#both in the clan and remembered in the hushed streets of cities?

[vigilante-scourge]

I’ve seen Scourge drawn maniacally and like the stone cold cat he is, but I honestly think we don’t draw scourge as viscerally horrifying enough as we should tbh.

Cause like, think from the clans perspective -

This cat came from out of nowhere, brought forth by Tigerstar like the Dark tabby summoned him out from some dark beyond, he is void dark but for one white paw with eyes an unsettling shade of ice blue and he wears your greatest monsters’ claws and teeth upon his form, melded to him like they are his own and then you watch as he - alone by himself! - kills your greatest enemy, gifted with nine lives, in. One. Stroke.

And then he tells you with his legion of demons behind him, in a voice cold and unemotional - that he will be back and he will take your forest for his own.

You basically just met a demon, the nightmares of kit tales, the dragon of every story with the claws and teeth to match - and you just watched him end what you thought was the devil himself.

Idk I just don’t think we lean into the horror of bloodclan and scourge as much as we could.

[catmansquad]

The Thirst (P4)

The Vamping continues. (Why the hell am I still writing this? I should be writing Looking Glass stuff)

Part 1  Part 2   Part 3

Miguel was not a picky eater, he was sure there were some Clans out in the world who were, by choice or compulsion- the type who could only feed on people of specific blood types, or even of certain professions or who had a measure of wealth. He knew no such weakness, no such compulsion. He was currently fangs deep in a young man, stood up at his own date and had found him drying his eyes by an alley, perhaps his first true heartbreak. It hadn’t been too difficult to twist his emotions and the man had all but wept his life story into Miguel’s chest, seeking some form of comfort after being spontaneously dropped by a woman who had been too far out of his league to begin with. It was why he loved mortals, always some new drama to keep his interest; the same issues happening in new ways. From how deep the man had clung to him, Miguel began to wonder if he had perhaps laid on the charm too thickly, as the man now appeared to have rebounded his affections straight onto him. It was appreciated, however misplaced, Miguel loved both men and women equally, and found it far too easy to guide the man into the shadows, hushing him with gentle whispers and then bit deep.

He felt the young man’s pulse begin to flutter and reluctantly dragged himself from his feeding, healing the wounds in a single lick and letting the man collapse weak into his arms. Blood with a melancholic temperament was sour, almost bitter, but not an unpleasant taste. Gently, he lowered him down into the alley. The man would be weak and confused, and out cold for several hours, but he would ultimately be fine. His thirst was not sated, it never would be. He could drain the entire city dry and would want to find even more people. The power that much blood at once would give him made a shiver run down his spine at the prospect, he cast such dark thoughts into the depths of his long memory, that was how a Vampire slipped into becoming a monster, and soon after, dead by one form or another. Miguel wiped his mouth clean and tucked the bloodied handkerchief back into a pocket before stepping out of the alley and glancing around. He stopped a civilian at random, someone who didn’t appear in a rush, and they became transfixed as soon as they looked into his eyes. ‘Listen carefully; In a few minutes, you will go down this dark alley, you will find the man lying there, and you will call for an ambulance. You will not remember me. Understood?’ ‘… I… I understand…’ Their tone was hollow, expression blank and unblinking. He patted their shoulder softly and they snapped from their trance, giving a curious look as to ponder just what he was doing before carrying on their way. The compulsion he had planted in their thoughts silently ticking away until it triggered. He was halfway down the street when he felt the phone in his breast pocket buzz softly. So few people had his number, and no-one would dare contact him without him making the first move. “U Awake?” He frowned at the message, irritated by the lack of proper grammar, and realized there was only one person this could be.

“Of course I am. Why are you awake at this hour?” You sat up in bed, pillows propped up behind you, phone glowing in your lap. Unable to find sleep, so you browsed your phone until the slip of paper had fallen out of the case and decided there was certainly someone who wouldn’t be asleep in the dead of night. Maybe. He had just proved you right. “>: Can’t sleep Miggy…” Your gaze drifted out the window as the message sent, the moonlight slipping through the gaps in the curtains. “That’s unfortunate for you. Would you like me to help with that?” “>: Plz!” You cringed after sending the reply, for how fast you had sent it. The exclamation point only made you seem needy. With your phone in your lap, you buried your face in your hands and groaned softly in irritation, only looking up when your phone buzzed again. ”Alright. Just leave a window open.” It had only been a day since you’d last seen the man and already you were inviting him back into your life, your home. You pulled back the covers and stood up, opening one of the windows just a touch. On the second floor. Your bedroom. Minutes went by in silence; sleep was quickly the furthest thing from your mind.

Not even memes and cat videos could keep your interest for long until you heard the terrible crunching of brick in a rapid rhythm and watched the feral apparition with clawed nails crawling through your window. D-Did you just climb up my fuckin’ wall?!’ You watched him stand up straight, the image of poise and power again, claws returning to short nails as he brushed down his coat. ‘Of course. What did you think would happen?’ ‘I… I thought you were… Gonna turn into a bat and fly in, or something cool.’ He gave you a look of incredulity, shaking his head slowly. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. First water, then garlic, then crosses and now bats- you know so little.’ He pulled off his coat, folding it across his lap as he sat on the edge of your bed, expression returning to that look of eternal calm. ‘W-well, it’s not my fault!’ You spluttered, pulling the covers tighter around you, as if they could shield you from your own growing embarrassment. ‘I-I… It’s not like I’ve got a good source for how actual Vampires are!’ ‘Heh…’ His little laugh was deep and soft, your heart picked up at the sound of it. ‘You have one right in front of you; ask me.’ At his gentle tone, all of the thoughts and questions you had instantly fled your mind, leaving you empty-headed, and in that moment, you put together a coherent, genius question. ‘Uh… Um… So… Does it feel good… When you bite people?’ An absolutely genius question. Miguel’s face fell into another incredulous look before he sighed softly. ‘It is a moment of indescribable hunger, it is something primal, the greatest yearning imaginable. A parched man presented with a crimson oasis…’ His words petered off into a thoughtful hum, and you watched him slowly lick his tongue along one of his fangs. ‘Then, it becomes bliss, for us both… Takes everything I have to not lose myself in it- my… partner for this encounter certainly loses it. They slip into a fugue state, unaware of the world.’ You heard the bed creak as he moved, crawling atop the covers towards you, shoes clattering to the floor as he kicked them off. You couldn’t pull your eyes away from his face as he moved closer. ‘That can be dangerous; imagine meeting a handsome stranger, and one night, the two of you hook-up and… “have sex”. It’s the most intense experience of your life… All other men are ruined for you.’ You sunk down into your pillow as he practically crawled atop you, you could practically feel the sheer heat that radiated from his body, eyes on those sharp fangs as he spoke. ‘M-Miguel…?’ ‘Hmm….?’ He hummed, smiling playfully. ‘W-what happens if you… You lose yourself in it?’ ‘Me? Well, dear one… Chances are you wouldn’t be waking up at all.’ His lips ghosted across your own, almost on the verge. ‘Sleep now…’ He breathed, and you felt your mind and body obey, eyelids and limbs growing heavy, and you slumped down into the warm, heavy covers, certain that your bed had never felt so soft in your life.

Miguel tucked you in softly, made sure you were comfortable and returned your phone to the bedside table. He pulled his coat back on, smoothing down the front as he lingered by your window, one foot on the edge and looking back at your sleeping form. He was getting hopelessly attached again, knowing it would inevitably end in tears. It always did with him. How many mortals had he loved and lost? His was a lonely existence. With a forlorn sigh, he leapt back to the street, landing in a crouch of swirling shadows and stepped away, unseen, hands in pockets again. It was two days later you finally worked up the courage to allow Miguel to spoil you, he gladly led you into the richer neighborhoods of the city, squinting behind sunglasses in the light of the sun. ‘Why don’t you burn?’ You asked, perusing fancy clothing that would normally be far, far outside your price range. ‘Hmm….?’ He leaned in close, pulling you closer against him. ‘Why don’t you burn, in the sun…?’ You glanced around nervously, checking that no-one else was close enough to overhear your conversation. He chuckled breathily, pressing a soft kiss to the top of your head. ‘I don’t get sunburn because I wear suncream… and because a very long time ago, I made a very special arrangement with Huitzilopochtli that he would not incinerate me, I will not disclose the nature of that arrangement… So, if you see anything you like, grab it.’ He stepped back with a gentle smile, and you swallowed, eyes racing over the clothing, over the eye-watering price tags. ‘A-anything? This is expensive, Miguel, I don’t want to…’ Your words broke off as he laughed again, amused. ‘You are worth it, and more… I said I would spoil you.’ Was it a bill or a phone number you had rung up on the till at the end? Miguel didn’t seem phased, the man didn’t even blink at the number. Just how rich was this Vampire?

As the sun set for the evening, he had taken you out, in your new fancy clothing. With one arm linked through his own, he led you to one of the fanciest restaurants in town that didn’t serve tiny portions. From what you had browsed on your phone, the place had reservation waiting times that were nearly three months long, yet Miguel had gotten a table for two on the upper balcony with little more than dropping his own name and watching even the manager’s eyes go wide at the mention of it. Miguel had a whole spiderweb of connections to tug the threads of, and here he was, tugging them for your benefit. The best table in the house that offered stunning views of the city bathed in the setting sun. ‘Can I ask you more questions, Miguel?’ His smile was charming, a glass of red wine cradled in one hand and he nodded softly. ‘As long as it’s not to do with quantum physics, I’m afraid I am rather hopeless with that.’ ‘… Have you ever, uh... turned anyone? Into a Vampire?’ You watched him take a sip from his glass pacing it down, his eyes not leaving your own. Eventually, he spoke up. ‘I have no idea what you mean. Did you want dessert, too?’ You balked at his response, trying to wonder just what had caused it. ‘B-but…’ He reached across the table and took one of your hands softly in his own, thumb stroking across your knuckles. ‘Do you want dessert, or are you sweet enough already?’ You felt your cheeks burn at his question, swallowing back the giggle that threatened to escape. ‘W-why…? Are you feeling thirsty?’ He gave your hand a gentle squeeze, chuckling softly before letting go and reclining back in his chair. ‘Goodness me, your mind. Let’s keep the roleplay in the bedroom, shall we…?’ Finally, it clicked in your mind and you felt embarrassment swell in your chest. You were treading on the toes of his masquerade. ‘Miguel, you make it sound like it’s going to be a fun time. Yes, I think I’d like something sweet.’ His smile was kind, his eyes glinted red in the light and he nodded softly.

Warmed by wine and filled with fancy foods, you only made it halfway home before you found yourself in Miguel’s arms, he was so warm, he smelled so good and gave you little smiles every so often. ‘My place or yours…?’ He purred with a grin. ‘… Mm.. Yours has the nicer bed…’ You managed, hooking one arm across his shoulders, fingers tangling in the soft hair at the nape of his neck and you could both hear and feel the pleased sound rumble in his chest. ‘Oh, it does… We’ll be making very good use of it…’ You watched him lick along one of his fangs with a suggestive glint in his eyes. His dark heart was about to thunder for you.

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

Enjoying this? Do let me know. Seems to be like catnip to some people in the community.

[iviarellereads]

The Dragon Reborn, Chapter 56 - People of the Dragon

(THIS PROJECT IS SPOILER FREE! No spoilers past the chapter you click on. Curious what I'm doing here? Read this post! For the link index and a primer on The Wheel of Time, read this one! Like what you see? Send me a Ko-Fi.)

(Wheel icon) In which yes, that's less than ten pages of wrap-up after 666 pages of story, whatcha gonna do about it?

PERSPECTIVE: Narrator:

Throughout the city of Tear people woke with the dawn, speaking of the dreams they had had, dreams of the Dragon battling Ba’alzamon in the Heart of the Stone, and when their eyes rose to the great fortress of the Stone, they beheld a banner waving from its greatest height. Across a field of white flowed a sinuous form like a great serpent scaled in scarlet and gold, but with a golden lion’s mane and four legs, each tipped with five golden claws. Men came, stunned and frightened, from the Stone to speak in hushed tones of what had happened in the night, and men and women thronged the streets, weeping as they shouted the fulfillment of Prophecy. “The Dragon!” they shouted. “Al’Thor! The Dragon! Al’Thor!”

PERSPECTIVE: Mat peeks out through an arrowslit, watching the city's chorus. Everyone inside the Stone agrees with the people below. He’s having more than a little culture shock at the Aiel, especially when he tries to flirt with the Maidens.

Moiraine is sitting close to the wondergirls, who are surprised Perrin is in town, and ask if he's ok. Mo says he was when she last left him, his companion was in some danger but it's nothing that need concern them.(1) She pulls out another one of the DO prison seals, which was found in the High Lords' ter'angreal stash. Mat vaguely recognizes it.

Egg says they should have expected to find one here. Twice before, Rand faced Baa, and both times at least one seal was present. Nyn points out that this time, the seal is unbroken. As if that matters now. Mo asks if it doesn't? Mat begs her pardon, and all four of them turn to glare at him. He asks how all this can be, the Stone of Tear fallen, and all that. The Prophecy said that couldn't happen until the People of the Dragon came to Tear. Does that mean they're the People? Rand's friends and a few hundred Aiel?

Mo says prophecies are fulfilled as they're meant to be, not as we think they should be.

Rhuarc cleared his throat. “When a man wishes to become a clan chief, he must go to Rhuidean, in the lands of the Jenn Aiel, the clan that is not.” He spoke slowly and frowned often at the red-fringed silk carpet under his soft boots, a man trying to explain what he did not want to explain at all. “Women who wish to become Wise Ones also make this journey, but their marking, if they are marked, is kept secret among themselves. The men who are chosen at Rhuidean, those who survive, return marked on the left arm. So.” He pushed back the sleeves of his coat and shirt together to reveal his left forearm, the skin much paler than that of his hands and face. Etched into the skin as if part of it, wrapped twice around, marched the same gold-and-scarlet form as rippled on the banner above the Stone. The Aiel let his sleeve fall with a sigh. “It is a name not spoken except among the clan chiefs and the Wise Ones. We are. . . .” He cleared his throat again, unable to say it here. “The Aiel are the People of the Dragon.” Moiraine spoke quietly, but she sounded as close to startlement as Mat could remember ever hearing her. “That I did not know.”(2)

Mat keeps talking like it's all over, but the wondergirls point out that the Forsaken and Black Ajah are still loose. Mat says, but they saw the body! Moiraine says they saw *A* body. Mat demands who it was then, he recognizes the face from his dreams, and Moiraine says the man who called himself Ba'alzamon. The Dark One yet lives, imprisoned at Shayol Ghul. The Dark One would never have left a human body behind, no matter how fast decay took it. Egg says Verin once showed her a page from an old book that mentioned Ishy and Ishamael together. Maybe they were the same person. Mo says even if it was, nine of the thirteen still live, and three seals are broken, only four still hold. Whatever battle they won here, the war goes on.

A door opens and a tall young woman walks in, wearing a coronet with a golden hawk on it. She says she's Berelain, the First of Mayene,(3) and she's not used to being given messages to carry, and throws a parchment down on the table. Mo asks who gave her the message, but Ber can't remember, and doesn't know why she took it. She just knows the lady who gave it her was impressive.

Ber turns to Rhuarc and tells him the Aiel fighting disturbed her sleep last night. She turns back to Moiraine and tells her to inform the Lord Dragon that the First of Mayene will dine with him tonight, then marches out of the room. Egg and El say in unison that they'd like to see Ber in the White Tower as a novice.(4)

Moiraine reads the parchment. ‘Lews Therin was mine, he is mine, and he will be mine, forever. I give him into your charge, to keep for me until I come.’ It is signed ‘Lanfear.’ She tells Mat that he’s ta’veren, and he blew the Horn of Valere. Nothing at all is done for him yet. He says, of course, he understands, you can count on him.

Outside the people are still chanting Rand's name.

And it was written that no hand but his should wield the Sword held in the Stone, but he did draw it out, like fire in his hand, and his glory did burn the world. Thus did it begin. Thus do we sing his Rebirth. Thus do we sing the beginning. —from Do’in Toldara te, Songs of the Last Age, Quarto Nine: The Legend of the Dragon. Composed by Boanne, Songmistress at Taralan, the Fourth Age.

The End of the Third Book of The Wheel of Time

=====

(1) Goddamn that's cold, Moiraine. You haven't even checked on him since you left him and Faile at the inn?! (2) Very little in prophecy comes true the way it sounds like it's going to come true. They were getting all worked up about the People of the Dragon, and had no way of knowing it would be the Aiel… unless the prophecy has many layers of meanings, which is also very likely. (3) You may note from my tags that I've put most of her full name in, including a very interesting reference. Paendrag, yes, like Pendragon. I mean, we already met Arthur, and most of the Caemlyn crew (4) That's not very women supporting women of you, ladies.

[silvanils]

“It’s been so long between the words we spoke.” Maybe for Dorian and your inquisitor? 🥺

@dadrunkwriting

I actually have a Lot of thoughts about clan disputes and politics, as well as a whole little story in my head about Ash's first serious relationship but I've never written about any of it? A lot of it spilled out here, lol. Hope you enjoy it!

Content Rating: T

Word Count: 672

Dorian had just finished bathing and was beginning to settle for a quiet evening of drinking wine and reading all by himself when his sending crystal lit up and gave off a quiet ringing noise. He took it in his palm and twisted it once, opening the connection both ways — his heart fluttering in anticipation, quite uncertain if he should feel elated or concerned.

“Yes, amatus? How are you?”

“Fine, Dorian,” Ash said, but Dorian felt his heart sink a little. He didn’t sound fine — he sounded exhausted. “I was hoping… if I stayed up, I might catch you as you were settling for bed. It’s been so long since we last spoke, what with your schedule filling right up.”

Dorian sighed, setting down his glass. “I know. I’m sorry. It can’t be helped that so many of these damned dinner parties happen to coincide with the prime time you’re available. I’d skip more of them if I could, but…”

“No, don’t,” Ash said. “You need to keep building alliances and your cause. I understand. I just…”

His voice cracked again, and Dorian felt dread prickle up in his stomach. “Ash, please. If something’s wrong…” He’d be on the first ship to Wycome in the morning, no hesitation. But Ash already knew that. “You can tell me.”

He heard Ash sigh, and could imagine him pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers, then running them through his hair — and one dark red lock would always fall back, curling over his forehead. “Alright. I don’t expect all of this to make sense to you, but… Do you remember how our clan took in another one because they had no Keeper? Well, they’re getting anxious about staying here, even with Wycome’s sanction.”

Dorian frowned and leaned back into his pillows. “Yes, that does sound familiar. The one that stayed near Kirkwall for a while, right?”

“Exactly,” Ash said. “Well, they can’t leave without a new Keeper, but Ithelan — our Second — he’s the only mage we have who would be qualified, but…”

“Ithelan,” Dorian asked, unable to contain a little laugh. “Your ex?”

“Yes,” Ash said, completely matter-of-fact. “He really is the best option. My mother won’t be leaving, my brother’s too young, and… none of our other clansmen have strong magic.”

“So, what’s the problem? Temperament?” Dorian recalled a few stories Ash had told him. “He’s rather hot-headed, isn’t he?”

“No, that’s not the problem. It’s — well. A few from the other clan are absolutely convinced he’s a blood mage for some reason. It’s ridiculous. I had to console him about it, Dorian. That was a very awkward conversation!”

The sound of baffled indignation in his voice made Dorian laugh out loud, and moments later he could hear the sound of Ash trying to muffle his own giggles. “Oh, sorry,” Dorian said, hushing his voice a little. “I do hope you found a suitably private location to call from.”

“I’m up on a roof,” Ash said, sighing wistfully. “I’m looking out over the city now. Did I tell you? My family was able to fix up a little house on the street near the market! Da’s been painting a mural on the outside. It’s almost finished.”

“Sounds lovely,” Dorian said, glancing out his own window. As pretty as Minrathous was by evening, he was still considering that boat ticket. He really wanted to hold Ash, soothe his fears and worries, help him settle down. “Amatus? Listen, I don’t want you to fall asleep on that roof, so… why don’t you climb back down and get all warm and cozy in your covers? I promise I’ll be quiet, and keep the connection open until you’re asleep.”

“Alright,” Ash said. Dorian could hear the sound of his feet padding over the roof, the creak of the wood as he slipped back inside. There was a soft click — a lantern turning off? — and more cloth shuffling, then a content little sigh. “Goodnight, vhenan. Thank you.”

“Anytime, amatus.”

[turning-dreams-into-chaos]

Banished (Part 48)

~Banished Master~

Word Count: 10K

~Master~

*Based off episode 4x03 of the 100, The Four Horsemen*

Bold Italics are in Trig!

Previously...

Lexa?

You couldn’t believe your eyes and you shouldn’t have because the moment you blinked, she was gone. No one else having seen anything. You cleared your throat, blinking your eyes a few times more as you looked around, your sights landing on the rover in hopes of what? That your deceased friend would be there?

Clarke and Bellamy started walking away but your feet were planted in place. Bellamy paused, seeing you not move. “You coming?”

You looked at him, nodding your head. “Yeah… yeah, I’ll catch up.” You told him. He didn’t say anything as he kept walking taking glances back at you.

You brought your hand up to the back of your neck, feeling the spot where the flame was inserted. The flame? Lexa? The voice?

What the hell? 

---

Since Clarke’s speech, the amount of working getting done has increased, everyone wanting to help save themselves for the end of the world. It made you a little mad. When they were asked to help before the threat of death looming over their heads, all they wanted to do was relax, but now that there’s a possibility they would die and suddenly everyone wants to be useful.

Clarke and you followed Bellamy to where Raven was working, you helping push a cart with Clarke as Bellamy spoke. “Two meals a day for people working as hard as ours, we won’t make any friends.” You stopped moving the cart as you entered the room, glancing up at Raven to see sparks coming from her welding.

“If there’s one thing our people understand, it’s rationing.” Clarke sighed and you both began unloading. You handed Bellamy some of the rations, receiving a nod before he took the food from you and Clarke. “Besides, once we close those doors, it’ll be one mean a day for the next five years.”

Raven groaned as she stopped her job, turning around to look at the three of you. “Try one meal a day every other day. Hunting parties are coming back with less and less.”

“What about preserving meat?” you asked ducking your head and handing Bellamy a bag of corn. “Niylah said she’s been busier than ever.”

Raven nodded. “We’re preserving more meat than ever, but it’s still not enough.” She told you. She looked between you and Bellamy, sending you both a small glare. “Without a way to make water, growing our own protein like we did on the ark isn’t an option.” She shoved her helmet into your hands and pulled off her gloves, shoving them into Bellamy’s. “Remember that when we’re starving.”

Bellamy looked to you, seeing you bit your tongue from making your remark. “I won’t be starving because I won’t be inside.” He told you all as you furrowed your brows and looked at him.

“The hell you won’t.” you snapped at him, earning a sigh from him. “No. Bellamy stop. We both made the choice okay?” He hesitated before nodding his head, looking into your eyes as they soften. “Okay. And Raven?” you said, turning to the mechanic. She looked at you, crossing her arms in front of her chest. “Despite everything, we made the right choice. Try and see that.” She scoffed at you, shaking her head.

“Clarke, did you make the list?” Raven said, ignoring your comment as you looked to Bellamy, shrugging your shoulders bitterly. He felt bad for you, you were just trying to get Raven to stop taking it out on him.

“No.” Clarke answered quick. “What about drinking water?”

“Don’t change the subject, Clarke.” Raven objected, moving on the other side of you to get closer to Clarke and whispered. “We need to know who’s on the inside of these doors when the radiation comes.”

You listened in on them, helping Bellamy stock the shelves. “We don’t need to know now.” Clarke reminded her and you heard Raven scoff before a man came over the PA, requesting medical help at the front gate.

You all exchanged looks of worry before heading to the front gate. There was a crowd already forming, a line of guards in the front aiming guns as you and Bellamy lead the way, pushing through the crowd. The sight met in front of you wasn’t what you were expecting.

A few grounders stood there, well, collapsed on the ground as you arrived. You stayed back with Bellamy as Clarke moved forward. “Nyko?” She asked as the man picked his head up.

Miller grabbed Bellamy’s arm. “What if it’s another grounder attack like they did with Murphy?” He asked. You winced, remembering your time in Lincoln’s cave throwing up and in pain.

You looked to the grounders, not recognizing any signs of that sickness on them. “It’s not.” You told them, earning look from both boys.

“How do you know?”

“Because I know.” You ended the conversation, not wanting to explain how you knew of Grounder attack tactics to them. You pulled your eyes back to the grounders, stepping forwards to Clarke’s side. “Luna?” you questioned, recognizing the woman as she doubled over in coughing.

She looked up, meeting your eyes before looking to Clarke. “Please don’t turn us away because of what I did to you.” She plead.

“What happened?” You asked her, noticing what looked to be burns across her skin.

“The sickness.” Nyko grumbled as he looked down to the young girl he laid on the ground. “We lost 40 more on the way.”

You gasped as Abby came pushing through the crowd, Doctor mode ready as she held her bag, holding a napkin to her face as she got closer. You felt Bellamy’s presence beside you as you stared at the little girl, watching her cough violently.

Abby knelt down, removing her hand as she reached out to the girl. Clarke knelt as well, whispering to her mom. “What is this?”

Abby hesitated and turned away from Floukru, speaking to her daughter as you, Bellamy, and Raven who had caught up just before Abby had, overheard. “Fever, lesions, vomiting. It’s ARS.”

“What’s ARS?” Bellamy asked the question on both your minds.

Abby looked up and fell back on her heels. “Acute Radiation Sickness.“ The three of you who stood back shared looks. If Floukru was hit by Radiation, time was running out faster than you thought. Abby began examining the girl, checking out the burns and blisters on her face. “When did the symptoms start?” She asked.

Luna shook her head with her admittance. “Not sure. Right before the fish started dying.”

“The fish are dying?” Raven asked, wanting a clarification.

“Floating on the sea to the horizon in every direction.” Nyko told her. She looked to Clarke before Abby started standing up, pulling them with her.

“It’s not contagious. Let’s get you to the med bay.” She and Raven began leading them to the med bay. They left a girl, someone the sickness had taken as you crouched down to her, Bellamy and Clarke following you.

You pushed the hair out of the face of the girl. Bellamy watched you, hearing you sigh and close your eyes. “It’s already here.” Clarke pointed out as you nodded, feeling the fear in your stomach increase.

---

Octavia sat in Polis, right outside where she had been staying. The crowds around her separated as she looked up, seeing a hooded figure approach her before stopping. She stood up as he pulled off the hood, revealing himself to be Roan. “It’s not safe for you to be here.“ She reminded him and put away her sword. “What do you want?”

“For you to handle something for me the way you handled Ambassador Rafel.” He spoke quietly and didn’t hear Indra come outside until her boots scuffed against the ground. He looked to her, seeing her stare. “We should talk alone.” He muttered under his breath to Octavia.

Octavia denied his request. “If you can’t trust Indra, you can’t trust me.”

Roan didn’t say anything as Indra approached. He was about to leave before realizing Octavia was his best choice. “The Flame’s been stolen.” He told the two women. They knew the effects losing the Flame had on Roan’s ruling. If the Flame got into the wrong hands, everything could fall apart. “Just now. From my quarters while I was training.” He filled them in more.

“How could you be so careless?” Indra growled at him, receiving a side eye from the King.

“We need to lock down the City and search everyone.”

“We can’t.” Indra stopped Octavia’s idea. “If word gets out that he’s lost the flame, the other clans will question his rule, Trikru loudest of all.”

“Then I will be forced to answer their questions with my army.”

“Or we can just find it.” Octavia sighed and picked up her sword again. “Where do I start?”

“Whoever did this got in and out of the tower without being seen. To risk it, she’d have to care more about the flame than her own life.”

“She?”

Roan nodded. “The new Flamekeeper.”

Indra narrowed her eyes. “Perhaps you should look closer to home. You’re not exactly beloved.” Indra and Roan went back and forth

“My people want an Ice Nation King.”

“The ambassadors don’t.”

“The ambassadors are cowards and know I’d have their head. The keepers of the flame are fanatics. I’d do it myself, but my guard won’t let me out of their sights.”

“I’ll handle it.” Octavia assured him, glancing behind him and stopping her mentor and the King’s argument. Roan and Indra watched her walk away, a sour look upon the woman’s face.

“What’s wrong? You’ve made a killer.” Roan spoke in a hush tone. “In the street, they’re calling her Skairipa. Death from above.”

“I’m so proud.” Indra said sarcastically.

“You should be.” He cut her off. “One kill to prevent thousands? That’s good politics.”

---

In a cave not far from Arkadia, Murphy and Emori were pulling traps out from the woods. “You said there would be food.” Murphy grumbled, bringing in his third empty trap.

“There should be. These woods have always been good to me.” Emori moved a few longs, checking the cave ground. “Now there’s not even bugs.”

“Well, fortunately I’m not hungry enough for that to be upsetting yet.” Murphy went over to his girlfriend, taking a seat next to her and staring at their fire. “I actually kind of miss Polis.” He admitted, warming his hands up. “They had this drink there, it was sweet, made from sheep’s milk.”

Emori felt jealousy sitting in her stomach. “Ontari gave you this?”

Murphy’s jaw clenched. “Yeah.” He nodded. “I told you it wasn’t all bad.”

“You told me you were trying to survive.”

“I was.”

“What else wasn’t bad, John, sex?”

“Emori, I don’t wanna talk about this.” He told her, not wanting to relive memories of the things Ontari forced him to do.

“Fine. Then let’s not.” Ontari almost growled at him before getting up and storming off.

“I didn’t have a choice, ok? Emori!” He called after her as she stopped, turning back to look at him. “I didn’t have a choice.”

Emori looked into his eyes, lit from the fire in front of him as she nodded and moved closer, throwing a piece of wood into the fire but staying on the other side from Murphy. Murphy sighed, letting his head fall before he pushed himself up and grabbed his bag, heading to the entrance as Emori stood up. “Where are you going?”

“I’m going to Arkadia. I’m a better thief than a hunter.”

“I’ll come with you.”

“No.” Murphy denied her as she stepped forward to him. “I’ll draw less attention alone.” Emori’s face fell as Murphy cupped her cheek and kissed her goodbye. “Tonight, we feast.” He promised her, seeing her smile before he walked out of the cave.

---

“You okay?” You asked Bellamy as you both headed to the med bay. His shoulders were tense before he looked at you and felt himself relax.

“Yeah. I’m fine.”

You stopped him from blowing off his feelings, pulling his arm to stop walking. “Bellamy.” Your stern tone made him look to you. “You know Raven’s just giving you a hard time. You made the right choice.”

Bellamy nodded and bit his lip. “We made it together.” He finally admitted as you smiled, glad he was finally coming to terms with the fact he wasn’t the only one to blame. Walking into the med bay, you were greeted with coughs, someone vomiting up blood as you paused in the doorway with Bellamy. Abby and Jackson were across the room, talking about taking medicine from Raven’s lockdown supply.

Scanning across the sick, your eyes landed on Luna reaching for a bucket, spitting up black blood as you rushed over. She let you grab the bucket and pull her hair back as she spit up. Bellamy helped you, grabbing a napkin to wipe her face once she was done.

She sat the bed, her legs dangling off the side as you handed the bucket off to someone. Luna looked terrible, the radiation sickening her as she muttered to you and Bellamy. “Do you think I deserve this for refusing the Flame?”

You were shocked by her question, exchanging glances with Bellamy before he shook his head. “No one deserves to suffer.” He told her.

Nodding your head, you tugged on the sleeve of your shirt. “The radiation would’ve came anyways. It had nothing to do with you.” She looked up at you.

“This is all my people.” She glanced back at Clarke and Abby, seeing them in a discussion. “Can they save them?”

The truth was you had no clue. “They’ll try their best.” Bellamy assured her, seeing the look in your eye. Luna didn’t say anything else and Clarke walked away from her mother, heading towards you and Bellamy.

“Tell me something good.” She sighed as you shook your head.

“It depends.” You began, seeing her raise her brow. “How much do you wanna talk to Raven?”

The three of you headed to the computer room where Raven was currently working, pulling up charts of the Radiation’s path. “This is Luna’s rig.” She pointed to the middle of the water where you and Bellamy had mapped. “If the fish in these waters are dying, basically we’re screwed.” She thankfully didn’t try to hide it, giving it to you straight.

“I thought ALIE said we had 6 months?”

“We don’t.” She grumbled back to Bellamy.

“Well then how long do we have?” Clarke asked her, looking through the computer screens.

“It’s hard to say.” She began, telling of how Radiation is carried through the currents. “Based on new data, I’d say we have two months of survivability, maybe less.”

“Two months?” You blurted out stunned. “There’s no way the Ark would be ready in two months.”

“It’ll be close. If we triple the man hours and work around the clock, we should be able to achieve a hard seal before the black rain comes.” She didn’t seem that confident as you listened. “We just have to choose who lives here.”

“We’re not talking about the list again.” Clarke cut her off.

“We are running out of time. We have to make a plan for the day the door closes, drill for it, make sure only the survivors have guns, agree on protocols for dealing with the people who are pissed they aren’t chosen.” Realizing she was almost yelling, Raven took a deep breath. “You asked me to be in charge of rationing. I’m doing it. But choosing who lives or dies in your specialty.” You were about to speak up for Clarke, knowing how difficult this decision would be for her, but the sound of a rover starting up rendered you all quiet. “No one’s scheduled to take the rover.”

Making way outside, Bellamy went first to the rover, seeing Jaha in the drivers seat and knocking on the window. “Get out.” He sighed and pulled open the door but Jaha made no move.

“I need to make a run.”

“All supply runs go through me.” Raven reminded Jaha. “And shouldn’t you be working on the patch in sector 5?”

Jaha turned the engine off and stepped out of the vehicle. “A patch to a ship that can only save a hundred people?” The four of you stood in front of him, worried of the secret getting out. “I’m an engineer. We don’t a have a way to generate water, the harder number would be 400.” He looked directly to Clarke. “Can you really sentence 400 people to their deaths?”

“We don’t have a choice!” She yelled at him. You immediately grabbed her shoulders, stepping in between her and Jaha until she calmed down. You looked over her shoulder, seeing people staring as you cleared your throat and looked to Jaha.

“What can you offer?” You spoke quietly yet harsh, needing to know whether Jaha was down to help.

“What if I told you there might be a fallout shelter, less than a day’s drive from here built to sustain thousands.”

“We’ve been through the chancellor’s files.” Raven scoffed. “All bunkers considered for the 100 were listed as compromised or unviable.”

“Those were government bunkers.” He reached back into the rover, pulling out a tablet and handing it to you who stood in front of everyone. Bellamy, Clarke and Raven looked over your shoulder as you all read the article.

“A doomsday cult?”

Jaha nodded. “That’s right. The Second Dawn.”

“They built a bunker?” Clarke questioned as you swiped through the articles, skimming over readings about 12 seals and about the arrival of the apocalypse.

“Their whole theology was based on riding out the end of the world.”

“So why didn’t you consider it earlier? Why not for the 100?” You didn’t look up as you spoke, checking the date of the article written years before the end of the world the first time.

“We couldn’t prove it existed and before now we didn’t need it.” Jaha told you, watching your thumb swipe across the screen again before pausing.

“You found it.” Your question was more of a statement as Jaha smiled. He didn’t confirm your suspicions but said it remains unsure until checked out.

You turned to Raven, tilting her head as she scoffed. “No way. We need that rover for hauling pieces of a three-ton patch we’re building.

“But think about it Raven. A bunker that could save more than a hundred, it could save everyone.”

Clarke was debating, unsure whether they could risk it. “If he’s right, we don’t need a patch.” She muttered.

Raven held herself back, looking between the three of you. “Can I talk to you guys for a second?” You nodded, following her off to the side away from Jaha. “You can’t really be thinking this is a good idea. Need I remind you Y/N, what happened last time Jaha went looking for salvation?”

“Of course, I remember Raven!” You whisper-yelled at her, running a hand over your face. You were the one having nightmares about voices you definitely never heard before.

Bellamy put his hand on your lower back, keeping you in check. “Raven, if that bunker is real, Y/N’s right, it could save a lot more than 100 people.”

“If it’s not, then we lost another day.”

“If it’s not, then I’ll make the list.” Clarke promised her. Your mouth fell open as you turned to Clarke, meeting her eye and nodding, happy she’s taking your side on this. Raven wasn’t happy, telling you all to do what you want and storming off. Once she left you turned to Clarke.

“Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet, if Jaha fails-“

“I’ll go with him.” You assured her. “And if Jaha fails, I’ll help with the list. I’ll help you decide the 100.” Clarke seemed unsure as she looked over to Jaha standing next to the rover, watching the 3 of you.

“I’d appreciate the help.”

Bellamy wasn’t going to let you go Jaha alone. “I’ll drive.” He volunteered as you gave him a smile and said goodbye to Clarke.

---

Jaha moved around to the other side of the Rover but you shook your head, pointing to the backseat. He chuckled and climbed in the back as you sat in the passenger’s side. Bellamy drove the rover out of the camp and a few minutes later Jaha was passing the tablet back up to you, a video loaded on the screen.

“The end is coming.” The man on the screen, Bill Cadogan began. “Hear me as I say this. The end is coming and it’s coming soon.”

“He gave this speech two weeks before the bombs.” Jaha told you and you turned the screen, allowing Bellamy to see as well.

Cadogan went on, telling the crowd the world was turning on them and the only way they could be saved was to join him. “From the Ashes, we will rise.” Cadogan finished as you and Bellamy and you began getting worried.

You passed the tablet back, looking at the older man. “Please tell me you have more than this.”

Jaha swiped through the articles, finding the one he needed. “In the two years before the bombs, Cadogan sold off most of the Second Dawn’s real estate holdings, generating tens of millions of dollars.” You glanced back at him, seeing him finally settling on the article. “There was one thing he didn’t sell.” You took the tablet again. “I found this autobiography. It’s his childhood home. His father built a bunker there to save his family.”

“So, what of it?” You beckoned him to get on with his story, looking at the picture of the house.

“I think Cadogan used the church’s money to expand it.”

“He grew up there. Maybe he kept it for sentimental value.” Bellamy shrugged. You nodded, not understanding what was so special.

“His father beat him almost daily in that house. He hated living there.”

You froze at Jaha’s words, feeling Bellamy’s eyes on you as soon as the words crossed his lips. It was silent in the rover, your hand beginning to shake before you let out a breath. “I would’ve burned down the house.” You told them and put the tablet on your lap. “I think Jaha’s right. Why keep someplace like that if you’re liquidating everything else?”

“The bunker’s there I can feel it.” Jaha seemed so sure of himself. Bellamy’s eyes were looking between you and the front window, making sure you were alright before speaking up.

“This guy sounds like a religious fanatic to me.”

“Maybe.” Jaha agreed slightly. “Or maybe he was just a leader willing to do whatever he needed to save his people.” You and Bellamy met eyes before you looked down at the cottage like house, feeling the rover speed up underneath you.

---

The gates of Arkadia opened, Miller and his father taking guard before seeing a grinning Murphy.

“Look who’s back.” Miller said, putting down his weapon. “Thought you ran off with your girlfriend.”

“You jealous Miller? There’s enough of me to go around.” He joked as Miller’s face fell. “Although I’m sure Bryan would kick my ass.” Miller tried to hide his sadness at the mention of his boyfriend, their fight still fresh in his mind.

“You here to stay, John?” David asked Murphy, diverting the attention off his son.

Murphy shrugged. “Till something better comes along.” He moved past Miller, bumping shoulders with the boy who yanked his arm away. Murphy moved through the camp, avoiding everyone’s eyes as he made way to the food storage room. Raven was welding once again as he snuck in, taking his backpack off and slipping between the shelves. He grabbed some food, a few packages of meat, some vegetables, just enough where he assumed no one would notice. When Abby walked into the room, he ducked behind the shelves, peaking his head out only to listen in.

“I already told Jackson we can’t spare anything.” Raven grumbled at Abby as she pulled her helmet off. “Especially not antiradiation meds.”

“We’re talking about 7 doses.”

“That’s a quarter of our supply, Abby! A supply that had to last us 5 years on an irradiated planet.” Murphy’s spirits fell, realizing he hadn’t known about the impending doom bound to fall upon them. “We’re gonna need every one of those pills. You know that Abby.”

“You’re right. We put you in charge of the pills, it’s your call.”

“Will it work?” Raven interrupted her. “Can you guarantee the medicine will save them?” Abby stayed quiet. “You can’t because you know Delactivene needs to be used within 24 hours of exposure. It’s on the damn label.”

“The rate of effectiveness goes down, but that doesn’t mean it won’t work. We have to try.”

“No.”

“There’s a child with them. At least give me enough for her.”

Raven shook her head softly. “I’m sorry but we can’t waste our supply on a long shot.”

“If we can save one life, would you call that a waste?”

“Even if it worked and we could save them today, they’ll be dead from radiation within two months.”

“You tell yourself that if you need to, but the radiation isn’t killing that child. You are.” Raven waited until Abby was out of the room before letting a tear fall from her eyes, feeling the weight of their deaths already on her shoulders. Murphy sighed as he watched her, waiting until Raven’s blowtorch was going and she wasn’t paying attention before sneaking over to the medicine.

Abby sat in the med bay, Luna and her people were all variously wrapped in emergency blankets, coughs filling the room. She had no clue how to help them without the Delactivene and even with it, she wasn’t sure it would work.

Murphy walked in, holding the bottle in his hand and looking around the room. He shook the bottle, holding it out in front of Abby. “You were looking for these?” He said as Abby saw his offering and became confused.

“Where did you-“ she stopped herself, taking the bottle from him as Jackson walked up. “Never mind.”

“I didn’t know how much you needed, so I took it all.” Abby and Jackson just stood there. “What are you waiting for? Go. Be doctors.”

Abby passed the bottle to Jackson. “Give it to the child first and if it works, you give it to the others.” Jackson nodded, heading over to the little girl. Abby turned Murphy, hesitating before speaking to him. “I’m glad you’re back John. I was worried about you.” Murphy smiled at her, blushing as he thanked her.

Abby patted his arm before helping Jackson with the girl. She supported her head, telling her it was okay as the girl looked worriedly between the two doctors. Luna laid on the bed next to her. “Adria.” She whispered out. Adria, the little girl, turned to see Luna reaching out to her and joined their hands together. “It’s okay. You can trust them.” Luna told the girl who listened, taking the pill she was offered and downing it with water. She coughed a little but swallowed the pill down as Murphy watched on.

“What about the others?” Nyko asked once Adria was laid down.

“We’ll monitor Adria closely for the next few hours. If her symptoms improve, we’ll treat the adults.” Jackson informed him.

“Thank you.” Luna mumbled, still holding Adria’s hand. Abby smiled and put her hand on top of theirs before pulling away, looking at Murphy as Jackson chuckled.

“His father got arrested for stealing medicine to save him.” Jackson was impressed. “Who knew he had it in him.”

Abby’s smile only got wider. “I did.”

---

The street of Polis was packed like always as a woman walked through them, a mask covering her face and a hood over her head. She paused in her walk, looking around before pulling the stolen Flame out of her pocket. She wasn’t aware as Octavia watched her, following after her once she started walking again.

She headed towards the temple but Octavia was stopped on the way, a man jumping in front of her. “Where are you going, sky girl?” He snarled at her.

“Be smart and back off.” Octavia pushed him out of the way. Before he could attack her again, Ilian stepped in, glaring at the man.

“No. We’re here for the tech. That’s all.” He reminded him.

Octavia listened in. “What’s the point?” She asked Ilian.

“ALIE used tech to control us. Without it, no one will ever take over our minds again.” Octavia backed away, shaking her head as she chased after the thief. Ilian sent his people to follow her, knowing Octavia would lead him to what he wanted.

The thief entered the Temple, pulling off her mask and hood as Octavia snuck in behind her. “So, you’re the new Flamekeeper?”

“This is a sacred place, leave before you get hurt.”

“Give me the Flame and I will.” Octavia told her, reaching her hand out. The thief was taken back.

“It does not belong to you or your red-blooded King.”

Octavia unsheathed her sword, cocking her head. “I can’t let you leave with it.” The thief fired back, telling Octavia she didn’t have choice. Octavia swung her sword at her, determined to return the Flame.

The Thief was getting the upper hand, blocking all of Octavia’s punches. “Good technique. I know it well.” Octavia noticed the Flame sitting in her necklace before swinging the thief’s legs out from under her, bringing her to the ground and holding her sword in the air.

“Stop!” Indra called from the side of the fight. “Put down the sword, Octavia.”

“She has the Flame.”

“She’s my daughter.” Octavia was shocked as she dropped her sword, moving off of Indra’s daughter and reaching a hand down to pull her up. She didn’t take it, helping herself off the ground instead. The girl glared at Octavia who ignored the look, looking at Indra instead.

“I’ll talk to Roan. If we give him back the flame, I can convince him to show mercy.”

“Azgeda knows no mercy.” Indra muttered, walking to her daughter. “Give me the Flame, Gaia.”

Gaia stayed defiant of her mother’s orders, refusing to give up the flame. “It’s around her neck.”

“It’s nothing. A totem she’s worn since she joined the faith.” Indra shrugged off Octavia’s discovery. “You are interfering in matters you don’t understand.”

“Wrong. I’m a Flamekeeper. I’m honoring my faith, a faith you once believed in.”

“Don’t question my devotion.”

“A devoted follower would die before giving the Flame to an unworthy king.” Octavia watched as the mother and daughter went back and forth, arguing for their side. “You pervert our faith. Heda would be ashamed.”

“I’m doing what’s best for trikru. You would understand if you had stayed and done your duty.”

“I was called!”

“My daughter was not meant to wander the earth looking for Nightbloods!” Indra felt her blood boil as she tried not to yell. “My daughter was meant to lead armies. My daughter was meant to lead our people.”

Gaia stayed quiet, biting back tears as she turned away from Indra to Octavia. “It looks like you’ve found your daughter.”

“Roan sent me here to kill you.” Octavia told Gaia, reminding them both of the situation at hand. “If I don’t come back with the flame, he will send others.”

Gaia picked her head up. “If the spirit of the commanders deem it my time, then so be it.”

Indra didn’t want to imagine losing her daughter after how long she’s gone without Gaia. She stared at Gaia as Octavia tried to talk to her. “Indra, tell me what to do here. Without the flame, the king is vulnerable. We will need to fight to keep him on the throne. If that’s what you want me to do, I’ll do it for you.”

“I can run.” Gaia offered.

“He’ll find you.” Indra cut her off. “Don’t throw your life away.”

Gaia let tears fall down her face. “That’s what you said the day I left. You still don’t understand.”

Pounding erupted on the temple door, the three of them inside jumping at the sound. “Looters. If they find the Flame, they’ll destroy it.” Ilian led the charge outside, cheering at every push of the door. “I’ll take the tunnel.” Gaia told them.

But Octavia had a different plan.

The looters entered the temple, Ilian leading the way as he kicked open the door. His men encircled Octavia, Indra and Gaia. “Drop your weapons.” He told the women. “We just want the tech, no one has to get hurt.”

The three of them paused before dropping their weapons. As soon as they did, the men behind them grabbed them and restrained them all. Gaia grabbed the pack on her hip, trying to keep the men from taking it.

“Give me the pack!” One man yelled as he reached for the bag, but Gaia pulled it away.

“No!” Gaia yelled but he got it anyways. “Give it back!” He passed it to Ilian who barely needed to dig around to find the Flame. He held it in his fingers. “Please! It’s not tech! It’s the spirit of the commanders!”

Ilian walked past the three, placing the Flame upon a surface.

“Ilian, you don’t have to do this!”

“Yes, I do.” He mumbled. “For my mother.” He whispered before screaming, lifting a mallet in the air and swinging down on the Flame. The piece split apart, sending chunks through the air. The men cheered, the women watching on as they pushed over columns in the temple, dust and debris flying everywhere.

Octavia, Gaia and Indra waited until the looters were gone, satisfied with the job. “They’re gone.” Octavia told them as she kicked over a cabinet, the Flame box sitting underneath as she picked it up. The broken pieces still sat on the surface as Octavia brushed them into her hand, showing them to Gaia. Gaia lifted her necklace from her chest, the totem that once sat there now destroyed. “Sorry about your necklace.”

Gaia held up her hand, the perfectly intact Flame sitting in it as she shook her head. “Don’t be. It was a good plan.” Gaia smiled as she took the Flame container from Octavia. “Thank you.”

Indra watched as Gaia put the Flame back. “You got what you wanted.”

“So did you.” Gaia responded before her mother walked out of the temple. She did as well, leaving Octavia to follow after her mentor.

“Indra.” Octavia called once they were outside. She saw Indra try to hold back her feelings. “She’s family.” Octavia sighed.

“Roan will still want her head.”

“Not if he doesn’t know it was her.” Octavia walked off, heading to speak to Roan.

---

Raven took a break from her work, turning off her blowtorch and pulling her helmet off for air. As she relaxed, she noticed the medicine cabinet and the broken glass protecting it. She stormed into the med bay, ready to yell at Abby but Murphy stopped her before she could get further than the entrance.

“Now’s not really a good time.” He told her. She narrowed her eyes at him before pushing past, getting Abby’s attention who was standing next to Adria, the poor girl wheezing as she struggled to breathe.

Before Raven could get far she spotted Murphy’s bag, the preserved meat he had stolen sitting inside of it as she scoffed. “Once a cockroach, always a cockroach, huh?”

“Seriously Raven, now’s not the time.”

Abby grabbed the bottle of stolen medicine, moving around Jackson to come to Raven. “We only wasted one dose.” She told the girl and handed over the bottle before returning to the side of the dying girl. Raven watched from the other side of the room as Luna held Adria, whispering the final words the young girl would hear as she died.

“Think about the waves, my love. Can you hear them? Gently lapping beneath us. We’ll be with the waves soon. Your fight is over.”

---

It was quiet as Bellamy kept driving the rover, very little conversation being made since your first one. As soon as the rover was parked, you climbed out, using your flashlight to see past the trees. Bellamy was by your side, as you followed Jaha, leading you down a slope in the dark.

“How much farther?” You asked Jaha, shining your light all around you. Jaha stopped himself, holding up the tablet in the air.

The image on the tablet matched the dark scene in front of you enough in his eyes. “This is it.” You nodded your head, feigning impressed with the sight of nothing in front of you. “If anyone’s entitled to a lucky break, we are.” You and Bellamy didn’t say anything as you looked at him, both of you hoping this was going to work. “You hear that?” Jaha asked, making you listen but only greeted with the sound of silence. “No insects.” Bellamy and you wore matching faces, both showing worry. “What is it.”

“Luna said the fish were dying.” You told Jaha.

“What are the things that eat the insects and the fish going to eat now?” Bellamy filled in the gap.

You let out a chuckle. “So much for a lucky break.” You mumbled before walking forward, shining your light on the ground. “Jaha, what are we looking for?”

“The bunker would be at the lowest point in the ground.” You sucked in a breath and nodded your head.

“Anything structural, be careful.” Bellamy called to both of you as ventured farther away.

“Aye, Aye, Captain.” You smirked over your shoulder, seeing Bellamy smile before you continued to search.

Jaha watched the exchange, waiting until you were out of sight. “She’s lucky to have you.”

“Who?” Bellamy asked him as he furrowed his brows.

Jaha only chuckled at him. He used his flashlight to gesture to you who remained unaware of their conversation. “She’s come a long way from the young girl I knew.” Bellamy didn’t say anything, watching you search for the bunker. “A lot of that’s thanks to you.”

“No.” Bellamy interrupted him. “That’s all her. Everything she’s gone through, she got herself through.” Jaha stopped his searching, realizing Bellamy had as well to watch you.

“You keep her centered.” He told Bellamy. Bellamy shook his head, finally looking away from you.

“You’ve got it backwards.”

“Still blaming yourself for that army.” Jaha didn’t need to be in Bellamy’s head to know what he was thinking. “You’ve made mistakes, but your intentions were pure. Every choice you made, you made for your people, for her. Even shooting me twice. As long as that’s the truth, you don’t need redemption.”

“You better hope so.” Bellamy said breaking Jaha’s speech.

“And why’s that?”

“Well, if you’re wrong, and there is a hell,” Bellamy paused, taking one glance over to you, “Then I guess Y/N and I will see you there.”

“Bell! Jaha! I think I found something!” You shouted, looking back at the men to see them in conversation and Bellamy looking at you. You blew off any weird thoughts you had as you beckoned them over to the bunker entrance you found.

Bellamy finally caught up, looking down at the stairs before beginning his way down. “Stay behind me.” He told you as you nodded, helping him pull the leaves and tree branches out of the way. “Watch your head.” Bellamy warned you as you ducked, seeing him having paused to make sure you were good. You sent him a grin as he kept moving, pushing through the cobwebs blocking the room.

“Is this it?” You asked moving some of your own cobwebs out of your face and off of Bellamy. You moved towards the door, Bellamy’s light on a skeleton sitting right on the ground buried in webs as he squatted.

He noticed a pendent, picking it up and dusting it before turning it over. “From the ashes, we will rise.” He read, glancing back at you and Jaha. He stood up, handing Jaha the pendent. “Not this guy.” He motioned to the dead guy as you bit your lip, agreeing with Bellamy with the tilt of your head.

Jaha turned the thing over in his hands, roman numerals written on the other side. “The 11th seal. Their faith was based on 12 seals, followers can level up by unlocking them one at a time. Only those who reach level twelve could achieve salvation.”

This was the bunker. You moved your flashlight around the room, seeing the door sealed shut. “Think that’s why they didn’t let him in?” You asked, motioning to the door.

“I was right.” Jaha whispered, quickly moving to check out the door.

“Wait, what if they’re still in there?” You asked Bellamy. His eyes widened.

He started pounding on the door. “Hey! Is anyone there?” he yelled but no one answered.

“I guess not.” You mumbled. If no one was in there, and no one came out, where did everyone go?

“It’s still sealed.” Jaha said as he ran his flashlight up and down the door’s edges.

“There’s no locks or handles.”

Jaha nodded. “That’s because it was designed to be opened from the inside.

��Right and why wasn’t it?” you asked rhetorically.

“How about from the outside by someone with a rover?” Bellamy sent you a smirk as your frown turned into a grin.

Well, this should be good.

Jaha tied the rover to the unopened door and Bellamy hopped in the drivers’ seat as you stood outside the rover. Within just a few minutes, something broke.

“Was that it?” You called out.

“I don’t know.” Bellamy told you, stepping out of the rover. “Let’s go check it out.”

You all made way down once more, Jaha leading the way and sighing when he saw the door open. “It worked!” He told you both. You followed him inside, the room far to dark to see in even with your flashlights. Bellamy pulled a flare out his pocket, lighting it up and shining it into the room, lighting the bunker up with the red light. You stopped squinting, finally able to see but you wished you hadn’t been able to. Skeletons covered the floor as far as you could see, blood not only covering the ground but the walls and dripping down from the ceiling. “This can’t be.”

“It wasn’t sealed. The radiation would’ve killed them in days.” Bellamy said, sending Jaha a side eyed glare. “This won’t save anyone.”

You stayed silent, looking up to Bellamy and both of you know exactly what this meant for your salvation.

---

The door to the Throne room opened to Octavia marching in, a sack in her hand as she marched up to Roan at the Throne. Roan dismissed his guard, leaving him alone with Octavia. Octavia waited for the door to close before dropping the sack on the ground and uncovering the chopped off head to Roan.

“He was one of the looters. You were wrong about the Flamekeeper.” Octavia lied to the King, passing this now deceased man off as the thief.

“And the Flame?”

She reached into her back pocket, pulling out the broken necklace pieces and handing them to Roan. “Destroyed before I could kill him. I’m sorry.”

Roan took the pieces, holding them in his hand before tossing them into the fire next to him. “It’ll be more dangerous now. More people will have to die to keep me in power.” Octavia nodded. “Not that that bothers you, Skairipa.”

“People fell in line behind the Flame. Now they’ll fall in line behind the sword.”

“Let’s hope your people find a way to save us before they have to.” He told her, his rule slipping out of his fingers. “Get out.”

---

Emori was sleeping as Murphy arrived back at the cave, jolting her from her sleep as she smiled at Murphy. She pushed herself out of the little bed she had and Murphy hugged her the moment he could.

“John, what’s wrong?” She asked once she pulled away.

Murphy sighed, looking down at her. “It looks like we may need my people after all. There’s a storm coming and when it hits, we need to be on the right side of that door.”

Emori’s eyes were wide as she understood. “So… we make ourselves useful.”

Murphy grinned, happy she was catching on. “Yeah. Exactly. I’ve already started working on Abby. Come on, I’ll explain on the way.” He kicked out their fire and the couple were on their way to Arkadia.

---

It was another silent drive as Bellamy took the three of you back to Arkadia, ready to break the news to your friends. As soon as Bellamy parked the rover, you spoke up.

“I’ll go tell Clarke. Help her make… the list.” You started to climb out of the rover before Bellamy grabbed your hand.

You let him pull you back into seat to look at him. “We’ll get through this.”

You let yourself smile and nod. “I know. You promised, remember.” He tried to smile, but it didn’t last long and neither did yours. Of course, Bellamy remembered the promise he made you a few days ago, the only problem is he had no idea how to keep it.

You finally got out of the rover, looking around to all the working Arkers before heading inside to find Clarke. You stopped by her room first, seeing no sign of the girl before moving onto the Chancellors Office.

Clarke was sat at the desk scrolling through a tablet with the door wide open as you leaned against the doorframe. You knocked on the door, the blonde’s head shooting up but she calmed when it was only you.

“You’re back.” She stated the obvious, picking up on your sad expression. “What happened?

“Raven was right. The bunker… failed.” Clarke stayed silent, really hoping you and Bellamy would come back with news that she wouldn’t have to make a list of 100 survivors. You looked around, seeing the mess Clarke had made on the desk and table. “Have you been in here all day?”

She nodded. “I’ve been going through medical records, trying to figure out who’s life is worth more.” The last part of her sentence obviously gave her stress as she buried her head in her hands, rubbing her temples.

“Well then. What can I do?”

She wasn’t really expecting you to keep up your offer, especially not after just getting back. “You don’t-“

You shook your head to stop her. “I put my faith in Jaha, it didn’t work. I said I’d help you, so stop being so stubborn and let me help.” She seemed to appreciate the help. “Thank you. Now what am I doing?

“I’ve been going through archive files all day, trying to figure out who’s healthy and who’s a liability.” She told you as you grabbed another tablet, taking seat on the couch. “Why don’t you go through and make a list of everyone’s jobs. We need people who have the abilities to-“

“Keep people alive?” you finished for her, seeing her send you a tight-lipped smile. You started your search through everyone’s files, ignoring the unimportant parts as you documented what they had to offer. You sighed as you headed to main list of files scrolling through for the next group. You didn’t get very far before the name of a group of files got your attention.

Floated: 2140-2142

You paused, your thumb sitting over the file. People floated between 2140-2142. That was your parents. You snuck a look up at Clarke, seeing her preoccupied with jotting down some of the 100 as you clicked the group open, names of all the deceased popping up by last names.

You scrolled down to your last name, stopping as soon as you saw your parents’ names written on the screen. You must have been still for a little too long because Clarke had looked up, seeing you frozen.

“You find something?” She asks you and you scramble to close the records, feeling like you were getting caught doing something you weren’t supposed to.

“No, uh nothing.” You told her once the files were close. “Just spaced. Long day.” You lied. She nodded, understanding for she had a long day herself.

“Well, feel free to get some rest.” She told you. You shrugged, pushing your parents to the back of your mind.

“I’m fine.” You assured her even though you weren’t sure of it yourself. For the last week, since you had slept in Bellamy’s bed, you’ve woken up quite the number of times to that same voice in your head. You didn’t know where it came from, but you assumed, from seeing Lexa, it had something to do with the Flame. You glanced up at Clarke. If anyone knew anything about the Flame side effects, it was Clarke, right? She was the one who was in a relationship with Lexa before she died. “Hey, Clarke?” She looked up at you, expecting a question about the files. Instead you sat there, regretting not thinking about the question before hand. “Did Lexa uh, ever mention voices? In her head?” Clarke was taken back by the question about her ex-lover, shifting in her seat as she thought about it. You regretted the question as soon as you asked it.

“She didn’t mention anything.” Clarke was straightforward as you nodded, adverting your eyes. “Why do you ask?”

You stayed quiet. If you told Clarke, what would she say? What’s even happening? Would she even be able to help? “I think the Flame’s messing with my head.” You blurted out, closing your eyes in fear of Clarke’s reaction.

When Clarke didn’t say anything, you slowly peaked one eye open, seeing the girl staring at you in confusion. “Messing with your head how?”

You let out a lengthy sigh. “I don’t know. I just, I’m hearing voices- well, a voice so far. I’ve never heard him I don’t think, in my life.”

“And you think the Flame-“

“There’s more.” You continued. She let you continue. “That day Bellamy and I went to Ice Nation and you made the speech, I saw-“ You stopped yourself, biting your tongue. If this was just in your head, should you be telling Clarke? Especially as she’s putting together a list of 100 people for the new world.

“You saw?”

“Lexa.” You finished. Clarke’s face hardened as she looked at you.

“That’s not funny.” She told you, turning back to her list. You were confused, watching her blow it off.

“Clarke, I’m not being funny. I saw Lexa that day, the night before was the first time I heard the voice.” You tried telling her, putting the tablet down and moving towards the desk.

She watched you, studying your actions before giving in. “These… side effects,” She called them, “They started a week ago?” You nodded. “And you didn’t tell anyone?” You shook your head. “Why not?”

You guffawed. “Oh yeah and say what? ‘Hey, remember that time we stuck a computer chip in my brain? Yeah I think something went wrong because now I can hear a man saying my name and I saw my dead friend.’ People will think I’m even more crazy than they already do.”

“You can’t hide this stuff, Y/N! Your brain is important! If the Flame is giving you side effects then you should’ve let my mom and I know.”

You bit your lip, knowing Clarke was right and you shouldn’t have waited so long. “I know. I’m sorry. I just figured there’s more concerning issues at the moment than what’s going on in my head.” You moved back to the couch, settling down with a groan as Clarke watched you.

“Well, can you hear the voice now?” She asked.

“No, usually it happens when I’m trying to sleep. That’s why I haven’t been getting a lot lately.” You told her, continuing your work on your tablet. “Can we just forget I brought this up, at least for now, just until we finished this list?”

Clarke fulfilled your request, both of you working in silence until you let out a yawn a few hours later. You laid down on the couch completely and continue working. Bellamy had shown up eventually, grabbing a tablet and joining you as you started to fall asleep.

You started to shift in your sleep, unknown to Clarke and Bellamy that the voice was making himself known once again. Bellamy looked down at you, shrugging off his jacket and wrapping it around you. In your sleep, Bellamy’s scent filled your senses, unknowingly making his way into your thoughts as the voice quieted, letting you get in a quick nap.

Clarke was finishing up the list, 98 spots taken and 2 more remained. She looked over to Bellamy, his head falling to the side as he sat on the floor by your head, falling asleep himself. 2 spots left, 3 people in the room.

She turned to the paper, knowing what she had to do.

99. Bellamy Blake

She looked at the last spot, glancing at you before looking outside. If she put her name down, she sentences someone else to death.

She started crying, trying to keep it quiet for the two of you to sleep, but Bellamy heard her and pushed himself up. He spared a glance at you, seeing you face the back of the couch before he walked over to her.

He glanced down at the list, seeing his name as number 99 and spot 100 wide open. “If I’m on that list, you’re on that list.”

“Bellamy I can’t.” She cried out.

“Write it down.” Clarke shook her head. “Write it down or I will.” When Clarke still didn’t move, Bellamy took the pen from her and wrote her name.

100. Clarke Griffin

He hadn’t scanned the list before he wrote it, only knowing Clarke hadn’t put her name down because that was who Clarke was. Letting his eyes read down the list, he felt his heart stop.

“Where’s Y/N?” Clarke didn’t say anything, looking at the list as he asked again. “Where’s Y/N?”

“Bellamy.”

“No. Why isn’t she on here?” He tried to keep himself quiet, but like Clarke and her tears, his voice woke you up.

“Bellamy.”

“Add her. Take my name off and give my spot to her.” He looked to you, feeling his voice crack as Clarke shook her head. “Do it!”

“I can’t!” Clarke tried not to shout to loud, trying not to wake you as they both remained unaware you were listening in. “She’s a liability.”

Bellamy scoffed. “A liability? She’s a liability?” He didn’t know what to say, if anyone deserved to be in the list it was you. You were one of the strongest people he knew, he wasn’t going to let you die, especially if he had to live knowing he was alive instead.

“She’s unpredictable. She could go off and not think about the outcomes. She could create a hostile environment.” You laid on the couch, listening to who you thought was your friend list off reasons as too why you couldn’t be allowed to live. “She’s my friend and I know how you feel about her, but 5 years with the knowledge of what’s she’s done and how’s acted is a long time.”

“You don’t know anything about what she’s done or what she’s been through! I promised her, Clarke. I promised she’d make it through this.” Bellamy slammed his hand on the table and it took everything in you not to jump at the surprise. It was silent for a minute and you heard Bellamy’s deep breaths. “Just take my name off and replace it with hers.”

Clarke stared down at the list. She picked up the pen, crossing out a name and replacing it with yours.

98. Y/N Y/L/N

They both looked at the list, the recently crossed out Kim Ginsberg was now replaced with your name.

“If I’m on the list, you’re on the list.” Clarke repeated Bellamy’s words. You waited for Bellamy to object, knowing if both Clarke and Bellamy were on the last and you were on the list… you just took someone’s shot at survival. Someone who deserved it much more than you. “What now?” Clarke asked Bellamy.

“Now we put it away and hope we never have to use it.”

Clarke smiled. “You still have hope?”

Bellamy looked at you, watching you seemingly sleep peacefully with his jacket as a blanket as he smiled. “We still breathing?” Clarke looked between you and Bellamy, enjoying the soft expression on his face before he turned away from you and squeezed her shoulder. “Get some sleep.” He told her. She nodded as he left, pausing by your side for a second before moving out of the room.

You listened for Bellamy’s footsteps to disappear and heard what sounded like Clarke folding a paper. You slowly turned over, making a little bit of noise as you sat up to let Clarke know you were awake. She was alarmed when you woke up, hoping you had just woken up.

“He’s right you know, you should get some sleep.” You told her as Clarke let her head fall.

“You heard all that.” She wanted a confirmation as you nodded, making her feel even worse. “How much?”

“Enough to know that you need to take my name off that list.”

“Y/N-“

“Don’t. You were right.” You told her. “As much as it hurts to hear, you’re right.”

“What about Bellamy? He’d never forgive me.”

“He’d get over it.” You assured her. You hoped he would. He had to because there was no way you were taking someone else’s spot. You knew Clarke wouldn’t change it right away, but you weren’t going to give on it. “You’ve been in here all day?” you asked her again and received a nod. “So, you wouldn’t happen to know how Floukru’s doing?”

As soon as you brought it up, Clarke and you started towards the med bay. You decided to wear Bellamy’s jacket, finding it comfier than yours at the minute and still smelling like him. You followed Clarke as she entered first.

You both stopped as Clarke slowed down, looking at the dead all covered by blankets. You listened to Luna, hearing her speak to the recently deceased.

“From water you were born, to water you return.”

You pushed past Clarke who stopped to wake her mom as you approached Luna, careful to respect her distance. “Luna?”

She lifted her head, walking in the dark to you, but the moment she stepped into the light, you were shocked. The radiation burns on Luna’s skin were almost gone unlike the rest of her clan, she was still alive.

“Impossible.” Abby whispered once she woke up, seeing what you were.

Raven woke up as well, coming to stand next to you as Clarke stood on your other side. “We didn’t treat her.” Raven pointed out, not believing the radiation burns would subside like this.

Abby checked her over, feeling her fever go down. “Her body’s rejecting the radiation all on its own.” She pulled up a chair for Luna, letting her take a seat. “I’d like to run some tests.” Luna nodded and gave Abby permission. She called Jackson over and the man was as surprised as the rest of you all to see Luna getting better. “There’s only one variable. There’s only one thing that separates Luna from the others.”

Abby looked her daughter, waiting for Clarke to catch on. Once she did, she gasped, turning to see you with wide eyes, having figured it out as well. “Nightblood.”

You all looked at Luna, her eyes moving between yours and Clarke’s as you let out a single chuckle. “From the ashes, we will rise.” You said, repeating the mantra you’ve heard so many times that day.

---

You laid in your bed that night staring at the ceiling. The days events replayed in your brain on a loop, starting from Raven telling you there was only 2 months left before the end of the world all the way to finding out your salvation might not be a bunker or the Ark, but the blood that ran through a living person.

You tried to get to sleep, thankful the voice wasn’t coming back, but maybe that was because you weren’t tired. In all honesty, one aspect of today’s events stuck with you the most.

You climbed out of your bed, slipping your shoes on and grabbing Bellamy’s jacket you still hadn’t returned. No one was in the hallway as you stepped outside, sneaking through the halls until you arrived at the Chancellor’s office. You entered the password on the keypad, hearing the door unlock before you slipped inside. You looked around, finding the tablet you had used earlier on the couch right where you left it. You picked it up, the device powering on and lighting you up in the dark as you swiped through without a care in the world. You opened the Floated file, scrolling down once again until you saw your parents name. This time there wasn’t Clarke here to stop you.

You opened up their files and they popped on the screen simultaneously. You stared at the faces of your parents, a pair of faces you hadn’t seen in10 years. You felt yourself tear up as you fell onto the couch, bringing a hand up to your mouth as tears started down your face. You looked at their pictures just a little longer before moving onto their information. You didn’t need to, in fact the moment you did you wished you would scroll back up and see their faces again, but then something in your dad’s file caught your eye.

Infertile

You looked again, and again, and again until you read the word 100 times but it still made no sense.

The light to room, the one you left off, turned on as you jumped, looking towards the door to see Clarke standing in front of it.

“What are you doing here?” She asked you, noticing the tears in your eyes as she got closer and she began to get worried.

“Clarke? What’s this?” You turned the screen, letting her see your parents’ information on it.

She squinted her eyes. “I’m not sure.” She got closer, making out your parents’ name on the screen before she was even seated. “Is that your parents?”

You nodded your head, wiping away your tears. “Yeah. Yeah it is, but what I want to know is why the hell it says my dad can’t have children.”

“What are you talking about?” Clarke stopped you, knowing however you’re reacting right now was not good.

“I’m talking about this!” you shouted, shoving the device into her hands. You got off the couch, pacing around the room as she read the file, trying to understand. “Clarke, I’m not a doctor. I don’t know what all this is, but he can’t be infertile, right? I mean, he had me!”

“No, no, of course.” She assured you, helping calm your freak out only a little. “It could have been updated after you were born.”

You nodded, taking slow breaths before Clarke’s face fell into one of confusion, looking back at the device. “Clarke?”

“They test before that, for infertility.” She mumbled, remembering her learning of the testing before she was arrested. “If your dad was infertile, he would’ve been tested before you were born.”

You couldn’t process this. You stopped pacing, looking at your friend and talking as slow as you could. “Clarke. What the hell are you trying to tell me?”

“We should talk to my mom.” She tried to rush out of the office, but you grabbed her arm, refusing to look at her in fear letting your tears run loose again.

“Just say it.” You whispered, wanting her to just get it over with. “Say it Clarke!”

“Y/N-“ You snapped your head to her, not stopping the tears as Clarke swallowed back her fears. “Ok.” She began. “Ok…. I think- I think your dad was infertile before you were conceived. I think- I don’t think your dad is your real father.” You didn’t know what to do, you could only stand there listening to Clarke tell you the one thing you were absolutely terrified of. Clarke’s heart ached for you. “I’ll get my mom. She’ll know.” You didn’t feel yourself let go of Clarke, but suddenly she was gone and you were all alone. You could feel your breathing start to increase, your head spinning as you feel to the ground, pulling your knees to your chest and letting out every sob you can that racked through your body. You couldn’t breathe, but you couldn’t focus on that because there was one thought rushing through your head.

Who the hell were you?

A/N: I love feedback! 

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[imaginaryelle]

Would you do anything with Wei Ying and the 4 main Juniors like either a fic or just how they interact in the show compared to the older generations

(Many thanks to @miyuki4s for the awesome beta work!)

*

It’s a banquet. A banquet Wei Wuxian was not, technically, invited to, but which he is attending nevertheless because no one in charge figured out he wasn’t supposed to be there until he’d already been offered food.

Such kind servants the Yao Sect has. Such a contrast to their sour Sect Leader, who keeps staring into his wine as if it’s turned to vinegar on his lips.

Wei Wuxian decides not to test his welcome too long—yes, he had been rather useful on the night hunt this afternoon, and yes, his role in Jin Guangyao’s downfall and the known fact of the Chief Cultivator’s favor do buy him a certain amount of social standing with the major Sects, but he’s not going to sit in a man’s hall all night mocking him with his very presence.

Well, he might.

Okay, he definitely would, except the wine is merely decent and the conversation is stilted and, frankly, boring. It would be bearable if he was getting to watch Lan Wangji endure it as well, but alas, the Chief Cultivator has pressing business in Yunmeng, apparently, which must be quite pressing indeed for Jiang Cheng to ask for him and which Wei Wuxian is certain would only be made more difficult by his own presence, even if he does still worry about Jiang Cheng, somewhere in a not-so-secret corner of his heart. So instead of making small talk or setting off into the night he takes his wine and bows out of the hall to Sect Leader Yao’s disgruntled nod of acknowledgment and goes in search of better entertainment.

He finds it just around the side of the disciples’ dormitories, behind a stand of magnolia trees.

Lan Jingyi, Ouyang Zizhen and several other vaguely familiar young members of various clans are sitting in what looks to be a small garden, huddled around what is quite probably either illicitly procured food or, more probably, wine. There’s a flash of gold near the center, and Wei Wuxian is able to answer the slightly-nagging question of where his nephew disappeared to halfway through the feast. Fairy, thankfully, is nowhere in sight. He wonders, for just a moment, whether they purposefully left Lan Sizhui’s reasonable voice out of this clearly ill-advised venture before he catches sight of him half-hidden behind Lan Jingyi’s shoulder, a look of fond exasperation on his face.

Wei Wuxian takes a drink of his own wine and prepares to keep walking—there’s probably a rooftop somewhere with a good view of both the garden and the waning moon to keep him entertained without disturbing anyone else’s fun.

“Ah! Wei-qianbei!” It’s one of the ones Wei Wuxian doesn’t quite remember who greets him, which is a little embarrassing, but the boy’s wearing Yao sect robes and looks like he lost a fight with a thorn bush—ah. Young master Liang Fai, who got a little too up close and personal with a malevolent spirit this afternoon. He beckons Wei Wuxian closer, either ignoring or not noticing those of his companions who freeze in place—Lan Jingyi and two other Lans try valiantly to look as if they have not touched alcohol and Lan Sizhui offers up a slightly chagrined smile—or those who are making only mildly obvious efforts to stop him. Jin Ling looks for a moment as if he might bolt through a nearby bush. “Wei-qianbei, can you teach us that talisman you used today? The one that banished the mist.”

A few of the others actually do look interested in that, even Jin Ling, at least until Wei Wuxian shakes his head.

“You can achieve the same effect with a basic spirit-repelling talisman,” he informs them. Blood is stronger than ink, of course, but he remembers their eagerness in Yi City. Best not to mention that. “It’s nothing special.”

“What about your ward-breaker then?” Lan Jingyi asks. Wei Wuxian arches an eyebrow at him.

“Hanguang-jun did a lecture on it,” Lan Sizhui puts in, soft-spoken and reasonable as ever. “On your inventions, like spirit-attraction flags. He said you had a ward-breaker talisman.”

“I might,” Wei Wuxian allows, though it was never really a secret. “How good’s your brushwork?”

The next half hour is a delightful rush of fresh ink, waving paper and bright enthusiasm. Enthusiasm, of course, is key in the creation of this particular talisman. Enthusiasm, focus, and delicate control of a brush. A few of them can produce a handful of sparks in their first tries. Jin Ling and Lan Sizhui each manage one butterfly, to their evident glee and Wei Wuxian’s lavish praise. Ouyang Zizhen manages a quietly smug three, to general acclaim. They finish the wine, and someone steals more, and an hour goes by and the moon rises higher and then Jin Ling, a little flushed but entirely determined, asks:

“Can you tell us about the Sunshot Campaign?”

Everyone goes quiet. Wei Wuxian laughs, too loud in the long shadows. He is burningly aware that Lan Sizhui—Wen Yuan—is sitting somewhere on his left.

“Surely you’ve learned all about that already,” he says. His smile feels stretched too-thin across his face.

“Not really.” Jin Ling frowns. Wei Wuxian can’t decide if the expression makes him look more like Jin Zixuan or Jiang Cheng, but it’s familiar frustration either way. “Jiujiu won’t tell me anything and—” he stops, lips pressing tight together.

“There are a few stories,” Ouyang Zizhen says in a sort of hushed whisper that makes everyone lean in closer. “but it’s strange, they’re always—”

“It’s always the same stories,” Liang Fai says. “No matter who you ask. It’s always about how awful Wen Ruohan and his sons were, and then the Yin Iron, and the razing of Cloud Recesses and Lotus Pier. Then the Sects rise and Lian—and Meng Yao goes undercover, and Chifeng-zun lays siege to Nightless City.”

“My father always says the Wens reached too far,” Ouyang Zizhen adds. “That they were arrogant and thought they held the authority of the Heavens themselves. But when I ask what happened before the war, or why they attacked Cloud Recesses, he just talks in circles. Sometimes I’m not even sure he knows the answer at all.”

“There’s not much detail,” says Lan Jingyi. “Honestly, I’ve gotten more out of merchants and kids playing in the street than most cultivators. There are more stories about you, really. After. When you were at the Burial Mounds.”

Wei Wuxian sighs. Of course there are. Just as now, when there are so many stories of Jin Guangyao, once more Meng Yao to the vindictive and impressionable, and how people always knew he was up to something. Even at the time, when the events were fresh in everyone’s mind, no one had wanted to remember who the Wens were before the war. If they had, Wei Wuxian might not have been the only one standing by the survivors.

He finds Lan Sizhui’s eyes in the dim moonlight, but Lan Sizhui only stares back at him, as calm and composed as if he’s waiting for a lecture in Cloud Recesses. All the young faces around him are intent and watchful. Waiting. Waiting for him to prove, as he has so many times before, that he’s different from their parents. Because he is, just—maybe not as different as they think.

“It was a war,” he says. “There are better things to talk about. Like—oh, the clouds, the clouds are very nice tonight.”

The clouds are nice. For the record. Worthy of poetry even. But of course these are determined young cultivators. They aren’t just going to let this go.

“It’s when most of them earned their titles,” Jin Ling says. Insists. “And they weren’t—you weren’t—that much older than we are. Not really. What’s so bad that we can’t know it?”

Wei Wuxian remembers a sudden flash of sky, of grass scraping at his scalp and cheek as his brother’s hands closed around his neck. He remembers his sister’s hands, raw and swollen from scrubbing and boiling cloth for bandages. The way Lan Wangji had turned away when he’d asked, and your brother? Your uncle? in the Xuanwu cave. The taste of corpse-dirt in the back of his throat.

There are many, many things that no one should ever have to know. And yet … Jin Ling asks so little of him, in the usual way of things. And not every memory is a weakness their elders will resent.

“What do you know about the Yin Iron?” he asks. It’s a safe enough subject—for one thing, he’s something of an expert, and that’s something he made his peace with long ago. For another, it doesn’t reach too deep into the scars lurking under his skin, and he knows that it has to be part of what Jiang Cheng doesn’t talk about: watching his new recruits, cultivators who trusted and believed in him, become mindless foes with the same face. These young cultivators have seen corpse puppets, but they’ve never seen someone turn before their eyes. Someone they knew and fought alongside. Someone they called brother or sister. He can’t imagine Lan Wangji or anyone else from that time talking about it either.

“It can be used to control corpses,” Lan Jingyi says promptly. “To make them stronger. And used too long, the Yin energy can be damaging to the spirit.”

Wei Wuxian snorts. Of course the Lans would teach that second part. He wonders if they also teach of Lan Yi’s sacrifice, these days. He picks up his brush again and sketches an incomplete array—unbalanced and open ended. Energy ever re-directed against its source.

“Have you thought about what control of corpses means, on a battlefield without Yin Iron of your own? Where every fallen ally can become an enemy?”

The sudden stillness around him would indicate that no, they haven’t. More than one looks like his wine is not agreeing with him.

Wei Wuxian picks up another piece of paper and starts a new talisman—fire, to burn away impurities. “There’s a lot I really don’t remember.” He laughs a little and lights the paper with a twist of his fingers. “My memory has always been bad.”

There is quiet as the paper burns to ash and the night breeze sweeps even that away. Wei Wuxian reaches for the wine and pours himself another drink, and that seems to break the moment at least a little. Jin Ling looks particularly disappointed, and Wei Wuxian is debating telling the one or two actually decent stories he has of Jin Zixuan when someone else speaks first.

“But, Wei-qianbei …” Ouyang Zizhen looks around at his friends and Sect brothers, and then back to Wei Wuxian, determination hardening his features. “If we don’t know how it happened, how will we know how to stop it happening again?”

There are nods around the circle, and Wei Wuxian takes another drink to swallow back the tightness rising in his throat. “I’m really not the right person to ask,” he says.  It’s a very noble sentiment they’re nurturing of course, but the world had turned on him much the same way it had on the Wens, and —ahah. He gestures at Lan Jingyi and Lan Sizhui, triumphant.

“Hanguang-jun,” he says. They stare at him.

“Hanguang-jun doesn’t talk about the war either.” Lan Sizhui’s gaze doesn’t waver, trained on Wei Wuxian.

“There are innumerable things our esteemed Chief Cultivator never puts into words,” Wei Wuxian agrees with a languid wave of his hand, “but does that really mean you don’t know what he thinks?”

Lan Sizhui blinks, then smiles at him.

“The seminars,” says Jin Ling. “He’s setting up—I don’t know, really, lectures and trainings and things, in Gusu and Caiyi, inviting people to speak or visit from all over. Jiujiu says he’ll probably be pushing the rest of us to do that too, soon.”

Ouyang Zizhen nods. “The watchtowers were Jin Guangyao’s project after the war, right? My father says Hanguang-jun wants something better than watchtowers. That he’s working on a new talisman, like the Jin Clan’s butterfly messengers.”

Jin Ling frowns, his hands tightening around his sword. “He hasn’t mentioned the butterfly messengers to me.”

“It’s Hanguang-jun. I don’t think he said anything about it to anyone, Father just saw him writing talismans that turn into pigeons after that conference focused on the towers.”

“Sect Leader Yao doesn’t like how he’s treating the smaller sects.” Liang Fai turns his helmet between his hands, his expression thoughtful. “He says the Chief Cultivator will recognize even just two people as a new sect, if they own so much as a single house to train out of. It’s making the bigger sects nervous.”

“I’m not nervous,” says Jin Ling, scowling at him. “And neither is the Jiang Sect.”

“Ah, ah!” Wei Wuxian interrupts before tensions can draw any higher and waves his hands in the space between Jin Ling and Liang Fai. “Let’s talk about something else. Right?”

Jin Ling looks away, but the conversation doesn’t change. 

“He’s worried about communication and response time,” says Lan Jingyi. “He’s always said it’s a cultivator’s job to go where the need is.”

“If more people can identify a problem, or know the right techniques, it won’t get out of hand,” Ouyang Zizhen agrees. “And with more sects, there are more cultivators in more places. It makes sense.”

“He travels.” All eyes shift to Lan Sizhui, who looks only at Wei Wuxian. “That’s part of what you mean, isn’t it? When Lianfang-zun was Chief Cultivator, everyone went to Lanling to speak with him. To the home of the Jin Sect. But Hanguang-jun doesn’t accept as many visiting parties. Most of the time, he goes to them.”

Lan Jingyi’s face scrunches up, doubtful. “I thought that was because he didn’t want to host so many banquets.”

“He still has to attend just as many,” Lan Sizhui points out. “Maybe more, even.”

“He’s staying neutral,” Jin Ling says, sudden and with an expression like he’s even surprising himself. “He can’t speak for Gusu Lan. That’s why Grandmaster Qiren is still at every conference. Because he’s Chief Cultivator, but not Sect Leader.”

That seems to be some sort of breaking point—several people start talking at once, and Wei Wuxian slowly eases himself out of the circle; he’s not needed anymore, and he should probably see himself out before Sect Leader Yao feels forced to offer him a place to sleep. Also, he’s out of wine.

Lan Sizhui meets him at the gates.

“Tell him we’re happy to help, with anything.”

Wei Wuxian frowns at him, confused. “Tell who?”

“Hanguang-jun. When you see him.” Lan Sizhui smiles and pets Little Apple’s nose. “Tell him we want to help. Even Jin Ling, though he might grumble about it.”

Wei Wuxian feels a sudden pang of homesickness—for the familiar walls of Lotus Pier, and for Lan Wangji’s steady presence at his side. But traveling to Yunmeng is no better an idea now that it was this afternoon.

“Ah, A-Yuan,” he says, “you can tell him yourself. You’ll probably see him before I do.” 

Lan Sizhui looks doubtful, but he doesn’t argue. He seems to hesitate a moment, and then he sort of lunges into Wei Wuxian’s side and hugs him. 

“What—”

“Thank you,” Lan Sizhui says as Wei Wuxian tries to figure out what to do with his hands. They’ve only done this a few times, still, and he’s not entirely sure what’s allowed when, and he’s desperately anxious to not mess it up.

“For what?” he asks, settling his free hand on Lan Sizhui’s back. 

“For helping us,” Lan Sizhui says, almost at a whisper, and Wei Wuxian is sure they’re not talking about the gaggle of young cultivators in the garden anymore. He tightens the curl of his arm.

“You don’t need to thank me, A-Yuan. I—”

“Ning-shushu told me a little,” Lan Sizhui interrupts him, the words half-muffled in his collar. “And I’ve heard—I know all the same stories as the rest of them. I mean it. Thank you.”

Wei Wuxian shakes his head, but he doesn’t protest aloud again. Instead he wraps his other arm around Lan Sizhui as well, and tucks his chin over Lan Sizhui’s white-clad shoulder. He watches the gauzy clouds drift slowly across the brightness of the moon and makes a silent promise: 

This time, they’ll do better.

[himluv]

The Meadow, pt. 2

This one is long, and sad. But I love it. I hope you do too. Set directly after Dalish.

And remember, if you want to read from the beginning, I’ve collected these oneshots over at AO3.

The journey to Wycome was long and tense. It took nearly a week to reach the city by ship, and during that time Riallan spoke little. Solas was used to quiet, to traveling for weeks and barely hearing his own voice until he dreamt in some ruin. Even with Riallan they were prone to peaceful bouts of silence. It was comfortable, serene. Calm and soothing when worried minds would rather tie themselves in knots.

That was not the case on this journey. Riallan’s silence was a heavy thing, oppressive and all consuming. He only heard her voice when she spoke to the pair of diplomats Josephine had sent with them, and even then it was void of all the warmth and humor he’d come to expect.

In the dark of night, tucked in the small cabin they shared, Riallan slept with her face pressed to his chest. Some nights she cried, but the closer they drew to the Marches the more she withdrew and the less she wept.

He wasn’t certain it was an improvement.

Once in the city, Riallan’s silent grief transformed to a barely restrained fury. The four of them walked to the inn where Josephine had booked their rooms, Riallan marching ahead of them. She didn’t face him, but he recognized the disapproval that wracked her body at the sight of the lavish inn. The marble floor gleamed beneath their feet as they entered, and with each step he feared her rage would explode from her.

“Ah, Inquisitor,” said the concierge, a tall man with a bushy mustache and a thick brogue. “Welcome to Wycome. The Palisade is honored to serve you.”

She held the man’s gaze until he flushed and cleared his throat. “Lady Montilyet reserved two rooms,” he glanced at their party. “Is that correct?”

The diplomats nodded, but Riallan had other plans. “We only need one,” she said. Her tone begged the man to argue with her, begged the diplomats too. “Whichever is the nicer.” She glanced at the diplomats and added, “I will be sleeping elsewhere.”

“You worship--”

“Inquisitor--”

“I will meet you at the ship after three days,” she said to their companions.

She didn’t even glance at Solas as she walked by and out the door. He wasn’t sure if she was giving him the choice to join her or if she simply assumed he would follow. Honestly, she might not have considered him at all, her perceptions were so clouded with fury and grief.

He followed her out into the cobblestone street and walked beside her without a word. When they left the city and followed the road into the forest, he knew where they would eventually end up.

The smell of smoke met them first. It was faint now, weeks old, but the flavor of ash still tinged the air and filled him with dread. It did not take much creativity for him to imagine the scene they would find in the meadow.

Her meadow.

What he hadn’t expected was an Inquisition agent waiting for them in the trees. The woman bent at the waist, her fist at her heart. “Inquisitor. Lady Nightingale sent me to secure the meadow.”

Riallan’s voice was lifeless. “Did you touch anything?”

“No, Your Worship.” She grimaced. “Only buried the remains as you requested. We were able to identify almost everyone thanks to your descriptions.”

Riallan swallowed and her eyes glistened, but no tears fell. “And Deshanna?”

The agent looked at her feet. “The Keeper rests just outside the camp, with a view of the creek.” She cleared her throat. “The saplings arrived yesterday.” She glanced between Riallan and Solas. “Do you require assistance?”

“No, thank you,” she said. “You may leave us.”

She bowed again. “Of course, Inquisitor.” She cast a knowing glance at Solas, then she vanished into the woods. If the agent actually left them, he would eat his shirt. He had a feeling Leliana would not let the Inquisitor out of her sight for awhile.

Riallan made to continue on into the meadow, but she paused at the brush of his fingers on her arm. When she didn’t look at him, he said, “Vhenan…”  

“We don’t have time for this,” she said, but there was no heat in her voice. “We have almost thirty trees to plant and only three days to do it.”

“Ria.” He tugged on her arm. “Look at me.”

She turned to face him, silent tears tracking her cheeks, but said nothing.

“What are you thinking?”

She took a shuddering breath. “Too many things.”

“Drith ma, vhenan.”

She closed her eyes and let the words pour from her. “That I should have been here. That I could have helped. That I’ll never forgive myself for being gone so long. That I’ll never hear my maela’s voice again. That I’ll never get to introduce you to her. That I never wanted to share the meadow with you like this.”

She took a deep, terrified breath and whispered, “That none of this would have happened if I’d had the decency to just die in the Temple of Sacred Ashes.”

Her words, her fears, all the horrible grief she carried in her heart brought a sting to his eyes. He blinked to keep the tears at bay; it would hardly help if he started crying too. He wanted to comfort her, to tell her that he was glad she yet lived, that the world would be poorer for her loss, but he knew she wasn’t ready to hear them. In this moment she would gladly give her life if it meant it would bring her clan back.

There was nothing he could say that would change that. So, instead, he laced his fingers through hers and brought her trembling knuckles to his lips. “Come vhenan,” he said. “Let’s put your clan to rest.”

The days were long, the work of digging and planting trees a physical labor he hadn’t experienced in a long time. But he made no complaint, even as the heat threatened to suffocate him and the sun burned his skin. Across the meadow, Riallan had stripped down to her leggings and breast band, sweat glistening on her skin. She hadn’t cried since they entered the ruined camp. The sight of the charred and broken aravels, massacred halla scattered around them, had brought her to her knees, but once the shock wore off, anger and purpose fueled her.

She had too much work to do and now that indomitable focus he so admired served her well.

If the days were long, then the nights were eternity. Despite the back-breaking work, Riallan hardly slept. She kept vigil at the fire, her eyes distant as she succumbed to memories.

“It’s fitting,” she said on the third night. Firelight flickered on her face, casting her green eyes in shadow. She met his gaze for a fleeting moment, then looked out toward the creek. “My parents and sister are buried here.”

He had never heard her speak of any other family besides Deshanna. He’d assumed some sort of tragedy made her keep them to herself. His silence was invitation enough for her to continue.

“Mamae died in childbirth. Twins are hard even when one of the babies isn’t breached.”

“I did not know you were a twin,” he said, which was silly. Of course he didn’t, she’d never once mentioned it.

She nodded. “Maela said we were identical, and that the world simply wouldn’t have been able to handle the both of us.” She smiled at that, a sad and bitter thing. “Raena was stillborn. Mamae wouldn’t stop bleeding, no matter what Deshanna tried.” She shrugged. “Papae never recovered. He went on a hunt and didn’t return. One of our hunters found him days later hanging from a tree.”

Solas watched her and felt true fear claw at his chest. The way she said it all, blithe and unconcerned. As if she’d said it a million times before, as if she felt not a single word that passed over her lips. There was a detachment to her he had never seen, as if her spirit would simply float away if it weren’t for the body rooting her to the earth.

Riallan stood suddenly and held her hand out to him. “Walk with me?”

He’d grown accustomed to her whiplash moods these past days. Her emotions were powerful and fleeting, making her a tempest of fury and grief one moment, and the still of a moonless night the next. The best he could do for her was to be the rock her tides crashed against, steady and unflinching in the brunt of her storm.

“Of course,” he said, and let her pull him to his feet. On their way to the bank of the creek, they passed the only grave that had yet to be graced with a tree. Riallan avoided Deshanna’s burial site, either because she wanted to honor her grandmother last or because she was dreading the ritual. Probably both.

When they reached the creek she settled down onto the bank and stretched out on her back. Solas followed her lead. The night was warm but the sea breeze was cool and refreshing, the sky above them clear and bright with stars.

He closed his eyes and focused on his other senses. The smell of the salt in the air doing its part to scour the ashy tang of death from the meadow. The ripple and babble of the creek as the cool, clear water tumbled over the stones that made its bed. The sway and hush of leaves in the trees promising a new sort of life after death.

It took him a moment to notice the change in Riallan’s breathing beside him. He’d slipped into a meditative state as he absorbed the meadow, but the hitch in her breath, the sharp, broken, shuddering sound as she struggled to control herself wrenched his eyes open.

“Vhenan?”

She covered her face with her hands and shook her head. When he reached for her she rolled away from him, curling in on herself as terrible sobs wracked her body. He followed her, curved his body around hers, and held her as grief tore her apart.

Riallan had cried a lot in the last week. Tears that came fast and hard, then dried just as quickly. Soft, trickling tears that hardly anyone noticed before she dabbed them away. Quaking, shaking tears that left little evidence on her face, but told the tale of her grief in the tremors of her body. All of those tears had been cried, and yet none of them bore the true weight of her loss.

There, on the bank of her favorite place in the world, Riallan’s grief was finally set free. She shuddered and sobbed, gasping for air and choking on tears until she was nearly sick. But Solas did not let go of her. He kept one arm around her middle, holding her back to his chest, while the other brushed the hair from her forehead in soothing strokes.

He did not shush her. He did not whisper comforting things or try to convince her that everything would be all right, no matter how much his heart ached for her. She had just lost her entire family, her people. Her clan. He would not diminish her grief with his selfish attempts to make her feel better.

He knew how she felt all too well. If he could take that pain from her, he would. But he could not. Like so much else in their lives, she would have to endure.

Solas held her until her tears subsided, until she rolled toward him and pressed her face into his chest. Until her breathing evened out and she abandoned the meadow for the solace of the Fade. Once he was certain she was asleep, he carried her back to their little tent and put her to bed. Then he settled in to guard her dreams.

In the morning Riallan insisted on planting Deshanna’s tree on her own. He gave her the privacy she desired, and busied himself with preparing their lunch. He watched over her, from a respectful distance, as she sank down onto her knees. The tree was planted. Riallan wiped at her face, but she didn’t shake, didn’t sob. The tears were quieter once more.

He smiled as she began to speak, her voice too low, the distance too far for him to hear, but the longer she sat there, the more animated her hands became. And then she bowed, put her hands to the dirt, and cried. No maelstrom, no heaving sobs. Just the soft, rocking rhythm of sorrow casting her adrift one more time.

When she joined him at the fire her face was splotched with red, but her eyes were clear. Steady hands took the bowl he offered and she gave him the first smile he’d seen since he found her under the tree in Skyhold’s garden.

“Thank you, Solas,” she said. She looked down at the stew. “For being here. For helping me.”

He dropped the ladle back in the pot, abandoning his own meal to stand before her. He ducked his head to meet her gaze. “There’s no need to thank me, vhenan. I wanted to come.” He kissed her forehead and rubbed his hands up and down her arms.

She lifted her face and pressed a fleeting kiss to his lips. “Still,” she said. “Thank you. I don’t know how I would have done this without you.”

“Ara melava son’ganem, vhenan.” He cupped her face in each hand and looked her in the eyes. “Ar lath ma, Riallan.”

Tears pooled in her green eyes, and though sadness still filled them, something bright and warm edged at the centers.

Solas thought it looked an awful lot like hope.

[patrickstargang]

The Firelord’s Promise (Kyoshi fic)

Chapter 1: Nomad’s Land

Chapter 2: A Bureaucrat’s Word

Chapter 3: Throw Away You Honor, Rally In The Streets

Chapter 4: Unfortunate Truths

Chapter 5: A Change For The Better

Chapter 6: The Roles We’re Given

Chapter 7: To Save A Life

Final Chapter: I’ll Always Be With You

As the groups entered Caldera, there was a noticeable tension in the air. People who passed by looked as if they were in a hurry. Kyoshi assumed it was due to her being in her makeup and headpiece, the signatures of the imposing Earth Kingdom Avatar.

As they continued down into the inner city, the streets got quieter. The unease in the air was palpable. After a while, the group stopped realizing that there was almost no one around.

“Is it usually this quiet?” said Kyoshi.

Rangi shook her head. “No, its never been this empty before. Either everyone left the city or stayed inside.”

The group continued its way through the city, finding more empty streets. As they turned a corner, Kyoshi saw something that made her stomach sink.

Banners were spread over the walls of numerous homes and businesses. They were red, with bold white text. The life from Kyoshi’s face seemed to slowly dissipate as she read the banner.

“THE FIRELORD WILL BE HOSTING A PUBLIC HEARING TONIGHT IN REGARDS TO THE ARREST OF THE SAOWAN CLAN”

It wasn't a confirmation that Zoryu had broken his promise, but the phrasing didn’t give much certainty that he kept it. The only hope that it gave to Kyoshi was that there was still time to make sure he remembers the consequences of betraying her trust.

Kyoshi turned to her group. Everyone seemed to have the same defeated look after reading the banners. Everyone was silent at first but then Wong spoke up. “Well, what do we do now?”

Kyoshi sighed before turning to the Fire Nation royal palace, a distant monolith just like Szeto’s Pillar. “I guess I’m going to have to give Zoryu a little reminder about breaking promises.”

Rangi was unsettled by the implications of that statement, but more than that she was confused. The Fire Nation was quick to action, and yet it doesn’t feel like anyone has taken note of what was going on. Zoryu had waited until now to actually address the issue but it doesn’t seem like anyone had noticed the arrests.

Or maybe they did. Why was there no one in the streets if a public address was about to be made soon.

Then from nowhere, two younger men ran past the group, heading towards a crowd of people blocking part of the streets. Kyoshi was surprised no one noticed sooner. The crowd was facing a battalion of Fire Nation foot soldiers, all of which were on komodo rhinos. The tension Kyoshi felt when they first arrived in Caldera had skyrocketed. She didn’t know why these two groups were facing each other but she was certain of one thing, they were moments away from a potential disaster.

From the battalion, one of the soldiers moved to the front of the line. He removed his helmet, revealing a man who looked as if he were a few years older than Kyoshi with a beard and topknot. “Your rally must disperse now! We understand your complaints but if you do not stand down we will have to disperse you by force! This is your final warning!”

Out of the crowd of Fire Nation citizens, a younger man in ragged clothes moved to the front. He cupped his hands around his mouth to project his voice out to the far off battalion. “Well, this is your final warning! We said before, we do not associate with Chaejin or his conspiracy. We associate with the innocent Saowan and Saowan supporters that you imprisoned without reason. We will not disperse until they are freed!”

Kyoshi was wrong about a disaster being moments away, now it was only seconds away.

The military commander sneered at the crowd before spitting on the ground. “So be it! You all brought this on yourselves.” The commander got back on his komodo rhino and pointed towards the crowd. “Alright men, prepare yourselves.”

Kyoshi almost couldn’t believe what was happening. All her thoughts about talking with the Firelord had been completely erased from her mind, now she needed to stop these people from getting hurt. And she needed to do it now.

She glanced over to Rangi for guidance but she was more mortified than Kyoshi was. Frozen in utter disbelief. She was about to witness the Fire Nation attack its own people. It was like she was staring into pure chaos.

Kyoshi couldn’t wait any longer, so she had to take drastic measures.

Rangi began to open her mouth to speak. “What are they doing!?” As she finished her last word, she noticed Kyoshi wasn’t beside her. She was running straight for the crowd.

With the pace that Kyoshi was sprinting, she looked like she was dust stepping by accident. The protestors huddled together, ready to stand their ground before one of them noticed Kyoshi running towards them.

“Wait, isn’t that the Ava-”

She sped right past them, almost blowing their signs out of their hands. Without a second thought, Kyoshi made a stone barrier between the protestors and the soldiers. The komodo rhinos stopped in their tracks, some sliding before almost hitting the wall. Kyoshi, still running, jumped up to the top of the wall. She found the soldiers in a state of utter confusion.

The commander caught Kyoshi’s gaze. “What is the meaning of this?!”

In an instant, Kyoshi’s mood changed from panic to imposing authority. She stood tall at the top of the barrier. “These people are not harming anyone. I will not allow you to go any further!”

The commander took another look at Kyoshi, starting to make connections in his head. “Ah, so you're the Avatar. Well if you're the supposed protector of the Four Nations, then shouldn’t you be helping us. These troublemakers are desecrating the honor of our Firelord.”

“I am not here to help you threaten the lives of innocent people to preserve your Firelord’s ‘honor’.”

Hushed whispers came from the demonstrators. Kyoshi stood her ground, still holding up the wall. She had prepared for the worst-case scenario, but this wasn’t even close to what she could have imagined. But it didn’t matter now, she had to keep the people safe.

The commander scowled intensely. “You're either with us or against us. Stand down, now!”

Kyoshi responded with a cold, piercing stare. She showed no hint of yielding. “I bow to no one. Especially to the likes of you.”

Outside of her vision, Kirima smiled slyly. The Avatar was still keeping to her daofei code, even if it wasn’t the way she would have thought back when they first inducted her into the group. But her thought subsided as she saw Rangi running towards the commotion. The rest of the group hesitantly followed suit.

The battalion stared down for a moment. The young commander clenched his fist, heat radiating from the palm ready to burst. As the tension between the two grew and grew, the young commander suddenly let loose a flaming stream towards Kyoshi. Some of that panic from before came back into Kyoshi, but she kept her cool as she smoothly slid off the wall and onto the ground. The fire hit the barrier, leaving a steaming ashy mark on the stone.

Kyoshi almost shook the ground as she landed. She found herself face to face with a pack of armored komodo rhinos and their riders. One of the horned beasts dashed towards her, its tail turning to attack. She dodged the tail but noticed it wasn’t aiming for her. It struck the barrier with full force, leaving a crater in the stone structure.

A hint of Kyoshi’s true self emerged as she saw the wall begin to break, a fear that she couldn’t keep it up for long. But she couldn’t show that fear when she faced the soldiers. She had to get rid of the komodo rhinos, and in return, she had to take a risk.

Of all the elements she learned so far, air was the one she had the least experience with. Her time in the Air Temples was short-lived, so she never got a clear grasp on airbending. But she knew a few techniques. Now she was banking on one to give her the upper hand.

Kyoshi took a deep breath, the armored beasts preparing themselves to advance. Her hands slowly spiraled to her chest with quick fluidity. She let them rest there for a moment. Then instead of exhaling, she pushed her hands forward with her fingers extended out. A great wind came from the movement, a wind so strong that it threw some of the soldiers off their komodo rhino. They tumbled down the street like a boulder going down a hill. As the strength of the wind grew, it was able to knock the komodo rhinos off their feet. She had practically knocked down the defense of the entire battalion.

Kyoshi surprised herself with her own power, considering the state it was in last night. But she quickly shifted back to cold authority as she saw there was still one person left. The commander rose from his toppled komodo rhino, his eyes filled with rage.

“Is this a game to you!?” The commander spoke with venom in his words. “We’ve been ordered to handle any Saowan sympathizers, that’s our job, and you think you can just show up and start causing more trouble? Who do you think you are?!”

“She’s the Avatar,” a voice next to Kyoshi spoke. She looked down to her side to find Rangi, her arms crossed. There was a burning intensity in her eyes. “And you have no authority to arrest these people.”

The commander was about to respond until he saw who was speaking. His anger slowly shifted into smugness. “Well, if it isn’t the little lieutenant.”

Rangi’s face stiffened even more. “No need to act unprofessional Commander Jiran.” The girl stepped forward. “At least no more than you already have. We’re here on official decree by Firelord Zoryu and from where I stand your actions are violating his commands.”

Rangi pulled out the letter addressed to Kyoshi, the one that detailed the removal of the Saowans from imprisonment. Jiran took the letter, scanning through it. He chuckled at each passage until he saw the official seal at the bottom. He glanced at both Kyoshi and Rangi with a bitter stare.

“He never told any of us about this……” He took a look at the red banners, some still flapping from the wind of Kyoshi’s airbending. “Is that what this ‘public hearing’ is about.”

“From what I understand, yes.” There was great restraint in the way that Rangi spoke, it was something that Kyoshi had never seen before, at least to this extent. Whoever Jiran was, he must have commanded great respect.

Then Jiran burned the letter in his hand. “But it seems you’ve forgotten one important thing, my little lieutenant. I’m still the authority around here. Whatever I say goes. Not only that, but I outrank you! I outranked when you first joined our military and I outrank you now. You might think being the best from your 'All-Girls Academy' and the Avatar’s personal bodyguard makes you better than me, but trust me it doesn’t. You have no authority over me!”

When Jiran finished his arrogant, meandering rant, Kyoshi almost had her jaw to the floor. She’d never seen anyone have to gall to talk to her like that, not since the incident at North Chung-Ling. Kyoshi felt a wave of burning anger start to rise to the surface, she wanted to wipe this Jiran guy off of the face of the Earth. But she waited for Rangi to respond.

The firebender just stood there, silent at first. Jiran’s smug smile grew at the silence until he saw Rangi’s face again. She didn’t respond with the defeat and disdain that he was hoping for, but a slight smirk.

“Well, it looks like you haven’t changed at all.”

Kyoshi thought the attempt at an insult was surprisingly polite, that is until she saw the wild fury that came over Jiran. Her instinct came back, that feeling when disaster was about to strike. Only this time she knew exactly what to do.

It was only a moment before Jiran reeled his arm back, ready to make a fire fist. Rangi didn’t move an inch, she still stood right in front of him. Then he extended his fist out. But in the middle of the movement, he suddenly felt cold. No flame was produced, but he did find his arm encased completely in ice.

The pride in anger in his eyes gave way to a pitiful fear. He looked around to see where the source of water came from, only to see Kyoshi had a water skin tucked next to her fans. His eyes then moved to Rangi, who was still smirking.

She didn’t say anything, he wasn’t worth the words. He wasn’t worth the bending either as she hooked him right in the area between his jaw and nose. The force of the strike sent him backwards and onto the floor. His limp body got up off the ground, wiping the blood from his nose and fidgeting a broken tooth. The fury came back into his eyes, this time they were more bloodshot.

“You got a death wish or something!?” The commander’s juvenile side was starting to show.

Jiran flailed his arms back into a fighting stance. He was able to melt the ice of his hand by straining his firebending. Once the area covering his palm had melted, he accidentally let out a raging stream of fire. It felt like the misguided rage of an untamed platypus bear.

Rangi returned the fighting stance with a greater sense of dignity and patience. There was still fire in her eyes, but she knew how to use it properly. Kyoshi did the same, standing by her side.

Jiran chuckled at the gesture. “Fighting alongside your Avatar friend are you? If you wanted to have an honorable death you should have called for Agni Kai.”

“Trust me, I don’t plan on having an honorable death. I may have kept to our code honor for a long time, but after today I don’t think I want it anymore.”

Kyoshi’s eyes widened, surprised both at the statement and the level of sincerity behind it.

Rangi stared at Jiran with complete contempt. “I’d rather be disgraced than be like you.”

Jiran’s rage began to build and build. It was only a matter of time before he would strike again.

Kyoshi was worried, she was worried with what Jiran was going to do next but also with what Rangi was saying. She’s known her for many years and she was always someone who was loyal to the code of honor. Now she was suddenly denouncing it, in front of one of her superiors no less. Kyoshi was worried with how quickly Rangi’s beliefs were shifting after all they were seeing today, but she would be lying if she said that it wasn’t a pleasant change of pace.

The young lieutenant stood strong. “I don’t need honor. Besides……” She glanced over to Kyoshi with a light smile. “I found something better.”

It took Kyoshi everything she had to keep her composure. She forgot all about Rangi’s speech as she focused on the relief she felt seeing her glowing girl being strong. It was a rejuvenating moment of comfort right before battle, to know she had her back even at that very moment. Kyoshi knew Rangil had helped her to grow, helped her take the difficult steps to becoming the Avatar she needed to be. But now, she was starting to see how she changed Rangi. She thought about Szeto’s words in that moment, about the “Avatar’s influence.”

They stared back at Jiran, straightening their stance even more. A moment of silence and stillness permeated through the streets. The protestors watched through a hole in the barrier with great anticipation, as did the other members of Team Avatar.

“Should we help them?” Wong whispered.

Kirima thought about it for a few seconds before she shook her head. “They can handle him, plus I want to see where this goes.”

Hei-ran stared at the two, thinking about what Rangi had said. In her years of experience, she’d seen corruption take place within the Fire Nation military, but not to this extent. In her silence, she felt a solemn relief in disgracing herself that day. By that point, she had done enough horrible things, what would the use be in adding more destruction to her resume.

The stillness continued. The only sounds were those of the wind slightly moving the banners. Rangi, Kyoshi and Jiran kept to their stances. To Kyoshi, it felt like doing Horse stance again, only this time with life-threatening consequences instead of starting over. They stared each other down as the seconds passed.

Then the scrapping of boots broke the silence as Jiran ran towards the two, both his hands erupting into flames.

[clansayeed]

Bound by Choice ― II.i. The Prestige Waltz

PAIRING: OC x OC x OC (Valdas x Isseya x Cynbel) RATING: Mature (reader discretion advised)

⥼ MASTERLIST ⥽

⥼ Bound by Choice ⥽

Before there were Clans and Councils, before the fate of the world rested in certain hands, before the rise and fall of a Shadow King ― there was the Trinity. Three souls intertwined in the early hands of the universe who came to define the concept of eternity together. Because that was how they began and how they hoped to end; together. For over 2,000 years Valdas, Cynbel, and Isseya have walked through histories both mortal and supernatural. But in the early years of the 20th century something happened―something terrible. Their story has a beginning, and this is the end.

Bound by Choice and the rest of the Oblivion Bound series is an ongoing dramatic retelling project of the Bloodbound series. Find out more [HERE].

Note: Choice is the only book in the series not based on an existing Choices story. It is set in the Bloodbound universe and features many canon characters.

*Let me know if you would like to be added to the Choice/series tag list!

⥼ PART II ⥽

— Paris, 1582. Vampires across Europe gather beneath the bones of Paris for merriment, reverence, and to honor the lives lost in a holy war. But some see this not as meace, but as an opportunity to decimate the enemy ranks no matter the price. And, as Serafine Dupont comes to learn, other's lives are a sacrifice the Trinity is willing to make.

⥼ Chapter Summary ⥽

Beneath the streets of Paris the dead dwell restless. They take up masks and dance through the night. They celebrate freedom and life. And do so, unknowingly, for the last time.

[READ IT ON AO3]

Paris, 1582

She’s a breathtaking thing on his arm. Of course in this the age of beautiful things she still glows radiant; the star that outshines the moon.

As she always has. As she always will.

Long fingers wind through Cynbel’s golden locks absent and curious. She leaves it up to him to solve the labyrinth of the dead and instead finds herself contented  in gazing upon him.

“You haven’t worn your hair this long since Venice.”

“Kind of you to notice.”

“I like it.”

“I should hope so. You spend countless hours in my company, darling mine. If you found me repulsive I can’t imagine what I would do with myself.”

Not a heartbeat passes and Isseya’s grip grows violent; feral. Nails digging into his scalp and a sudden tickling warmth on the back of his neck where blood drips down and threatens to stain his collar.

“Really, Iss’,” his sigh is long-suffering, yet he does not decline her apology of handkerchief dabbing away the mess, “do try and keep civil tonight. You know how important the evening is to me.”

Yet he knows her too well not to feel the falter in her footsteps. The way her mockery of breathing stills and leaves them as permanent and dust-covered as the rest of the catacombs through which they wander with purpose.

“Indeed.”

He would ask if she was having second thoughts about the whole affair but what would that change? Nothing.

What’s done is done. And by the end of the night he will reap what has been sown with a madman’s delight.

Up ahead the darkness gives way to shadows dancing in ritual abreast of the walls of stone and bone. Before they get too close Cynbel stops them; pulls his darling girl against him — allows himself to be pinned against the tunnel and knows her natural desires of dominance will placate her.

Even now.

And she falls into the role as easily as he gives it. Pulling his arms up, up against the linen of his sleeves catching on the stone, to hold him in place. She inhales harsh against the confines of her corset and he, too, feels suddenly tight in the chest.

“You know what this reminds me of?” she practically sings into his neck — has him sofuckingglad he decided to forgo that awful stiff collar and luckily she doesn’t mind that he can’t possibly form words right then.

“London,” Isseya answers her own question in bites across his throat, “and the rack Our Beloved had brought from the Tower… how you stretched and begged for it to end.”

Glad though he is that the attempt at distracting her with delightful things has worked Cynbel can’t help but wonder what price he’s about to pay for it. Not that he isn’t stiff in his hose — but they do have to make an appearance at some point in the night.

And Valdas will start to get worried if they do not show their faces soon.

She pulls back with eyes dark and greedy. Not too far, though, when he snaps blunted teeth forward to claim her lower lip for his own. Watching, transfixed, the way it comes back to her shining wet under the distant candlelight.

“Because I wasn’t tall enough already?”

“Are you complaining?”

“Not in the slightest.”

Cynbel snakes an arm around his lover’s waist and, all teasing aside, claims her in a familiar kiss. Familiar in that they have explored one another so intimately and so often that their bodies are one in the same; that the fabric and flesh between them no more than a false reality.

They part; trade lips for foreheads, and breathe in the silence together. As one.

“Should this night be our last night…”

He stops her there. A finger to her lips that curls to lift her chin. She is a proud creature, his darling Isseya; her head simply demands to be held high.

“Stop. You think me so foolish—nay—so weak? This is merely another night, one of many passed and many to come.”

“You cannot control everything.”

“Watch me.”

He has every confidence that they will survive the trials soon to come. They have weathered every storm, every war, every plague. This, too, they will overcome.

The masques they take from their hips to fasten are as rich as they are detailed. Perfectly carved to their features and even now he gazes upon her with a reverence. Such beauty, and to be seen beautiful by it, was worth living for.

She takes his offered hand and with it some of the fire in his eyes. No words between them, they move as one to round the last steps before the tunnel opens outward and upward into splendor.

The vaulted ceilings are a surprise; as far down beneath the earth as they are. A promise of life and freedom that the world above could never truly give them not even in the nighttime. Chandeliers hang high overhead with candles deep in their flames.

Across the ballroom — they are not the last to arrive. Similarly decorated vampires coming alone and with companions at two doorways just as open and inviting. From all corners of Paris they flock here tonight.

He looks and finds Isseya surveying him warily. So much for distraction.

“A bit cramped in here, wouldn’t you say?” There are more attendees than you assumed.

“We’re under the greatest city in the world my love. I’m sure we’ll find the room.” Then we improvise. Nothing has changed.

Nothing has. If anything their chances of living through the things to come have only grown higher.

Even in the crowd their hearts yearn for who they know stands within. Can feel themselves drawn to him, pulled along by a force more powerful than their understanding.

Yet in crossing the length of the room they are seen; more than that they are witnessed. The status their masques signify earns them collective gasps and bows alike; lesser hoping to placate what they only understand to be more than they are. More than they ever will be; for some tonight.

There are always casualties in war.

Together Cynbel and Isseya come across the only masque that could earn their respect; the only thing older than they. Would bow together anyway, would dirty the hems and knees of their finery if that was what he asked of them. Because that is the proper way to treat a god.

That is the proper way to treat their god.

Valdas looks them over with warmth that quickly ignites hot, passionate. He has always appreciated the beauty of his beloveds but this night there is a sense of urgency and finality with every action in which they partake. The greater the risk the greater the reward.

Hungry is their god — who cannot wait even for Cynbel to come up from his bow of respect before grabbing onto the man’s doublet to pull their mouths together. A kiss met with equal fervor and delight, and no less devoted when shared to their darling.

Those old enough enough to remember the days before reservation and propriety, few and far between though they are, say nothing. Those left avert their gaze and know better than to challenge masques so revealing.

“I was starting to worry you’d lost your way.” Valdas glances between his lovers; their mischief not lost on him.

“We simply took a scenic path.”

“And did it suit you?”

“As only death could.”

When they turn out to observe the party so far it is as they do everything — together as one. His gods touch finds its way into his hair and Cynbel pays no thought to it. It is sacrament, after all.

“Were the rumors true?” asks Isseya in a low breath. It earns the pair of them a heavy sigh.

“Indeed.”

“Then we should away.”

Cynbel stifles a derisive snort. “Absolutely not.”

“What you have set in motion is all the more reason.” When she speaks it is earnest and out of love. They know this. But equally she knows they are warriors first. That they crave blood for sport as well as feast.

“While the idea of the Godmaker’s head on one of their silver blades is enough to send me into a passionate heat —”

“Cynbel.”

“We’re among alike company, Valdas.”

“You don’t know that for certain.”

“Really,” the taller man scans the crowd with a knowing eye, “I do.”

A hush falls over the crowded ballroom — dashes away Isseya’s idle fancies of fleeing before they are found. None other than the man himself could garner such a reaction.

Between them the Made-God grows tense. His lovers share arms around him on instinct — natural and without hesitation.

They enter in deadly beauty, arms lain together with an air of presentation. See us, it says, and know your place under our heel. The response it draws is immediate. None dare allow themselves to be in the way of the King and Queen of Vampires.

And they bask in the attention like gluttons. The Bloodqueen smiles much in the same way as when they last had met — the sultry curve of lips that keeps the viewer in a trance only so that they cannot gaze up to see how it does not reach her eyes. And him — he smiles because he means it. Because he need not ask for respect from the masses, not anymore.

They stop in the middle of the floor and are given a wide berth. Gaius tightens his grip on the handle of his masque before he lets it fall from his face; the only one who could dare to pull off such an outrageous act in present company.

“Friends, subjects, loyalists;” he addresses the gathering with pride already swollen in his chest, “your welcome to this our finest achievement has been a gracious one. To see you all gathered here, to see so many of our kind in one place and pridefully so, is a gift the value of I could never have imagined.”

“Always the wordsmith, Gaius mon chér.”

She emerges from the adoring crowd a vision in red. Velvet gown swept up in dainty hand as she comes up on Cynbel’s open side without so much as a glance. The filigree of her masque dazzles in the firelight; intimate gold that frames the upper half of her face to both conceal and reveal.

A bold choice none but the hostess of the evening could aspire to.

She greets Kamilah as an old friend; takes their hands together and presses delicate Parisian kisses on either cheek. Knows the eyes of nearly every vampire in Europe are upon her as she gives a flourishing curtsy with the kiss she bestows on Gaius’ ring.

“I cannot tell you how pleased I am you could attend us tonight,” continues she, “though I will admit I was near to giving up — what with my last five invitations all met with refusal.”

Something flashes in Kamilah’s eye. Has her hand back on that of her King quickly — in restraint.

“Not refusal, Serafine. We were merely indisposed.”

And she understands. “You shall have to regale me the tales.”

“Shall we now?” asks Gaius with a raised brow. It earns him a coy smirk from the Lady Serafine.

“I insist. But now is the time for revelry! Continuer, mes amis!” On her signal the musicians resume their tune, tentative conversation growing strong once again.

To hide would be a fool’s notion. And the Trinity have been called many things, but fools not a word among them.

Demons and the Devil himself. Bloodthirsty pagans. Hellish temptations.

But never fools. The world knows better than that.

The Godmaker and his firstborn share a long look even as heads in their decorated masques and boisterous dress weave between them. Kamilah’s stare goes hard at the sight of him and for that Cynbel cannot help but feel accomplished in some way.

And because he’s in such a delightfully cheery mood — because he knows — he grins and dares a cheeky wink.

Dares only in that the sudden sting of Isseya’s claws on his upper arm is so very very worth it.

They know what must be done, now. At their god’s back the lovers stand as they approach.

“Valdemaras,” Gaius says as he offers his ring in the same way. And without hesitation—he knows better by now, they all do; this tenuous arrangement of theirs—Valdas bestows his kiss.

“Augustine.”

Nothing could ruin the Golden Son’s jubilance. Nothing.

“Little lotus,” he croons to Kamilah even as her mouth turns downward, “you’re looking in good health.”

Whatever she wants to say, she doesn’t. Bites her tongue enough for the brightest flash of copper to make the tip of his nose twitch.

Their darling goes still as stone when the Godmaker bows to her; nothing reverent but more of a courtly finesse. But as he waits she comes to realize it is her he waits upon; offers up the back of her hand clutching her fan in pale knuckles for him to kiss.

See, we can be civil. Now you must be, too.

Palpable tension such as theirs isn’t lost on the other guests, though, especially on one so close as their hostess. Who takes everyone by surprise when she dares speak of it.

“Ah, c'est intéressant,” as a loose curl falls in the eyeline of her masque, “the stories those looks could tell. Friends of yours, Kamilah chérie?”

She hesitates, as if deciding whether or not to answer.

“I believe you know of them by reputation,” — obviously, as Isseya made quite sure of that upon their arrival earlier that season — “what is that silly name of yours again, Cynbel?”

Lucky his masque hides the curl of his upper lip.

“If we’re to speak of silly things —”

“I present my lovers; Cynbel and Isseya,” Valdas interrupts, probably best for them all, and takes both of their hands in offering to the Lady, “you may call me Valdas.”

A flash of recognition in the Frenchwoman’s calculating gaze.

“Ah… Les Trois Amants.”

Isseya’s chin raises with pride. “And you can be no other than tonight’s hostess, no? Mademoiselle Dupont.”

“Please, call me Serafine.”

“Such informality…”

“It breeds a certain… intimacy, non?”

Her lovers need not worry of her — but what they know and what they do are different things. None in their little circle miss the way Valdas’ hand tightens over hers and the angle of Cynbel’s body as if to cover her from such intimate eyes. Instinct for them both; to claim and be claimed by one another for all to see.

Thankfully the pleasantries are made to end there. The soft tunes of conversation dying on instrumental lips as the concert prepares to begin playing for the first dance of the midnight hour.

“Mademoiselle, may I have he honor of your prestige?”

Even Gaius has a hard time concealing his surprise when Serafine’s hand comes out in offering to Isseya. Objectively they all understand — know the worth of a millennia by virtue of living it. But some things just simply aren’t fucking done.

Isseya knows this and still accepts. Takes their hands with a sparkle of mischief in her eye before they away to take up positions within the circle gathering on the dance floor.

Paranoia only begins to breed when Cynbel watches the Godmaker’s hand fall on the middle of Valdas’ lower back. “My prestige is yours, Valdemaras.” Not that he is given the choice — is already being led to follow.

Which leaves…

“No.”

Cynbel’s eyebrows barely raise in surprise. Not that he’s entirely inclined to do so with her, either, but they seem to have little say in the matter.

“You would rather take the first dance with someone so mundane?” He sweeps a lazy gesture across the floor. “You know none save our companions are even close enough in age.”

Kamilah’s eyes narrow; she scans the floor for those left unpartnered as though someone will spring miraculous from the stone with enough years under their belt to not serve as a grave insult to her.

He doesn’t have to look. No one else will do.

“I doubt one dance will be the end of you, little lotus.” Offering his hand in defeat for them both.

“You give yourself too much credit.”

“Luckily ‘tis not my credit you need, but my prestige.”

They slide in together, hand in hand, moments before the waltz begins. No effort made on behalf of either to keep the disdain from bleeding through their garb to stain the floor at their feet.

This is simply the way things are done in polite society. They know this. Both of them helped shape it in their own way. They’ve certainly had the time to.

With their betters paired off it was simply the only way to save face. For either of them to dance with one of the lesser attendees would have been tantamount to suicide of status. No other vampire in attendance could have been over a millennium—not even the Lady Serafine. But being a hostess had its perks, and Cynbel could attest… his darling Isseya was so very worth it.

One of the violinists drags the first note out; a true delight to perform for an audience with hearing unsurpassed.

Cynbel lays his hand on the cusp of her waist. Kamilah squeezes his hand hard enough to grind bone. Good, he would expect nothing less than resistance.

Humans held court to catch a glimpse of their betters. For their kind it was this — La Valse de Prestige, the Prestige Waltz. Faces trained on their partners all around but eyes unable to help themselves in how they wander.

There is no slow build. There is only the abrupt beginning, and the flurry of the dance.

Here lay the ability—nay the obligation—to pass judgment on one another. On who danced with whom; on what masque partnered with another. For many it was a matter of life and death. For the likes of the Trinity, of the Godmaker and his Queen it was a chance to see a new breed of blooded potential. For the rest; a fruitless attempt to climb the staircase.

Only it wasn’t so much a staircase as a sheer cliff dropping off into an abyss.

Even in the confines of her dress Kamilah’s movements are limber and fluid. He hardly has to guide her at all.

“You look well.”

“If you are attempting to make me falter —”

“Which would look terrible on behalf of us both. Can I not give a simple compliment?”

“No, you cannot.”

Hands joined they follow the motions; fling themselves outward with faces turned away. Cynbel sees Isseya in almost direct opposite. Their eyes meet and as one they see their beloved focused on his own movements on the far curve of the room.

And they pity him. Know firsthand how beautifully he can dance… but in the hands of the Godmaker he is made mortal again — if only for a short while.

His exact argument against coming tonight, and why they had never ventured to the crypts with their beautiful promises of community before.

If they were lucky, perhaps the events of the night would change that.

What was the phrase, ah yes. To kill two birds with one stone.

“For a man so craven to violence, you feign deep thought quite well.”

Blue eyes unfix themselves from a rapidly-changing distance to lay on the Bloodqueen. “Was that you asking what my mind wanders to?”

“Of course not.”

“Then why say anything at all?”

Of course he knows why; the din of hushed conversation is all around them. Attuned ears catch the familiar bell of Isseya’s laughter. A couple at his back carry on a hissed debate over Cynbel and Kamilah’s statuses — why their masques are so revealing and embellished.

They are a gaping void of silence in comparison. But he’d rather she say it.

She doesn’t give him the satisfaction.

“Very well,” clicking his tongue—he dares to be civil with the woman who nearly left him to join the ashes that littered Pompeii, “when did you and the Godmaker set sights on Paris?”

“France has been home to our court for several decades now.”

Our court. Two words that drag his sights along the room. Surely not this court, not with the surprise at his attendance as there had been. “And before that?”

“What does it matter to you?”

“I’m writing a memoir.”

“Of course you are. Always such a learned thing you were, preferring the company of books over bloodshed.”

Rouged lips tick in her effort not to smirk. Personally he finds her wit humorless and dry.

“If you must know… we only recently came up from the Mediterranean. There was rumor out of Venice that sent us into hiding; a hunter who had felled the great Bloodqueen.”

She is strong but still so young. What a difference two thousand years makes; in the eyes and in the mind, in the control of the body. But there is still a mystery that can render even the oldest of their line a prisoner to their impulses.

He knows it well.

He lets their eyes meet; holds her captive with the light stroke of his thumb along the outside of her index finger. A direct touch; a private one. But enough to release the sudden grasp of iron at his words.

There is a part of Cynbel that relishes in her silent suffering. Because even the sight of her reminds him of Rome, of his Lord taking a knee to keep his lovers alive.

And then there is a part that feels her pain as his own. Who remembers the howl of his own bleeding lungs at the sight of the sword that nearly came down on Isseya’s neck. Too soon, too soon.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” is all he says. And he hopes that, even if for the rest of their dance, she believes him.

The music ends as abrupt as it began. Almost as if the musicians were taken in the middle of the piece — but they all know better. The Prestige Waltz is a symbol as much as it is a dance. And are they not all to be ended with a swift act of a cruel fate?

Around them bows and curtsies of thanks. The orchestra starts up a far more leisurely tune. The formalities are done.

Cynbel gently pries himself from the little lotus’ grasp. Kisses the back of her hand and risks everything to whisper against her skin.

“I would not be displeased if you survived tonight.”

Kamilah tugs her hand back and the inevitable question that he will not answer is poised on her lips — but the return of his lovers is reason enough for Cynbel to take a more permanent leave of her.

“I like her.”

He snaps a look to Isseya, very nearly alarmed, before the realization that she stares at Serafine with delight edging on desire.

“She certainly knows how to throw a party.”

They both linger in a half-silence; so familiar now that a voice should follow but it does not. And has them turning, in sync, to Valdas’ silence with curiosity.

They comfort him as only they can; her touch on a cheek, his hand at a waist. Giving him only the praise and adoration their Made-God deserves even when he looks as he does now — when he looks as though he does not.

Such times are when he needs it most.

When Valdas finally speaks it is with crimson eyes. Once following the Godmaker’s eyes move across the floor now given just as intensely to Cynbel much to his surprise.

“Your amusement for tonight must be postponed.”

Surely he speaks madness. “Not even your divinity could do such, darling.”

“Do whatever you must — but none shall come upon us tonight.”

So foreign is how Valdas pulls from his lovers’ touches that they are left, for a moment, unmoored.

“It cannot be done.” Cynbel repeats in fewer words. Harder, clipped.

“It must.”

“It. cannot.”

The hand Valdas runs over his own face trembles with the weight of him. “Then we are all doomed.”

He tries all he can; reaches out but finds his touch rejected — outright rejected. Tries to speak but the words simply never ring right in his ears. Companionship for as long as they have had comes with its share of arguments but this…

Something so small, so inconsequential. Yet the disappointment brimming from his Love and Light is… rattling to say the least.

Yet the answer is as plain as day.

“Does he know?”

Here in their secrecy they dare not chance a look. Cynbel has already risked enough saying what he has to his consort.

It’s a relief to them all when Valdas shakes his head. “Not quite. But that means so little. And with him here… they could never hope to win anyway.”

“It isn’t my intent to let them win. And should he fall prey to their righteous hands… well all the better.”

Not for the first time Valdas silences him with a kiss. Bruising and harsh; holding his jaw in place because he is commanded to accept such a gift. As if he could do anything less.

“Cynbel, my Golden Son…” They pull from one another with obvious reluctance. Foreheads resting as their blind hands search and find sanctuary in that of their third.

He isn’t prepared to hear the crack in his love’s voice. It wounds him far worse than a stake ever could.

“Please. Save your appetite for another night.”

“What is done cannot be undone.”

Isseya steps between them. Steals a kiss in offering from them both. The temple of her always demanding more, more, more that they give her without hesitation.

“You cannot fault him for that.” Because she knows her strengths Isseya punctuates her words with a forlorn twinkle of the eye. Squeezes Cynbel’s hand behind her and he knows — knows even gods are made pliable under such a gaze.

The music picks back up before Valdas can speak. All around them the cacophony of merriment and delight and they cannot let their worries cut through such a veil lest they be discovered… something even their Maker knows.

“On your head be it.”

His dismissal is clear. And something Cynbel will not take lightly. He takes that benevolent hand up to his lips for a kiss. “Trust that I will keep you safe, my Light, my Love. As I always have.” He dares to look upwards and is met with tragedy in dark eyes. “As I always will.”

A shock of red pulls from the dancing crowd towards them and the Trinity pull from one another — close but not uneasily so.

When the Lady Serafine takes them in her mirth wavers for the briefest moment. Something that cannot be helped — something about them has always roused suspicion even in the merriest of souls.

They are close; closer than can be defined with words in any language, closer than anyone can understand. That kind of devotion creates a wall between them and the world.

It is meant to.

“I had hope to pull you into the revelry… but perhaps it would be out of turn of me.” Even with half of her face hidden her hesitance is transparent.

Valdas steps forward — one breath quicker than his lovers — and offers their hostess his arm.

“We would be the ones out of turn to decline the lady her dance.” He muses; smiles down as she takes his upper arm softly, tugs him towards the mingling array.

The look he throws back to his lovers is a reassuring one.

Enjoy the night while you can.

The intent is to take the hands of the next partner — something the rest of the circle does with ease.

Yet as Cynbel looks down… down… down until he rests his eyes on his would-be partner he stops and finds himself unsure.

How is he to proceed when his partner is…

“Are you well, monsieur?” Yet even when the child asks it is clear he has no intention of letting the taller vampire get away so easily. Grasps Cynbel’s hands with his own and the comparison in size is almost astounding enough to trip his feet. As it is — he’s now more conscious of every step than ever.

“Quite.” Not as smooth of a save as he would prefer, but better than none.

A familiar trilling laughter whirls his head to the sight of Isseya with an unfamiliar man. Her eyes, as ever, fixated on her golden lover. Much to her partner’s obvious chagrin.

The child whirls the pair of them wild and free and with all the abandon of youth.

“The pleasure is all mine!”

“Indeed.”

Help me, his silent cry to Valdas; who has taken up with a slim woman obscured fully by her masque. His act of generosity for the night.

As predicted the moment his lover pulls himself from her grasp she is flocked by other, less prestigious attendees eager to bask in the attention given by someone so old.

He approaches them calmly — calmer than Cynbel would like but appearance is everything even at the eleventh hour — and easily slides his lover from the young man’s embrace.

“Forgive me, Marcel,” he muses to the child, “but I find myself wilting without my beloved’s touch.”

Marcel, with an air of familiarity Cynbel doesn’t quite understand, coos at the pair of them before skipping off to a different part of the room. His boisterous demeanor seems equally repulsive to his chosen victim; a surly man with a surlier masque in armor that doesn’t quite shine like it should.

He keeps note of that. The only one adequately prepared for what is to come.

“I know that look.”

A crooked finger under his chin draws Cynbel’s attention away and to the center of his world. To the hesitance he sees still but not without its own resignation. That his god humors him still is a blessing without compare.

“What look?” He’s always feigned innocence terribly.

He interrupts the purse of Valdas’ lips with a kiss. Tangles his fingers in dark hair like staining himself with shadow and cares little for anyone who might be watching. Their kind may try to keep up with the social niceties of humanity but they will never be ruled by it.

“You are not the only soldier here, my Golden One.”

“Good, then they may stand a fighting chance.”

“And will you rally them?”

“Hardly. This is between Baltasar and myself; another battle in our seemingly endless war.”

He continues even when a hand claps over his mouth. Even when his god’s eyes bleed red and chance hasty looks to assure they are unheard.

To utter such a name in present company may very well doom them all.

“Relax, my divine love — I would not speak were I worried of discovery.”

“I doubt that.”

“You doubt me?”

“Only in that I know your desire for bloodshed is enough to fill the Seine to brimming.”

The smile such a compliment earns is, obviously, not meant for so. Yet even at the pout of Valdas’ bottom lip Cynbel cannot help but feel proud to be known as such.

He gathers his Maker close with one arm; protects him from the world as he always has. As he always will. “Everything I do, I do for you and Isseya.” Peppering kisses across his tanned throat just shy of the stiff collar. “Even now it may seem petty or trifling, but when we are free of their wretched hounds at our heels you will understand.”

It takes longer than he’s used to but eventually the inevitable comes — eventually Valdas does yield to each touch. Though not without a sigh of his own; his own way of saying he does not approve, but he will not stand in the way.

It is a middle ground to which they have grown familiar.

He is always forgiven.

It is a break in the heavy clouds which have hung over the vampires of Paris for too long. A brief flicker of moonlight which they bathe in, frolic through not unlike the pagans of old. There are even a few times in which — only to be certain there is no suspicion to be found — Cynbel looks to see true enjoyment on the Godmaker’s carved features.

A sight that makes him ill.

Following a dance that certainly could have been performed with the entirety of her ensemble but was much better enjoyed in nothing but her underclothes, Isseya drapes herself over the back of the chair both her lovers occupy. Not a space to fit two grown men but like everything they make it work.

She leans forward expectantly and devoted as they are the men comply; showering her throat with kisses and bites worthy of the envy the less prestigious among their kind have thrown their way all evening.

“Do you think they might begin to grow suspicious?” she asks idle; winding her clutches at the backs of their heads as possessive as they are thoughtless. An act of instinct.

Cynbel flicks the tip of his tongue over the shell of her ear. “Why would they?”

“We’ve a reputation for abandoning these affairs for our own.”

“They should be honored by our continued presence.”

“And yet whispers abound.”

He pulls back to watch his lovers where their temples touch. To bask in the glow they create together. Almost seems a shame to ruin an evening of their radiance but… no.

That’s just a little seed of doubt. Something to carve out of him like fleshrot.

“That my heart —” thumb brushing over Isseya’s lips, “— and my soul —” other hand cupping the strong angle of Valdas’ jaw, “— continue to doubt me so is insult enough. Lest they forget that I do this for them and the pleasure I take from it is not solely selfish in nature.”

Walking away from them is a difficult thing; always has been, always will be. But difficult things are merely difficult — not impossible. And one more word from them against him may just be the spark that ignites his smothered temper.

He hears them call out but resists the impulse to turn back. Leaves the merriment through one of the few doorways and casts off his masque as he does. Prestige, masques; he could care less for the things that can be bought and bribed into.

Let them meet him across a battlefield with naught but their hands as fists and see, then, that he will always win. Such is the way of the soldier, of the hunter. Of the primordial creatures they are yet seem to have forgotten.

He throws a fist in a fit of rage. Watches it collide with the wall of bone with a sickeningly delighted crunch that breaks the face of a skull off into little pieces. So fragile, so withering.

So fucking satisfying to see.

“At what point do they cease to become faces?”

Without her masque she is of the same beauty, though perhaps with more emotion about her now no longer hidden.

Serafine’s fingertips trail along the rows of foreheads; some still with places for the eyes and jawbones and some not unlike the poor victim of Cynbel’s rage.

Dirt and bone dust gathers on the heavy fabric at the train of her dress. She doesn’t seem to mind.

He holds her gaze as he reaches out to an almost perfectly preserved skull. Caresses the voided eyes with his fingertips and hooks his thumb through a gap in the teeth. All it takes is the slightest twitch of muscle — no longer preserved almost or not.

Serafine flinches; a telling thing he does not miss.

“I would assume when I do that.”

“I mean the faces behind the bone. To whom these lonely heads once belonged.”

He regards her with a glint in his eye. “I heard tell of the far-reaching influence of the Mademoiselle Dupont but I had no idea she knew so many.”

The coy smile that tugs at her lips is forced. An easy thing — the hallmark of a woman used to the machinations of courtly intrigue. She could learn a thing or two from his darling girl; she does so without tell.

But the silence between them echoes. Hard and bright. It makes him sigh.

“If one sees a sea of bones and plucks them by identity, they will do so regardless of whether they are alive or dead.”

A bold thing to admit. There is power in truth but when the truth is soaked in the blood of ages…

“I am sorry if this is not the answer you were looking for.”

“Non, no… I would rather the reality than a beautiful lie. We carry such lies enough, do we not?” Cynbel raises an eyebrow; there is no vanity in the way she tucks a lock of curls behind her ear. “You and I would be no different than these bones, were our bodies to show the years. Yet we remain beautiful well into eternity.”

“Some more than others.”

“Indeed.”

But that isn’t the reason the hostess abandoned her own affair. Now is it?

When she looks from one dead thing to another Serafine is met with expectant eyes. She has the decency to feign a flush.

“Forgive me—but what sort of hostess would I be were I not to entertain all of my guests?”

“You have entertained us enough.”

“‘Us?’”

Cynbel stills his exploratory hand. “My lovers and I.”

Us — we — always a unity. Together even when they are apart.

The woman nods. “Ah, oui. I count myself among the lucky few to have been graced with their prestige this night. But not yet from you. It leaves a woman to wonder why.”

“I doubt it has escaped your keen notice, Mademoiselle Dupont, that my social skills are lackluster in comparison to my better selves.”

“And you would not stray from such notions even for the sake of propriety?”

It makes him snort a laugh — a noise that takes his companion by surprise. Brings an easily-detectable pity to his eyes.

“Now it is I who must be forgiven.”

“For what, monsieur?”

“For in any way giving you the impression that I am proper.”

Laughable, really. A joke he will think of fondly for years to come when all this is done.

And should she have any doubts in his words he would have those cast aside, too. Closing the gap between them in a single stride. Escape through such narrow corridors more than a fleeting whimsy as he leans against the burial wall to take her in.

Cynbel would be lying if he said the minute trembling of her under the touch of his thumb was not exciting.

There is a different fear in their kind than that of humans. Humans are always afraid. But vampires… no no. Vampires fear with reason, cause; knowledge. They fear things that deserve to be feared. Things that have earned it.

And he has earned it so.

“A room full of admirers, the progenitor of our lineage, the prestige of the Bloodqueen—of Les Trois Amants, or two of three anyway, tucked beneath your skirts…”

With thumb and forefinger Cynbel raises her chin; easily tilted upwards to his unabashed amusement, “I find it hard to believe a hostess with such pretty achievements to crown herself with would willingly follow a single solemn soul because of something as silly as duty.”

The change under his hand is equally a delight. How Serafine steels herself; hardened eyes and a clenched jaw and command dripping from painted lips.

“Believe me, or do not. That is —”

“I do not believe you, no. I believe someone sent you out here to me. A little lotus, perhaps?”

Regret, like a shooting star in the endless sky. There one moment and gone in a flash; burned behind the eyelids but never to be seen again.

He should not have told her.

Inconsequential.

“You would do well to back. away.”

The chance to answer—or act—never comes. Not when the ground rumbles over their heads and noises foreign to all but the valiant begin to trail in on the same chord as the silenced orchestra. Then the thundering boom of a cannon, of doors blown from their hinges and the singing opera of swords torn from their sheaths.

“Finally…” Cynbel exhales like ecstasy; picturesque like the trembling waif on her wedding night.

The armies of the faithful have arrived.

[theawkwardterrier]

things left behind and the things that are ahead, ch. 6

AO3 link here

They take the train up from Washington. They had driven down the first time - though they hadn’t left Howard’s until Bucky was healthy enough to travel, he was still breaking in some ways, wildly fragile. They needed to have no one else around, needed the time and ability to stop on the roadside so Bucky could gasp in fresh air and scream through clenched teeth because just sitting in a car with people he trusted made him feel closed-in and trapped.

Bucky sits between them at first, all of them pretending that it’s simply the order they entered the row rather than a supportive bracketing. He switches seats with Peggy after about an hour, trying to use the scenery rushing past the window as a distraction. His fingers, both sets, curl and uncurl in his lap. He had planned on leaving the arm behind - the one Howard made for him detaches fairly easily, and he figured that seeing him simply missing a limb would in some ways be easier than the blunt, inhuman metal - but changed his mind at the last minute. This is part of him now, whenever he wanted it to be, and he tries to convince himself it will be better for everyone to face that from that start.

Peggy puts her hand over his balled fists before he even registers exactly how tightly they are clenched.

They had tried at first to get him reacclimated in New York. Howard’s large house had been fine when that just meant finding his memories again, when it was only about having a quiet place where everyone understood nightmares and knew to step loudly and never to touch Bucky when he wasn’t ready for it. It had worked well enough when it was just Steve and Bucky, the quiet and caring Jarvises, Peggy on the weekends and Howard dashing in and out. And they all had thought that the city - large and anonymous, the site of so many remarkable things - would be the perfect place to start when it came time to take on somewhere more public; any scene Bucky caused would be forgotten by the time the witnesses reached the next block. But it was all too newly familiar, too overwhelming with strangers and crowded with memories, too much.

They hadn’t had a chance to visit Brooklyn. (If Steve were a bit more selfish, it would hurt that he still hasn’t seen those ever familiar streets, the place he still goes when he dreams. As it is, he doesn't even have time to think about it as more than a hope for his friend.) On Bucky’s hoarse, wild-eyed orders, they hadn’t even mentioned to his family that he had been found.

Peggy and Steve’s neighborhood in DC was easier. In the type of close-knit environment that they had thought best avoided, where everyone knew their names and no one forgot exactly who they had seen shatter one of the cafe’s mugs into an explosion of porcelain dust just from hearing old Mrs. Eissenmann’s accent, they found compassion. Al noticed the way Bucky flinched away from photos of Korea and East Berlin on the newspaper fronts, and tucked them away so that the covers of Life and The Saturday Evening Post were visible instead. Bucky learned to answer questions about his arm from the innocent, interested ones the kids asked before they were hushed by their parents. The ticket taker at the movie house, Eddy Carroll from two streets over, didn’t say anything as Steve and Bucky left in the middle of Annie Get Your Gun twice because the sound of even comical movie gunfire made Bucky flinch and go cold and grasp for a gun of his own.

There were other people in the neighborhood who had served. There was a look that Bucky recognized when they passed each other in the street, a certain shift to alertness at car horns sounded suddenly, and when they asked him to have a beer with them, he said yes. While Steve and Peggy went out on one of their evenings together, he sat on a barstool with these men who would become his friends and talked about favorite books and movies and radio programs, about the best ballgames they’d seen, about the particular, muffled punch of a bullet entering flesh and the strange, grim, necessary realization that you were the one to put it there.

“Why did you invite me tonight?” he asked, walking home with Charlie Gibbs in the place by his side that was usually Steve’s. “You don’t even know me, but you’ve probably guessed that I’m more of a handful than most.”

Charlie chewed his toothpick thoughtfully for a moment. He took it out and held it between his fingers as he said, “We all have brothers who didn’t come back. We have to be there for the ones that did, even if they left a piece of themselves behind. Code of war doesn’t end just because the treaty’s been signed.”

And when the cold came, not as bad there as in New York or the Alps or Russia or places that he can’t quite and might never remember, when the cold came and made Bucky shiver and wish for a hot drink but didn’t leave him paralyzed with the fear of what might come, he said that he was ready to go home.

They called ahead. Of course they did.

“Can you imagine, someone you love and thought was dead just turning up out of the sky as you’re trying to eat your breakfast?” Peggy asked, eyes wide in pretend shock.

“I thought it was a good surprise,” Steve said defensively.

“Oliver in the kitchen has taken a liking to me, as you well know. I think the extra treat I get with my order is all the surprise I need.” She gave his hand a fond touch on the tabletop, regardless of her words or her arch tone.

“Fine, everyone knows you’re adorable, you can quit showing it off,” Bucky said, and it was the joking eyeroll more than anything that convinced them that he was ready.

They can see Mrs. Barnes from down the block. She is wearing a navy dress with creamy lace trim - her church dress, Steve is sure, even if it is not the gray number with the big silver broach that he remembers from his childhood. She stands on her front steps, solid as a lighthouse. Bucky’s father is most likely inside; he had always gotten emotional easily and never liked to show it in public.

It’s a chilly, overcast Tuesday, the middle of a morning that threatens rain or snow or both. The street is empty of the usual schoolkids or housewives chatting to their neighbors with shopping in hand. It makes it easier: no one to double take and recognize them, catch them up in excited conversation. It makes it harder, the overly noticeable sound of their footsteps seeming a driving echo as they move closer.

“You remember back in ‘26, when I was sick from Halloween until New Year’s?” Steve asks, because Bucky is pulling sharp breaths through his nose and his shoulders are set with a statue’s rigidity.

The beginning of the familiar story seems to ease something. “They had the priest in for last rites twice that time, didn’t they?”

“Three times, I think,” Steve says with a casual shrug, at which Peggy looks vaguely horrified. “You kept trying to play truant, coming up the fire escape when no one was looking.”

“And I started getting escorted to school, but my ma couldn’t stay all day, so she told my cousin Frankie to sit on the street corner and scream if he saw me coming.” Bucky leans over and says conspiratorially to Peggy, “I would give Frankie a penny a week to keep his trap shut. He was a soft touch.”

“But then my mother asked Sister Mary Bernardus to sit with me while she went to work, and that nun almost kicked you out the window when she saw your face coming over the sill while she was just trying to pray the Rosary,” Steve finishes with a muted smile. He bumps Bucky’s shoulder with his. “If you could still face your mother after that, you can face her now.”

And then she is coming down to meet them, slow and careful even in her sensible, square-toed shoes. She holds onto the handrail, although there’s no ice on the steps. Bucky has stopped two houses away - the Green’s place, or it had been fifteen years ago. He seems as if he can’t move forward. Any shimmer of ease has gone out of him again.

Mrs. Barnes walks the rest of the way to him herself. Steve had forgotten how small and solid she looks beside her son. She reaches her hands up and holds his face between them, and doesn’t say anything for a long moment.

When she finally speaks, it is in that husky voice with its second-generation Irish tinge. Somewhere inside himself, Steve still expects to hear his mother’s bright call twining with hers, a harmony of care. “James. My boy, come back to me.”

Bucky stays very still. “Hi, Ma,” he manages, and lets her lead him inside.

Bucky’s family had always seemed enormous to Steve, though anything would have when compared with a pair of Rogerses. Winifred Barnes was the youngest of three sisters, George had four brothers, and most of the extended clan lived close enough to take the streetcar if they couldn’t walk. The Barnes place had always been so full.

Without it being mentioned, they haven’t asked anyone over today. George is sitting in his usual chair. Bucky’s sister Josephine stands over his shoulder, her body taut beneath her neat sweater. Rebecca paces the room, a baby in her arms, and Steve’s first thought is that she’s too young for that, just a baby herself, but that isn’t true anymore. The man who must be Becca’s husband sits looking more awkward than anyone - perhaps because he’s entirely a stranger to Bucky, perhaps because he’s all gangly limbs, too tall for the furniture.

“It looks the same,” Bucky says, taking in the faded wallpaper, once a patterned green now white, the heavy old General Electric wall clock which still has the crack across the face, the good lace cloth dressing up the table. The scent of coffee from the ever-boiling pot fills the place, and it is this that makes Steve remember how long it has truly been since he was last here: growing up, he would never have even noticed it.

Mrs. Barnes has set out a stack of saucers and one of her delectably heavy lemon pound cakes on the tabletop. As she leads Steve, Peggy and Bucky over to sit around it, she still hasn’t let go of her son’s hands.

Becca bursts into tears, which makes the baby start wailing too. George covers his eyes with his palms, the unknown husband looks entirely out of his depth, and Peggy stands again. “Let’s have a seat,” she says, guiding Becca over beside her husband. She gets her settled against the cushions, then passes the baby from his mother’s arms to his startled but silent father. Peggy strokes a soothing hand over the baby’s crown as she completes the transfer; it doesn’t help but does make Becca give a shaky little smile. The radio is over in the corner and Peggy walks over, snaps it on, and tunes it quickly until she finds an afternoon symphony program on WNYC. She adjusts the volume to midlevel and turns back.

“For the neighbors,” she explains as she comes over to rejoin Steve by the table. Once again, as always, Steve is impressed: the Barnes apartment is the entire first floor of the frame house, but that doesn’t entirely mean privacy. He hadn’t even considered that anyone else might be home, but now that he thinks about it, the water rushing through the pipes isn’t coming from anyone in this room.

“How did you get here?” Josie asks suddenly. She hasn’t so much as shifted through the outburst of chaos.

“The subway,” Bucky tells her promptly, and she snaps, “Don’t give me that, James Barnes,” in what must be her schoolteacher voice now. Steve’s already familiar with it: Josie was younger than Bucky by a bit less than a year, but she had always acted the big sister to the both of them. “We got an army notification half a decade ago that you’d been killed. We got a letter from—” She turns on Steve. “And you. What are you doing here looking ten years older than you should instead of dead from saving the world?”

“Josephine,” says Mrs. Barnes, warning in her tone, “they’re back. What does it matter where they’ve been?” But her husband lifts his face and says, mastering himself with clear effort, “No, Winifred, I would also like to know exactly what’s happened.”

“What’s wrong with your arm?” Becca asks, her voice very soft, as if it is being trapped in the needlepoint pillow she has pressed against her chest.

The version they tell is one they've practiced, a snipped and pasted version of the truth, but Steve still isn’t a particularly good liar. It's not that he doesn't trust these people who have been family to him - he knows that they would never go to the police or the press with anything he told them, that they wouldn’t gossip about it in the shops. But they have never seen a person explode in front of them in a blue flash, have known his transformation only as something already completed out of sight. Their lives have been so normal, untouched by direct contact with the strange and wonderful and terrible things with which Steve is familiar.

Unless he misses his guess, the baby Rebecca's husband is currently rocking back to sleep is Jimmy Proctor. Steve has met him as a sixty year old man, a former railroad engineer with a million stories of an entirely typical childhood sparkling with the little memories his mother would recall of her brother. He doesn't want to take that from all of them.

So, knowing his own abilities, he is careful with his contributions, letting Bucky and Peggy tell most of the story: of Steve suspended in the ice, the serum effecting him in unexpected ways, of his being found and coming to Washington, the information slipped to Peggy that made them go looking for Bucky in the first place. Bucky doesn’t remember many of the details of his time in captivity anyway; Peggy glosses over it with quick compassion that brings them past without the rest of the Barnes family asking for more information.

Watching Bucky now, Steve finds himself remembering more than ever his friend as he was. Buck had always been the one to tell the stories, to make excuses and conjure the sweet, sly smiles to get them out of trouble. Bucky now, Bucky as he once would have been, is quieter. Steve doesn't mind it, but it's more noticeable back in this familiar place.

There's a silence when the story has finished.

"And now you're fine?" Josie asks finally. She has begun to lean on the back of her father's chair, not softening as much as weakening when confronted with it all. "Now you're back?"

"For now," Bucky says.

His mother looks up from the hands she has clenched in her lap. "What do you mean by that? We've a room here for you while you get yourself settled. There's no reason to go anywhere. I’m sure your things can be sent up for you."

"Ma," Bucky says gently, "I don't think I'm ready yet."

"And why is that?" She draws herself up straight, some of the strict force coming back into her tone. "You're doing just fine, and what would you do somewhere else anyway?"

Steve opens his mouth, but Bucky says, "One day I might come to stay, but now there's a life I'm trying to make down in Washington. I'd like to see how it turns out."

"So I'm never to see you?" She turns to her husband with a cry. "Listen to this boy of yours, George."

"Mama." Steve knows that it's the way Bucky sighs it that makes the difference, that brings the tension from the room. "Of course you’ll see me. I'm going to come back."

"And when will that be?" George asks.

"It's three weeks until Christmas," Bucky points out. "I think I could use a good Brooklyn Christmas."

"All of you," Winifred commands, standing suddenly and clapping her hands together. She pulls the cake plate toward herself and begins to cut slices. "You'll all come for Christmas. Unless there's some other family I don't know of?" She looks askance at Peggy.

"We shall reserve tickets on our way back," Peggy says with equanimity.

"Home again for Christmas, then," says Winifred, satisfied enough as she begins handing out cake.

Later, Bucky will hold his namesake for the first time and Rebecca will cry again, and so will George. Later, Rebecca’s husband will be introduced and will not wince as his hand is shaken three times with a bit too much force to be strictly comfortable. Later, Mrs. Barnes will try to give her cake recipe to Peggy only to have it intercepted by Steve. Later, Steve will notice Bucky taking himself into the kitchen for a moment alone before they are pressed to stay the night. Later, they will lie in the preserved bedroom with its old Dodgers scorecards peeling from the walls, and Bucky will tease Steve for not daring to mention that there’s really no reason to have him and Peggy in separate rooms based on their sleeping arrangements back home. Later, they will lie awake for a long time before they are finally lulled by the familiar sounds outside the window. But for now:

"Home again," Steve agrees softly, and digs into his piece of cake.

Previous chapters here

[hashtagartistlife]

KILL YOUR DARLINGS, pt. 2 (Discarded Fic Edition) (Part 1 here) 

(A small snippet written after someone asked the group chat (I think it was Rodella) ‘hey, do you think Uryuu can’t bear to look in mirrors anymore bc he looks so much like his mom and that hurts him?’)

There’s something odd about Ishida-kun’s house, but Orihime doesn’t quite manage to put her finger on it until about the third or fourth visit.

“Sorry, Ishida-kun, could you let me know where the bathroom is…?” she asks, in between a brace of calculus problems; Ishida-kun looks up from his Japanese literature homework, a little startled, and points vaguely down the hallway.

“Oh— oh, right, it’s the first door to the left,” he says, and goes back to his book. Orihime excuses herself with a small smile.

It occurs to her while washing her hands afterwards; the reason why Ishida-kun’s house has always felt a little… off-kilter.

There aren’t any mirrors in his house at all.

(The discarded beginnings of a fic I was writing for deathberryprompts’ weekly prompt, paradise.)

There are birds of paradise sitting by her windowsill, pretty in their wrought-iron cages. A note, written in an elegant hand, is attached to the lock: Congratulations on the union. The birds are a set, a male and female; currently asleep with their brightly coloured heads bent together. Rukia’s hand itches for the key. In the quiet of the morning before everyone wakes, everything still seems a beautiful possibility.

Her trembling fingers sweep over the fabric of her dress, skitter over the handle of her sword; nobody would ever know. One twist of her wrist, a key turning in a lock, and she’d never have to see them in captivity again. A gift, from some far-flung branch of her family. Who would she be offending? Does she rightly care? She does not understand why her marriage should be celebrated by tying creatures of the sky down to a lifetime on the ground. What a terrible thing; to lose your wings. To never even realise what you’ve lost—

The key is such a slender thing to be the only obstacle between them and the endless expanse of the sky. Rukia grips it in her hand, and though she is tiny, the key is tinier still; such an easily lost thing, this tenuous bridge to freedom. It shakes as she moves it towards the lock.

(When we were busy writing irbb, the irbb writer’s chat did a thing where we rewrote a snippet of each other’s fic in our own writing style. The excerpt in italics is a scene from Jess @sequencefairy’s irbb fic, Torque, which you can find here (x). The part following is my take on that scene.)

There are always sirens at night, Tokyo is a big city, and even though Karakura is a relatively quiet part of it, Ichigo can always count on hearing the wail of some siren, somewhere. These are close, and, in his relatively extensive experience, they are police sirens. He gets up, shuffles across his bed and pulls his window open further.

They get closer still, and now Ichigo can make out the whine of an engine being pushed to it’s limit. They must be a number of blocks away still. Ichigo pulls out his phone, keeping half an ear on the noise outside and scrolls through his twitter feed. Sometimes, if he’s lucky, the Tokyo police force traffic detachment will give information about current traffic disruptions. There’s a screech of tires and Ichigo winces. His thumb pauses in its movement on his phone’s screen and everything seems to hush.

The moment hangs. Ichigo forgets to breathe.

The crunch and squeal of metal on metal is unmistakable, even at this distance. He’s already pulling on his sweater by the time the phone in the clinic rings.

________________________________________________________________

The still air of his bedroom is split by the sound of police sirens. This in itself is nothing new; living on the edge of a city as big as Tokyo, the fantasy of an undisturbed night is something he has long since discarded. But these sound closer to him than usual, and Ichigo strains to hear them. It was unusual to have a chase this close to Karakura-cho. He flings his window open and reaches for his phone.

His twitter feed reveals nothing unusual, but Ichigo stays on edge. The sirens get closer at an alarmingly fast rate, and now he can make out the whirring of the engines and the skid of tyres on asphalt that tell him they’re only a few blocks away. His phone is crushed in his palm. Ichigo knows from experience; a chase at this speed ends in only one of two ways. Voluntary surrender, or…

The screech of metal on metal tears through the sky, and Ichigo’s already gone; the phone slips from his sweaty grip to land on his abandoned bed even as the one in the clinic begins its urgent and unmistakeable song.

(The beginnings of a discarded fic I was writing for deathberryprompts’ weekly prompt, lunar.)

There is something about the moon that night. Brighter than the streetlamps that dot the streets below, less harsh than the fluorescents inside the house, she emits a soft, steady light that bleaches the surroundings of colour and makes the edges of objects glow.

(.... this was going to be a fic where it looks like Ichigo is talking to Rukia at first, but as the fic progresses the reader notices things getting weirder and weirder until at the end they realise that a) Ichigo was actually just monologuing to the moon and that b) Rukia’s been dead for ten years. (Un)Fortunately for everyone involved, my muse for this fled, so this is all there is of that.)

(Some Ryuuken/Katagiri + Uryuu introspective thing that I really want to finish, but I can’t remember where I was going with it :sadface:)

The boy’s in love.

For all that other people called Ryuuken an awful father, he’s always been adept at reading his son’s emotions; Uryuu always been far too much like Kanae for him to not be able to see every flicker of thought across his idiotically expressive face.

(The discarded beginnings of a fic I was writing for deathberryprompts’ weekly prompt, truth-bridge-knife. The ellipses indicate that there was supposed to be more writing in between, but I never quite got around to it.)

Here’s the thing: the truth is, she’s never loved him.

Oh, people supposed. If you had, you certainly wouldn’t have been the first; they never seem to understand, all these outsiders, that she’s never felt more for him than what a mentor would feel for their student, what a comrade would feel for their fellow soldiers-in-arms. The bond forged by blood and war is stronger than any covenant sealed with homework and trips to the arcade; she supposes it’s easy to confuse such a bond with love. But it’s not like he’s ever singled her out for special treatment compared to the rest of his comrades. It’s not like she ever treated him any different to Renji or nii-sama or any of the other men in her life. She loves him, of course; she loves all her friends. But she’s never been in love with him.

Here’s the thing: he’s never been more than a bridge to her; a connection back to the world that she belongs in.

.

.

.

And now, here’s the thing: truth isn’t a bridge. Truth is a knife and you can wield it in the same way, cut, cut, slash. Truth is subjective and truth is not what the Kuchiki Clan keeps and sometimes, the truth isn’t the truth, not at all, but everyone agrees that it should be the truth and they won’t listen to anything else.

.

.

.

So, here’s the thing: the truth is that he’s always never been just a friend. Love and companionship are needless essential emotions and she had both was missing both before he came into her life. It’s not like he changed her world and dried her rain; it’s not like she became his ray of light. The truth is that they’ll always never be ‘just friends’.

But here’s the thing: people don’t care. They’ve never cared and what can such a ragged, patchwork truth do to disguise the festering wound that’s opened up between them, more effective than a child’s the floor is lava game in keeping them apart? Nobody wants to read between the lines anymore and what matters is what the Kuchiki Clan’s records say. Some truths are truer than others and none are as true as the Kuchiki Clan’s truths, and there, written in her own hand, in the truest true-black ink she can find, will be her name; linked to a man she’s never wanted, not like that. And in time, when there is no more Ichigo and Rukia, that will be all that remains; just her name linked to someone else’s in true-black ink, the only truth left out of the myriads of other truths that they keep.  

(The discarded beginnings of a fic I was writing for deathberryprompts’ weekly prompt, truth-bridge-knife (can you tell I was very taken by this prompt… also that it was viciously difficult for me :’)). Truth was supposed to be Sode no Shirayuki, Bridge was supposed to be Zabimaru, and Knife was supposed to be Zangetsu.)

(Truth)

The truth is that you’ve never liked the boy. Hair like the blazing sun, and a soul equally as hot; yet what is the sun to the snow but anathema? You waited out your stint in the boy’s soulscape like a curse. In his heart, there is no room to hide, nowhere to escape or take shelter. If it rains, you get soaked; if the sun shines, you burn. You wish the boy would learn some tact; some scrap of control. You lend him your powers because you see no other choice. You never even give him your name. He never thinks to ask.

The truth is you don’t like him. He jumps into things without thinking; deliberation and calculation is second nature to you. You felt abandoned, see; when she relinquished her grip on your heart almost eagerly, handed you over to him like you’re water through her fingers and not solid ice growing through her veins.

.

.

.

(Bridge)

It surprises you how easily a bridge of a hundred years, forged from the sweat and tears and blood of shared friends, crashes and burns.

It doesn’t matter how many years have gone into its making; it doesn’t matter how steady you thought it beneath your feet. One moment of inaction is all it takes, and she’s sliding your master’s hands from her shoulders, averting her eyes. You think you can see the smoke as everything goes up in flames.

You didn’t know her then, yuki-onna. You won’t know her for another forty years.

.

.

.

(Knife)

You haven’t been called upon in years.

Even the best swords rust if they’ve been neglected. You’re not sure you can even call yourself a sword any more. A kitchen knife, maybe— maybe less than that. A butterknife. You almost envy that imposter that once took up space inside his mind, as much as you had cursed him once— he, at least, had bailed while the King was intact. You could overthrow him now, sure, but for what? There’s no point in ruling over a field of ashes. His fire has long since burned out.

(A very very short snippet of a Bleach x Percy Jackson AU)

“You’re a demigod.”

Ichigo blinks. “I know I’m good-looking, but that’s coming on a little strong, don’t you think?”

The girl with the odd violet eyes smacks him upside the head. “Not that kind of demigod, you fool,” she snaps. “I doubt an oaf like you would be familiar with Greek mythology—”

“No, I know a little.” It takes a short second to sink in, and when it does, he bolts up from his chair. “Wait, demigod as in Greek mythology demigod—??”

“Yes.”

“But, but,” he splutters, “we’re Japanese.”

She smacks him again, harder. “Don’t question it, fool!”

(idk what this is but I like it.)

In his dreams, he loses her a hundred, a thousand, a million different ways. To fire, to flood, to a sword through the gut; to creeping disease and the ravages of time. Always right before his eyes, so that he can see the life draining from her; always, always, always helpless.

None of the dreams ever hurt as much as waking up does.

(A really, really old (several years at least) highschool soccer AU fic I started bc Korea lost to Australia in the Asian Cup and I got pissed as hell lmao)

The shrill blast of the whistle cut through the morning air as twenty-two people erupted into simultaneous noises of outrage, but one voice carried clearly over the rest.

“A foul?! Which part?! Any moron could have seen that it was his foot that tripped me over!”

“Not bloody likely!” snarled player fifteen, his face slowly flushing to match his distinctive orange hair. “Look at her! I’m not even sure she’s tall enough to actually trip over my feet! If anything, she’s the one that was underfoot, not me!”

“Underfoot?” The woman’s eyes flashed dangerously as she took a step closer to player fifteen, and despite being a clear foot and a half taller, he stumbled backwards in his haste to avoid her searing anger. “I’ll show you underfoot, you great, big, bullying lout—”

“That’s enough!” Another shrill pipe of the whistle, this time right into the two players’ ears; they jumped back comically, the boy tripping over the ball and landing flat on his backside. The opposing team hid their sniggers behind clean white shirts accented in violet. “Kuchiki, Kurosaki, no name-calling on the field. Kuchiki, last I checked you weren’t the umpire. It’ll be Kurosaki’s free kick. Resume play!”

“I believe in you, onii-chan!” a sweet-looking girl with pigtails called from the stands as the orange-haired striker assumed position; the white-clad team slunk into formation, muttering darkly about the umpire— Mizuiro, wasn’t it? Fucker’s got raisins for eyes— behind his back. Player twenty-three, black-haired, violet-eyed, seething with anger, settled into a defensive stance; her opponent smirked at her lazily.

“Don’t worry, Yuzu, I got this,” he called back to the stands, but his eyes were trained on her.

Bring it, they said.

There was nothing that Kuchiki Rukia did better.

________________________________________________________________

Half time at the annual ‘friendship’ match between Karakura High and Seireitei Academy brought with it a frustrating score of nil-all, multiple yellow cards, numerous fouls and several inappropriate insults hurled across the field. The umpire for the first half had narrowly managed to avoid an angry Seireitei Academy mob, slipping away into the Karakura High stands before blood could be drawn. The game so far had been tight; the two teams were evenly matched, and, as such games tended to go, had been getting increasingly dirty with time.

(Very old Ichiruki sort of camp counsellors AU I was writing based on some of my own experiences with mentoring at camps)

“We are going to annihilate you.”

A perfectly acceptable sentiment in team sports, had it not been for the fact that currently, their teams were made up of borderline terrified seventh-graders on their first highschool camp. Kuchiki Rukia brandished a finger in his direction, and Kurosaki Ichigo rolled his eyes.

“In your dreams,” he retorted, spinning his makeshift paddle in one hand and looking for all the world like a full-grown adult to their coterie of kids. The mischievous gleam in his eyes, however, could only belong to a teenager, and a reckless, headstrong, seventeen-year-old one at that. “Bring it, Queen midget.”

“For god’s sake, you’re leading kids. Do you have no shame?” Ishida Uryuu interjected from the side, rolling his sleeves up methodically and pushing his glasses up his nose. Behind him, Inoue Orihime smiled apologetically, ushering yet more seventh graders along behind her. Rukia and Ichigo looked at each other.

“Not really,” they both replied, before turning to their frightened looking protegees.

“Besides, you guys want to win too, don’t you?” Rukia asked, flashing a grin that was all teeth. There was a short silence.

One brave soul nodded.

________________________________________________________________

Peer mentoring as a concept had existed for a while now in education; it developed leadership and organisational skills for the mentor, helped younger students settle into the rhythm of school life with minimal discomfort and fostered a sense of unity and mutual respect throughout the school. A beneficial arrangement all around, many schools had soon adopted the procedure of assigning an older peer mentor to a group of younger students. Karakura high was no exception; their ten-week peer mentoring program in which students in their twelfth and final year of schooling each mentored a group of roughly five seventh-graders was generally acknowledged to be the best leadership program around for miles, and looked stellar on any resume, reference letter or college application one cared to write.

So there was no way in hell that Kurosaki Ichigo and Kuchiki Rukia, two of the most promising students of the 2015 graduating class, was about to pass that chance up.

(Old hichiruki oneshot set straight after the fullbring reunion)

He’s taller.

Kuchiki Rukia is used to being small; used to having men and women tower over her day and night, used to fighting and defeating people and monsters that far outstrip her in size. Her lack of physical presence is something she is long accustomed to, such that she barely gives a passing thought to size differences between her and her opponents these days. People who are taller and bigger than her have long since ceased to unnerve her, given how she has been positively diminutive all her life—

So then why am I so acutely aware of the fact that he’s taller than me?

Not just taller than her, no; taller than before, specifically. Silently, Rukia berates herself; human males grow, it’s not as if she didn’t know this. Did she think Ichigo would forever remain the angry fifteen-year-old she had first transferred her powers to? Of course it was natural that he’d have gained a few inches since she’d last seen him, but for some reason, the fact that he is notably taller and broader than when she left him is really hitting home at this moment.

Maybe it’s because of his proximity to her. Suddenly flushing, she realises how close they are standing; attempting to hide her flaming blush (it’s ridiculous, this is Kurosaki Ichigo, why would she be blushing—), she coughs and takes a deliberate step away from him.

.

.

.

“I’m not your princess.”

He cocks his head at her, like a disturbing, overlarge bird. “No?” he hisses, eyes glinting in the half-dark. He grins a grin that’s all teeth, and his tongue curls out and runs across his bottom lip. He slams a fist into his palm as though he’s figured something out. “Queen, then. There, that fits better, anyway. You’re not some timid bitch under someone else’s rule. You only bow for the King, don’t you?”

“I’m not your Queen either,” she says steadily. Her voice does not betray her inner turmoil, and for that she is thankful. “And I don’t bow to anyone—“

The hollow snorts. “Tell that to the King,” he says, getting up from the bed. Rukia smothers her instinctual reaction to take a step back.

(Ichiruki Snow Queen AU, version 1: Ichigo dies in the war with Yhwach, Rukia singlehandedly ends the Thousand Year Blood War, goes insane with grief, turns the Seireitei into a desolate icy wasteland and flees to the snow fields with Ichigo’s body, which she encases in ice and basically becomes a hermit ice queen protecting the corpse of her loved one. Several hundred years later, a reincarnated Ichigo comes to the Seireitei, wonders why everything is so shitty and cold, and decides he’s going to go give this ‘Ice Queen’ a piece of his goddamn mind. He likes summer, ok?)

The thousand year blood war ends like this:

Kurosaki Ichigo falls, blood spurting from a wound that not even Inoue can close. Unohana, who might yet have saved him by dint of accumulated centuries of medical knowledge, lies a lifeless corpse in the bottommost floor of Muken. Urahara is too far away on the battlefield to implement any of his clever schemes, and his father is god knows where, doing god knows what. Aizen watches his demise with passive eyes. Yhwach swings his broadsword, and blood trails from its edge in scarlet droplets – scatters on the soil like rain. He laughs, Kurosaki Ichigo falls, and dooms the entirety of the Seireitei to fall with him.

Yhwach laughs, because he can see it now, his victory, his victory, Soul Society his to rule and a realm of endless carnage that would ensure he never lose the light– but all those eyes and that almost infinite power of his could not have shown him what came next.

It is not Kurosaki Ichigo he has to worry about. It is a tiny shinigami, not even worth making the special war potentials list, barely a foot soldier before her promotion to lieutenant a year prior to the battle. She is the one who ends the thousand year blood war, she and her zanpakutou spirit and the mindless energy that comes with the severance of a fate ordained by a higher being than he could have ever imagined.

For if the Soul King evades his prophetic eyes, what hope does he have of perceiving the fabric of destiny woven by a power greater and more terrible than ten Soul Kings combined?

The moment he felled Kurosaki Ichigo was the moment he sealed his mortal fate. The last thing Yhwach sees before frost encases him is a blinding pillar of white annihilating half of the Seireitei.

(Ichiruki Snow Queen AU, version 2: Sode no Shirayuki gets jealous of the ‘unbreakable bond’ between Rukia and Ichigo, and also she thinks that Rukia’s kind, giving heart is basically barring her from true greatness, so she blankets the Seireitei in an eternal winter, erases Rukia’s memories and kidnaps her to some ice castle on the edge of a cliff, so she can train her to be the Queen of the universe that Shirayuki knows she can be. Ichigo, predictably, is having None Of That Shit, thank you very much.)

Winter comes upon the Seireitei without warning that year.

Softly, quietly, almost without anyone noticing, the first snow comes, blanketing the eaves of the nobles’ and the commoners’ houses alike, the cold winds starts stealing into the alleyways and shakes the last of the autumn leaves off the trees, creeping frost scurries along the pavement, filling their cracks–

and slowly, imperceptibly, the unfurling of something colder than the winter, pale violet eyes blinking open, waking to the world it observes with dispassionate detachment before deciding–

something was wrong.

.

.

.

She looks out the window, to the blizzard just starting up outside; he is still there, waiting in the snow.

“Who is he, Shirayuki?” she asks later, when it is just the two of them and any cries of her name— Rukia, Rukia— are drowned out by the wind whipping through the corridors. “He burns like the sun.”

The tiniest furrowing of Shirayuki’s brow, an almost imperceptible tremble in her hands— but then she blinks, and it is gone.

“I know not, and I care even less,” she says, face smooth and cold. “The sun is no friend to the snow, Rukia.”

(...Some kinda timeskip!feels, I suppose?)

It’s been 17 months, not that he’s been counting.

Or maybe he has; and who would blame him? After all the shit that happened to him two winters ago, the peaceful life he’s living now seems almost like a dream. He lives in constant fear—

Fear?

— fear of it disappearing, like so much smoke through his fingers, so is it any wonder he keeps count, to this day? You know, kind of like those joke signs about workplace safety. It has been X days since our last nonsense. Yeah, that’s definitely what it was. Every day that he adds to his mental tally reassures him—

does it

— reassures him, and one day there’ll be so many days that he’ll have lost count. One day the days that he’s had to count will outnumber the days that he hasn’t counted, and he looks forward to that day with a reverence bordering on fanaticism; he can’t wait till he can do away with the tally altogether, until he’s secure enough in his normal

mundane

life that he no longer has to count every new day like an

disappointment

achievement. Because that day will come, he tells himself, gritting his teeth, curling his hands into fists, that day will come when he no longer leaves his windows open at night and leans into the cold snap of the frost; that day will come when he doesn’t jerk away from butterflies and look the other way when he sees Inoue or Chad or Ishida running down the corridors, skipping class. The tally is only one part of it, the easiest part of it all; and that day will come when he can take it down from his mental walls and throw it in the trash. But for now, for now—

Seventeen months and a day, since he last saw spirits. 

[ecotone99]

[SF] Sassy for Satan.

The final trails of dusk streak through Mariya’s blinds at just before eight thirty pm. There is a slight pink hue against the pale blue of the sky and only a few clouds, the wind blows and makes the blinds bump against the window sill. Mariya reaches out from underneath her cocoon of blankets and presses the on button on the coffee maker on her bedside table. It hisses as it comes to life and soon the smell of mid range French roast is making the idea of getting out of bed more palpable. In fifteen and a half minutes she has showered(though couldn't be bothered to wash her hair, it still looked fine) is on her second cup of coffee and has a record playing on the turntable on the other side of her cluttered room. Yukiko Okada is singing against a fast and upbeat tempo and for a brief moment Mariya thinks today will be a good day. In forty five seconds she is flat on her back and wondering "Why bother." Mariya did not think everlasting life as a vampire would be so tedious. Life's more boring chores tend to seem unending when you are immortal. It seemed so much more glamorous when her perception of it was endless parties of unbridled debauchery, blood orgies, tormenting handsome vampire hunters, or having to keep on the move so as not to alert the humans. "When was the last time I even had to fight or be on the run?" She could not remember. To make matters worse as if existential dread is not bad enough, it was Saturday and she would have to lead the Black Mass for the local coven of mortals who had pledged their everlasting souls in service to her and more importantly Lucifer. "This used to be fun, it was basically a party with violence and all manner of depravity." For a moment her mind travels back through time and she thinks about the haze of blood soaked and alcohol fueled insanity that being a High Priestess in the service of Satan used to bring. Her mind quickly fast forwards to the present day, to the service last week. Fucking goth dweebs that wear vegan leather and spend most of their time bitching and moaning about what is and isn't goth. Mariya rises only because the record needs to be flipped and decides that she might as well get dressed. With one startling revelation her night goes downhill from there. "Fuck." Mariya stands at her dresser and curses the names of God, Satan, Buddha, Mohammed and any other prophet or deity that she can remember the name of. She is out of underwear and will have to do laundry. The sun is still leaving slight streaks she notices with a very slight smile. "I could just go out running into it." She pictures it and in a darkly comical way how absurd it would be to any who saw it. A pale stark naked woman running out of a cheap studio apartment and promptly exploding in both flashes of light and chunks of gore splattering all within fifty feet. Instead Mariya decides to go commando and puts on the cleanest pair of jeans she has and a white shirt with very little coffee stains. Three weeks worth of clothes are thrown into her duffle bag and she is off to the Laundromat down the street. (after taking the record off the turntable and chugging one more cup of coffee) Thankfully true to form someone at the Laundromat has trustingly left their detergent in an empty clothes basket as theirs are being washed. It had been about thirty five years since Mariya last bought detergent, she didn't see the point when it was always laying around. Soon enough the clothes are in and the washer is doing its thing. Mariya scans the place and notices with something that feels a bit like excitement and old Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles arcade machine. Twenty five scents is put into the machine and three minutes later Raphael has bitten the dust at the hands of the Foot Clan. Mariya takes a seat next to a young woman reading a comic. For a moment Mariya thinks about making polite conversation or at least the coursory question of what is the comic about. The young woman is wearing earbuds so in the end she doesn’t bother. The crushing boredom of being in a Laundromat quickly sets in and Mariya has slumped down in her seat and she resumes scanning the room desperately searching for anything interesting. Like a beacon from heaven or a siren's song on a tumultuous sea Mariya spots the community corkboard and more importantly the vibrant flier on it. Dead center with a thumb tack in each corner. It is a flier advertising a nine dollar trial month at the local twenty four hour gym and they have just put in a bouldering wall. Visions of climbing sheer rock walls in the desert on cloudless nights flood Mariya's mind. What an intense thrill it would be, and obviously she had the time, limitless time, to train and enjoy it. The flier captivated her, drew her into it and she could see herself at the gym (after dark of course) making friends with people who had no idea who The Cure were or what electro or acid Goth were. Normal people who probably liked sushi and decent mid range cars and patagonia, this was her ticket out of the rut she was in. Mariya spent the next hour and a half sitting in the waiting area thinking about the possibilities that lay before her now that she held the flier in her hands. The walk back to her apartment was much more pleasant and each step was taken with a new found joy that gave her long strides. It had begun to rain only slightly, only enough to warp light into something fantastic and otherworldly. There were not many people on the road and no one else was on the sidewalk at this hour. Mariya could not wait until tomorrow night when she would walk into the gym, pay her nine dollars and learn to climb. For a moment she stops dead in her tracks and thinks that it is a bit odd that with all her years on this planet she had not as of yet learned how to rock climb or boulder. Of course she has not learned to make pasta from scratch as of yet either but what the hell maybe next century. The cinema was advertising this months midnight movies in bright neon bordered windows and Mariya stops and looks at the line-up. Two Fridays from now she decides she will go and see Critters. By the time she arrives back home it is in a frenzy to get ready for the Mass and she should have been out the door heading to the Black Church(it's not actually black, it was just christened that in the eighties.)five minutes ago. Wearing a slightly less bloodstained robe and clutching the ceremonial dagger of Ka'Ndarr in her left hand Mariya runs the entire mile and a half from her apartment to the Black Chruch.(once again, not actually black.) The rain has stopped and only the ound of Mariya's panting as she runs and the sounds of her boots through the mud announce her arrival. Thankfully she is somehow the first one at the Black Church. Though unfortunately in her haste she has forgotten a key element of the Black Mass. The live chicken for the sacrifice which usually is bought from the small market off of fifth was forgotten in her mad dash to make it on time, she also has no idea what she will talk about at tonight's mass, though honestly she could just recycle last weeks and punch it up a bit. The mouth breathers that attend would never know. As the few preparations are made before her flock arrives Mariya wipes last weeks dried blood off the altar, lights all the candles and makes sure the inverted cross is clean and looks presentable. The Black Church itself is an old turn of the century rural church about a mile on the outskirts of town and over the last forty years or so it has started falling in on itself, though that does kind of help to give off the whole "Black Mass/Church of Satan" vibe. Slowly they trickle in, the pale, pimply and in desperate need of any sort of guidance in their lives teens who make up the congregation. Hello's are given and they find their seats on the few structurally sound pews still available in the rotting church. The wind rips through the mostly absent ceiling and Mariya stands at the foot of the inverted cross playing up the theatrical element of organized religion. The sermon is soon delivered, it's a rather stirring piece about the importance of always putting yourself before others and remembering that authority is the true root of all evil. (Which is obviously bullshit, but the teenagers are dumb and impressionable and live on a steady diet of black metal, besides Lucifer is not exactly picky about how he gets his souls, just that he gets them.) The Hymns are sung and the communion wine (Bottom shelf red zin) is passed around in the ceremonial goblet(Halloween city, twelve ninety-nine.) and the evening is coming to it's merciful end and Mariya is chomping at the bit to ditch the nerds. "What about the sacrifice?" It's the chubby one in the back who always wears the iron maiden shirt, Mariya has always found him annoying, a real teachers pet kind of kid. "Unfortunately I was not able to procure the blood that our beloved Lucifer craves, and I alone will pay the penance. I hope you my beloved flock will never have to see our Dark Lord's profound and earth shattering anger." Mariya makes a slight bow as she takes back the goblet from the crowd and hopes they bought her theatrical bullshit. The crowd sits in hushed silence as Mariya starts packing things up. "I offer myself as tribute to the one true Lord of man!" Mariya turns around. It's the chubby one in the Iron Maiden t-shirt. She gives him a long hard stare and in doing so notices several different food stains of different ages and severities on his shirt. One of the dorks somewhere in the middle shouts "Hail Satan." "Hail Satan" Mariya responds with extremely forced enthusiasm. Mariya unpacks the dagger she had just put away. Before she can think of a way to shut down this idea the dork in the Iron Maiden shirt is laying on the sacrificial altar and giving her the thumbs up. The congregation all start speaking in "tongues" and Mariya thinks "Fuck it." The knife goes in, the goth kids go wild, and Mariya yanks out the warm just finished beating heart of the kid who up until just recently was wearing the Iron Maiden shirt. The heart is lit on fire on a small metal tray and the goths pray to Lucifer as black smoke billows and hangs low over the heads of all in attendance. Mariya rushes them out and makes a point to practically push them out the door. "Tonight was great, I can't wait until next week!" Says one of the flock as Mariya shoves her out the door of the Black Church. Finally they are all gone and she too can go home. The air is silent and the scent of blood gives the waning night a slight coppery smell. Mariya reaches into her pocket and pulls out the flier for the gym and looks at the climbing wall and smiles. Mariya throws the body of the deceased over her shoulder and figures he shall make a nice if not easy meal and walks out the door. Soon it will be dawn and she will sleep. Tomorrow night she will go to the gym and start her new hobby. Rock climbing, just thinking the words makes Mariya smile more than she has in years.

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[twilightpony4]

Ola Americano... Turtle?: 2. Young Adults

Driving through the city with extravagantly tinted windows was never more relaxing. Normally, they would be on the lookout for police who would want to pull them over to give them a citation for the feature. Raphael was always first to volunteer to outrun them if they were ever given the chance, but since they have now been given a pass by the police as an undercover vehicle, that chance to engage in a Tokyo Drift faded away. At least they still get those funny looks from fellow drivers and pedestrians who either ogle or ridicule the fashion of their vehicle. If only they knew this meager van withheld its own defenses.

Donnie drove to the back of the TCRI building. The entire perimeter was surrounded by armed guards and yellow tape. Noticing the van, the policeman took no time but to accept their clearance and open up a spot for them to drive on through. The driver let down his window just an inch when he stopped before the building. His car shut off and a female officer ran up to the window. Quick words were exchanged until a quick nod. She grabbed her dispatch and soon the street lights of the block turned their environment black. Only for a few seconds did this occur until the van was emptied and its passengers safely inside the TCRI structure. The mutants were immediately greeted by an officer who was assigned to take them to the floor Chief Vincent was occupying. The teens walked hurriedly, but not enough to not catch a glimpse of their surroundings. Officers, detectives, you name it were swarming out there as they pried open drawers and analyzed possible evidence. The floor altogether was emptied, swept clean in hopes of finding secrets between the walls and floorboards. When coming upon the elevator, both the space and weight capacity could not hold all six of them. They learned that after the narrow space could barely hold a turtle and a lizard together. The officer guiding them looked flushed with embarrassment and suggested that they should take the elevator meant for their machines. The hydraulics of this more industrial elevator did the trick as the family was sent up without their guide to the 9th floor of the TCRI building. They waited patiently as they were whisked up. Trying to get something started, Michelangelo started an 8-beat rhythm but no one was interested in collaborating along with him, ending the potential show short much to the young turtle’s dismay. The elevator dinged and the large door opened up to them the desired room. Just like any other floor, it was flooded with more people than ordinary office items. By the large machines and some other recognizable pieces seen from Donatello’s little lab, this must have been their laboratory floor. To their right, a glass box had cracked walls from the inside. To the left, computers were being hacked into and opened up for further investigation.

“Who do I have the pleasure of meeting?” Vincent’s voice caused for a change of direction of mutant heads. She stepped sharply with her assistant struggling to keep up with her. The mutant gang opened up to her as she approached them with a content expression. Although alright on the outside and having usual contact with the male mutants, the differences of the girls struck a hushed awe within herself.

“These are our sisters you remember. ‘Member?” Mikey spoke in a silly tone as he pulled his two sisters up to the chief. Yes, she remembered them but only as the boys have recalled. It was the first time she had officially met the two girls due to their absence in China.

“Of course, but not by blood, correct?”

“We're still a family.” Venus assured. Blood or not, they were a family and it would be best to pass that knowledge around to others who may want to challenge it. Thankfully, Vincent smiled, nodding while facing the floor.

“Of course. Chief Vincent of the New York Police Department.” She stook out a sharp hand for Mona to grab onto.

“Mona Lisa, kunoichi.” With such authority, Mona strived to match the same basic and affirmative tone as the chief held. After saying so, she felt more power through her throat.

“Kunoichi?”

“Female ninja.” The lizard lady added after remembering it is not a commonly known phrase in America. Vincent made an ‘O’ with her mouth, and then turn to Venus with her hand.

“Venus de Milo, kunoichi and magician.”

“A magician, so you like to create illusions?” As she asked, Vincent turned away and began to walk. The clan followed closely behind her for they knew she was ready to get down to business.

“Something like that.” The female terrapin almost whispered as they walked with the most mischievous look on her face.

“I'm glad all of you are here for I believe our team has found something you'll all want to see.”

“The place looks empty.” Raph commented as a team with baggies full of random items passed by. Most likely they were going to go to their forensic labs to find a clue through them.

“We're almost there. Ever since, we've swiped the entire building clean. Unfortunately, they seemed to have removed the latter of their possible experiments, plans, files, you name it. But, we have come across something quite interesting.” They came across a black desk with the surface swept clean. Vincent went behind it and sat in the chair. Bending over, she opened a cabinet and appeared to be fishing through some files. Michelangelo took it upon himself to sit on the corner of the table as he waited for her to pull out the desired file. Mona shook her head defeatedly for the child being so childish, but then again she knew who they were dealing with.

“Gentlemen, and ladies, in this file is useful information we can use to track down Baxter Stockman.” The black file was handed in Leonardo’s direction. The leader took it and opened it up. The breaths of five beat down his neck as he tried to tolerate it and read. There was picture of a man’s profile. He looked confident with his eyes glaring through his spectacles. Surprisingly enough, he was a rather alright-looking man. Beneath his picture was his name in bold letters: Seth Chapelin. To the left, numerous notable characteristics and achievements of the well decorated, red-headed man were listed. The red banded turtle was the first to respond.

“A resumè?” He raised his brow and looked to her with an unamused tone.

“His entire bio.” She clarified, ending his snarky expression. Donatello's arm pushed Leonardo and Venus forward a little and lay it over their shoulders to point out something in the file.

“Doctor Chapelin, robotics engineer. Stationed in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil.” He read to them, tracing his finger under each word quite intrigued.

“Read further” she dared as her back was engulfed into the back of her seat. Vincent crossed her arms as well as her legs. “and you find that Chapelin is the assistant of Stockman.” Donatello was the only one to look further into it. Once he got that surprised, eyebrow raised look, they took her word for it.

“He looks so young.” Venus mumbled as she stared at his profile picture. Leonardo was beginning to pass it on to her for her took look more throughout the file and she pulled back at it. Once in her hands, she read on further what she couldn’t see from the view beside Leo.

“And incredibly intelligent.” Vincent added in regards to Venus’ surprise. “With this, I was hoping you all could do a little investigation on your own.” Leonardo nodded.

“But what about finding Shredder?” Vincent’s gaze moved to Michelangelo, whose shrugged shoulders questioned her motives. “He's got to be number one priority, right?”

“Of course, but we are unable to pick up his tracks. My hopes are that if you can find Chapelin and find out what rock Stockman is hiding-.”

“We find Shredder through him.” Leonardo finished. Vincent nodded.

“Precisely.”

“So,” Mona dwelled on “does this mean what I think you’re saying?” She asked. The chief sat up from her chair. Her hands were clasped together and on the desk just as the elbows that supported her upper body.

“I heard it's Carnival season. Would you all like to see Brazil, again apparently?”

“Well,” Raphael looked to the ground, shaking his head. “I wasn't too fond of the crash.” Oh yeah, like he wanted to blow up in the sky and come hurdling down to be skipped like a rock and barely survive a waterfall. Just the thought of flying again got him rubbing the back on his neck in anxiety.

“Softshell.” He heard Michelangelo mutter.

“Moron.” Raphael retaliated, a little louder this time.

“Numbskull!” Louder.

“Shrek the Third!” Louder.

“Children, children!” Donatello’s quick claps and breaking their stares between one another with his own stopped the two brothers from continuing. Both huffed and turned away in a pouting fashion. “We have more important things to deal with other than your pettiness.”

“I sometimes forget you are all still children.” Her passively-mocking tone did not sit right with the others of the group. Although she really did not mean to cause a stir, she was right. Here, they were supposed to be mature with adult responsibilities yet their name-calling and pouting in the middle of a serious investigation. Some heroes.

“Teenagers,” Mikey clarified, trying to fix the situation. Suddenly, he began to lean closer to her with his elbow resting on the desk. Then, his hand held up his chin with his pointer finger lining up the side of his face. It was his way of looking ‘classy’. “ but we can still have those adult conversations.” He spoke with such melody. Mona grabbed him by the rim of his shell and yanked him up. The young terrapin yelped when she pulled him close for her to whisper to him.

“Not helping.” Even though yanking someone is completely appropriate and mature.

“17’s pretty close to 18.” He wanted to argue, but the lizard lady was not having it.

“Young adults.” Venus took a deep breath before stating. “Young adults with” she looked to the lizard and the terrapin in which she kept her grip on. “childish antics.” she finished, quite defeated and cynical. Leonardo closed his eyes briefly as his way of saying that this was definitely not happening in front of Vincent. A quick breath and he carried on.

“We’ll have to check in with Splinter, but he should be ok with it.” He looked to the folder that was hanging down loosely at Venus’ side. He slipped it out of her tight grip and tucked it under his arm. Then, he scanned over his team. “It's not the first time we all went on a mission on the other side of the globe, right?” That statement carried over a knowing smile between all six mutants. It also brought one upon Vincent’s own lips.

“Contact as soon as you can. I'll make arrangements for your departure.”