#blood and gray matter and bone shards are flying!

[alexitheslayer02]

Xiaotian's official designs for Arc 1 and 2. Close up is Arc 1 Full body is Arc 2

And yes, I designed Xiaotian's staff based on Mac's in LMK. And only then, while drawing it, did I think, "Damn, this thing is more gruesome than I realized".

[cherrywoes]

crimson king. (diavolo x fem!reader.)

prologue.

“Stricken among a field of poppies,

With hair as red as molten flame,

The Crimson King brought low the thane,

And thus usurped his father’s throne,

For there would be a day the world would end,

And he would not see it until his own life’s end.”

— the records of Paimon, King of the West.

masterlist | i. cruor.

♕

“LADIES, GATHER ‘ROUND.” The Matriarch of House Gascoigne clapped her silk gloved hands sharply. The sound echoed throughout the dance room, cracking through the air with the force of a whip. “We have news from the capital!”

An excited murmur rose amongst the girls. It had been months since the royal family had last issued news on any events regarding the palace, or the King and Queen themselves; ever since their children, the prince and princess, had fallen ill with some unknown illness, not a mere scant of word was allowed outside the palace doors, much less from the mouths of maids and butlers. It had left much of House Gascoigne (their female occupants, at least) with little to do besides practice their waltz, needlework, and plan on wooing the finest bachelors in the kingdom. To have this little bit of gossip to break their melancholy was welcoming—even if it was bad news, for a time.

“News from the capital!” One girl gasped, reaching for the letter in delight. The Matriarch held it high above her head, swatting the girl’s grasping fingers with the paper and striking a deep cut in her hand. She hissed and pressed the well of blood to her mouth, scowling at the older woman.

“Yes, news.” The Matriarch’s stony gray gaze flickered over the throng of girls, counting each head—seven in all, her daughters—and found herself just one shy. She counted once more, just to be sure, and yet again, she was lacking a duckling with particular [color] hair and [color] eyes. “Where’s [Name]?”

“[Name]?” Another of the sisters rolled her eyes and stamped her heel. The hem of her dress caught in the stiletto and she was forced to listen to the slight tear of the seam as it punctured through the expensive fabric. “Please! It’s not like she cares for idle gossip; open the letter, mother!”

“Last I heard she went out hunting with father,” one crowed slyly, waving a lace fan in front of her face coquettishly. Her eyes, sharp and blue, darted over to the matriarch, whose face was unmoving. “Not much of a change, is it, sisters?”

“Girls!” The matriarch’s sharp tone cut through the speculating chatter like a knife. The sisters dropped their gazes to the floor momentarily, then back up to their mother, properly chastised. “I am ashamed of you—all of you. Speaking of your sister as if she is scum of the earth; why, your father would be disappointed in all of you. I do not believe any of you deserve to hear this news today.”

“No, mother! We promise not to speak of her as such again!” Similar sentiment rose, each girl pleading with their mother individually with different promises and different oaths. “Please, the letter!”

The matriarch looked upon her daughters with a narrowed gaze. They returned her stare with ones of silent pleading. She sighed and closed her eyes. “Very well then. Let’s see what it says, shall we?”

She cracked the wax seal upon it and with a cough to clear her throat, began to read.

“Marriage?” You parroted back at your father with gawkish eyes. Your mare came to a still beneath you, snuffling at a patch of vibrant green grass, a product of the new spring. You could feel the stays of your corset protest at the deep inhale of disbelief you took, squeezing hard shards of whale bone against your ribs. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

“It’s time, [Name].” Your father sighed, much in the same way your mother would do when she was exasperated with something you or one of your sisters had said. He adjusted the reins of his horse’s bridle, nervous, and stared off in the distance somewhere away from you. “You know I would never force you into an arranged marriage, but…”

“But I need to start looking,” you mocked in a high, posh voice. You snorted through your nose and fixed him with a dark glower. “How many times have I heard that before? Ten? Twelve?”

“I know… I know your mother pressures you,” he amended,”but this time I’m afraid I’m the one asking you to begin searching. You’re twenty years old, [Name], far past the age of marriage already; I just want to see you well off and comfortable, if not happy.”

“And my happiness doesn’t matter as long as I’m well off and comfortable.”

This wasn’t how you expected your day out with your father to go. You had expected to hunt dove, at most, maybe a few squirrels or two; your quiver had been packed to handle it. Instead, you had gotten barely a foot or so into the forest, your mare eager to head into the lush grass, before he was bringing up the subject of your marriage—again. This wasn’t the first time you had heard it, but it was the first time it had come from him, and you were starting to wonder if they were just concerned or wanted you gone.

“Sometimes you can have one thing and forsake the other.” He shrugged helplessly. “I would rather you have money and comfort. But if you can somehow gain happiness as well, then…”

Which was highly unlikely, he was saying, as your marriage would likely be out of convenience, as the majority of your older sisters’ were. Your family was rich and everyone wanted part of the Gascoigne fortune—if not in gold, then in their daughters. Each of your sisters had a dowry large enough to buy off a country or two and every dirty old man wanted a piece of it, whether you were willing or not. Luckily, your parents were not so old fashioned as to arrange your marriage with a far older man, or push you in that direction, but they directly encouraged you to get married soon, and quickly. It didn’t help that a lot of the men repeated the foul saying “Gascoigne pussies are as good as gold”, meaning that if they were lucky enough to get any of your sisters or yourself with child, they might as well be set for life.

You didn’t want that. Not if you could help it.

With narrowed eyes, you looked at your father once more. He was fidgeting in his saddle, avoiding looking at you entirely, and by the look on his face, you had to wonder if he was just nervous or debating asking you to attend a debut ball knowing full well that you would be five years older than any other girl there—at least, that was your assumption. You had missed your first and subsequent balls after a particular rough bout of sickness that kept you bedridden; you had only recently been able to function normally again, albeit with some lightheadedness if you were too active in a short period of time.

“Right.” You reached up and held a hand over your head to deflect an oncoming branch. “Well, I guess I have no choice in the matter, do I?”

He sighed once more. “You know if I had any other choice, I would give you all the time in the world, [Name]. But the older you get the more you risk turning out an old crone with no marriage ties. I don’t want that for you—your mother doesn’t want that for you.”

You huffed and turned your head. Your mother’s sole goal was to marry off all of her daughters to eligible bachelors to get them off her hands; at least the ones who didn’t cater to her every whim, like yourself and a few other of your sisters. She was not a cruel mother by any means, but she was a thorn in your side at times, especially with her insistence on perfection. Your waltz and embroidery were as perfect as they were going to get, and you most certainly weren’t going to shrink your waist down to her tastes either. You would be surprised if she didn’t have something else to harp on you about when you returned home.

“I suppose.” A glance at the sky revealed it was already lunch time. You had already skipped tea with your mother and sisters; skipping another meal was a bad idea, even if you were out hunting. A very unladylike sport, she would probably hiss. “We should probably get back for lunch if we don’t want mother getting angry at us again.”

Your father almost seemed surprised, looking up at the sky himself. “It is, isn’t it? I heard we’re having pigeon pie today.”

“Pigeon pie?” You repeated slowly. “Father, that was yesterday. We’re having potato soup today.”

“Oh. Are we?”

You didn’t answer, watching him turn his horse around and begin the ride back home. You followed at a distance behind him, watching as he regarded the trail as if it was entirely new to him and familiar in some spots. You had been wondering if his illness had gotten worse and your proof was right in front of you. His father before him had been afflicted with the same memory loss, a product of a few lines of inbreeding centuries before, you had heard, but only in the paternal line. It had started with him mixing up names and stuttering them into the proper ones; then he slowly began to fall out of his routine, eyeing his paperwork in slight confusion; and just now, forgetting days and time.

Before you could call out to him and ask what day he thought it was, you heard an ungodly screech coming from the manor. It sounded faintly like one of your sisters, but it was loud enough that the birds in the trees startled and took to the sky. You urged your horse into a canter, your father following suite, and the closer you got, the more you could make out actual voices instead of mindless screeching.

“—this is ridiculous! How does she get to go to the palace and I’m stuck here?! Mother, it makes no sense! She’s twenty years old, she has no chance—”

“—oh, please, Violetta, like you could do any better at nineteen—”

“—says you two, I could sweep him off his feet without even a—”

“—I wouldn’t even need a dance, just five minutes alone in a—”

“—Adrielle, shut your mouth! I ought to send you to a convent!”

“There she is!” A finger went flying to point to you as your mare pushed through the treeline, hooves clopping on firm stone. “Mother, tell her to turn down the offer!”

All of your sisters, including even the youngest ones, just shy of fourteen, were gathered around the cut in the pathway in a tight cluster. All of them had some range of fury or irritation on their faces as they looked at you, clutching their lace fans or skirts tightly in their fists. You had only faintly heard your mother’s threat to send Adrielle to a convent and raised an eyebrow at the little crowd they made, pulling your horse to a halt with her reins. You wouldn’t dare risk dismounting in a dress, so you stared down at them all from your mount in confusion.

“[Name],” your mother approached your horse with some hesitation, eyeing the mare’s ears in any hint of her mood. “Here. This arrived for you in the mail today.”

You didn’t miss the sour tone in her voice. You accepted the opened letter from her with a raised eyebrow, the broken seal on the back stamped with the royal crest. Your sisters watched you like a hawk, searching for any hint that you weren’t happy with whatever the letter said.

While the envelope wasn’t addressed to you, the letter inside was: it was written in the elegant hand of the Queen herself, even down to a personalized address from her as well.

‘Dear [Name] of House Gascoigne,

It is my pleasure to notify you that you have been selected to participate in the Bride Hunt for Prince Diavolo of the Devildom. As you filled all the requirements to participate, you, along with three other girls in your bracket, will be escorted to the palace to participate in a selection of games picked by the prince himself. As this is a show of goodwill between our kingdom and that of the Devildom, we encourage you to be on your best behavior with your fellow competitors and play to win.

As a more personal note, I do hope you participate, [Name]. I believe you have a true chance at winning, my dear.

Queen Cordelia.’

In the corner of the letter was her personal seal, stamped in shining red wax. Unbroken, you could make out the sigil of the phoenix, a half of the official crest. You looked up at your mother’s expectant face and then at your father’s hopeful one, having likely guessed what it was.

You sighed.

“I suppose I’m going to the palace after all, then.”

Your sisters groaned in disappointment. Some of them even clicked their tongues at you and turned to head inside, your mother turning on her heel and chiding them on their childish behavior.

Your father caught your eye as you moved your horse to head to the stables. His smile was one of pride and hope, as if this had made all of his dreams come true.

You only hoped you wouldn’t disappoint him when it all was over.

taglist (open): @crashica (just let me know if you want to be added!)

[tabletoptrinketsbyjj]

Trinkets, 37: Interesting baubles, semi magical objects and items touched by mystery.

A blue steel mask that resembles a face at rest, emotionless and cold to the touch when not worn.

A small silver orb with the word "McGuffin" acid etched into its surface. It is coveted by all who look upon it.

A jar filled with potpourri that smells like their childhood home to each person who smells it.

A charm made from small pieces of whale bone fastened together by metal and leather and etched with strange sigils. The object has been treated with mixtures of rare herbs and other substances and the entire bonecharm hums with power, creating a faint but distinctive ‘song’ that the spiritually perceptive can hear.

A small, polished, fossilized cross-section of wood. The interior cracks have filled with some opalescent material in shimmering blues and green. Knowledgeable PC's can identify the mineral as opalized wood.

A double recorder hewn from a strange, pale ivory not of this earth.

An iron pocket watch with the chain extruding from an eagle's mouth mounted into the top of the watch. The clasp at the end of the chain is a talon.

A small, handheld harp made from the wishbone of a celestial griffin. It was alchemically treated with elemental fire, laminated with entsap, and enameled with scenes from myth and legend. The instrument is translucent and slightly opalescent in coloration and strung with mithril wire.

A dozen glass roses are arranged in a lovely bouquet. A ribbon of purple silk around one of them has an ivory card attached. The words on the card say, “Glass thorns cut more deeply, my dear.”

A glass bauble with no visible means of opening it contains blue sand and white insects that resemble ants but have iridescent wings. When they fly, a pleasant and soothing song emanates from the bauble.

—Keep reading for 90 more trinkets.

—Note: The previous 10 items are repeated for easier rolling on a d100.

A blue steel mask that resembles a face at rest, emotionless and cold to the touch when not worn.

A small silver orb with the word "McGuffin" acid etched into its surface. It is coveted by all who look upon it.

A jar filled with potpourri that smells like their childhood home to each person who smells it.

A charm made from small pieces of whale bone fastened together by metal and leather and etched with strange sigils. The object has been treated with mixtures of rare herbs and other substances and the entire bonecharm hums with power, creating a faint but distinctive ‘song’ that the spiritually perceptive can hear.

A small, polished, fossilized cross-section of wood. The interior cracks have filled with some opalescent material in shimmering blues and green. Knowledgeable PC's can identify the mineral as opalized wood.

A double recorder hewn from a strange, pale ivory not of this earth.

An iron pocket watch with the chain extruding from an eagle's mouth mounted into the top of the watch. The clasp at the end of the chain is a talon.

A small, handheld harp made from the wishbone of a celestial griffin. It was alchemically treated with elemental fire, laminated with entsap, and enameled with scenes from myth and legend. The instrument is translucent and slightly opalescent in coloration and strung with mithril wire.

A dozen glass roses are arranged in a lovely bouquet. A ribbon of purple silk around one of them has an ivory card attached. The words on the card say, “Glass thorns cut more deeply, my dear.”

A glass bauble with no visible means of opening it contains blue sand and white insects that resemble ants but have iridescent wings. When they fly, a pleasant and soothing song emanates from the bauble.

A white ceramic mug with an unknown substance or creature that has excess of writhing gray tendrils coming out of it.

A dartboard that has a picture of the local regent on it. The eyes currently have darts sticking out of them.

A dark, mahogany box roughly the size of a dozen coins. The box does not appear to have any obvious hinges or opening mechanisms. A perceptive PC will discover a tiny hidden latch that opens the box. Inside and laid together are a matching set of ten gold coins. Each coin is ornately crafted, but slight variations in the coins suggest that they may have been individually handmade.

A smoky black precious stone. When held up to the light you can see the back of a devil pressed against the gem, but no matter how you turn it, you can never see its face.

A small pouch with a moist eye within it. When you bring it into the light, you see the pupil quickly constrict. A PC well versed in religion can tell that this is the living eye of a dedicated follower of the god of orcs. The original owner can still see from this eye.

An ink dip pen made entirely of tiny bones, complete with matching ink pot.

A mummified baby wrapped in funerary wrappings with a solid silver and gold scarab on its neck on a very tight dried leather thong.

A basilisk egg, tightly bound within a leather pouch and swaddled in a bundle of furs.

A small sack filled with eight gears and springs of incremental sizes that appear to be of the same make or set.

A Gnome’s skull that possesses a distinct odour of wine and gnome blood, faint to a human, but strong to a race with keen noses, like elves or kobolds. Rough garnets the color of clotted blood have been pounded into the skull, along with nails of silver and gold. Around lower edges of the brain-case, the tails of giant weasels have been attached, giving the item a furry fringe. The jaw has been wired to the skull with silver wire and a wispy fringe of beard and mustache cling to the bits of dried skin around the skull’s mouth. Runes of foul power have been chiselled into the bone.

A small bag made of chainmail, tightly tied closed and locked. Found inside is a heart made of glass.

A grossly oversized fist-shaped gauntlet that is a fused amalgamation of plates, spurs, gears, and rivets. It smells of grease and machinery.

A child’s toy chariot with the face made from a stuffed growling dog.

An unsettling ceramic figurine of a whale with a mouth full of victims.

A pair of repulsive metal bells designed like bloated women eating fish.

A drum, set with stretched gargoyle hide and woven with choker sinews. It requires a strong arm to pound the instrument but the sound is unique, like a deep thumping of stone.

A black fan made of kobold skin with graphic images of kobold torment.

A worn-looking box of dark wood, fitted with simple hinges of brass, is roughly the size of a man’s head, and rattles when moved. The interior contains a collection of tiny humanoid bones. The underside of the lid bears writing that appears in the primary language of anyone reading it, and states that the most recent reader is attuned with the box. No further explanation is to be found within.

A masterwork steel lute with a triangular body and a headstock that resembles a carved demon’s skull.

A strand of ten flat black stones on a knotted leather thong, each carved with the “Yr” rune and roughly the size of a typical gold piece.

A gleaming crystal shard that shifts its coloration every few seconds, hurting the eyes of witnesses as it does so.

An eel-hide leather pouch filled with an unspeakably foul-tasting coarse salt.

A grey leather vest is made of the rough, tanned hide of a goblin shark.

Orb of forgetfulness. When touched the orb you will remember the last thing you tried to think about but forgot. You will however forget why you wanted to remember it.

A small silk pillow has split open here to reveal that it has been stuffed entirely with brilliant golden hair.

A handwritten note which reads, in part: “She keeps it in the vanity. Without it, there’s no proof.”

A porcelain mask resembles a skull with its mouth sowed shut.

A box made to resemble a heavily pregnant woman with fangs instead of teeth. Her copious belly contains a rather grotesque image of an infant with three heads, each with an open mouth like a key-hole.

A large hourglass labelled "The World Entire." There isn't much sand left in the top bulb.

A clay pipe with the name "Underhill" inscribed on the side.

A copy of Playdrake magazines. Its pages are filled with lewd images and salacious stories of draconic females. It is not suitable for minors.

A small wooden bowl engraved with the heads of a snarling lion, bear, a screaming eagle, and a fish's face.

A vial of scented oil that can be burned as incense of worn as a perfume. Everyone smells something different but, always something nostalgic and a bit sad.

A cube three inches across, made of thin glass of six different colors, one on each face. When it is placed on a side, the colors shift until they finally settle with one color on top (sometimes the same color that was placed, often a different one). There doesn't seem to be a pattern to which colour ends up where.  

A leather vest with one hundred pockets, divided between the outside inside and a number of secret hidden ones. One of the pockets contains a four leaf clover.

A guitar that, regardless of what string is plucked, will always produce the same set of notes in the same order. Only the speed at which these notes are produced can be changed.

An iron orb that always rolls against gravity, but only while in contact with a solid surface. If not in contact with a solid surface, it has no unusual properties.

A gemstone that takes on the appearance of the birth stone of the last person to touch it.

A chess set that animates and attacks people who attempt to cheat at the game.

A vivid, deep purple crystal that appears to consist of a random assortment of thousands of tiny cubes bound together. Knowledgeable PC's can identify the mineral as fluorite.

A small hood for a trained falcon. Any bird wearing the hood does not need to eat or drink as long as the hood remains on.

A pair of small metal rods, each about five inches long and a half inch wide, with bulbs at one end. When held, the bulb transmutes into the proper utensil needed for the current meal.  

A glass jar that automatically separates any liquid poured into it into multiple layers of individual substances, as though a centrifuge had been employed.  

A braided lanyard bearing the words "BEST FRINEDS". When the wearer of this braided lanyard closes their eyes, they experience the sensations of having warm sun shining on their face and a gentle breeze tousling their hair. The scent of campfire smoke can be smelled, and the laughter of children can be heard.

A pen of exquisite craftsmanship with a body like smooth, polished marble and gold trimming. The pen has a small golden leaver where in the tip of the pen can be touched to the shadow of an individual's head and enough ink for a full sheet of paper is extracted.

A leather wallet stamped with the symbol of a mousetrap, containing a full set of certified identification papers denoting that the bearer is a member of the ratcatcher's guild. The section containing the member's physical description (Height, weight, sex, race, eye, skin and hair colour) is completely blank and could be filled in by anyone with half decent handwriting.

Mirror of Self-Interest: A small steel mirror that doesn't reflect anything but the face of the person holding it. However, this image of the person is perfect, devoid of any flaws or incongruities with the holder's appearance as though they were the most attractive person in the province. This image is also only visible to the bearer.

A black and purple scale of some enormous horror of the far realm.

A velvet coin purse containing half a dozen egg-sized polished stones in various natural hues.

A skull carved out of charcoal. When burned, the skull will turn into a pile of ash. Within an hour, the skull reforms into charcoal.

A thick caribou skin frontier jacket covered in mythological scenes.

A perfectly preserved human brain, encased in a large dome of clear glass.

Apple of Doubt: A fruit that looks like an apple, it tastes like an apple, it smells like an apple, for all intents and purposes it appears to be an apple, but you are certain it is not an apple.

A blood red mask made from carefully sculpted bone, shaped to look like the face of a grinning demon. The eyes of the mask are the only parts that are open, with the eyes of the bearer appearing bright crimson while looking through it.

A suncatcher in the shape of an evil deity literally catches the light of the sun, forming a hazy space of shadows around it.

A large, round-bottomed flask containing a faintly golden liquid which smells sweet, but overwhelmingly of alcohol.

A deck of cards carefully organized within a small box. The card faces are beautiful but contain a great deal of seemingly meaningless text beneath hand-painted pictures.

A set of windchimes that move though no wind is present. The mellow sounds of their chimes bring back memories that make you ache with anguish and despair.

A scroll that repeats these words endlessly; “Seek out the Gilded Glade and place me upon the pedestal.”

A large painting portraying the wonders of underwater life. The viewer see merfolk, sea elves, and all manner of aquatic creatures going about their lives. The edges of the driftwood frame around the canvas is dripping seawater.

A simple silver fork. Embossed into the handle are the letters “JA.” The tines of the eating implement give off a slight green glow. A crowded inscription on the back of the fork reads: “To King Ragnis, may venom never touch thine lips.”

A small envelope sealed with a wax sigil. If unsealed the letter inside reads: “Meet me at the Red Rose at 7 in the eve. Kill the bearer of this note.”

A tightly rolled cloth that unfurls into a solid black banner, with a faint, hard-to-look-at pattern shimmering in the weave.

A rough-hewn, rust-colored stone filled with half-buried flakes of dark blue crystals forming the semblance of a rose. Knowledgeable PC's can identify the mineral as azurite.

A statuette of a six armed man, holding shields in each hand. With a ring-loop for a head, which is looped onto a necklace.  

A large obsidian sphere with jutting shapes carved in and sticking out.  Each surface is intricately carved with a complex script composed of squares.  It is wrapped several times and held inside a smooth pottery sphere.  

A squat metal cylinder of brass that resembles a small compass. When opened, it reveals a dull blue gem.

Neverspill Mug: Any drink poured into this mug can never be spilled accidentally. Someone can be struck upside the head with it, without a single drop escaping.

Unending Chalk: A stick of chalk can be used to draw, but never gets shorter or breaks.

A rolled up canvas painting of a dreary field with dark uninviting woods beyond. The leaves of the trees in the background of the painting seem to sway and there appears to be something moving through the field.

A hilt of what once must have been a magnificent sword but the blade has been removed. When the hilt is picked up, the wielder feels the weight of a whole sword and when the hilt is whipped around, the wielder can hear a blade slicing through the air. But it is just a hilt...

An apple that is the most mouth-watering, beautiful apple you have ever seen...but when you approach within three feet of it you begin to see it rot and spoil right in front of your eyes and even touching it and smelling it confirms that it is indeed rotted. As you back away you see the apple's rot and decay reverse and it becomes the same beautiful apple you saw seconds earlier.

A set of sky blue robes made from a high quality cotton with the Order of Deacons symbol sewn into the chest.

A set of bagpipes made from a rich mahogany wood, artfully carved and well balanced.

A hooded lantern with an adjustable iris to control the light level. Its adamantine casing is covered in stars and concentric circles, as well as text no one seems able to read.

A set of robes primarily red in colour, with subtle green highlights, as well as silver thread embroidery and grey fur lining around the collar, hood and sleeves. Overall it seems to border a fine line between looks and utility, given that the sleeves feature each a strap allowing them to be rolled up and secured, and several leather belts attached to the inside of the robe fill in the role of pockets or holsters. Under direct sunlight, the robes have a very faint, barely noticeable iridescent sheen to them.

A large obsidian sphere with jutting shapes carved in and sticking out.  Each surface is intricately carved with a complex script composed of squares.  It is wrapped several times and held inside a smooth pottery sphere.  

A long and pale wand engraved with several horizontal slits,

A bleached white jawbone once belonging to a dwarf. It shouts insults in dwarven whenever it is touched by an elf.

A pair of golden earrings, with sapphires set in the center. The sapphires always appear to be as if they are catching light, no matter the light condition, giving them a false, glowing appearance.

A marble statuette of a scowling woman with octopus tentacles for arms emerging from dark ocean waves.

A well-made holy symbol of the minor God of Random Domain that when carried or worn by a bearer who is not a devout follower of that God, fills its owner with a sense of dread

A pair of war drum clubs whose handles are made of a dark brown wood with human skulls bound with leather strips on the ends.

A heavy iron mask, intricately carved patterns and runes.

A white porcelain mask, smooth and beautiful, except for the tears of blood coming from the eye sockets.

A small, palm-sized mass of interlocking carvings. The carvings on closer examination resemble five interlocking crescents. The icon is fashioned from what looks to be ancient bone and knowledgeable PC's can determine that the object was fashioned from the knuckles of five different dragons.

Coin of Indecision: A gold coin with the word "YES" on one side and the word "NO" on the other. If it is flipped while asking a question, the coin always lands on edge.

A thin chisel wrought in the shape of a stylized finger, with a perpetually flaking lacquer of dark green.

A leather wallet acid etched with the symbol of an alembic, containing a full set of certified identification papers denoting that the bearer is a member of the alchemists and apothecaries guild. The section containing the member's physical description (Height, weight, sex, race, eye, skin and hair colour) is completely blank and could be filled in by anyone with half decent handwriting.

Wand of False Life: An elm wand that if set down on a solid surface, will sprout tiny legs and arms, and move around like a living thing, spontaneously wandering around in a small area and sometimes dancing, particularly if there is music being played. It isn't actually alive and will not move more than three feet from where it was placed. The arms and legs will fold away if the wand is picked up, but it always seems to have an elongated face as part of the grain of the wood at one end.

[lady-of-the-lotus]

Xue Yang, still alive and disguised as Xiao Xingchen post-canon, pulls a vulnerable Lan Xichen into his destructive orbit with the promise of raising Meng Yao from the grave. Did somebody say #friendship goals?

“We got him back,” he says. His voice is hoarse, as if he’s spent all night screaming. “That pocket-sized prick is back, and that deluded blue idiot will do anything to keep him here.” Nothing from Xiao Xingchen's spirit-trapping pouch. He reaches over to where his robes are jumbled beside the bed, pulls a few closely-written pages from his inner robe’s qiankun sleeve. “See, I have it all here, you know I do—” Still nothing.

Tumblr Ch. 1 Ch. 2   Read on AO3! - M - XueXiao and XiYao

Chapter 3    

Xue Yang is waiting for Lan Xichen when the Clan Leader steps back inside the manor.

“A-Yao,” Lan Xichen is murmuring to himself. “A-Yao. A-Yao. A-Yao…”

Oh, for heaven’s sake.

“Not if you don’t get back in here.” Grinning, Xue Yang waves him into the courtyard. The warmth has faded from his qiankun sleeve, the past half hour is a blur, but he feels more like himself than he has in months.

Happy, too, in a bright, marrow-deep way, which isn’t something he’s much used to.

Lan Xichen glances over his shoulder at the road. Xue Yang steps around him and closes the manor gates.

“Where did you run off to?” he asks, bolting the heavy doors. His arms and legs are still tingling, blood rushing in his ears. “The main event is about to begin.”

Lan Xichen follows him into the hall. His eyes widen as he drinks in the naked body. Chang Ping is an oozing mass of red and pink and yellow, exposed bone and ruptured fat and flayed muscle, a beautiful monstrosity glistening wetly in the lamplight.

The corpse’s eyes are missing.

“Not bad, if I do say so myself.” Xue Yang wipes his blade on Chang Ping’s inner robe, still grinning. “Considering how out of practice I am.”

“Did you have to—have to—”

“Give him the full experience?” Xue Yang laughs. His laugh is a bit too high and a bit too long. “I needed that resentful energy, my friend. Do you think I enjoyed torturing the good Chang Ping?”

Lan Xichen glances at Xue Yang’s left hand.

Xue Yang wags a playful finger at him. He feels like he’s glowing, still filled with that sharp clear brightness. “What his father did to me had nothing to do with any of this. But believe me when I say he was just as guilty.”

“His father? I thought it was Chang Ping who…” Lan Xichen shakes his head. “Never mind. What do you need the resentful energy for?”

Xue Yang points to the floor beneath the swinging corpse. Drawn in blood on the floor is a large, complicated array. “Three guesses. Now, I’ll be back in just a minute; I have something to take care of—”

“I sent the servants away.”

The grin slips from Xue Yang’s face. “You what?”

“I sent them away.”

The brightness fades. “And why did you do that? Pang of conscience?”

“I needed someone to deliver a letter to my brother. That’s all.”

“Suicide note?”

“Suicide is forbidden—”

“So is murder.”

“I could never do that to my family, or demean the gift of life given to me.”

A gust of laughter escapes Xue Yang. “We’ll get there eventually,” he says, shaking his head. It was foolish to think Lan Xichen would have let him kill the servants.

One more reason to bring Jin Guanyao back. Lan Xichen, he knows, will not be able to say no to his precious A-Yao.

“What do you mean?” Lan Xichen asks.

“Not the suicide, my friend. Don’t worry. I want you whole and healthy...” Xue Yang pats his arm reassuringly. “We have time.”

“Time for what?”

Xue Yang flashes a smile. One of his innocent ones this time. “Time to bring back your friend, of course .”

“What now?”

Xue Yang takes Jin Guangyao’s spirit-trapping pouch from Lan Xichen. “Your hand.”

He pricks Lan Xichen’s finger and uses his blood to draw a number of talismans, festooning Chang Ping’s body with the thin slips of yellow paper.

He picks up the spirit-trapping pouch he’d used to capture Chang Ping’s resentful energy, grips it in the same hand as Jin Guangyao’s pouch, and produces his copy of the Stygian Tiger Amulet.

Lan Xichen almost keels over. “That’s—”

“We know what it is.”

“But—”

“Don’t worry. I don’t use it often enough to go the way of Wen Ruohan or Wei Wuxian.”

“But—”

“Do you want me to continue or not?”

Lan Xichen ducks his head and steps back.

Black smoke twines around Xue Yang’s fingers. He sends the amulet flying at the corpse, drawing a rapid-fire sequence of glowing red symbols in the air, then opens Chang Ping’s spirit-trapping pouch and reaches inside.

A blast of resentful energy burst free of the bag, sending Lan Xichen flying across the room. He knocks over a brazier, sending dozens of candles rolling across the bloodstained floor, and slams his head on the stone tiles.

Xue Yang releases a second burst of dark energy so strong he blacks out for a moment. Every bone in his body feels like it’s been turned to soup, a giant fist crushing his skull. Any second now there’s going to be a pop and the floor will be splattered with gray pulp and white shards of skull—

A murmuring sound.

He looks up.

A small white body lies curled inside the array.

Lan Xichen is beside the figure. “…A-Yao?”

Jin Guangyao sits up. He’s shivering and naked in the lamplight. “...Er…er-ge? Zewu-jun….?”

It worked it worked it worked—

Lan Xichen drapes his outer robe around Jin Guangyao. “It’s me, I’ve brought you back—”

Xue Yang sneers. His heart is hammering against his ribcage and his hands and feet are numb. “Actually, you just stood there and goggled at me and passed out.”

“You’re back, you’re back—”

A-Yao slumps forward.

Lan Xichen’s eyes are wide, face white. “What happened? What happened?!—”

Xue Yang shrugs. “How should I know? The last time I did this I killed the man as soon as I confirmed I could do it. Was just trying to see if I was doing something wrong.”

Lan Xichen draws in a deep, shaky breath. “He’s fine, I know he’s fine—”

Xue Yang shrugs again. “I’ve done my part. The rest is up to him.”

Lan Xichen carries Jin Guangyao to one of the bedrooms and settles down beside the bed, eyes never leaving the little snake’s face.

“How many days will it take for those servants you let escape to reach Cloud Recesses?” Xue Yang snaps his fingers in Lan Xichen’s ear. “Are you in there? How long do we have until those servants tell the Lans where we are?”

Lan Xichen starts. “With no detours, on foot, two weeks.”

“Then we have that long until anyone comes after us on their swords. Unless they meet Lan cultivators on the road—”

“I told them not to speak to anyone.”

“As if they’d follow your orders if it were convenient not to?”

“I’m the clan leader.”

“Not of their clan… Doesn’t matter. We need to get moving anyway. As soon as your dimpled little friend is on his feet, we’re out of here. Wake me if anything important happens.”

There’s another bedroom down the hall. He locks the door behind him, removes his robes and shoes and lies down on the bed in just his trousers. Rests Xiao Xingchen’s pouch on his bare chest. Lays Shuanghua out beside him, pressed up against his side. Sets Jiangzai within grabbing distance.

“We got him back,” he says. His voice is hoarse, as if he’s spent all night screaming. “That pocket-sized prick is back, and that deluded blue idiot will do anything to keep him here.”

Nothing from the pouch.

He reaches over to where his robes are jumbled beside the bed, pulls a few closely-written pages from his inner robe’s qiankun sleeve.

“See, I have it all here, you know I do, you were with me when I found it, when I copied it all out—”

Still nothing.

“Daozhang?” He sits up, back to the wall, staring down at the pouch. “I know you can hear me…”

Still nothing.

Worn out from the ritual, he eventually falls asleep, propped up against the wall with the papers scattered across the bed and Xiao Xingchen’s pouch cradled in his lap.

He’s up at dawn. His body aches as if he’d been trampled by a dozen horses, but his head is clearer.

Ridiculous, any worry. He had simply been too tired to focus on the pouch last night, too exhausted to pick up on the subtle motions of the pouch, to sense Xiao Xingchen’s reassuring warmth…

It’s not that Xiao Xingchen disapproved of what he had done. How would Xiao Xingchen even know, if Xue Yang hadn't told him?

(Besides, he’s done far worse over the past eight years.)

And it certainly isn’t that Xiao Xingchen can’t communicate with Xue Yang. For years now he’s felt the pouch hum, felt its warmth—

Years.

He drags himself out to the discussion hall in time to watch Jin Guangyao evaporate in the pale morning light.

“A-Yao!” Lan Xichen leaps forward, snatching at him, but it’s too late.

Jin Guangyao is gone.

“Well, that didn’t go as planned.” Xue Yang yawns. He’s known this moment was coming, known Jin Guangyao would fade with the morning sun, knows that he’ll be back that night, but he takes no pleasure in Lan Xichen’s anguish. Odd, that. He’d expected this all to be more amusing. “He say anything interesting?”

Lan Xichen seizes him by the throat, hoisting him off the floor with his tremendous Lan strength. “You little rat, what did you do, you promised me A-Yao back—”

Xue Yang desperately struggles to pry Lan Xichen’s fingers from his throat, but Lan Xichen’s grip is like iron.

“U—gh—uhg—”

Lan Xichen flings him out the door so hard he bounces twice and rolls down the discussion hall steps. The Clan Leader’s handsome face is a nightmarish mask of itself, twisted by rage and hate and panic.

Xue Yang stands slowly, choking on his swollen Adam’s apple.

Lan Xichen flies down beside him. “What did you do, you repugnant little liar—”

Jiangzai appears in Xue Yang’s hand. “I brought him back!” Blood spurts from his tongue as he speaks. “I swear!”

“You bastard, you lied to me—”

“I told you, I’ve never done this before! I swear I did my best! Do you think I wanted this? I need that dimpled little madman too!”

Lan Xichen hits him so hard that Xue Yang is knocked on his back. He draws Shuoyue, but Xue Yang has Jiangzai up, pointing at Lan Xichen’s throat.

“Lay one more finger on me,” Xue Yang rasps, “and it will be the last thing you ever do.”

“As if I care—”

Xue Yang spits blood. “I’m the only one who can get him back, and you know it!"

Lan Xichen freezes, then slowly sheaths his sword. “You have until tonight.”

Rubbing at his bruised throat, Xue Yang grins, a grin full of teeth. “Anything for you, my friend.”

* * *

Xue Yang locks himself in the discussion hall all day to work on getting “A-Yao” back. Spends most of the day napping on the Clan Leader’s chair. The corpse has begun to rot, but he doesn’t mind. The smell of rotting meat, combined with the familiar surroundings, brings him back to happier times at the Chang Manor.

“We’re almost there, daozhang,” he mumbles as he falls asleep. Not directly to the pouch. He doesn’t dare take it out. “Just a little bit longer…”

He wakes at moonrise, just in time to add a few more lines to the array, forcing Jin Guangyao to reappear in the empty hall with Xue Yang instead of beside Lan Xichen, to whom he’s been bound. (A mistake, the binding, but it’s too late to rectify now.)

Jin Guangyao reappears in a shower of silvery sparks, still wearing the oversized clothes he’d borrowed from Chang Ping’s wardrobe.

“You did this,” he says to Xue Yang. Only his timbre and over-enunciation are as Xue Yang remembers. The old cloying obsequiousness, the sticky politeness, have been scrubbed away. “You brought me back.”

“Guilty as charged.”

“Why?”

Xue Yang shrugs. “Zewu-jun’s fault, really. You know, if you want to apologize for trying to kill me, now would be a good time.”

Jin Guangyao ducks his head at him. “I explained that to you when you returned to me to beg for help in restoring Xiao Xingchen, Chengmei. You know I had no choice, and that I ordered my men to let you survive the beating.”

Xue Yang rolls his eyes. As if he’d bought that bullshit eight years ago, either. “Whatever. You still owe me, big time.”

Jin Guangyao ignores that. “Zewu-jun seems rather out of sorts.”

“Zewu-jun stood by and watched me a torture a man to death, if that’s what you mean. Let me kill a good dozen others, too. What’s with that look? I thought killing people made you happy.”

A slight return of Jin Guangyao’s old fussily polite manner. Xue Yang had always thought that Jin Guangyao had been relatively open around him, hadn’t been afraid to snap at him on occasion, to complain about Koi Tower’s bottom-feeding snakes, but now Xue Yang sees that the face he’d shown him during their partnership had merely been another of the former clan leader’s masks.

“If I wanted you dead, you would have been dead,” says Jin Guangyao, granting him a full bow this time. “I thank you, Xue Chengmei, for granting me renewed life.”

Xue Yang snorts. “Blow it out your blubberhole, Lianfang-zun. Save it for that blue fool out there.” He flings open the discussion hall’s doors. Lan Xichen is pacing back and forth before the hall. He was already too thin to begin with, but he seems to have lost another ten pounds over the past twelve hours.

“Your little friend is back,” Xue Yang says shortly. “I’ll be packing. We need to leave this place.”

He turns and heads off. The melting way that dimpled little scorpion turned his stupidly huge eyes on Lan Xichen makes him want to run them both through with a sword.

Lan Xichen, daring to lay a hand on him—

“What did you do, you repugnant little liar—”

He should have known that was coming. Shouldn’t have been so surprised at Lan Xichen’s treachery.

Xue Yang rubs at the bruises on his throat. The Lan Clan Leader had to have been part of the decision to beat Xue Yang to death all those years ago. It was foolish of Xue Yang to ever think otherwise. Stupid, stupid—

They reach Yueyang at dawn, slowed down by Jin Guangyao, who is far weaker than Xue Yang had expected.

The little snake disappears as the sun’s first rays touch him, his face a mask of pain.

“It hurts him,” Lan Xichen says, turning to Xue Yang.

Xue Yang tosses a candied peanut in the air, catching it in his mouth. “So? What do you want me to do about it?”

“Anchor him here. Do something !”

“You’re the scholar. You’re the expert on ghosts.”

“On getting rid of them! You’re the one who knows how to—to work your wicked tricks—”

“Ah, the second they’re no longer working in your favor, they’re ‘suddenly wicked tricks.’ ”

Lan Xichen frowns as if he has no idea what Xue Yang means.

Hypocrite . He wants to punch himself in the face for ever thinking Lan Xichen was any different than the rest. Hypocrite, hypocrite—

A stab of fear. What if this all means that Lan Xichen is not, in fact, a suitable subject—

No. No. Lan Xichen is still “pure.” Still “good.” He can’t help being born so high that the execution of a criminal meant nothing to him, can’t help being raised by the Lan to think that any cultivation deviating from the norm is “wicked”—

He knows he should take Xiao Xingchen out, tell him about his progress. Knows he should ask Lan Xichen to leave their shared room to give them some privacy, but instead Xue Yang goes to the innkeeper and orders several jars of wine.

He’d spent the trip to Yueyang coming up with an alternate explanation of Jin Guangyao’s return for the daozhang. Xiao Xingchen, he knows, would not approve of the lingchi.

He knows that’s why Xiao Xingchen had abandoned him the other night. The daozhang must have sensed something. That was all. Simple disapproval.

Xue Yang can explain everything. Explain how whatever Xiao Xingchen thought he’d sensed, it had been wrong…

But instead he orders the wine.

“I thought you don’t drink,” says Lan Xichen.

“Everyone has to start sometime. Besides, if you think I can put up with you and that dimpled weasel making eyes at each while sober, you are gravely mistaken.” He takes a deep drink from the wine jar. “Just go and ask him.”

“I beg your pardon. Ask him what?”

“ ‘I beg your pardon,’ ” Xue Yang mimics. “Just ask the dimpled little freak what he needs done.”

“Needs done?”

“Are all of you Lans this dense? This is demonic cultivation. Everything is the opposite of what you know. The thing that would normally set his spirit at rest will instead bind him to this world. No more disappearing and reappearing.”

“No more pain?”

“I can’t answer that. But I’d guess not.” Xue Yang finishes his first jar of wine. It’s disgusting dry wine, but he���s not drinking it for the flavor. He takes a sip from the second jar. It burns his bruised throat and he chokes, coughing up a mix of wine and blood from his pierced tongue.

Fucking Lan.

“Not that we can fix what’s wrong with him up here,” he adds, tapping his head. “Guess being locked up for a year with an angry ghost who hates your insides isn’t a lot of fun.”

“What do you mean?”

Xue Yang ignores him, just stretches out on his bed and closes his eyes. Just have to wait for him to fall asleep, then I can take out Xiao Xingchen, explain everything to him—

But when he wakes in the middle of the night to a quiet room, he instead unsheathes Shuanghua and lays it beside him, heating the metal to body temperature using a Wen talisman, and goes back to sleep, pressed closely up against the blade.

They tell him the news in the morning: “A-Yao” has selected Wu Shen, a Yunping merchant as the target of his revenge, the thing Lan Xichen believes will anchor the little freak to the world of the living.

Xue Yang knows he should be happy, knows this is exactly what he’s been wanting, knows this is important progress, but the joy he’d felt at the Chang Manor is gone, and there’s no recapturing it.

It takes a week to reach Yunping City.

Seven nights for Xue Yang to sit with a cold lifeless pouch in his hands while Jin Guangyao lies warm and breathing next to Lan Xichen.

It’s not that Xiao Xingchen doesn’t want to communicate with him.

And it’s not that he can’t .

Xue Yang is certain of this.

For years he’s felt Xiao Xingchen stirring in his pouch, communicating with him, listening to him—

It’s simply that now that they’re so very, very close, Xiao Xingchen is preserving his strength so he can assist Xue Yang when the moment comes.

That’s all.

He doesn’t say much to Jin Guangyao during this time. He talks, of course. A lot. But that’s different than truly saying anything.

Except for one conversation they have on the third night, when Jin Guangyao is still communicative, before the clan leader fades fully into himself and stops speaking.

“What do you plan to do after Wu Shen is dead?” he asks Jin Guangyao. The little weasel is lying beside Lan Xichen, who’s fast asleep. Jin Guangyao’s hands are clasped tightly over his chest, as if lying still and corpselike on his back brings back bad memories.

Jin Guangyao darts a quick look over at Lan Xichen as if to make sure he’s truly asleep. “What do you mean?”

“Shall I repeat myself and wake him up?”

Jin Guangyao frowns slightly. “I heard you. But you know good and well what will happen to me.”

“And yet you asked that deluded blue fool to kill that merchant for you.”

Jin Guangyao is staring straight up at the ceiling, knuckles standing out white and sharp on his tightly clasped hands. “He won’t do it.”

Xue Yang snorts. “If he doesn’t, I’ve wasted a lot of time.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Xue Yang stretches, running his fingertips down Shuanghua’s textured white hilt. “Bringing you together, I mean.”

“That makes no sense.”

Xue Yang gives a silent little shrugging laugh. This is the first time Jin Guangyao has really sounded like his old self. He’d never been fooled for a moment by the other man’s cloying, ingratiating manner. Jin Guangyao is a condescending, vicious, arrogant bastard, and Xue Yang appreciates that.

It’s the false humility and veneer of politeness that he can’t deal with. Beat someone half to death and leave them bleeding out in a ditch—behead his sworn brother—assassinate his father—this Xue Yang can understand. But show your face while you do it, is how he sees it. Don’t hide behind a mask of gentility!

“It doesn’t matter,” says Jin Guangyao when Xue Yang just keeps laughing. “He won’t do it.”

“Are you certain?”

Jin Guangyao glances over at the man asleep beside him. It’s sickening, the way he’s been making eyes at Lan Xichen. “He won’t.”

“And if he does?”

“Then…” Jin Guangyao trails off. “He won’t.”

Whatever. Better for Jin Guangyao to believe the utter bullshit he’s spouting. Wouldn’t do to have him trying to stop Lan Xichen.

Just a few more days now.

* * * *

“Dinner first, I think,” says Xue Yang as they settle into their inn in Yunping. “Can’t practice demonic cultivation on an empty stomach, now, can we? Zewu-jun? No? Suit yourself. Meet back here in an hour, and we’ll head out.” Xue Yang heads downstairs.

The smell of fried vegetables and dumplings wafts from the inn’s kitchen, but Xue Yang is too nervous to eat.

That’s a first. Being too nervous for anything is a first.

Instead he shaves and fixes his hair, braiding it like Xiao Xingchen used to for him and looping it up to be bound by the silver hairpiece he’s saved all these years. Puts on his best robes. Cleans his nails and teeth and polishes his sword.

He looks in the small, grainy mirror stuck to the room’s wall, then looks away.

He’s still not sure why he avoids mirrors. You’d think he’d want to see Xiao Xingchen’s face—

He turns away and heads out to the address Jin Guangyao had given him.

But not before taking a small detour.

A risk, the detour. But a necessary one.

It’s snowing out. It coats his hair and robes, but he barely notices the icy wetness.

So close. So close—

The name “Xiao Xingchen” gets him through Wu Shen’s front door, but he has to wait a good fifteen minutes before anyone actually sees him.

He paces the small, over-furnished study as he waits. Dark red curtains, dark red floor, dark red hangings. Like slitting open a monster’s belly and crawling inside , Xue Yang thinks. He fidgets with the brush set on the desk, spilling ink on a stack of letters. He’s debating whether to sweep the whole thing onto the floor or just leave it there when Wu Shen bustles in.

“And what can I do for the daozhang?” he asks, bowing.

Normally Xue Yang would enjoy his, take his time playing with the mouse he’s caught, but he hasn’t the time or inclination tonight. Within seconds there’s a silencing spell slapped over Wu Shen’s thick blubbery lips and he’s tied up with a spirit-binding rope, being hauled out the window up into the snowy sky.

Xue Yang makes straight for Guanyin Temple with just one more detour. Lan Xichen and his precious A-Yao are there, as expected.

Xue Yang dumps Wu Shen in the snow at their feet.

Lan Xichen stares at the purple-faced man on the ground and then looks quickly at Jin Guangyao, who stands utterly still without a trace of emotion on his small pale face.

“Let’s go inside,” Xue Yang suggests. Jin Guangyao, it seems, is ready to stand there frozen all night, and Lan Xichen is more than happy to stand there staring at him.

The temple’s ceiling is half cratered, the entire place turned upside-down, but the damage isn’t as extensive as it could have been. Humming, Xue Yang limps around the temple, lighting the surviving candles with his Wen talismans. Normally cold and damp weather means pain, but tonight he barely notices the stiffness in his leg.

He’s still doing this when Lan Xichen, like an idiot, removes the silencing spell.

“—sue you all! Unhand me at once! What is the meani—”

Lan Xichen, in a rare display of good sense, replaces the silencing spell.

“ ‘Unhand me at once’?” Xue Yang snickers. “If you don’t kill him, I will. Dammit, get back here—” Wu Shen is rolling quietly towards the door. Xue Yang flies after him and shoves him flat on the ground with his foot, sending a stab of pain up his bad leg.

“He’s all yours,” he says to Lan Xichen.

They’ve been building to this point for a full week, but Lan Xichen still manages to look stunned.

“Our dimpled friend can’t do it, or it would just create more resentful energy,” he lies. “You know about these things from your studies, don’t you, Lianfang-zun? Tell the man.”

Jin Guangyao ducks his head in agreement, eyes still fixed on Wu Shen.

Xue Yang prods Wu Shen’s belly with the tip of his sword. Wu Shen gives a silent eep of indignation. Strangely, he seems more angry than scared. “Better hurry, Zewu-jun, before I give it a shot myself. ‘Unhand me at once’—”

Jin Guangyao looks up for the first time. “Er-ge?”

Lan Xichen’s sword is in his hand.

“Take my advice,” says Xue Yang, leaning on one of the few surviving columns, “and get it over with quick. Don’t try to have fun with it this time. I mean, I did my first time, but—”

He jumps as Lan Xichen takes Shuoyue and rams it through Wu Shen’s heart. He’d expected to have to do a lot more talking.

Lan Xichen releases the hilt, leaving the sword sticking up out of the dead man’s chest, and staggers backwards. He’s shaking all over, as if he’s about to pass out—

Jin Guangyao turns to Lan Xichen.

“I didn’t think you would actually do it,” he says, very softly. “Xichen, I…” He grips Lan Xichen’s sword hand. “Goodbye, Xichen. Find m—”

And then he’s gone, a handful of sparks fading into the flickering dimness of the temple.

Lan Xichen’s mouth falls open, arms dangling limply at his sides, a wooden puppet with no strings.

Xue Yang looks up from where he’s using Wu Shen’s blood to draw an array on the floor. “What went well.”

“Did you know?” Lan Xichen grabs Xue Yang’s throat. “Did you know he’d disappear? You told me it was different for demonic cultivation; you told me it would bind him here—”

“Better question to ask is if he knew,” Xue Yang chokes out.

“If—if—”

Xue Yang pries Lan Xichen’s nerveless fingers from his throat. “It was a test. You failed it. Gave in right away, as I understand.”

“I—”

Xue Yang’s bruised throat aches as he laughs. “You were the better part of him. Supposed to be the better part of him. Moonlight in the darkness and all that bullshit.”

“You—you lied to me!”

“I suppose all the beads were put in the looks bucket when you were made,” Xue Yang grins, “without a lot left over for brains.” He clicks his tongue. "What else did you expect from someone as repugnant as me?"

Lan Xichen collapses to his knees, clutching at the tiles as if trying to ground himself, his fingernails scraping the stone.

And then he’s back on his feet, swaying, a paper funeral doll hanging from a string. His knees buckle slightly, as if the melting snow has soaked his paper limbs.

“Why did you do this?”

“About time you asked.” Xue Yang removes a torn book page from his qiankun sleeve, waves it at Lan Xichen. “You really should have asked more questions, my friend.”

Lan Xichen snatches at the page, stares at them with unseeing eyes.

“The ritual calls for the corruption of a soul of so-called equal purity in order to create a proper vessel,” Xue Yang explains. “Not exactly easy to find a person like that in this stinking world. Not to mention access to the Lan library and Inquiry.” He shrugs. “You were the very obvious choice. Too bad you didn’t intentionally kill those Lan cultivators when we left the Cloud Recesses and those Nie guards, or I could’ve saved a lot of time.”

Lan Xichen’s voice seems to come from somewhere outside himself. “Are you going to kill me?”

“Kill Zewu-jun?” Xue Yang twirls a strand of hair around his finger. “I can’t take you down on my own. But I figure they can, which is why I invited them. Right on time, too—”

He takes the page back right before Lan Xichen draws Shuoyue and flies at Xue Yang. His movements are erratic, nothing like his usual impeccable swordsmanship, and Xue Yang easily spins out of the way with a laugh.

“Clan Leader!”

Six Lan cultivators have come floating down through the ceiling. They drink in the dead body, the frenzied look on Lan Xichen’s face, the blood on the floor—

One produces his guqin and begins to play.

Lan Xichen bares his teeth and turns on him, slashing the air with Shuoyue.

An arc of blue light, and the cultivator and his guqin lie in pieces on the ground.

“Zewu-jun! This is not you—”

Lan Xichen attacks.

Xue Yang stands back, watching the battle. His own swordsmanship is good but, despite his time with the Wen and Jin Clans, it lacks polish, and he knows he’s no match for Lan cultivators.

And they, it seems, are no match for Lan Xichen.

But it’s still six against one, and Lan Xichen is not himself. Holds his own well enough, parying and thrusting like a graceful blue whirlwind, but he’s bleeding heavily—

Xue Yang squints in the flickering lamplight. Not all of the blood blooming over his gauzy blue robes are from wounds inflicted by the Lan cultivators. Blood is spurting from his mouth, streaming from his eyes, squirting from a hundred little wounds appearing suddenly over his body as he—

Oh, for heaven’s sake. That’s all he needs right now; an honest-for-goodness qi deviation when he’s so close —

A stab of panic. The ritual would heal all inflicted wounds, but what if it didn’t heal qi-derived wounds—?

What if Xiao Xingchen woke up in a body that was bleeding out —

Forced to relive that nightmare a second time—

The last Lan cultivator falls but Lan Xichen continues to hack and slash and spin at the empty air, whirling and swinging and roaring, a beautiful, savage creature in blue and white, fighting phantoms until blood loss forces him to his knees.

It’s almost...pathetic.

Xue Yang can’t remember the last time he’s used that word to describe something other than Lan Xichen.

Pathetic.

He looks down at Lan Xichen. The man kneels at his feet, bleeding heavily.

“Shall I do it, my friend?” he asks Lan Xichen. His voice is almost soft.

Lan Xichen stabs upward with his sword, slashing Xue Yang’s side open like a gutted fish.

The floor rushes up to meet Xue Yang, slamming itself against his skull.

Fuck, the bastard must have struck an artery—

Wet heat, spreading over his side, his leg—a rapidly-spreading puddle of red as his pounding heart pumps the blood from his body—

Lan Xichen is kneeling, staring down at his hands. The hands that killed his precious A-Yao.

Waiting.

“You’re welcome,” says Xue Yang, blood spurting over his chin, and he plunges his knife deep into Lan Xichen’s chest.

Lan Xichen sprawls out on the stone tiles.

His vision blurred, he can just make out Lan Xichen gazing up at him, blue robes soaked with crimson, sword lying just out of his grasp in the pool of red.

Still. Peaceful.

Desperately he claws his way over to the center of the array on his hands and knees, slipping in the blood. He’s bleeding out fast—both him and Lan Xichen—

—and if Lan Xichen is already dead this has all been for nothing—

All for nothing, all for nothing—

He flops down on the array, struggling to focus, keep his rapidly fading thoughts from drifting down into the darkness rising up around him.

Warm. Too warm. And cold. Too cold.

He might still be able to heal himself yet; seal his gushing veins, seal his meridians, keep himself from bleeding out, use the last of his spiritual energy on that—

No point. No point. No point in surviving this without Xiao Xingchen. This is it—this is his last chance—

A kaleidoscope of colors burst through the darkness. He struggles to breathe, to inhale the colors into his lungs as if they’ll give him the strength to drag himself forward, but he’s lost all awareness of his mouth, his throat, his lungs, lost all control of his limbs.

A loud cry from somewhere in the misty darkness, startling him back to himself.

Summoning the last of his strength, Xue Yang reaches deep inside himself, seizes every last scrap of spiritual energy, and releases it into the array, choking out the words of the incantation—formless, gibbering words as his tongue flops uselessly in his mouth.

The warmth intensifies.

Heat, now. Uncomfortable, burning heat. Or it would be, could he feel anything—

His eyes have gone almost completely dark, but he can see a vague blue-and-red blur in front of him.

The blur moves. Sits up, then falls over, heaving itself towards him.

“Daozhang?” gasps Xue Yang with the last of the air in his lungs.

“Chengmei?”

A looming face appears in the misty rainbow-shot darkness, a pale white splotch streaked with red.

“Ch-chengmei? I heard your voice—Xue Yang!”

Xue Yang tries to drag himself towards the face, but his body won’t respond. The face is almost gone now, subsumed by the whirling rainbow lights, a thousand dancing, dying fireflies.

“What did you do to Chengmei? Is this his blood? I can’t remember anything—”

Numb limbs quivering, Xue Yang raises himself up onto all fours and struggles blindly towards the voice. He needs to speak to the face, needs to know he’s whole again. Needs to explain, needs to reach him, needs to—to—

He dies before he gets there.

* * *

Thanks for reading! tbh I never know if anyone reads these tumblr posts so a kudos on Ao3 would be much appreciated <3

[ridiasfangirlings]

Mikorei hanahaki AU. Munakata starts coughing out flowers after Mikoto dies. Thanks!

It starts the day after he killed Suoh Mikoto.

Munakata wakes up that morning and he feels a tightness in his throat, irritating, because all he did was his duty – Munakata's decided on his chosen path as a King and all he did was what the Blue King had to, so he's not going to allow himself to look back, or to regret. His throat hurts though, like he can't breathe, and it's strange because he's never suffered from allergies or anything of the sort. It feels like something's stuck there, roots reaching up from his chest and clawing up his throat, and Munakata thinks 'this isn't grief.'

He gets up, changes into his uniform, and coughs up a flower petal.

From that point on it's a regular occurrence, always there in his throat, settling in his chest. He can feel it like a plant growing between his ribs, branches and leaves winding around to make a cage of his heart. He knows it will only grow thicker, vines and thorns, and maybe someday it will squeeze so tightly his heart won't be able to beat. But until then the flowers crawl their way up his throat, a constant cough that won't go away. Munakata's good at hiding it of course, because he's always been the sort of person who maintains perfect poise in every situation. He sits in his office and listens to Awashima give her report of the Ashinaka High incident – which is what they're calling it, not the Colorless Incident, not the Red King's grave – and he nods and gives his orders, and when she's gone he coughs flower petals into his tea. The petals are red like blood, floating in the cup, and perhaps there's something thin and amused in his smile as he stirs the tea with his finger.

A week passes, a day, a month. A new Red King rises out of the ashes of the old, and there are still flower petals in Munakata's throat, dotted like blood on his lips. When he meets Kushina Anna at the foot of the Mihashira building she looks at him for a long moment – 'I will not blame you for it, but I will not thank you either,' and he has not asked for either from her – and he suspects she can see it, the cage of branches and deep red blossoms holding his heart in check. There is red shining deep in her eyes and it's nothing at all like Suoh's, because Munakata knows Suoh's red. The bright burning fire that could tear everything to pieces, heat in those rough hands that had torn at his flesh like a wild beast, fire in the mouth and tongue that entangled with his, burning in the way only a wildfire can, like a thing that knows it must burn its brightest fast because once that fire dies there won't even be ashes behind.

(No blood, no bone, no ash. Mikoto has left none of those in this world now, and another flower falls from his lips.)

In the chamber of the Slate Munakata sees him sometimes, out of the corner of his eye. It's only a flash, here and there, and Munakata can't help but wonder if this is the Slate playing its own games. The Slate is alive, after all – no one who has sat in this room with their hands pressed against the glowing stone trying to tame the god that gave them life in the first place could deny that. Sometimes there are whispers in the back of his mind, promising him beautiful dreams and what this power could do, and Munakata never dwells on those. He's made his choice. He will not regret his choice.

Every time he leaves the chamber there are flower petals scattered on the surface of the Slate, but no one else enters this chamber and so it's simply his secret alone.

Munakata coughs into his hand, red petals fluttering in the wind, and he can feel the clock ticking down in his mind. It's aggravating, perhaps – he had more that he wanted to do, and of course it should be Suoh who still drags him down in the end.

(“You're an idiot, Munakata.” Biting his lips, blood dripping down like flowers, and Munakata pulls back Mikoto's head by his hair and tells him to be quiet.)

He knows the condition his Sword is in and he knows what is – still – growing in his chest. Munakata can calculate how the growth inside has increased with the cracks above his head, and he knows exactly how much time he has left. He will make the most of it.

Suoh Mikoto is smoking a cigarette just around the corner and Munakata can smell the smoke, but he keeps walking. A thorn pricks in his heart and this time there may be the smallest speck of red blood marring the petals that fall from his mouth and scatter away in the wind.

No blood, no bone, no ash.

–

“This isn't like you, Munakata.”

He planned everything perfectly, because that is who Munakata Reisi is. He knew what his duty would be the moment he stepped onto the ground at Ashinaka High, and he knew what his duty would be when he walked through the streets of Shizume City towards jungle's hideout with Zenjoh Gouki at his back. In the haze of the Gray King's power no one is able to see the petals flying in the wind and it's easy to explain away the blood as being from the wound on his head.

('Unlike me?Perhaps.' Once he would have smiled back at that, refuting the words even as he entertained them. But Suoh was that kind of person, who dragged out all the contradictions that Munakata had spent such time quelling. Perhaps he had always been unwell, that he'd entertained this in the first place. Perhaps that seed had been there from the start, waiting to be watered in the blood that he'd spilled – that he hadn't wanted to spill, and that was the truth of it, but it changed nothing so why did it matter – and he'd been absolutely lost from the start, from the very moment he'd been caught by the eyes of the beast and decided to take on himself the task of taming the untameable.)

The Sword of Damocles shuddered above his head and Munakata covered his mouth again, petals crushed between his fingers. If this was the end, that was it, he supposed. Unlike what it was meant to be, and unlike himself, but his plans had run dry and the thorns were starting to squeeze at his heart, vines cracking his ribs.

And then –

The Red King.

It was just another illusion, he knew that. Kushina Anna stood there alone, and no one was behind her. Perhaps it was only the Slate again, one last machination from a cornered beast, thinking this might cause him to do – something, to stop this.

But Suoh Mikoto looked right up at him, that lazy half smile on his face that Munakata was so used to, mouthing words that weren't an apology – it wouldn't be like that man at all, to apologize now, and it wasn't what Munakata wanted from him anyway – but which resonated in his ears anyway, shuddering their way down his throat, reaching for his heart.

A red flame burned through the plant rooted there, burning each and every vine and seedling, each small red blossom, each thorn sheared away –

-and for a moment, perhaps, embracing his heart, leaving a burn scar on the surface where no one could see--

The Sword above his head shattered into thousands of glowing blue shards, and one last petal fluttered from Munakata's mouth into his open palm.

There was the faintest whisp on smoke lingering on the tips of his hair, Suoh's brand, and Munakata shook his head with something like a smile on his face.

“Truly an unreasonable man.”

Nothing answered him, but for the first time in a long while his heart seemed to be beating free.

[neocity-sarai]

Simulations [PART 1]

❃ pairing: reader x mark lee (divergent! au)

❃ alerts: making out, suggestive content, language, violence/ injuries, blood, angst

❃ song rec: find you by zedd ft matthew koma

You remember it all. You remember the morning of your choosing ceremony, the way your parents and brother smiled at you when your crimson blood fizzled into the bowl of burnt coal. 

Dauntless. You were born and raised in Dauntless, the faction of the brave- the faction of teetering between life and death. You were sure of yourself, you would climb the ranks like rungs of a ladder. And that- you did. You trained as an initiate soldier under the leaders until you rose to the top of your class. When it was time, the faction held a ceremony for inducting you into their ranks- you were one of Dauntless’s fearless leaders now. You’d walk among your mentors as equals instead of their student. Looking back on how you were as an initiate, you were scrawny. You didn’t have much muscle on you, you had no idea how to shoot or how to engage in combat. The amount of times you cried out of frustration, staying up late in the training ring just to improve. Luckily, you had Mark. Mark was the same age as you when you were initiates, his frame only a little bigger than yours. His family lived in the same sector as you. He was always sweet. The familiarity of his doe eyes and carved cheekbones, the way that his bangs flopped flat a little over his eyes. When your instructor assigned you both as combat partners, Mark held your waist firm as he helped you strike the punching bag in front of you.

 You remembered the way his warm breath fanned on your neck and how your skin felt aflame to his touch. Many nights, you spent sparing with each other and downing energy drinks until the break of dawn. You felt yourself trusting Mark more than you had expected yourself to, his giggly outbursts made you smile and it felt like you weren’t alone. You endured every struggle together. Even when the other girls picked on you for being weaker or for latching on to Mark, he always defended you no matter what. After a couple years, you realized you watched Mark mature into the man he is today. His build is packed with toned muscle, and his hair curls over his forehead artistically- his hands covered in scars and old bruises. His face has gotten sharper too, his jaw tenses when he’s concentrated on something and his eyes glint with obsidian fire during training. Mark knows when the stand firm, rather than being an innocent, laughing mess- his demeanor morphs into something more powerful. It is no surprise that you two had surged to the top, being chosen as Dauntless’s’ next leadership. Though, Mark still treated you like a longtime friend of his, his cheeks still redden when your brush hands. 

[4:00 PM]

Before you could become fully deemed as leaders, you both had to undergo one last test. You and Mark would have to do a partner simulation, a board derived from all the other factions watching you both with hawk eyes. You were lead into a blank room, the walls empty of any words or any decor as you were motioned to sit in a chair next to Mark. The Erudite woman who had pale skin and ocean eyes glared at you before attaching neuro-nodes to your temples- the wires connecting over to Mark. With no emotion, her voice cold, “Lean back.”

You look at Mark beside you, “Are you ready for this?”

He answers you in a soft tone, “If you are.”

Nodding, the woman jabs a syringe of violet liquid into the juncture of your neck, a wave of vertigo taking over your brain. You can’t feel your fingers and your eyelids feel heavy, all you can hear is Mark’s groan in the room.

When you open your eyes, you find yourself in a room of mirrors. The ground feels cold underneath your back- Mark isn’t beside you either.

“Mark? Where are you?”

Looking around, you only see reflections of yourself- multiple views making you dizzy. For a few moments, you hear Mark’s stern voice, “Y/n? Hello?”

“Mark I’m over here!”

“Hello?? Y/n?”

Mark can’t hear you. He can’t even see you. You rise from the ground, your knees shaking as you continue to call for Mark. Your heart sinks when you start to hear a low gear-grinding sound, the mirror walls are starting to enclose in you. That’s right, you were afraid of tight spaces. You heave in and out of your chest in order to try to calm yourself, your legs shaking uncontrollably. The walls are closing incredibly fast. You run across the floor, mirrors chasing you and glaring at you wherever you ran. You scream for Mark.

“Where are you?! Mark?! Help me!!”

Finally, you catch a glimpse of Mark in a corner mirror yet his actual body is nowhere to be seen. You scream for him to not move. All he can do is yell out your name, his brows furrowed with anguish. In a quickened speed, the mirrors start to buckle down towards you- noises screeching into your eardrums. You have to do something. When you turn around, three items lay on three pedestals: a baseball bat, a nail and hammer, and a lighter. Without hesitation, you’re immediately drawn to the baseball bat. Tossing it in your hand, you swing it into the mirror in front of you as hard as you can. The impact makes an ear-deafening sound, the mirror shatters into a thousand shards- some of them flying to nick your face. Through the mirror, Mark stands with a shocked look on his face, “Y/n?”

You practically trip through the mirror, you feel yourself falling before you can even reach out for Mark.

“Y/n! Wait!”

You’re falling- your eyes opening slightly to the ceiling of the white room that you’re sitting in before shutting your eyes again. This time, you’re standing in a field of buckwheat by the faction border, the gate that surrounds the entirety of the city grounds. You feel Mark’s frame bump against your back as he jolts from the contact.

“Y/n- oh god, you scared me.”

You throw your arms around him in response, his words coming out in a flurry of stutters, “That was close, wasn’t it?”

You nuzzle into the crook of his shoulder, “I thought I couldn’t find you and the walls were closing in and I had no-.”

Before he can pull you tighter against his chest, you hear a low grumble come from behind you. In an instant, you detach from Mark, turning to face a bloodthirsty carnivore a few feet away. You’re back to back again, one wolf threatening to leap at you in a few seconds, one other wolf in front of Mark as well. Mark tries coaxing the wolf, saliva dripping from the edges of it’s gleaming teeth. When you look beside you, there’s two pedestals to your right and two pedestals next to Mark as well. Your eyes glaze over the pound of steak that sits on the surface yet you grab the small handgun instead. You assume Mark does the same because you hear him click the safety off. 

Your breath turns shaky, your heart is beating out of your chest. You’ve learned to shoot but you’ve never shot an animal before. Mark turns his head to the side to talk to you, “On three okay? I’m right here, don’t be afraid.”

You suck in air into the chamber of your lungs, cocking your gun before the growling wolf, it’s eyes like shiny, yellow orbs. 

Like a slow, painful countdown, Mark begins, “1...2...3.”

You shoot together, bullets ringing in the air as you feel the blow all the way down to your bones. It knocks you off your feet in time for Mark to steady you with his arms. 

“It’s over now. It’s over.” he says. Mark was tough but he never wanted to kill.

You squeeze your eyes shut, not wanting to see the carcasses of the two wolves- the smell of blood wafting below your nostrils. You feel sick. When you don’t open your eyes, you feel warmth disappear from your body as you hear Mark calling your name. Suddenly, you feel yourself becoming submerged in icy water, your lungs screaming for air. Opening your eyes, all you see is the murk of the water, you don’t feel Mark next to you. Swimming to the surface, the weight of your water-logged clothes feels as heavy as gold bars. Coughing, you swivel around for any sign of Mark. You’re in the middle of the ocean, the sky is a stormy sage color as ash gray clouds swirl into a cyclone. It reminds you of the story your mother told you as a child: a pirate who was lost at sea, trying to navigate the high waters in search of treasure. 

You scream Mark’s name as loud as you can, struggling to stay afloat. There’s no answer. You decide to dive back into the depths of the ocean, swimming downwards to get a better view. When you catch a shadow sinking to the bottom, you immediately recognize Mark’s body. You waste no time to heave him closer to you, kicking your legs until you reach the surface. Holding Mark’s body is difficult, his eyes are peacefully closed as his hair lays soggy against his forehead. You rub your thumb against Mark’s cheek, “Mark? Wake up! Mark?”

He doesn’t answer you, his head falls limp in your touch. Why wasn’t he conscious? What should you do? You look around, your body freezing from the icy temperature when you don’t see any nearby land. Your limbs go numb. Despite the freezing pain, you grip onto Mark’s jacket, both of your bodies slowly losing traction. You’re both sinking. When you’re down under, you feel your breath hitch. Is this the end? Will the simulation fry your brain? Will you drown and lose everything? Mark’s always had the fear of drowning. He’s mentioned that ever since he had an incident of falling into the river.

Finally, you feel the ocean fall away. Your hair and your clothes are still wet yet you feel yourself sitting on a windy terrace. You’re high up on a skyscraper, the cold wind blowing at your face and it makes you shiver. You feel Mark rest his head on your chest, you’re still cradling him. Sweeping wet hair out of his eyes, you swipe your thumb on his cheek, “Mark? Are you awake?”

He flutters his lashes a bit, his eyes opening to adjust to his surroundings. 

“Y/n? Where are we? What happened?”

You turn to look behind you, the terrace dropping down into the city grounds. You were sure you were at least on the 50th story of a tower. You feel petralized in fear, you never liked heights either. This was the simulation test- the test of fears and what you would do to overcome them. Or in a corrected term, manipulate them. 

“Hey, look at me.”

You snap up to face Mark, his endearing eyes boring into yours, “We’re in this together. Just like always.”

Nodding at him, you whisper, “Right. Together.”

The tight beam that extends from the terrace you both sat on to the platform by the next building over does not go unnoticed by you. You feel like you want to throw up, “They don’t expect us to cross do they?”

Mark huffs as he runs a hand through his jet-black hair, “I think that’s why they put us right in front of it.”

Mark stands up first, placing his foot onto the concrete beam to check its sturdiness. It doesn’t seem to move. You see Mark turn back to you, the wind rustling his hair and his jacket, “I’ll be with you the whole way. Don’t look down and keep your eyes on me.”

In that moment, you questioned if you ever fit into dauntless. I mean, you had to if you got this far. You always admire Mark for his strength and his bravery, could you be like him? Mark goes first, one foot in front of the other as he attempts to shuffle along the concrete beam. He fastens the balls of his feet to the ground in hopes the gusts won’t send him falling to his death. Your heart pings, a tear threatening to slip out of your eyes. You place one foot onto the beam, your other foot still on the terrace. Mark calls out for you, “Slow and steady. Take your time.”

You feel your knees wobble like jello, you’re afraid that they’ll give out any minute. Placing your hand on your chest, you bite the drawstring of your jacket in order to calm yourself. The drop below you looks extremely menacing, you can even see all the roads that line the ground under you. Immediately, you feel the beam shake from the movement of the wind against it. You try to hold your ground, steadying your feet on the thin beam. You miscalculated. You miss-stepped. You don’t even register when blood-curdling cries escape from your throat as you lose your footing and tumble off the beam. Mark’s figure screaming for you grows smaller and smaller as you fall away. You shut your eyes, is this it? The wind surges through every layer of fabric that covers you, hair whipping against your face painfully. 

That’s when you feel a body hug you, arms wrapping around your frame. Mark screams, his chin resting on your shoulder. He says, “I’m not letting you go!”

That’s the tightest you ever have held Mark. You take in his scent, his locks brushing against your eyes- the feeling of his arms encasing your body. You give him a comforting squeeze, “You should’ve gone on without me.”

When you’re sure that you’re about to collide with the ground, you hear an applause. You hear an audience clapping for you and Mark after you gasp up from the chair you sat in, you claw for air. Mark does the same, his chest heaving violently as sweat trails down his face. The erudite woman strips off your neuronodes, clicking her tongue at the both of you. 

“Did we fail?” You hear Mark ask her.

With the same emotionless voice, she says, “That you’ll have to find out.”

The woman leads you both to an open auditorium, numerous stands of screens reside in the center of the room. On the jumbotron, it reads: “Congratulations. Welcome to Dauntless Leadership.”

You feel Mark grab your hand out of shock, “We passed?”

The first person to approach you is Taeyong, one of the mentors who oversaw you and Mark during training. A wide smile extends from one ear to the other as he motions you both into his arms, “Congrats you two. You’re officially dauntless leaders now.”

You eye Mark with surprise, your jaw open, “But we didn’t make it across. I fell?”

“That might be true but Dauntless is about courageous sacrifice. It’s about loyalty.” You snap up your eyes to a woman, one taller than Taeyong. Judging by her silver uniform, her tattooed head, and her gorgeous green eyes, she must be one of the higher ups. She shakes your hand first, “You two make a good team, sacrificing life in order to follow your principles for the other person. We need kids like you.”

Mark exhales, “No way.”

Taeyong pulls you both into a group hug, “We’re gonna be celebrating tonight!”

When Taeyong lets go, Mark swings you in his embrace, “We did it!”

You smile at him, “You saved me Mark.”

Mark grins until his cheeks rise, “No, I just did what I needed to in the moment.”

“But you could have crossed without me!”

Shaking his head, Mark stiffens, “Didn’t I say earlier? I wasn’t going to let you go.”

[8:00 PM]

That night, the party went on for hours. The Dauntless Pit is what they called it- the deep cavern where all the excitement happened. Tables were filled with feats of roasted chicken and mashed potatoes, leaders and initiates filling their plates with the morsels. Once you claimed your portion of food, you sat next to Mark towards the end of one table. He grinned at you, sipping his metal cup of orange juice. Taeyong made a cheers to the both of you, the dauntless leaders banging their cups to the table like a mantra- a sign of respect and honor. Some of the younger kids you supervised training for congratulated you too, you remember how the girls made puppy eyes at Mark. Of course, he was oblivious to it. Laughing, you feel a hand on your shoulder. You are met with a view of Lucas, one of your other comrades, “Y/n! Mark! I was just looking for you! What do you say to a good ol’ game of capture the flag?”

You raise your eyebrows at Lucas, “I’m fine with it if Mark’s okay with it.”

Mark nods, setting his cup down, “Let’s do it. We can go right now.”

Like that, everything felt like it was falling into place. You adjusted the strap of your dart gun that was slung around your shoulder, advising your team of a plan. Naturally, you were the team captain for one group and Mark the other. You saw him a formidable opponent as he knew your most used attacks and you knew his. Lucas laughed beside you, his gummy smile widening, “Mark’s gonna lose tonight!”

You nod, “Let’s beat him first. We can’t get too ahead ourselves.”

When it was time to go, you and Lucas led your team of initiates to the metal train. One by one, you ran with the train cars as they shook on their wheels that screeched against the tracks. You hoisted yourself into the door with ease, something you had trouble with when you first became an initiate. By the time your team made it on, Mark and his group had already packed themselves into the train. Mark gives you a smirk, “Just because we’re friends, it doesn’t mean I’ll go easy on you.”

You cackle, socking a punch into his clothed shoulder, “Don’t get too cocky Lee.”

Turning away, you see Lucas and Selene, one of your friends as well. Lucas whispers into her ear, “Are you sure they’re not dating yet?”

Selene giggles, a blush climbing up her cheeks. You make sure to shoot ice daggers from your eyes to Lucas and Serene while you mutter at them. 

“Quit it.”

You pray Mark doesn’t hear their teasing. After years of training together and advancing together, you always denied your crush on Mark. You kept trying to find excuses as to why you shouldn’t like the innocent dork turned dauntless leader. You fail at that. It’s impossible when Mark talks to you as if he likes you back or the way he’d help you learn new skills with an endearing look in his eyes. You’d rather not ruin the friendship you have, especially now that you both had a faction to lead.

“That’s our cue y/n.”

Mark pinches you slightly before flying to jump off the moving train. His group of initiates follow him with ease, many of the tumbling out in waves. You think to yourself, you can appreciate the way Mark looks. The way his figure is tight-fitted with black vests, black shirts, and black combat boots, the way his hair curls on his forehead. Why is that you admire Mark in times of urgency? Lucas snaps you out of your thoughts before following him to make your exit- you all leap off the train and onto the gravel. Following suit, you and Mark lead your teams to an abandoned part of the city. As always, buildings tower into the starry night sky, blocks and cones marking safe zones. Piles of rubble provide shelter during the game. You and Mark stop ahead of the group, turning around to face them.

You say, “Rules are easy, the goal is to obtain the other team's flags. Just don’t get shot.”

Mark holds up his gun, “Right, as y/n said, these babies are loaded with dauntless stun darts. You’ll feel stinging pain for about 10 seconds but it won’t kill you. Best of luck to everyone.”

Both of your teams part, your jade green flag in your hands. Mark holds a bright yellow one in his. 

Lucas snickers, “So, what’s the plan?”

You advise your team, “We should hide the flag somewhere that’s out of sight. Knowing Mark, he’ll climb to a vantage point that’s high off ground. We should hide ours low to the ground, set up a trap.”

And that’s what you do. You find one of the abandoned buildings that’s on the far side of the area, planting your flag in the center of the circular platform. 

“Alright everyone, half of you form a circle around the flag. Make sure you keep formation, Mark’s team will try to break you up. Other half is with me.”

Lucas stays behind to bolster the strength of the guarding ring, the rest of the initiates circling around the flag. Gripping your dart gun tighter, you and Selene lead you team back outside the building as you debrief them of what you predict Mark might do. You instruct them to lay lower to the ground, blending with the shadows of the debris that conceal certain areas. 

“The important part is the element of surprise. Mark likes order and having the upper-hand. We have to divide and conquer.”

When you make it to the middle area, you and Selene crouch behind a pile of concrete rubble as you motion your team to follow suit behind you. One of the girls on your team points at the tower that’s in view, the neon yellow flag sitting at the top. Just as you expected, Mark hid it on a high place which meant that only a couple initiates had room to guard it. 

Selene whispers at the team, “Most likely, Mark and his team are prowling towards the base of the tower. Everyone should scatter and blend in. Y/n and I will take on Mark and the guards up top.”

Like that, all of you skip across the ground- aiming your scopes to the distance in front of you. In an instant, stun darts fly in storms, causing whines to reach your ears. Some of your initiates get caught in the line of fire, falling as they cradle their legs and arms. You have to keep pushing on. You and Selene make it to a pile of debris that’s closer to the bottom of the tower. Selene puts her blonde hair into a ponytail before nodding at you, “I think Mark’s guarding on top. I’ll cover for you on the staircase.”

You nod back at her, patting his shoulder with your gloved hand, “Let’s go.”

Shooting the guards at the entrance door, you swing it open with ease. Selene takes down the guard who’s on the first platform of the staircase. He yelps in pain, glaring at Selene as she daintily smiles down at him, “Oops, sorry about that!”

Selene follows behind while you take down some more initiates one by one, their pained grunts the only noise in the vicinity. Finally when you reach the top of the staircase, you hear more initiates yelling from where you first entered. Selene grins, “I’ll cover for you! Go take down your boyfriend!”

Before you can scold her for her words, she takes off down the staircase again- firing more shots when she runs. Inhaling, you kick down the door- shooting the first boy that you see in sight. He drops his gun, clutching his knee in pain as he attempts to scoot to the corner of the tower. Then, you’re met with Mark who stands right in your way of the flag. Defensively, you aim your dart gun at him, “I don’t hurt you but you’ll have to move aside.”

He quirks his eyebrows up at you, a smirk gracing his pink lips, “Why haven’t you shot me yet then?”

To his dismay, you shoot him square in the foot as he clatters to the ground with a pained grunt. His gun makes a sound when it crashes to the ground, scattering towards the other boy that lays helpless in his position. Just before you can wrap your fingers around the flag’s stem, you feel Mark wrap his arms around your torso, pulling you down. A shout escapes from your throat when you both go down together, your body on top of Mark. You try to struggle out of his grasp, wiggling as much as you can.

“Give up y/n, I got you now!”

Mark’s face contorts with pain when you use your elbow to jab him in the rib, his grip not relenting even a little. 

“This is so unfair! You’re way heavier than me!”

Mark laughs at you, “This is all part of the game, I’m not letting you win.”

That’s when you remember your own words. The element of surprise. You have to catch Mark off guard. With a surge of confidence, you turn your head to face him as his dark eyes are riddled with confusion. He has no idea. You shift forward, kissing a peck to the hollow of his neck. Just like you expect, he releases his grip before scrambling to sit up- his face is utterly flabbergasted. He turns red, the sight of him being so embarrassed makes you burst into laughter, he doesn’t look so tough anymore. Though, you don’t waste time. You advance towards the flag, waving it around in Mark’s shocked face. Even the boy who sits in the corner stares at you wide-eyed.

You jump and down in joy, “We won!!!”

You waste no time to blaze it through the tower window, the small figures of your teammates hooting and cheering on the ground. You hear Mark stutter, “H-hey! That’s not fair! You-”

Turning around, you press a finger on the ball of Mark’s button nose, “Gotcha!”

Mark and his teammate sulk behind you when you walk down the stairs in victory. Selene and Lucas so high that you feel like you can get sucked into the dark sky, silver stars swirling above you. The taste of winning sure is sweet.

[10:30 PM]

“How’s it feel to eat dirt Lee?”

He laughs at you on the way back to the Dauntless base, he leans against the wall of the train, “Whatever- you backed me into a corner.”

“And fair and square!”

Mark rolls his eyes, laughing, “I’ve won other times- this is nothing y/n.”

Lucas chimes in, “Mark’s just butt-hurt we won.”

Mark yells back, “Am not!”’

“Are too!”

You raise your voice, “Alright boys, that’s enough.”

All the three of you erupt into a fit of laughter, pushing each other as the initiates stare at you with bewilderment.

“Do you want to hang out for a bit more? I’m not tired?”

You raise your eyebrows at Mark, “After that? You’re not tired? Not tired from your beating?”

Mark shakes from laughter, “Don’t do that! Agh, you know what you’re doing.”

You let Mark lead you to his suite anyway. In Dauntless, most of the rooms looked like jail cells. They had grey concrete walls, beds that were as hard as nails, and only shared bathrooms. You recall the memories of when you and Mark had to sleep among dozens of initiates, the toilets didn’t even have separators. It felt like torture. When you moved up the ranks, Taeyong placed you in the leader suites- two large studios for each of you. Upon entering Mark’s room, it almost feels homey. The walls are still a drab grey yet there are black panels that line the area above Mark’s headboard, his bed made neatly. Mark goes to open the sliding door by his closet, the door opening up to his balcony. Mark chuckles, “Isn’t this better than the old dauntless rooms?”

Playfully rolling your eyes at him, you reply, “Of course it is. Anything is better than the gross bathrooms.”

He walks over to you, “Do you want anything to drink?”

“No thanks, I think I’m good.”

For a few minutes, Mark perks up, bouncing with a pep in his step, “Do you mind if I change real fast? I feel sweaty.”

You nod, “I won’t be going anywhere.”

Sitting on Mark’s bed, you wait for him to come out of the bathroom. Everything in his room is orderly, from his clothes and his desk, everything's in it’s place. The room feels like Mark. When he comes out, you giggle at his clumsiness as you imagine Mark hastily fumbling with the buttons on his pajama shirt.

“You silly, the buttons aren’t right.”

You don't realize what you’re doing until you slowly unbutton each button on Mark’s black shirt, a red blush creeping over his face. He flicks his eyes to you, biting on his lower lip before looking down at your fingers. You try to ignore the erratic beating in your heart, the heat that travels up your back.

“There, all finished-”

When you look back up, you realize that Mark is only a few centimeters away. You memorize every knick in his skin and every eyelash that lines his eyes. Even in the poor lighting of his room, Mark still shines in front of you. The golden glow travels along Mark’s hair and onto the fabric of his shirt. You feel your breath hitch in your throat, “You’re so close.” That’s all you manage to say.

Mark whispers, “Can I kiss you?”

He searches your eyes for some kind of refusal. When he doesn’t find any, he crashes his lips into yours, his bottom lip folding over your own. You move your hand to Mark’s neck, tugging back on the hairs on his nape. He kisses you even more passionately, embers sparking up in your stomach. It’s no lie you’ve dreamed of kissing Mark for a long time. Mark rests his calloused, scarred hands on your waist as he pulls you into him, your noses bumping together. You feel Mark’s tongue push against your own, you had no idea Mark could kiss anyone like that. Pulling back, you stare at him, ‘You know- I just wanted to say that I’ve always admired you. Not for your looks but about your ability to help others and your selflessness, how brave you are and-”

Mark shuts you up with another heated kiss, pulling you down into his bed. He rests his forehead on yours as he holds your hand in his lap, “There’s something I need to say y/n.”

You listen to him, not wanting to miss a word, “What is it Mark?”

“Y/n, I like you.”

You pause before smiling to yourself, “Are you sure you want me? I’m kind of-”

“You. That’s all, no one else.”

You nod, pulling yourself into Mark’s lap, “Very well then Lee.”

You continue to massage his neck, sipping on his lips while you do so. You detach from him, nimbly undoing the buttons of his shirt. When he shrugs the garment off, you take note of the large dauntless flame tattoo on his chest, running your fingers over it. He stares up at you, placing his hand over yours when you glance down his toned body, his stomach packed with muscle. Mark proceeds to kiss up your neck, a moan eliciting from your throat. After taking off your long-sleeved sweater, you let Mark bloom purple marks on your skin. You hear him kiss against your collar bone, “It feels like I’m dreaming right now.”

You can’t help but laugh, “You’re not dreaming.”

Mark helps you undo your bra, your chest flushed against his. When you flip your hair out of your face, Mark’s eyes are filled with awe, “How are you so beautiful?”

You rest your chin on his shoulder, “I should be asking you that question.”

After revealing yourself to Mark, you have no regrets. He’s seen every part of you, marking you his territory when he kisses down your neck and your chest as you’ve called him yours. The balcony door is still open, a light breeze floating through Mark’s room. Resting your head on his chest, you hear him exhale into the pillows. He still wraps a strong arm around your figure, making sure you’re secured against him. You tap on Mark’s chest, “Are you awake?”

“Yes.”

“What are you thinking about?”

You don’t expect Mark to ask you such a question. He sighs, “Y/n, do you want to run away together?”

You sit up, resting your head on your propped up elbow, “Mark, what do you mean?”

He turns on his side to face you, his cheek sunken into his pillow, “I heard in a meeting that Erudite plans to take over Dauntless. I’ve always thought about it: why be one thing? why be sorted into categories when we can just be people?”

Reaching a hand over, you play with his hair, “Wow, you must’ve thought about this huh? But where would we go?”

Mark’s eyes show a glimmer of determination, a fierceness that you’ve never seen in anyone else, “I hear there’s people outside the wall. Like a resistance. If we join them, couldn’t we be free?”

“Maybe. Who knows. We don’t know what’s out there. Isn’t that story a legend?”

Mark shakes his head, his eyes scanning your features, “No. I heard some Dauntless guards talking about people outside the wall by the border. They’re out there.”

Finally, you resort to laying on your back, sleep threatening to pull you under. You answer, “Mark, it would be so dangerous. What if the resistance doesn’t take us in? At least here, we have protection.”

Mark’s voice turns cold, “But not for long.”

You’re not sure what to say next. Instead, you feel Mark turn away from you as he shuts his eyes. Leaning forward, you press a kiss to his bare shoulder, “I’m sorry. I just- my family’s here and the initiates, I’m scared to leave them behind.”

Mark doesn’t move, his eyes are still screwed shut. 

“I know. It’s wrong of me to expect you to drop everything and go. I don’t know myself.”

“Hey, look at me.”

Mark turns to look at you, his face illuminated by the soft glow of the moon that shines through his window. You press a kiss to his cheek, your lips lingering there, “I’m with you. No matter what happens. Even if it means we have to leave, I’m willing.”

Mark slowly blinks, his lashes accenting his eyes. He leans up to kiss you once more, his thumb tracing the edge of your chin, “I’ll protect you. I love you y/n.”

You freeze from the sudden ease in Mark’s tone. You’re still sure of it. You press a kiss to the corner of his lip, “I love you too.”

[9:00 AM]

When morning comes, you jolt up from the nightmare that causes your body to shake with anxiety. You gasp, sitting up in Mark’s bed. What’s worse is that you don’t find him next to you. Throwing off the covers, you check the bathroom and the balcony. Mark isn’t here. You start to panic, you pray that Mark had woken up early to get breakfast or for some Dauntless meeting. After slipping on your shoes and putting on your clothes, you exit out of the Dauntless Leadership wing and head towards the pit. You feel a ball drop in your stomach when you see hundreds of initiates swarming the pit like a hive, all of them single file in the cavern. Some of the other dauntless leaders are corralling them like cattle. What’s even weirder is that the initiates don’t seem normal. 

You spot Lucas and Selene by the corner of the room, their eyes laced with some kind of magnetic trance. Everyone seems to be walking in a robotic manner like something’s controlling them from within. Why weren’t you controlled? That’s when you remembered Mark’s words. Erudite planned to overthrow Dauntless and the other factions. You step back into the shadows, quietly scanning the room for Mark. It’s impossible to see with so many people in one area. Before you can slink away, you feel a hand cover your mouth the instant you try to scream- you fall your eyes close from the loss of consciousness. 

When you awake, your vision is blurry and it’s difficult to hear anything. You see blobs of blue moving to talk to a white-haired woman dressed in navy, their lips saying, “Is she divergent?”

“I’m not certain, testing isn’t complete yet.”

You try to shake yourself awake, your limbs are tightly locked into the chair that someone has put you in.

“Ah- she’s awake.”

You blink twice, your eyes still adjusting to your environment. The white-haired woman looks down at you, her features as hard as ice, “Well hello y/n.”

“Who are you?”

“My name’s Jeanine. I lead Erudite. It seems as though our crafted simulation doesn’t work on you.”

Lifting your head, you stare around her. People dressed in blue coats pump syringes into tubes as they tap on glowing screens as well. Jeanine laughs, “I’m here to ask you a few things y/n. What did you get on your aptitude test?”

“Dauntless.”

Jeanine creases her eyebrows, inching closer to you, “I don’t think you’re telling me the truth.”

“What do you want me to say? I’m dauntless born.”

Jeanine lets out a cynical laugh before smoothing down her bobbed hair, “Get rid of her. We’ll find the rest on our own.”

You start to yell at Jeanine, “You won’t get away with this! I have no idea what you’re talking about!”

That’s when you can’t say a word. From behind Jeanine, Mark enters your view. His eyes are emotionless, the soft glow that once sparked up in his irises is now absent. He’s still wearing his black uniform from the night before, a pistol gripped in his hand. You hear an erudite employee ask, “Shouldn’t we do it outside?”

Jeanine shakes her head in refusal, her wicked smile curling on her lips. You scream Mark’s name, “Mark! hey! It’s me!”

He shows no sign of recognition. Like a mechanized soldier, he grips the back of your neck. Your hairs feel like they’re being tugged on too hard, the cold barrel of his gun pointed at your temple. Tears break like a dam as they flow down your cheeks, whimpering at Mark doesn’t do anything, “Mark..please… it’s me!”

Mark only grips your neck harder. His jaw tightens at the sight of you, his fingers on the trigger. If you weren’t restrained, you’d lean over to touch Mark’s face. You’d try to remind him of who you were and what you shared- how you told him you loved him for the first time last night. But you can’t. You just sob, “Mark..please..”

In a second, you hear a pin drop ring in your ears. Mark swivels away from you as hard as he can, firing the gun straight at Jeanine. Jeanine drops to the ground, blood spilling from the back of her thigh as she screams out in pain. It’s so fast that you have trouble registering what’s going on until Mark yanks off the belts that fasten your hands to the armrests of the chair before screaming at you, “Y/n! Get out of here now!”

“I’m not leaving you!”

You spot Jeanine pressing her hand to her spewing wound, the other erudite members worriedly clamoring over her. 

Mark looks angry, his expression looks like he’s fighting some unknown force within him. You shake your head, “Let’s just run now! Just like you said!”

Mark grits his teeth in pain, his hands tightening into fists as if he’s resisting the urge to lunge at you again, “You have to leave now! Go where I told you! Follow the tracks!”

As much as you want to drag Mark with you, you know there’s no time. Instead, you close the distance in between you before kissing a messy kiss to his lips as you place your hand on the back of his neck. For a few seconds, you feel him kiss you back, his eyes are screwed painfully shut. Forcefully, Mark pushes you away from him- launching you towards the exit.

Jeanine yells, “Get him under control!”

You realize that you have to leave Mark behind. You grab one of the handguns that sits one of the racks before dashing out the double doors. Tears are streaming down your face, hot and painfully slow. Your legs hurt from the pain of running, you have to keep running. You have to get out of here- all of Dauntless is under simulation. They’re being played like puppets on a string, all for Erudite’s divine control. Remembering Mark’s words, you run as fast as you can. Your chest heaves with a lack of oxygen, you fly along the tracks of the train by the center of the city. Luckily when you hoist yourself into one of the train cars, you don’t see anyone else.

 You ride the train as it speeds towards the border wall that encloses the city. Leaning on the train wall, you sob into your knees, remembering Mark’s smile when he had first helped you onto the train car when you were initiates. You miss him. You miss his breathy laugh, the scent of mint and pine needles, the way he would play with your hair to make you grin. You miss your combat partner and you miss your friends: Lucas, Serene, and the others. You begin to realize that you had left your family behind too as you imagine their cowering figures in some hiding spot behind the Dauntless complex. Or maybe, they were put in a simulation too- walking around like mindless zombies as Dauntless soldiers order them around, gun barrels pressed to their backs. You can’t stop the tears that burn your skin, your fingers yanking at the fabric sweater that suffocates you. 

When the train stops, you raise your gun at any potential attackers as you carefully tread towards the wall’s entrance. For one last time, you stand in the grassy field. You take note of how there’s no clouds in the sky and the way the sun beats down on your face- the city reaching up to the heavens. When you look back at the city in the distance, all you can see is what you’ve lost. What you’re leaving behind. Still, there’s a small glimmer in your chest when you think of what lies on the other side of this wall. All the potential possibilities that could help you get your family back- Mark back. There’s no definite answer, whether there is a resistance force or nothing but a deserted wasteland. You’re about to find out yourself.

@czennienet @neowritingsnet @nct-writers​

[PART 2: Borderlands]  [PART 3: Redemption]

[foreversillythings]

roses are red, roses are white chapter six

roses are red, roses are white part two the thorns of lancaster chapter one channel of treason

“No, Madge. We’re the rebels.”

(even years from now, she will remember this moment perfectly)

(she will remember the way pre-dawn light had cast shadows in Haymitch’s eyes, she will remember the sound of nervous horses and Marvel shouting “No, no! What is wrong with you?” She will even remember the taste of the wind; mud, smoke and rank, sour fear)

(because this, this changes everything)

*

The whole world spins to a stop, everyone and everything frozen in place as Madge sinks deep into too many terrible thoughts.

What does that mean?

Why are we running?

Are we going into exile?

What’s happening?

Where’s Gale? Is he alright?

All those questions crowd up her throat but before any can find their way out, Haymitch grabs her shoulders and shakes her.

“We need to go Madge, now.”

She looks up at him and knows, all the way in her bones, that he is right. He has never looked more terrified than he does right now and certainty lodges inside of her, sharp and cold like a shard of ice.

This is just like when we fled Bedford Castle. The enemy is coming, we have to get away

She nods, to Haymitch or perhaps to herself, and clambers up onto the nearest horse. She can feel herself hardening, can feel her blood turning to steel and it’s not that she isn't scared or angry, she is, oh God she is, but rising above that is a thought, a desire, a drive that drowns out everything else.

live

I am not going to die here

I am going to survive and when this is over, I’ll find you Gale, I promise

*

(A rat-faced squire with twitchy eyes and sallow skin shoves a last little coffer into their litter and Glimmer wants to snap at him, wants to demand to know exactly what’s going on. She watches him with narrowed eyes, her nails sinking into her round stomach as his skin turns blotchy from fear.

“What the fuck are you doing? Get on a horse! We need to go!” Marvel bellows from somewhere outside and the squire scurries off, tail between his legs. Glimmer loses her chance to talk to him but she doesn’t really need to. She thinks of the frantic way Marvel had roused her, the wild terror painted all over his and Haymitch’s faces and the desperation in this flight and knows.

we lost

Glimmer drops her head into her hands and sobs)

*

And so they ride.

They fly across the countryside and the wind howls violently in their faces, its moaning scream mixing with the rampage of hooves and the thunder beat of her heart. Dark, bloated clouds hover over them threateningly and Madge holds on to that one flame in her mind, clings to it with both hands.

live

She cannot afford to falter, not now. She is teetering on the edge of a cliff but she will not fall.

live live live

*

By the time they reach the coast, there is already a ship waiting for them.

It bobs and rocks as steel gray waves pound the harbour, its mast towering up to the furious black clouds above. Madge looks at it and beneath the iron shell she’s built around herself, she feels a bit like that ship, tossing and turning and about to be sick all over herself.

We’re the rebels

What does that mean?

Is Gale safe?

Please, please let him be safe

She barely feels the frigid wind as it cuts through her and Haymitch leaps off his horse, barking orders in every direction. His words are swallowed by the rising tempest but his tone is harsh and their squires scurry about, corralling the horses up the gangplank and hauling their belongings aboard. Annie too is pressed into service, her arms laden with bundles and deep down Madge simmers with anger, her fingers aching from clutching the reins too tight.

What are we running from?

The litter lurches to a stop beside her and Marvel shoves the coffer he’s holding into a squire’s arms, nearly bowling the poor boy over. Madge watches her step-brother charge over and wrench open the litter door, his eyes wild and his movements jerky. His fingers shake as he tugs his step-mother out and she stumbles down the stairs, her face pale and worried.

“Marvel-” she starts to ask but he ignores her, his face dangerous as he glares over his shoulder at the road.

“Come along, Glimmer,” he snaps, his impatience not quite managing to mask the fear in his tone, “we need to go!”

They’re coming. I wonder how close they are, Madge thinks and her stomach clenches, spider cracks running over her armour. The carriage rattles as the wind picks up and Glimmer moans pitifully from within.

“Come on!” Marvel nearly shouts and Glimmer appears in the doorway, her face ashen. She has one arm wrapped around her bulging belly and the other clutches the litter as if she does not trust her legs to hold. There is sweat on her brow, tear streaks on her cheeks and pain in her eyes, but still she manages to shoot Marvel a reproachful glare.

“This...is a terrible idea. A woman in my condition should not be forced on such a...a horrid journey,” she says angrily, her breathing heavy and Marvel grabs her by the shoulders and lifts her down.

“Glimmer,” he says firmly, his hands squeezing her arms, “we do not have time for this. We have no choice, if we stay here, we will die.”

Glimmer’s eyes widen, all her bravado withers and Madge feels his words like a punch to the gut, all the air leaving her lungs.

It really is exile then

Glimmer is gray faced, her eyes glassy with tears and Marvel hooks an arm around her waist and escorts her onto the ship, Margaret trailing in their wake. Madge slips off her horse with ice in her blood and her skirt billows around her, her heart cracking against her ribs like a hammer. Exile, exile, we are fleeing into exile. She stands there on English soil for what could be the very last time and her protective shell starts to fracture, those spidering cracks widening and growing until great chunks of her shield tumble down to the dirt below. The gaping holes left behind allow fury and fear to come leaking out and she wants to grab Marvel and shake him, claw at him until he tells her exactly what’s gone wrong.

Are the Lancastrians back? Have angry Yorkists deposed Katniss?

Or even worse, have you and Haymitch attempted your own coup?

She closes her eyes with the throbbing ache of that thought and does all she can to regain her previous calm, the urge to do whatever necessary to survive warring with all her other desperate, seething emotions.

Relax, this isn't over, not yet.

(but beneath all that she thinks,

are you coming with us Gale? Or are you the one chasing us?)

“What are you doing? Do you want to be left behind?”

Madge opens her eyes to Marvel’s snarling face, a vein popping in his temple. He does not wait for an answer but grabs her by the wrist and drags her roughly to the ship, the docks creaking beneath his heavy steps. He marches quickly, his head twisting around again and again to look behind her and she wonders what they’ll do if the enemy does show up before they’re ready. Is this how it all ends?

No, no I won’t let it

He drags her up the ramp and she thinks her skin might be bruising, a heady tide of feeling rising higher and higher within her. The deck sways beneath her feet and she’s never been on a ship before, never gone anywhere outside of England’s borders. She looks out over the rail at her home, the only one she’s ever known and the deranged urge to shove Marvel overboard nearly swallows her whole. Whatever is happening, this is your fault.

“See to the Countess, she is unwell,” he orders and then shoves her down a flight of stairs. Unprepared, she stumbles, trips and then careens into the far wall at the bottom. She is left winded and Marvel turns away without a word, his footsteps drowned out by shouting and bellowing winds. The ship rocks and Madge starts to find it difficult to breathe, air coming and going in tiny gasps. Her nails dig into the wall and she pushes her face into the wood, a scream building in her lungs. The remaining bits of her armour start to crumble, too fragile to withstand the onslaught of her terror, her rage, her despair. She is like a tiny ship lost in a storm, buffeted on all sides by hopelessness, fear, anger and she can’t do this, she can’t. They are leaving England, perhaps forever, and she has never been so scared in all her life. There is scalding bile in her throat, tears in her eyes and wouldn’t it be so much easier just to fall here and cry?

Give up, give up, chants the fear in her mind and she wants to, oh she wants to but then, then, rising in her, not like the sun but like a burning rod of iron in her heart, she thinks no, NO, I need to stay calm. I need to focus on living through this. Nothing else matters, not now.

Survival, that’s all.

I will survive

I will

It is not bravery but something else that comes over her, something hard and focused and determined. She claws her way out of the dark mire in her heart and inhales as deeply as she can, stomping her fear down as far as she can. Come on, come on, don't give up now. Her legs quake with every dip of the ship but she summons up her flagging courage and drapes it over herself like a king’s mantle, dredging up every last ounce of strength she has. You can do this, be brave, brave, brave, brave. She grits her teeth and her shield is made of paper rather than stone, but it is enough, it has to be. Her arms shake as she pushes off the wall, safe again (at least for now) in a fortress of survive, survive, survive.

She moves into the narrow hallway and follows the sound of Glimmer’s distress to a well furnished room, Glimmer, her mother and Annie already inside. Madge steps through the door and notices Glimmer immediately, propped up by a mountain of pillows on the large bed against the far wall. Her face is blurry with tears, her hand rubs erratically over her swollen stomach and her skin is flushed, a sweaty sheen making it shimmer. Madge’s mother sits beside her, Glimmer’s other hand squeezed between both of hers.

“It’s alright sweetheart, you just need to rest. You’ve had a rough journey, but a good sleep will put you to rights,” she tries to soothe but Glimmer shakes her head, tears dribbling down her pale cheeks.

“We’re going to die, aren’t we?” she sobs and Madge feels a pickaxe crack into her delicate castle walls.

“No, no of course not, darling. Your dear Marvel will take good care of you, worry not,” her mother insists, Glimmer whimpers and Madge supposes it is a trick of the light that makes it seem like Glimmer’s stomach is rippling. That chink in her shield widens as she stares a little too long, uneasiness starting to bubble in her gut. Stop. She shakes her head a little viciously and looks around the room, determined not to falter now. There is a writing desk, a little table and a stool by the door, but it is Annie that grabs Madge’s gaze. She kneels in the corner; her hands pressed together, her eyes closed and her lips moving quickly, reciting silent words. Madge stares at her for a moment and oh, she’s praying. Madge thinks maybe she should too, but she has no idea what to pray for. Gale may be the enemy now, she cannot pray for her own safety if it means his undoing.

Oh Gale, please please be okay

Her heart gives an awful tug and she bites her tongue to drive away the pain, locking him away somewhere deep even as she wraps his locket in her palm. I cannot worry about that now, later, later, later later later. She sinks down onto the stool by the door and closes her eyes, Gale and all her love and worry lingering just below the surface. She breathes deeply, slowly, her stomach rolling with every rock of the ship.

Survive

Be brave

Heavy bootsteps come from the corridor and then Haymitch enters, his face drooping as his eyes sweep over Glimmer. Her mother looks up at him, her expression turning to stone.

“Where are we going?” she asks, her voice hard, and Haymitch drags his gaze away from Glimmer.

“To Calais. I am still Captain there, they will be loyal.”

Madge looks at him and France, we are going to France. Everything was finally going right and now we are exiles, fleeing to France.

We are cursed, aren’t we?

*

The answer, it appears, is yes.

Shortly after they leave port the sky opens above them, unleashing a violent storm, and Madge has no idea how long it’s been, but she knows their crossing is taking far longer than it should. She feels weak from emptying the contents of her stomach (several times) and waves crash against the hull, the ship hurling from side to side. She clutches at the walls to try and keep her stool from toppling over, Glimmer sobs and moans and Madge can hear booming thunder and muffled shouts from the men up on deck, trying so desperately to keep them all afloat.

Maybe Glimmer was right, maybe we are going to die here

Madge has heard stories of ships sunk in wicked storms, of some that were turned around and thrust back at England and both would mean death for them, wouldn’t they? Death by sea or death at the hands of whomever is chasing them; she cannot decide which would be a kinder fate.

I shouldn’t have to

This isn't right

Another raging crack of thunder echoes from the sky, so loud Madge thinks the ship must be shattering to pieces and then it lurches furiously, throwing her to the floor. Her shell of strength, already collapsing from seasickness, Glimmer’s weeping and her own boiling emotions, simply disintegrates and she screams in shock, landing heavily on her hands and knees. Glimmer screeches from somewhere above her and Madge looks up to see Annie sprawled nearby, her expression winded. The ship tosses again before they can stand and Madge is launched sideways, falling with a cry onto her side. She gasps and digs her nails into the wood beneath her as the ship rocks dangerously yet again, but it does no good. Her fingers are ripped away from the floor and she rolls onto her back, shrieking in surprise as she splashes into icy water. She bounces up and water continues to spill out over the floor, pooling all around her.

“Close the door!” her mother shouts and another wave smashes into them, pouring even more water down the stairs and sloshing across their room. Madge stands on shaking legs and staggers forward, only to be sent pinwheeling into the wall when the ship tilts ominously to the left. She forces herself onwards, nearly slips in all the seawater, and then grabs firm hold of the door. She tries to close it but it swings open wildly with another furious lurch of the ship and Madge goes with it. She whacks into the wall with a thud and grits her teeth, every part of her aching. Her arms tremble as she shoves the door shut, her fingers fumbling over the latch to lock it. She grips it with sweaty hands as the ship is hit by yet another raging wave and Glimmer’s sobbing fills her ears, everything else muffled by the heavy door.

“It hurts, it hurts, I want it to stop,” she bawls and Madge turns around unsteadily, her knees knocking together. The ship bounces unhappily and Madge goes stumbling into the bed, the footboard digging into her stomach. Annie picks herself up from the floor, her clothes dripping and then Glimmer shrieks in sudden agony, her whole body scrunching up. This is worse than her usual sounds of pain and Madge meets Annie’s gaze, both of them wide eyed with fear. Glimmer leans her head back again, tears spilling down her face. She clutches her belly and shudders, Madge’s knuckles turning white as she grips the bedposts.

“It hurts, I’m all wet, I want to go home. Let me off, let me off,” Glimmer weeps and Margaret’s whole face is washed with sudden horror. Madge tilts her head because how is the bed wet? The water is certainly all over the floor, seeping still from under the door, but there’s no way it could have gotten up onto the bed, could it? She looks at her mother in question but she is feeling around desperately beneath Glimmer, her expression tense. She lifts her hand and it glistens, her face losing all its colour.

“Get Haymitch,” she says and Madge tilts her head.

“Why?”

“Get Haymitch!” she orders, the terror in her voice cracking like a whip and Madge turns without thinking. She runs over and yanks open the door, an icy blast of wind slapping her across the face. She winces but then pushes on, slipping and sliding down the hall to the stairs. The men are louder now, the thunder deafening and she scrambles up the steps, pitching forward when the ship rocks yet again. Salt water gets up her nose and in her mouth as more water cascades down the stairs and she coughs, sputtering as her throat burns. She pushes herself up slightly and crawls the rest of the way up, her mother’s face flooding her mind.

Something has gone horribly wrong

Madge hauls herself up at the top, her arms vibrating as she grips a banister. The rain lashes down painfully, biting like ice into her skin, and the whole ship judders, her heart bouncing nearly out of her throat. The deck is chaos, men running and shouting and doing everything they can to keep them alive, the sea waging war with a vengeance. There is nothing but water in every direction, dark and heaving and furious, foaming waves rising and falling on all sides. Madge backs into a wall in frozen fear as a wave crashes onto the deck and she flinches, her heart throbbing in her throat.

Oh God, oh God

“What the hell are you doing here?” Marvel bellows, his fingers digging painfully into her arms and she turns to look at him, words failing her. His hair is plastered to his head, his eyes wild and a fork of lightning cuts across the sky, everything turning a bright, hot white.

“What the fuck are you doing?” he shouts again and shakes her roughly. Madge forces herself to remember.

“Haymitch,” she begins and Marvel leans in, the insanity around them drowning her out.

“Glimmer,” she yells, “something’s gone wrong with Glimmer!”

Marvel’s eyes go wide and terror stretches over his face, all his features drenched in it. He shoves Madge aside, nearly sends her toppling over a barrel, and flies down the stairs, Madge hot on his heels. They sprint into the room and Glimmer greets them with a scream of pain, the tortured sound stopping them in their tracks.

“What’s going on?” Marvel shouts over Glimmer’s desperate sobs and his step-mother looks at him with hollow eyes.

“How long until we reach Calais?”

“Why, what-”

“How long?” she repeats urgently and Marvel swallows, casting a terrified look at Glimmer.

“Soon, we should be able to see it any moment.”

Her mother nods.

“What’s going on?” Marvel demands again and Madge sags back against the wall.

“The baby is-” her mother pauses a moment as Glimmer screams again, before collapsing with a wail, “the baby is coming, but something is wrong. We need a midwife and a doctor.”

Marvel shakes his head in denial and Madge looks at the bed, her heart stopping. There is something dark and wet on the sheets, is it...is it blood?

“It’s not time,” Marvel says, his voice edged with hysteria, “it’s not time, we should have at least a week-”

“This is not a journey for a pregnant woman, and certainly not one so near her time,” her mother interrupts with an accusing look and Marvel shakes his head again, like he cannot comprehend what she’s saying.

“It’s not...it’s not time,” he repeats feebly and then a dull boom sounds from somewhere above them. Madge looks over at Annie in confusion, Marvel jerks his eyes up at the ceiling and boom boom boom.

What in the world...?

“It’s Calais,” Marvel whispers and Madge furrows her brow.

“What?”

“It’s Calais,” he repeats as another boom sounds, “they’re firing on us.”

His face has lost all its colour, his voice is horrified and Madge presses her hands to her mouth.

They will be loyal, Haymitch said, they will be loyal

Oh God, oh God

Marvel dashes from the room and Madge sinks slowly to the floor, someone’s ragged sobs drowning out the boom, boom above.

We are going to die here

God help us all

“Madge,” her mother says and Madge ignores it, lost in hopelessness.

“Madge, get up,” her mother commands sternly and Madge turns in surprise. “If Calais is firing on us, we will need to land somewhere else. That will take time; we will have to deal with Glimmer ourselves.”

Madge stares at her mother with an open mouth and Glimmer whimpers, too weak it seems to scream. Margaret throws off her cloak and rolls up her sleeves, her face determined.

“Can you stand?” she asks and Glimmer shakes her head frailly.

“I can’t, I can’t,” she moans and Margaret nods.

“It’s alright sweetheart, it’ll be alright,” she says and then turns to Madge, “I’ll need your help, both of you.”

Madge gets up shakily and Annie nods, her face impossibly white. The ship continues to rock, though gentler now, but Madge hardly notices, even the distant thumping of cannons fading into the back of her mind. Glimmer is having her baby, but something is wrong and every other thought is driven away, a sickly, cold fear clotting up her veins.

What are we going to do?

“Anne, I need you to fetch us as much water and clean linen as you can,” her mother says, eyes fixed on Glimmer and Annie nods quickly. She stumbles out of the tilted room and Glimmer gives a low moan, her eyes screwed up tight. Madge trembles and her mother must notice, for she places a gentle hand on Madge’s cheek.

“Courage my love, Glimmer and the baby need us to be strong.”

Madge swallows and nods, tying her bravery tight around herself.

“What...what do you need me to do?”

“Keep her calm for now,” her mother says and Madge thinks that might be impossible, Glimmer letting out a wretched sob. Regardless, Madge steps over and sits on the edge of the bed, the smell of blood and vomit making her nauseous. She takes Glimmer’s hand, squeezes the clammy fingers and strokes the sweaty hair from her forehead.

“Hush, Glimmer, hush, it’ll be alright,” she murmurs and Glimmer shakes her head faintly, before her face scrunches up in pain. Her whole body spasms, her nails cutting deep into Madge’s skin.

“Make it stop,” Glimmer begs and Madge feels tears burn her eyes.

“I’m so sorry, it’ll be over soon,” she promises and hopes it’s true.

“Alright, sweetheart, I need your knees up, come on now, you can do it,” her mother coaxes and she gently bends Glimmer’s legs, knees pointing to the ceiling. She prises them apart, pushes Glimmer’s skirts up around her waist and then cuts away her underthings, the material soaked through with blood. Glimmer whimpers and Madge feels her head spin, the sight of so much blood making her lightheaded. Another shudder travels over Glimmer’s body and she only groans, the end of it trailing off into a sob. Madge’s mother looks at them with consternation and then peers between Glimmer’s legs, her expression becoming somehow bleaker. Annie returns then, a jug of water in one hand and a pile of linen in the other. She hurries over to Madge’s mother and then freezes in horror when she sees what’s happening between Glimmer’s legs, her expression suddenly faint. She turns quickly as if she might be sick and Madge feels ill herself, the constant bobbing of the ship making everything so much worse.

“Courage now girls,” her mother murmurs and Annie shakes herself. Madge takes a rag from her, dips it in the jug and mops at Glimmer’s feverish skin, red blotches colouring the sickly gray of it. Annie and Margaret get to work doing something between Glimmer’s legs and Madge does all she can to keep Glimmer comfortable, whispering soothing nonsense and squeezing her hand.

Please God, let this turn out alright

“It’s time,” her mother pronounces and Madge is both relieved and terrified. She turns to look but her mother’s expression is ghastly and something is wrong, terribly wrong.

“Which of you has the smallest hands?” she asks and Madge frowns. Annie’s are more slender certainly, but Madge’s are probably smaller overall.

“Mine,” she says and her mother nods.

“Alright, come here. Anne, see to Glimmer.”

Madge stands and Annie hurries to fill her place, her skin slightly green. Madge goes to her mother and claps a hand to her mouth in horror. She had known that whatever lay between Glimmer’s legs would not be pleasant, but she hadn’t been ready for this, the dark, oozing blood, the slime, the...everything. Her stomach tosses violently and her mother grabs her arm.

“The baby is stuck; you will have to pull it out.”

Madge looks at her mother in numb shock and shakes her head, unable to form words.

“You have the smallest hands, it has to be you. Be firm but gentle, we don't want to injure the baby if possible. But it needs to come out,” her mother says and there is no room for argument. The baby must come out, if it doesn’t...if it doesn’t it will die and Glimmer right along with it.

Madge clenches her teeth and wishes she were anywhere else in the world right now, but she isn't. She’s here and Glimmer needs her.

I have to do this

She wants to close her eyes but doesn’t and she reaches in, unable to stop herself from gagging. Everything is hot and wet and slimy, a wave of dizziness threatening to overtake her. She grasps at what she hopes is the baby and tries to manoeuvre it as gently as she can, but it is both slippery and stuck, her stomach rolling unhappily.

“You can do it,” her mother says, stroking her hair, and then Glimmer lets out a plaintive shriek as the baby finally comes loose. Madge scoops it up in a daze and her mother bends over Glimmer again.

“Almost done, almost done,” she murmurs and what else could there be? Madge looks down at the baby in her arms and it is covered in blood and God knows what else, its skin wrinkled and gray. It takes her a moment to realize how quiet it is, no screaming at all, nor any movement.

No, oh no

“Help,” she says quietly, blood roaring in her ears.

“Help!” she shouts in a panic, no idea at all what to do. Her mother turns to her, something like bloody meat in her hands and Madge holds out the baby, her head shaking helplessly.

“It’s not, it’s not...” she tries but cannot finish and her mother’s face tightens with worry. She drops what she’s holding on the bed and takes the baby, Madge suddenly swaying. She covers her eyes with her hands and she can’t look, she can’t.

“Is it...is it okay?” Glimmer pants and Madge drops her hands slowly, a fist around her heart. Glimmer has propped herself up on shaky elbows, her eyes wide and pleading and her skin waxy. Oh Glimmer, oh oh oh.

Madge looks at her mother and she shakes her head, her devastated expression answer enough. Glimmer collapses back and howls, raw grief torn from her throat. Annie wraps her arms around her and they rock together, Madge’s knees folding up beneath her. She sinks to the floor and stares at her bloody hands and this can’t be real, can it? This can’t be happening.

“I’m sorry,” her mother whispers to no one and oh God, oh God, why?

“We’re almost at Harfleur, we’ll be there soon!” Marvel exclaims as he comes skidding into the room, his feet splashing over the wet floor. He looks at each of them in turn, sees the blood and the tears and the unmoving baby in his step-mother’s arms, and takes a step back.

“No,” he says, shaking his head, “we’re almost there. We’re almost there.”

“I’m sorry Marvel, I’m so sorry,” her mother says, tears streaking down her face and Marvel takes another step back.

“No!” he says louder. “No, we’re almost there. No.”

He is still shaking his head, his face pale and his expression lost. Madge covers her mouth with her hands and tastes the blood, the smell of it permanently burnt into her nose.

“What’s going on, is everything alright?” Haymitch demands as he comes in, his eyes sweeping over the room. They do not answer, but they don't need to.

“Sweet Jesus,” he whispers and closes his eyes, his expression miserable. Marvel whirls suddenly, his eyes flashing red.

“This is your fault!” he bellows and then shoves his father savagely into the wall. Haymitch connects with a dull thud and slides slowly to the floor, his body almost boneless. Marvel reaches down for him, but then stops, his hands flexing convulsively. A muffled sob bursts from his mouth and he straightens, spins on his heel and flees, Glimmer’s howls chasing him out. The rest of them stay as they are, frozen in their horrid little tableau.

Oh God, why?

*

They limp into Harfleur and the storm quiets, the torrential rain calming to a drizzle.

Haymitch rides off immediately to find them accommodations and Madge can’t stay on the ship, cannot stay trapped in that room full of vomit and death and misery. She staggers outside and the wind is vicious, blowing her hair and tears behind her. It cuts through her dress like a knife, the sharp edges scraping her skin, and Madge hurls herself down the gangplank, Glimmer’s grief still sewn into her eardrums. She wants to escape it, wants to somehow tear the memory of all that horror from her mind but she can’t, God she can’t. It is like something living inside of her and even though she has been surrounded by death for nearly three years, there is something worse about this one, something that curls inside her like smoke and shards of glass.

(perhaps it’s because it was no soldier or criminal or adult, but a baby, a tiny, little girl who never breathed a single breath)

She closes her eyes and she can see the agony on Glimmer’s face, the torment on Marvel’s. Babies die all the time, she tries to tell herself, but it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t make this any easier to bear.

God, she was so small...

Madge sinks ankle deep into French mud, the chill of it seeping into her boots and she holds her elbows, her fingers gripping her sleeves until they start to ache. This is your fault, Marvel had screamed and was it? What had Haymitch done to bring such calamity down upon them?

A passing stranger hurries by and Madge stands there with blood on her dress, in her nose, in her mouth and cannot help but ask him what day it is. Rain trickles down her cheeks like tears and he frowns at the stains on her clothes.

“Neuf,” he mumbles and hurries off, wary eyes flickering back to her.

Neuf, she repeats to herself, nine.

March ninth

happy seventeenth birthday

And just like that, she breaks.

Madge crumples down into the mud and sobs, so hard she can barely breathe. The tears come heavy, all the pain, the fear and the anger surging through her and shattering her to pieces. She lies there heaving, too young even though she’s a year older and if she could think through all the misery she might think when does it end?

(it’s an answer she probably doesn’t want to know)

*

The sky is bright and silver like shining armour when Haymitch returns, the sun burning behind the clouds making them gleam. The rain has finally ceased completely, but the wind still tastes of the storm as Madge breathes in deeply, the tang bitter on her tongue. Haymitch canters over but does not question why she is sitting in the mud hugging her knees and she is grateful, her eyes stinging from too many tears and her throat aching.

“I have found us accommodations,” he announces stiffly and Madge feels oddly numb as she stands, her body cold and shivering. Her dress is heavy and wet as she climbs back aboard ship and she knows she should go alert her mother, but she can’t. The thought of descending back into Hell is too much for her to bear; she is too raw, too fragile. I’ll find Marvel instead she decides and tries so hard to feel strong. Be brave, be brave, please be brave.

Her heart is a heavy weight in her chest, her filthy fingers tangle in the chain of Gale’s locket as she walks slowly through the ship and when she finds Marvel, she almost wishes she hadn’t. She hears him first, a pitiful, broken weeping that cuts her to the bone. She steels herself with a deep breath and steps towards the sound, the sight cracking through her glass heart.

Oh Marvel

She has never cared for him, staunchly dislikes him in fact, but seeing him now, she can feel nothing but an aching sympathy. This isn't fair. Marvel has always seemed so proud, so confident but he is shattered now, nothing but a heaving ball of tragedy. He is huddled in a corner, his trembling hands buried in his hair, his whole body wracked with a sorrow she could never imagine. She bites her lip so hard she tastes her own blood, the tang of it mixing with Glimmer’s and Marvel suddenly looks up, somehow sensing her presence.

He is like an animal, she thinks, a wounded animal backed up against a wall and she knows looking at him that he is about to lash out. He stands, his hands balled into fists and there is hatred smouldering in his eyes, so hot and virulent she is almost afraid she might catch fire. Does he hate me for seeing him like this, so terribly vulnerable? Or perhaps he hates me for not saving his daughter or maybe he even blames me somehow for all the ill fortune that has befallen us? Or maybe, maybe he does not hate me at all, perhaps he hates himself. Perhaps he is burning under his own guilt.

“What are you looking at?” he barks, shaking all over.

“I am sorry Marvel,” she breathes and she is, so terribly sorry.

“I don't need your pity,” he spits but she thinks he might, his eyes red from sobbing and tears still wet on his cheeks. She swallows her sympathy though, knowing it will do them no good.

“Haymitch is back,” she says and whatever hatred she’d seen before is nothing to the look in his eyes now, a furious loathing that makes her shiver. He snorts like an angry horse and there are words on his tongue, she can tell, condemnations and curses ready to shred his father to pieces.

“My mother will need help with Glimmer,” she murmurs and he deflates somewhat, the blaze of his rage lessening to a simmer. A look of intense pain flashes over his face but then he forces it away, shoving roughly past her. He knocks her into the wall and she watches him go, the urge to sleep and never wake up pressing down on all her limbs. She closes her eyes for a moment before pushing herself up and then climbs back up top, her fingers trailing over every surface she passes. The cold sea air hits her like a wall as she makes her way up the stairs to the deck, bright opal sunlight hurting her eyes. She descends back onto French soil and she cannot look at Haymitch.

Is this all your fault?

A squire helps her up onto her horse and she has the perfect vantage point to watch the dreadful procession coming down the gangplank, the sheer misery of it like a sword thrust through her gut.

If only we could wake from this nightmare

Her mother shuffles down in front, cradling that poor lifeless baby with bloodstains all up her arms. Her head is bent, her chin wobbling, and then comes Marvel, his red rimmed eyes staring straight ahead, his jaw clenched tight. He carries Glimmer in his arms and she is wrapped up tight in a heavy blanket, only the edges of her soiled gown and her deathly pale face peeking out. Tears glitter on her cheeks in the bright light and Annie trails slowly behind them, her eyes closed and her arms wrapped securely around herself. Marvel loads Glimmer carefully into the litter, his movements uncharacteristically gentle and Madge sniffles, hating everything. Her mother climbs in after, still holding the little corpse and Madge’s heart gives an awful pang.

Will we bury her here, so very far from home?

And what happens if we ever go back? Does she get left behind?

She feels so cold, colder than the weather could possibly make her and Marvel stalks to his horse, brutally slapping away Haymitch’s hand as he attempts to lay it on his son’s shoulder. Haymitch recoils as if stung and what a mess we are, what an utter, utter mess.

How can we possibly survive this exile if we are so divided?

They set off, one of the squires sent to fetch a doctor for Glimmer, and Haymitch has found them a small house to rent just off the town square and they could probably afford something better, but then, perhaps it is best they save their money.

After all, who knows how long they’ll be here.

It is two storeys, the upstairs comprising two narrow bedrooms and the ground floor made up of one bedroom and a combined eating/cooking area. There is a small pen out back for the horses and Madge heads out there with Annie, the two of them scrubbing roughly at the blood on their skin as the squires tend the horses. The boys look but do not ask what they’re doing and Madge is grateful, she is not sure she could speak of it if she tried. There is so much filth beneath her nails and she does everything she can not to remember, not to think about just what is caught there but she can’t, the plague of those memories digging into her like flaming arrowheads. She almost wishes she could pull all her fingernails out just so she would never have to think of the horror trapped beneath them ever again.

“Madge,” Annie says softly and puts a steadying hand on her arm. Madge blinks and then looks down at her bleeding fingers, her ministrations a bit more violent than necessary. She breathes in deeply and forces herself to calm, but she cannot smile to reassure Annie, her mouth not even twitching in the corners. They stand together, their skin rough and red from washing, and take one of the second floor rooms, the tiny little bed they’ll share looking a little like heaven.

I wish I could sleep for a year she thinks and then something smashes in the room beside them. Annie jumps and Madge meets her eye, a flutter of panic in her chest. What on Earth...?

“You killed my baby!” Glimmer shrieks suddenly, her voice cutting straight through the thin wall between their rooms and Madge’s eyes widen.

“Glimmer-” Marvel begins, his voice equal measures angry and broken. Something else crashes with a dull thud, Madge flinches and Marvel swears loudly.

“This is your fault!” Glimmer sobs, yet another object breaking with a muffled crack.

“This is not my fault!” Marvel roars back and Glimmer lets out a deranged screech like some sort of wild animal.

“It is, it is! You and your damned ambition! Are you happy now, are you satisfied?” she screams, her voice snapping with anguish.

“My ambition?! And who was it encouraging me every step of the way? Who was it, Glimmer, who? Who was it?!” he bellows, an odd sort of torment in his words, and something else shatters, perhaps a mirror.

“I hate you, I hate you! Get out! Out! I hate you! You killed our baby, you, you did it!”

A door slams, heavy footsteps stamp through the hall and down the stairs and Glimmer’s wretched sobs echo through the flimsy wood, Madge’s heart crumbling into dust.

we are sacrifices then, all of us, on that great altar of ambition.

how wicked greed is

how it has ruined us

*

(Marvel doesn’t know where he’s going when he leaves the house, all he knows is he needs to get out out out. Glimmer’s accusations follow him as he runs blindly through Harfleur’s streets and it isn’t my fault, it isn't, it isn’t.

It can’t be.

It’s his father’s fault, Glimmer’s fault, Katniss’ fault, his step-mother’s fault, everyone’s fault but not his. Not his.

There is blood on him, Glimmer’s blood, staining his doublet and dried on his hands, like rusty red paint. His stomach cramps, his head pounds and all he can hear is Glimmer, her words but also her screams, her moans, her wailing and weeping in that infernal ship and God he wishes he could burn it, wishes he could break it apart with his bare hands. He wants to rip it into pieces, wants to kick it and crush it and demolish it, wants to scream and shout and tear it open, wants to rage and rage and rage.

fuck

fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck

There is agony in every part of him, so much pain he can barely stand and he wants to weep, cannot stop the tears that pour down his cheeks again and again and again. He has never cried so much in his life and this emptiness, this fury, this sorrow echoing in his bones, he wants it gone, wants it stomped out and destroyed.

There is only one memory burning in his eyes, one sight he cannot erase and it is Glimmer howling in a bloody bed and his step-mother holding his daughter, gray and still and dead.

make it stop

please, make it stop)

*

Madge sits in her room as the doctor tends to Glimmer, the soft murmur of voices just audible through the brittle walls. She clasps her hands in her lap and thinks of wasted Glimmer, pale and deathly as she’d lain limp in Marvel’s arms and then she thinks of Marvel too, bloodshot and ravaged as he’d wept. He’s still gone, off somewhere in twilight Harfleur and Madge hears their argument again, like a battering ram against her eardrums.

You and your damned ambition! Are you happy now, are you satisfied?

Ambition, always ambition. Is there anything more damned in all the world than a lust for power? What’s so great about ruling the world? How can it be worth all this?

“Maybe we should go to bed,” Annie murmurs and Madge moves mechanically, her body and mind separate and distant. She peels off her sullied dress and bundles it in the corner, wishing wishing she could set it afire. There is a deep, melancholy sigh trapped in her chest and she feels ancient as she slips into her nightgown, every muscle and joint aching. She sits heavily on the edge of the bed as Annie laces up the back of her dress, her toes curling on the hard floor.The doctor leaves, his footsteps light on the narrow stairs and I wonder, how is Glimmer? Will she be alright? Another pair of feet follow him, probably her mother, and soon the front door closes, an oppressive sort of hush settling over the house.

The moon rises slowly beyond their window and Madge stares at a whorl on the floor until Annie blows out the bedside candle, darkness settling over her like a lead blanket. Shee climbs slowly beneath the covers and holds Gale’s locket in her hand, a tide of emotion rising within her. She is exhausted and miserable and furious, the scent of blood still singeing her nostrils.

Why are we here?

What’s happened?

Annie soon breathes steadily in sleep beside her, but Madge cannot follow suit. Her fingers clench around the bedcovers, she stares up at the shadowy ceiling and she is molten with rage.

I have lost my home.

We are exiles.

Gale might be dead.

Glimmer has lost her baby.

Why?

We deserve an explanation.

She flings off her covers and stands abruptly, her whole body trembling. Perhaps it is reckless of her, but she does not care, Haymitch is going to tell her everything. No more lies, no more secrets. The Yorkists have done enough to ruin her life, now they owe her the truth. She wants answers and Haymitch is going to give them. She stomps down the stairs, Haymitch and her mother sharing the downstairs bedroom, and the door is cracked open, a flicker of candlelight spilling through. Madge strides over but then stops short at the sound of murmured voices. She creeps closer and angles her ear towards the opening, her mother’s sharp whisper reaching her.

“You cannot be serious,” she hisses and Madge slinks closer still, until she can see through the slit between the slightly open door and the door frame. Her mother is sitting up, arms folded over her chest while Haymitch lies on his side, his back to his wife and his expression drawn.

“I’ve had a long day,” he says tightly and her mother scoffs.

“We’ve all had a long day,” she retorts and Haymitch closes his eyes, inhaling deeply.

“I am not discussing this now.”

“Yes, you are. You promised me Haymitch, when we married, that you would keep me and my daughter safe. We are not safe and I deserve to know why.”

Madge’s eyes widen and Haymitch clenches his jaw, before breathing out slowly.

“What do you want me to say Margaret?” he asks wearily and her mother narrows her eyes.

“The truth. Why are we here? What have you done?”

There is a long pause and Madge’s heart beat quickens, anxious anticipation clawing its way through her.

“I took up arms against my Queen,” he says finally and Madge presses her fingers to her mouth to stifle a gasp, those words hanging there, deadly and final.

Oh Gale, oh God

How is this possible?

“Why in the name of God would you do that?” her mother asks, almost pleading, and Haymitch closes his eyes again, his expression pained.

“I thought I was doing the right thing.”

Her mother’s eyes stretch wide and Madge can barely stand, her legs so weak they could be made of water.

“How, Haymitch, is betraying the Queen, your cousin, the right thing?”

He sighs, a tragic, weary sound, and rubs his forehead with his knuckles, his eyes closed as if to better remember.

“It wasn’t my idea. After...after the disaster with King Louis, I was so angry, furious, betrayed. The other nobles at court, the ones that were unsatisfied with Katniss, they approached me. They wanted to overthrow her and hoped for my support, indeed, they wanted to put me on the throne in her place. After Katniss and Prim, I would be next in line and as I’m a man...well, they were sure no one would protest.”

“And you accepted?” her mother demands and Haymitch sits up suddenly, turning to her with wounded, hostile eyes.

“No! Or at least, I didn’t want to.”

He pauses for a moment and looks down at his lap, Madge’s heart stopped dead in her chest.

this can’t be happening

“They made it clear though that they were going to rebel with or without me,” he continues, sounding exhausted, “and I knew if I said no, they would turn to Marvel instead. I love my son, but I am no idiot. He is an ambitious fool; he would step over me in an instant if a crown was at stake. Perhaps they had foreseen my reluctance, for they did tell Marvel and he and Glimmer were ever so eager for me to accept. I knew listening to them that they would do anything for the throne and worse, they would have no qualms executing Gale and Katniss if it meant they might rule. I couldn’t let that happen. Nor could I turn these rebels in, not without implicating Marvel as well. And it wouldn’t have mattered anyway, even if this group was stopped, there were so many more, all over the country. I thought...I thought it would be best if I joined them. I could make sure no one in my family was hurt, I could protect Katniss and Gale and all the others. Katniss was only queen because I’d insisted on it, she’d never wanted it. I could be king, I could quiet the rebels who wanted a man, I could try and fix things with the French, I could keep everyone safe...what a fool I was, what an arrogant fool.”

He drops his head into his hands and then he starts to shake, his body trembling with tears. Madge sucks in a breath and the hard look on her mother’s face begins to soften.

“I have ruined everything. I have cost us all our home, our safety, I have...I have broken my promise to you, I have...I have lost my son, he will never forgive me. And I can’t forgive myself...oh God, my granddaughter, she is...she’s dead, because of me. I have ruined us and I do not know how to fix this. I am sorry Margaret, oh God, I’m sorry...”

He breaks off, the words caught in a sob and Madge backs away, the sight of him crying making her feel sick. Haymitch has always seemed so implacable and she feels like she’s dived straight into freezing waters as she watches him fall apart.

I am a traitor to the crown yet again

I have been pardoned once, but you only get one second chance

Oh God

That really was our last goodbye Gale

Oh God oh God

She staggers over to the stairs and sinks down, her fingers clutching the banister so tight it hurts. She claps a hand to her mouth to muffle her tears as they pour forth, the hopelessness of her situation truly sinking in. There will be no return to England now, no happy reunion.

Madge is angry, so angry she quakes, but that anger can’t do anything, it can’t change anything. She is heartbroken too, but that can’t help her either, nothing can.

Haymitch, Marvel and Glimmer, they all reached too high and now Madge must fall with them.

*

She curls back into bed, unable to stop her weeping and what am I supposed to do now?

The darkness swallowing her whole has only one answer.

give up

*

Madge spends the night sobbing, her heart shattering to pieces in her chest. Tomorrow she will have to accept what she cannot change, but tonight she mourns, allows herself to fall entirely apart.

She can barely breathe through her tears and this isn’t fair! Why does this keep happening to us? Father, England, Gale, am I to lose everything?

Oh God oh God, this isn’t fair

*

(The moon turns the still lingering clouds silver and Gale looks out from Dover’s cliffs, the channel black and dotted with scattered stars. Somewhere beyond his sight is France and his heart snaps painfully in half, little, tiny pieces grinding into dust.

How could you do this Haymitch? How?

In all his life, even when the Lancastrians had killed his father, he has never been as angry as he is right now. The fury is blinding and worse is the hurt living in his every organ, that vile betrayal sucking him dry. This must be a nightmare he thinks, it must be but it isn’t. Haymitch has stabbed them in the back and Gale can still feel that knife twitching agonisingly with every beat of his broken heart.

Why Haymitch why?

As if that is not enough, Madge is over there too, a traitor to the crown just like her step-father. He knots her handkerchief around his fingers and there is a hole in his heart, a ragged, seeping hole left behind when Madge fled England, a chunk of him clutched tight in her hands. This is what you get for falling in love with a Lancastrian whispers the nasty voice in his head and all he wants is to wake up, to see her and hold her and know nothing at all is going to keep them apart.

I am yours wholly he’d carved into her pin and he is, he’s hers and he’d never have believed love could ache this terribly, but it does, crumbles whatever bits of him have survived the pain of Haymitch’s treachery into ash. He loves her even though he shouldn’t, even though he knows they’ve lost any chance of a future together and that can’t have been their last goodbye, it can’t have been.

This has to be a nightmare

His family has been torn apart and he has lost Madge, lost her forever.

God, let this be a nightmare)

*

(“How could he have done this? He’s your cousin, how could he have taken up arms against his family?” Philippa asks and Rory wishes he had some sort of answer.

“I don't know,” he whispers and he feels like he’s bleeding, like there is some open wound he cannot staunch. Gale has stormed off, Posy and Vick cannot stop crying, his mother is worried even though she will not admit it and Rory doesn’t know why he’s come to Philippa, but perhaps it is because he cannot bear to be around his family even as he cannot bear to be alone.

“It’s despicable, families should never turn on each other,” she hisses furiously and there is something about the venom in her voice that touches him.

“No,” he agrees softly, “they shouldn’t.”

He looks down at his hands, a sick, angry heartbreak in his stomach and neither of them says a word, the silence between them oddly comfortable, so unlike how it usually is when they’re together. He closes his eyes, sudden memories of Haymitch swarming across his vision, but they snap open almost immediately when Philippa touches his face. Her fingers cup his cheek and one very soft thumb wipes away a tear, his breath caught in his throat.

“You shouldn’t cry for him, he doesn’t deserve it,” she says and Rory stares at her in surprise. Her expression is hard, her eyes blazing and he hadn’t even realized he’d been crying, his face strangely warm where her hand had brushed it.

“I...I feel like he’s cut me open,” he admits and somewhere far away he cannot believe he is saying this to Philippa, annoying, pain in his arse Philippa. She shakes her head and grabs his arm, squeezing tightly.

“You are too good a person to waste your sorrow on a man like Haymitch,” she says, harsh, fiery, and Rory’s whole body shivers with agony and something else. Never, in over a year of marriage, has he felt as close to Philippa as he does right now. He looks into her eyes, pale pale blue, and he thinks of Gale’s motto, For Justice and Family. All his life Gale has told him, over and over and over again, nothing is more important than family. Nothing.

“He chose ambition over us,” he finds himself saying, his voice odd, and Philippa bites her lip. She squeezes his arm again and the pressure is comforting in a way he can’t explain.

“He’s horrible,” she says and Rory nods, a tight knot of emotion writhing in his stomach. Haymitch has betrayed his family, their family, and Rory feels sorrow melt into rage, those words roaring in his ears.

Nothing is more important than family.

Nothing.

“I hate him,” he says, “I hope makes Katniss makes him pay for this.”)

(anger, as it turns out, is much easier to bear than heartbreak)

*

(Katniss thinks of Haymitch’s betrayal and thinks how could you? How could you Haymitch?)

(but then, under that, she thinks, is this our fault too? Are we all to blame?)

*

Two months.

They’ve been here for two whole months, two sad, bitter, pointless months.

They’ve done nothing but stagnate; sinking deeper and deeper into a rut she isn’t sure they will ever find a way out of. They are listless, hopeless and perhaps because they all know there’s nothing they can do, they never even bother to try. It makes Madge angry, furious, but even she cannot rouse herself to act. What would she do? Even if she woke everyone from their stupor, what would they do? She can never answer that and so her rage remains buried under lethargy and despair, the flames inside doused by mourning.

it’s over isn’t it? we’ve lost

Haymitch spends every day drinking, drowning himself in the oblivion of ale. Madge watches him as he sits at their little table, his hand never empty of his tankard, his face haggard and his shoulders slumped, and almost wishes she could join him. She wants to forget everything as well, wants to numb her pain but she has enough of her old anger, of hope to stop herself. She cannot quite give up, even though she wants to, there is still a chance, however miniscule, that things might turn around.

How?

I don’t know

Haymitch never leaves their house, not to go to church, not even to buy his own alcohol. He is a hermit and it is the squires who supply him, though even their numbers dwindle. They have three squires left, the rest having abandoned them and Madge cannot blame them. Why stay yoked to a sinking ship if you don’t have to? It is better this way anyway; the less people there are, the less money they have to spend. They have a finite amount of funds and Madge cannot help but worry about what they will do when it runs out, because it will eventually, especially as no one is doing anything to earn any more. She knows when the money runs dry they will start selling what they don’t need, their jewels, gowns, horses and more, but that won’t last forever either. What will they do then? Starve in a gutter?

That problem weighs heavily on her mother, whose health takes a sharp downturn. She has never been robust, always been frail but the stress takes an even heavier toll than Madge would have imagined. She has no appetite, her skin is pale and translucent, her bones jut out and bags form underneath her eyes, heavy and purple and ominous. She seems perpetually exhausted, but she does not rest, cannot. Annie is the only servant they have left, so it is up to Madge and her mother to pick up the slack. They cook and clean for the first time in their lives, scrub floors and dishes, peel vegetables and boil stew. They cannot waste money on new clothes or seamstresses, so Madge darns hems and mends dishtowels while her mother carefully keeps track of all their spending, her brow eternally creased with worry.

Glimmer does not leave her room, has not stepped outside it even once. The room next door feels like a tomb to Madge and if it weren’t for the fact that her mother went in their daily with a tray of food and that she occasionally heard muffled sobs through the wall, she might not believe Glimmer was still alive. Her heartbreak is like an oppressive veil lying over all of them, ensuring no one can ever escape the tragedy of their journey. Madge is both achingly sympathetic and selfishly resentful, wishes wishes wishes Glimmer might give them a chance to breathe, to forget the nightmare of that day. But perhaps because she will never forget it, she cannot allow anyone else to.

Marvel is much like his father, burying himself in alcohol, but where Haymitch stays home to drown his sorrows. Marvel is nearly always out. He spends most days and nights somewhere else, anywhere else, only returning occasionally to raid their food supply, pilfer funds and snore loudly on the kitchen bench or out by the horses. He smells like booze, vomit and unwashed boy, his eyes always bloodshot and his temper foul. He barely speaks to anyone and never to his father, looking through him as if he wasn’t even there.

Never once does he venture upstairs to see Glimmer.

Sometimes when Madge is on her knees washing up the puddles of sick he tends to leave behind, she thinks we cannot go on like this. Something has to be done. But when she tries to plan something they might do instead, she inevitably runs into a wall. They cannot ask for help from the French king, not after Haymitch’s last disaster of a visit. They cannot go home; the Yorkists won’t be able to forgive Haymitch’s betrayal, not if they want to ensure no one else follows in his footsteps.

(Madge sometimes imagines going back alone, begging forgiveness and insisting she had no idea what Haymitch was planning, but she can’t. It would be wrong, selfish, awful to abandon the others)

(even still, she cannot stop the dreams of it)

The Lancastrians are somewhere here in France too but they would never accept Haymitch or Marvel, two of their staunchest enemies and that’s it then, they are out of options.

how could it come to this?

Madge prays nightly for guidance, for salvation, with Gale’s locket pressed between her palms and the only place she ever goes is church, begging God to save them. Annie goes with her and they kneel there for hours, because the longer they stay in France, the more it seems divine intervention may be their only chance.

forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive them that trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation; but deliver us from evil

(please)

*

(Their little house in Harfleur is closer to Finnick than she’s been in two years, and yet Annie is just as far away as she’s always been.

They are finally in the same country but she has no way of contacting him, no idea even where he is exactly. She can’t go to him, not only because she has no idea where to go, but because she cannot leave Madge. Not now.

It is agony and she has never been more torn. She yearns for Finnick, her heart weeping for him but she aches for Madge too and how can she choose one over the other? Finnick is her soul mate, but Madge her best friend.

What do I do?

Annie cannot leave so she sits by their tiny window and holds the one handkerchief she’d managed to bring, Finnick’s sigil stitched in silver thread. She looks out at the sky and whispers her prayer up to the stars.

I’m here Finnick, find me, please)

*

Madge, Annie and their escort Robert the squire leave St Martin’s Church on a quiet day in mid-May, spring sunshine falling over them like a golden curtain. It is early afternoon on a Saturday and people are out in force, wandering the streets, popping into shops and chatting amiably from the windows of timber framed houses. Unlike when they’d first arrived, none of the people turn to stare as they trudge by and Madge cannot decide if it is a good or bad thing that they’ve become invisible.

Her knees ache from hours of kneeling and she peers around for something to do, eyes tracing over the scenery that is much too familiar to her now. Two months feels like two years and she’s honestly beginning to believe they’ll never leave. She looks to Annie, pale faced and weary, and then to Robert, grumpy and a bit too thin and please, let today be the day something happens. She wishes the same thing every day, but maybe, maybe, this time it will actually come true.

There is a dull thud at the back of her head, a feeling of curdled milk in her stomach and she needs this waiting to be over. Whether it is ruin or salvation, something needs to happen. They reach their little house and once, over two hundred years ago, Harfleur belonged to the kings of England and she thinks about that often, that this place that is her exile was once part of the only country she’s ever known.

She never knows how to feel about that.

Robert goes around back to join the other squires, leaving Annie and Madge to head inside. They shuffle through the door and it is too early to start supper, which means they have a very long afternoon ahead of them. The place is tidy for the moment, so there’s no need to clean it; she has read every book they’ve brought several times; she cannot see the point in embroidery and wasting money on the thread for it seems silly anyway; and she cannot find the energy to take part in cards or dice.

Perhaps I’ll take a nap, thinks the quiet melancholy of her mind and why not? It’s isn't as if she has anything better to do. The boozy, unwashed smell of Haymitch drifts towards them and he is sitting at the table, head in one hand and a mug of something strong in the other. He looks a mess as usual and Annie skirts around him quickly, making sure not to make eye contact. She bounds into the stairwell and then up the stairs and Madge follows slowly, her very soul lethargic. She takes the first few steps just as Annie reaches the top and disappears over the landing, her footsteps flying over the creaky floorboards. Where does she find the energy?

“Alright Haymitch, that’s enough.”

Madge stops at her mother’s aggravated voice, a tiny pinprick of curiosity blooming inside of her. She stays where she is, hidden behind a wall, and tries desperately not to make a single sound.

“Give that here,” Haymitch grunts and Madge hears footsteps and then a heavy clunk as something, Haymitch’s tankard most probably, is set down on the counter.

“No, I’ve had enough of watching you drink yourself to death.”

“You have no right,” Haymitch slurs slightly and her mother snorts.

“I have every right. We cannot afford for you to waste our remaining funds on drowning your sorrows. We need action Haymitch; it’s time you made yourself useful.”

Madge blinks in surprise at the force in her mother’s words and even Haymitch is quiet for a long moment.

“And what would you have me do?” he asks finally, his voice half annoyed and half despairing. Her mother clucks her tongue.

“Sober up to begin with. You are not helping anyone like this. I know you feel guilty, but we would all be better served if you’d focus your energies on rectifying your mistakes, rather than compounding them.”

Haymitch scoffs bitterly.

“If I could fix this, wouldn’t I have?”

“You can and you know it. You don't like your options so you’re hiding here drunk, but I’m tired of living like this. If you won’t help us, I will.”

“How?” Haymitch asks sceptically and Madge waits with bated breath.

“I’ve written to King Louis,” her mother says evenly and the temperature seems to drop several degrees. Madge’s eyes go wide and Haymitch’s silence is deafening.

“You did what?” he asks with deadly calm, not even a trace of alcohol in his voice.

“I wrote to the King,” her mother repeats firmly, “I expect an answer shortly.”

“You are a fool. He will not see us,” Haymitch says, still eerily, frighteningly calm, and her mother snorts.

“He will. And you know it even if you won’t admit it. King Louis wants the Yorkists to pay and he is prepared to back a Lancastrian invasion. Your insider knowledge of their tactics, my royal blood, our wealth in England and the large number of supporters you can muster will be invaluable. Louis will want to take as little risk as possible; they do not call him ‘prudent’ for nothing. With our help, he lessens the number of men he has to commit and heightens the chance of victory and a return on his monetary investment. He will see us and he will want our help.”

Madge stands frozen, her mother’s words rushing over her like icy waves. She wants us to join the Lancastrians, to depose Katniss and put Coriolanus back on the throne.

Oh my God

“We got into this mess because I tried to overthrow Katniss. Your solution is really just to do the same thing again?” Haymitch demands, his voice as sharp as a sword, and her mother exhales loudly.

“We have no other choice. You can rot here if you want, but I won’t. I don't care who we have to betray, I am not going to die here.”

Madge cannot breathe and never, never has her mother sounded like this.

Survival Madge, that’s what matters most, no matter the cost

“Enobaria will never agree,” Haymitch insists, that veneer of calm just starting to slip.

“She will have no choice. She cannot afford to disagree with Louis and if he vouches for us, she will have to accept us. You know it Haymitch, that’s why you brought Anne, isn't it? To try and win her father’s favour? You know just as I do that the Lancastrians are our only hope.”

Madge’s eyes go wide and of course! How didn’t I see it? No servants but Annie, he’s been planning this since the beginning. Oh Haymitch, you always have a contingency plan, don't you?

“You cannot ask me to do this,” Haymitch suddenly pleads and his voice breaks over the words.

“Yes I can. I am asking you Haymitch, I am asking you to save your son, his wife, my daughter. I know you hate the Lancastrians, I know you don't want anything to happen to Katniss and Gale, but you cannot have both. Either we survive or they do, it’s time to choose,” her mother says, voice gentle but insisting and Madge feels as if she’s fallen over, like the whole world has turned upside down.

“God help me,” Haymitch says and Madge covers her mouth with her hand.

God help us all

*

Madge climbs back up to her room slowly, her mind churning.

Her fingers shake slightly on the rail, her heart beats unevenly and this is the chance she’s been waiting for, the salvation she’s been praying for. They will return to England, they will be safe from starvation or homelessness; her father will even be avenged.

But at what cost?

Coriolanus will rule again, plunging the kingdom back into hell with his cruelty; war will ravage the country yet again; and the Yorkists will be slaughtered, Gale among them.

no, God no

Her heart lurches painfully at the thought and she closes her eyes, pressing his locket into her chest so hard it hurts.

This isn't fair

I’m so tired of being on opposite sides

Tears touch her cheeks and you cannot have both, it’s time to choose. That’s what her mother had said and Madge realizes now that she too has to make a choice. The war will come either way, that is inevitable, but the rest...

Gale’s family or mine?

Avenge my father or protect the man I love?

Lancaster or York?

*

(Margaret is right of course, Haymitch knows that well. His error has cost them everything and he has to set things right.

Marvel, Glimmer, Madge, Anne, they need him to swallow his revulsion and do what needs to be done)

(but he will never forgive himself for this)

(how could he?)

(we always said Coriolanus was the monster)

(we were wrong)

(i’m the monster)

*

The King’s letter arrives in June.

They are eating a meagre dinner when the courier arrives, Thomas the squire fetching the message and bringing it in for Haymitch. Madge watches him intently as he opens it, so intently that she doesn’t even notice the cheese sliding off her bread and back down to her plate. Haymitch’s expression is pained as he reads it and Madge feels her heart pound.

This is it

He meets her mother’s eye and nods slightly, lightning crackling through Madge’s blood. Her mother nods back and Haymitch stands, scooping up his bread and cheese.

“Robert, ready my horse, I ride out immediately,” Haymitch commands, his voice rough, and Robert nods before hurrying off. Haymitch sighs, a tired, heavy sound, and then disappears into his room, her mother standing abruptly and following after. Annie looks around in confusion and Madge forgets about eating, her mind awhirl.

King Louis has sent for him

This is really happening

Now what am I going to do?

Haymitch emerges with a packed bag and his neck is red, suggesting he and her mother have had heated words. He strides out into the faint summer sun and her mother leans back against her bedroom door, her face drawn but determined.

They are planning, now I must plan too

Madge stands and walks over to the window, her fingers clutching the wood frame. She peers through the slightly warped glass and watches as Haymitch mounts his horse, his shoulders sagging. He does not want to do this, that’s obvious, but survival is what matters and they need Louis to survive. Her nails dig into the wood and he straightens up, forcing a look of resolve onto his face.

Win this day for us Haymitch

And what will I do when he does?

Haymitch gallops off and Madge cannot help feeling somewhat sick as she follows him with her eyes. He is going to make a pact with the devil and Madge knows he must. Still, if he makes this alliance, she will lose Gale, for good, for certain.

It doesn’t matter; I don't need happiness to survive

(but is it really so wrong to want it?)

*

Madge tugs Annie up to their room and sits her down on the bed.

“I’m sorry I didn't tell you sooner, but I didn't want to get your hopes up,” she says and Annie tilts her head.

“About what?”

Madge squeezes both her hands.

“Haymitch has gone to talk to King Louis. The hope is that he’ll help Haymitch gain the favour of the Lancastrians.”

Annie’s eyes go wide, she inhales sharply and Madge smiles, even as her own heart aches. Annie ducks her head, eyes wet, and her shoulders shake.

“Oh God, oh God, I never dared hope...” she trails off in tears and Madge pulls her into a hug. Annie cries into her arms and what does it matter that I’m unhappy? Annie was happy for me in England, now I shall be happy here for her.

If only there was a way we could both be happy...

(there isn’t)

*

(Sometimes when Gale can’t sleep (and that is most nights these days), he thinks of Madge in France, the soft gold of her hair, the summer blue of her eyes, the curve of her lips and the brightness of her smile. He can see her so clearly sometimes it is like she is there beside him, warm and smelling like roses and the pain is fresh each time and always bittersweet. He can imagine the exact cadence of her voice, the sound of her laughter, can remember how it felt to touch her, kiss her and he wants so fucking badly to talk to her, to tell her I love you, it doesn’t matter what side of the war you’re on, I will always love you.

Madge is lost to him and even though they won, he cannot help but feel as though he’s lost too)

*

As always, the wait is excruciating.

Madge cannot concentrate on anything, her thoughts too tied up in Haymitch and his meeting with King Louis. This is their one and only chance at salvation, their only hope and yet...and yet, if they join up with the Lancastrians, she will have lost Gale for good.

She shouldn’t care about that, because survival is what matters most. She does not need Gale to survive, she knows that and yet she cannot just forget him, brush him aside as if he meant nothing. She loves him, loves him so much and she whispers to his locket each night, as if it were Gale himself and he might hear her. She knows she will never have him back, will never marry him or grow old beside him and she will bear that pain if she has to, but she will not let him die.

The world has taken much from me, but it will not take this

A dangerous, foolish plan begins to formulate in her mind and it is reckless yes, but Madge is tired of reacting. It is time to go on the offensive.

I am going to survive

And so will you Gale, I’m going to save you

I’m going to save all of us

(even if it means never seeing you again)

*

(It isn’t that Rory likes Philippa, he doesn’t, she is still Philippa, obnoxious, bothersome, irritating Philippa, but she is also the only person who lets him hate without any judgement.

His family still loves Haymitch even as they curse him, but Rory can’t. He sees the melancholy lines carved into his mother’s face, the haunted anger in Gale’s eyes, hears the sound of Posy crying herself to sleep and sits with Vick after every terrible nightmare and he cannot forgive Haymitch, he can’t. Rory loves his family, would die for them (not that Gale would ever let him) and he cannot forgive someone, anyone, who has hurt them. His family is suffering and they mean everything to him, everything, and that means whoever made them suffer has to suffer too, even if that man is his cousin.

Philippa is the only one that understands. His mother would be disappointed in him for wishing misfortune on anyone, Posy and Vick would only be made sadder and Gale...Gale might understand, for he too is furious, a smouldering pyre of heartbroken rage, but even though Rory’s fourteen, to Gale he is still a child. Rory knows it’s only because Gale is so used to taking care of him, to being father as well as brother, and so he doesn’t blame him, but still, he isn't a baby, not anymore. With Philippa at least, he can be as angry as he wants to.

“I’ll never forgive him,” he vows and Philippa nods, eyes bright.

“Never,” she echoes and Rory remembers being younger and listening to Gale talk about the Lancastrians, those wicked, vile monsters that stole Papa away. At the time, they had seemed the height of evil, but he knows better now. The worst crime, the worst ever, is to betray your family)

(and for the rest of his life, all the way until he dies, Rory will never believe anything as firmly as he does that)

*

It is the first of July, the sun is warm overhead, and Madge brings the squires their breakfast.

She offers them bread and some boiled beef and they dig in with gusto, thanking her with full mouths and half-done bows. Their manners have slipped somewhat in the four months they’ve been living here, but Madge doesn’t mind. She’s never really cared about that sort of thing, but especially not now. They’re all in the same boat here, she’s just grateful these boys have stood by them. She heads inside and she thinks oddly of Bristel, that squire of her father’s that used to partner her in dance lessons with a scowl. I wonder what happened to him. He was at Towton, wasn’t he?

Oh

She shakes her head to banish the sting of pain and her mother is waiting for her in an oddly chipper mood.

“Good, you’re here,” she says and Madge sets down her tray with a confused look.

“Mother?” she asks and her mother smiles, colour just slightly returning to her cheeks.

“Your step-father has sent me a letter; we are to join him tomorrow at King Louis’ court. I want everyone to wash up and pack today so we might leave first thing tomorrow morning. I’ll have one of the boys bring in the tub and beg another off the neighbours, you two should start boiling some water. Oh, and make sure you pick out something nice for Anne to wear tomorrow, after all, she’s just as much a lady as the rest of us.”

Madge blinks at her mother’s rapid speech, her heart beat quickening. Margaret heads outside to talk to the squires and Madge turns to Annie, her own wide eyed surprise reflected on her face.

It’s happening, it’s really happening

Annie brings her shaking hands up to cover her mouth and Madge hurries over to hug her. The fact that this is truly, honestly happening does not feel real and Madge almost expects to wake up.

Oh my God, this is really happening

It’s time

Annie starts to cry and Madge squeezes her, her heart pounding. I won’t let you down, she thinks to her mother, Annie, Gale, to everyone, I am going to save us, I swear. William the squire drags in the tub from outside and Annie pulls away, wiping unsteadily at her eyes. Madge immediately starts a fire to heat the water and her mother comes in smiling brightly, setting a basket down on the counter.

“I’ll rouse Glimmer and have her come down. You three can use this tub; I’ll have the boys take care of Marvel in the neighbour’s outside.”

Madge nods and her mother heads upstairs. Annie peeks in the basket and gasps.

“Oh look,” she says and pulls out fresh soap and bottles of oils, lotions and sweet perfume. She sets them out on the counter and Madge feels her spirits start to lift just looking at them. She’s had plenty of baths since they’ve been here, but never like the ones she used to enjoy back home. It might be a small, silly thing, but her heart shivers a bit in pleasure as she fills up the tub with hot water and pours in some lavender scented oil. Not of course, that such good feelings last.

Just as Madge inhales dreamily, Glimmer comes into view, looking more like a ghost than a living person. She leans heavily on Margaret’s shoulder, her feet bare and her long hair hanging down her back in greasy tangles. It is dull and dirty, so unlike the usual gleaming silver-blonde mass Glimmer was always so proud of. There are dark purple bags beneath her eyes and her skin is pale and waxy, her eyes cloudy and dim. She looks tired and underfed and Madge presses a hand to her stomach, feeling suddenly winded.

“Come now darling, you do want to look your best for the king, don't you?” her mother-in-law cajoles and Glimmer takes a shuddering breath.

“Yes,” she says with a raspy voice, “yes of course.”

Margaret smiles, pats Glimmer’s hair and then heads out back, taking a few of the bottles with her. Glimmer turns to Madge and Annie and tries to give them her old imperious look, but it falters somewhat and that shouldn’t make Madge ache so terrible, but oh, it does. She and Annie strip off Glimmer’s stained nightgown and Madge has to stifle a gasp. Glimmer is too thin in most places, has clearly not been eating well, but around her stomach she is pudgy with sagging skin. Madge feels a little ill looking at it, that stark reminder of the baby dead and lost.

Oh Glimmer

Annie offers her hand and helps Glimmer climb into the bath, her breath hissing out between her teeth at the heat. She sinks low into the water, folding up until everything beneath her nose is submerged and she looks eerily like a drowned corpse as she lies there, her chest barely rising. Stop thinking like that, stop it, Madge tells herself firmly and picks up a hairbrush, determined to work through the snarls in Glimmer’s hair. She works carefully, methodically on every greasy knot and Annie lathers Glimmer’s whole body with soap, scrubbing her spindly limbs and baggy stomach. No one speaks, the only sound the splish splash of bathwater, and Madge massages soap into Glimmer’s scalp, coating every inch of hair in bubbles. They rinse and rinse until Madge feels confident it is entirely oil free and Glimmer starts to look slightly more alive under their ministrations, her skin taking on a slightly more natural hue and even her eyes starting to regain their typical attitude.

(perhaps they are not just washing off the grime but the pain as well)

They help her out, dry her off and then Annie brushes out her hair while Madge rubs her with sweet smelling lotions. She is soft and fresh when they are done, the darkness hanging around her lightening just a shade. Annie helps her back upstairs to dress and Madge plunges her grubby nightgown into the tub, though she thinks they might be better off burning it. She scrubs at it roughly, working furiously on the various stains from sweat, blood and things she is not sure she wants to know about. It feels almost cathartic to attack them, like she is not just washing them away, but all they represent

let this be a new start for us, let us all begin again

Annie comes down and starts heating more water, Madge sitting back for a moment. She wipes the sweat from her brow and stands, taking the nightgown outside. She arrives just in time to see the squires attempting to wrestle Marvel into the tub and her eyes widen in disbelief.

We gave Glimmer an entire bath and dressed her, has it really taken them all this time to rouse and strip him?

Her mother watches from a safe distance and Marvel is apparently as slippery as an eel, even though he is clearly still inebriated. Every word is heavily slurred as he tries to escape the squires, the three of them struggling to stop him.

“Off! Off you...you peasants! Un...unhand me! Rrrruffians!”

They stuff him into the bathwater and Madge hangs up Glimmer’s nightdress, somewhat bemused as Marvel continues to thrash half-heartedly.

“I was hoping two of you might help us empty the tub,” she says and William immediately leaps to attention.

“Of course, my lady,” he says and dashes inside, Thomas snapping at his heels and a dismayed Robert is left to hold Marvel down on his own. Madge offers him a sympathetic smile and then follows the boys into the house. She starts heating more water as they lug out the tub and dump it, before retuning reluctantly to their belligerent captive. Annie climbs in slowly once they’ve refilled it and she seems almost mystified at the flowery scent coming from the water.

“Oh you don't have to,” she says awkwardly as Madge prepares to cover her in soap. Madge frowns and hates the way Annie won’t meet her eyes.

“Nonsense, a lady never washes herself,” she attempts to joke, her heart panging in her chest and Annie tries and fails to smile. She is very stiff as Madge washes her hair and scrubs her all over, every part of her clearly uncomfortable.

(Annie knows it’s silly, she used to have baths like this all the time, but somehow, for some reason, now it just feels wrong)

Madge wishes she could say something but no words come and she feels so useless, so utterly, utterly useless. Annie pops out quickly when it’s over and dries herself, Madge watching her back with a miserable frown. Oh Annie...

They have the boys empty the tub again, Marvel’s difficult bath nearly over, and Madge steps into the hot water, steam curling over its surface, and sighs contently. She sinks all the way in and all her aches and pains seem to vanish, her whole body warm and comfortable. She cannot imagine anything more luxurious than a sweet smelling bath and she never wants to get out, lingering just a bit after Annie has finished scrubbing every inch of her.

whoever invented hot baths deserves every praise

“I hope you’re almost done,” her mother says as she comes into the room and Madge sighs. “I’m going to heat us up yesterday’s stew; I think we’ve earned it.”

Madge nods and climbs out reluctantly. She dries off, brushes her hair and Annie laces her back into her dress just in time, as the squires come in half-supporting an unsteady Marvel. He is dressed in clean clothes, his hair has been cut and brushed neat and he’s even had a shave, his cheeks a fresh pink. He collapses into a chair and groans, resting his forehead on his arms.

“It is much too early,” he mumbles and Madge sits across from him, just barely managing not to roll her eyes. The squires squeeze onto the bench and Annie heads upstairs to fetch Glimmer, the aroma of warm stew making Madge’s stomach rumble. Her mother serves them each a steaming bowl and sits at the head of the table just as Annie and Glimmer come back down, Annie’s arm around her shoulders. Glimmer looks better in clean clothes, her back a little straighter but she tenses as soon as she sees Marvel, her skin drawing tight and her eyes narrowing. A flush crawls over her ice white skin and Madge remembers their fight that very first day, her heart starting to pound.

oh no

For a moment it seems as if Glimmer is going to turn around and head back upstairs, but then she straightens her shoulders and sweeps over, her old self possession trickling back in. She sits beside Marvel and peers at her stew in thinly veiled disgust as Annie slips in beside Madge, the two of them sharing a worried look.

“Are you tired my lord?” Glimmer asks in a tight voice and everyone in the room seems to stop breathing. Marvel lifts his head and looks at her, deep bags hanging beneath his eyes.

“I have not been sleeping well,” he replies curtly and one of her fine eyebrows shoots straight up.

“Oh? Well perhaps if you slept in your own bed rather than someone else’s, you might be able to get a good rest,” she suggests with poisonous sweetness and Marvel’s expression turns immediately ugly. Madge swallows a gasp, everyone’s eyes going wide. Glimmer’s implication is obvious, the accusation clear and Marvel sneers furiously.

“I’d love to sleep in my own bed, had someone not banished me from it,” he snaps angrily and red spots bloom in both of Glimmer’s cheeks.

“And that gives you an excuse to go whoring in every brothel in France?” she demands, her voice rising in pitch and Marvel stands abruptly, his chair clattering to the floor.

“I have not been whoring anywhere!” he shouts and Madge cannot help inching back unconsciously. Glimmer lets out a high pitch laugh.

“Really? You expect me to believe you’ve been celibate all these months?”

“Yes!” Marvel barks. “Not that I have any idea why , seeing as I’m married to a shrill cow!” he bellows and Glimmer leaps to her feet, her expression outraged.

“I have been suffering-”

“And I haven’t been?”

“It was your fault!” Glimmer all but screams, tears gathering in her eyes.

“No, it wasn’t!” Marvel roars, enraged and frantic for it to be true.

“I think we should go eat outside,” Madge’s mother says mildly, as if there wasn’t a volcano erupting just beside them.

“Yes it was! It was your idea! This only happened because we had to flee England and we only had to flee because you failed to overthrow Katniss! It was your idea!” Glimmer yells and launches herself at Marvel. She slaps his chest, scratches at his face and pummels his shoulders, her expression somewhat deranged.

“It really is a lovely day, come along,” Margaret says and stands, taking her stew and heading for the door. Is she really not going to intervene?

Or perhaps she thinks they need to work through their problems?

“Fine, fine! It was my idea, but it’s not like you were unaware or in any way opposed to it! You encouraged me every step of the way!” Marvel retaliates, pinning Glimmer’s arms to her sides. “You wanted to be queen just as much as I wanted to be king!”

“Come along, you lot,” her mother calls from the door and they file after her, Glimmer and Marvel turning redder by the second.

“If I’m guilty than so are you!” he bellows and Glimmer shrieks in fury.

“This is not my fault!” she screams and Madge can hear the desperate need in her voice for that to be true.

“Then it isn’t mine!” Marvel shouts back, his eyes bulging out of his head.

“Then whose fault is it?” Glimmer sobs, her body sagging in Marvels’ grip and then Margaret shuts the door with a snap, muffling whatever comes next. She leads them to the very edge of the yard and sits down easily on an upturned bucket, the squires gaping at her. She doesn’t seem to notice and nibbles thoughtfully at her stew.

“I think the litter and the horses should be cleaned up as well, we want to make as good an impression as possible on the king,” she says and the squires all nod. She looks them over as they sit in the grass, her gaze roving over each of them in turn.

“Once that’s done, I think it’ll be time for you to bathe,” she says and Madge sits gingerly on a bale of hay. Robert sniffs himself.

“I suppose we need one,” he agrees and William snorts.

“Ya think? You smell like a rat’s arse.”

He straightens suddenly in alarm, realizing just who he’s sitting with.

“Begging your pardon, my lady,” he says bowing his head and her mother smiles.

“It’s perfectly alright; I’ll have the girls boil you some water.”

Sometime later her mother deems it safe to go back inside and Madge and Annie take in the dishes. They step tentatively through the door but Marvel and Glimmer are nowhere to be seen.

“I suppose they’ve gone upstairs,” Madge says and looks up at the ceiling. Annie shrugs and begins heating the water, Thomas bringing them over some buckets. Madge places the dirty bowls on the counter, ties back her hair and then pushes up her sleeves. She waits for Annie to fill up the sink and a muffled sort of scream travels through the floor above them. Madge frowns and looks up, Annie’s face suddenly red.

“You don't think they’re still fighting, do you?” Madge asks her and she shakes her head quickly, hurriedly filling up Thomas’ buckets. Madge furrows her brow as Annie rushes out to tell the boys their water’s ready and why is she acting so strange? And what are they doing up there?

They wash the dishes and then Madge dries her hands, Annie boiling more water so the boys can take their baths.

“I think I’ll go and pick out our clothes for tomorrow, Mother did say she wanted us to leave bright and early,” Madge says and Annie nods, her cheeks still tinted red. She heads upstairs, mind running through all the dresses she owns and it occurs to her that she might have a problem finding a dress for Annie. They aren’t the same size in any way, Annie being taller, slimmer and with a smaller bust size. The latter two aren’t too big an issue, she can always lace the dress very tight, but the height will be a problem. They can’t exactly claim they’ve been keeping Annie in good estate if her ankles are showing.

Glimmer!

Glimmer’s about Annie’s height, she has a larger chest to be sure, but that’s nothing a good lacing can’t fix.

Madge walks over to Glimmer’s door and then pauses. What if they are still fighting? She bites her lip and even if they aren’t, she hasn’t stepped foot in this room once since they’ve been here, it feels almost forbidden. There are memories tied to this room, memories Madge wants nothing more than to forget. Stop it; we have more important things to worry about. She knocks firmly and then waits, but there is no response. She knocks again.

“Glimmer? It’s Madge, I really need a favour,” she calls and an audible sigh comes from the other side of the door.

“Fine,” Glimmer snaps, sounding very much like her old self. Perhaps shouting at Marvel helped her work through her pain? There are sounds of movement, a low rumble that might be snoring and then the door swings open. Glimmer stands there in nothing but a robe, her skin flushed and her dishevelled hair tumbling over her shoulders. Madge blinks at her and then her eyes slide over her shoulder to the rumpled bed, a very nude Marvel snoring away on top (on his stomach, thankfully). Madge’s eyes go wide and oh, OH.

I suppose they’ve made up then.

“Can I help you?” Glimmer demands in annoyance and Madge shakes herself.

“Yes, yes, of course. I need a dress.”

Glimmer glares at her.

“For Annie,” Madge clarifies and Glimmer scoffs.

“I didn't realize we were dressing the help,” she says snidely and Madge forces a smile.

“Annie isn't the help and my mother insists she have a nice dress for tomorrow. You’re closer to her height than I am.”

Glimmer scowls but seems to realize Madge won’t leave without a dress and makes an aggravated noise in her throat.

“Fine, come on then.”

She walks over to a chest by the window and Madge follows, determinedly looking anywhere but at Marvel. Glimmer begins to riffle through her things, probably trying to find her least favourite gown, and Marvel grunts, making Madge jump.

“Here,” Glimmer says, thrusting a dress at her, “don't bother giving it back.”

Madge nods, assuming Glimmer is insinuating the dress will be ruined once Annie uses it.

“Right, thank you,” she says and Glimmer rolls her eyes.

“Close the door on your way out,” she returns in a clear dismissal and when Madge turns to do just that, she catches a glimpse of a naked Glimmer slipping under Marvel’s outstretched arm. Madge pulls the door shut quickly and hurries back to her own room, her cheeks red and burning.

At least they’re getting along again, that’s good, isn’t it?

*

(Marvel’s hand is hot as it rests on her stomach and Glimmer traces a finger over the knuckles, her heart sick.

There are no scars she can see, but she can feel them beneath her skin, feel them inside of her and the memory is still so painful she thinks she might faint. You’re right my darling, Haymitch did this to us, she decides, running a hand through Marvel’s hair, Haymitch lost us the crown and then he lost us our baby.

He ruined us. He is to blame.

But never again

He will not drag us down again

We deserve the world my love, and we will have it)

*

Madge lies awake that night and dwells on Marvel and Glimmer, her mind stuck on their apparent reconciliation. She tells herself it is only because she is so mortified, but that is a lie.

She is jealous.

Marvel and Glimmer, they have each other, but Madge does not have Gale. She never will. They won’t find their way back to each other and tears slither down her cheeks as she lays there, his locket ice cold against her skin.

This isn't fair

Glimmer and Marvel, they have suffered, she knows that, but even still, envy spends that night breaking her already broken heart.

*

(Posy and Nella (because Petronella is such a mouthful) look at Vick with pleading eyes and ask, almost in tandem, Will Madge be okay?

He wants to say yes but then pauses, because even as grown up as twelve, the workings of kings and queens and traitors is something he doesn’t quite understand. He worries his lip, looks at his little sister and the wife he loves as if she too were his sister and he wishes he were brave like Gale, strong like Rory.

What do I say? Will she be alright?

Posy starts to cry, the sound cutting into his heart and Vick finds himself talking, desperate to stop her tears.

“Of course she will, Gale won’t let anything bad happen to her,” he says and for a moment he believes it. After all, Gale is invincible and valiant and the most amazing person in the world. There is nothing he cannot do and he loves Madge, so of course he’ll protect her.

Except...except there is a tragic look in Gale’s eyes these days and something worse, something Vick is entirely unused to seeing in his brother’s gaze. Fear.

And if Gale is afraid, Vick knows deep in his bones that they should all be afraid)

*

Her mother rouses them early the next morning and Madge swallows a miserable groan. She is achingly exhausted as she trudges downstairs, her whole body leaden and tired. Annie shuffles ahead of her, just as sleepy and neither one had slept, but how could they? Worry had eaten them both all night, nibbling at their toes and scratching at their nerves, chewing little holes in their hopes and plans. Today is the day that changes everything, how could they possibly have slept?

Madge drops like a stone into her chair at the table and she cannot help but scowl as Marvel and Glimmer flounce down into the kitchen arm in arm, both of them rosy cheeked and smiling

(and there is an ache in her heart as they sit glued to each other’s sides at the table, Marvel’s arm around Glimmer’s waist and her eyes watching him adoringly)

(Gale and I, we’ll never have that)

“We’ve got a long journey ahead of us, so eat up,” her mother says and Madge sighs dismally.

wonderful

There is sop in wine, beef, cheese and apple tarts and Madge rubs at her bleary eyes before digging in. Her mother carries out a tray for the squires, busy readying the horses and litter, and Marvel serves Glimmer, selecting all her food like he used to do with Madge. He seems to think himself quite chivalrous and Glimmer bats her eyelashes at him, her smile coy.

(if you asked, Madge would say she was trying not to gag)

(but really, she’s trying not to cry)

Her mother returns and takes her seat at the table, selecting only a single apple tart to eat. Madge frowns and wants to insist she have more, her figure far too thin and fragile.

“Why does the French king want to see us?” Marvel asks as he feeds Glimmer some sop, his loud voice cutting through Madge’s thoughts. His step-mother smiles.

“Your lord father has been talking with him and now the king wishes to aid us in our time of trouble,” she says and Marvel snorts.

“Hah, how unlike Haymitch to actually succeed in something,” he says nastily and Glimmer titters obnoxiously. Margaret frowns.

“You should not speak of your father in such a way,” she admonishes gently and Marvel grimaces, his green eyes flashing. He opens his mouth, no doubt to say something rude, but Glimmer places a hand on his arm and murmurs something in his ear. He smirks and whispers back, Glimmer giggling and his anger seems to pass, at least for the moment. They finish eating in silence and then it is time to get ready, her mother wanting to leave as quickly as possible. Madge slaps her cheeks in an attempt to wake up and shakes herself all over.

Today’s the day, I need to be alert

She and Annie make their way to their room, but before they can go inside, Glimmer’s annoyed voice stops them.

“Where do you think you’re going?” she demands and for a moment Madge is confused, before she scowls. It is obvious Glimmer expects Annie to help her dress and Madge grinds her teeth together. Annie isn’t your servant, you cannot boss her around anymore. Have your lovely husband help you, she wants to say but doesn’t, knowing it will do little good.

“I’ll help,” she offers instead and Glimmer shrugs, allowing Marvel to tug her into their room.

“Fetch a squire to help dress my lord,” she calls back over her shoulder at Annie and Madge exhales angrily. She follows them into their room and Marvel flops on the bed and leans against the headboard, his expression insolent. He folds his arms behind his head and Glimmer sits primly on the edge of the bed, the sheets a rumpled disaster beneath them. Madge feels her chest twinge and heads over to Glimmer’s chest of things, jealousy still thriving in her heart.

She can feel Marvel watching her and when she looks over, there is something sharp and rude in his eyes. Do you hate me Marvel? Why? Because Katniss wouldn’t let you marry me? Because I couldn’t save your baby? Or is because hating me makes it easier to avoid hating yourself? She makes a point of dropping his gaze and kneels, popping the lid on Glimmer’s chest. Buried near the bottom is a pretty blue dress sewn with pearls and she stands, holding it out. Glimmer takes one look and scoffs, Marvel offering his most aggravating smirk.  

“Green,” Glimmer barks, her tone suggesting Madge is an idiot and Madge sighs in frustration before choosing a green brocade gown. Glimmer stands with a huff and sweeps over, sticking her arms out so Madge can undress her. She unlaces Glimmer’s nightgown and it puddles around her feet, her skin almost as white as the fabric. Madge winces as she scoops it up and Marvel grins licentiously, his eyes traveling slowly over Glimmer’s naked body. Madge feels distinctly uncomfortable but Glimmer just looks at him with smoldering eyes, her bottom lip caught between her teeth. The room seems suddenly much warmer and Madge fumbles with Glimmer’s chemise, her heart prickling as she catches sight of the baggy skin around Glimmer’s stomach. The reminder of that nightmare on the boat is still there, and Madge cannot help a wave of pity.

If the memories are hard for me, I cannot imagine how it must be for Glimmer.

Madge closes her eyes and forces away the stinging pain, lacing Glimmer into her boots, kirtle and gown. She does her hair for her, binding it all up under a jeweled hennin and there is a burning need to escape inside of her, an urge to flee that shakes its way through her bones.

I need to get out of here

“I trust you are able to choose your own jewelry,” she says and leaves before either of them can protest. Her chest feels tight as she passes Thomas in the hall, off to help Marvel dress she supposes, and she slips into her own room. She breathes deep for a moment, back resting against the door and Annie is staring at the clothes Madge had laid out yesterday, a strange expression on her face.

“Annie?” Madge asks tentatively and Annie continues to stare, touching the damask gown from Glimmer with gentle fingers.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, “I know I used to wear dresses like this all the time, but it feels almost like a dream now.”

Madge feels her heart squeeze and hurries over to throw her arms around Annie. She wishes she could say something but she isn’t sure what she could ever say.

Sorry my step-father forced you to be my servant?

It doesn’t seem like enough, but then, Madge isn’t sure any words could be enough.

Oh Annie, I’m so sorry

*

(It is easy, Glimmer realizes, to slip back into the person she used to be.

It’s like putting on her favourite pair of shoes and what does it matter than they aren’t really mended? This new-old attitude allows her to fool herself into thinking they are and that’s the only thing that matters.

For four months she drowned in misery and she cannot do that anymore, she can’t. She needs to believe that everything is alright, that they are going to be okay. She needs to be the Glimmer of before, the one that was never broken, the one that stood on top of the world.

So she is)

(and maybe she likes grinding everyone else down, maybe it makes her feel in control, powerful, untouchable)

*

“Well, I certainly won’t be sorry to see the last of this place,” Glimmer says, casting a sour look back at their little house as Marvel helps her up into the litter and Madge can’t help but agree. Nothing good happened here, nothing but misery and hopelessness.

That’s over now, things are changing.

Glimmer takes a seat and Marvel helps her mother in, but when it is Madge’s turn to climb inside, he turns and walks away as if she doesn’t even exist. Madge rolls her eyes and climbs inside, Annie just behind her. She shakes her head and goes to sit beside her mother, but then reconsiders. Knowing Glimmer, it is probably best she lets Annie have the seat beside Margaret. She bottles a sigh and sits to Glimmer’s right, receiving an unimpressed look in return. Madge ignores it and then Glimmer curls her lip as Annie enters, looking perfectly ladylike in her borrowed gown. Madge had lent her some jewels and tied ribbons in her hair, but looking at Glimmer’s expression, you’d think they’d allowed a slug to come in and sit beside them. She and Marvel really are perfectly suited; she thinks caustically, they’re equally as rude and unpleasant.

“I hate long journeys,” Glimmer declares as Annie takes her seat, shooting an almost accusatory glare at her mother-in-law. Margaret chooses not to notice.

“We should reach the king by evening,” she informs them as the litter lurches into movement and Glimmer pouts. Madge slumps slightly, not looking forward to so many hours trapped in this tiny litter, but perhaps it is better this way. Now she will have time to prepare herself.

She will have to approach Haymitch first; winning his support will be crucial. He in turn will convince Louis and after that, well, Enobaria is so dependent on Louis she will have no choice but to accept. Yes, all she needs is to win over Haymitch and she will, she knows it. She runs over every aspect of her plan, again and again, looking for any holes Haymitch or King Louis may try to rip open, but she can find none. She has spent over a month rehearsing what she will say to Haymitch and what she will have to do to make this plan a success and she is determined to see it through.

(of course, convincing Haymitch, Louis and Enobaria is only step one)

(step two…step two will be complicated)

Her survival, her entire family’s and Gale’s and his family’s, it’s all resting on her shoulders. It is a bit like that moment waiting in Westminster to see Katniss for the first time, the rage and fear and desperate plan to save herself, but this is so much stronger, the stakes so much higher. It is not just her and her mother any longer, it is all the others she has come to love and she will not let them down. She ignores the melancholy still bubbling in her blood, cannot let it distract her from what she needs to do. She needs the anger and the confidence of her royal blood, not the heartbreak of knowing that if her plan succeeds, she will be officially, permanently, definitely, signing away any possible chance of a reunion with Gale. If she succeeds in this, they will never see each other again.

(even knowing that, she cannot take off his locket)

*

When they arrive at King Louis’ palace, Haymitch is waiting outside to greet them.

The sky is deepening into sapphire, the sun a fiery orange as it descends below the horizon and Haymitch looks haggard as he stands there, the toll of these negotiations visible in the bags beneath his eyes and the new lines dug into his skin. He has done his duty, Madge thinks, but it has cost him dearly. Will it cost me just as much?

The castle is tall and imposing behind him, fleur-de-lis pennants fluttering from the ramparts and she can feel her whole body tightening. She closes her eyes for a moment and breathes steadily, will not be intimidated by Louis’ great stone fortress.

Be brave Madge, do not falter now

Marvel leaps nimbly off his horse and does not greet his father, offering him only a sneer. Haymitch wilts and it is clear that even though he has reconciled with Glimmer, Marvel still blames his father for all their misfortunes.

Perhaps he needs to, perhaps it is the only way he can avoid blaming himself.

Marvel opens the litter door but doesn’t offer his hand to Annie or Madge as they step down, waiting until his step-mother’s turn before becoming helpful. Madge does not even bother hiding her eye roll and she smoothes out her dress, her chest squeezing as she looks up at Louis’ castle. This is it. Margaret kisses her husband’s poorly shaven cheek in greeting, a question in her eyes. Haymitch nods slightly to her and she takes his arm, her expression not so much pleased as satisfied. He must have succeeded, he must have. He wouldn’t have summoned us here otherwise.

“King Louis is eager to meet you all,” Haymitch says and good, that’ll make things easier. “But that will have to wait for tomorrow, tonight we’ll get you settled and have some supper.”

He turns and leads her mother inside, Madge linking her arm with Annie’s. She offers her a smile, but Annie can’t quite manage the same, looking as if she might faint. Madge cannot blame her. It’s been two or three years since she’s last seen her father or Finnick, I can’t imagine what that must feel like. Madge squeezes her arm and they follow after Haymitch and her mother, Glimmer and Marvel whispering behind them as tiny, little stars start to dot the sky. Haymitch leads them to a suite of rooms, Annie receiving her own bedchamber, and maids arrive to help them unpack. They haven’t been treated like this in months and Madge feels a flare of confidence in her blood.

if the king is being so kind it must mean Haymitch has gained his favour

now it’s my turn

She can feel her plan burning in her stomach like a hot coal and finally, it’s time to put it into action. She leaves the maids unpacking and walks over to her mother’s room, where she knows she will find her talking with Haymitch. The French castle is old and somewhat chilly now that the sun has set, and Madge cannot help a shiver. She studies the weathered tapestries hung on every wall and this place seems a bit in disrepair for a king. Why would he want us to meet here? Unless…unless this castle is the one he’s given Enobaria…

Her skin prickles and she stops just beyond her mother’s door, listening carefully to the voices within.

“He’ll help us then?”

“Yes, you were right. He’ll make it clear to Enobaria that his help is conditional on her accepting us. She will have no choice, she needs Louis and thus she’ll need us. The problem is what we’re going to do after we’ve taken England. As soon as the Lancastrians are secure on their throne, they will no longer need our help and they hold grudges. My aid in this won’t absolve me for helping to remove him in the first place, Coriolanus will be sure to turn on us.”

“We need leverage then.”

“Yes, something we can use to keep them on our side, something to bind them to us.”

“I can do that,” Madge says as she pushes open the door and steps into the room. Her mother looks up in surprise and Haymitch narrows his eyes.

“And how do you plan to do that?” he asks, a shrewd, calculating curiosity on his face. Madge feels Gale’s locket burn against her heart and she knows what she has to do. She takes a deep breath and looks Haymitch straight in the eye.

“I’ll marry Cato.”

[thewhacko-blog]

Fractured

First post on this tumblr. It took a while but I’ve finally caved and decided to make an account here.  I’m a bit hesitant still considering some of the horror stories I’ve heard of this place but hey, it’s just the internet. That said, this one is for all you Teen Titans fans out there.  This is based in the world of the cartoon, with a crossover with the DCAU for giggles. The rest of the story will follow shortly after. Hope y’all enjoy!

 Prologue

“That's....quite a story, Terra.” Robin said, his face still a mixture of disbelief, a trace of anger, and the flash of sympathy as he looked down at the shamefaced blonde sitting in front of him, her head hung low with her long bangs covering her eyes while Beast Boy held her hand. From what Robin could tell, Beast Boy had been by her side like this for the last hour or so before Terra had come down and called them all to the living room, and he couldn't blame him. If Starfire had been in this much pain, he would have been doing exactly the same. The others looked as shocked as him, even Raven, who stood wide-eyed to his left, her hood down and her gaze fixed on the geomancer.

 She'd been a traitor. Or at least, that had been the plan. After the first time they had met her, when she had left after she believed Beast Boy had told them about her lack of control over her powers, Slade had found her. He'd convinced her that he could help her, trained her in her powers and then sent her back here as a mole. Tonight was supposed to have been his coupe de grace; She was supposed to have sent the tower's security codes to him, and then his drones would have taken care of the rest. In the end, however, her conscience had won out, and she'd refused her final task. So how they were here. There was silence for a full minute before Terra spoke up again, her voice hoarse and full of regret.

 “I'm so sorry...I can't believe I did this to you all. You trusted me...you haven't done anything but help me...you must hate me now.” She sniffled at the last word, looking as he she might start sobbing again any second now. Beast Boy gave her hand a firm squeeze at that, and she seemed to calm down again at that touch. Cyborg was the first to speak up.

 “Terra, you're family far as I'm concerned. That's all I need to say on that.” Instantly forgiven. That was Cyborg, alright. He always did like to play big brother. Robin couldn't help but crack a bit of a smile at that. The big guy certainly did a good job in that role. Then it was Starefire's turn. She was....well, she was Starfire.

 “Oh, Friend Terra, how could I hate you!? You are the most wonderful friend I have ever had! The terrible, terrible Slade has lied to you and manipulated you! I will break him for this!” She shouted as she scooped up Terra in a fierce, almost bone-crushing hug. The first part of her declaration of forgiveness had been typical of the Tamaraian. The last part, however, was not. That part had actually frightened Robin. He could actually see that normally sweet, innocent girl doing her best to break every bone in Slade's body for something like this. Slowly, Starfire realized she might have been holding onto Terra a little too tightly, and let her go with a comforting little smile. Terra did her best to smile back, but it was still obvious that she didn't feel much better. Beast Boy was still quite. He'd no doubt already said his piece in private. That left Raven.

 Truth be told, Robin had expected Raven to storm out or chew their newest member out like a drill sergeant. Instead, the ash-colored young woman set herself down beside Terra with a nod.

 “You followed your conscience. You beat Slade's manipulation. That's what matters now. We can't change what happened or the choices you made before, but you choose your future. You chose us over him.” Her hand was on Terra's shoulder as she spoke, her tone surprisingly gentle compared to her usual abrasive monotone. Terra looked shocked at that. Obviously she hadn't been expecting that kind of response from Raven either. There was a long pause, and then, with a sob she threw her arms around Raven and began to cry again. Not guilt alone this time. There was relief in it too.

 “I...I don't know what to say. I can't believe you're all forgiving me after this.” She finally choked out. Robin looked the geomancer in the eye as he spoke

 “You're a Titan, Terra.” That struck the girl more than anything else that had been said tonight, it was clear. She looked at all of them slowly with bloodshot eyes.

 “You're the best friends I've ever had.”

 TTTTT

 Deep bellow Jump City, secure from intrusion by those pesky little superheroes that seemed to be cropping up like weeds all over the world, Slade Wilson swore as he picked the shards of glass from his hand. He'd broken his favorite wine glass when he'd read the little girl's message, and now his hand was covered in glittering red specks. It was supposed to have gone so simply. Train her, gain her trust and loyalty, and then send her in to do the same with the Titans, then crush that vermin once and for all. But no. She'd just had to go and grow a conscience while she was with the Titans. He could still feel his blood boil as it tricked from the dozens of small gashes in his hand.

 One word. It has been one word she'd sent, but it was still enough to send him into a rage.

 “No.”

 He swore again as he drew the largest shard from his palm, earning the attention of the men waiting at either side of the entrance to the room. Sharpes and Deych were recent hires. Professional killers that had worked in Gotham for most of their lives before relocating to Jump City after a nasty run-in with that grim town's own caped crusader. Both men were in their forties, like him, wearing black suits, balding (Sharpes retaining his rusty brown mane, while Deych's had gone prematurely gray), and carrying .45 automatics under their jackets.

 “Sir? Everything alright?” Sharpes said a bit cautiously, not moving from his spot. Slade briefly thought about slapping his underling for such a stupid question, but he understood that men in that position only had so many responses to this kind of display. If their places were reversed, he imagined he would have asked the question as well.

 “Yes. There is a setback in operations. But only a minor one. Plan 2 is still workable. Deych, speak with Calculator within the hour. Sharpes, all of my contacts in Gotham, Metropolis and Central City. We will require heavies.” He was done with the local muscle. Cinderblock and Plamus? They'd failed on multiple occasions, as had those HIVE children. No, it was time to bring in some real talent. Plan 2 would be more extensive, and costly than his initial operation, but the results would be well worth it. It had gravitas as well. Gravitas and a certain classical charm to it.

 His domination of this city was only delayed. Things would go his way. And when they did....well, the world would never be the same again.

 TTTTT

 “When your checks start to actually clear, sweety. The last one you sent me bounced so high it might as well have been a satellite. You want a tip on a score? Go ask Intergang. I'm sure they could use some muscle as dumb as you.”

 Calculator groaned wearily as he pressed the disconnect key, taking a long, angry drag on his cigarette before he returned his attention to his work. Livewire was always a pain in the ass to deal with, especially when the work was slow for her. Which was all the time, in the last few months. He was not what many would expect in a criminal master mind; short, dumpy, with receding brown hair and thick, gold-rimmed spectacles, he looked more like a New England banker than anything else. Nobody that saw him on the streets would peg him for the man that nearly every super-criminal in the United States relied on for up to date information on scores, superhero activity and general tips and rumors.

 He sighed and looked down at his array of monitors; one tuned to newsfeeds, one to a blog popular with the less than reputable super-types, and one to the Gotham City Police Department staff records. That last one was the most important at the moment, as he opened up Detective Renee Montoya's file. Squeaky clean, a list of commendations as long as his arm, a widow with a husband killed in the gangland shit Gotham seemed to stew in every second of every day. He wasn't going to find the sort of crap he'd need to get Two-Face's request done here. Thankfully, there were other sources, and if his runners were to be believed, he'd soon have some very interesting photos of Ms. Montoya and a one Ms. Kate Kane, heiress and recently discharged army-wanabe that would probably put a pause to her investigation for a good long while.

 The call came a second later, and the stout little man's eyebrow went up as he saw where it originated from. Jump City, eh? He hadn't gotten too many requests from that town in a good long while, and more often than not it was from a single man in particular, or a proxy. When he saw the name, his suspicion was confirmed.

 “You're through to Calculator. What can the master of all he surveys provide today, my one-eyed friend?” He asked, a sort of sarcastic cheerfulness to his voice as he stubbed out his smoke into the overflowing ashtray, then almost immediately lighting up another.

 “'Fraid it ain't the big man himself, bud. He needs ya to find sum'n quick and quiet-like.” The voice was gruff, harsh and with a distinct Gotham accent, one he'd heard a few times before. So ol' Deych had gotten a new employer, eh? He'd have to make a note of that, seeing as Slade had seemed content to stick with the local boys before. If he was bringing in hired guns from out of town, it meant something had changed, maybe even dramatically so.

 “That's what I do. What's this special order Mr. Wilson needs oh so badly?” Calculator asked with genuine curiosity now, his fingers flying over his keyboard to pull up Deych' record. The goombah grunted and rattled off what his boss wanted in as clipped and professional a tone has he was probably capable of. It gave the information broker pause, and a frown began to melt over his lips. It was a tall order, but he thought he remembered hearing....yes, some of the product Slade needed was in town.

 “Well lucky you, Mr. Deych. You boys happen to be sitting not very far off from what you need. I'll go ahead and send you some recommendations for getting past security, too. Consider that a favor to Mr. Wilson.” And so he did, sending off the e-mail with the properly encrypted files. With that he cut off the call, leaning back in his chair and smiling around his cigarette. The Titans were going to be in for a very nasty surprise if this was going to go the way he thought it would. Oh, this was going to be a very interesting show indeed.

[aidensvillanueva-blog]

El Dorado - Ep. 1

Episode One

The last drop of water dripped out of Leslie Jones’ rusty canteen and evaporated on her parched tongue. She stared out into the infinite expanse of sand dunes of the Wasteland and out into the giant red setting sun that bleached the ground crimson.

“Do you actually know where we’re going?” Her harsh voice slid over her lips, thick with impatience.

Her partner crouched several feet behind, ridiculing a worn scrap of paper. “Hmm…” Ren scrunched his grizzled, stubbly face in concentration. The brim of his large, flat-topped hat fluttered in a light breeze. The red poncho that hung off one shoulder did the same. “Oh,” he said in his deep, rough voice, “of course I do, Les.”

Leslie sat down on the hot ground, making sure only her shorts and combat boots made contact. Then slowly sank her leg down into the singeing sand, feeling pain run up her leg and into her back. “I drank all of the water,” she stated unemotionally.

Ren looked up blankly, “Why?” He said in monotone, “You don’t even need water.”

“Maybe not, but now we have an incentive.”

Ren didn’t show his annoyance. “What was it? Two weeks?”

“Two weeks what?”

“That you can go without water.” Ren frowned.

“Months. Two months.” Leslie rubbed her metal arm and leg together, and then placed her hand on her chest. “My cybernetics allow me to go for two months without water, and over a year without food. But let me tell you, it’s not the most pleasant thing in the world.”

Ren stood now and stared off at the setting sun. “You never told me how you got all those, anyways.”

“Does it matter?” Leslie’s pale blue metallic eye analyzed the red sun: mass, density, age, chemical makeup, a star on its last leg. “Are we setting up camp, or what?”

Ren took off his satchel and pulled out a small camp starting kit, “The Wasteland is dangerous during the day, but at night... even you wouldn’t last one night.”

“Always with the ambiguous answers, Ren.” She spun around to look him in the face. Ren could be read like a billboard poster. Likewise, Leslie had seen too much in her short eighteen years to let any guard down.

A kindling fire had started, and Ren layed down on his back. The first stars could be seen now, as the sky turned violet. He let out a quiet sigh, “Tomorrow we head east, it should only be another day or two.”

Leslie lit a cigarette and held it between her teeth. “You said that last week.”

“But I’m serious this time.”

“You said that too.”

There was a silence between the two as the last edge of the sun slipped past the horizon.

“Hm.” Ren turned his back to her, long shadows being cast along the uneven ground. “Well, goodnight, Les.”

Leslie leaned against her backpack, and removed one of the revolvers from her side, inspecting it carefully. An old weapon, most would consider it an antique, so old that it still fired metal bullets. Leslie didn’t care for new guns, too expensive and unreliable.

She dazed off and recalled how the world came to what it is. Many generations ago, there was a great war. They called it ‘the war to end all suffering.’ They were wrong. Every great civilization was decimated to nothing more than a bunch of lawless rebel factions. Technology came to a halt and order was a word with no meaning. Eventually, one power rose above the rest to restore a system. But corruption took its hold, as always, and left the world with The Corporation - a bureaucratic, misi group of elitists who made all of the rules and regulations, but never had to follow suit themselves.

The Corporation ran most of the world, and its leader called M, held all of the power. Most people lived in Utopia, the most originally named mega-city ever. They lived under a shield of lies, being misled and misinformed for the humor and gain of M. The Outskirts of Utopia, beyond the Wall, housed nothing but criminals, no-gooders, forgotten, damned souls, impoverished and violent. And then beyond that, the Wasteland. Out there, there were no laws, no rules, no safety. The Wasteland was full of horrible creatures and bandits, just waiting for their next take, not money, but food.

Leslie thought of how her life became what it was.

Leslie grew up in the Outskirts, her mother and father, and her sister, living a hard, but simple life. Until one unfortunate day, she had that taken from her, her mother and father were shot dead, and she was left to care for her sister and herself in such a cruel place. They said it was a random homicide, but Leslie knew it was just another political move in M’s sick game, and she swore, not vengeance, not justice, but suffering, to the man who caused her heart to be torn open. She took to thieving, stealing, cheating, killing, whatever it took to protect her sister.

One evening, returning home, something seemed off, the door had been left open, something that simply didn’t happen in the Outskirts. Leslie bolted inside to find two enormous men. They were assaulting her sister, she was battered, bloody, unconscious. Leslie’s body filled with endless rage. She grabbed the nearest object, the men still unaware of her presence, and ran to the first man, bashing him over the head. Blood sprayed over the floor and the other man grabbed Leslie in a hold, his hand over her mouth. She bit down hard until hot blood rushed into her mouth. The man stumbled back, as the other man was rising. Leslie tackled the second man out of a window and onto the ground outside. She picked up a shard of glass and stabbed the man in his eye, splitting it down the middle. His scream rang out, then was silenced as Leslie took another shard and slit his throat from ear to ear. Blood dripped down her hand, but she stood and climbed back through the window. The first man was attempting to run out of the house. Leslie grabbed a large bit of piping and tore it off of the wall. She threw it, just before the man made the door, the pipe stabbed through his leg. Bones crunched under his own weight. Another scream shot out. Leslie walked, almost calmly to the man, curled up and screaming. She twisted the pipe in his leg, crunching and sloshing around. The man stuttered something about not killing him, that he was just doing what he was told, that he had a family, and never supported that sick bastard’s ideas. Leslie didn’t hear any of it. She placed her foot on his temple. He gasped for air and forgiveness. She pressed down and brain splattered the ground, his eyes exploded with pressure and shards of bone stabbed into Leslies foot and ankle.

Leslie limped back inside, ignoring tha glass and bone stuck in her legs and side. She nealed besied her sister. A faint glimmer of hope stuck in Leslie’s head, but fleeted and she picked up her sister’s limp body. She knew she was dead, and had been for most of these events. Her face showed no fear, she must have died before she even knew what was happening. For this, at least, Leslie was reassured, she did not suffer. Tears mixed with the splattered blood on the floor. She sat there for an hour, two hours, three. Staring at the mangled body of her only bit of reality left. The tears stopped. The crying stopped. She simply stared into her sister’s now-gray eyes.

Leslie stood. She went to the kitchen and patched her wounds. She grabbed everything flammable she could find, and made her sister a resting place. Then flicked a match into the pile, and walked away.

An hour passed, and news of a robbery spread. Leslie had stolen loads of munitions from an outpost, killing all of the guards brutally, indiscriminately. She took to the sewers, and as she approached The Corporate Office, that same rage grew within her, but this time, she did not flinch, she did not scream or cry, she walked. Calmly, dragging a heavy rifle behind her. She knew that M did not reside at the Office, but she only wanted to send a message. M hurt her, so she was going to hurt him. By destroying the only thing he cared about: his image.

Leslie pushed up the sewer lid into the back alley. She climbed out and entered the office, her expression blank and lifeless. She walked to the elevator, the receptionist began a scream, but was silenced by a bullet between her eyes, lucky shot.

The bell dinged at the 110th floor, and Leslie paced out of the elevator. Two guards, dead. Two more, blown away. Right turn. Blast one more. Left turn. Two more. Click. Click. Out of ammunition. Take out shotgun. Two more, then three, then one more. All dead. Blood ran like a river down the hall. A door. Open. Inside three more. BLAM. All gored. Round a corner. BLAM. Leslie lost feeling in her left arm, blasted off by a laser. She walked forward, one more dead. Toss shotgun. Take out pistol. Round last corner. Two more. Double doors at the end of the hallway. Pull the pin out of a grenade. Sirens ringing, lights flashing. Doors fly open. Grenade in the air. BLAM. Leslie’s right leg his blown into pieces. Grenade goes off. Screaming. Running. On the floor. The surviving board members, rich assholes. Flood the halls. Pick up handgun. Headshot. Bodyshot. Headshot. Leg. Torso. Neck. Headshot. Back against the wall, sitting. More in the room. Crawl, slump. One more grenade. Too little energy to throw it. Rolls into room. Black vision. Silence.

Those are the last events that Leslie remembered before waking in a strange room with blinding lights. A young man wearing doctor’s scrubs stood opposite the room of her. Leslie tried to move, but her remaining arm and leg were bound to the table on which she lay.

“Who...” her voice was weak and parched.

“Am I?” The man spoke in a disturbingly silky voice. “You will know me as the scientist. And, I believe you owe me a ‘thank you’.”

The scientist tinkered with some fearsome tools laying on his bench.

“Why…” Leslie glared as her words still struggled.

The scientist grinned, showing his black gums above his facemask. “The big man wanted to kill you. He wanted to hang you in the streets to make a point. You know, it’s quite remarkable what you did. And even more so that you survived. You have an impeccable aptitude for survival.”

Leslie could tell that this man was going to annoy the shit out of her.

“So, instead of letting them slaughter you, I put my head and reputation on the line to save you,” the words slithered out of his thin-lipped mouth like a barrel of snakes. “But, you owe me. So, your life is no longer yours. You belong to me now. And I am going to experiment on you in horrible ways, and then, if you happen to survive, I will make you into something incredible.”

The scientist stood at Leslie’s bedside now. The metal of the table was cold against her bare body.

“I don’t-”

“Understand?”

Leslie was getting sick of being interrupted.

“Let me paint it clearer.” The scientist began attaching pads to Leslie’s scalp. “I am going to torture you, for a long, long time, and analyze your DNA to see just how a kid like you could survive what most people would die simply witnessing. And, if you survive all that, I am going to take that DNA and create a super army of my own to finally overthrow that asshole M. And I’m going to brainwash you, and place you as my second hand.”

The scientist had returned to his table and grabbed a small remote. He turned to face her with a devilish smile, his eyes wide with lust for her eminent pain.

The scientist placed his finger on the remote.

“I’m going to kill you.” Leslie’s face was emotionless. “I don’t like assholes.”

The scientist frowned and slowly depressed the button. “We will see.”

Leslie shook loose the memories to gaze up at the night sky again. A cool breeze swept over her. Despite being the dead of night, the sand beneath her was still warm. She questioned if she was a fool for agreeing to this journey, and wondered if maybe Ren was just another crazy looking to make a quick cut. It was a strange way in which the two met. Leslie recalled again another memory.

A lone saloon lay miles outside of any major town. A hangout for gangsters and no-gooders. Leslie had been searching for her next target, a man under the name of Soln, who she had heard would be able to tell her where M’s right hand man was. Leslie eyed the rustic saloon as she approached the front. The sounds of yelling, breaking glass, and cursing seeped out of the old place. Leslie let loose a single kick which blasted both doors off of their hinges and the saloon went silent.

“Which one of you is Soln?”

Dozens of angry, disturbed pairs of eyes scrutinized her for several seconds, before the whole place erupted into laughter and the crowd went back about their business.

Leslie stood in the middle of the room for a second, scanning the scene. She slowly pulled a revolver from her side and cocked the hammer. She aimed from her hip, and BANG.

The bottle in front of the counter exploded, raining burn booze and glass around the place.

There was a second of silence, then all hell broke loose. The whole bar was engulfed in fighting. Leslie fought her way through the chaos. Bottles smashed and wood splintered. She had had enough fun. Leslie grabbed the closest cowboy and threw him across the room. Smashed a bottle on another’s head and spun around a third. She slit his throat without emotion. She took up a broken chair leg and smashed one over the head. Blood covered the floor. She picked up a table and batted someone out the window. Then she pulled her guns, and one by one placed a bullet in each man and woman’s head. Blood and brain spattered the walls and windows. People screamed and ran, but to no avail.

As the herd thinned, Leslie grabbed two men and smashed their heads through one another. Two more stood. Leslie threw a piece of glass and split one’s head right down the middle. He fell to his knees and then to the floor.

The last man was standing like a statue, terrified.

Leslie stared him in the eyes. “I need to talk to you.”

The man turned to run, but she was faster. She grabbed him by the throat and lifted him into the air. He chocked and grabbed at her iron-clad hand.

“So, where is he?”

The man struggled more.

Leslie rolled her eyes, then smashed the man into the floor, busting the wood below them. He spat blood and tried to sit up, his eyes wild.

Leslie kneeled down and grabbed his thick hair. “I’m waiting.”

“I don’t know-”

Leslie bashed his head into the ground with each word. “Where. Is. He.”

Corpses littered the room with broken glass and blood.

The man was delirious and covered in blood now. “Look lady if you’re looking for Ched you’ve got the wrong guy, I- I swear. I don’t know where he is, he just gave me the money and left. Honestly I just-”

Leslie covered his mouth and looked him up and down. “You’re not Soln, are you?”

The man’s voice was muffled, “Who? M-my name is Ethon.”

Leslie looked up and into the face of a dead man lying over the banister. Blood dripped from the gaping wound on Soln’s chest and pooled on the wood floor.

“Fuck.”

“FUCK.”

The man gasped, “Can- can I go now?”

Leslie loosened her grip. “Oh, sure.” She said slightly sarcastically. “Straight to Hell.” And with that she punched her hand straight through his face and into the ground, leaving a crater where his head was.

Leslie stood and observed the carnage. She could only count three of the several dozen that weren’t killed by her hands.

“Well,” she muttered, “what now?”

Leslie lit a cigarette and held it between her teeth. She walked to the bar and found a bottle of whiskey that had not been damaged. She sat in the open doorway, smoke drifting up between gulps of whiskey, as the red sun set behind the last dunes of the Wasteland. A wavy figure crested a nearby dune and entered her eyesight, tall and grizzled, a hulk of a man wearing a wide-brimmed hat, with a cap fluttering in the light breeze. As he drew closer the clink of spurs echoed through the dunes, rhythmically thumping into the sand. Leslie eyed him until he was only several paces away. He stopped in front of her.

He spoke in a deep, guttural voice. “I’m looking for-” He paused and peered into wrecked saloon. He rubbed his stubble calmly. “You do this?” He looked Leslie in the eyes.

Leslie took another chug of whiskey.

“Then I guess Ethon is definitely not here, one way or another. Guess, that son-of-a-bitch got what he deserved.”

The two waited in silence, dust slowly blowing across the cracked ground.

The man sat down leisurely next to Leslie. “Mind if I join?”

“I’m not giving you a cigarette.”

The man chuckled softly as he pulled a small canteen from his vest. “I don’t smoke.”

The two sat and stared off into the horizon. It was quite some time before the man spoke again. “It’s Ren. My name, that is.”

Leslie was silent as she snuffed her cigarette on her metalic leg. She exhaled the last bit of smoke, “Leslie. . . Jones.”

Ren offered her his rusty canteen. She expected whiskey, and was shocked when the bland taste of water brushed her tongue.

“You look lost, Les.” Ren spoke softly.

“I know where I am.” She furrowed her brow at the pet name.

Ren waited. “Perhaps. . . But do you know who you are?”

“I don’t need your bullshit philosophy, cowboy.”

Ren pulled his hat down. “How would you like to be rich, beyond your imagination.”

Leslie frowned. “Money means nothing to me.”

“Not just money, power, power to do whatever it is you desire.”

“You’re talking about El Dorado.”

“Yes! El Dorado. You’ve heard of it?”

“I’ve heard that it’s a bunch of crap. It’s fake. It doesn’t exist.”

“Then what about this?” Ren pulled a small, misshapen stone out of his pocket.

Leslie analyzed it. “No known origin,” she muttered, “or composition.”

Ren held out his hand. “Touch it.”

Leslie grabbed the stone. Her vision went black. In an instant her mind was filled with images of things that she could not even comprehend. She saw the treasure - gold, technology, weapons. The flash ended and she sat dazed.

It took several moments for her to regain her wits, “Do you really think it exists?”

Ren cracked a smirk, “Only one way to know.”

“But where?”

“I have a map, it won’t be easy, but I’ve been looking for someone just like you. I may look big, but I need someone who can really fight.”

“And how can I know you’re trustworthy?” Leslie eyed him carefully.

“You can’t. But worst case scenario, do you really think you couldn’t kill me?”

Leslie thought it over. Ren sat in silent anticipation. “Fine.”

Ren smiled.

“But we are not friends, understand.”

Ren shook his head. “So where are the cybernetics from? I’ve never seen anything that advanced.”

“I said we aren’t friends.” Leslie stood and began walking back into the saloon for more booze. “We leave in the morning.”

Ren stayed seated and the first cool breeze chilled him. He smiled faintly, and watched as the last sliver of sun slipped past the sandy horizon.

Leslie flicked the last ashes out of her third cigarette and watched as they floated off into the night sky. She looked over to her sleeping partner. Only weeks ago had they met, and ever since been on a journey that unbeknownst to them would carry them through many struggles, twists and turns, and even a little fun.

She looked off into the distance, to where the next piece of the puzzle supposedly lay, and closed her eyes for slumber.

“So. Thirsty.” Ren moped behind as Leslie trudged ahead.

“Then hurry up. A town has got to have water in it.”

Ren mumbled under his breath, “A ghost town.”

“How much further?”

Ren was now kneeling with his hands on his knees. “That’s the thing - it should be right here.”

Leslie looked around. “There’s literally nothing here.” She began walking back toward Ren.

Her foot pressed into the soft sand as a snap rang out. The ground began to shift beneath her, and she quickly shifted her weight as a sinkhole opened under her. Ren’s eyes widened as he stood to run.

“SHIT!”

The hole widened, sucking entire dunes with it into a seemingly bottomless pit. The two sprinted full speed away from the pit, its edge creeping up to their feet. The ground slanted and they began sliding into the pit, tumbling head over toes. The crashing was deafening and they were sucked down into darkness.

They bounced along the sloped ground until a sudden stop smashed them to a halt. The ground was still and the air silent once more. Leslie stood, dazed, and squinted into the darkness as her eye adjusted. Ren pulled an orb out of his bag and held it out, illuminating the scene in front of them.

Dozens of wooden houses and shacks, abandoned but in perfect condition loomed over them, beneath a hundred-foot ceiling of stone.

“Huh.” Ren was perplexed. “It is right here.”

Leslie nodded in approval. “Guess you aren’t crazy after all, Ren.”

Ren smirked, “Let’s find that painting.”

It was obvious the town had been abandoned ages ago, yet its structures were pristine. The two walked carefully through the streets, up to an ancient stone church. The doors had been barred closed.

With one swift kick, Leslie blew both doors into the room, and to her surprise a light spilled out into the town. Her hair stood on end, and she threw herself and Ren to the ground moments before a bullet whizzed past their heads.

A clear voice shot out of the church, “Shit! There’s someone else here.”

Leslie pulled her revolvers from her sides. “Stay here, Ren.”

She stood to return fire and was met with a metal pipe to the face.

“Oooh,” a silky voice came forth, “sorry that was harder than I expected.”

Leslie stumbled back, dazed.

The voice continued, “Sorry for this too.”

The pipe came down once more, but was stopped dead by Leslie’s metal hand, bending on contact.

Leslie threw out a punch and met flesh. Her assailant doubled back as Leslie’s vision finally cleared.

“Ouchies, that hurt.”

Leslie stared at her attacker, shadowed by the light only enough to make out long, golden hair and a bright yellow suit.

“Sorry, not sorry.” Leslie quipped back. She ran for another punch, full power.

Her fist flew through the air and came to a complete stop. A shockwave blew out from the impact, kicking dust into the air and shattering windows. Her attack had been blocked by a metallic hand similar to her own.

The two stood straight and looked each other over.

Leslie eyed the girl’s metal appendage. “Malik?” she asked in true curiosity.

“Bandsen.”

Leslie smirked, “Ah. Strong, but mechanically unreliable.”

“I don’t have any problems, cutie.”

“We will see.”

The two exchanged punches and kicks, perfectly blocking one another. Each impact with the power of a rifle. The girl took a step to land a killer punch, but tripped with a twang and fell to the ground. Her ankle seemed to be turned the wrong way around.

“See,” Leslie mocked, “Unreliable.”

The girl frowned.

“How was that, Ren?” Leslie turned to face him. “Ren?”

Ren was no longer huddled by the doors. “Where the hell-” She was cut off by the ring of a bullet.

Her eyes widened.

She grabbed her gun from the dirt and bolted around the church. She slid around the corner and steadied her aim. “Get down, Ren!”

Ren spun around, hands in the air, gun in hand.

“Get DOW-”

“Wait!” Ren’s voice barreled out.

A tall, slim figure stood behind him, just out of view of Leslie.

“Hold on, Les.”

The figure approached, a very tall woman wearing a fine fitted suit and whatever remained of a destroyed top-hat with a target sloppily painted on it.

“Leslie, this is my old friend, Tina.”

“I heard a gunshot.” Leslie eyed Tina up and down.

“I was, uh, showing Tina my sharpshooting abilities.” Ren pointed to a line of bottles on a wall nearby.

Leslie cocked a smirk, and without looking, blasted a bottle off the wall.

“Let’s keep it in our pants, Ren.”

Ren’s face turned red and he looked down.

“So you two know each other?” Leslie probed.

Tina walked forward, towering nearly as tall as Ren, no help of her stiletto heels, and spoke. “We knew each other as children. I presumed him dead when our village was destroyed. I guess he got lucky too.” She sunk her straight cane into the ground. “Has anyone seen Deanna?”

Leslie thought back to the blonde-haired girl. “She’s. . . Inside.”

Deanna sat with a box of tiny screwdrivers as the three approached. In the light now, Leslie could clearly see her. Her fair complexion and proportioned, curved body moulded to cybernetics not unlike her own. Her long hair pinned up, with a skin-tight, yellow suit. Had it been anybody less attractive the color would have made Leslie vomit.

Deanna fiddled with her leg, tightening the last screw.

“There you are,” Tina helped Deanna to her feet. “This is my partner Deanna.”

“Call me Dee.”

“Howdy,” Ren tipped his hat, “Name’s Ren.”

Deanna smiled kindly at Leslie, “Shorty here can really fight.”

Leslie avoided eye contact, “Sorry. About your leg.”

“No worries, pumpkin. That was fun.”

“And this is-” Ren began.

“Leslie. Leslie Jones.”

Deanna giggled, “What a cute name.”

Tina looked around the room, “I suppose you’re looking for the artifact?”

Ren nodded. “Is it here?” Tina nodded in return and pointed to a large cloth draped over something embedded in the wall.

The group approached it and Ren lifted the cloth away. Underneath was a priceless painting. A collective awe came over them.

Leslie came in for a closer look, but tripped on a large rock and fell forward. Ren tried to catch her, but it was too late. Leslie’s head smashed into the painting, tearing a massive hole right in the middle. Tina gasped. Ren’s eyes widened.

“Oops.” The room was silent. “Hey wait.”

Leslie pulled her head back out. She reeled back and let out a kick. The painting practically disintegrated, and behind was a small cubby with a pedestal and a little metal emblem.

“Damn,” Ren picked up the pendant, “I never would have found that.”

Tina and Ren scrutinized the object. “It’s an old clan emblem.”

“One of the northern clans.”

“What about this?” Leslie held out a small paper. “Looks like a map.”

Tina and Ren gave each other puzzling looks.

Leslie analyzed the pendant. “Looks like it’s from the Haven Clan, or what’s now known as Northport.”

“Northport, huh?” Ren sighed.

Leslie cocked an eyebrow.

“I hate the cold. And I’m not walking that far, that’s hundreds of miles from here.” Ren said woefully. “We’d better head back to Utopia, or at least to the outpost, and catch a ride.”

There was collective agreement.

“Well,” Deanna interjected, “Looks like we’re a team now. We’d better pack some jackets.”

With that the new-found team headed out to Utopia. Ren, full of dread of walking. Tina, happy to be reunited with an old friend. Leslie, hoping that she finds someone’s day to ruin. And Deanna drawing up the back of the line, totally not to stare at Leslie’s ass.

** El Dorado, and all affiliated materials, are protected under the United States’ Copyright Law, and is not to be reproduced or modified in any way unless permissible by the owner. All rights reserved. **

[dreganclare]

Frostbrood

Up from a forgotten valley, and southward over snowladen mountains, cold foothills, and boreal forest, a lone wyrm winged its way toward the fjords of eastern Northrend. Mighty wings outstretched from a powerful body, its proud scales rippled over muscle and gleamed a vibrant hue in the late-morning sunlight.

Or so they had, many years ago. Now, what scales remained in patches over its skeletal frame had long since lost their sheen and faded, along with the drake’s very memory of its stately kin, to a dull, dead gray. With each stroke of its wings, icy wind whistled through pitted leather and desiccated sinew: while the chill of frozen air rushed over its bare bones, the cold fire of necromancy blazed within them.

Bound to a knight - human, recently slain, and of formidable rank - from the time they united under the will of the Scourge, so the frostbrood drake was to remain until the end of existence as loyal servant and steed. Solstafir had become her name, and she answered solely to the Master’s command.

Riderless despite the saddle mounted on her spine and the leather satchels chained to her flanks, she soared now with singular purpose, and with a command securely about her mind. The Master’s will had rung in her consciousness, and her only thought - and her bones’ only impulse - had been to obey.

Seek.

A single imperative word, taking form in the language that she and the other Scourge-wrought things had been given. A vague command, granted clarity by the distant necessity behind it. Though she knew well the viskrath that drove the Master, and though she had borne witness to the sating of it countless times, on no occasion had the task ever fallen to her. But days had passed since the Master had last called to her; now, in place of the usual summons, that command had instead filled her mind and, with promptness that gave conscious thought to neither resistance nor obedience, she had set off in search of something living with which to bring relief.

Spectral glow within her eye sockets ever watchful, she scanned the grass-frosted field as the evergreens began to thin. A hare darted from her looming shadow, then doubled back to seek shelter as a bird of prey peeled itself from the cover of a tree. Nearby, two stout hoofed beasts squared off, oblivious in their war of sweeping tusks and flared antlers to the undead drake flying above. Each of these creatures was plump and spirited and very much alive, but none would make for suitable quarry. The Master had always favored prey with a deeper understanding of its own suffering. Rabbits and boars could cower and squeal when beset with the spectre of death – but humans and their ilk could reason and plead.

As the meadow dropped off – giving way to a cliff, to a decline, to an inlet of the sea – she dove into the ice-glazed cleft, but for the moment no boats plied the waterway below. Skimming the water’s edge and scanning the precarious half-hewn footpaths that snaked up and along the cliffsides, she began to ascend once more – when she spotted him. One of those ancient folk that called themselves vrykul, the giant of a man stood staring back at her from the wide arch of a manmade walkway bridging a narrow point between the opposing cliff faces.

From afar, the Master’s gaze remained present behind Solstafir’s own. His mind lingered about hers still, and with it persisted that gnawing viskrath. But at this sight, no command needed pass between them: this one would be their prey. Sharper now, she hastened her ascent.

The vrykul, his broad shoulders and stout body draped in fur and hides and his own thick braids, stood poised with a ready harpoon in hand. Perhaps its barb had originally been meant for some fat beast on the shore or in the sea, but he hurled it down in her direction as she neared. Too swift, too sure, too close to be cleanly dodged, the harpoon scraped past her neck, only shearing the surface of the bones it met. Were she a living creature, reliant on warm blood and the wholeness of her body, the spear’s impact would have surely sent her plummeting. And yet, painless, bloodless, and with only her momentum broken, she faltered for merely a second before regaining herself. She surged forward with a retaliatory screech, talons lashing out to strike at him.

Flesh parted, and blood spilled, and from some distant place, a flicker of relief touched her mind.

Make it suffer.

The vrykul fell back as she swiped once at him – but not to recoil in injury. Without sparing a glance for the stripe of blood now painting his breast, he dropped into a crouch and, issuing a battle cry in some incomprehensible tongue, leapt for her face. Undaunted by jaws beneath him, he grappled with spike, horn, and plated skull, latching on at once.

Her flight reduced to an encumbered wobble, the drake tossed her head as her body fought to restore balance, but her unwanted passenger held fast. Brazen fool. With a thought to dislodge him with a plunge into the frigid water below, she dipped earthward once more.

A knife appeared in the vrykul’s hand, and with it he stabbed repeatedly at one of her eye sockets.

Bash! Bash! Frenzied chips at her impervious skull. Empty passes through an eye of bodiless lichfire. The vrykul’s assault was nothing to the drake, and she would see the nuisance cast off!

She seethed with an indignant hiss, cold rage welling within her rib cage. A new plan.

A flap of her wings momentarily stabilized her position, and then with all the fury of a living dragon belching blazes from its gullet, she released a mighty blast of freezing air directly ahead. She paused with another toss of her head – ineffectual, though the vrykul had sheathed his knife and begun to climb and kick his way over her horns and toward her neck – and then dove at speed into the ice-laden fog.

The vrykul roared again, his back bearing the sting of a thousand tiny crystalline shards slicing like glass into leather and flesh.

Somewhere, the Master was pleased.

He would find further relief, Solstafir decided.

She might have made another pass through the freezing cloud, but the pest clinging to her bones was losing its tenacity. She banked, setting her sights on a cliffside ledge. It would suffice.

The packed dirt of a worn path welcomed her inelegant landing, as purposefully rough as it was. Claw and bone gouged the earth and the vrykul tumbled, his back and arms dripping with blood. He wasted no time clambering to his feet, though now his posture bespoke retreat, rather than confrontation. Even as he staggered, a shadow of the conqueror he had thought himself before, he stood a man’s head taller than the Master. It mattered not. The vrykul was good prey, and he would break.

She watched for a moment as he began to backpedal, his eyes pained and wary and not daring to break from her own. How long until he thought himself at a safe distance to turn and flee? Neither she nor the vrykul would find out. She lunged forward, to seize an arm in her maw, and took wing again. He let out a mad shriek at the snap of a bone – that devastating sensation that she knew the Master to be particularly fond of – and she shook him once before resuming a flight through the fjord, to ponder his fate.

She could dash his body against a cliff until he dangled, broken and spent as an inert ghoul – but would there be alleviation to be had in simply dropping him from this height? She could drag his mangled and shard-pelted body through the waterway—

An unbidden image invaded her thoughts, from a mind detached from her contemplation. A familiar figure, the Master’s one-eyed slave-girl. Robed in the colors of sea and sky, she was seated on polished wood with a quilt pooled about her lap.

Why? This was irrelevant. Her concern departing from the vrykul flagging in her clutches, Solstafir’s mind met the Master’s with a wordless question, a mere sense of inquiry probing for instruction or explanation.

No command came, and no clarity. His viskrath had faded, but now the Master’s mind was turning uncharacteristically unfocused – again, as it had on their last outing.

The vision persisted, and a human’s smile eased faintly onto the girl’s face.

She had liked that one. Few were the warm ones who spoke a comprehensible language, and there had been intelligence hiding deep in that one’s oft-addled mind. She had made for a better companion than the Master’s other subordinates. The mad-minded charger Strife possessed the capacity to think of nothing besides running down bodies and trampling skulls, and it was just as well that the Master kept that one tightly tethered, scarcely allowing it free movement, much less any control of its own chaotic will. Constructs endowed with mashed-together brains might have been more capable of intelligent conversation than that beast, but the Master had little interest in the lesser undead. And the last time that a ghoul had been raised…

At least the little one that called herself Miranda had offered a coherent word on occasion – and had brought uncommon comfort to the Master. He had often been at ease when placing that one on the saddle.. when it wasn’t with frustration that she was put there. How unusual.

The vision dissipated with a fleeting glimpse of the frozen northern sea, and a flicker of another recognizable form. The new one the Master had brought from the depths of that old Scourge site, the timid one that had awoken its decrepit denizens with her frightened fleeing.

She prodded once more for elucidation, but the Master’s mind had gone silent, and save for the vrykul hanging like a doll from her jaws, she was alone. In silence within and without, she continued her flight, journeying back to the valley where the Master had taken a dwelling place.