours, Spymaster, about their incompetence and their circles. Their solutions will bring Thedas to ruin. Mages are running free because of them, killing anyone in their sight, burning houses and trespassing as they wish. I denounce them!”

Every passerby stopped and watched him in horror, his harsh words attracting offended gasps.

Lora’s jaw tensed at his defamation, the words hitting her strong. She had mostly gotten used to them at this point, but the accusation about `bringing Thedas to a ruin` worried her. Her mind beckoned for her to escape, to run from this man and let Leliana deal with everything, but she had to ignore her instincts.

‘Be strong! Show no weakness!‘

She had to be strong like her mother taught her. Only by showing strength, she could help Thedas. She breathed in deeply, straightened her back and steadied herself. She had to look imposing, as a true Inquisitor would.

“My sincerest apologies for your loss, Vicomte,” she answered, strolling towards him and waving at Leliana to let him go. “I imagine you have been under immense stress lately, but there is no need for such irrational behaviour. My sister and I helped not only the mages but the Templars, too. The Inquisition lends a helping hand to anyone in need, even to you.

“That being said,”, she continued, frowning at the man before her, “ we do not control what every mage and Templar do. We do not keep them prisoners. Some of them went rogue and rejected our aid. We are not at fault for what an unknown mage did to you or to your lands. And it has nothing to do with me and my sister’s race and with our companions. We never asked for you to call us Heralds of Andraste or for your worship. We are here merely to help. Did the mage kill anyone from your family or any of your workers?”

“No,” he replied sharply.

“That is a relief. I doubt the Inquisition has the funds to compensate you for your loss, but Leliana can send a few of her scouts to try to track down the wrongdoer and bring them to justice. We will not kill them for burning your houses. They can work for you until they will pay their debt to you. That is all.”

Lora waved her dismissal at Leliana and she turned away, in a hurry to leave the sullen man. This situation made her body shudder;she wasn’t suited to deal with these kinds of complications. Her sister would have done much better.

“But--”, the Vicomte started.

“You heard the Inquisitor,” Leliana stopped him from talking. “Be thankful you are getting any help. Come, we need to talk.”

Lora did not hear more of his response as the door to her room closed behind her with a hollow thud. Her shoulders dropped, finally able to breathe freely. She closed her eyes and took a few deep breaths, but the furious face of the Vicomte did not leave her thoughts. His words echoed in her mind and doubt shrouded her. What if he was right? What if she will bring ruin to Thedas? She opened her eyes once more, the contour of her room blurred by tears.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The croaks of Leliana’s ravens blended with the murmurs of the ones reading in the library, establishing the reassuring flow Solas learned to appreciate as he worked at his desk. This rhythm usually never broke his focus, but today it irked him. He could not concentrate on the document in front of him, no matter how much he tried.

With a sigh, he rubbed his face and dropped the quill he held motionless in his hand for the last fifteen minutes. He had to write a complex and engaging report regarding the nature and the use of Veilfire but his mind refused to stay on this subject. It constantly went back to Lavellan and the incident of this morning. He had heard it all, and while he trusted Lora to solve this dispute, the rude words troubled him.

The noise of the chair scraping on the floor startled the ravens above, but Solas barely heard them. He abandoned the work, hoping Leliana would accept his decision. Lora did not come to visit him today, and that concerned him. She always took her time to at least wave at him, even when busy. But today she did none of it, and he missed her.

“Leaving already?” Dorian asked from above as he leaned on the balustrade, a book in his hand. “Abandoning your precious work so quickly? How unusual.”

Solas shrugged and grabbed his coat from the wooden coat rack close to his desk. “Yes. There are more important matters that require my attention.”

“Hmmm, indeed.” Dorian hummed, himself a witness of the shouting contest. “Good luck with it.“

“Thank you, Dorian.”

Solas left the rotunda, hands clasped behind his back, forcing himself to keep a steady pace. His heart urged him to hurry, to walk faster, for his Vhenan might be upset, but his mind demanded he slowed down and pay attention to the surrounding people. As much as he loved and missed Lora, he did not wish to give the impression something was amiss. He had to keep a cool head. He distracted himself by counting his breaths and ignored his galloping heart.

Finally, after a few long minutes, he knocked at Lora’s door, patiently waiting for her reply. More minutes passed by and he wondered if she went to sleep. He knocked again, this time her voice making itself heard.

He took another deep breath to steady himself. He found himself smiling at his eagerness to meet his love. He pushed the door opened and the familiar scent of Lora tickled his nose, calming him instantaneously.

“It is I, Solas,” he announced himself, “may I come in?”

“You know you are always welcome here, Ma Falon,” Lora’s voice came from above the stairs. “You don’t have to ask for permission.”

“I do know that,” he acknowledged as he went up the few stairs to meet her “but I do value your privacy, Ashilora, and Skyhold rarely allows you that. I do not want to intrude.”

She sat on the couch, squeezing a steaming mug in her hands, the fragrance of the lavender tea blending with the smokiness of the fire dancing in the chimney. She smiled at him, but Solas saw the sadness reflected in her golden-brown eyes. Her head dropped, and she stared back at the mug, her knuckles turning white as she gripped the mug harder.

“I have missed you today,” he murmured to capture her attention.

She slowly lifted her head to face him again, eyes wide. “You did?”

“I did,” he confirmed and paused, his eye moving over her expression as if to memorize every line of her face. “Have you been inside all day?”

“Yes.”

He suddenly held out his hand for her to take it. “Come! The sky is quite beautiful this evening.”

They walked together towards the balcony, fingers intertwined, Lora’s head barely reaching his shoulder. The afternoon sun bathed them in its tender light and flecks of snow fluttered, pushed by the frosty breeze. The tints of crimson and gold dribbled all over the clouds, staining them in warm tones. They stood there in silence, bathing in the beauty of the moment, hands never parting as they watched the sun hide behind the crest of the mountains, lilac-tinted grey replacing the tangerine-like colours. The first stars of the night flickered in the sky.

“It is breathtaking, is it not?” Solas murmured, breaking the silence. He turned to face Lora as she still watched the sky.

“Hmm?” she hummed. “Yes, it is.”

“And you saved it, Ashilora.”

Lora turned to him. “Saved what?”

“The sky.”

She chuckled, waving a hand at Solas in dismissal. “You give me too much credit.”

Sadness swept through him, for she could not realise how much she meant for this world, for him. The wonders she did impressed everyone, except her. She remained as humble as in the first day they met. With his fingers, he brushed the marron strands of hair obscuring her eyes and smiled at her.

“I am not. Remember how the world was in the future you saw in Radcliffe? Remember how the sky was? We can see the beauty of it today because of you. You saved it. You saved the world. Do not let anyone tell you otherwise.”

Lora sighed. She sucked in a sudden breath, lip quivering.  She retreated from his touch and looked down at her shoes.

“But what if that man was right? What if I will bring chaos to Thedas? We still don’t know what Corypheus wants and how to defeat him. What if  my sister and I  make the wrong choices,and we end up ruining the world?”

“You will not fail,” he said and his fingers gently lifted her chin to look in her eyes. “What that mage did is not your fault. You cannot control what people do, that would make you a tyrant. And you are not one. You have shown a subtlety in your action, a  wisdom that goes against everything I know.  This world is safer because of your spirit. You will not fail, ma Vhenan. Have faith in me.”

She nervously smiled at him, her fingers playing with the rim of her shirt. It took her a few seconds to speak again but when she did, the tremble of her lip disappeared and a pink tint coloured her cheeks. She moved forward, placing her hand on top of his.

“Thank you, Solas. I needed to hear that.”

His smile turned into a low hum and he rushed to kiss her, his arms wrapping around her petite frame. As he kissed her, he noticed how perfectly she fitted in his arm, how delightful it felt to hold her against his chest. As if it was destined for him to embrace her.  

Their lips slowly danced against each other, the warmth of her breath sending shivers down his spine. She tasted of lavender and honey. She tasted of happiness and love, of regret and mistake. He deepened the kiss to muffle the unwanted thoughts.

She melted in his arms, her hands gripping his blouse, and Solas wished for time to stop, for the sky to freeze and for the sun to stay in one place for eternity. To spend his life lost in the perfume of her hair, in the taste of her lips, in the warmth of her body. A heavy sigh left his chest and Lora broke the kiss, concern written in her eyes.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

He chuckled, embarrassed, and rubbed the back of his neck, clearing his throat. “Yes. Apologies. I lost myself for a few seconds.”

Lora opened her mouth to speak, a frown knitting her eyebrows, but Solas grabbed her arm and tugged her towards the exit. “Let us go outside. The weather is quite pleasant. A quick stroll in the garden will help you.”

She giggled and accompanied him, leaving the room arm to arm. For a few moments, happiness bonded them even tighter, a respite before the struggles that were to come.

[secretshinigami]

The Final Warning

Author: @complicatedmerary For: @misora-massacre Pairings/Characters: No pairings; Naomi Misora, Beyond Birthday, L, Wammy (cameo), Raye Penber (cameo) Rating/Warnings: Teen & Up, just to be safe; depression, PTSD, implicit talk about what happens in prison, especially if your successor hates your guts (and you are a terrible person), a glossed over mention of Beyond’s unfortunate appearance after the end, discussions of A’s demise, discussions of B’s crimes, L being a jerk, and B just being crass overall Prompt: A conversation between B and someone visiting him in prison (could be L, Mello or Naomi). In this case, it is Naomi and L simultaneously, but L is not facing Beyond. It makes sense in context. Author’s notes: I was reading Another Note the other day and got inspired to partially continue whatever happened to Beyond after he was arrested. This is, in a way, a prequel to my other fics about Beyond in prison, but I wrote it specifically in a certain matter to make it fit independently from them. I can now proudly say that I have finally written Naomi Misora, so hurray for that! I challenged myself not to go overboard with harsh descriptions because this could have easily gone way darker, and yet give the emotional punches I love so much. Enjoy!

***

Slow motion. Going through the motions, day by day, month by month, in slow motion. High fives blazing through like a blur, a weak arm accepting it as if it were a reflex. “You go, Misora Massacre!” They cheered, the high-pitched hoorahs ringing in her ears from all directions. Some nights, her boyfriend would turn off the movie and ask her if she was okay. Was she okay? She never knew how to respond to that question in general anyway. All she could do is nod her head with a fake smile and kiss him on the cheek as she tells him not to worry. It amazed her that it took little effort to set his mood up and running in no time. She still was not sure if this was endearing or a sign that she was a better actress than she imagined.

What would she prefer, really? For Raye to keep pressing on her mental state and get some legitimate help or to move on with her life and remove her feelings out of the equation? The tightrope was getting thinner and a single wrong move was making her dizzier. She was a professional, she needed to act like it.

There were more concerning issues in the world, she was only one person, it could had been worse.

~

If there was one thing Beyond had learned in prison was that criminals hated other criminals as much as the regular citizen. Especially if said criminal had a history of killing a little girl.

It was laughable, really; it was not like he did what he did to fulfill a deranged desire for bloodlust, he was more sophisticated than that. How many of them were here because of personal vendettas or emotional instability? If it were a contest between whose motivation did not have a personal connection to the victims, he would had been the only one standing.

They can threaten to kill him in his sleep or pound him to the floor all they wanted, Beyond was more intelligent than any other man in this prison combined. He may not know where he was or what time it was or if the security of this prison was as tight as these guards bragged to him, but one thing was for sure: He was not the type to give up so easily.

~

Naomi Misora exited the convenience store with a small bag of potato chips and strawberry gum in hand. Another side effect of this obnoxious state of mind was how she alternated between snacking almost every hour or just once a day, depending on her mood. It was not like somebody was going to stop her, it was harmless, it will go away soon, she was fine–

And then, a black limousine appeared near the sidewalk, slowly following her movements. Was she so distracted that she did not notice the large vehicle until now or was it always there? Perhaps it was a generic television actor exerting his notoriety for some autographs. And yet, it was not stopping unless she did.

“Can I help you?” Naomi raised her arms in exasperation, just wanting whatever this was to end as soon as possible.

The window rolled down and revealed an older gentleman with white hair and a white mustache, barely moved by her outburst.

“Naomi Misora, it is an honor to finally meet you.” The man said in a distinct accent.

Yes, he was definitely not from around here, Naomi thought.

“My name is Watari,” He continued. “I am with L and I’m here to delivery you to him.”

L? Again? How many times was he going to need her help?

“Tell him that I’m busy, I promised Raye that this was just a quick trip.”

“Misora-san,” An electronic voice blared from a computer. “That has been taken care of. Please get in, this is of upmost importance.”

This was not a trick, she recognized that deliberate tone. Fantastic, just what she needed.

~

“Misora-san,” The computer faced her as if it were a breathing person, as if this could not get any stranger. “I’m so glad we meet once again. I hope life has been treating you well.”

Hardly. “L, I respect you, but if this is another case, I’m afraid I cannot help you this time.”

“Oh, and why is that?” L seemed genuinely surprised. “We made a great team back then, surely you don’t resent me, do you?”

It is not you, it is me. “Just tell me what is going on.”

“Believe it or not, Misora-san, this is not a case to catch a killer, but to get a current prisoner to confess.”

Naomi raised an eyebrow. And what exactly can she do if she did not know what the confession was in the first place?

“This criminal is someone you’d already met,” L continued, as if he read her mind. “The infamous killer you were in close contact with a few months ago. I’m afraid there is some unfinished business.”

“Beyond Birthday?” Naomi said, incredulously. “He was arrested and confessed to his crimes. What could possibly be considered ‘unfinished’?”

“Ah, I see you have no context on what is going on,” There was no tact in his voice at all. “As you may remember, Beyond was someone I knew. Not personally, but I was aware of him. There are some details I left out for your sake, but if I need you to understand the gravity of the situation, all I can say that this concerns a man named A.”

“Who is A?”

“Someone Beyond knew.”

Not at all helpful after all.

“You have to give me more than that, L, what does A mean to Beyond?”

“We suspect B killed A and played the victim to distance himself from what he did.”

Naomi let out a sharp gasp. She would not put it past Beyond to commit more murders before this case, but something was off. The Beyond she knew would had left some clues that implied his involvement to assert dominance and this seemed like a plain murder. Or was she overthinking this for no reason?

“That is terrible, L, but … what makes you think he would say anything to me? I brought him down and arrested him. It’s not like we are friends or anything like that.”

“You don’t know him like I do, Misora-san,” L retorted. “It’s not about friendship, it’s about manipulation. Believe it or not, you carry more power over him than you realize. If there is anyone who would be glad to see you, it is Beyond Birthday.”

“And why is that?”

“He likes you, Naomi Misora.”

Naomi frowned. Great, just great, misplaced affection was exactly what she needed. Suddenly, the vehicle stopped.

“I already have this covered,” L said as Watari turned around on his seat and gave Naomi a small black box. “I’ll be with you every step of the way and monitoring every spoken word between the two of you. All I need is a confession. You can speak about whatever you want, but the goal is to make him talk about A. Can you do that?”

Naomi opened the box. It revealed two sleek earpieces that perfectly blended against her black hair. She instinctively put them on, aware of what he had planned.

“I will feed you information and you will repeat every word I say. You will not be alone; there will be two security guards monitoring both of you out of precaution. There is no telling what he may do if you say the wrong thing, but if my calculations are right, he will not dare put a hand of you if he knows he will be stopped immediately. You are a true professional, Misora-san, I believe in you. Can you do this?”

That was all she needed to hear. She nodded. “I can.”

~

Beyond Birthday looked around the private visitor room, an amused smirk visible on his face. Two security guards observed him from different corners, trying to intimidate him from moving. The tallest one (the name “Keith Cope” flashed above his head) gritted his teeth and growled, proving to him that this was nothing more than theatrics. He was not moved by this at all; he had gone through way worse than some punk trying to be tough, he was nothing.

What could be something, however, is the person who was visiting him today in this room: Naomi Misora. Months have passed and she still came back for more, perhaps to dissect him further for her personal notes. He did not have high hopes that she was here on her own—maybe the FBI was intrigued by him—but it was the intent that counted.

After a few minutes passed, the aforementioned woman opened the door and stared at him either in fascination or disgust. No, he knew what the issue was. She was clearly staring at the aftermath of his burned body and the untreated skin that had been left alone because L was apparently that much of a petty man to let him have some decent healthcare in prison. Fine, it did not matter, at the rate he was going, someone is bound to be fed up with him and finish him off.

Too bad it will never be me.

“Misora,” Beyond flashed an emotionless smile, the corner of his lips barely moving, as she sat down in front of him. “I knew you would come back to me.”

“Let’s save the sarcasm for one day, this isn’t personal.” Naomi scoffed. Also, the overt lack of boundaries was uncomforting.

“You haven’t changed one bit,” Beyond chuckled. “How is the FBI? I must admit, I did not mean to leave that much of an impact on you, I was supposed to go out with dignity. You learn from your mistakes and mind your business. How do you deal with that?”

You are the reason why I wake up without any rest. “Not very well. My job does not allow me to let things go.”

“Leaves you a mark for life, understandable.” Beyond said nonchalantly. “We all deal with trauma in our own ways. Have you tried screaming and crying while being watched by three unsuspected prisoners? Let’s just say, it’s good for a good bedtime story.”

The earpieces let out a crackle, allowing L to give Naomi further words to say. There was an instruction so deliberate that she wondered if this was nothing more than a game to him.

“You never learned to keep your thoughts to yourself,” Naomi said slowly and with a lower tone. “Backup, you never fail to disappoint me.”

And then, the alarms set off in his head, his eyes glazing over as his anger rose inside of him.

“You have been in close contact with L.” Beyond said between gritted teeth. And he bet that L was way closer than he imagined through Naomi Misora; he would not put it past him to use her as his mouthpiece. This was not the first time, and it would not be his last. In his earlier years of successor training, L was never present, but some of the institution’s teachers would occasionally adjust their earpieces before speaking, indicating that none of their words were their own. Incidentally, they all sounded the same: From the diction, to the deliberate robotic strictness, he figured that this was L’s modus operandi in the shadows. It almost made him laugh; either L was afraid of children or he was the least caring person on the planet. He was willing to bet on both, but he learned the hard way that L could not be put in a box. It was a fact so infuriating, and yet, it kept his fascination for him alive.

“Yes,” Naomi said curtly. “I was given more information about you that I cared to know about.”

“Do you think he is better than me?”

“What?” She was taken aback.

“Oh, you know,” Beyond shrugged. “Since the Great Detective is listening to this conversation right now, it wouldn’t hurt to hear from your own mouth how much of a failure I am. Come on, stroke his ego today, he desperately needs it.”

There was stunned silence between the three of them.

Naomi stood up from her seat and turned her back to Beyond. Faint whispers of “let me handle this” and “that’s enough for me” were barely heard, but her frantic movements were indicative that she was winning the argument. She removed her hand from her ear and sat back down, her hands flat against the table.

“He thinks nothing of you, Beyond Birthday. You were caught in the act and your terror is over. I hope prison gives you no rest.”

Beyond tsked. “Ah, so the lady can speak for herself. And here I thought I wouldn’t be able to speak to the real Naomi Misora after all. Tell me, Misora, and only you, can you truly forgive L for all the emotional damage he has bestowed upon you? He may command respect, but he has no regard for common human decency.”

Naomi fiddled with her ring absentmindedly, a nervous habit she developed after the LABB case. It was the one thing that could sooth her at this time.

Beyond let out a low whistle. “You have to give your man some credit, he knows when to lock it down.”

“What?” That perked up her attention.

“However, if that is the best ring he could get, he doesn’t deserve you. What’s his name?”

“None of your business!” Naomi fired back.

“Touchy subject, I see,” Beyond rolled his eyes. “And here I thought you could tell me anything.”

“Enough,” Naomi said firmly. “This isn’t about me; this is about you. I know what you did, Beyond, don’t let this go.”

“What, that I killed people? Shocking, no wonder why we are both here.”

“You can either confess now and have your sentence reduced or lie to the both of us and make your situation worse for you.”

“What? What are you talking about?” Beyond’s voice cracked from the sudden raise of his tone.

“You killed A.”

All pleasantries were done for, Beyond could not believe what he was hearing. L was trying to frame him for A’s death? This was a new low, even for L. And what was that about “confessing” now to reduce his sentence? L must think he was that desperate to get out of prison to even suggest that he would ever say that he killed A. Just because you lie every single day of your life it does not mean I should follow your example to save my skin. Absolutely pathetic, what are you trying to prove, hmm? That you can torture me for the rest of my life to show how little I mean to you? Admit to something I did not do? How about you admit that I’m a reminder that your games are useless and that you fail as a functional, empathetic human being? You will get what is coming for you, it may not be tomorrow, or within the next year, but mark my words, L, no one will miss you when you are gone.

“I don’t know what he told you, but he is lying,” Beyond was seething. “I didn’t kill A, he did.”

“L told me you would say something like that. This is over, Beyond.”

“Don’t believe him!” He suddenly stood up from his seat. “He made A and I train like old dogs to be like him. A did not deserve what happened to him, it was all L’s fault. There is no evidence of what he is accusing me of, and if he has something, it is a set up. I’m sick of him, you have to be sick of him, too, for making you go through this farce.”

“Backup, sit down!” Keith approached him. Beyond complied, not because he feared him, but he wanted to be here long enough to convince Naomi that he was telling the truth.

Naomi said nothing. On one hand, he was trying to prove his innocence so badly, it must be genuine. However, she had been an agent long enough to realize that guilt can manifest with overt emotions and he had been caught in a sticky situation. Either way, he was a still a murderer and did not deserve her sympathy.

“He does have proof, Beyond,” Naomi insisted. “It’s over, confess and you’ll be happier to have this burden off your shoulders.”

Beyond shook his head roughly. “No, that’s not true. He is setting me up to test me. It does not matter if I lie or tell the truth, I am stuck in prison for the rest of my life. What do I benefit from A’s death? Nothing. I know it, L knows it, even you know it. You have seen how I plan my murders, Misora. Don’t you think there is something off going on? You must realize deep down that you are nothing but a pawn in his game.”

Here was the thing: Naomi was aware at this point that she was a chess piece to this game, she would have been too naïve not to see it. However, she just wanted this to end, no matter what.

“Stop it. At the end of the day, you are a murderer and deserve what is coming to you. If you want to pretend that you did not kill A, that is your problem. This is over, I’m done with this.”

“No, this is not over,” Beyond crawled over the table, his face twisted and colorful in anger. “I’m sick and tired of this nonsense. L,” He seemed to point out at her ear. “Listen to me carefully. I will get out of here, one way or another. This is your final warning to drop the act and face me properly once and for all. When that time comes, don’t hide behind your guards and power. This is between you and me only. You are an absolutely coward—”

“Time’s up, Backup,” Keith grabbed Beyond’s arms, not caring how rough he was being. As much as Beyond wanted to resist, he just could not. He said what needed to be said and was not in the mood for an altercation. He would save all the fighting energy for the day he finally escapes.

Once Beyond was out of sight, Naomi dropped her face between her arms and let out an exasperated sigh. At least that was over.

“Misora-san?” L said in the earpiece.

“Hm?” Naomi murmured.

“You can go home now; you did an outstanding job.”

Oh, thank God.

[malereader-inserts]

Of Heaven and Hell

Fandom: Good Omens Pairing: Crowley & Son!Reader & Aziraphale Summary: You are a balanced creature as you were made of the powers of Heaven and Hell Word Count: 1,908 Request: “Can you do good omens where the reader is their son and he likes someone but he too stubborn to accept it until they are in danger (Crowley teases him about it all the time)” Warning: Angels are dicks, Demons are bigger dicks. Blood, injury, stabbing, I mean it, it’s a bit gruesome A/n: Okay, I couldn’t do this request but I wanted to do a son reader so we’re going for some hurt and comfort. God shipping Ineffable Husbands

You’re not supposed to be alive.

Your existence is taboo in both Heaven and Hell. But damn anyone, angels and demons, to ever touched you. Your parents were very protective of you but they weren’t one to shy away from what you were and how you weren’t like other children. 

Growing up was fairly quiet, your parents sent you to school so you blended with humans. Maybe if one of their sides visit them you could just pass off as a human, it worked almost all of your childhood. You were bright as your parents always fed you extra knowledge, in the courtesy of Aziraphale. 

You didn’t need to sleep often so there were many spent nights on you reading books well in advance of your age. You were their little Nephilim, the perfect balance of heaven and hell, their greatest secret. 

“I’m going out to hang out with some friends!” You called out as your fathers turned their head, “It’s with the usual, don’t worry.”

“I won’t but he will,” Crowley jokes with a smile, ruffling your hair and pressing small kisses around faces.

“Dad!” You moaned, wiping away the kisses he had planted.

Aziraphale chuckled, “Your dad will be the one worrying more than me, son, be safe!” 

He presses a kiss upon your temple as you smile, nodding as you waved them off, pulling your backpack tighter as you unlocked your bike from a nearby light post. Crowley and Aziraphale love you so much, it’s unknown at what age you stop ageing but for now, they want to keep your teenage years pure and bright.

“Love you!”

When they were expecting you, the two had moved outside of London, in a little cottage. Aziraphale tending to his books at the book shop and Crowley annoying the city of London. As you disappear from view Aziraphale looks at Crowley, who was busy on his phone.

“I have a bad feeling, dear,” Aziraphale says with a worrisome voice.

Crowley looks up with his eyebrows raised, “And you said that I would worry more, I’m sure he’ll be fine, Angel.”

But, when Aziraphale agrees that he’s just being a little paranoid Crowley couldn’t help but feel that unsettling feeling bubble through his stomach. He hopes to somebody’s sake that their son will be safe.

You were coming back from hanging out with your friends. When you’re young and having a little freedom it does you good. Just as you were about to go back to the bike rack to fetch your bike, a hand had grabbed you from the back of your jacket, pulling you into an alleyway. Spinning out of your jacket, to see who had a hold of it.

Your eyes widen when you see Uriel and Sandalphon, but they weren’t alone, they were accompanied by Dagon and Ligur. It was Uriel who had pushed you against the wall, the four looking at you with great interest.

“So, this is why Crowley’s been ignoring Hell for seventeen years, an offspring,” Ligur sneers, poking your cheek, “I expected more if he mated with the Angel. He’s got heaven’s eyes.”

Sandalphon scoffs, “And hell’s smile.”

Dagon sneered at you, you were terrified, you knew what both sides were capable of. Whilst you know Aziraphale was made to be a soldier, you had training from him. He taught you how to hold up a sword and how to fight. You’d think that a soft angel like him wouldn’t but there was a reason he was guarding the eastern gate of the garden.

“There is a reason why I am called Master of Torments,” Dagon hisses, but not in the way your dad does it, you gulped, “I can feel the fear radiating off him.”

“You must know your fate then, Nephilim,” Uriel growled, her grip tightening as you wince, “So unfortunate that you cannot see your dearest fathers again.”

Death, you wished was quick and painless. But, the four had a better idea, make you suffer for your existence. Make you suffer because of your parents. Sandalphon had a good hit, a punch to the gut. He was great with his hands, but he was best at smiting. 

Uriel and Ligur used special’s own daggers, of Heaven and Hell. You’ve cut yourself before with a regular knife, but the blades of the daggers upon your skin burnt like it tore your skin apart. You staggered to your knees. Your hands catching the fall, you could taste the blood in your mouth as you looked down at your oozing body.

The red liquid gushing out as they resorted to combat, their feet colliding towards your ribs. Stomping upon your hands, a boot to the face. Blood spilling from your lips and you found yourself begging for them to stop. But they wanted more, this is the most that they could do together as a team was to torment you. 

Dagon was the Master of Torment, she was amazingly skilled with a whip. Tears formed as the leather hits upon your back, she wanted blood, the angels wanted your wings. Dagon whips you until your back was a bloody mass of open flesh in front of everyone else.

And your wings show. Bloodied and mixed with dirt and grime. Your wings were extravagant. It wasn’t a half-half wings. From your back, it was white and faded into grey then black. With Uriel’s pleasure, she made sure to clip your wings. 

An anguished scream tore your throat, you were done for, you’ve convinced yourself. 

“My child, (Y/n),” A holy woman’s voice rang out into your mind, “You’re powerful, you are loved, you are created and protected for a reason.”

“I can’t, God,” You choked out in the pain, “It hurts too much, God, I’m going to die.”

“You are of the balance sides. You are made out of Heaven and Hell, there is a reason why you have survived this.”

You grit your teeth and let out another scream, so loud that it blasted them back. Inconveniently discorporating them, however, the energy of your miracle took to much as you fell back to your knees.

“My dear boy,” God’s voice echoes, “Go, return home to your fathers. And in pain and virtue, you stand strong.”

“Wait,” You murmured, grabbing your wet dirty jacket, the pain in your back searing, “I am that bad for existing?”

“You’re not bad at all, my sweet summer child, the forces of heaven and hell do not want to see a world where the two can work together and fall in love. Your fathers have been one of the greatest love stories I’ve witnessed. You are good, boy, you are of trouble. But not enough to be hated.”

There was a weigh disappearing when she leaves. You put your jacket on, ignoring the burning pain that rips into you. There was blood everywhere, your blood, you stumbled yourself up. 

You fished out your phone and see it had broken upon your torment, forgetting your bike you stumble home. The blood loss making your head fuzzy, you were sure you were still bleeding. Broken bones and clipped wings, you were glad that Londoners hated interacting with strangers.

Relief had found home inside your chest when you see the bookshop. It was dimly lit, indicating that it was only your fathers occupying the building. As you came closer to the door, you had miracled it opened. You were tired and upset that the doors opened with a bang and shut with the same force.

Both your parents come to the front to see who had interrupted them, but the sight to see had their emotions running wild. 

“They found me,” You choked, tears starting to form, your hands are shaking and the two surged forward to their son, “It ‘urts so bad, please make it stop.”

Aziraphale’s jaw lock as he holds his baby boy, Crowley was ready to make an uproar in Heaven again.

“I was going to die,” You choked as you gripped Aziraphale tightly, the pain and fear lacing your words made them feel sick to the stomach, “They clipped my wings.”

Feeling emotions that were hard to describe as Crowley holds you from behind but you flinched. Crowley’s eyes widen at your reaction and gently tugs your jacket off. He cringes, he seethes, he closes his eyes to see the mess made by the whip.

“(Y/n), let's get you home,” Crowley whispers to you, soothing as Aziraphale examines your back.

The three of you get into the Bently, there was no comfortable position that wasn’t painful. It was tormenting that they had to listen to their son, softly crying. Upon the arrival of home, they sat you down on the bed, Aziraphale slowly waving his hand over your back to clear the open flesh, yet red nasty marks linger on. Crowley worked on the stabbing, leaving scars. 

The two healed your broken bones, Aziraphale rubbing his thumb over your knuckles whilst Crowley rubs his thumbs over the cuts and bruises on your face. By the end of the session, it was almost hard to tell that you were even attacked.

You looked at them with tired eyes, “Thank you.”

Aziraphale puts a firm hand on your shoulder, “We can’t heal your clipped wings, but if we tend to them properly they may regrow again.”

“Okay,” You hummed, your voice hoarse, “I love you guys.”

“We love you too!” Crowley says with the utmost happiness, hoping it makes you smile - it does.

He wraps his lanky arms around you and pulls you close as Aziraphale looks at his husband with great disapproval. Sometimes, Aziraphale still thinks you’re as fragile as a baby. After all, you were still their son and the powers of upstairs and downstairs will continue to hunt the three of you.

“I think it’s safe to say we should visit each other’s respectful side,” Aziraphale mentions, sitting on the other side of you, “Maybe we’ll give them a taste of their own medicine for hurting our son.”

“Ah!” The demon exclaims, parting the hug with a smile that screamed trouble, “I’m dragon breathing hellfire at them again, no one hurts my baby without getting something in return.”

“Might take a while, I discorperated Uriel, Sandalphon, Ligur and Dagon,” Listing who was there, making sure they knew exactly who to target. Your fathers nodded, getting who to go for, “Oh, God also said something.”

“Big powerful lady?” Crowley asked, with a slighter higher tone, “Oh, well go on! What’d she say?”

“She’s the Lord Almighty, Crowley,” Aziraphale scolded at him, “Not some gossiper.”

“She said that she loves your love story and it’s the best she’s seen,” You interrupted before your parents get into another whimsical bicker.

“So, she approves?” Aziraphale says with a slightly nervous tone, as you nodded, “Oh good.”

“I bet she was fed up with you two though,” You joked, “6000 years?”

“Now, don’t you start with me young boy,” Your father scowled as your dad chuckled next to you, “Why don’t you get some rest, we can spend time at home tomorrow how does that sound?”

You looked at Aziraphale with a smile, nodding, “That’ll be nice,” You slowly get up and move to the doorway to head to your room. You paused and looked back at them with Heaven’s eyes and Hell’s smile, “I love you guys.”

Your parents smile, beaming almost, “We love you too.”

[sweetgardener]

The Doctor and The Lizard (Identity V Tickle-fic)

(So I would say this is mildly nsfw, so I'm setting it as mature just to be safe. No, He is not naked in that tub, He has shorts on)

“Yes yes, Come In!” The Doctor cooed from her makeshift office, seated behind a desk she had squeezed into her little room. A turn of the door handle and a rather bashful looking reptile would enter, tip of his tail twitching as he stared at the ground. At least, Emily thought it was bashfulness on the other’s face. It could’ve been embarrassment or a number of things. But what on earth could he have to be embarrassed about. Her internal question was answered once the lizard took a seat and finally spoke. “It’s shedding season..and I need...” The lizard would grimace before continuing.

“I need help with it. Its a living hell to deal with and I cannot..reach every single area on this wretched body of mine” A slight growl lingered in Luchino’s voice, a mix of fallen pride and irritation. The Doctor would slowly blink, taking in the request and thinking it over. “..Its..a bit odd, but I’m sure I can assist if its causing you any pain or bother” She wasn’t exactly a big expert on reptiles, but she could hazard a guess that leaving the shed to remain could lead to irritation, maybe even infection. “Well..I may have to look at a few books fir-!” Emily would flinch as a book on reptiles was dropped on the desk on front of her. Where..where on earth was he hiding that?. “..Be patient please” She spoke softly, carefully opening the book. She could feel the lizard’s eyes on her as she scanned the pages, visibly wincing at some of the unfortunate effects that could occur from a bad shed. “..And you need my help again because? I just want to clarify a few things” She spoke softly once more, receiving a quick reply from Luchino. “Because some areas I can’t reach on my own” That hiss again, a sound of flustered embarrassment. “Oh! That must be quite the annoyance” Emily remarked, fighting the smile creeping upon her face. While it was some degree of amusing to see the tall reptilian hunter in such a red state, She had been asked for some aide. “Well, according to the book, warm water seems to be the best remedy..so I suppose a bath is needed” She kept up a neutral and civil tone, professional. “I...Fuck it, if it helps, then why not” There was a defeated tone to Luchino’s voice as he got up, tongue flicking out once more. The journey to the bathroom was short lived, Emily waiting outside while the lizard got the tub full of hot water. And yes, bubbles. When called in, She nearly snorted at how the reptile only just fit in the bath. Luchino had sunk up to his shoulders, an expression similar to a disgruntled cat upon his face. A leg hung out of the side of the bath, while one knee poked out of the bubbles.

“Are..Are you comfortable in there?” The Doctor couldn’t help herself, a stray giggle bubbling out. Luchino merely huffed in response, sitting up and furiously staring at the bubbly water. Amusement ended as Emily neared, taking a better look at the now soaked scaley back. She frowned at several telltale spots of irritation, flecks and patches of shed just about to fall off, yet not quite. “Poor thing” Emily muttered under her breath, receiving a snort from the hunter. “I asked for your help, not your pity” The lizard grumbled, poking a stray bubble floating about in the air.

“Right, right..” The frown remained as she worked on a particularly nasty patch of shed, carefully tugging it off and depositing it into a bucket. Distractions occurred as she studied the scales with curiosity and interest, noting the odd blend between human and reptile. Her fingers would gently trace the spine, searching for hidden bits of shed. The water would shake, the lizard turning and grabbing her wrist, causing her to squeak in fright. “..Be careful near the spine” Was all he said before letting go of her hand, returning to his staring at the water.

The Doctor needed a moment to compose herself before continuing her removal of the shedding skin, having been somewhat startled by the suddenness of the grab. She would work from the top to the bottom of the back, stopping at the base of his tail. “..Luchino, I just want to confirm that you are fine with me..treating this specific area” Rolling up her sleeves, She received a muttered ‘It’s fine’. Taking a deep breath, She dipped her hands into the water, clearing some of the bubbles to get a better look at the base of the tail, as long as the rest of the tail. She squeaked when Luchino adjusted suddenly, his tail somewhat falling out of the tub. Emily was reminded of how horribly imposing said tail was, knowing well enough the lizard would use it in matches to snag survivors or trip them. She banished any odd thoughts from her mind and got to work, starting at the base of the tail. She found she had to massage the area somewhat to loosen up the shedding skin, carefully and nervously pressing her thumbs there. The lizard was still as she worked, though as a surprise to her, She saw his shoulders start to shake and fidget, though no sound came from him. Initially confused, She finally put the pieces together when she reached the middle of the tail, gently rubbing at a piece of shed to loosen up. It was the snort that startled her first, bubbles nearly pouring over the side of the tub. “Oh..Oh my..I’m sorry if that tickled, Luchino” Was there a mild teasing tone to her voice? Yes, yes there was, and it sent a shiver up the reptile’s spine.

One half of her wondered what brought her onto teasing the dangerous hunter, but the other half knew well enough why. Revenge for all those times she got knocked down during matches, or taunted. “To be perfectly honest, I never thought you could be..sensitive in such a manner. Sensitive to cold weather makes sense, but ticklish?” She hummed as she made her way down to the tip of the tail, glancing over quickly to see the lizard bury his face in his hands, shoulders still shaking and small waves being made in the bath. His face burned with a fiery red blush, firmly keeping his hands over his mouth to keep the giggles from bubbling out. “It does make one wonder..where else is a big bad hunter such as yourself sensitive?~” Was she nuts to tease him? Probably. She paused her teasing, finding a rather uncooperative bit of shed on the tip of the tail. “Hm..now this wont do” She mused, getting a decent drip on the piece of shedding and gently tugging it. It took a lot of effort, So much so she barely noticed the other make a rather audible wheezing noise into his hands. “Almost..got i-!” She would squeak, slippy on a wet patch of flooring and tumbling onto her rear, piece of shedding in her hand. Emily would huff softly, getting up carefully and depositing the piece into the bucket, which was getting rather full. “Heavens above, how much shedding do you produ-..” Her sentence was cut short as she just noticed the Lizard now looming over her, leaning on the tub to do so. The scarlet blush remained on his face, Her giving him a sheepish grin. “Ah..A-About the te-” She was silence when a finger was put to her lips. Luchino was quiet for a moment, eyes closed as he thought. “..Never, In all of my days at this wretched manor, would I have thought of you as being an utterly devious devil, Emily Dyer~” The tone of voice sent a shiver up The Doctor’s spine, a blush of her own creeping upon her face. Before she could reply, a scaley tail wrapped around her and she squealed rather loudly, being pulled into the tub by the lizard, watering flowing over the top and soaking the bathroom floor. Cap on the floor, Her hair and the rest of herself now soaked in bubbles and water, She barely registered how much cackling the lizard was doing. To give her position some perspective, She was currently receiving a face full of his chest, partially leaning on him as a red blush spread all the way to her ears. Fumbling with her words, She would sit up and stare at him. Stare at those terrible amber eyes full of cheeky amusement and mirth. “T-this is highly unprofessional!” She remarked with a shaking voice, finding her own set of giggles bubbling up in her chest. Why did she find this so funny? She was a doctor for heavens sake, tumbling into the same bath as a patient clearly wasn’t some a normal doctor would do. Emily was aware of hard her heart was beating in her chest, the sound echoing in her ears. “That, is what you get for teasing me, Doctor~” The lizard sounded so smug, so proud it made her ears burn. With a less than dignified huff, She scooped up some of the remained bubbles and pasted them upon his chin. He retaliated by messing up her bun and leaving a mustache of bubbles upon her face. Staring at each-other, the pair burst into snickering laughter, most of the bath water ending up on the floor with how hard they were laughing.

Exhausted and soaking wet, Emily sighed, resting upon the lizard’s torso. Granted this took Luchino aback slightly, But he didn’t say anything. “...I won’t tell if you won’t” The Doctor chirped with a soft giggle, a little high on the serotonin caused by the silly events thus far. Luchino just smiled, a tired sort of smile before hauling her out of the tub. Snickering would resume from the lizard, Him remarking about how she looked like a wet cat. She flicked water at him in retaliation before moving to dry off, making use of the shower curtain to keep herself presentable. Soon enough, the pair were dry, The reptile dressed in his usual attire. Adjusting the bun on her head, Emily would squeak when a hand rested upon her shoulder. She turned to look up at him, an eyebrow slightly raised. “Yes?” She spoke, the ghost of a smile upon her face. “..Thank you for the help..” The words of appreciation seemed wonky upon the reptile’s lips, as if he wasn’t used to really thanking anyone for anything. “I...Its not a problem..feel free to come to me if you have any more shedding issues” She put on her serious face, her calm hard working face, feeling giggles threaten to bubble up from her again. With a chuckle, the reptile would pat her head and leave. -------------------------------------- Emily was awoken from her doze at the match table by a tap on the arm. “Hey, Miss Emily, I heard one of the hunters visited you for something. What was it?” It was dear Emma, an innocent smile upon her face. Miss Dyer found herself letting out a sigh, a wry smile upon her face. “Its not important Emma, don’t worry” She’d chuckle when she received a pout from the gardener, the conversation over as soon as the match bell dinged.

[addicted-to-dc]

Red Hood’s Little Monster (Part 6)- Red Hood/Jason Todd X Gender fluid!Reader

Welp, I’m actually posting something! Hopefully you all will enjoy this VERY long fic. Also, I currently do not have my tag list on me, so I cannot tag anyone for a while, not until I can find my list.

Warnings: Anger issues? Flirting?

"Come on, man, you gotta help me out," you begged, barely suppressing the urge to roll your eyes at your own words. "I just need one identity, I don't care who, but I need one now."

Norm shook his head, pacing around the room while biting his nail, "You know that I can't do it in less than a day! I need at least a week in advance to do it, to make sure it is prepared properly and won't get any red flags! You know if you get caught while using a passport and documents from me, that could damage my reputation!"

"Oh come on! You gave me one in three days," you spat, trying to keep your emotions in control, "and I'm offering double the pay that I gave you that time! I don't give a shit what gender, race, hell, I don't care what age, just give me a goddamn passport and a picture of the poor bastard. You know that I can handle situations like these, can you?"

He pointed at you, shaking his hand as he muttered a few curses. Wiping his face, he scratched his beard as he thought up for some type of solution, something that could save him from being killed by you. As soon as he thought of something, he ran into the back room and dug through his things, searching for the one type of person that would guarantee her a way to escape. Grasping onto the documents, he walked back into the room and handed you what you requested.

Looking over the documents, you scanned over the man in the photo. He had a handsome face, but his face would definitely blend in. His dark skin glowed in the sunlight of the photo, making his dark brown eyes look like honey.

"What happened to him?" you asked Norm, pocketing the documents.

"Disappeared without a trace," he replied solemnly. "He had no family, friends, or next of kin, so you will not deal with any unwanted attention."

"Did you know him?" you questioned, watching his eyes shift to the floor. "If this is too personal I will not take-"

"No, take it," Norm stated, waving you off. "He was a... a good guy, a loving one, too, but his kindness got him killed. It's somewhat comforting that a little bit of him will be back, y' know?"

You nodded, "Thank you, Norm. The money will be transferred to you tomorrow, I just need to get a head start before drawing attention to your bank account."

"I know the drill by now," he chuckled, patting you on the shoulder. "Stay safe out there."

"You, too," you replied, adjusting your jacket before leaving the building.

Stepping out into the sun, you pulled your sunglasses onto your face and continued forward, determined to slink back into the shadows like you always did. You had the upper hand now, but for how long? They had more resources than you by far, but it would take time for them to get everything. Your father's quarrel with Bruce Wayne would spark arguments if he requested help from him, but there was the possibility that his familial instincts will suspend the fighting.

Huffing, you moved forward on your path, heading to the nearest alley to shift. It wasn't the most inconspicuous, but it was better than going into a populated area and having questions arise. Leaning against the wall, you breathed heavily as you looked at the picture of the man, absorbing his image into your head as your body started to burn. Gritting your teeth, you felt as your muscles, bones, and other insides shift and grow, creating an exact copy of him. The shift was oddly less painful than your last ones, but you couldn't focus on that now. Pulling your hood up, you stretched out before walking out the other end of the alley, quickly getting used to the height difference of this body.

Opening your wallet, you pulled out the ID of your previous form, folding it in half and snapping it before throwing it into the nearest dumpster. Digging into your pocket, you slid the new one in, staring and memorizing all of the information. He had a California license, had a height of 5'11" and weighed 194 pounds. His birth date was August 20th, 1995, and his address was Norm's. You would read the documents containing more information on the way to your destination, but now you needed to sell the look of someone traveling. Looks like you were going to blow a lot of cash.

--------------

Walking through the airport, you pulled your cheap carry on suitcase, which was filled with clothes and other useless items, as you continued forward. You made sure not to look at the cameras, knowing that it would draw attention to you. Sighing, you glanced around and rubbed your eye, your exhaustion getting the better of you. Your contact had assured you that you wouldn't have to deal with security, especially when you still had your suit on. As advanced as it was, it wouldn't make it past the metal detectors that nearly all were required to pass through.

Clutching the handle, you looked around for your contact, searching for her obnoxious bright red hair. Before you could notice someone running behind you, you felt an impact against your back. It nearly made you throw a punch, but you were able to see her head notched into your neck before you made the mistake. Smiling, you laughed and turned around, hugging her to keep the act going. Her honey-colored eyes stared into yours as the both of you pulled away, but kept close physical contact.

"It's been a while since we've seen each other," she smiled, wrapping an arm around your waist, "and I must add that's one delicious form you've taken."

You chuckled at the redhead, remembering how much you hated her personality, "Might I remind you that I am a minor."

"A minor that can shapeshift into a very scrumptious adult," she smirked, removing her hand from your waist, "but I know my boundaries."

She led you through a corridor away from the TSA infested area of the airport. The sound of your footsteps reverberated through the hall, making you scan the area cautiously. From what you memorized of the blueprints of the airport, you were heading back to the loading dock, and your plan did not include going there.

"Is there a bathroom somewhere I can go before we leave?" you asked, looking around. "The coffee is kicking in."

"Don't worry, assassin, they think you're taking a private jet in the opposite direction," she stated, continuing forward. "Your plan worked, but we needed to take a more subtle route to our flight."

You didn't like the change in your plans, but even you knew that she was telling the truth. The Mya you knew wouldn't sell a customer out, especially if the customer could snap her neck before she could realize it, but that didn't mean that this was Mya.

"How's your brother and sister?" you asked, remaining behind her.

"They're okay, Gram is still in college and Grace dropped out, she's focusing on the family business currently," she replied, turning around. "Why the sudden curiosity?"

You shrugged, glaring down at her, "Because Grace is dead, you were the one who asked me to kill her, remember?"

Before she could react, you had her pinned against the wall, using your weight to keep her there. One hand held her own down while the other had her neck in its grip, squeezing just enough to make sure she wouldn't try anything.

"Who's helping my father, telepath?" you questioned her, squeezing tighter.

She dropped her disguise, revealing herself to be Miss Martian and telling you everything you needed. Without hesitation, you released her and let her fall to the ground. You ran a hand through your hair, frustrated beyond belief.

"How did they find me?" you asked yourself pacing around, completely ignoring the incapacitated Martian beneath you. "This chase needs to end right now, I can't stand this frustrating goose chase."

Rubbing your face, you sighed and glanced at the Martian, examining her while she tried to recover her breath. She was a white Martian, which was rather odd all things considering. You couldn't remember if they were outcasts of Mars or something else, but you didn't care at the moment.

"Are they waiting for me at the exit?" you asked, watching as she nodded 'yes'. "Well, I better go greet them."

Continuing down the corridor, you tried to mentally prepare yourself for what was about to occur. There had to be more than one hero helping them out, there definitely had to be. You had to admit you were slightly surprised that heroes would help the Outlaws, but who were you to judge the heroes' choices. They're always going off about 'discovering your better self' and 'forgiveness is always an option if you mean it' or however it's phrased.

You didn't believe in that crap, and you knew that if someone was trying to kill you, you wouldn't be given those options. You were too dangerous to be kept alive, too dangerous to be around potential loved ones when all you had to hear was a few code words to make you lose control and kill those around you. You couldn't risk that, especially when Talia al-Ghul has a thing for your father's family, your adoptive grandfather if you can even call him that.

You resisted the urge to pull out your weapon as you got closer the exit, making it more difficult to keep your nerves on edge. As soon as you rounded the corner, the three Outlaws could be clearly seen blocking the doorway.

"Unpleasant to see you three again," you stated calmly, examining your surroundings. "Where are the other junior heroes?"

"Somewhere around," your father replied coolly. "Now, are you going to come with us consciously or unconsciously?"

"I was expecting to explain everything before you'd make that decision for me," you answered, remaining vigilant. "If I come with you, death will follow. The League of Assassins will see it as an opportunity to weaken its enemies, and I will not be able to stop them from doing so. So, if you value your lives and the ones around you, I suggest you let me disappear and let go whatever semblance of fatherly instinct you developed. I'm not yours, I wasn't raised by you, I wasn't taught to love or look up to you, we just share a genetic code."

You waited for a response, some sort of reaction from your father, but you couldn't identify anything from his body language. His red helmet obscured his face, which gave him the upper hand in this current situation.

Pinching the bridge of your nose, your frustration grew exponentially as his silence continued, "Are you going to just stand there, or actually respond to me?"

He stepped forward, making your hand instinctively go for your weapon, "The League can't touch you, (Y/N), we'll make sure of it."

"You can't be serious," you said, nearly laughing at his statement. "They are everywhere, no matter how secure it is. If they aren't affiliated with them, they are being blackmailed or have their families on a watch. They know how to break anyone, hell, they broke the great Batman many times."

"I am not Batman," he nearly growled, "and the League will have to go through me to get to you."

"This is exactly what they want," you sighed, knowing what would transpire in the future if you went with them.

Arsenal stepped forward, patting your father on the shoulder before looking in your direction, "Listen, kid, we'll make some precautions if that will ease your conscience. Even if it happens, we'll be able to deal with it."

Gritting your teeth, you punched the wall beside you, punching through to the next room. You retracted your hand and sighed, your anger contained for the moment. Thinking about your other options, you could escape them once again, but they would find you again and again. Dusting off your hand, you stomped toward the three adults and walked past them.

"Let's go before I change my mind," you huffed, hoping that you would not regret your decision in the future.

[clairenchanted]

wild sage; ocean spray; the earth in the high, dry summer. 

a few things you remember, in no particular order. / previous. 

o1. the room is dark and quiet with every thing that made it alive petering into nothing in the growing night. the television screen has gone to the complacent blue of the movie menu, and it spills insubstantially over kate’s face. it makes her face soft where it’s pressed against her arm and where her arm is pressed against ray’s. the shadows cast by ray’s hair grow darker, but he bleeds into light in the glow the further down his face is illuminated. 

you cannot see victoria. she is sleeping on your shoulder. your back is against the legs of the bed, and you are on fire where she is draped against your side, you are on fire in every place that she touches you and you hold her unintentionally upright. you don’t understand what it means, to feel so blindingly alive in a room so dark and still. you don’t understand how you have not burned down the bedsheets at your back, the carpet under your thighs, the delicate and infinitely breakable form of her cheek her elbow her knee jammed up into yours. 

it’s too quiet and far too loud. you sit for hours trying tread the water of your desperation, aching to understand why you are so acutely aware of your body. you don’t fall asleep. 

o2. you look at your reflection in your sister’s mirror. you try to understand what you look like in her sweater, turning a little to catch the light in the slivery threads that slip through the seams almost unnoticed until you see them the right way. emma shifts on the bed. you hear the way sheets shift under her. you wait for her to say something; the tension in the silence wraps around your throat and begs for your voice. 

deep maroon. you wonder if it’s too dark for you. 

i don’t know, she finally says, with the precision of a scalpel. 

what don’t you know? you don’t ask. 

a little more silence. you think about how short golden hour lasts, and how much you’ll blend into the shadows of the basement as the party lasts so much longer. 

she sighs. i don’t think it fits you right. 

you don’t know what to say to that, or why you want to say anything. but the chord wraps tighter and you scramble to find the release: can you argue? do you want this? does it matter? what could you possibly need help with? 

you look at emma’s reflection over your shoulder in the cool glass. your lips part; you don’t say anything. you take off the sweater and give it back. 

o3. no one says anything on the ride back home from the police station. you stare out the window of the SUV and idly note the landmarks that pass by. you don’t remember the questions you answered, and you never asked about the paperwork that was filled out. you turn the memory of your father on the phone over in your mind for as long as you remember to -- something about forms, something about documents -- and then it’s gone. 

the pitcher sage is growing. it’s april, so this makes sense. you know something about pitcher sage, or maybe you remember something, but the thought ebbs out to sea. you can’t smell them from here anyway, and you’ve never been anything but neutral towards plants. 

when you get home, the foyer feels a little larger than you thought it was. maybe the ceilings are higher. something hot presses against your elbow; by the time you turn, emma is already a few paces ahead. you catch only the tail end of her look, the last pointed hook of it, before she is gone up the stairs. in the distance, echoing in this too big and meticulously kept foyer, the slamming of her bedroom door is the only sound. 

your mother is wearing all black. she stands a few feet away from you at the crossroads where the living room branches off from the stairs. you watch her, cataloguing the things about her that stand out: her perfected waves frizzing at the ends; her lipstick smudging just at the corner of her mouth; the front of her dress is wrinkled. you don’t know why these details whisper to you, and you don’t know why you should care. 

o4. when you and victoria are nine, you realize the true extent of your power. it’s a hot day -- it’s too hot in a way that it never really gets in california, all sticky with rare, heavy storm clouds gathering on the horizon. every time you shift in the sand, it burns your skin where it’s bare. it hurts. the back of your throat burns and it’s stupid -- it’s just a stupidly hot day -- but the moment your face turns red and your eyes sting, there’s a sticky, familiar hand on your shoulder. 

c’mon, she says. she takes your hand and helps you stand. i think i have enough for ices. 

she doesn’t, and you want to cry because victoria is so nice and it feels so unfair that you’re just fifty cents short. your throat aches; you want to yell, even though it’s useless and selfish and bratty. even though you know better. it’s hot and it’s not fair and you just want to eat ices with your best friend in the whole world so you can stay out here and not go back home. 

aw. the ice seller guy probably isn’t as old as your parents but he’s old to you. you wonder if he’ll get mad at you both, but something breaks in his expression and he hands v’s money back to her along with two little ices, lemon and cherry. don’t worry about it, girls. 

this is a magnificent superpower, but you both whisper to each other that you need to be careful with it. you laugh when v’s lips turn bright red as she eats, and then you can’t stop laughing just, just because. 

o5. the hallways are packed with the throng. you marvel at the fact that you haven’t been trampled yet; you dread it, you dread its certain coming. you press yourself against the back of lockers, hugging your books to your chest. room 205 must exist somewhere but it doesn’t exist here and you don’t know which way to go. 

more important things don’t exist here: the ocean spray, the smell of pitcher sage, the tang of lemon ices from the boardwalk. the burning heat of the august sun and victoria next to you. you knew this would happen once high school started -- you’re right and for a moment, anger lashes up your chest and into your throat. how dare the world be so large and loud and so lacking of anything that you can cling to and understand with each intimate breath. how dare the world do this to you, how dare it take you here without your permission and ask you to deal with it. 

you manage to make it to english just as the bell rings. you sit in the back row, and you spend half the lesson curling notebook paper around your pencil. 

o6. there has never been a bigger deal than the junior class trip. your grades have been immaculate -- straight a’s, a glowing report card, a need for nothing more at the fall’s parent teacher conference -- and you find yourself with a signed permission slip and a check for mr. chester. 

we have basically two full days, v says solemnly, the two of you leaning over her spiral edged notebook. so we have to plan strategically. if we start with skiing, we’re not going to have time for anything else. 

you picture mammoth mountain’s snow capped peaks, soaring high above the hot desert valley below. you picture leaving the heat-packed sand behind, forgetting the dry earth. you think of cute hats and gloves and scarves, and try to imagine what it feels to look at your own outfit on your own body with approval. with excitement. maybe you’ll manage it -- maybe you’ll leave the constant, gnawing anxiety behind in southern california behind for a weekend. 

okay, you say, imagining v’s face red with the cold -- the tip of her nose, the tops of her ears. you smile to yourself and look at the notebook. do we have any time to hang out in the lodge? 

absolutely not, she says primly, everything under control. this is a once in a lifetime thing until we get into some fabulous east coast college and we can go skiing all the time. 

in between classes. 

sure, sure. now look, if we do snow tubing and ice skating first, we have the whole second day to figure out the skiing and snowboarding trails. 

you picture spinning in concentric circles over and over, hands linked, gentle guitar-heavy music wrapped around the scene. you nod. 

sounds great. 

we also have to sit with felicity for like, most of the time. 

-- felicity? you wonder sharply. felicity? you ask gently. 

she’s been making eyes at jake for like, the entire semester. she chews the words, deliberate and hard edged. something’s up. keep your enemies close, gus. 

you are cold. you are very cold. you breathe through it and look at the schedule printed in v’s spiky, flowing script. oh. i didn’t realize that was still a thing. 

it’s not anything. not yet. but i’m not going to let something just -- just happen between them. you know how i feel about jake. 

do you? you should. you should know everything about v. you watch the notebook, and you tell yourself you’re not cold. right, sorry. 

no worries. v waves a hand like it’s not a big deal. like it’s not important. that’s okay. it’s okay. just help me, okay? 

this is part of your world now: the smell of books, the off white lighting, the hallways of your same old high school. but it suddenly feels very, very large again and you don’t know how to form the words. 

okay? she asks idly, not looking at you. 

you nod. 

o7. three days after you all come home -- from the funeral by way of the police station -- your mother opens the door to your room. it’s past midnight. you blink at the sudden light, waiting until her silhouette resolves into something familiar. 

she jumps a little when she sees you. you don’t understand why. 

my god, she says. why are you awake? 

you don’t know, so you don’t answer. 

you watch her as she stands there, eclipsed by the low light in the hallway. part of you wonders, briefly, why she’s here, but then in the next wave the curiosity is dragged back out and you are left alone in your bed. 

she finally moves. you don’t know how long it took her. she presses the door behind you until it is still open but only just. she crosses the room. she stands by the side of your bed. she sits, so close to the edge you think she might fall off. she reaches out and you blink when heat -- searing, brilliant, entirely strange -- covers the back of your hand. you feel her flinch, and you look down at her hand then back up at her face. 

-- august. there is something rough in her voice that you don’t remember -- catching, steely, ragged. rusty. she reaches forward, pressing a hand to your face. her eyes are wide, brows up. she looks as if she’s searching for something, but you don’t know what it could be so you say nothing. 

in one motion -- sharp but fluid -- she wraps her arms around your shoulders. you don’t move, but you don’t feel the need to pull away. august, she says, as if there is something to excavate in the depths of your name. august. please, can you -- please? 

you don’t know what she’s asking, so you cannot answer. 

in shattered pieces, she pulls back. she looks at you, one hand still on your shoulder. her expression pinches more, still at her eyes and lips. august, can you please say something? 

what? you try to ask, because this seems like the most logical question, but you try for the sound and it rasps in the back of your throat, stinging with seawater. you grow colder. you try again, and nothing comes out. 

your mother’s expression draws darker. she lets go of your shoulder. coldness rushes in to replace the burning warmth. i don’t know why you’re being like this. i don’t know why i try. 

you don’t know either. there’s nothing you can say as she gets up and leaves, closing the door behind her. 

[detectivesplotslies]

A face that cannot smile, hands that cannot clap, what am I?

Description: When the moments before death play over, blend and blur, what thoughts are left that haunt you?

This is just something experimental I wrote and wanted to share. WARNING MAJOR V3 SPOILERS Word Count: 1287

Read on AO3 here

Tick, tick.

A frozen moment, where time does not pass. Where everything is stopped. Where things should end, but somehow they do not. Stuck between the seconds. Broken like the hands of a jammed clock. Gears grinding, still trying to continue on, but something stops them. Held back.

Dust hangs in the air and music pounds in his ears. Every now and then a pulse of brightness flashes before his eyes. There’s a sense of urgency, but for what? His hands tighten, gripping something closely. He looks around himself unseeing. He’s alone. He has to do it alone. The pounding in his ears continues, the music deafening. The pounding in his head, right at the back of it. He came here for something important, didn’t he?

There are voices, sharp and soft. Her face is wet. There’s a tightness and a pull back as they fade into the background again. The music starts and each note is shaky, like her breath. The melody bounces and she with it. Why is it so hard to breathe? Playing never got her like this before. But her fingers are not dancing on the keys, are they? No they are pressed somewhere, clawing for some give. Faster and faster still, but she hangs on knowing she has to.

A looping tirade and a dizzying waltz play on and on, an unending song.

Tick, tick.

The ache is setting in. It’s late, it’s been a long day. All the running, all the hiding. Finally standing still, his lightness all but gone. You always feel heavy at night, though, don’t you? But do you gasp? He sputters and pushes but it’s too heavy. He can’t move. Bubbles and bubbles, and his aches fade again. Maybe he’ll see them here, since he couldn’t see them there?

The clatter of heels echoes all around her. Shouts barrage the senses and wind whips through her hair. She will not stop. She cannot stop. Her skin, in her fingertips, and all over stings. Her clothes tear, threads straining. Her gloves are shredded again. How could she let that happen? She would never present herself as such, yet it happens the same. She grinds her teeth as the sun goes down. Can they really sleep soundly without her?

Stillness and motion, in striking contrast, but neither where they want to be.

Tick, tick.

The smell of wax and paint. The residue caked under fingernails. The soft dim light, gentle from a candle’s glow. Quiet, secluded, the perfect time to work. But somehow it was not the artist retreat as planned. The sound of metal biting into the wood. The long shadow blocking the light. When the others approached her, she’d had her arms wide and faced them. This time, why had they approached from her back?

Cramped and crouched, waiting, the darkness absolute around her. The smell of wax and smoke. Her knees, her hands and her forehead all rest on the grain of the wood. In the blackness hangs a haunting harmony. Voices of her classmates. Voice of her friend. Her own voice silent, as instructed. When was the last time she was silent? They wait to speak to someone who’s not here. Even the dead will speak, but she must stay still and silent. Is that what’s happening as the world shifts beneath her?

Held tight in an embrace, tied in it with no room to squirm. Spun and twisted, berated for the loss. Fallen from his attempt, like many tales before him. And truly like that outlaw, he’d go out the same way. Soaked in sweat, soaked in steam. Soaked and burning. And it stops… and somehow he’s not boiling anymore. But the burning returns and the burning remains. As does the chiding. Was he ever good enough?

The light, the smoke, and the fire, burning out.

Tick, tick.

The brightness and the chill, in both the air and her spine. The click of a door, the crunch of the snow. Heavy in her hand she shifts the tool. She feels it all, as she knows she should. She knows how. She knows it all. That’s certainly why she’s here. Still, her eyes see the difference. Softer, smoother, smaller. Vulnerable. But was it really vulnerability in front of her, in white on white? As more white wrapped around her, and the trap was complete. She stepped into her own trap, didn’t she know?

Chained and defeated, a gentleman accepts his fate. Telling himself it is for the best. Head bowed in the beating sun. His ‘self’ that tells him so is awaiting the same fate. The wind blows, stinging tear stained cheeks. Stinging endlessly. Stinging every inch until it’s numb. His swollen heart doesn’t know how this happened, despite the truths told. Something in his gut tells him it’s over as he burns to know. If he knew would it have gone any better?

Knowing or not, the elements carry on when they do not.

Tick, tick.

Time is a tricky thing, he thinks. Time is a pain. Time is a resource. And here he is, pressed for time. And yet with so little time the smallest things seem endless. A wheeze and a cough. A fog that doesn’t clear. Arms, not on a clock, pulling him all around here. Two holes, not on an hourglass, leak and smear. Time is oppressive, and bearing down from inside and out. A softness on his back, a shallow breath for a last thought. Will his thoughts really matter when the seconds have stopped?

Shouting through a hoarse throat, clenching his fists with all his might. Strapped in and down he goes, holding it in all for one final show. But still he feels it well in his chest. Burbling to the surface, wracking his frame. The tiny capsule’s shaking stops, though, and his eyes crack open. And before him is the infinite, dotted in light, vast and open. Free of the confinement, finally where he’s meant to be. And free of its confinement the cough rears its head. And before him is the window, dotted in blood, small and close. But his eyes only see the space beyond. Will they make it beyond down there?

In the closest quarters the infinite bloods, but still the clock runs out for both.

Tick, tick

Dust and debris rained down, and she stood her ground. Her remaining ally, but never friend at her side. The final curtain came with no encore, no standing ovation, no cheers. The final curtain came with sour looks, early leavers and jeers. Somewhere deep down this was expected, she despairs. Not because it was what she wanted, not exactly. She leadenly waves to the distance, to someone, but she’s not quite sure who. To her audience? What audience? To her friends? What friends… A shadow gathers, growing larger over head, and still she does not run. In the end, going through with it all was enough, she hopes?

A broken clock is often repaired. Clocks are valuable. Clocks are art. The time they keep is an endless cycle, housed for us all to look upon. A lifetime of watching the hands, the face, turning and changing. A season passes, and the clock stops, to be wound once more. Not every tradition is sacred, though. Contained or not, time will pass. But break the clock, and look elsewhere. Sail towards the sun. Tear down the structure. Leave it beyond repair.

And then flies on through.

In that moment of fire. In that moment of the end. In that moment he sees it.

The clock has stopped. But time is not stuck. And with it gone one by one, they are ushered out. Back into the world.

[jinmukangwrites]

From the Ashes (1/???)

Summary: In a modern version of Hyrule, a young man finds himself in a world filled with nothing but white walls, studying faces, and tests after tests. Something is different about him, and the world seems very interested is seeing what makes him tick. (A modern, BOTW/LOZ "Labrat" AU)

You all asked for this, so I’m delivering. Slight note, this is a normal Legend of Zelda AU, not a Linked Universe one. Though, that doesn’t mean the other incarnations of Link will never make an appearance. 

Word count: 1,422 // Total word count (so far): 4,774

Warnings: there's a lot, not all of them appear in this chapter but they will in later ones. Experimentation, non-consensual touching, child abuse, physical abuse, emotional abuse, suffocation, needles, restraints, death, graphic description of injury, basically I kill Link a bunch of times and do horrible things to him, anything horrible you can imagine happening to him will eventually happen, (there is NO sexual abuse in this story)

MAKE SURE YOU READ THE WARNINGS, READ AT OWN RISK.

Chapter 2 will upload June 13th.

-o-o-o-o-

He used to have a name. A life. He can see it in his dreams and taste it at the tip of his tongue. When he closes his eyes, he can see blue sky, something he doesn't ever remember seeing with his eyes open. He can hear a happy voice call his name behind him, and he turns and he sees people. Not scientists, not these white cloaked creatures that has become all he's ever known. He turns, he sees them, and he can just tell that he knows them somehow. One is large, bearded, the other short, woman, long strawberry blonde hair, and the last is very small, a girl, sparkling eyes.

He can't discern much more than that. He reaches out to them, his wrists free of tubes and needles, his feet move without him being dragged, he goes forward without restraints. His hands stretch out in front of him, he's so close, but then awareness starts to ebb into his dazed mind and somehow, they get further and further away. The girl yells something, the man calls out, the woman falls to the ground, sobbing.

There's a flash of light, a crash, and he's thrown around with the sounds of screaming and crunching metal, the howl of tires struggling to find traction on the road, and then everything goes dark.

Every time he closes his eyes. He has a name. He has a family.

But then he opens them, and he's the Subject. He's alone, no one to call Mom or Dad or little sister, no one there but the faceless men and women who study him through the glass of his cell. His world.

-o-o-o-o-

He doesn't remember much. Days bleed and blend together like white paint on a blank canvas. He doesn't know what he was doing last week, let alone what food he had the night before. He only knows right now, and he can't think further back. Well, actually he can take guesses. Last week he was most likely strapped to a table like he is now, what he had to eat was probably that gray, goopy substance that they forced down his throat a few hours before.

But it's not like he has any memory of that. His memories are just itches at the back of his neck or invisible bugs clawing at his wrists. Sometimes the memories are stabbing pains in his abdomen, burning fires in his lungs, stiffness in his legs. He doesn't remember much, but he supposes he remembers the pain.

There is one memory he can proudly say he remembers. It's horrible to say he's proud of it, because it's not a happy memory, but it at least give him an idea as how long he's been here, it gives him hope that he used to fight, that the straps on his body wasn't just precautionary, but actually used to keep him down and keep him from fighting.

It's the first time he's ever died, and he's somewhat confident in saying that he's died many, many times. It's the reason he's here, it's the reason they took him, he knows it. This memory is proof.

He's tiny in this memory; probably standing to the middle of his thigh at his present height. Hands are gripping his wrists so tight that he couldn't feel his fingertips, leaving bruises as he's grabbed around the middle and dumped on a white, stiffly padded table. He's screaming, screaming, the only evidence that he could have ever have had a voice, he doesn't scream now. He's to numb, his voice too gone. Anyway, he's screaming, lashing out and trying to claw at the people trying to pin him down.

He's small, but he's furiously fighting, biting and kicking as they grab hold of his soft, cotton tee-shirt and force it over his head. Bear chested, they press his upper body to the table where they start looping soft, velcro restraints around his wrists and chest while hands grab at his hips and force his jeans down.

They left his underwear on, but now he's practically naked as they now strap down his thighs and ankles in similar restraints and soon he's screaming and bucking but going nowhere. He tugs at his arms and jolts his legs, hard enough he can feel his shoulder smarting. Though, he's completely powerless when a hand falls over his face and forces his head to the side where they jab a needle into his neck.

His yells and protests turn into soft cries as the fluid they jammed into him starts to relax his muscles. The light is so bright and the fear pounding in his heart makes it easy for tears to slip out. In seconds, he has no strength to even lift a finger as they clip something on the tip of his pointer. He lets out a sob when they press small circular items connected to wires leading to machines to his chest, neck, stomach, head, thighs.

He wants to go home. He wants to go home, he's so scared, so confused, so alone. He wants to go home.

Someone approaches his side and he winces as another needle enters his skin at the wrist, this one staying. Tears pool out his eyes when another goes into the crook of his elbow and draws out red. There's chatter above him but the blood running in his ears makes it hard to listen.

He's dizzy and nauseous by the time the needle taking his blood leaves his arm. They're touching him, taking notes, bouncing theories, and suddenly, they all step back, silent.

He whimpers and tries to get his arms to move, but nothing is working. He's going numb, he can't even feel where they poked him with needles anymore. A man approaches, something that looks like an oxygen mask in his hands, though it's connected to an intimidating looking machine. Scared, he tries to turn his face, but it's all for naught when the mask is slipped over his mouth and nose and secured around the back of his head.

The man goes to flip a switch and pure terror fills his body because he has no idea what's going on and he can do nothing but cry and scream, he can't ask them what's happening, or where he is, or why he's here, he can't even twitch his fingers to sign.

"Wait," a voice says; a woman, white hair, red eyes, Sheikah. She reaches towards the man's hand and he stops. "He's just a child. You'll kill him."

"That's the point," the man growls, whipping his hand out from hers, "or have you forgotten that?"

"No, there must be a way to study his abilities without having to kill him-"

"This is a project demanded by the King himself," the man snarls, "we cannot make guesses and maybes on a project so important. Now, do you're job, Purah, or do I need to remind you what happens to people who go against the King's direct orders?"

The woman stares at the man for a second before she lands her red gaze down on the boy strapped to the table, lazily yet fearfully watching them. She sighs and the boy feels something shatter in his chest when she turns away from him and steps back.

The man nods before he turns with no more delays to flip the switch connected to the mask on his face.

There's a whir, then suddenly it's getting harder and harder to breath, like the air is replaced with peanut butter. He shutters and gasps, eyes wide and unblinking up towards the bright lights above him. Tears stream down his cheeks and the edges of his vision begin to go black, and it spreads until he feels nothing.

He continues to feel nothing. Not the table, not the restraints, not his entire body. Then, there's a blue warmth reaching out to him like a sad song.

The memory gets blurred at this part. He somewhat remembers waking up again to a flurry of white coats and clipboards. Beeping fills his ears and pounds against his skull as machines struggle to make sense of what happened. There's a pinch in the crook of his elbow and the need to throw up almost becomes unbearable until suddenly he can't breathe again, there's yelling, then air rushes into his lungs. It's all too much for his small body to take at this point and he let's a different kind of black take him once again.

[anotherdayforchaosfay]

Ghanima Music Drabbles

This is a warm-up I like to do. Here are the rules:

One fic per song.

You write that fic only while the song is playing

When the song ends, so does the story.

You cannot edit while writing the fic, only after all the songs are done.

Do at least 10 songs, at any length.

I did this for Ghanima so I can share more of her. Music is from Pan’s Labyrinth OST, a total of 21 songs and 21 fics. Not sorry if I make you cry.

You can read this on AO3

Song: Long, Long Time Ago 2:11  

She remembered her mother’s humming. Late at night, when she was cold and alone, she could hear it as though her mother were still holding her. The song put her to sleep within a minute, as she  was rocked in her mother’s arms. She couldn’t remember her face very well, but her eyes. She remembered those eyes looking into hers as she fell asleep. Blue as the sea, deep and bright in the dark of the night. She would  look into   them and see her own as she fell asleep to her song. So long ago...so  very long ago.  

Song: The Labyrinth 4:07  

Along in the dark. Any other time, any other day, it wouldn’t bother her. But she  couldn’t see the walls, couldn’t feel them, and the echo came back so lonely. Where was she? She didn’t dare pace, there was no telling how lost she was. A light! Better than remaining cold and alone. She followed the light, step after careful step. A rock, the sound of it rolling, as she kicked it in her movements. The light never faded, it kept going, at pace with her. Was it waiting for her? She rushed a little more, eager to not be alone in whatever this place was. Now she ran, following as the light turn a corner. No slipping, just running. Faster now! Her lungs were burning in the cold of this place. She grew closer to the light and saw a figure. It was holding the light, or was it the light? No sounds but what she made. She kept going as it turned again, rushing after it now. No thoughts but to reach it, no time to think. Keep pace, keep your steps. Reach it! 

Song: Rose, Dragon 3:36  

She looked at the dress on the stand. A gift, a sick gift she wanted to burn. It had his signature all over it, no doubting that. Why would he send this? Now, of all times? Anger burned inside her, made worse by the breaking of her heart. She had just put the pieces back together, and now her she was, staring at this thing. She laid her hands on her belly, then balled her hands into fists and let them fall to her side. The dress was a wedding dress, of all things. It appeared to  be made of magic and flowers, of wind and spring breezes. The train of the skirt was several meters long, heavy with the flowers. The bodice deep and the middle...no thought for her belly. He  didn’t know, she never told him. She had planned on it, but then he changed all that. He still  didn’t know, probably never  would. She set the dress on fire and watched the ashes fall.  

Song: The Fairy & the Labyrinth 3:36  

“If you were here, I don’t know what I would do. I would rage at you, scream at you, wish you dead. I would cry, beg you to tell me why you left, hope for an honest answer. Were you ever honest? I like to think you were, in moments between lies and loathing. I loved you, love you, want to love you and be loved  by you. Would telling you about the pregnancy have changed anything? I don’t  know. I’m afraid of what your answer would be. Would you have poisoned my tea, just enough to end this life we made?” She stood on the balcony overlooking the courtyard, imagining Solas somewhere out there, listening to her. “You lied. It was all a lie. I loved you as I never dared love anyone. To be that intimate with anyone was forbidden by my clan. I told you this! I broke the rules because I fucking could, it was my right. Now here I am, shunned by my Keeper for daring to be my own.”  

Song: Three Trails 2:07  

She listened with full attention, to every word, every nuance, every shift of tone. I will be a better Keeper. All of nine years old and here she was thinking herself more.  

She watched with full attention, to every movement, every change in breath, every shift of body. I will be a better Keeper. All of 15 years old and here she was, knowing herself to be more.  

I am a better Keeper. All of 35 years old and Keeper of so many.  

Song: The Moribund Tree and the Toad 7:11  

Steps light, soft, hand on her waist, hand on his shoulder, a sharing of hands and touch. Around and across the floor, skirts flowing around her, his eyes never leaving hers. A moment together in the crowd of mannequins. The only living, the only moving, the only ones really here. No one else in the hall, no sound but what they made.  

They didn’t speak, didn’t need to. Here they were each other and themselves. 

In her youth, she loved to dance. The soft and slow, the fast and burning, but never so intimate. Those dances were as ritual as this, but a different kind. Drawing power and connection, certainly, but in completely different worlds.  

Different worlds. Was that what it is? She lived in so many. The world of the Inquisition throne. The world of the Winter Palace and The Game. The world of war room with all the choices and none of them what she wanted. The world with her companions, and each of those worlds different. Some brought together as pieces to create a world among many.  

But not this world. This one was where she could be herself, where she could be with him. Let them  guffaw, let them cover their mouths with their fans as they whispered. Leave them to their sad little world where they locked themselves in cages and claimed to sing freely.  

Here she was as free as she was trapped. By his grip, his eyes, his smile. The promise his breathing told her. A promise of later, of a much later, and more after that. A world in waking, in sleeping, in between.  

What would happen if all these worlds met? If any of them simply vanished? She let the thought pass, giving it no piece of her mind as it flitted away like a rumor.  

Song: Guerrilleros 2:08  

The place was as alien as any she could imagine. Too much structure, too much stone. No life, no growth, just cold and snow.  

She kept her distance, observing as the Keeper had instructed. Never interact, keep away, watch  and learn.  

Except she couldn’t. The stone was cold under feet, and something was wrong. She felt it in the air, a wrong magic, a twisting that burrowed into her mind.  

She followed it.  

Song: A Book of Blood 3:49  

Giggling was the first thing she learned not to do when playing this game. It gave her away, and that would mean death for her. She learned to breath  just right, to keep it slow with her heart. The hunter cannot know the prey is so near.  

Sprinting was the second thing she learned she must do to win this game.

Sprint when spotted, do not pause. Run as fast as you can and zig-zag, never a straight line. Some may have bows and a straight line is easier to hit.  

Jumping and reaching was the third thing she learned. There are  nearly always   perches to grab hold, be it trees, a wall, anything. Move up, always up, and then over when you  can’t go up any more. Zig zag and keep the breathing controlled.  

Closing her eyes and trusting her ears was the fourth thing she learned. Her people’s eyes reflect the light, and always her people  are found. Be as a cat, if you must, but do it from down low and  squint to keep the eyes smaller. Better to be blind and hear instead.  

Hide and Seek is never a game. 

Mercedes Lullaby 1:37  

She held her daughters, one in each arm, swaying back and forth. So tiny, so very tiny. Three days of labor and a pair of twin girls. It had been hard, but she refused to let go. Now, alive, she holds them and sings the song her mother gave her. They slept as swiftly as she had.  

The Refuge 1:34  

A tree is a good place to hide, especially in summer. The leaves obscure everything, especially when the right clothes  are worn  . Never too shiny, never too dull. Remain still in a way like a tree limb. Blend in so well your eyes are that of a predator.  

So young and so well learned in survival. Hear the silence and up you go.  

Not Human 5:53  

She was an observer first. Learn the field, any battle. That’s what it was like with the  Orlesians. She couldn’t  even think of them as people, not with their ridiculous masks and behavior. Always thinking themselves clever and sly, but the  subtlety was more blatant as a fart in a chantry. Yes, that’s what they were to her. A stink in a room she didn’t want to be in. Their whispers were loud as wind on a poorly sealed window. Creators, why couldn’t just shut up for one fucking minute? She wanted to leave as soon as she saw them, but knew she couldn’t. This a battlefield and they must never believe they have the high ground, not for one damn moment. She put on the mental armor, ready for war, armed with everything her Keeper, companions, and advisors had taught her. She left her opponents afraid, sometimes more socially wounded than they thought they could recover from, and often receiving the respect they never wanted to give in any situation where they didn’t win. Yes, it’s better this way.   Watch them  squirm and writhe.  

The River 2:52  

She lounged on a warm stone near the creek, on her belly, head resting on one arm as the other hung down far enough she could dip her fingers in the water. Birds sang, the halla grazed nearby, and she could hear her clan at work. But today was for herself, a gift from the Keeper for paying better attention during lessons.  

The sun was warm on her back, as was the stone she rested on, feeling like home. It was a home she vaguely remembered, from before she was made   part of this clan. What were her people called?  

 A Tale 1:53  

In a tree overlooking a lake, she sat with the quiet of the night. The Keeper had told her this was her clan, to never ask of where she came from. Those who had come with her, from home, were now banned from speaking to her and sent to other areas of the clan. Their skin was like hers, why couldn’t she know why it was so different from who they were now?  

Deep Forest 5:48  

Run! That was the only thought in her mind. Humans never came so far in the Woods! This what’s their place, never was, and now they chased her. She yelled at her companions to run faster. They couldn’t fight like her, but they could run faster. Up! Go up! They leapt, just like they  were taught, and up they went. Leaping from limb to limb, high as they dared. An arrow shot up at them, but missed and hit and branch. She was behind them now, and she was okay with that. The men would be a nice meal for shadow cats that lived here. She went off one tree and to the next, leaping as best to could, and caught an arrow in the calf. It hurt, Creators, it hurt! But she didn’t release the branch she caught and instead pulled herself up.  

Never pull the arrow, and break it if you must. That’s what she learned from the hunters. If it went through, try removing the head first. Humans didn’t seal the tips on well. Leaning on the trunk, well above the humans and out of sight, she gritted her teeth and twisted the tip while holding the arrow. It hurt, and she saw stars, but it came off. The end was smooth, pull it out, and bind with what you have.  

The humans were yelling, shooting aimlessly.  

She pulled out the arrow out and pulled the bindings on her legs tighter. Would she be a shadow cat meal too?  

Vals of the Maldrake  3:41  

Beaches of red sand, warm sea water hitting her feet. She kicked her legs and the water sprayed. A squealing giggle came from her as the hand hold hers tightened a little. Jump, pull back, stay a little longer. They did and she splashed more.  

The cliffs were back! The big hill with rocks and sand, then up and flat so high they needed rope and wood. She didn’t was so sleep, so tired. Kicking is hard work. Strong arms lift her up.  

The Funeral 2:46  

She watched her girls play in the hall, giggling and laughing, Iron Bull on the flooring reaching for them. It made her smile, seeing them like this. He didn’t   know a thing about raising children, and had been so afraid the first time he held them. Now at  almost two years old, Iron Bull is playing with them rough as he dares. The jump on him, knocking him to the ground. Limp, dead, and the girls go to investigate. She remembers feeling this, a long time ago, and hopes her daughters remember it always.  

Mercedes 5:37  

She had refused the bed at the Winter Palace. All the running around, finding every passage, every hidden door, she  couldn’t feel safe enough to close her eyes. Thankfully her advisors agreed it was too dangerous. At an inn now, with Solas beside her, she was still on edge. Was this place filled with hidden ways? Were the walls hollow? It made her skin crawl, thinking someone could watch them, come in while they rested, and kill them. She felt safer in the damn  bog   than she did here.  

Was that a footstep? Yes, but outside the door and down the hall. Creators, she was not going to sleep. Solas shifted, pulling her closer to him. He wasn’t   asleep, eyes open and aware. No assurance he gave her helped her relax, not a damn word. She got plenty in herself, stating how ridiculous this is, but she couldn’t shake off the feeling they were watched.  

Then the sun was up, Solas holding her and keeping her safe.  

Pan & the Full Moon 5:07  

Sleeping was different now. It took only one attempt and she had crossed into the waking world of the Fade, shocking Solas and setting off a new path she hadn’t expected. It was motivation beyond necessary to learn this skill. How much could she learn in these dreams? The Redcliffs were what she didn’t   want to learn, but she knew it was necessary. Know the history was what her Keeper taught her. Solas guided her when she stumbled. Here were her people, the memory of them, ghosts. Then it was the building of the castle and village. There was hope, and she saw it  was made of a little boy. The hope became pain and was gone, replaced by betrayal in the shape of a woman. Solas had told her all stories have many sides, she learned all the sides. The little boy, she knew his name and what it meant to many people. The woman reeked of betrayal and fear, of losing what she loved. Then it got ugly. Creators, how could this happen? Keep your own emotions under control or you’ll change the narrative. Watch. So, she did.  

Ofelia 2:20  

The flowers on the cliffs were bright orange and full of warm. She plucked a few with the long stems and gathered more as she walked on the wood and rope way. Never take too many; they must be able to return. A thick bouquet of orange was growing in her hands, and when she was  satisfied, she sat on the landing with hammock and table. It had taken practice, but now she could make a good crown of sunset.  

A Princess 4:02  

She held her head high when they could see her. Especially on the throne. A casual position had become difficult in recent months, with her belly swelling like it was. She felt the kick when she set her hands on it.  

The humans from Denerim had arrived today, dignitaries and bureaucrats. At least they were visibly honest. They weren’t even a little bothered by the pregnancy, unlike the Orlesians who implied she was a whore who had better learn to be careful. These humans brought a small trunk with gifts. Blankets of soft warm wool, a mobile to hang over the basinet, some wood toys and soft dolls. It was a formality, but it was honest.

Pan’s Labyrinth Lullaby 1:52  

She hummed the song to Cullen several times, to comfort him when he didn’t   suspect. He was a good human, a good man, with a past he couldn’t forgive himself for. The addiction didn’t help. So, she gave him a song.  

Then she needed comfort and he gave it to her by violin. Her mother’s song made solid for her.  

[larissel]

we meet again

Fandom: AC: Odyssey

Ship: Kassandra/Daphnae

Words: 1793

Summary: Years later, Kassandra pays Daphnae one last visit at Chios.

A/N: My second Kassandra/Daphnae fic (seriously, what’s their ship name?), an idea that wouldn’t leave me alone until I write it down. Hope you enjoy because it was quite a ride when I wrote this.

AO3

The befallen quietness of the hut was almost deafening – a quietness blanketing over the village – suffocating to those who entered the room to pay their last homage and respect, heads all held up high. However, the situation wasn’t at all helpful when a low sniffle interrupted the already somber silence that filled the void; a sniffle which turned into a faint cry, growing in volume with each and every passing second until one of the eldest sisters turned, looking down at her companion with a sharp look.

“Do not cry.” The eldest sister’s gaze was firm as she spoke. “She wouldn’t want for us to mourn.” Her tone, then, became softer. She didn’t fault the other for crying so freely…so shamelessly, after all, her companion has been accepted as one of them not long ago; a huntress to the Daughters of Artemis, their traditions are still entirely new to the other.

“Come now, sister, let us depart,” she added as she quickly led the younger woman out of the hut for she was masking away her own pain. “There’s still much for us to do.”

Unbeknownst to them, neither of the huntresses took notice of a golden eagle soaring high above in the sky, flying in circles for a long while until he finally dove down and landed gracefully on top of a tree where he blended in the background, easily hiding from the others. His eyes scanned the area with great care until he lets out a low chirped only his owner heard who popped her head out from her hiding place and started to move quietly like a shadow, entering the hut without trouble.

‘Finally…’ A sigh of relief left Kassandra’s lips after she stayed hidden for so long, getting up from the ground after she rolled into the hut with ease. She was now on her feet, brushing away the dirt and dust that littered on her armor, pulling her hood back to pick the leaves and twigs stuck in her hair. It’s always important to present oneself nicely, an advice given to her by Barnabas…or, to be more correct, often has to be reminded each and every time they set a course to Phokis where she made sure she wasn’t covered with the blood and guts of those malákas, the followers of Kosmos. That old man is even in her head right now when she found herself checking her own breath while she hoped she didn’t smell too terrible either.

She never cared much for her appearance while she was growing up, never gave much thought on how she would present herself; after all, vanity doesn’t have a place in a mercenary’s life. At least, that was before she came upon someone by mistake – the best mistake she ever made – she can’t recall the blade that was pointed right at her. All she could remember was a beauty, a beauty even Aphrodite cannot compare. A bold statement, a grave insult to the Goddess of Love, but she’s not wrong and getting smite at this moment would be worth it, as if the gods weren’t angry enough in her lifetime. She wouldn’t give a damn adding Artemis to the list however, the very top of the list.

“I have returned,” Kassandra said, grinning widely as she rubbed the back of her neck sheepishly. “I know you told me to never return, but since when have I ever listened?” She laughed softly, but her chuckle slowly turned cheerless and the smile on her face faltered. The light in her gaze began to dim, her vision blurring when her eyes watered but she was quick to shut them. She cleared her throat loudly, though not loud enough to alert the others outside. Her composure regained.

“I missed you, you know? I’ve missed you so much, it hurts. I can’t stop thinking…I never stopped, I don’t even want to…” She lets out a soft sigh, trailing her sentence off. “Believe me, I tried. I tried so hard to move on.” She took on many lovers after and throughout the rest of her travels, hoping they would help her forget and mend her broken heart. They were pleasant, good people who gave her a good time. But all it did was make her think all of those nights she spent under the stars, the smell of fire and cooked deer meat filling the air; they knew how to keep each other warm during a cold night, looking down at a pair of warm, brown eyes gazing up at her, and her name being cried out like a desperate prayer.

“Deer again?”

“Would you rather we cook and eat Ikaros instead?”

Ikaros lets out a loud squawk, his eyes full of disapproval at the cruel suggestion while he flapped his wings wildly. Both women laughed before they reassured the bird that would never come, still, he was watching them cautiously and was now perched several feet away from them.

“I promise you there will be a better meal to come afterwards.” One of which Kassandra was dying to have, a craving she could no longer hide when her eyes darkened with desire.

“I came as soon as I heard…”

They weren’t far from Chios. It was fortunate that the Adrestia was docked at a neighboring island before they immediately set sail when the news reached the Eagle Bearer. No one told them of the quelling storm that was about to come.

Kassandra’s expression was dark, hardly concealing the thundering rage that was slowly growing on her face. None of the crew members on the Adrestia were brave to approach her while she was pacing back and forth on the deck like a lion, ready to strike at anyone who dares to get close. It’s surely a good reminder to them all never to cross the misthios unless they have a death wish. The ride to Chios was silent, almost silent.

Her breathing was erratic and uneven, her eyes were full of rage but it didn’t outweigh the fear she felt deep in her core. A fear Barnabas hadn’t seen since he heard what became of young Phoibe. It worries him, the old man grew to see the other as if she was his own daughter and loves her even, it hurts him to see her suffering. He was the first to bravely approach her, reaching out to her until he felt a hand wrapped around his forearm in a gentle, yet, firm grip before his arm was released.

“Not now…” Kassandra said, her voice shaky and weaker than ever. Her disheveled hair curtained her face, hiding away the tears that were streaming down her cheeks. “I want to be left alone.” She said, walking over to the other side of the ship where the crew parted ways for her to cross.

“Oh Daphnae…” she whispered out, looking down at the body lain out on the table. “I should have been here.” ‘I should have been here, I should have…’ She felt her exterior was beginning to break, covering her face as she shook her head slowly with the words in her mind continuously torturing her. The guilt felt heavy on her shoulders, ignoring what Barnabas had told her before she left.

“It’s not your fault.”

Of course it wasn’t her fault, she knew that already. But why does she still feel like she could have done more? She should have been here. She shouldn’t have given up so easily, thinking to herself how she should’ve fought harder for Daphnae. Damn the rules—the sisters and their opinions and a special damn to Artemis for being in the way. The last time she saw the huntress was years ago, the very day they stood on top of the hill that overlooked the Daughters of Artemis’s home; it was a beautiful evening too, but there was nothing beautiful when Kassandra’s world fell apart. A pain she felt the Cult of Kosmos could only dream of inflicting upon her.

She should’ve begged, begged on her knees and not giving a damn if she was humiliating herself in front of the others. And yet, she didn’t do any of those things nor did she regret walking away.

Kassandra walked away, ignoring how heavy her heart felt on that very day and the following days that came after. She respected the other woman’s wishes even when her heart was also being torn asunder. She couldn’t take Daphnae away from her home, seeing how happy she is being with her family – her sisters – it would be too cruel of her to do. Daphnae was content with her life and had everything she needed, so why take that away?

She cleaned her face, realizing she had been crying. It hurts to look down at her, wishing this was nothing more than an illusion or a horrible nightmare. She didn’t dare to reach out to her, knowing her soft skin no longer felt warm, but cold and stiff instead. Her lips looked kissable, but she knew she would only taste death.

Without shooting a second glance, one would have thought the leader of the Daughters of Artemis was soundly asleep if it weren’t for the fact how deathly pale she looked and the sight of the nasty gash on her side; the very reason why she’s crossing the Styx. Her entire frame shook before she took a moment to take a deep breath, in and out, calming down as her anger dissipated away.

“I love you.” ‘I always will.’ She whispered out. “And I know you loved me too.” The moments they spent together and all these memories were proof enough. A comforting thought that helped ease away the hurt she felt.

Suddenly, her thoughts and reminiscing the past were interrupted by Ikaros’s cry, followed by the sound of footsteps approaching. Her head shot up, turning her head to the doorway and was gone before anyone could realize she was here. The last thing they all needed was bloodshed.

xxx

Kassandra watched from afar, keeping a good distant from the Daughters of Artemis when they’re all finally gathered together to burn Daphnae’s body. She whispered out a prayer along with them, closing her eyes when she felt a gentle breeze passing by before a bittersweet smile was adorned on her face, looking up to the moon and stars. “In another lifetime…” She murmured, casting the Daughters one last glance before she turned and walked away. There’s some important business she must take care of now. The Spear of Leonidas was in her hand, feeling the shaft burning in her hold when she gripped the weapon tightly as it resonated with her emotions.

“Now it is time to find the maláka who did this."

[whumpitywhumpwhump]

Heyyyy, I’m *loving* Noah! Can you please do falling from a great height, with Lilly somehow restraining his wings?

Okay, you must have read my mind, because I literally already had an outline for something like this saved on my computer! I took a little liberty with restraining his wings (she sorta restrains…all of him???) to kinda make everything flow in character. This was high key sooooo much fun to write, hope you like it!!!!

Lilly runs her fingers over the raised lines in his flesh.They are a soft pink color, puckered at the edges. The marks have looked likethis for two days now with no change—that indicates that this is as close tohealed as they’ll get for now. She snaps open the notebook in her hands.

Day 13 of Test 2: Specimen’s back appears to be permanentlyscarred. No change from yesterday. This marks the last day of the experiment. Conclusionwill be written at a later date.

Usually, Lilly writes her conclusion immediately, but she hasanother test in mind, for which she needs good weather. Today there are clearskies, but the forecast calls for heavy downpour for the rest of the week.Rather than wait to do the experiment, she’ll just put off writing the conclusionof the earlier one.

She turns off the camera, placing it back in the drawer itcame out of almost two weeks ago. Then she leans the tripod against the wall,clicking its legs into the upright position. Her notebook flicks open oncemore.

Third Test: Flight

Angels have wings, so it stands to reason that they arecapable of flight. However, it is yet to be seen how they achieve flight. Ihave x-rays on file from Specimen 003 that illuminate the bone structure (noteson that can be found in the files on Specimen 003). A question still remains: Doangels require grace to fly or is flight just a capacity of their skeletomuscularmakeup?

To test this, I will examine Specimen 006’s capacity forflight without its grace. This test will be conducted at the edge of the shortcliff on my property. The cliff is approximately 30 feet high, which means thateven if it fails to achieve flight, the resulting fall should be survivable.

To ensure that this Specimen does not escape, I will beattaching small nodes at the base of its wings, which are designed to release a surge of paralyzing electricity if I press the detonator.

Results:

She gathers the nodes, which were piled carefully on a shelfin the cabinet. Each one has microscopic needles that sink easily into the skinat the base of his wings. With a piece of clear medical tape, she secures eachone, making sure they don’t fall off at any point.

Next, the magnetic cuffs come off his wings. Lilly lightlymassages the muscles near the base—they need to be in working order to flyproperly. There are slight indents in the flesh where the cuffs were sitting,so she gently rubbed those areas too. Can’t take any chances with outsidefactors.

“Specimen 006, we are going to be conducting a new testtoday. This one requires us to go outside and travel to the site of the test. Itrust that you will be on your best behavior the entire time.”

Without waiting for a response, she freed the loop of chainattached to his wrists. Using it as a lead, she guided her specimen up thestairs and out into the kitchen. As long as we walk quickly, I’ll be back intime for dinner.

–

Noah’s shoulders ache from spending two weeks keeping hisarms above his head. Now his legs ache from being forced to walk so far afternot moving for weeks. More trees pass him by as they continue deeper into thewilderness that his human calls her property.

Just when he thinks he can’t walk any further, they breakout of the trees and Lilly stops moving. She slowly unfastens the restraintsaround his wrists; he frowns when he sees the red, angry skin under them. Thechilly outside air actually stings a little against them.

“Now, here is the test we will be performing. I want to see ifyou can fly as normal without your grace. There is a small gully here, maybe 30feet deep. I’d like you to fly out over the middle of it and then return to me.If you cannot fly, simply spread your wings and slowly glide to the ground. Ifyou can fly, do be mindful to return to me once you’re done. If you don’t I’llhave to take the necessary actions, which will be less than pleasant for you.Do you understand?”

Noah nods, afraid suddenly. Can he fly without his grace? Hedoesn’t know. Lilly steps aside, letting him move up to the lip of the edge. Helooks over it, chewing his lip. It looks pretty deep—

A hard shove against his back pushes him off solid ground. Withnothing but air beneath his feet, his wings start flapping. To his surprise andrelief, he feels himself lifting up in flight. He casts a glance back at Lilly,who’s watching him carefully. What could she possibly do to me?

He flaps harder, flying higher and further away quickly. Hechecks back, sees a stern look on her features. Noah doesn’t even considerslowing down, he’s so close to free, he needs to report back to Heaven on this—zzzzzzzz!

His wings seize, his body seizes, electricity slams up anddown the length of his spine. He can’t breathe, can’t move, can’t fly!

He’s falling, falling fast, come on, wings, flap, please!They do not flap. His wings won’t move. His limbs won’t move. The onlythings moving are his eyes and the world as it rushes past him.

The top of the gully flies past his field of sight, and hecan see the ground coming up rapidly. He couldn’t squeeze his eyes shut orbrace at all, so he aimed his eyes up and watched the sky.

It’ll be over soon, how bad can it be, gotta be almostthere, maybe? Maybe soon, maybe—

His feet collide with the ground. He hears sickening cracksand crunches, then he’s falling back, eyes still locked on the sky, then, likea light switch flipping, darkness.

–

Dusky sunlight swirls into his field of vision. Hazy bluesky, rusty orange cliffside, billowy white clouds—

Pain. Pain. Pain so much pain. PainpainpainpainpainpainpAINPAINPAINPAIN—

Noah tries to lean forward, just a bit, just enough to seewhat hurts so so much, but the movement makes his hips grate; he falls backwith a soft keen. He tilts his head to the side, glancing down his body—his stomachrevolts at the sight, convulsing, forcing bile up his throat. He can’t reallyroll over to spit it up, so he just turns his head and lets it run down his cheek.

His legs—what had previously been identifiable as his legs—arebone and blood and twisting and swelling and so many other unnatural thingsthat aren’t legs. The muscles of the left one spasm and Noah shrieks.

Ahhh, AHH, no, no, stop, pain, can’t, ahh, can’t move, don’tmove, ruined, ahhhhh, noo, nooo, legs, aHHhhh, please

He can’t string together a single coherent thought over thewaves of agony rippling up from his legs. His body is cold, shocked beyond anycapacity to register temperature. He shivers, and the resulting jolt of hislegs pulls a long, low moan through his lips.

His chest hitches, trying to sob—he can’t find the energy,no, the strength, to put tears behind it, so his chest just convulses, tryingto expel some of the misery, some of the brokenness, some of the wrongness.

“Didn’t I tell you not to try to escape?” He flinches awayfrom the sound, leg bones shift, breathy whimpers spill out. She practicallyappeared out of nowhere.

There’s a camera flash, the sound of pen on paper—the soundsfilter through his loud, wet breaths and sharp whines and harsh gasps.

Fingers wrap around his ankles. Bone grates, blood leaks. Ascream echoes off the rocks. “Please, no, no, please, stop, ‘m sorry, so sorry,stop, pleeeeeaaasee…” He trails off into incoherent begging.

Noah firmly believes this is the worst pain in the entireworld, the scrape of his bones under her fingers, the throbbing pulse of painracing up his body, the stench of blood and bile blending together. Nothingcould possibly be worse than this. He’s certain.

Then the tugging starts. She’s pulling him, by his ankles,his legs are shifting, bone is moving, joints are stretching, muscles are twisting,blood is flowing, shrieks are ripping their way out. As his legs twist and tugin ways shouldn’t be possible, his hearing fades to a ringing hum, his nose fillswith the metallic stench, his tongue burns from whatever is being ejected, his bodyfeels nothing but the pain, the overwhelming ache and burn and throb of agony,and his vision zooms in on a cloud, far away, high above this shattered body,and pulls that  safe, distant whiteness overhis gaze, letting all semblance of consciousness fade away—maybe his mind willescape where his body failed. Maybe.

Feel free to send me requests whenever y’all want! Green means it’s completed, red means I have a request for it! Thanks y’all!!!!!!!

[artisticvicu]

The Story Continues On

Prompt Have you ever woken up in the middle of a very vivid dream, confused as to what was your reality? The moments that tick by are filled with confusion until you can finally shake that feeling and start your day. Well, I think that is what is happening to me, but the only difference is I can't seem to wake up. My dream has become my reality and each day I struggle to understand what is happening to me and how to escape it. If only there was a way out...

…because I don’t know how much longer I can keep going.

At first this whole dream thing had started out like any other strange, unusual thing. Forced to travel in order to stay alive, I found myself in some enchanted castle in a kingdom that was like some far off fantasy within and of itself. The last, I don’t know, two years now have passed in a blur of challenges overcome and friendships created.

I was hoping that one relationship would have blossomed into something more, into something I had never dreamed would have been possible for me when I was back home, but now as I stare with the rest of the crowd towards the group of people storming in, I can’t help but feel as if this wonderful dream has suddenly taken a turn I had thought was no longer a possibility.

"Orion!" one of the ones near the front greets happily. "It has been quite some time, old friend. You've grown well."

"Indeed it has, Abraxis," he responds easily, a look on his face that I can't understand from my angle. He looks pleased, at ease even, despite the tension still in his body. "Though, I must admit, I would have loved to have discovered you gave up that habit of yours of barging into any room you wish to enter."

The group of people cross right up to the foot of the stairs he’s standing at the top of as the one he had called Abraxis laughs. I want to reach out, to ask him if he knows the others, but too many eyes are on us. The one in the lead bows low, offering with a breathy sort of tenor, “I apologize for the intrusion, Your Majesty.” I flinch at the term. I’m still not used to the idea that he’s a King and the thought of such a man being interested in me highly unlikely and the reminder deflates my mood instantly. I try and not let it show outwardly. I had promised him my support, hadn’t I? The leader straightens. "We attempted to reign in King Abraxis's...ah, habit, as you've kindly named it, but we're not overly successful."

He chuckles at that. "I'm not surprised. He's quite like the symbol of his country."

The leading figure dips their head. "If I may, I understand that this is an important event but there are things we must talk about before things become dire.”

He shifts forward in his curiosity and concern, both plainly written on his face for even me to see. That urge to grab at him returns. “What do you mean?” His gaze goes to the only figure he's named. "Abraxis?"

"I would hear them out, old friend," the other King offers cryptically.

The leader bows again. “I am Prince Relaeh, first in line of the Kingdom of Holtem."

“Holtem?” a voice cuts in, stilling this Prince Relaeh's words. I look to Adonis and find the surprise on his face. “But that mean you either sailed through the Brond Ocean to our borders or you traversed through Lyor.”

“Neither,” one from the center interjects. “We came in from the north.”

That gains a look of confusion from him. Tension pulled at his shoulders like he was readying for a fight. “What business did you have in Zryn?”

The same person from the center shakes their head. “In private quarters, please. We’ll be on our way if this truly does not concern you and let your festivities continue.” A pause. “Asteria is a beautiful kingdom with wonderful people. Please. We don’t want to see this all be unprepared for what may come.”

The air fills with the soft murmur of the crowd as he just stands there, looking down on the group. I can't tell what he's thinking, can't piece together the nuances that I know are probably there. He blinks and his expression settles into a determined resignation. That dreamlike feeling returns but not in the good way. I can't tell if it's making me want to cry or scream. He nods, looking to Adonis. “Lead them to one of the rooms. I will follow when I am done here.”

Adonis gives a low bow. “Of course, Your Majesty.”

I step up to his side as Adonis bids the group to follow. “Orion?” I ask. “Where do you want me?”

His hand slips around mine, fingers warm and his grip firm. “Follow Adonis,” he offers in a whisper. “I just want to offer a few words to the people present before I join you.” His grip tightens briefly. "And stay near Adonis. I don't trust Abraxis to not have fallen in with a bad crowd."

I give a shallow nod of my head as I breathe in reply, “As you wish, Your Majesty.”

There’s a flicker of something in his eyes but I don’t want to bring myself to put a name to it. I step away and start after the tail end of the group as his voice fills the air around me. It fades the farther into the hallway I walk and it hurts.

Adonis is waiting for me at the door. There’s a look in his eyes I can’t decipher even if I wanted to. “It’ll be ok, Xavier,” the other tries. “He won’t stray from you.”

I give a tight smile. He can’t promise that.

I enter the room and stop far enough in that I don't prevent Adonis from closing the door. But as it clicks shut, doubt washes over me even as I keep my eyes on the group watching me. Had Adonis followed me in or was he staying out in the hall leaving me to fend for myself against this swarm of strangers. Relief shudders through me when he comes into sight on my right. He doesn't stray far from the door, though, which keeps him close to my side. I'm grateful that he's there. "Please give my King a moment to settle things and then he will be right with you."

"It's quite alright," Prince Relaeh replies. "As long as he eventually arrives, that's all that matters. Hopefully our matter will not intrude too far into your King's matters and we can part shortly after his arrive."

"What is an Endromean doing here?"

I lock eyes with the speaker, finally gaining a face for the voice that had spoken up from the center of the crowd earlier. Appearing female to me is a young adult who, if I'm not mistaken, is barely beyond her teens. Her skin is pale - paler than mine, even - and her black hair seems darker because of it. Her eyes are sharp, though, and her lips have a healthy red coloring to them so it doesn't seem like she fights for any needs but the look she's giving me is distrustful.

"Xavier is seen as an esteemed guest, if not part of this castle outright," Adonis informs her, his words sharp and clearly stating how offensive her prejudice against me was.

I'm touched, really, but we don't need to be fighting with them. "Adonis," I try, but the door opens behind us and I turn to see Orion in the doorway, a dark look on his face. I'm pretty confident that the glare aimed over my shoulder is locked on her.

"If I so much as get the impression that you will bring harm to him, I will have you thrown out of this kingdom directly into the hands of the Endromeans to the south," Orion threatens, a growl at the edge of his voice.

"Please, Your Majesty," Prince Relaeh cuts in, moving to place himself between us and the pale young woman. "Forgive Indarra's for her tactless words. Despite our distance, Endrom has been a constant threat to Holtem and she has been through enough to warrant an answer despite her brash words."

I jump when his hand wraps around the part of my shoulder and neck where my burn scars were hidden by my high collared jacket. A chaotic blend of far too many emotions rushes through me but his hand is there, solid and reassuring, soothing some of the storm. "Xavier is estranged from Endrom. He is no more an Endromean as I am now."

Her eyes narrow but she says nothing. Prince Relaeh nods before looking to a few of the others. "Shall we get started then?"

Orion guides me to the loveseat and sits down with his arm across the back of the loveseat. I don't trust any of the strangers as old fears that had been beaten into me at a young age came rearing their ugly faces in the wake of the strangers' presence. I sit down at the other side of the small couch, placing distance between us but not looking like I was avoiding him.

Fortunately for me, Orion was having none of it. He grabs my far shoulder and pulls me into his side, his face finding my hair over my left ear as the group settles. "Don't," he whispers, though what specifically, I can only guess at till he elaborates. "They cannot harm you and any looks they send your way I'll gladly return ten fold."

A breathy laugh escapes my chest and I swallow thickly. It does nothing to quell the old fears. "I'm not of proper standing," I try just as softly but his hold tightens. It's confirmation enough that I'm going to loose this verbal battle. I can't tell if I'm ok with losing or not.

"Doesn't matter. You're still recovering and if you pass out in the middle of this, I want you against me." I suck in a shuddering breath, a strange sensation filling my stomach. "It's safer this way, anyways."

He turns his head and focuses back on the crowd before us. The couch looks uncomfortably full - including an armrest - but none move to take up a different chair and the other loveseat is equally occupied with both armrests acting as seats. The three remaining have pulled over the table chairs and were situated between the loveseats and couch.

"So who all is present?" Orion asks, his arm settling more naturally around me. I lean into his side, taking the reassurance from his soft, most likely unconscious rubbing of my arm.

Prince Relaeh leans against the far arm of the couch, looking around at who sat where before starting at the chair farthest from us. "In the chair by Abraxis is Nox from Zryn." I could feel Orion tensing at that, though I couldn't tell why the other reacted so. Relaeh had to have seen it because he continues with, "I'll explain later but it was actually Abraxis who wanted to get Nox."

Abraxis nods from where he is lounging on the armrest of the loveseat next to the chair. "There's a larger story, Orion. Lets finish introductions first."

Orion lets out a breath. "Alright. And the others?"

"Beside Abraxis is Pedro, a friend of Abraxis's." At these words, Abraxis wraps an arm around the what looked to be very young man and shakes him roughly, though the very young man grins at the gesture. The girl sitting next to him grins too. "Then er'Rath, a friend of my sister Indarra, and this is Temeran, also my sister."

The young woman sitting on the armrest beside Indarra dips her head to the side. "There's a lot of siblings here, seeing as all eight of us somehow managed to join the trip." She sends a glare at the four sitting squished together on the couch, all of whom start giggling immediately. The second one from Relaeh seems almost hesitant with joining the collective giggling, though.

Relaeh breaks the disturbance by placing a hand on the shoulder of the most sedated looking member of the group. Where Nox is sedated in a more refined matter, this one is more of a depressed or disheartened sedation and my heart goes out to this stranger as Relaeh introduces, "This is Prince Skylar. He's part of the reason we're here."

There's no response from the young man and Relaeh sits back, looking down the couch. "The last five are my siblings as well. From me to the one in the chair is Furnix, Zaru, Verrin, Lithea, and Cytus. The ones on the couch are still children and should have stayed in Kreet."

Another glare but this draws outrage - or at least the desire to defend - from those on the couch. It's a roar of noise that lasts for a brief moment but I make out enough to understand that each one of them had come of their own will this far.

"Kreet?" I ask softly.

"The islands in the Brond Ocean where Abraxis is from," Orion explains patiently. He turns his attention back to the group. "Though I doubt introductions are needed at this point, I am King Orion of Asteria. The man standing is Adonis Arcane and the man beside me is Xavier. Now, with that out of the way, why are all of you here?"

That dreamlike feeling that had been twisting in my stomach eases into something a bit more pleasant and familiar. It's all still so strange but at least this way I have names to faces and soon we'll know why these strangers have come looking for Orion's help.

[spookyspaghettisundae]

Unrest of the Wicked, Part 2

Two pairs of boots rhythmically struck cobblestone road. The thick fog over the dark city swallowed their echoes. The two wanderers tread on in silence, fearful of drawing unwanted attention.

In the flickering gaslight from the street’s lanterns, their figures came into view as they rounded a corner of Crimsonport’s labyrinthine inner city streets: a couple, garbed in posh winter jackets, on their way home from a social gathering. Written across both their faces was a deep-rooted concern and regret—regret over having chosen to take a midnight stroll, rather than riding home in the comfort of a carriage.

Especially in the wealthiest quarters of this venerable metropolis, rumors of strange and dangerous happenstance occurring after sunset left a lingering sense of dread to occupy the minds of the citizens.

If only they knew half the truth of it. It would drive them mad. However, imagining mere axe murderers and violent thieves to be lurking about—all human, all mundane—the thought of these threats sufficed to strike fear into their hearts.

The couple’s widened eyes darted back and forth, strained on the lookout for dubious figures who might be prowling through the night and sneaking up on them.

Even so, they could not discern the faint silhouette of the man observing them as they walked by his hiding spot. The figure in dark attire blended into the shadows of an alleyway branching off of the road they followed. He stood as still as a statue while his eyes wandered up and down the two figures, studying them with care and suspicion.

Their swift steps allowed the couple to soon round the next corner and vanish from the observer’s sights. While the sounds of them walking still reached him in form of echoes, his attention returned to the museum across the street. The silent watcher was none less than Constable Vaughn Todd.

The lawman waited. His face had long turned numb to the cold, and judging by the number of bells he heard from the church’s clock tower nearby, he had been waiting for nearly an hour outside. While his hands were buried deep inside his pockets, his palms were sweaty, clammy—something he did not remember experiencing since his youth, when he asked Miss Bedford for her hand in marriage—when she turned him down.

He could feel his face contorting as the wintry winds cut against his exposed skin, a frown plastering his visage at the memory. He pushed it back down into the deepest recesses of his mind, and no second too soon.

If not for the scuff of light-footed shoes crunching on gravel on the ground behind him, he would not have heard another man sneaking up on him. The constable did not bother to swivel around, he only tilted his head to see from the corners of his eyes who approached. His expectations had been met, for the one who arrived to join him was Johnn Von Brandt.

“Once a sneak-thief, always a sneak-thief,” Todd said in greeting.

“Until presented with solid evidence, I admit to nothing,” replied the other man. He smiled, but the mien did not spread from his lips, stopping by his dimples and never reaching his eyes.

“Good for you then that I am not interested in finding that evidence, for there are indeed bigger threats to this city’s safety,” Todd said. He nodded to Von Brandt in greeting. “And the king.”

The smile disappeared from Johnn’s face and he said, “You know I do not care one bit about the king. That greedy selfish ba—”

“I will pretend I did not hear such treasonous talk.”

“Alright,” Johnn snapped.

Constable Todd’s gaze drifted from Johnn back onto the museum. The tension between the two made the silence feel thicker than the fog surrounding them.

“So, why do you bother consorting with thieves like me? Your conscience and morals are flexible enough to choose the lesser of two evils?” Johnn pronounced many of his words with melodious sarcasm.

Johnn Von Brandt was by no means a short man. In fact, he stood taller than all he knew, both friends and foes alike. All but Todd. Constable Todd was that rare specimen of a man who dwarfed everybody else on the Red Coast. He was a living tower. All the more frightening was he to the bandit when the constable turned around and looked down at Johnn, locking eyes with him. It sent a shiver down Johnn’s spine, paralyzing him almost the same way that the gaze of a warlock had done, well over a year ago. Only this time, there was no magick involved.

Todd’s response came out with a burning intensity, every word pronounced with cutting clarity and emerging from deep within his heart. “You should never choose to side with a lesser evil, because in doing so you begin to forget what it means to do good. No, I choose no evil at all. You are not evil. You may be a rapscallion, but I do not think of you as evil.”

The words rendered Johnn speechless. Todd turned to face the museum again and then muttered, “I know what happened to the goods and coffers you have stolen in the past. Whoever shares stolen wealth with the poor cannot be an evil soul. A priest once taught a young man—taught me—that even the pettiest of thieves are shown mercy by the Good God.

“Hear me now, and hear me clear. I am not turning a blind eye to your crimes, but after all I have learned in this past fortnight, I know what evils are encroaching upon this city. This land.”

Todd’s square jaw jutted out and he nodded to the museum, gesturing to it thus while keeping his hands buried in his jacket’s pockets.

“True evil is inside there, waiting. Plotting. Dark and wretched. The only other evil is good men doing nothing to prevent that evil from corrupting and destroying this city.”

Johnn finally snapped out of his paralysis. His rebellious heart sparked a smirk, forming across his face.

“Did you just call me a good man?”

“Do not let it get to your head.”

“What about the rest of the police? Is it only you and me? Have you not told anybody else?”

Todd sighed, “No, I could not risk it. Because speaking the truth of the matters would make any sane man think I was mad, just like I would have thought anybody mad had they told me the truth only a month ago. And that is not all—Earl Tyson is a decorated veteran from the war in the north, he has many people who respect him—and he possibly has informants within the constabulary.”

Johnn let the words sink in, then frowned. “And there is no way you can get Nora released from prison? She would be—”

“No. How would I arrange her release? Short of saying outright that demonic possession was the root cause of Emilia Milton’s death, Miss Morrissey will never appear to be anything less than a convicted murderer.”

Narrowing his eyes, he looked back at Johnn over his shoulder, “Besides, I know that—well before she started hunting creatures of the night—she murdered the rest of her merry old mercenary company. I cannot prove it, but I know. You want to tell me that the unnatural was at work there, too?”

Johnn glared at him but said nothing.

“I thought so. Now, have you brought everything we need?”

Johnn grumbled when he replied, “Rock salt, iron, exorcism scrips, holy water, consecrated oils, and lighters.”

“No silver bullets?”

“What for? Did you not speak to Nora about how to deal with such ancient dead?”

Todd shook his head.

“Maybe if you would, you might learn something useful. Or change your mind about getting her released.”

Todd shook his head again.

“Silver bullets are only useful against man-beasts. No, the undead require special measures. Oaken stakes through the heart for vampires, followed by beheading, and blessed wreaths of garlic flowers to keep them away from your neck in the process. And from what she told me, these ancient ones from the desert kingdoms are more akin to angry ghosts possessing desiccated corpses.”

“Why have they not attacked while being transported to our homeland? Or when I investigated the museum earlier?”

Johnn shrugged, “If I had to bet, then the Earl is going to conduct an occult ritual to summon the ghosts. Or already has.”

Todd arched a brow but listened intently.

“Rock salt and iron repels ghosts, as do consecrated oils when lit ablaze. Holy water and exorcism prayers are needed to banish them for good once we’ve destroyed their remains in fire, but we will need to pin them down first. Which is going to be most of the ordeal, because they can move objects invisibly, like poltergeists.”

Still saying nothing, Todd’s face went blank. Taking in such occult knowledge and separating it from superstition and hogwash still challenged him greatly.

Johnn Von Brandt turned to show the constable a crossbow hanging from his shoulder, then said, “Iron bolts will do the trick well enough, and a crossbow does not make the same kind of noise as a pistol.”

The bandit opened his long coat and revealed several bandoleers and belts strapped around his torso. From one of many small sheaths, he pulled a strange dull-bladed knife of wrought iron and held it by the blade, offering its handle to Todd.

Todd nodded and sighed again, his eyes jumping back and forth in between the crude weapon and Johnn’s visage. The constable grabbed the dagger and wedged it into the belt holding his jacket shut.

“One more thing,” Johnn added. “You must never let ancient dead touch you. They can rip your beating heart straight out of your chest.”

Todd’s brow furrowed and he glared at Johnn. “And knowing that, you give me a mere iron knife?”

Johnn smirked, and in a smug tone he replied, “We will not let the undead bastards get that close now, will we?” A dagger appeared in the bandit’s hand out of nowhere—not by means of magick, but sliding from the sleeve of his coat. “I am prepared to die, friend. Are you?”

Before Todd could answer, his eyes went wide. The cause of his shock was not the bandit’s sleight of hand, but the surprise of seeing a pale girl of small and fine stature surfacing from the sea of shadows behind Johnn Von Brandt.

When Johnn followed the constable’s gaze and he turned, the dagger in his hand nearly slipped from his fingers. He pocketed it in a fluid motion and hissed at the young girl of fourteen summers.

“Are you mad? What are you doing here?” Before anybody could speak, Johnn then looked back to Todd. Confusion and doubt had contorted the bandit’s face, puzzling the constable by equal measure, but for different reasons. Johnn asked, “Wait, you can see her?”

Struggling to process this sudden turn of events, Todd had no words for Johnn’s inane question. Instead, he pushed the man aside and squatted down to be at eye level with this girl.

“This is no time or place for a young—”

Todd’s sentence trailed off and he went slack-jawed. Only now did he recognize her. Out of the odd bunch who had paid visits to Nora Morrissey’s cell in the prison tower, this girl was possibly the strangest. Todd linked her to the disappearance of Marcel Collins, the young painter turned murder suspect. She had asked a lot of pointed questions about that investigation and left it well alone after Todd had told her to stay out of official business.

The black dress and veil she wore, lending her the appearance of a lady attending a funeral, had delayed his recognition. Black rings under her eyes rivaled the ones that had stricken Todd’s face all those months ago when he had been investigating Sir Styles’ murder. Only now, seeing this girl here and under these circumstances, did it dawn on him that there may have been more to the case—that there may have been something unnatural at work.

The constable swallowed emptily and stopped himself from grabbing the girl by her shoulders and shaking her and demanding answers. Instead, he remembered his upbringing and realized that being here, now, put this young woman in peril, and he had a duty towards her.

Even so, exasperation forced the following question from his mouth, “What in the nine gates of hell are you doing out all alone, at this time of night?”

She stared back at him, never flinching and never blinking. Staring at him through those big brown eyes, bathed in the shadowed mesh of her funeral veil. Todd shuddered, as if the cold of this wintry night had finally caught up to him. Then he shuddered again when he felt like this girl was emanating a cold far greater than any frost this winter had delivered.

“I am here to help you, Mister Todd,” she whispered in a tiny voice. Every single hair on the back of Todd’s neck stood up straight.

“Alright, enough of this. Not again, Maggie,” Johnn said. The grumble and disdain he used when calling out her name spoke volumes of his patience having run out—mixed with a hint of fear.

Todd wondered. What did he mean with “not again?”

Johnn grabbed Magdalene by a shoulder, but froze in place. She did not budge, but looked up at the benevolent bandit. His jaw quivered and his composure faltered under her icy gaze.

Before anybody could say anything else, all three of them swiveled and then froze, their sights drawn to the sound of a creaking iron gate. With rapt attention, the three watched as Earl Irvine Tyson and his manservant Frederick exited the museum grounds. Frederick shut the iron gate behind his master and fumbled with a ring of keys, their metal jingling brightly. The earl stood aside, his shoulders heaving once with a sharp intake of breath, followed by a small cloud of air condensing in front of his nose and mouth.

“Faster, you nit-witted laggard,” the earl’s voice carried all the way to the alleyway, ringing fierce and impatient.

Frederick locked the gate shot and returned the keys to his pouch, silencing their jingling under a leather flap.

None of the three people watching dared to move. Or breathe.

Earl Tyson and Frederick wandered off into the night. Only when they rounded the next corner, did Todd and Von Brandt exchange nervous glances. Then the bandit glowered at the girl.

“We are bringing you home,” Johnn hissed to Magdalene. “Now.”

Todd stood up straight and clapped a palm down on Johnn’s shoulder. His meaty hand bore the weight of a brick.

“No. There is no time to escort the young lady home,” Todd said. Looking down at her, the constable mustered a feeble smile. “Can you hide and wait until we are finished?”

He did not truly count on surviving the night. Not after all he knew. And all he did not know.

The girl shook her head and narrowed her eyes, frowning in an expression of pure defiance.

“I am a bigger help to you than you think,” she said. Her voice trembled, for once giving her the semblance of a regular girl of her age. That sense was fleeting.

Todd sensed she was no regular girl at all. Not anymore. She was not the same girl he had spoken to last summer. It was like there was an otherworldly wisdom behind her eyes. Ancient as the mummies inside the museum, and as unfathomable as the depths of the ocean.

“I cannot in good conscience allow you to accompany us this night,” Todd argued in a hushed murmur. “You must wait here, and should we not return by the next bell, return home without delay.”

Johnn had nothing to say, left out of the staring contest taking place between his two companions. The way Todd and Magdalene looked into each other’s eyes carried the air of two titans wrestling for control, betraying their vastly mismatched physical statures. An unstoppable force inaudibly clashed against an unmovable object.

Instead of intervening, the bandit seized the opportunity given by the growing stretch of silence and peered around the corner to ensure that Earl Tyson had gained significant distance.

Magdalene pouted.

“Fine. Fine,” she repeated in a bitter tone. “But do take this, so you may live and we may speak again.”

A tiny hand, as pale and gaunt as her face, slipped out of a fur sleeve covering her extremities. In it, she gripped a small object, from which a thin silver chain dangled. Todd felt the gravity of this situation cutting all the way down into his bones. He squatted down again, then held out an open palm.

The cold wintry air froze the sweat on Todd’s open palm. When the girl’s hand brushed against his fingers, he shuddered again because her very body gave off a cold that made the winter feel warm by contrast.

Once she withdrew her hand, the constable stared blankly at the item he had received from her. It weighed almost nothing.

A weird amulet, a ruby beset in a small locket, but wildly wrapped in crude leather strips and adorned with tiny animal teeth and feathers.

“What—what is this?”

“Keep it close to your heart, lest you lose both,” Magdalene whispered.

“But—”

Todd looked up and the rest of his sentence got stuck in his throat like a thick lump. New chills ran down his spine. The girl was nowhere to be seen. He looked around himself in disbelief, but she had vanished. No hiding place in the alleyway could have concealed her from his prying eyes. Gone.

Like a ghost.

“Miss McLachlan?”

Johnn peered back at Todd, and then let his gaze sweep down the alleyway.

“I need to have a serious talk with that girl when this whole thing blows over,” Johnn muttered under a brow furrowed by worry. “She vanished, yes?”

Todd shrugged.

“There is nothing we can do, and we have little time to waste,” Johnn said. “Come—we have undead to put to rest.”

Without waiting for a reply, the bandit snuck across the street, approaching the museum with quiet, certain steps.

Todd looked once more to where Magdalene had last been standing. He shuddered again and whispered a prayer to the Good God. Then he shot another glance at the strange amulet in his hands, locked it around his neck, hid it inside the folds of his jackets, and followed Johnn.

Johnn was right. The constable knew it in his heart of hearts. He had no time to ponder these strange events. To wonder if the girl had given him an item of magicked properties for his protection.

They had no time to waste.

Evil never rests.

—Submitted by Wratts