#char: that pure white bird

[promisinininining]

let him use catapults!!!!!!

[pr1ncesspopstar]

Weapon of Heart - FFXIV Write 2024 - Day 22: Gift (Free Day)

Ao3

Feat. DarrenXirias' Warrior of Light

-

Darren truly should have expected things not to go so easily.

Perhaps it was natural he would feel some overconfidence, the shores of Yanxia were so close to his homeland, after all. He and his hunt partner both were more than familiar with these hills and beaches with their many adventures and travels, from the hunt for the great Byakko to ensuring the Namazu’s antics were sufficiently in-hand. And how far beyond these lands he had done, becoming stronger the despair that dared to engulf the world itself.

Maybe it hadn’t even been the faint whispers of overconfidence that crept in when they had accepted the mission. Perhaps it was just a mistake. Something none of them could control, the force ever unseen but always felt out of hand. The red string of fate that unknowingly tugged them all along their uncharted course. His woven around his neck, and the fangs of the beast above him. Sparks flew in his face as his sword arm struggled to hold the beast at bay from the ground, those teeth sharper than steel. Hayabusa was screeching from somewhere, no doubt ripping into the beast best she could to get it to yield. Moonlight was singing shrilly, trying her best to ease the bleeding from his legs and gut but it felt useless. How the monster’s breath was hot on his face, the smell of iron sharp and fresh, red dripping from the tongue.

“No!”

The shout was followed by a swear in a language he never heard, and a flash of light. A feeling of aether washed over his face, cool and quick as he could suddenly heave in a breath, Angada’s weight forced off his chest. The beast's face contorted into pain, a scream ripped out and cut shout at the thin, arrow-like nouliths that had slammed into the side of its head pierced flesh and bone. What followed was too quick to see. Darren only felt blood splash across his face and heard a scream cut short but a loud mechanical beep. Heat blossomed to his right where the monster tumbled, the sound of an explosion made his ears ring as the sound of gore of pebbles hitting the earth echoed up the mountain side.

“Darren, are you all right?!” Halditar skidded in from the left, kicking up dust as she switched to another job in a flash, the robes of a white mage not too dissimilar from her usual sage attire. Darren felt a wave of relief and energy flow into him from the crystal-topped staff as it glowed in her hand, enough that his heart slowed and it had hardly felt like he was face to face with death seconds earlier.

“I am now. I can’t believe you battered it to death with your milpreves like that, how very ‘healerly’ of you.” he joked with a relieved sigh just before being tackled by a very thankful Hayabusa and Moonlight, buried under both bird’s fluffy feathers. Halditar couldn’t resist laughing herself, adrenaline and panic becoming a joyous thrill in the aftermath.

“What can I say, I’ve been called a few ��resourceful’ magic users for many reasons. Including learning if you’re in a hurry, anything will die if you just whack it hard enough, no matter the weapon.” She recalled, choosing to phrase it as a compliment rather than the insult it had clearly been thrown at her as.

The smell of burning flesh and aetheric fire drew her eyes away from Darren. All that remained of Angada’s head was a thin strip of jaw attached by sinew and charred muscle. Blood flowed from the neck stump into the dirt as a small river, watering the land with its death. The odor of rot and death would come soon, but for now they were spared by the sharper scent of pure aether heat in its most distilled form, no smoke or wood, just the fire, bright and chemical. She wandered near until her boot hit something that gave off a tinny, metal ‘chink’ beneath her book. “Gods, damn it…”

“What’s wrong?” Darren pushed the affectionate birds off himself and looked to Halditar, hand going to his blade in case it was another foe approaching. All he could see was the roegadyn holding a chunk of crumpled, burnt metal that sparked with loose aetheric energy. His eyes were wide, “Those are your… Oh kami, Halditar, I’m so sorry-”

“Hey now, none of that shite.” She put a stop to it before the samurai could start, reaching up and ruffling his hair playfully and giving that wide, carefree grin that held so much weight given all she had gone through. “I’d blow up a million more of my milpreves with a point-blank toxicon if it promised me you’d be safe. And it’s nothing some gathering and time won’t fix.”

Darren was not convinced. Perhaps it was natural, given how the samurai and all of Doma treated their weapons and tools, especially the ones that sung to you, turned each action of your beloved job or craft into a dance. It was no stretch to say the weapon was the heart of a warrior, another way to see the soul. And one of the strongest he knew happily gave up her own to save his life… Hells, it was even more so since they were both crafters. The materials were disgustingly expensive and their weapons had been tuned specifically for themselves, by themselves. Taking into account their weaknesses and flaws, the journey and time it took to craft each piece and aspect that would make the weapon their own. It had more than their spirit of adventure and fighting, but their love to make and respect for the craft.

Darren looked up into Halditar’s eyes. Behind the glass those eyes were kind as ever, promising she meant her words. And while he did accept them, it didn’t stop some small part of him from feeling a guilt eat at him. Knowing she would feel the same way if something similar occurred with Summer Storm. It wouldn’t have been hard to believe she would do all she could to help him repair-

His eyes lit up. Of course, the answer was quite simple. While he had never made a sage’s armaments before, it would hurt to try. He relented, offering a weak smile as he was already scheming in the back of his mind. “Why don’t we stop early then and make our ways back to the hunt master and collect our reward. I’m sure we’re due for some complimentary sake for the close call today.”

“Ooh, I’d never say no to free drinks!” Halditar was quick to hitch onto Moondrop. Dorren could almost laugh at the eagerness of the roe when it came to any mention of alcohol. He joined her alongside Hayabusa, quieter than usual as he worked out the schematics of a yet to form weapon in his brain…

-

The first part was obvious; actually learn how to make nouliths in the first place. It was moments like this Darren could not be more grateful for his connections. While reading about the construction from Sharlayan tomes would have been effective, if not time consuming with the jargon, he found it easier to get his answers straight from the chocobo’s beak. Or in this case, some friend’s experience.

“You need to learn to make a sage’s arms, and which would be best to make for Halditar? Hmm…” Alphinaud and Fourchenault were happy (more so in the younger’s case) to hear out his request for information. The younger boy offered a smile to the samurai, “I think that’s a wonderful idea. I don’t believe she’s started yet, being swamped with requests from the weavers guild of late, so you should have plenty of time to whip something up before she does.”

Darren nearly felt the relief roll off his shoulder. The time it would take had been his main concern, the roe worked maddeningly fast when she finally got the hang of something. If she hadn’t even had the time to chart out the design, that gave him quite the buffer to work with. Though, Fourchenault was quick to temper any hopes for rising too quick.

“‘Wonderful,’ but perhaps a bit ambitious. Sage’s arms are considered some of the most difficult magical instruments to craft, both due to their size, properties, and the sheer variety. Especially when trying to construct one of extremely high quality. A single mistake, which is very easy to make I promise you, guarantee throwing away hours and thousands of gil worth of material,” the Forum members tone was as dry and serious as ever, only adding to the warning he tried to impart unto the Doman. “I would advise you to consider commissioning an artisan instead. It would save you a great amount of headache.”

“Your concern is appreciated, but I feel I simply cannot take that path,” Darren said and pounded his chest, a habit picked up from the other smiths in Limsa when expressing their pride and stubbornness in equal measures. “Her weapons were destroyed in a bid to protect me. Had she bought them, or I had no experience with metal work I may have considered that an option. But her milpreves were made of the highest quality and for what she gave up I will not expect anything less myself. Besides,”

He smiled wide, the weight of the hammer in his crafter’s garb heavy with the want for work, “A craft that precise and requires subtly sounds like a wonderful challenge for a blacksmith. Something to really test my limits.”

The elder Leveilleur failed to hide a sigh that came through his nose, his exasperation at the stubbornness of his child’s associates seemingly knowing no bounds. Alphinaud, by contrast, was bright eyed and inspired by the Doman’s honor.

“Then best we tell you what you need to know, and quickly.” With that a wave of his hands those familiar, narrow wings Alpinaud wielded into battle flew off his back and before Darren, letting him carefully observe and touch them with the intimacy of a smith.

Both sages gave him an excellent crash course on the nature of the weapon, so graciously skipping the history lesson for his purposes an opting for a summary; all sage arms were made from a stone that possessed high aetheric conductivity in a metal chassis that while decorative, was there for the purpose of helping the stones focus the confluence of aether and manifest the correct arcanima and somanoutic spells with minimal delay. While amulets and canes were options, for versatility the use of aether propelled apparati were now the most popular form these carefully constructed foci took.

He tried to imagine if Halditar knew all this, or could even repeat it to him in her own way… All things considered, he truly doubted it. This all sounded like the ‘prim’ way to do things, something that a sage that rammed her weapon’s directly into her enemies wouldn’t do. He wasn’t over his head yet, however, and still had plenty of questions to ask.

“What style do you think would be best for me to make then? Compared to other weapons I’ve studied, Sage’s seem to vary wildly yet function all the same.” He asked.

“That depends entirely on the Sage in question. Some swear by the more archaic milpreves due to the stronger mental connection supposedly, where I was more fond of the wing style for the sheer aetheric output and speed, as you can see from the pair Alphinaud inherited.” Fourchenault began, speaking as a man that had clearly done a lot of shopping before settling on his own pair. “From what I’ve been told, a style of wings may be best since she’s fond of keeping up on damage, and they certainly don’t falter in that regard.”

“I’d agree, were it not for the fact she’s always on the front line.” Alphinaud interjected, hand to chin in thought. “Wings are best used from a distance for their travel speed. With her being close by both foe and friend, the time it would take for a nearby wing to properly target itself would only be a bane… Ah!”

Alphinaud struck his fist into his palm, a moment of eureka practically seen shining above his head. “You could try lancets! They are much more blade-like so they should be more familiar for you to craft. They boast the same general principle as wings, but with the express purpose of being made for frontline fighters that need to apply medical aid quickly.”

“That sounds like exactly what I need.” Darren was grinning now. What he was searching for had a name, and materials he could start looking for. Slowly, the amorphous idea began to take shape in his head. He spoke longer with the two Elezen men to ensure he was getting his details right, before rushing off to find the nearest merchant he could bargain with.

-

“Llymlaen’s tits, I haven’t seen you make this much scrap since you waltzed into the guild like a kicked puppy.” Brithael’s voice broke Darren's concentration. Likely for the better, as he could feel his hammer hand shaking with an exhaustion that struck once every blue moon. His precision was shot, that much he could tell, meaning the untempered crystal before him would have been reduced to shards before he even made it to the furnace.

“At least it ain’t your metal I’m making scrap.” He shot back. Gods, his voice was all dust and gravel, dried by the past few days pounding away at the anvil and worktable with hammers and pliers of all shapes and sizes. There was no other choice, for the sake of sparing his dwindling supplies, he needed a break until he was in a right enough state to work with it again. Who knew when that would be, seeing as it had already been six days with no satisfactory set of lancets to show for it.

“No sir, and I thank the Twelves every fucking day you’ve since stopped moocing off the guild’s store house,” the Limsan hyur joked, following him to one of the benches shoved in the back corner of the private smithing room. The wood creaked as the settled, and Darren felt a flask shoved in his hand. He truly should have asked before sipping, but mercifully found it was only water to quench his now-noticed thirst

“So what is all this crap for anyways? Seems like goldsmith business.”

“Ugh, don’t remind me. Serendipity has been on my ass since I told her about this project and that I was putting my own ‘take’ on it…” he groaned, already hearing the pink-haired guildmaster’s voice echoing in his ears. Trying to block it out, he informed Brithael of his mission, and his plight. “Not a single one has been worthy, Brit, not one. I’ve done work on weapons deemed ‘unrepairable’ or made with materials said to be lost to time. And I can’t even forge a simple gift for a friend who destroyed her weapons, the heart of her warrior’s drive, to replace what she gave to help me…”

Brithael’s response took no time. It came not as words, or a pat upon the shoulder to comfort him. He responded to Darren with a quick, hard jab on the back of Darren’s head. A groan of pain wheezed from his chest as he held the back of his head on instinct, ears ringing from the shock as he could hear the forge master cursing at him for his stupidity.

“Ya blasted salt-licker, no wonder you’ve been fucking up in here all day! Had I known this was what had you moping I woulda’ come in here and beat the lessons you seemed to forgot back into ya! Hells, I guess nobody’s perfect but it pisses me off to see a smith like you fuck up on such a basic level.” The words didn’t cut as deep as the sudden blow did, but it did draw Darren to attention as he glared at the offending guildmaster, tired eyes still capable of a deadly glare.

“What are you on about? What lesson could I have forgotten?”

“The one that applies to everything from orders to gifts; the customer comes first,” A coal covered glove poked into his chest with every word, smearing a dark dot onto his smithing apron. “You’ve been in here thinking about the way you think about weapons, not how Haldi does. Of course your work is going to be garbage, you’re making healer arms for yourself and you’re the last person I’d trust with some magic sticks!”

Insults aside, a realization dawned upon Darren that there was a kernel of truth in Brithael’s words. In his rush to get materials and plan his schematics, figure out what Halditar needed, he had not taken the time to consider what she would want in a gift of lancets. Her own philosophy of weapon, why she thought. Brithael’s words faded. The sweltering heat of the furnace dimmed. The orange glow of the sunset and flames that filled the smithy darkened as he closed his eyes to ponder that question.

How did Halditar fight? What was it for, beyond herself, beyond her role as an adventurer? Did Darren even have a close enough bond with her to know the ideals of one of the few that could rival him?

“I’d blow up a million more of my milpreves with a point-blank toxicon if it promised me you’d be safe.”

Darren’s eyes snapped open. The faint headache, the shake in his arms faded, as he drew himself up onto legs whose ache faded in a moment of zen. He didn’t hear the bustle of the city beyond the stone ‘windows’ nor the chatter of his fellow smiths. Just the waves far below and his hammer on crystal on metal as he set to work, making adjustments to his schematics on the fly. A dangerous decision, but one he was confident he could make. No longer was he guided by a recipe and steps in his head, an abstract idea of what he should make his friend. He could see it. A weapon that fit a roe with a heart forged by trials into gold, great help to all, and one that deserved his highest quality work.

Seeing his once student now in the zone, Brithael let him be, leaving with just a passing comment to clean up his mess before he rushed off to deliver his gift.

-

“Twelve, man, you look like crap.” Halditar couldn’t help but say with a grin when two familiar faces appeared at her door. Darren took the words like a champ, just chuckling and shrugging with a familiar, tired sway to his stance any crafter would recognize.

“What can I say, I wanted a challenge and I found one.” he stepped past her into the apartment, and Halditar stepped aside to let Ashe have more space to step in. She greeted the Bozjan with a firm hand-arm shake.

“And how’s my actual best friend?” she asked.

“Hey!” Darren shouted from the living room, feigning a tone of hurt. Ashe laughed, his ears tilt up in joy as his tail swished, full of energy.

“Well enough, better since I’ve been using the herb tea you suggested for sleep. It’s kept quite a few witching hours at bay.”

“I’m glad to hear,” she nodded and followed him to the living room. Darren was already sitting in her recliner, leaning over to pet the bullpup Thistle on her chest, her tongue lolled out of her mouth in pure bliss. “Shall I make tea for everyone?”

“If you’d like, I can brew it. I actually brought over a little tea that’s best served iced. Much… easier, on a cat’s tongue. Assuming you do not mind me perusing your kitchen.” Ashe offered.

“Knock yourself out, kettle and everything should be in plain sight. She instructed and collapsed on the couch near the Doman man. Ashe helped himself to the kitchen, chased by Thistle who caught sight of that swaying, furry tail and was eager to investigate. A chuckle escaped for a moment, silenced by a box being placed on the coffee table in front her. Her gaze traced the arms over to Darren, who sank back in the chair with a wide, tired grin. It was plain to see an excitement in his eyes, like a child that was just dying to open a present.

“What’s this?” She asked, flicking the box’s lid lightly, popping it up only a smidge.

“It’s what it looks like, a gift.”

“What for?”

“Open it, and find out.” Sensing she would get no further answers, she did as instructed. Tearing away tissue paper until a glint of metal and some type of marble gave her pause. She tilted her head, slowly, eyes widening and mouth falling open as she peeled away the final layer of paper keeping her from seeing the whole gift.

“Darren? Are these your work?!” She couldn't help but raise her voice, glee seeping in as she pulled out one of the lancets with a wide smile and held it to the light. “These are beautiful! I would have never thought to make something like this!”

She meant her words, beholding the practically divine looking weapon as she held it to the light. It was impossibly light, impressive considering it was made with a highly conductive marble streaked with red quartz rather than the faint black edges. It paired with the rose gold casing beautifully. Paired with the perfect materia slots and other decorative jewels and swoops of the metal to make it fashionable without sacrificing efficiency. Halditar felt she was holding an art piece and not a weapon.

“Is it good?” Darren’s voice couldn’t help but waver as he asked. After all, he had poured so much into trying to do right by her, and while it was high quality, he didn’t know if it would please her at all…

“Good? It’s great! Wonderful, even!”

All that worrying for nothing, as the redhead’s face was bright with joy. She couldn’t even wait, grabbing all the lancets and in seconds they were flying around the room, gliding and stopping on a dime, turning and glowing with bright connections that promised strong aetheric flow. It was like seeing a child play with a new toy, utterly enraptured by how they flew and hummed with power. “They’re smooth as butter, and the edge is sharp enough to where I can attack with these without worry. It has everything I need and more. Gods, Darren, I can’t thank ya enough.”

“It’s the least I could do, for a friend,” he promised. And in the back of his mind he promised it a hundred times over. For Halditar’s weapon was only a vessel for her heart, all the kindness and empathy she had to share through the way she shielded others. There were few other things a smith could be more proud to work on, a weapon of such a pure purpose as to express the owner’s being, capable of changing and being used to fulfill that goal by any means.

Reunited with weapons to match her perfectly, Halditar spoke with Darren until Ashe returned. The small moment of distraction in passing out tea gives enough time for the exhausted smith to pass out after several nights of smithing in a row. Neither minded though, letting the Doman enjoy his nap as they chatted away, warmth spreading from them all.

[thechestnutworkshop]

buttermilk & herb chicken with garlic crostini and simple salad 🅟

I love roasted chicken—something so incredible and fresh about its burnished blistered skin, crackling to unveil the juicy bouncy flesh in the heat of 450F. The drippings that render from chicken naturally, even when just showered with salt and freshly crushed black pepper, already have an indescribably complex and full profile.

However, if you do wish to infuse aromatics, it is paramount that they are stuffed under the very skin itself, which not only is sufficient to halfway imitiate the incredible juiciness of a brined bird, but perhaps more importantly also gives heady infusion of the marinade right into the drippings; these drippings have a taste just so far removed from your idea of flavored chicken fat that it was incredibly hard not to scarf down the whole loaf of baguette with it, dunking and munching (my favorite bread to have with is one with very high hydration, nearing a pan cristal, with a shatteringly thin crust and a porous supple inside). Merely stuffing the cavity offers the most feeble suggestion of aromatics that it's as if the drippings were muddied, rather than flavoured.

The other option is, of course, a marinade or brine, as I'm doing here if you can afford yourself some weekend leisure—and perhaps its potency is none better showcased than with a buttermilk brine. Alone the chicken takes on an unimaginative milky note, but the herbs introduced turn the dish into indescribable magic. A heady amount of chives with the buttermilk gives the chicken a bright flavor somewhere between a green goddess and a buttermilk ranch/sour cream & onion at first bite, but the woody herbs finish the palate with a warm complexity. The buttermilk also gives a wonderful contrast between parts of the skin that become charred and other parts that have a wonderfully bouncy mouthfeel to them—a sometimes welcome break from the incredibly thin, crisp, and crackly skin of a normal roasted chicken.

Serve a side salad with this, and you have the most perfect lunch under early summery skies.

buttermilk & herb chicken with garlic crostini and simple salad

for the roasted chicken chicken 1 liter (33.8 fl oz) buttermilk

herbs: 2 bunches (2 cups) of roughly chopped chives 2 tbsp minced parsley 2 tbsp minced basil 1 tbsp thyme 1 tbsp marjoram 1 tbsp minced sage 1 fresh turkish bay leaf salt a touch of honey (just the smallest bit to assuage the tang of the buttermilk and to blister the skin, but it should not assert its sweetness in the slightest) cultured butter (a tbsp or so) brine chicken with buttermilk, herbs, salt, and honey overnight. pat incredibly dry (you do not want curdled buttermilk in your pan drippings), stuffing some of the herbs into the skin. scatter knobs of the cultured butter over the chicken before roasting—this part is essential for the most unbelievable flavor pairing with the marinade that returns pure chicken jus elixir. 450F for 25 minutes for already partitioned chicken pieces, and broil until the skin is slightly charred (the buttermilk discourages this). - for the crostini crusty bread garlic clove californian olive oil maldon salt in a dry pan toast a crusty piece of bread. while warm (very important), rub a cut garlic clove onto it. drizzle californian olive oil and maldon salt. - for the salad greens (I chose little gem, chicory, and frisee from the farmer's market) californian olive oil champagne (or white balsamic) vinegar salt tear greens gently—that way, the torn edge of the leaves will preserve the same texture as the rest of the leaf. with your hands, gently toss the greens with the olive oil, vinegar, and salt.

🅟 indicates a high-protein meal (that is, at least 10g of protein for every 100cal)

[zappfreshonline]

Easy Grilled Chicken Recipes for Summer Fitness and Health

If you're a grill aficionado who has been waiting all year to clean it off and light it up for a wonderful meal, you're in the right place!

There are many healthy chicken recipes out there, but some get a grilling makeover for more flavor and char. You won't get tired of this most popular of birds with the help of these simple grilling chicken recipes that also have flavors from throughout the world.

So prepare to impress your family and friends at your next picnic with these delectable, healthy grilled boneless chicken dishes!

1. Honey Mustard Grilled Chicken Breasts

This recipe for honey mustard grilled chicken is tasty and easy to prepare. Pour the mixture over both sides of each boneless, skinless chicken breast after first thoroughly combining the Dijon mustard, honey, olive oil, and minced garlic in a bowl.

The chicken breast should be cooked through after about 5 to 10 minutes of cooking per side on a medium-hot grill. For a supper to remember, serve with roasted vegetables or your preferred side dish!

2. Easy Thai Grilled Chicken Breasts

Fresh cilantro, including the stems, should be pureed in a blender with garlic, brown sugar, fish sauce, and white pepper. This mixture should then be applied to the chicken breasts before they are grilled and served with sweet chili sauce.

3. Grilled Chicken Thighs with Miso

The recipe for Grilled Miso Chicken Thighs includes extra umami flavor from Japanese miso paste. Although we use yellow miso, you can alter the flavor by substituting milder white miso or less red miso. Serve hot over a chilled noodle salad for the ideal summer meal (try this recipe for Sesame Soba Salad, but omit the tofu).

4. French Chicken Kebabs

Grilling may not be something you often associate with France, but these quick kebabs give the chicken a French flair with whole grain Dijon, orange juice, fennel, and black olives. Serve with a straightforward couscous salad or perhaps a mild, herb-infused potato salad. Order chicken online or get it from a chicken shop nearby and enjoy your lip-smacking French chicken kebabs. 

5. Grilled Jerk Chicken Skewers

If you're looking for something with a little kick, try this recipe for spicy jerk boneless chicken skewers! To begin, combine olive oil, lime juice, and jerk seasoning (either homemade or purchased) in a bowl big enough to accommodate your cubed chicken pieces.

Overnight in the refrigerator resting will help them to soak up all that wonderful flavor! Grill them over while carefully turning the marinated chicken pieces over. Serve with a sprinkle of fresh Italian seasoning. 

6. Grilled Balsamic Chicken Breasts

There are only five basic ingredients needed for this recipe: 4 boneless chicken breasts, 1/2 cup balsamic vinegar, 2 minced garlic cloves, 3 tablespoons of extra virgin olive oil, and salt & pepper to taste. In a bag, combine the chicken and half the marinade. Chicken should be marinated for one to two days. Keep the second half of the marinade aside until grilling. Set an outside grill to medium-high heat at around 400 degrees Fahrenheit (200 degrees Celsius). Lightly lubricate the grate.

The chicken should be taken out of the marinade and put right on the grill. Grill for 7 to 8 minutes while covering the lid. 

Add the olive oil and season with salt and pepper. 

7. Argentine Grilled Chicken

Even without the customary Argentine chimichurri sauce on the side, this easy chicken recipe asks for spatchcocking and grilling for a dramatic whole bird appearance and wonderful flavor from the salt, smoke, garlic, lemon, and rosemary. Chicken can be marinated in a zip-top bag for 4 hours or even overnight.

Heat the grill to medium-high. Take the chicken out of the package and throw away the marinade. Grill for 5 to 7 minutes per side or until the desired doneness.

Wrapping Up:

The summer months are ideal for lighting the barbeque and savoring some juicy, delicious chicken. If, however, you're attempting to eat properly and keep an eye on your caloric consumption, not all grilled chicken dishes are created equal.

If you want to buy high-quality chicken to make a delicious recipe, look no further than Zappfresh!

You may still enjoy flavorful grilled chicken without worrying about gaining weight by using chicken that has been freshly sliced and packaged. The healthiest and best raw chicken, delivered directly from farms to your plate, will have you begging for more!

To order chicken online, download the Zappfresh app & get amazing discounts on your first order today!

[kradogsrats]

Ghost (Fic)

a.k.a. “Rayla Enters the Bodyswap AU and is Not Having a Good Time, also Maybe the Actual Plot Starts?”

Quick recap of the AU situation, since it’s getting hefty:

Harrow agreed to the soulfang body switch with Viren

Viren died the way he lived: like a gigantic drama queen (also the primal stone was destroyed)

Callum and Rayla didn’t meet, and Ezran didn’t find the egg

Claudia is now High Mage, and has secret possession of the egg, a cautious rapport with Aaravos, and Callum as a recently-acquired apprentice 

Harrow, meanwhile, has a lot of feelings and is following them toward peace with Xadia

—

Claudia learned a great deal about Moonshadow elves, after… after. When they first returned to the castle, she spent days picking through the wreckage of the tower, working under the nervous watch of guards worried over the structural integrity of burnt support beams. She had collected and examined the warped and melted weapons and the remains of fine leather armor. She had found the five unblemished, moon-white cords still looped around charred bones—one per corpse. 

It wasn’t enough, so she read everything she could get her hands on, then sent birds to Evenere and Duren for more. She read about their assassins’ methods—near-invisibility beneath the full moon, unique weapons and combat styles that harmonized in pairs but disrupted any organized defense. She read about the sacred oath they made to slay their target, and the way they were bound to it.

The five white cords in her father’s—her workroom, resistant to every cutting tool and spell for severing she had tried, meant two things: the assassins’ task had been left undone, and there was someone out there who might come back to finish it. Claudia would be ready for them.

It was still almost purely luck that she caught the girl.

She had taken to walking the ramparts of the castle’s curtain wall after dark, hoping the air would clear her head after hours spent in High Council meetings, followed by more hours going over spellwork basics with Callum in the upper workroom, followed by even more hours down in her father’s sanctum with Aaravos. Up before dawn and awake until well after dusk, sometimes she couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen the sun. 

She was especially agitated that night. Aaravos had greeted her earlier with a gift—the caterpillar-like creature he spoke through had spun from its silk a thin disc, about the size of Claudia’s palm, feather-light but solid. A lens, for you to see clearly things that might otherwise go unnoticed, Aaravos had said, with his ever-present half-smile. The threads of silk were less dense toward the disc’s center, allowing her to peer through it—though tilting it slightly in her hand shifted the spaces from translucent to a disorienting void-black. Held before her face, she could see the room as if through watery glass, colors dimmed and details smudged. Everything was dulled save for the frame of the mirror—each raised rune along its border blazed with a different color, shifting and weaving in a rainbow of light.

Claudia was young, but she was not a fool. A being like Aaravos only gave gifts because he would expect something in return, sooner or later. His attitude of benevolent service was a clear ruse, an attempt to trick her into stacking up favors he would one day call in. She had no idea what Aaravos wanted, from her or otherwise, and no sure way to find out short of walking straight into his arms. But she had taken the lens.

Later in the afternoon, she had experimented a bit more with it—the more concentrated reagents in the workroom shimmered with threads of color, her father’s staff glowed with a pulsing iridescence of purples. She wanted badly to see what it could expose of the dragon egg, but reluctantly held off on that exploration. She knew Aaravos’s little minion could listen for him as well as speak, so it stood to reason that anything she saw through the lens would be revealed to him, as well. She’d have to get a pouch for it, to keep away prying eyes on both ends.

She had just stepped out onto the east wall from the corner watchtower, lost in thoughts about lenses and secrets and inscrutable elves when she felt… something. An odd prickle on the back of her neck, like the subconscious awareness that an object in a cluttered room had been moved when it should not have been. It was a feeling she associated with the presence of unknown magic. The long stretch of battlements ahead of her was deserted, without even a guard in sight. 

Her hand went to her satchel, and closed around the lens. She drew it out slowly, then held it up and turned it this way and that, as if examining its details in the moonlight. The shifting angle let her glance through it to scan the rampart walkway ahead of her. In the dimmed image of the lens, she saw the bright silver outline of a slim figure crouched in the shadow of a merlon. A slim figure with a drawn sword.

Claudia panicked. Her hand shot out, the double-serpent bracelet unwinding on command to ensnare her attacker. The figure deflected the first strike with their sword and a clash of metal, and avoided the second with an acrobatic dodge that carried them out of the narrow field Claudia could see through the lens. She whirled, trying to track the attacker, her hand darting into her satchel again for the clay vials kept within easy reach near the top. She snatched one out and crushed it in her fist in the same motion, scattering the mixture of powdered slowusk shell and the ashes of several sleep-inducing plants inside it in a broad arc through the air as the matching incantation rolled off her tongue. 

The expanding cloud glowed violet, brightening and throwing off sparks where its effects were strongest. Claudia peered into it, one hand still clutching the lens, the other back in her satchel ready to grab another vial. 

A shadowy figure slowly appeared out of the spell-cloud, staggering toward her unsteadily. The sword slipped from their dangling hand and clattered on the rampart’s stones. Another step, and they fell to their knees, struggling to remain upright. The blurred shadows of the figure resolved into sudden clarity as they swayed, and Claudia caught a glimpse of a pale, feminine face before they finally, finally collapsed and lay still.

Claudia sat down hard where she was, her limbs boneless and trembling. Her heart was pounding, and she struggled to slow her breathing back to a normal rate. She still clutched the lens tight to her chest—it had saved her life, for sure. 

When she felt like she could move again, she tucked the lens away and forced herself to crawl to the limp, face-down form. The sleeping spell was a potent one, but she hadn’t used it often, and had no idea how much time it would last. An hour? Less? Even if it was more, it was best to work quickly.

The slender horns poking out from bone-white hair confirmed the attacker as a Moonshadow elf, if their invisibility beneath the full moon had left any doubt. Claudia gingerly rolled them over. A girl—thirteen, or maybe fourteen years old? Her dirt-smudged face was still slightly rounded by childhood, despite a leanness from clearly having missed more than a few recent meals. But elves were frequently smaller and more delicate than humans, as well as being longer-lived, so ages were hard to gauge. Her hair was hacked short and ragged around her pointed ears, as if cut inexpertly with a blade not meant for the task. The dark-colored, flexible armor she wore was finely-made but dirty, and worn to the point of threadbare in the spaces between the leather. The overall impression was of someone who’d spent months living alone in the wild.

Her face, even slack with sleep, was somehow mournful—a faint downturn to the corners of her mouth, a barely-there crease between her white brows. The moonlight on her long, pale eyelashes cast delicate shadows across the deep purple markings that slashed down her cheekbones like tears. She was pretty, beneath the rough trappings—if you were the type to be into elves.

Claudia blinked, surprised at how far her mind had wandered. She was suddenly tired, the adrenaline having drained from her veins and left her with heavy limbs and a clouded mind. She should check the prisoner for weapons and find a way to restrain her, then see if she could summon a guard.

She patted her hands down the elf’s sides, feeling for hard lumps that could be hidden knives. It was only when the back of her hand brushed against rough, crusted cloth that she finally noticed the stained bandages wrapping the stump at the end of the girl’s left arm. Claudia gently peeled them back to reveal a wound that was congruent with the rest of the girl’s appearance—which was to say, not looking all that great. However the elf had been living recently hadn’t done its healing any favors.

She replaced the bandage and checked the rest of the girl’s limbs—all other extremities were present in the expected numbers, with no hidden blades save for the one tucked away at the small of her back. It was identical to the one she had wielded, the two obviously meant to be used in concert. The craftsmanship was exquisite, a complex series of joints allowing them to presumably fold and lock into different configurations—not dissimilar from her father’s staff.

Inventory of her prisoner taken, Claudia paused to considered her options. If she called for the guards, the elf would be taken to the castle’s main dungeon and questioned by the Crownguard, then members of the High Council, and eventually King Harrow himself.

Her mind filled with dismay at the thought. Harrow. Harrow would pardon her. 

Even though the Moonshadow elf was almost certainly one of the assassins whose mission was why Claudia’s father was dead, King Harrow would let her go. He’d look at this skinny, maimed wretch, so near to the age of his own children, and he would spare her any justice at all. He would probably even hand her right back to Xadia in peace.

Or… Claudia could take her. Keep her contained and figure out what to do with her later. 

It was almost definitely some form of treason. But so was concealing possession of the Dragon King’s living egg, and probably also consorting in secret with an elf of mysterious motivations sealed behind a mirror. And as with both of those situations, she just needed a little time. It was her responsibility to fully appraise all the possibilities, not rush into the first course of action that presented itself. When she knew what she was dealing with, she’d bring it to the right people.

She looked around, worrying at her bottom lip with her teeth. If there was any evidence of the elf’s passage, she needed to find it. The eastern rampart was still deserted, but even at this late—or early—hour, there should have been at least one guard somewhere along it’s length.

She found him twenty paces or so further along the walkway, covered by one of the banners that usually hung down the wall’s face. His throat had been cut. She gently closed his staring eyes, shuddering. He must have died only moments before she had stepped out onto the wall. If she’d been more alert, if she hadn’t lingered, then maybe—

She shook the thought away and forced herself to look critically at the body. If she wanted to keep her prisoner secret, she’d have to do something about him. She reached into her satchel, searching for one of the basic reagents used to close a cut. The spell wouldn’t have saved him—it was meant to soothe the scrapes of everyday life, not mend a mortal wound—but it might be enough to hide what killed him.

The flesh of the guard’s throat knit together reluctantly, and Claudia was shaking with exhaustion when she ended the spell. She’d cast it on Soren dozens of times over the years, and it had never been so difficult—apparently it didn’t work as well on corpses. She half-rolled, half-dragged the body to the edge of the wall, then managed to shove him up over the lip of parapet in one of the embrasures. The plates of his armor scraped loudly on the stone, and she paused anxiously to look around again.

Still nothing. She didn’t know when the guards changed shifts or positions—it had never been important, before. Hopefully she had at least a few more minutes.

She looked down at the body one last time. “I’m sorry,” she said. The words sounded absurd even to her, but she felt like she had to say something. “I… hope you find peace.” Then she tipped the corpse the rest of the way over the parapet and down the long, rocky cliff to the river below.

She sighed and looked back to the sleeping elf. Her prisoner was much smaller, and not wearing plate armor, but it was still going to be a trial for Claudia to get her all the way from the top of the castle wall to her father’s—her study, not to mention through the painting passageway and down below the catacombs to the waiting cells.

She wrapped the girl in the same banner that had concealed the dead guard, and began the long, slow process of dragging her to their destination.

—

The sleep spell was fortunately more potent than Claudia had feared. It was just after dawn when the Moonshadow girl to returned to consciousness, and Claudia had been waiting for hours.

She had hesitated over how to best restrain the elf—the chains in the cell were meant to keep a prisoner’s arms extended above their head and twisted in a way that made standing difficult, but they also operated on the usually-reasonable assumption that said prisoner had two present and functional hands. There was no way to clamp the iron ring to the elf’s stump-ended arm without it sliding right off, so she settled for chaining her good wrist, then tightly swaddling the other arm across her chest with the banner, almost as if it was being immobilized for healing. A touch of magic knit the ends of the cloth together seamlessly and far more securely than any knot. Finally, she bound the elf’s knees and ankles together—presumably an assassin would be as deadly with her legs as with her arms, and Claudia was taking no chances. There would be no one to help her if things went badly.

The elf began to struggle against her bonds immediately when she woke. Claudia watched surreptitiously through the cell door’s tiny window for a while, until her prisoner seemed to have exhausted herself. Satisfied that the restraints would hold, she sent a message to the High Council, pleading illness to excuse herself from that morning’s meeting, another to Callum dismissing him from their afternoon lesson, and a third to the kitchens with the request that breakfast be sent to her study. Then she settled in for a nap.

She awoke mid-morning, refreshed enough that a mug of hot brown morning potion could take her the rest of the way to feeling like a human being again, at least for a few hours. The breakfast tray she retrieved from the study was simple fare—bread and honey, some fresh fruit, a carafe of water. The castle cooks had learned long ago that any food sent to the High Mage’s workrooms had best keep for hours, because the chances of it being eaten immediately were slim. 

She took care to smooth her rumpled dress and straighten her hair before entering the cell. An immaculate appearance had been one of her father’s many armors, demanding the respect he was due, and Claudia was learning why in her ongoing struggles with the Council. The effort here would probably be wasted on a disheveled, wounded elf—but it did make her feel a bit more confident. She took a deep breath and opened the door.

The elf-girl sat slumped where she was chained to the stone wall, exhibiting every signal of resigned defeat—but Claudia had more than a passing familiarity with approaching cornered animals. Everything was at its most dangerous when it had nothing to lose. Staying well back from reach, she crouched to put herself at eye level with her prisoner. She set the tray on the floor beside her, then folded her arms over her knees and rested her chin on them.

“So, you’re the last assassin,” she said. “Tell me how you escaped, that night.”

It wasn’t a guess, really—all the pieces fit. The shape and details of the girl’s elaborate twin short swords, a perfect match with the twisted remains of the other assassins’ weapons. The white cord Claudia had discovered knotted to one blade’s hilt. The ugly, swollen stump of her left wrist.

The elf didn’t look at her. Didn’t even move.

“Why were you even with them?” Claudia pressed. “You’re practically a child.”

Pale violet eyes flicked abruptly to hers. “Don’t call me a child,“ her prisoner said, with acid below her exhaustion. “You’re barely older than I am. You sound ridiculous.”

“Sorry, this is my first interrogation,” Claudia replied innocently. “What should I call you, then? Do you have a name?”

The elf hesitated. Something shifted behind her eyes, and her shoulders drooped, just a little. “No. I’m no one. Just a ghost.”

“What if I call you ‘Ghost,’ then?” Claudia suggested. “My name is Claudia, by the way.”

The elf—Ghost, Claudia decided for her—rolled her eyes and didn’t respond.

“Well, you must be hungry. I’m always ravenous coming out of a sleep spell. You won’t bite if I feed you, right?” Claudia tore a chunk off the loaf of bread on the tray and held it out.

Aaravos had laughed when she asked him what her prisoner would eat. The same as you do, he’d said. Moonshadow elves drink no more blood than Dark mages.

Ghost fixed her with a look that would have been withering, had it not been undercut by a clearly audible gurgle from her own stomach.

Claudia bit into the chunk of bread herself. “It’s fine, see? Fresh. Hardly any poison.” She tore off another chunk, and lifted the spoon from the pot of honey to top it with a thick, golden drizzle. Ghost’s eyes followed the movement.

She held out the honeyed bread, and Ghost shifted, leaning toward it slightly. Claudia scooted forward enough to tip the bread into her waiting mouth and hear the shuddering sigh as she chewed. “More?” she offered.

Ghost eyed her sidelong, evaluating. “Water?” she asked tentatively.

Claudia nodded and filled a cup from the carafe. She held it to Ghost’s lips, tilting it as she drank greedily. Ghost deigned to eat more of the bread after that, and even a few slices from the apple Claudia slowly peeled. 

“What do you want?” she finally asked.

Claudia popped an apple slice in her own mouth. “Tell me how you escaped the tower.”

“Why? Does it matter?”

“Not really.” Claudia picked up a napkin and wiped the knife she’d used to peel and slice the fruit. “I’m just curious.”

Ghost’s eyes slid away from her. “No one escaped. I… wasn’t there.”

Claudia remembered pacing her father’s study, the anxious obedience of waiting for him as his message had instructed. How her eyes had suddenly fallen on the staff where it leaned against the desk—the staff he never went without. 

“I understand,” she murmured.

Ghost said nothing, still looking away.

Claudia brushed the crumbs off her lap. “I think that’s enough, for now,” she said, standing and collecting the tray. “I’ll be back later.”

Ghost snorted. “I’ll be here, I suppose.”

—

They carried on like that for most of a week. Claudia didn’t have much in the way of questions—Ghost couldn’t tell her anything useful about the Dragon Queen or major players of Xadia, and Aaravos’s name meant nothing to her. She was simply too young, too junior, and too isolated to know anything.

Nonetheless, Claudia was beginning to feel the  growing shape of a plan.

She pretended not to notice as the stump of Ghost’s wrist slowly swelled and reddened. It was clearly getting worse, though Claudia hadn’t examined the wound closely since her cursory look that first night, up on the wall. Ghost, for her part, expressed no pain but grew increasingly listless, eating less and fading more often into troubled sleep.

On the eighth day, Claudia prepared a bowl of water and a stack of clean cloths before opening the cell. She’d borrowed a roll of fresh bandages from the guardhouse infirmary, and had reagents for a variety of healing spells on hand in case things got truly dire.

Ghost was pale—the dark markings framing her cheeks even more livid than usual—and sweating, her body racked with tremors. Her left arm was swollen to the elbow, now; the skin reddened and hot to the touch. She offered no objection to the old bandages being peeled away. 

In the better light, Claudia could see that the original wound had been cauterized, but poorly. Most likely Ghost had heated one of her blades and done it herself. If half of what Claudia had read about the Moonshadow bindings was correct, she had probably severed the hand herself, as well. Better to lose it as cleanly as possible than let it rot while still attached and poison the blood.

“That’s infected again,” Claudia said, nodding at it. “Will you let me tend to it?”

Ghost’s eyes were glassy with fever, but still focused on her in a glare. “Why?” she demanded. “What is it you really want, anyway? Revenge for your king? Then why not just let me die?”

Claudia couldn’t help herself—she laughed, long and hard. “Oh, Ghost,” she said when she could breathe again, settling back on her heels to wipe her eyes. “King Harrow is alive.”

“No. That’s impossible.” Ghost stared at her, mouth parted and trembling. “The binding for him released. It released.”

So there were two targets. Claudia filed that away in her mind for later.

“My father pulled out the king’s spirit with Dark magic, and took his body,” she explained, still smiling. It felt good to say the words to what was possibly the one person who might be even more hurt by them than she was, herself. “That’s who your assassin friends killed in the tower. They all died for nothing.”

“I—I don’t believe you.”

Claudia shrugged. “Why should I lie? If it wasn’t true, Dad would be the one here talking to you.”

“As to what I want—well, I think we may be able to help each other, eventually. So for now, you’re more useful to me alive than dead. Though you’d still be plenty useful, dead.” 

She paused for a moment to let that sink in, then continued, keeping her voice casual. “Those horns? Ground up, Moonshadow elf horns work one of the most potent sleeping spells ever known. And elf ears of any type have a whole list of uses—they’re harder to come by this far west, so I’ve never gotten to try most of them. But the real prize from you would be an eye. They’re worth a fortune. I’ve read that a properly-preserved Moonshadow eye can be used to pierce even the strongest illusion.”

“I’m sure even your bones have a use, and your skin, if it’s tanned right. I don’t know about all your guts—I’d have to check Dad’s notes and see if he ever got his hands on one of your kind. I might have to do some experimenting.” She tilted her head, as if mentally already dividing Ghost up into parts. “It was a shame all your friends died burning. Nothing usable was left.”

Tears had overflowed Ghost’s pale eyes as Claudia spoke and spilled slowly down her cheeks. It was due to the fever, of course; pain and delirium had overwhelmed what little emotional fortitude she still had. She was barely more than a child.

Claudia leaned forward again, briskly setting the back of her hand to Ghost’s burning forehead. “Now, are you going to let me tend your arm, or do I have to spell you asleep again and do it anyway?”

“No magic,” Ghost pleaded, shuddering. Her voice was high and tight, trembling with emotion.

“No magic, then,” Claudia agreed solemnly. “Just hot water to clean it and a poultice for the infection. Some willowbark syrup for the fever, then fruit juice and broth, later—when you feel up to it.”

Ghost slumped in her restraints. Claudia could see that most of the fight had gone out of her. With any luck, it was permanent. She closed her eyes and nodded weakly, tears still running down her face.

A touch and a few whispered words heated the bowl of water to steaming. Claudia dipped the first of her cloths in it, and began.

—

Ghost’s condition improved over the next few days, though she remained withdrawn. Claudia decided the time was finally right to open negotiations.

She entered the cell and sat, leaning back against the wall. Still carefully out of reach, but close enough to be considered companionable. She looked over to where Ghost was still chained. “How are you feeling?”

“Oh, I’m just dandy. Never better,” Ghost huffed derisively. “Don’t you have any friends to bother instead of me?”

“Hm,” Claudia made a show of considering the question. “Not really.”

Ghost rolled her eyes. “Just my luck. What do you want, then?”

“I want to talk about what I think we can do for each other.”

“I doubt theres much I can do for you in here,” Ghost said acidly, “Except, as you’ve pointed out, provide ingredients.”

“So let’s talk about what you can do for me not in here,” Claudia countered. “You also lost someone important to you, that night.” It wasn’t a question, but she paused for confirmation, anyway.

Ghost remained silent, but gave a single, short nod.

“Dad—Dad was my world. He taught me everything I know. Maybe he wasn’t always the best person, but—,” she paused, her throat tightening. “King Harrow is the reason he’s dead. So I want you to kill him.”

She held up her hand when Ghost shifted. “Just listen. You want to know why.”

“Dad gave everything for Harrow.” She grimaced, struggling with the words. “And now Harrow’s up there wearing his skin, throwing away everything my dad did in his entire life—everything he sacrificed for this kingdom, for humanity itself—like it was all for nothing. Like none of it ever even mattered.”

“So, I want—,” she took a slow breath, doing her best to keep it steady and still feeling it shake. “I want him to see everything he’s working for—this so-called peace that’s his grand new vision—in ashes. I want him to suffer. And then I want him to die.”

The silence stretched for a long time.

“You’re insane,” Ghost finally said, staring at her with a mixture of shock and fascination.

“Am I?” Claudia retorted. “How is it any different from what your Dragon Queen demanded?”

“I didn’t say it was bad.” Ghost’s eyes flicked away for a moment, then back to her. “And what about Prince Ezran?”

“Prince Ezran,” Claudia repeated, uncomprehending. Then the pieces came together in her mind. “He was the second target, wasn’t he?”

Ghost watched her coolly. “Is there any better way to make someone suffer?”

There was expediency, there was twisting the knife, there was poetic justice—and then there was… that. “No,” Claudia said decisively. “No harm comes to Ezran. Why were you sent after a ten-year-old boy, anyway?”

Ghost bristled. “It wasn’t only the Dragon King that was slain. Your Harrow also destroyed his egg—murdered their only child and heir. The same fate for his would be justice!”

Claudia thought of the egg, alive and not even ten paces away, and kept her face carefully neutral.

“There’s plenty of blame to go around, and plenty of blood. None of it is Ezran’s,” she replied. “It was Harrow’s hand on the spear, but my father’s will in the spell. The magic came from the last unicorn horn in the human kingdoms, maybe even in the whole world—a horn I claimed. I don’t know who laid a hand on that royal egg, and it doesn’t matter. They wouldn’t even have been in arms’ reach of it if not for all that came before.

“Your assassin friends killed my father. You’ll kill King Harrow. If that’s not enough blood to appease your queen’s sense of justice… then when Harrow’s dead, you can kill me, too.”

She moved to kneel directly in front of Ghost and grabbed her by the jaw. It was dangerously close, but she didn’t care.

“But if any harm comes to Ezran,” she continued quietly, “I’ll start with those pretty, precious eyes and harvest every last thing I can from you. And I’ll keep you alive as long as possible for it.”

Ghost glared at her, her mouth a stubborn line. Claudia stared back, her grip unwavering.

It was Ghost who looked away first. “My heart for Xadia,” she muttered. “Fine.”

“That didn’t sound like a ‘yes, Claudia, I promise Prince Ezran will not be harmed.’”

Ghost’s eyes returned to Claudia’s. “Yes, Claudia,” she enunciated, more than a little mockery in her tone. “I promise Prince Ezran will not be harmed.”

Claudia figured that was the best she was going to get. “Good,” she said, releasing Ghost’s face and standing up.

“So are you going to unchain me, then?” Ghost wiggled the fingers of her manacled hand. “Or is King Harrow going to somehow come to me?”

“Not yet, because I’m not stupid,” Claudia replied. “But give me another day or two and I think I’ll have a solution to both that and your little dexterity problem. I assume you’d prefer to be working with two hands again, right?”

Ghost stared up at her for a moment, then actually cracked a smile. “Yeah,” she said. “I’d like that.”

[littlefreya]

The Way To Hell - Final Chapter

Summary: Post Mi6, Alternate Canon. August escapes Hunt with his face intact and is currently the most dangerous man on earth. Unwilling to back down from his murderous agenda, he plots to continue where he stopped while a trained assassin is sent to bring him down. 

Pairing: August Walker x OFC (Ingvild) 🖤

Word count: 5k (including epilogue) 

Warnings: 18+, smut, boomer Walker, some fluff, sexual intercourse, cock-warming, mentions of torture, implied insanity, slight mentions of gore, violence, murder, mass-shooting and death. Please proceed with caution  

A/N: The ending is here and I hope I did it justice, I hope I did right by you. I will reblog my kudos, but first I must thank @agniavateira for being my beta and a source of inspiration and @raspberrydreamclouds for the cover art. 

*No permission is given for reposting my work, copying it, ideas or parts it and claiming it as your own*

Now allow me to die out of stress and anxiety.

Title: See You in Hell

Down by the valley, there is a serenity that exists only in fairy tales. Damp grass caresses her naked back, the pointy little tips ticking the base of her spine, leaving a fresh trail of dew. Pure mountain mist breathes life through blue hills caked with ice; white fog vales over the forest’s lush greenery and looms above the lake’s water like a lost-love phantom.

Lying with her eyes shut, she listens to the harmony of life surrounding her: the little fish bouncing in the river, the butterflies procreating mid-air and the hummingbird chirping with bliss. Yet the most beautiful sound is the low, melodic baritone humming and reverberating against her inner thighs. 

”Angel, With those angel eyes Come and take this earth boy Up to paradise.”

”Boomer Walker…” she teases, “Is that a song from your time?” 

Ascending a trail of kisses up her pelvis, he scoffs and shakes his head. “I’m starting to suspect that you have a kink for older men,” he answers with a throaty growl, shifting his weight further over her abdomen. The soft fur of his torso grazes between her thighs, and she sighs with pleasure. 

”Do you want daddy to fuck you?” 

”That’s gross!” she curls her nose and tries to hit his head playfully, but August snaps at her wrists with perfect instinct, pinning her hands against the wet meadow. His tongue flicks over the slant of her neck while he aligns his cock at the little piece of heaven between her legs.

Sensual yet rough, his massive girth splits her walls while his lips shower her with honeyed kisses. Ingvild throws her head back, lacing her fingers with his and coils herself beneath his large body. 

“August...” she pants, feeling the air gradually diminishing from her lungs with every thrust, “I think I’m dying...”

Never halting or slowing his rhythm, August lowers his head to peer into her eyes. Fingers drenched with blood snap at her jaw.

“Stay with me, Ingvild.” He demands, letting out a husky groan, though his voice is but an echo.

A grey, thick mist wafts around the darkening forest, covering her with a bone-chilling breeze; his calling carries on the distance.  

“Stay, princess...”

“Don’t leave...”

“Stay. We’ve only just begun.”

Ice bites its sharp fangs into the little creases between her cracked bones as another bucket filled with frosty water showers her trembling body. The stabbing pain lasts for a lingering moment, reminding her that she’s still very much alive.

It must be the 10th bucket, or maybe 12th? She lost count at some point. Day and night melt into one another in this place, and the hours don’t make much sense.

Muffled complaints vibrate in her ears. Vaguely her sight picks on two silhouettes arguing when the world abruptly flashes white, and her jaw soaks a terrible blow. Fully crashing onto the hard marble, she tries to recover, but a sudden kick rips through her abdomen.

“Your methods are too slow, Issac!” A grey-haired agent chides, standing over the girl with his foot still drawn, “Walker could be setting his bomb somewhere across the globe any minute now, and you’re taking your sweet time with her as if she’s an art project.”

The scrawny torturer frowns and turns his back at him. Walking toward the metal desk, he browses through different equipment. “My methods always work, the pretty little girl was taught to endure pain,” he grunts in exasperation and gestures at the bloodstained bandage around her hand, “she did this to herself.”

Sighing with a mixture of frustration and disgust, the CIA agent takes another swing at Ingvild’s torso, the pointy edge of his shoe colliding with the scar at her gut.

Bloodshot eyes rise with wrath, violent tides of aftershock course at her viscera. She peers at the men through the haze of pain when a third figure appears in the room, standing calmly whilst Issac and the agent argue among them. 

Tall, broad, and charismatic, the handsome man strides toward her. His tailored steel-coloured suit envelops his statuesque body as if he is made of iron.  

“You’re taking it so well, princess,” he praises in his deep, melodic baritone while crouching down to take a closer look. Ingvild lifts her head, slowly breaking into a weak grin. Onyx orbs replace the storm-touched eyes, but that chiselled face still belongs to her beautiful monster.

“Did you tell them anything about where I am headed?” he asks and gives her a pout, reaching his index finger and thumb to squeeze her bruised cheek affectionately. 

Swallowing the aching dryness in her throat, she manages to shake her head meekly. “No… I said nothing,” her voice cracking as she whispers. Her chapped lips stretch into a pale, awkward grin. 

Tiny lines form at the corner of his void-like eyes as he smiles back, radiating with dangerous delight.

“That’s my good girl.”

The grey-haired agent throws a glance over his shoulder, scrutinising Ingvild while he stands next to Issac, who is twirling a scalpel back and forth between his boney fingers.

“Who is she talking to?”

“Not very sane this one,” Issac explains as he examines the silver blade against the light, “multiple mental disorders, dissociative personality, psychotic.”

Pushing the agent aside with his free hand, Issac steps forward. He leers at Ingvild, who stares at nothing for a long second before averting her eyes back at them. 

“We just need to dig a little deeper and the little bird will sing,” he exclaims and moves closer before dropping to his knees. One of his icy hands lands on her shoulder, forcing her flat on her back. Shuddering at his frozen touch, she closes her eyes; in the bleak nothingness, she recalls the night in the lake where August let her die.

“Pretty little Ingvild, have you heard of vivisection?” Her torturer asks as he lines his twig-like finger over the spine of the scalpel. Sensing his digits sneaking beneath the hem of her shirt, she shoots her eyes open yet remains still and intrepid. 

The tiny black marbles beneath Issac’s brows glint with twisted joy, appeased at the sight of the scar as he exposes her torso. Ingvild expects the pain of the blade when something tepid and unpleasantly wet slithers across her gut like a little pink slug. 

“Umm… Issac…?” The agent interrupts, furrowing his brow with confusion and disgust as he stares at his colleague licking the girl’s torso.

“What?!” Issac snaps at him, his eyes narrowing with spite, “you wanted me to go harder on her!”

“Yes, but…”

“But shut up and let me do my job!” He yells and returns his glare to Ingvild who blinks at the ceiling silently. Disrupted by his touch, she bites her tongue, fighting to hold back the acrid substance that threatens to emerge from her gut.

“You fight very hard to protect a man who doesn’t give a fuck about you, little bird,” his snake-like voice hisses as he leans down to half-whisper in her ear, “just tell me where he is and I won’t cut you open.”

Ingvild sucks the air in through gritted teeth and turns her head to look away from the obnoxious little man. She seeks for her beautiful monster, finding him leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. August’s empty glance wears a calm grin.

“He is in this room,” Ingvild jests faintly, her sardonic laughter stretching thin, her chest heaving, exhausting whatever strength is left in her muscles. August’s smirk widens with hers, large dimples are slicing into his cheeks.

Ticking his tongue, Issac allows the sharp edge of the scalpel cut a skin-deep line into her flesh. Ingvild stares at him stoically, not moving a muscle as shy drops of blood begin trickling down her navel. 

“Are you sure about your response?” he asks, ghosting the scalpel over her abdomen while crooking an eyebrow.

Ingvild bites her lip, pretending to think about her answer for a few seconds. Lifting her head up, she inches her lips toward Issac’s ear. The scrawny man listens intently. 

“August Walker is the devil, and the devil is everywhere.”

A peal of sinister chuckles spills from her lips as she throws her head back onto the ground, staring at Issac’s disapproving glare. 

But her laughter soon dies. 

Taut pressure pierces into her flesh, the blade penetrating deep, cutting through tissue and muscle as if it was soft cheese. Ingvild clenches her jaw, her mind flooded by charring white light that dismantles every thought while the blade continues to swerve.

For a brief moment, she finds herself in Bergen, hands covered with thick blood, holding the gushing wound in her stomach with shock. August stands above her, toying with his favourite knife and staring at the red taint. 

“Time to fall, angel.” 

Scattered musings run behind her eyes: Liam, the nuns at the orphanage, August, and even Erica. She’s reminded of every hit she was forced to take, every country she visited, all blending into a bizarre parade of death. 

“C’mon girl, just tell us where he is!” She hears the other man shout as he steps closer with an urgent expression. “Just give us something, a country, a region, anything to make this stop, you can still do the right thing.” 

The heavy stench of iron fills her nose; the warm, thick liquid trickles down her bare skin, spilling in a cross on the map of her torso. The pain now is undeniable, making her lips heavier as she makes an attempt to answer.

“I don’t…. know… any August.”

The CIA agent scoffs violently and balls his fists. “Deeper!” He orders Issac, who like a composer, trails the blade further through her gut, cutting into sinew and brittle tendons. Ingvild trembles, feeling her body grow weaker. 

In her mind, she can hear caged screams.

“You will die for a man who doesn’t even care if you bleed!” The agent rasps, spit coming out of his mouth as he rages above her.

‘Stop!’

“He won’t even remember you once you die!”

‘Resist, don’t show pain. You’ve been through this before, you already died.’ 

“No one will.”

Swallowing every ounce of pain, she fights to remember her training, her past. Her mind scrambles for Fjellstrekninger forest, for the green pines and their stringy needles, for the scent of beech and the damp ground. She tries to imagine the silver-blue mountains of Bergen, that last time she hiked there before going to meet Liam at the gas station. 

How strange that at the very same day she encountered the most wanted man on earth, not knowing she was destined to be his. 

But none of these images appear before her.

‘You can’t escape this.’

Her screams shudder through the entire floor. 

“Are you out of your goddamn mind?” 

August flicks his tongue over his bottom lip, glowering at the driver who gawks at him with disbelief and shakes his head. Pushing the phone against his chin, he stares forward at the rainy road, reciting in his mind the words of the MI6 and CIA apostles.

‘Erica captured a woman in her late 20s, having her tortured for information for a couple of days now. Can’t promise you she’s alive. No one goes in there.’

“I wasn’t asking,” August answers, throwing him an icy glare, “we’re taking the chopper to the Mi6 fortress in London. I don’t need to tell you what happens if you question my decisions.” 

The driver tenses his fingers around the steering wheel and shakes his head once again. He means to say something, but the scowl on August’s face shuts him up right away.

“Who is she? What is she to you?”

August huffs and lowers his gaze, eyes dropping to the plutonium case and then forward through the windshield, watching the heavy rain clouds that stretch before the sky. As he blinks his eyes shut, his mind plays a vision of an inferno; cracked ground and scorched skies. He sits on a throne made of bones and drinks wine from a chalice made of human skull. 

His angel sits on his knee, naked and pure, her iridescent wings tucked against her back. She stares at him with a smile full of admiration, her fingers brushing over his moustache. 

‘Your angel of destruction.’

“She’s just an asset.”

‘Hell lives inside you August, it always has. Rotting you from the inside as it begs to be let out. And you will unleash it, won’t you? Your suffering must be shared.’

Vast shadows gather outside the double-pane windows of the main hall. The thick storm clouds paint the sky pitch black, swallowing the stars alive one by one. Light wanes just in time for the harbinger of chaos to march into the well-secured lobby of the sizable Mi6 fortress.

If fairytales were to be true, the devil would arrive riding a monstrous mare with hooves made of flames. But if anything, he is but a man in a tailored suit and a long trench-coat. The leather soles of his midnight-black shoes squeak as he marches on, leaving a trail of mud on the cream-coloured marble.

“Evening sir,” the security guard greets and gestures August to pass through the large weapon detector with nothing but a quick exchange of knowing looks. 

The corners of August’s lips curl into a small smile beneath his moustache while he scrutinises the surroundings. Gold and pearly pillars spread across the vast hall, a false facade hiding a decaying world and the self-indulgent ghosts that harbour it. So lost in their own little lie, it takes them more than a few minutes to notice the hellhound who stepped into their haven.

It begins as a small rumble, like a seismic wave. The first tremor vibrates through the ground and the walls follow with a convulsing shudder. Gasps, chatter, and widened eyes stab at him with shock, yet they all seem to suffer from the same affliction. 

Standing paralysed, they ogle at the most wanted man on earth as he combs his fingers through his hair and walks toward the elevators located at the end of a narrow, red corridor. Unapologetically confident and ever so relaxed and condescending, he ignores them. 

A true king among peasants.  

“Is that?...”

“What the fuck?!”

“How the fuck did he pass security???”

His confidence is nothing but theatrics, as his blue eyes carry toward the large elevators with a glossy sparkle breaking on his corneas. He tries so hard to envision her beautiful face yet all he sees is a pile of dry bones.

“Stop! Hands in the fucking air, Walker!”

‘Ah, took them long enough.’

Standing between the carpeted walls of the narrow corridor, only mere inches from the silver doors, August slowly spreads his long fingers and lifts his hands in the air. His keen ear catches at least three firearms as the guards cock their guns at his direction, panting with fright. 

“Turn around so we can see you, piece of shit!!!” A presumingly young hero barks behind him. 

“Someone call Director Sloane down here right now, she’s not going to believe it!!!”

The soft rumbling in the lobby grows into impending thunder. A flash of pale purple lightning floods the lit vicinity for a split second, echoing the small grin that spreads across August’s beaming face.  

“Oh, I don’t think so, son,” he speaks serenely, almost like a tender fatherly coo. Not bothering to turn, he tilts his head up and inhales sharply.

“Go.”

Sharp gasps of shock and terror reverberate between the walls of the fortress as sudden darkness veils the main hall. The smell of their fear is almost as delightful as the strong smoky scent of gunpowder. Like shooting stars, the rapid gunfire pierces through the night. Cries, incoherent screams, and panicked gasps make for a beautiful concert, so much that he wishes he could stay, but he has a girl to rescue.  

‘If she’s still alive…’

Swallowing the bitter bile, he enters an elevator and presses the button for the basement level. He watches the flickering beams of light as his men continue to execute the remaining agents before the doors shut in. 

Drawing out his handgun and relieving the safety, he leans against the shuddering metal and stares at the neon red number while reminiscing on the day he met a pretty girl with an unpleasant smile.

“Too bad, I would have loved to see you again.”

“Well then, if our destinies were meant to be entwined, you will.”

The basement level seems completely abandoned and eerily silent. No wails nor cries carry on the chilly air. 

His Ingvild is forbearing, she would never show her suffering. Would she? 

Inching toward the interrogation cell, his hand runs across the naked concrete walls, sensing the coarse texture against the pads of his fingers. Opaline droplets of sweat bead his forehead and his lungs sink with the effort.

Muffled voices perk his ears the closer he gets: two men, no woman. No sounds of violence, no signs of her in there whatsoever. 

‘Angel, are you being brave for me?’

Arriving at the door, he takes a deep breath and gingerly pushes the handle. The pungent scent of salt and iron pervades his nostrils as he steps a foot into the shower of blinding white light. The brightness hurts and for a moment it feels as everything before him fades. 

Until his sight sharpens and he notices the two shadowy figures standing with their backs facing him. They look like vultures preying upon a corpse.

Her corpse.

‘No! Change this! Make this right!’

Wings of cherry-dark blood spread from her snow-pale body. Motionless, his girl lies with her top huddled around her chest to expose her bleeding gut. 

‘You are too late…’

Pure, undistilled rage burns within August’s throat, so ferocious it stings in his eyes, making his entire body tremble. He lifts his hand and fires the gun hastily, shooting both men in the back of their heads before they even get the chance to turn and look at the man who executed them. 

“Ingvild!” August pants, rushing and falling to his knees before her. 

“Angel?” He presses one hand to her gut, trying to pressure her gushing wounds while his fingers etch around her nape to pull her closer to his face. Blood, still sticky and warm, tarnishes his clean outfit while he cradles her in his arms.

“Please don’t do this to me…” He whispers, shifting his hand to caress her bruised face, recalling the last time she was dead in his arms. 

The world kept spinning on its axis when she died back at the lake. So why does it feel like right now it stopped in its place?

Pressing her to his chest, August shuts his eyes and shudders with fury. All emotions come to life, and every one of them hurt.

“You are not here…” 

A deep quivering sigh of relief soars from his throat, mouth cracking into a smile at the sounds of her hoarse whisper and delicate moans. Blinking faintly, Ingvild half-opens her eyes and stares at him through heavy lids. 

“I am here,” he whispers, brushing away the sticky strands of hair from her face and squeezes her cheek beneath his thumb, “I came to take you, we have to go.”

Shifting his arms, he tries to lift her up, but his petite woman is suddenly made of the heaviest rocks; her stiff muscles protest in his grip, making it impossible for him to manoeuvre her out of fear she will bleed to death. 

“We were both at the garden,” she mumbles drowsily, licking her bloodied teeth before breaking into a maddened smile that quickly dies as she depletes her remaining strength. “I’m tired, I want to stay here and dream.” 

“Ingvild, we don’t have time for this,” August warns with concern, noticing how her eyes roll back and her lashes flutter shut, “there’s a helicopter waiting for us on the roof. You have to get up, you have to survive this, you have to come with me! Please!”

Fat, oily tears roll down her temples, mingling with the blood and tangy sweat on her face. Opening her eyes again, she peers at her beautiful monster, recognising the familiar ocean and its eternal unrest. 

Did he come here for her, or is it just a dream?

“Why?” 

‘Tell her.’

Brow lifting and face softening, his hands clutch her tightly. He rocks her from side to side, holding her protectively. Ingvild senses the wrath that pours from his heart, the thundering beat throwing its fists against his ribcage as their bodies collide.

“You know why,” August suggests huskily, nearly begging, bargaining not to admit, not to say the words he was always so afraid of. But naively, her gaze pleas in return, the child-like innocence piercing a hole through his chest. 

“Tell me,” she begs him.

‘She needs you to say it.’

“Because I need you.”

The words nearly crack on his tongue, his throat suddenly so dry it sears. He glances down at the fallen angel, sensing the most excruciating thirst, where the only way to stop it is by stealing several deep kisses from her lips. 

“I need you by my side,” he murmurs above her lips between desperate, helpless kisses, hoping to breathe life into his weakened valkyrie, “stay with me, angel.”  

An awkward stretch tugs at her cheeks, hurting as if someone slices them with a blade from side to side. For the first time in her life, true laughter crisps her face, followed by crystal-like tears that run down her sullen eyes.

“I love you, August.” 

Every nerve in his body tingles with tendrils of light, reaching out deep within his gut and spreading throughout his tendons. For a moment, he feels divine, sanctified by the words of his angel, his woman, his by free will. 

Offering her a brief smile, he captured her lips for one last stolen kiss. His thick moustache scratches at her tender flesh while a little hum plays on his tongue. 

She tastes like blood and honey - the tarty flavour of victory.

“We have to go now, princess, I have to finish this.” 

Gingerly rising to his feet, he hooks a hand below her knees and places the other against her bruised spine. Bloody footprints trail behind him as he carries her outside the white room, trying to make for their freedom.

Locked down in her office, Director Erica Sloane inhales and exhales by practice, brushing a hand through her sweat-slick hair while trying to call every backup unit. Bullets still rip through the air in every story; the sirens howl while red lights flicker from outside. She puts her hands around her ears, trying to shut the noises out, uncertain if the screams she is hearing are her people still being slaughtered, or her mind playing tricks.

Walker is many things: an idealist, a manipulative snake, a monster. But this is a side of him she never anticipated. There is no need to question his motives this time. She is smart enough to figure it out. 

To risk so much, a man must feel deeply for a woman.

Her anxiety spikes as guilt seeps in when her phone suddenly rings.

“Director Sloane,” she pants against the receiver. Somehow, as she hears the deep, measured breath, she knows.

‘Walker.’

“Hello, Erica, did you miss me?”

Erica clenches her jaw and stares spitefully into nothing, “Hardly.”

She hears him scoff from the other line, her mind piecing together that horrible, pretentious grin of his. The bile climbs up her throat just from the vision. 

“We don’t have much time, but I just wanted to thank you.” August pauses, sighing with the bliss of a madman at her ear, “You see, if not for Lacey, if not for you kicking me to the curb the way you did - I would have never become what I was meant to be. And you sent me an angel to light my way…”

“You’ve manipulated her.”

“No, you did,” August interrupts calmly, “I set her free. I will set them all free and unite them.”

The anger simmers in her gut to the point of nausea. She holds her breath, counts to ten and tries to gather her thoughts. ‘August wants a bargain,’ she thinks, but for a reason, it feels like he already won.

“Can you come and look out of the window for me, please?” He asks politely. 

Turning her head at the window, she narrows her eyes and bites her plump lips with hesitation.

“If I had a sniper on you, you’d be dead 5 minutes ago,” he assures her. 

She gets up from her office chair slowly, her fingers reaching to uncover the blinds. The storm weakened, yet heavy clouds still loom from above like a noxious mist. She seeks for August on the horizon, listening carefully to the sounds on the line. She realises they are coming from above. Her sharp eyes detect the helicopter: far, yet close enough to see his shit-eating grin and that hand that waves at her. 

He has the girl with him. Who knew a monster could care.

“You know, you are the only woman in the CIA I haven’t fucked.” He provokes and then hangs up suddenly.

Erica watches as the helicopter takes off, her eyes widening with fear as the notion of her own demise resonates like a stinging slap.

The blast takes her along with the entire building within a split second.

Standing on the cliff by the edge of the valley, August stares down at the tranquil scar that swerves amidst lush, fertile mountains. The crystalline Indus river lies before his eyes, its sweet water so clear that the sky mirrors upon the brim.   

It’s not every day when a simple man becomes a god. 

The melancholic beauty of nature makes his fingers tighten around the detonator, thumb ghosting over the button as he allows himself a couple of last seconds to inhale the air of the old world. 

Oh, how many will die for this god to receive his halo.

‘I wish you were here, my Ingvild…’ August muses with anguish, feeling an awkward jab at the spot where his heart should have been.  

A sudden rumbling noise of a helicopter makes his gut weave. 

‘That better not be Ethan fucking Hunt! I should have thrown him off the cliff in Norway!’ 

Alarmed yet stoic as ever, he draws his gun, aiming it at the aircraft inching its way to land on the other side of the flat terrain. The last thing he needs right now is someone meddling with his affairs, but it quickly becomes clear to him that if someone wanted a monster like him dead, they would have sniped him from the air before he could even see them coming. 

‘Did you forget the woman is nothing but a valkyrie?’

“What are you doing here?” He calls out at Ingvild and frowns at the pilot, abruptly struck with anger. “I specifically asked to make sure she stays rested!”

The pilot shrugs while Ingvild makes her way toward August with mild effort. Dark circles rest beneath her eyes, yet she is still so very beautiful to him, especially when she frowns. 

“She was very persuasive and horrendously stubborn,” the pilot retorts. 

“Yeah, tell me about it,” August mutters to himself and watches the little battered woman making every attempt to remain stoic as she steps closer. A shadow of a malicious grin creeps on her frosty eyes. 

Once upon a time, she promised him she will always find him. She has no intention of breaking that promise.

“Did you think I’ll let you do this without me, August Walker?” She sulks at him as she finally moves to stand in front of him. Every nerve in her body is inflamed with pain, yet the thought of not being here at the birth of the new world brings greater agony than imagined. 

Something she compares to missing out on the birth of a child.

“We are in this together now, this is our cause, our better world. You don’t get to leave me behind.”

Her hand reaches for his wrist, thumb pressing to feel his quickening pulse. Wonder paints his eyes and his lips gape softly. He promised himself Lacey will never cross his thoughts again; yet he can’t help but think about that night in his study and the pain of betrayal.  

‘How is she even real?’   

Gently peeling her fingers off his wrist, he looks at the detonator. He then takes her hand in his, placing the device in her slender grasp. 

“Forgive me, my darling. You’re right,” he apologises and turns her over to view the horizon. A shiver surges through her as she senses the weight in her palm when August moves to stand behind her, resting his chin on the top of her head.

“We do this together.”

Pesky little honeysuckles flutter within her chest as his arms wrap around her carefully. One of his hands holds hers, raising it up slightly to position the device in front of her chest.

“Do it angel, set them free.”

Taking a deep breath, Ingvild slides her fingertip over the red button. Scattered images of her life briefly flash through her mind, ending with the single moment where their gazes first met that day in Bergen.

Bright heavenly light cleanses the sky and loud thunder rips through the earth. Standing on the trembling ground, August and Ingvild stare into the distance while slowly turning to face each other. They hold their hands together, both gaping with awe as rich golden hues pour into the sky. 

Enamoured, and lost within one another’s beauty, they share a long, lingering kiss. 

Epilogue. 

Sharp and heavy, the blade split the wood in half as if it was made out of soft butter. Resting the blunt side of the leaden axe over his shoulder, he pauses and observes the pile of firewood on the ground. His lips move in silence as he counts before crouching down to pick up another log and place it on the stump. 

Strong shades of pink and orange spread between the clouds, kissed by the drowsy sun as it makes its way to slumber beneath the earth. It’s been 8 months since the coming of their new world. Even though there is still work to be done, August decided a hideout was necessary to let her mend her wings. 

“Loki!” 

Ingvild rushes into the green field with a wide, toothy smile. Feral rivers of chestnut-brown reach the small of her back, floating behind her as she runs around giggling.

‘That smile, like honey. So pure, so real.’

Playful barks answer her call, and a German Shepherd puppy appears from across the green hill, jumping over one of the logs ecstatically and wags its tail.

“Careful or I’ll cook him for dinner,” August mutters and points the axe at Loki’s direction. The pup tilts its head at him and barks with playful rage, growling and baring its needle-like teeth.

Ingvild pauses and gives August an icy stare before grabbing the large puppy and holding him to her chest, “You’re a shitty liar August Walker, you love him. Always sneaking him bacon when you think I'm not looking and snuggling him in your sleep.”

August shrugs, brushing away her comment before sticking the axe into the tree stump. “Get inside, time for dinner.” A small grin stretches on his lips as he sees her walking away, kissing the puppy on his wet little nose. 

The scent of cedarwood burning at the mantle and brewed coffee welcomes her home as she enters the cabin, immediately filling her chest with mellowness. She allows Loki down on the ground before walking into their cosy bedroom where she removes her trousers and remains in an oversized sweater and black thigh-high stockings that August gifted her after they left Kashmir. 

When she returns to the living room, August is sitting at the study with his laptop open. A small wrinkle lines his forehead while he runs two fingers over his moustache. A map and coordinates are visible on the screen, along with a messaging platform which she only assumes is a conversation with one of the apostles. 

Loki lies guarding at his feet.

“Come here, princess,” August calls, reaching out his arm toward her. “I have something to show you.”

Sneaking toward him like a large feline, Ingvild takes his hand and lets him guide her to his lap. Her legs fall to each side of his thighs, and August rests his chin at the small crook of her neck where it always belonged.

“What are you looking for?” She asks, casually pulling the sleeve over her wrist to scratch at a peeling hammer tattoo gracing her skin.

“Don’t touch it, let it heal.” August answers and takes her hand in his, entwining their fingers together tightly. An illustration of an angel wing decorates the same spot on his arm. As she glances at the way the black ink is embedded into his flesh, she can’t help but smile and ever so slightly grind herself on the semi-rigid bulge beneath her ass.

August growls against her neck, grazing his stubbles over her supple skin before reaching a hand to unzip his tracking trousers and pull out his swelling manhood. After a soft scuffle of her panties, he lifts her hips and slides himself fully within her wet, angelic cove. 

“August…” She sighs, fluttering her eyes shut for a split second, embracing both pain and pleasure. When August fills her, she is ethereal, as if a piece that was missing all her life has finally made it back home.

“You always look so beautiful with me inside you,” he murmurs against her neck, planting bristly kisses down her jawline before returning his glare forward. Ingvild only moves slightly above him, swaying slow and smooth on his thick, throbbing girth and squeezing him tight between her walls to relish in their bond.  

“I have a present for you.” He opens a tab on his browser while his fingers toy with her clit with surprising tenderness.

“What is it?” She moans as he presses down on her sensitive pearl.

“I found Liam,” he explains, a twinge of pride and a spit of revenge hanging on his baritone. He growls slightly as her cunt clenches around him by his words. “He’s hiding out in Sao Paulo. I plan to bring you his head.”

Sucking on her bottom lip, she grinds a little harder, feeling August deep in her gut. The temptation to ride him hard and rough is too great, but this sweet slow torture always brings her to a higher ground of ecstasy when they finally fuck. 

“Can it wait, my beautiful monster?” She asks sweetly, reaching her talons to clutch his thigh as he pushes further in and bottoms out inside her with a grunt. “I’d like to stay here for a while and be your angel for a little bit longer.”

August lifts his cerulean gaze back to Ingvild, the clear sky in his deep irises slightly darken as he observes the serene look on her face. His hand rises to cup her chin and turn her head to the side to meet his possessive lips. He cages her mouth with his, devouring her with the lust of a hungry man.

“You will always be mine and mine alone Ingvild,” he promises as he ends the kiss with a nibble on her chin. Ingvild licks his saliva off her mouth and stares back at him with the oxymoronic union of innocence and sinister urge before she leans back and continues to look at his plans.

‘Who is she to you?’

‘She is my queen, and I am the king of hell.’

_______________________________

Additional Notes: Song lyrics by Elvis Presely - Angel. Additional Inspiration by Nine Inchs Nails - We’re in this together. 

Disclaimer: I own no rights to Mission Impossible’s franchise or August Walker.

[dragonrajafanfiction]

Chizuru Town (End) Heaven and Hell

Caesar and the MC are let off the chain.

------

The boys all erupted into cheers as you closed your eyes. The man in the striped suit hugged you and then kissed you on the mouth. You didn’t struggle or open your eyes so they wouldn’t see what you were up to. 

Your Soul Skill relies on connecting to the energy of the ground. Already, millions of filaments of your spiritual energy were penetrating the ground like a root system, forming a solid foundation for what was to come. Once your Soul Skill was firmly rooted, you could kill them all in an instant. So you didn’t care about what was happening around you right now. That is, you didn’t care until the ground began to give you feedback that something terrible was happening to Lu Mingfei.

You open your eyes ever so slightly.

Lu Mingfei was backed against the wall of the Internet Cafe. He was holding the empty gun as if he could still shoot but no one was buying it. Another group of boys were firing into the hole left by the Black Viper. If Caesar was still alive in there, he couldn’t come back out without getting shot. 

And there was still no sign of Chu Zihang.

You’d waited to act long enough. At last, you could see the sparkle in the eyes of the elk. 

You raise your golden eyes in the sky and scream. Your hair lifts from where it hung in a wet curtain to straight up, stiff in the air. The ground sparks with electricity and cracks form in the pavement with light shining up through the cracks. 

The boys stop harassing Mingfei and stop firing into the hole in the building and stare in terror as the ground splinters beneath them. In the next second, the energy below the pavement erupts into blazing fire. Their clothes catch fire and so does their hair. They run away from the cracks in the ground, to roll on the wet pavement, steam rising from them. Their lungs have been seared by the heat and they’re choking and gasping after running such a short distance. Their hair is scalded off and they have no eyebrows.

They were the lucky ones. The unlucky sank their feet into pure lava, the heat turning all the moisture in their body to steam instantly. They could only give voice to their blinding pain for a few seconds before they passed out from lack of blood and oxygen and expired.

The air is filled with screams and moans and burning flesh. The street has turned to Hell.

Eruption is a Soul Skill of the King of Earth and Mountains. It summons the magma in an area, so it can usually take some time to charge if the magma is very deep, but here in Japan, the ground is floating on rivers of it and it is nothing for you to call a thin injection up and to squeeze through the plates beneath the earth.

The cars tip down into the widening cracks and their tires pop and shoot up flames in the escaping air, melting the fine paint and metal. The van you’re sitting on is an island in the middle of the destruction.

A phone rings. The man in the stripe suit is pale with shock. He silently read the text message and put down the phone. He stood up, staring down at you with a pale face full of fear. “This scare tactic is no big deal! Japan is our territory! And Chizuru Town is also our territory! You’re not going to win! Put your guns up and kill them!”

Your jaw drops. You had spared this last man because you figured Caesar would want to end him personally and now he - this last rat - was rallying his troops against you? Who was that text message from? How was this Lord so terrible that he could inspire some lowlife to face your power and defy you immediately after you’d just instantly obliterated so many of his gang members?

You smile and laugh! “Hahahaha! I really have to kill all of you! I really do! I can’t believe it!”

The wall Lu Mingfei was pressed against suddenly reverberated with a majestic roar and cracked open with a loud bang. The four-meter- high backhoe rushed out of the fire in the building, the huge gravel shovel dragging Lu Mingei into the air. Those remaining fired at the shovel with a dense shower of bullets.

Caesar sat in the cockpit of the shovel, his right hand holding the steering wheel and his left hand holding the body of the girl. Her blood was dripping down so much it formed a crimson strip on the metal under the cockpit.

You raise your chin to him. The redness of that blood was like a flag, marking you and Caesar as comrades in sorrow.

Caesar turned the backhoe to face away from the attackers. “Lu Mingfei! Get in!”

Lu Mingfei used all his strength to jump towards the shovel and Caesar pulled him in by his arm. 

Caesar turned the back hoe back around. He handed the body of Makoto to Lu Mingfei who immediately looked like he was about to cry. Caesar’s face was as smooth and calm as granite as he looked at you and your river of destruction.

“Boss, are you okay?” Mingfei whimpered.

“I’m fine… I’m fine.”

The magma you called up was rapidly cooling in the rain and the steam rose up smelling like fresh asphalt. The charred corpses of the gangsters who had died were like black statues sticking out of the ground, frozen forever in their state of agony like the ash sculpture corpses of Pompeii and Herculaneum.

He breathed in and out. “MC. Stand down.”

“Ah.” You sigh. “Alright.”

“You lied to me. But I forgive you.” He said.

The man in the striped suit is staring at you and you stare right back. He finally understands that you were not a prize for him. Caesar Gattuso had deceived him into inviting a bomb right in the middle of his troops. 

“Grenades! Grenades!” The man in the suit yelled.

The dozen gangsters that remained pulled grenades from their belts and flung them at the backhoe. The grenades blew through the wheels of the machine, rendering it motionless.

That’s when the dark clouds suddenly broke open and a giant B1 bomber descended like a black bird from the sky. The stirring back draft of the low flight swept the whole length of the street, shattering some of the windows, and nearly knocked you off the van . When you regain your balance, you see something descending on a white parachute from the bottom of it near Caesar.

He snatched the box out of the air, opened it and revealed two new weapons. He calmly started loading up his weapons. Was this the power of Cassell? Or was it the Gattuso family? Caesar had to have called someone...

“Boss! That bullet can kill people!” Mingfei gasps.

“The old guys in my family are usually a bunch of dirty bastards, but one thing they say is true. They say that God created the world to be fair and just, and if someone makes a mistake, he should pay the price. Hand for hand, foot for foot. If someone doesn’t pay for their sins, then who will believe in God’s glory?” After he finished loading the rounds, he made the sign of the cross.

“Is that what this is all about? Converting me to Catholicism?” You laugh with incredulity. Even after all this destruction, staring into the face of the black abyss, it was this religion that kept him grounded in his view of the world. “I think our beliefs will stay different. But I don’t mind calling you brother, Caesar. Ow!” You cry out as your hair is suddenly seized.

The man in the striped suit quickly picks up the shotgun and points it at you but then his hand bursts into a shower of flesh and bone. With nothing to hold it, the gun falls into the cooling magma and sticks in upright.

The man in the suit wails, clutching his now empty wrist. The bullet had accurately penetrated his hand. The rounds from the Desert Eagle guns have no difficulty in shattering the skull of a rhinoceros. A human hand was no problem.

Caesar fired both guns, and after emptying them of bullets, he threw the guns to Lu Mingfei for him to help reload. He took out an Uzi from the same box to continue shooting. The gangsters completely lost their fighting spirit, leaving their companions crying and jumping into the vans that were undamaged by the magma. Some were able to jump in but most fell in the rain before they could touch any vehicle. Each bullet passes precisely through their calves. 

They had asked Caesar to cripple himself by shooting his hand and calf and now he was crippling them that way. It was casual genius. Caesar simply would not budge from his ideals, nor would you budge from yours. You simply provided space for each other. You found your niche, and he would work around that. So you do stand down and watch Caesar work, your heart icy cold, but warmed by the fires of his company in this wintry dark world.

The van’s wheels spun to get going in the rain, and the vehicles fled to the end of the long street, leaving behind their wounded companions. With them on the run, Caesar leaped from the backhoe and walked over the ruined ground. He raised the Uzi in a smooth arc and fired six shots at the apex, blowing out the tires of the vans.

The vans still tried to roll on the lopsided tires. But then they suddenly stop. The man in the suit got out of the vehicle, dragging the driver with him. Your smile fades a little and your heart rate jumps. But Caesar told you to stand down and these two wouldn’t serve any resistance, right?

The vans of the cargo doors burst open and the dark interiors shined with the lights of roaring motorcycles. Caesar stood like a pillar and closed his eyes.

The guns made a sound you had never heard a gun make before. Like an explosion but beginning and ending with some sort of snarl, like he was holding a vicious dog in his hands. The modified Desert Eagle shot extremely fast. Caesar blasted out a direct rain of bullets. When these gangsters were in range they entered Caesar's exclusive battle field. The tide of the bikes and the rain of the bullets collided head on. The bullets pierced through fuel tanks, broke axles, tore through the wheel wells, and shot out sparks. One by one, the heavy machines collapsed in the puddles, caught fire and exploded and the boys tumbled to the ground, crying out in disbelief. Caesar fired mechanically, his face without expression, not happy or angry or sad.

As for you, the MC, you were still uneasy. You understood what it was like to be herded into battle, as not all the orphans at the facility wanted to fight. Those weak ones were tossed headlong into the ring with more vicious and bloodthirsty opponents to fight it out and learn to like it. They didn’t have a choice. 

Just like observing those reluctant kids, you realize suddenly that this whole scene is wrong. These people are being driven to this fight like slaves. You just now noticed their chains when they stopped trying to escape and turned around.

There were still three motorcycles coming in a second wave. Even from this distance you could see the striped suited man, hand missing, eyes white with frenzy, carrying a long knife. Caesar casually tossed a grenade on the ground and rolled it in front of them. It burst and sent the bikes on either side of the man in the suit flying, but he was so determined that he popped his front wheel in the air and rode the explosion, just like Caesar had ridden the air to save Makoto. His blade was aimed directly at Caesar’s heart. 

You leap to your feet, but Caesar didn’t move other than to sweep his leg up and kick the fuel canister on the bike.

The man in the suit suddenly realized that his motorcycle was gone and he was floating by himself in the air. The bike had been kicked out from under him and he landed hard, smashing face down right in the road.

Caesar bent over, picked him up by his hair and forced him to watch, feet dangling, as he poured bullets into the motorcycle, smashing its four cylinder engine, axle, silver-plated tailpipe and handle bars, the leather seat, and the precious logo… his beloved motorcycle, that was like his beautiful woman, was turned into nothing more an scrap metal.

“My …” you say to yourself, glancing at the black corpses surrounding you and wondering who was better off.

“I’ll kill you,” Caesar was saying, “But before that, you have to tell me who that “Lord” behind the curtain is.” Caesar shot the man in the ankle, and one of his feet disappeared.

“I have little patience for forced confessions.” Caesar fired another shot, hitting the knee and the man’s calf disappeared.

The man in the suit was struggling to speak in pain, but then Caesar called Lu Mingfei to him. “Translate.”

Lu Mingfei, who had been hiding in the backhoe, fell clumsily from the machine and hurried over, trying not to trip over any charred bodies.

“He said he’s going to take a long time to explain and he’s going to pass out. He’s asking for some wine.” He puffed breathlessly.

“He wants to drink?” Caesar was a little surprised by this lecherous man’s courage.

From your vantage point on the van, you notice that someone is moving in the darkness behind the abandoned vehicles with the flat tires. You leap off the van and hurry over to the back hoe. There were still guns left there. One a Beretta. You snatch it and and run towards Caesar, eyes on the target.

The man in the suit fished out a test tube of purple liquid from his sleeve and sucked the liquid out faster than Caesar could react.

“Poison?” Caesar was taken aback, but it was too late. The test tube fell and shattered in the rain and the man hung limp. You slow to a stop. You thought the shadow was there, but now you don’t see anything.

The man in the suit’s body suddenly twitched feverishly. His flesh started to morph, like he was rapidly healing, yet dying at the same time. The man’s eyes opened with golden pupils! Caesar did not have time to dodge before the man’s fingers - now a pair of vicious bone claws - stabbed into his chest. 

He pounced on Caesar with strength that overwhelmed him, hugging him tightly with the claws digging into his back and teeth closing on his neck. 

You fire once. The man’s skull ragdolls back.  And then again. The man in the suit releases a stunned and bloodied Caesar who lets him fall in a heap to the ground. Lifeless.

Chu Zihang was standing there. Evidently he was the moving shadow. He had run to help Caesar himself but your gun’s bullets reached him before he could. They were still some distance away from you. Between you and them were several of the wounded who were still crawling away, cowering behind trash cans and trying to hide between wrecked cars. All of them could turn into monsters, as far as you were concerned. 

You catch the eyes of one who was crouched behind the mailbox. He held up his hands. He cried “No! No!” before his head shattered to pieces. You moved to the next who was scooting away behind two black trash bags. You pull the trigger and he dropped like a stone.

Chu Zihang is racing to meet you. You trace your fingers to draw a line across the street. The ground opens up and a river of lava’s heat comes between you. Meanwhile, you keep shooting, ignoring the gangster’s pleas and prayers. They have to die. They all have to die.

Chu Zihang suddenly seemed to fall from the sky. His eyes are blazing gold, his sword raised.

“No.” You say. You wave your hand and the ground lifts beneath you forming a jagged edge pointed up at him. If Zihang fell on it at this speed, he could have broken ribs or worse, but he rolls in the air,  casting a spout of fire to blast him away at the last second.

Your eyes follow the trajectory of his arc. A crack in the pavement follows your gaze. Such extreme control of eruption is only possible thanks to the amount of filaments in the ground. The liquid rock underneath you is almost like a second limb. The ground is shaking and unsteady when Chu Zihang lands and he stumbles and falls. But now his eyes are wide with terror, but  looking behind you. You turn and stare down the muzzle of an old revolver. You feel a flash of intense pain. The world around you spins. Colors and images blur together. You land in a puddle, coughing blood. Your world goes dark with Chu Zihang calling your name.

[sucuretcannelle]

Character Designs/Descriptions:

Nova (19): A 5’1” woman who was literally dragged here. She’s basically just the quiet kid who’s fed up with everyone’s shit.

Danniella (23): A 5’9” demon hybrid with more money than sense. She’s the spoiled rich girl and the one who encourages bad ideas.

Oli (19): He’s an overly loving dumbass who can’t walk for shit. He and Nova share a braincell and they lost it last week. At least he can still brag about being an inch taller than her.

Bonnie (20): A tiny 4’8” bitch with depression, anxiety, and too much self-awareness for one rp character to have.

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Writer: She's 19, and a complete gremlin at 5'11. Currently wears long sleeved shirts and jeans with blue sneakers.

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Prompt (30): The ex-prince of the Vybian Empire, and the only one with a brain cell. 8'0. Typically wears a black suit, black pants, and black dress shoes.

Alexi (22): The god of birds and travel, but this man is 8'9 of actual chaotic goodness. Wears a brown jacket with a gray undershirt, blue jeans and black shoes.

Amoris (20): The sister of Prompt and Alexi's 7'3 sidekick. Wears a brown cloak over a sapphire blue dress and black dress shoes.

Pippin (11): The pure hearted child and the 4'10 child of a demon lord. Wears a large brown coat with a white undershirt, black jeans and white sneakers.

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Aibreanne/Moira (20): An immortal, 8'1, demon doe god that has issues upon issues and should probably be in a mental hospital. She has dark brown skin and freckles with brown hair that reaches halfway down her back. She has red horns that stick up and red and purple eyes. She wears an off the shoulder red dress that meets her 5 inch pumps. She wears a lace top and dress pants, a suit jacket and heels; all in mahogany red. Oh, and she has wings in all black.

Nash/ Xor'orek (27): An immortal, currently 10', demon/goat god that happens to be Satan's son. He has yellow-ish skin with idk what color hair cuz I'm lazy and green eyes. He typically wears an oversized varsity jacket, A black turtleneck shirt but like... sleeveless? And jeans with sneakers. Oh, and he also has wings...in all black.

Char/Charlotte (25): A 5'2 human that's from the same universe as Ai (Nostea) that happens to be a ginger. That's gotta suck. She usually wears a wife beater with a unbuttoned flannel shirt over it, which she has 12 guns hooked into, and denim shorts (Or jeans, depending on the temperature) with white sneakers

Jason/Jace: A 6'4 human that happens to be Char's older brother, and happens to be my oldest character from Nostea (At 27 years old!) He's a ginger with slightly curly hair that stops right below his ears, with tattoos all over his arms, and he has one on his neck as well. What he wears always changes so he doesn't really have one type of outfit that he wears.

Regina/Adelaide (23): A 5'5 human popstar from Nostea that happens to be friends with the rest of my Nosteaan characters. She has dirty blonde hair and blue eyes, and she typically wears a hoodie and baggy sweatpants when she's not performing

Atlas/Vretiel (24): The God of the Stars that was created from sand and his father's blood. He has dark purple skin with white hair and purple eyes. He typically wears a dark brown button shirt with black dress pants and dress shoes.

Orion/Onyx (22): A 12'0 demon/angel hybrid that runs on coffee and sarcasm. He has blueish-purplish skin with pink eyes and long white hair. What he wears isn't that extra, usually just a t-shirt and a pair of jeans.

Azrael/Azzy (25): A human/angel, 8'9 king that just likes to be a good person. He has soft white-ish blonde hair that reaches right below his neck, and ash brown skin. He wears a white suit with a black undershirt and a white tie. He also wears a crown that has orange and white gems. His eye color is unknown, as he keeps them closed.

Jay (19): A 6'1 demon that works under Nash and Cinna as a sniper. He had short black hair and green eyes, and he typically wears a black hoodie, baggy black cargo pants, and sneakers

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Woods (26): Protector of the Mythic Vale. 6ft tall. Butterfly/human hybrid, with long green hair in a ponytail that rested on their shoulder, and they have yellow eyes. They wear a black fading to blue Hanfu. They also have extremely large butterfly wings on their back, which was a gradient of silver to gold, and they have antennae on their head. Most interestingly, they didn't seem to have a noticeable gender; they didn't seem to be male or female.

Dhruv (26): A shapeshifting dragon god. God of Cosmos and Planets in his world. He has iridescent wings and an iridescent feathered tail on his back, his eyes are a platinum color and his hair is a soft gray color that stops just below his ears. There are scars littered all over his almond-colored skin - namely his face and arms - some big and some small. He wears a loose white tank top and gray sweatpants.

Ilma (24): Goddess of Knowledge of Medicine. 6'1 feet tall. Has vanilla toned skin and bubblegum pink hair. She wears a red crop top with an unbuttoned white coat over top, along with light blue jeans and black sneakers. Her nails are long and painted red, and she typically holds a wooden staff that has a lantern on it. She has a second staff on her back that always has herbs on it. Deer antlers sprout from her head and she has a small deer tail.

Abaddon (24): God of Destruction and Chaos. 6′10 feet tall. He has espresso toned skin, with dark red hair along with cats ears and tail. His eyes are a muted pink while his sclera is black. He wears a brown jacket with a red button-up shirt underneath, with black pants and brown boots to finish the outfit. He wears glass and has a golden earring on one ear.

[felswritingfire]

Umm new follower here. I would like to ask if your are still doing the hand holding prompts??? Could you do it with Shinya? Pleaseeeeeeeeee I would really like read something like it. Many THANKSSSSSSSSS

G-

*throws angst*

You never specified a number so I went CRAZY- 

If you wanted something fucking fluffy tho, feel free to send another message! 

But I give you two prompts for the price of one UwU

TW: violence; mentions of blood; the start of a panic attack; mentions of broken bones; psychotic behavior (Perun)

#5. Reassuring Squeeze

#4. The last time

Your chest trembles, the weight of the situation finally crushing down onto you as you realize there’s no way out of this. You can hear the pained cries of your friends- the frantic yelling as they’re rounded up and placed in… You can’t see much through the crack in the wall, but you’re more than positive it’s an amphitheater. Or at least similar to one: it sits deep in the earth, the seats that descend into it are curved into a long arch, all of them pointing to a middle that’s white marble- a stark contrast to the burning smoke and charred remains of buildings and people that surrounded. You can see your friends and almost friends being placed in seats, all bound in chains and all of them looking exhausted. Some continue to struggle even as they’re dragged out- but a sudden slam of the head against the marble usually cuts the struggling in it’s steps. 

Your eyes strain to look at your Summoners- all of them having been treated to the same process: you note that Kengo still hasn’t moved, a red splotch on his temple where he got struck by Temujin. Toji's head keeps tipping back and forth (you would be grateful to Sanat that he had kept his strength in check, but your chest is burning hot with anger and desperation- you have no forgiveness in you). 

You can feel your eyes burn as you lean back on your calves, the soreness of your knees lost on you as a broiling guilt sits heavily at the bottom of your stomach. Your nails dig into your thighs. You feel sick- your mind feels hazy, muddled, as everything begins to spin. Each breath you take gets shallower each breath you suck in. Your chest is hurting-

“(Y/N)-” it takes you a moment, but you look up, still trying to control your breathing. Shinya is shuffling closer to you, Cupid on his shoulder looking worse for wear (an oddly clear side of your mind is surprised that they let him keep him with him. Some fucked up power move, you’re sure); the tiny angel stares at you with big eyes, Shinya holding him back with a bruised hand as he moves to hop to you- “Is- is it ok to touch you?”

You can see the way his shoulders tremble, how red his eyes are. He’s as bad as you. You nod your head- your hands reaching out to him. 

He takes you in his arms, his touch so light that you feel like glass. Maybe you’re as fragile as glass right now- because you feel yourself melt into his chest and the tears you were fighting back so hard before slipping down your cheeks. You can feel Cupid slip down Shinya’s shoulders to rest in the crook of your neck- so close you can hear the unnatural creak to his wings and suddenly you know why they let Shinya keep Cupid. 

Your heart throbs as you feel his chest tremble and Cupid nestle further into your neck, his tiny hands grasping for the strands of your hair, a wet patch grows against your neck where Cupid has his face buried against. You bring a shaking fingers up to cradle Cupid's body, as gently as you can muster (he cooes at the contact), as your other hand comes to rub against Shinya’s back. “It’s alright,” you croak. “It’ll be alright.”

Shinya hums, forced and uneven, as he pulls away from you and laces his fingers with yours. You feel a pang of worry when you notice that he can’t curl his ring and middle finger, they sit at an odd angle and a black bruise that spans from the tip of his fingers to the middle of his palm. “You’re always so strong-” he squeezes your hand (at least to the best of his abilities) and rests his forehead against yours- “always so brave no matter what. It’s one of the things I love about you.”

Cupid’s hair tickles you as he nods his head, nuzzling against your cheek. “No,” you say, breathless with a giggle. “I’m not brave at all- just stubborn.”

“Braveness comes in all shapes and sizes, my Darling.”

You giggle again, pressing yourself closer to him as he untangles your fingers and instead wraps his arms around you. Cupid slips from his home beside your neck to wedge himself between your’s and Shinya’s chests (minding his wings). The three of you rest like that, basking in the contact with each other despite the overwhelming ache that throbs in your heart for your friends. You note that the sounds of struggling have died down; you raise your head, Shinya’s hands resting on your waist and Cupid crawling back up to sit on his shoulder. You move to look back out the crack in the wall when the sound of scraping metal startles your attention to the heavy metal door that sits on the far side of the room. 

You move back to Shinya, putting your body between him and the little angel that glares at said door from his shoulder. You feel him grasp your hand, squeezing with what strength he has left. You can feel your palm grow clammy with sweat as the door swings open with a sombre groan. 

Perun’s heavy footsteps echo through the otherwise silent room. You glare up at him, the grin on his face ugly and sadistic. “Hello, little bird.” He kneels down in front of you making a gesture that one would make at a scared dog to get them to come to them. “I hope you’re comfortable- you are at the peak of luxury here after all.” It’s mocking how he says it: sarcastic and demeaning. 

You don’t say anything instead choosing to continue glaring at him. 

“Ah? Going to give me the silent treatment?” He lets out a long sigh, leaning back on his haunches as he lets his eyes drift around the room, an easy smile on his lips. You felt tense as you waited for him to make a move. His eyes drift back to you, the corners of his eyes crinkle and the creak of worn leather reaches your ears before a white pain bursts against your cheek and a thundering crack bounces off the concrete walls of the room. 

You barely feel the way your head collides with the floor, Shinya’s voice muffled as he cries your name. His grip slips from your hand as you’re suddenly hoisted up by your hair- you’re almost afraid you’re going to be scalped, the pain is so searing. You feel tears wet the corners of your eyes as your head is wrenched back, your neck bending at an awkward angle making it hard to breath. You feel his breath ghost against your cheek. “You better watch yourself or your two little angels over there won’t have a happy ending.”

A sharp yelp and a panicked chirp catches your attention and you can see Temujin sitting on top of Shinya, knee pressed against the middle of his back as he pulls Shinya’s arm at a painful angle, his eyes murderous as he focuses on the struggling man beneath him. Volkv has Cupid in a tight hold in his fist, squeezing too tightly and causing the tiny cherub to let out painful chirps. 

“N-no! Don’t!” You choke, struggling to orient yourself enough to push towards the two. Your vision bursts with colors as you pinch nerves in your neck.

“Shh, shh-” Perun hushes, his free hand moves to caress your check, the rough leather hurts your raw skin. “Don’t cry, don’t cry- You can’t look weak in front of your soldiers down there- now can you?”

You let out a pained wheeze as his tilts your head back further. 

“Well?”

“I wouldn’t cry in front of you anyways.” It’s broken but you hold a satisfaction for the pure venom that bleeds into the words. 

Perun laughs, nuzzling his head against the side of your neck. You feel sick. “Good, good-” you let out a ragged breath as he finally lets go of your hair, your head falling viscously forward- “you’ve alway been such a good pet, haven’t you? Just for me.”

You glare up at him again, though now you're seeing two of him. He grabs the back of your neck, dragging you up to your unsteady legs. 

“Temujin. Volkv. Let go of those two would you?”

You breathe a sigh of relief as Temujin and Volkv both let go of Shinya and Cupid (Volkv having tossed Cupid onto Shinya’s back). 

Perun’s other hand quickly latched onto your arm and twisted it behind your back, the bones creak painfully. You hiss and he digs his chin into your shoulder, his teeth brushing against the skin of your neck. You grimace- you felt dirty. “This is all your fault you know?’ He whispers, grip tightening on your arm. “I have to reset the loops- I have to fix them, you know? If only you had done right in the beginning. None of this would be happening.” He’s dragging you out of the room as he continues to speak, you kick your legs, your heels catching on the pavement of the floor. 

You watch as Shinya lunges towards you just to be caught by Temujin and Volkv and dragged back. You’ve never seen him struggle so much- never heard him raise his voice so much. You feel heart breaking as the door shuts on him with a resounding clang as you cling to the last bit of warmth from him against your palm. Trying to pretend that the overbearing warmth against your back is Shinya.

[divineluce]

A Trail of Fire || Adam & Luce

Timing: Late May 5th, 2021

Location: The Outskirts

Tagging: @walker-journal & @divineluce

Description: Adam spotted an out of control spellcaster raising hell. He enlists the help of Luce, but all isn’t quite as it seems.

TW: Brief mention of sibling death tw

Slamming the door of her Jeep shut, Luce slung her bag over her shoulder and waited for Adam to lead the way. He’d mentioned shit going down, seeing some kind of… out of control fire spellcaster. And, of all the people who could help in town, he’d asked her. While she’d normally have more than mixed feelings about this sort of thing, maybe helping protect the town would be the nudge in the right direction her magic needed. She was trying to be… fucking better. She’d been trying for months. But, it wasn’t working and she was running out of ideas. Maybe she’d be able to talk to thispellcaster-- granted that they weren’t part of the coven-- and get some answers on how she could get her spark back. If they were even able to talk. As they began to hike into the woods, Luce spoke up, “So… You said there’s an out of control fire witch out here?” She asked before wryly adding, “I thought I was the only one of those in town.”

As they walked, Luce reflected on the first time she and Adam had met in the woods. That was… huh. It’d nearly been a year. It had nearly been a year since Bea’s death and since she had raised 20, 30 foot tall flames in the clearing while sparring with Adam. Flexing her hand, Luce swallowed uncomfortably. She couldn’t even light a candle right now. She’d been without her magic for so long, been so vulnerable for so many months. She needed her magic, she needed to get it back.

“Yeah I thought it was just average Scorch Street stuff,” Adam allowed, referring to a particular thoroughfare where even snow was prone to spontaneous combustion. “But they melted their way through a car and didn’t respond to anything I said and fucked off into the woods.” The Hunter pushed his way through the brush and led the way down into a steep gulley.

The depression might've been filled with brush and played host to a stream once. However the river gulley was now just a furrow of blackened earth. Adam pointed to footprints in what’d once been a stream bed. Each print was like a miniature blast crater, surrounded by broken veins of obsidian and glass.

Scorch Street. Luce had hung out there more than a few times in her high school days, cutting class to hang out with some of her art class friends in the one place in town that seemed dangerous to even normies. Little did they know the entire fucking town was dangerous. Listening to Adam’s description, Luce frowned. “They melted through a car?” That wasn’t just out of control magic, that was strong magic. Power, don’t fuck with me magic. Even at her strongest, Luce couldn’t do create a flame that hot without significant effort and time. Whoever this way, they were a danger to everyone, including themselves.

Following after Adam, Luce let out a low whistle of astonishment as she took in the scene before her. There used to be a stream here, but this person, they’d changed the fucking landscape. Just like she’d done. Picking up a hunk of obsidian, Luce stared at the glossy, black surface. Who hurt this person? What had happened? “That looks like as good a lead as any.” She trailed after Adam, keeping her eyes and ears open for any movement in the brush. She didn’t know if her lack of magic also affected her fireproof situation, but she didn’t want to find out first hand. “Hey. That’s… that’s still burning.” She said, pointing to a patch on the ground that was smoldering, the dirt itself ignited with a bizarre, deep red flame. 

“Mhm, didn’t even really pause or anything just kinna walked through it.” Adam knelt on the ground and slipped off his backpack. In a few practiced movements the Hunter had retrieved and assembled a military folding shovel. He slipped on some gloves and approached the smoldering patch of pure scarlet flame, boots snapping on the gulley’s new layer of obsidian glass.

Adam scrutinized the blaze for a moment before lunging forward and lifting something up with the shovel. “Is this like…?”

On Adam’s shovel was the indanscent outline of a single feather, the pulsing vermillion core within red flame.

Or at least it was before the feather melted through a whole through Adam’s normally heat-resistant shovel and plopped back onto the ground. “Shit…”

“Jesus.” Luce muttered quietly, trying to imagine just how much magic would be needed for something like that. The strongest magic user she’d ever met couldn’t do something like that, not without significant help from someone else. Just who the fuck were they? And would she even be able to do anything to stop them, to reason with them? Watching as Adam pulled out some new prepper tool, Luce continued to stare at the chunk of shiny black rock in her hands. She’d done a lot of destructive shit, but she’d never done something like this. Could this have been her? If… if they hadn’t been able to bring Bea back, would this have been her? Would she have continued to set fire to the forest, would she have continued to kill anyone who could ever pose a threat to what remained of her broken family?

Adam’s curse shook Luce from her thoughts and she blinked in shock as she saw the pulsating glow within a single feather that had melted through the end of his shovel. “Holy shit.” Luce echoed, tossing aside the rock. A feather. A burning feather-- there was only one thing that could have left that. Flexing her fingers apprehensively, Luce hesitantly extended her fingers towards the feather. But, even before she could touch it, she could feel the power radiating from it in waves, the radiant heat starting to sear her skin. She jerked her fingers back before reaching for her water bottle. “That’s a phoenix feather, but it’s not. It’s… There’s something wrong with it.” She said, unscrewing the cap of the bottle. She unceremoniously dumped water onto the feather and was startled as a cloud of steam filled the space between her and Adam. Waving it away, she was startled to see that the feather was untouched. “That’s-- what the fuck. What the actual fuck,” She looked at Adam and at the still glowing feather that sat between them, “We need to find them.”

“Uh not to be that guy,” began Adam, “But what I saw was definitely a person not a magic bird.” In truth the only proof Adam even had Phoenix's even existed was those tears mom had given him as a college fund. They were allegedly among the rarest supernatural creatures and Adam’s training had focused on common threats to human settlements, not fairy tales and miracle cures.

But here were molten feathers along the trail of someone he’d seen burn through solid objects. Adam felt compelled to revise his understanding of the legendary fire chicken. “So uh...do they look like people sometimes?”

Glancing up from the feather to Adam, Luce frowned. “You do know that phoenixes have a human form, right?” She asked, a bit surprised that Adam “Hunter Bro” Walker didn’t know that. Of course, Luce had a feeling she knew more about phoenixes than your average spell caster, even in White Crest. Leave it to Bea to have made friends with the phoenix family in town all those years ago. An entire childhood of having her mom not only compare her fire to Bea’s but a literal incarnation of flame, thanks Leah. “I’ve never actually scene the full flame on situation, so I can’t actually say what that looks like. But they’re not full on fucking... fire chickens.” She said with a shake of her head.

“Like I said, they look human most of the time. But if they’re putting out this much fire, they might be in their true form. There’s no way they could just cut through a car without it.” She said, hoping she was right. “But why would they do that? Most phoenixes don’t go around torching things on purpose. And definitely not in public, that’s a good way to get yourself hunted down.” Which was only slightly different from what they were doing. They were hunting this person down to help them. Not to hurt them. Help.

Adam frowned in thought. “They’re some of the rarest supernaturals around,” he explained, “I only knew they were real because of some tears mom had.” He considered Luce’s words and took in the charred trail of obsidian and everburning feathers that been carved through the woodland ravine. He motioned for the sorceress to follow, now keeping a healthy distance away from those patches of blood scarlet fire.

“Kay so what you are saying is this Phoenix is probably like sick or cursed something,” Adam reasoned with the air of resignation from constantly encountering new things that fucked with peoples’ heads. “So question is if we catch up with them and they like don’t wanna talk, and we can’t like ...contain them or whatever, what’s the game plan? The Hunter’s question was spoken Adam’s usual aimable baritone, but couldn’t quite disguise the grim implication in how open ended it was.

Rarest around? Well, that was news to Luce, particularly when she’d been saddled with one since childhood. She had some kind of inkling that Leah and her family were different-- the idea of a reincarnating family that stayed together for years and years had always struck her as weird, but… after last summer, she couldn’t help but rethink that perspective. “Well, they’re human looking most of the time. Whatever happened to this person is definitely not normal.” She said with a shake of her head. Sick, cursed; either seemed likely. But, when Adam’s tone shifted, her head jerked up to stare at him

“We’re not hurting them.” Luce snapped, “I’m not killing someone again.” The words came out before she could stop them, but the similarities of the situation to Lydia stared back at her. A young Hunter who she was familiar with, maybe even respected, asking her for help. Asking her to deal with an out of control supernatural person, someone who was dangerous. Someone who could kill. She’d made that mistake before, she wasn’t going to do it again. Not for Adam, not for anyone. “We’re going to find them and if we can’t talk to them, we keep trying to help them.”

Adam turned his attention from the ravine of burning feathers and looked at Lucinda for a time, leaning on the ruined shovel. The Hunter’s brown eyes faintly reflected the scarlet flames all around them, but didn’t hold any surprise. This was the second time he and Luce had a conversation in the woods about doing whatever it took while surrounded by eldritch flame. Some things had changed before the blue and red fire.

Then again, maybe he wasn’t quite the same dude either.

“Kay, I respect that,” Adam assented eventually, “let’s see what we are dealing with.”

The trail of pinion bonfires led up the ridge, something passing through enormous boulders where the Phoenix had simply bored their way straight through solid rock, leaving a tunnel of cooling obsidian. The air was choked with acrid smoke and breathing became increasingly difficult as they gained on the traveler. Eventually the hikers cleared the treeline and got above the smoke. A small valley stretched out below them, and Adam raised a hand to his sweaty brow to see through the evening glare.

But the glare turned out to not be from the setting sun at all.

It was as if a meteor had struck the valley, still incandescent from the plumet. Even with his mutant eyesight, Adam could barely pick out the humanoid form at the heart of the roiling inferno. Scarlet fire roared out in a blastwaves from the figure, leaving a swath of ash and glass in their wake across the valley. Great red sheets of fire and sparks seemed to wrap around the Phoenix like enormous wings, flexing and spreading outward on thermal currents.

“Well shit.” 

[hitbythunder]

Chandrilan Moons -4

A Kylo Ren x Reader story with much angst, possessiveness and dark themes (warnings will be updated as the story progresses) –> Read also on AO3

Summary: Growing up under the loving care of your foster-mother, Leia Organa, there had been nothing for you and Rey to want for. Though not of kin, you loved Rey as your sister and spent a happy childhood with her on Chandrila. But when the boiling galactic politics demanded for Leia to take action, for the Resistance to rise and fight, the girls could no longer evade the cruelty of the world. Kylo Ren sought a map as a key to revenge, to freedom, and had no use for a force-unsensitive young girl like you. You were simply a means to an end. Until his darkness latched onto you, drawn in by your light as you were by the demon that is Kylo Ren - inevitably gravitating towards each other, bound to be one. Like the Chandrilan moons.

**** WARNING: description of violence, use of the Force

____________________________xXx____________________________

4- A Ruffled Little Bird

Pure adrenaline rushed through my body, dulling the pain of my injuries and keeping my head clear enough to realize who that hooded, black creature in a mask was. Looming above me was Kylo Ren in the flesh, the nightmare of the galaxy. For a brief moment, I doubted my vision - because why would he be here of all places? - but watching Ren slaughter both thieves in the blink of an eye and with such unique vigor, convinced me of his reality and made it very clear that my situation had just gotten so much worse. Like to totally terrifying, end-of-life scenario.

Luckily my body's flight-mode took over then and somehow I managed to get off the ground, stumbling away from the black giant on shaky feet. I didn't get far, though, because my mind spun too much to maintain balance, forcing me back on the ground after a few steps. The jolt of pain in my right hand, which had earlier been stepped on, allowed for a moment of clarity in my mind and above the frantic beating of my heart I heard Kylo Ren's heavy footsteps approaching.

  +++

  What a fascinating mechanism, this will to live, ingrained at the very base level of any living being and making the girl flee him despite her injured state. Honestly, Kylo was surprised that she even made it that far and watched with almost clinical curiosity how she fell and now cowered on the ground. Panic and sheer horror radiated off her, both peaking when she rolled onto her back and faced him. Looming above her and with the sabre at the ready, Kylo hesitated to end her misery as the gentle whisper of the Force suggested him to spare her.

Suspicious of this whole affair, he took his time to muster her from head to toe. Beige functional blouse, brown combat-pants and boots (all dirty and scruffy by now) exhibited her affiliation to the Resistance, but her built was too small and soft for her to be an active fighter. Perhaps a scout or carrier-pilot. The top of her hair was pulled back and tied in a bun, while the rest lay in a braid over her shoulder, many strands having already escaped. With her right hand cradled against her chest, she looked quite like a ruffled little bird - not at all what he had expected to find amidst the thicket. So why had he come here? He caught her wondering the same, ire rising within him at this waste of time.

 "Where's the droid?" he spoke finally, the girl jumping as his distorted voice filled the silence around them.

"I don't-" but he didn't let her finish, for she would have lied anyways, and invaded her mind without preamble nor hindrance. Her latest memories swirled around there, so fresh and raw, yet not in exact chronological order, but Kylo got the gist rather quickly. A snipped of memory revealed that the droid had fled the scene, as confirmed by the suspicious tracks he had spotted earlier, and with it the map was gone. The map. The map. The map.

 Kylo felt her mind shutting down, more and more memories and thoughts vanishing into the dark void of her unconsciousness, beyond his access. She's fainting, he knew but continued, skipping through the remaining snippets before those too were gone, and at the next glimpse she was out cold. It had been there, just for a split-second, yet long enough for him to recognize the ripple in the Force which had prompted him to come here. This girl, as insignificant she otherwise might be, had seen the map to Luke Skywalker with her own eyes.

 And she'll show it to me. Kylo thought without doubt and deactivated his sabre. In one fluid movement, he then gathered her in his arms and picked her up, making his way back to the ship.

   Effortlessly he carried her through the thicket in a quick pace, a rush of elation and excitement flooding his mind upon the apparent success of this mission. As soon as he stepped out of the forest, two of his officers came running towards him, their white boots scrunching on the charred earth. In the background, Kylo made out shouts and shots as stormtroopers fought everything that moved between the smoke and flames, upon the ruins of Takodana castle.

 "Resistance back-up is approaching from the sea-side, Sir. Likely contact in 7 minutes!" one of the officers reported after a quick salute to their superior. Still looking at the battle-field, Kylo could sense the other force-user there and briefly frowned at the missed confrontation. But the map inside that girl's mind was of too much value to let it slip his hands - literally.

 "Abort mission and have all units return to the Finalizer. I've got what we need." Kylo commanded in a cool, almost detached tone, that left no room for argument. Not that any of his subordinates would ever be as foolish as to contradict him. No, that role was solely reserved for Hux.

"Yes, Sir!" they barked in unison as the trained dogs they were and dashed off to follow his orders. Kylo felt the girl stir in his arms then and sensed that her mind was drifting back to the surface of consciousness upon the noise of the ongoing battle around them. It took but a thought of him to put her back into a deep slumber, her small frame relaxing peacefully, as he cradled her closer against his chest.

   +++

  Blaster shots and debris whirled past Rey and Poe, both ducking in unison behind a large chunk of the castle's wall - or had it been a ceiling, one couldn't be sure anymore. They had all been caught unawares, in a moment of false security, and suddenly the castle had been under attack. The white ants of the First Order had swarmed the place and pure chaos had risen among the canteen's guests. Staying closely together, Han had led their small group through a secret tunnel that connected the castle with the ground level at the bottom of the main stairs. One could reach the landing area much quicker that way, which was where Chewie and _________ would already wait for them.

 But Chewie had come running towards them, firing left and right at approaching troopers. So they had split up to save time: Han and Fin fought their way to the Falcon and would get it ready for take-off, while Rey and Poe turned the other direction to where she sensed her sister. Uneducated in the Force and its ways, Poe was impressed by Rey's capability to track her sister in the vicinity and dashed off as soon as she told him the direction. The thought of __________ and two thugs alone in the woods didn't sit well with Poe at all and he cursed the girl for her foolish bravery.

 It's gonna be fine. We'll find her, get out of here and have that drink I promised her.

 Oh how foolish of him to believe that. The countless stormtroopers kept blocking their way, slowing down any approach towards the forest, and Poe cursed the stars for being on the ground right now. If only he was in his star-fighter. Peeking up from behind their hiding spot, Poe scanned the area for any useful vessel or a better point of vantage for them to occupy. His sharp eyes landed on a black sleek ship that looked very much like a fancy First Order high-tech starfighter and as he considered the theft thereof he noticed a hooded figure, clad in black from head to toe, approaching the ship.

 Kylo Ren, Poe's mind supplied and for a brief moment he visualized what a triumph it would be for the Resistance if they got hold (or rid of) the Frist Order's second-in-command. But such thoughts were wiped away, his mind cleansed until naked dread remained, when Poe's gaze dropped to the girl in Ren's arms.

 "No. No, no, no, no! NO!" he yelled as panic overtook him and if not for Rey pulling him back behind their cover he would be sporting a hole in his head.

"Kriff, Poe! What's gotten-" Rey barked but he cut her right off, almost shouting at her to let him go and in the next moment he was dashing across the charred earth towards the black ship. But the ranks of white troopers kept a tight line surrounding their superior, blocking off any further advance, and forcing Poe - as well as Rey, who had followed him of course - to watch helplessly as the galaxy's nightmare carried an unconscious _____________ on board.

   Poe nearly burst with frustration and shame when he and the rest of his little group stood in front of the General's ship. All dirtied, with minor wounds and glum faces, they made a miserable welcoming-party indeed. Leia hadn't even properly set a foot on the ground when Rey had thrown herself at her foster-mother in despair.

 "What happened, my dear?" the wise lady prompted, quickly glancing at everyone of the group before focusing again on Rey. "Where's your sister?"

"Kylo Ren ... H-he took her!" the young girl wailed under tears and Leia froze on the spot. It lasted only a fracture of a second, but Poe saw it, and he realized with dread that the General was afraid of Kylo Ren. Or at least afraid of what he would do to her girl. And at that moment, it seemed there would be little chance to get ________ back. Not that anybody dared to voice that opinion.

"Hush, darling, hush now." Leia cooed and lovingly embraced Rey to spend some comfort. "We'll think of something. But now we must gather our forces and leave for the base."

"I'll get her on board, General." Poe offered instantly, hoping to distract himself by being useful, and with a nod Leia dismissed him and Rey.

"We'll check on the Falcon, then." Han in his typical avoiding-behavior tried to make himself scarce too but Leia wouldn't have it.

"A moment, Han?" and by her tone he knew it wasn't negotiable.

 Stepping a little away from the carrier, they had some privacy and Han spied the cracks in Leia's hardened facade. Understandably, really, for he himself felt devastated at the situation. He then explained as best as he could what had happened, feeling very uncomfortable under Leia's scrutinizing gaze. She nodded, averted her eyes that had glassed over, and Han could feel her pain pinching his heart. He pulled her into his arms without hesitation.

"Do you think he knows?" she whispered against his chest, her head tucked in under his chin like a perfect fit.

"How could he? It's a secret between us three and we've not spoken 'bout it in all those years. He simply can't know." he replied and held her lovingly, like he should have done many occasions prior. Leia slung her arms around his torso, closed her eyes and sighed deeply.

 "And may the Force keep it that way."

[therewasatale]

Kindred spirits

On Ao3.

There are countless interdimensional service and food establishments across the multiverse. In some cases, the building or the interior itself is travelling from world to world, sometimes buying items in one dimension and selling them in the next one. In other cases, only the opening door appears in different or even multiple worlds, and the interior is situated in some kind of pocket space. Probably because the rent is cheaper that way.

One of these latter places was the "Beasts Den", a small smoky pub which served as a refuge for everyone who was obsessed with exotic or magical animals. It was a strange niche for an establishment but considering the vastness of the universe, it would have been stranger for it not to exist. As it is all people in the multiverse who had that strange gentle insanity which led to someone naming a twenty-meter-long scaled beast with claws longer than kitchen knife and multiple tentacles "Fluffy", had the potential to find this place.

It appeared as an old wooden door scratched and burned multiple times with the letters "Beasts Dean, Animals welcome" hammered into it in metal letters. It was usually found when those aforementioned people were at a low point in their life, and they needed some company aside, or with their little house pets.

And if someone, Rubeus Hagrid was in need of something to get the weight off his mind, and some stiff drinks would have been a great start. Honestly, he would have considered it a great continuation, and probably finish as well, but it didn’t turn out well the last time. He was heading towards the Hog's Head but turned down between two houses when he noticed something unusual. He knew Hogsmead like the back of his hand but he never saw that battered door before.  And now he was in front of it in a back alleyway.

He knew he shouldn’t.

Unknown new doors appearing in a wizard village were usually the result of some prankster, or something even more sinister, but Hagrid didn’t care anymore. It looked like an inn, seemed welcoming, and he really, really needed something to drink. He pushed down the door handle, and to his surprise, there was no shower of confetti or fart noise, but it opened into an actual pub.

The room was filled with the smell of something acrid, smoke, alcohol, and thousand more, not many of them pleasant. There were perches, boxes, and cages everywhere, hiding serpentine or furry shapes which watched the patrons with suspicious eyes. On the perches sat a variety of critters from birds seemingly made out of pure crystal to a lemur kind of primate which had membranes under its arms. To Hagrid's surprise the patrons were just as varied as the animals.

There was a person wearing a trench coat and a matching hat, feeding chicken nuggets to something similar to a small demonic dog. There was also a young man around his twenties with a red and white patterned baseball cap playing with a couple of similarly designed small balls and drinking a half-emptied mug of beer.

On the other side of the pub a muscular woman wearing animal pelts was letting her bear drink from her wine glass as she gently petted the animal's head. Hagrid didn’t even get the usual stares regarding his height and stature as he lumbered in. He walked to the counter and took a seat beside a solemn looking brown-haired woman who wore slightly singed thick letter clothing.

The barstool barely creaked under him when he sat down and as he moved around it adjusted to his size. He leaned against the counter and let his earlier melancholy flow back into him. It was a wonderous place, but right now it just reminded him of what he had to give up. He sighed as he raised his hand.

A big man, almost his size stepped up to him on the other side of the counter He had a mass of scars for a face, and an eyepatch, but despite this he wore a surprisingly gentle smile on his face.

"Good evening. What can I get for you?"

"Evening. A pint of beer, and after that keep it coming, please. I had a rough day. "

The barkeep nodded with an all-knowing smile. During his long time as the barkeep in the "Beasts Den" he seen this countless times. In his opinion a good barkeep didn’t asked if the patron didn’t want to speak, and more importantly never judged. He just provided a port in the storm.

"Aren't we all. " Huffed the woman right next to Hagrid. She was drinking sherry from a wine glass and wore an expression just as downcast as his own.

"Mhmm." Answered Hagrid as he got his mug of beer. He contemplated to say something or not, but after a bit of deliberation he decided that he needed it off his chest, and besides if someone, the strange people in this pub would understand it.

"I had to give up my pet. He grew up to be too big, and the principal said I couldn’t keep it around the school where I work as a groundskeeper." The half giant sighed and emptied his glass in a couple of big gulps. "I loved that little rascal. "

"I am really sorry." Said the woman with a gentle expression and patted the man's shoulder. "I know how hard is can be to lose a pet. Sybil Ramkin by the way."

She extended her hand the groundskeeper of Hogwarts took it into his shovel sized ones and shook it.

"Rubeus Hagrid. And yes, its, really hard." Hagrid could feel tears welling up in his eyes. He reached into his pocket and started dabbing them away with his half-charred handkerchief." He…he was feisty, but I know its jut because that’s how he showed his love. I-I will always miss him. I remember when he was little, he always tried to bite off my fingers." Sobbed Hagrid slowly and heaved a mighty sigh.

"It's all right, just let it all out," smiled gently Sybil and petted the man's giant hand.

"My poor Norbert is now away somewhere in Romania in a sanctuary. I don’t even know if he will like it there. Anyway…" Hagrid shook his head and wiped away his tears as he got another pint of beer from the barkeep. "…I don’t just want to vent on you. Why are you here? You said you had a bad day too?"

"Oh yes, I have some problem with poor Thaddeus here." She leaned to her left and patted a big carrier box beside her chair. Something hissed at her as an answer. "He is a rescue, but he is bit cranky, have a dull color and already an adult, so I'm afraid no-one will want to adopt him. I can't keep him with the others because he is really territorial with them. I am afraid I will have to put him down." Sybil sighed and it was her turn to take out a handkerchief and use it to wipe away a couple of big tears from her face.

Hagrid nodded solemnly as he looked at the box, when a sudden wild idea appeared in his head.

"I could take him." He said before his head managed to consider any consequences.

"Don’t say things like that." Waved the woman as she got hold of her emotions. "You don’t even know what he is."

Hagrid deflated a little bit and nodded. It was true, and, he had a habit of picking up all sort of critters without first learning how to properly take care of them. He emptied his mug of beer again before starting to speak again.

"Sorry, I just feel empty after losing my dragon, and…" Sybil choked a bit on her own drink and placed it down between a couple of big coffs.

"Dragon…Your Norbert was a dragon?" She coughed as Hagrid nodded again wondering what became of her.

"Yeah, a Norwegian Ridgeback. He became too big, and I had to give him away to a Dragon Sanctuary. What?" Asked Hagrid because the women were looking at him as intently as if she was trying to stare holes into him.

"How big is too big?" She asked suddenly.

"I…what?" Asked Hagrid completely baffled.

"How about, two feet maybe? No bigger?" Asked again Sybil hurriedly and leaned closer with a very determined expression.

"Uh…If Norbert would have been just two feet long there would have been no problem keeping him, yes. But he wasn’t, and…"

Sybil reached down and raised the small box from beside him, eliciting a disapproving gurgling noise from its resident. Through the holes on its side one could see a serpentine body, little stubby legs, a dull green color, and two suspicious little eyes.

"Have you ever had a Narrowe-Eared Smut?" Asked Sybil as she deposited the box in the lap of his drinking buddy.

Hagrid blinked a couple of times and gently wiggled a finger near one of the holes. The answer was a small but spirited gust of flame.

"Not yet." Answered the half giant with a warm tone in his voice. "But I would like to try."

"Well, I have a small booklet with me." Smiled Sybil gently. "Someone who loves dragons can't be a bad person, and at this point I would do anything to spare poor Thaddeus from the chopping block. " The woman's hand disappeared inside her pockets and she deposited a couple of items into the counter beside her sherry glass.

A golden pocket watch, a couple coal tablets, a small metal spoon, a notebook and a couple chewed up pencils. Finally, from the bottom of the pocket appeared a small booklet titled.

"Swamp Dragons and you: The Narrowe-Eared Smut and its care." She slid the paper towards Hagrid and smiled.

"There, everything is there that you need to know about the breed. "

Hagrid, still a bit shell shocked nodded, and slid the booklet inside his own, just as cluttered pocket. As Sybil slowly put everything back into her pocket, she glanced at the pocket watch she took out the first time, then flushed.

"By the gods, it's this late already? I have to be at the palace in half an hour and I need to change before that. Sorry Hagrid but I really have to go.  Hello, dearie." She patted the box gently as she stood up and placed a handful of coins on the counter. "If you have any question find me at the Ramkin residence, you two have a dragon of a time together. " Chuckled Sybill before storming out the door.

Hagrid only caught a glimpse from view outside, but the graffitied alleyway seemed much different from the one which he stepped in from.

"Wai-" The half giant tried to say something, but his talking partner was already out of the door. "Palace? Ramkin residence?" He muttered as he glanced down at the little box inside his lap. "I have never heard of such places."

The strange little creature answered with a small bubbling noise and belched a little cloud of smoke.

"Neither did I heard of swamp dragons. Well…It looks like I have something else to do instead of just moping." Hagrid smiled and placed a couple of coins on the counter before taking the box with him stepping out the door.

He found the alleyway just the same as it was when he stepped in. It wouldn’t be polite from a magic bar to not make sure that people somehow always get home after a night of heavy drinking. Glancing back, he wasn’t even surprised to see that the door had disappeared behind him.

"Well, I don’t really know what happened but one thing I do know." Hagrid looked down at the creature which was trying to scratch out the side of the box. "We are going to get along like a house on fire. " Smiled Hagrid and begin to walk home.

What he didn’t know that it was in fact a hut on fire, multiple times. And more than a few scratches and bites. But despite that, he wouldn’t have traded Thaddeus for all the treasures of the world.

[paralume-game]

What colour (palette) would you associate each of the characters?

Azalea would be red, of course.

The shade of her deep maroon locks, flowing over her shoulders like a dark waterfall.

The colour of the blood she licks from her digits. Of the wine swirling in her glass, same tint as the lips she holds it against.

Hot crimson passion, sizzling on your chest like drops of scarlet candle wax.

Though gold adorns her personality equally as well. There are reasons she decorates her body with flashy jewellery.

Her wrists are cuffed in golden ornaments. Slivers of luxury are curled taut over her throat, and dangling from her lobes.

Not only to present her lush nature, her appearance that screams with wealth.

Not only for her glamour, and her honey-coloured words, laced with charm.

But for wisdom hidden behind glossy lips, lurking underneath the tip of her tongue.

For valuable scraps of forbidden knowledge sitting underneath her long, sharp claws.

She arduously pried them from mad hands, thanks to her glittering wit and success.

She won't tell anyone what she hears.

What she sees.

All her talking is mere silver.

But her silence,

is made of pure gold.

_

Azazel is a colour bordering the line between grey and blue.

On every day that you watch him pass by, he carries the same dullness in his arms, and in his posture.

Stoic in nature, a high wall of stones surrounding him.

He has no time for small talk.

If you would throw a pebble, you'd find out that these walls easily break away, revealing gravel, dyed with blue ink.

A changed man will stand before you, should you decide to tear down the fence separating the both of you.

He'd smile then, indulging your interaction. Thriving in it.

You dust away the crumbles, and discover chunks of periwinkle gemstones sparkling in the fine powder.

_

Nathan and Hanna are a creamy beige, like the colour of that earl grey latte cupped between their hands.

A colour that reminds you of warm, fuzzy blankets. Or vanilla ice cream, topped with fruit and sprinkles.

Tasty pastries, that have been in the oven for a bit too long.

They're slightly burnt, but that's alright.

It only makes you think of the wood pieces they put in the fireplace, blackening from the heat.

It makes you think of their deep brown eyes looking at you with delight, when you cuddle into their arms, all while watching the flames dance.

A charred flavour sticks to the roof of both your mouths, as you dig into the treat simultaneously, but it simply can't conquer its overwhelming sweetness.

_

Blaire is blue. Like their torn, washed out jeans, littered with paint blots, stitches, and patches.

All those things produce a jumble of patterns and colours on an azure background.

The style matches most of the paintings they frequently create, the walls of their bedroom littered with illustrations full of happy chaos, just barely even finding space to fit in due to the sheer amount of them.

Blue like the pastel guitar strapped over their shoulder, and the pick they play with. A fast and energetic tune.

Loud and roaring.

A mismatch of notes, bursting with emotions.

It buzzes through the air, rushing out the open window.

Full of life, full of freedom.

_

Any hue you might find in an icy landscape would fit Willow.

White like the snow, and the fur of critters running through it.

Some, but not all of those creatures eyes, too.

A light pink gazing up at the blue sky.

The cool shade of frozen water, something constantly stirring in the depths underneath the ice.

Would you want to break through it to find out what hides down there?

Would you dare?

Those cracks that would form on the surface surely remind you of the veins peeking through their pale skin.

Cold, like that landscape you're imagining.

Though, in the distance, you see the black smoke of a campfire rising.

You can find warmth here, if you actively follow its path.

_

Sugar would be a soft pink.

The colour of her boop-worthy nose, as well as the beans on her toes.

That of cotton candy, as sweet as her.

If you would ask her for her favourite colour, her reply would be a different one every day.

"Mrow," she'd say, when you ask on monday. The colour of the pretty sky!

She lounged underneath it all day long, watching as the birds spread their wings far above her, while she sprawled in the warmth of the sun.

"Mrrr," she'd say, on a wednesday.

Why, the colour of that fetching gentlecat I met today, of course.

"Meow!" She'd yelp in joy on a Friday.

It seems, she really likes the colour of the shirt you're wearing on this day!

On a sunday, she'd mewl in her sleep, drowzy from your fingers running through her fur.

All the colours in the world are her favourite, she purrs.

_

Grimy black soot runs down her cheeks like rich oily tears. It burns, akin to acid. Corrosive. Forever hungry.

They drip on grey concrete, eating a hole into it.

Dirty gold runs paths through her dark attire, matte and unpolished.

A sickening, festering yellow.

Her unkempt, dark lilac hair is tied up in a haphazardly knot, threads of hair sticking out all over.

Long, spindly fingers reach out for prey, as they twirl in the breeze.

She looks broken.

Like something that used to be bright and vivid. Promising.

But got lost and frayed in the flow of time.

[punishandenslavesuckers]

Adventuring requires fast solutions to dangerous problems and sometime that problem is gravity, terminal velocity, and the fucking ground. Home-game excerpt. Death Ward lets you do some wild shit.

*

Orlia speaks Sylvan.

She’s a ranger and a dwarf so it’s reasonable she might have the occupational need to do that and also the lifespan to mess with weird supposedly unknowable languages. She’s used it on one previous occasion on this hellish trek; to lure giant elk in for nose-pats and oatmeal treats. She probably did it specifically to appease the party’s gender-indifferent tiefling cleric (Rime) who, being a Secomber local, is aware exactly how terrible it is being out here.

Which is to say, getting to pat a giant deer was one of the very, very few highlights of sneaking around the hobgoblin infested moors. The many lowlights have been vampires, a manticore, flaming skulls, goblinoid assassins, and dreading the fact they’re literally trying to hike across a war zone into giant country.

A fun note: Things that survive being in the same ecosystem as giants are, themselves, motherfuckingly dangerous to say nothing of the giants themselves. Blue – the team sorceress, Triton nobility, and the only one who speaks Giant – insisted that appealing to the diplomatic side of giant-kin is a GREAT idea. Will – the team half-elf, part-time werewolf, former highwayman, and monster hunter – pointed out rather keenly that, no, asshole, that’s a terrible idea. And then they bickered all the way from Secomber to the Emerald Enclave forward camp.

Bian (tabaxi rogue,former privateer, team sneak) and Rime have resigned themselves to a future getting punted two miles across the monster-infested moors. It’s been that kind of month.

Anyway, back to Orlia speaking Sylvan:

“They’re cool with it,” she’s saying in Common.

“How confident are you in your ability to understand Giant Eagle?” asks Will.

“One-hundred percent.” It’s convincing because one of the four giant fucking eagle standing behind her begins to preen her hair amiably. “I mean, like, if you’re a dick and they drop you for being a dick that’s on you, but they’re into the idea of helping y’all clear out hobgoblins.” A beat. “Also, they do understand Common. The Sylvan is for, like, effect. Ya know?”

Will eyeballs the three other giant eagles who are cocking their massive raportial heads at the group. “There’s only four of them…”

“You four go ahead. I can move faster alone. I’ll catch up to you.”

“Are we really going to ride giant eagles?” Rime is beaming, their big jet-black eyes lighting up with glee as the flower crown literally rooted to their horns starts to bloom with happy colors. They snap their fingers again, thaumaturgy generating their words for them. “They’re okay with it?”

“Yup,” says Orlia, her craggy features splitting into a grin. “You get to fly with eagles.”

“Fuck,” says Bian at conversational volume.

Rime laughs. “That’s amazing!”

“Fuck all of you,” Bian emphasizes. Her tail looks like a white bottle brush.

“They aren’t scared of cats,” Orlia says in what is probably meant to be a comforting tone.

“Fuck you especially,” Bian says, pointing. “This is a bad idea.”

“Is it safer though?” Blue asks.

“Yeah,” says Orlia. “They can drop you right in giant country—” Bian mutters something like ‘oh yes, the very definition of ‘safe’, sure’ – “and you can skip all the other heinous shit in this godforsaken tundra.”

“Yeah. God forbid we be tired when we meet the race of enormous bastards who will probably kill us,” says Will, totally deadpan. “Like it’s gonna make a difference.”

“I always make a difference,” Blue declares, marching past her ex-husband and flipping her long white hair so it smacks him right in the face. While he sputters, she approaches the nearest eagle and plants herself arms akimbo before it. “Hello. Your name is Murder Wings. We will totally take out hobgoblins.”

The eagle cocks its head back and forth like it’s considering the name ‘Murder Wings’ with some seriousness.  

“We’re gonna die because you’re all stupid,” says Bian.

Rime, who is already petting their eagle and feeding it scraps of jerky from their ration pouch, looks up from what they’re doing and says, “Hmm?”

“Never mind.”

They all, with varying amounts of awkwardness, clamber onto the horse-sized giant eagles. Rime has the least amount of trouble with this, probably because of the jerky bribery and genuinely friendly vibes. Blue’s eagle literally drops to a sitting position like a nesting sparrow while the tiny Triton woman boosts herself up. Bian, once mounted, clings stiffly to the back of her eagle and says, angrily, “I can’t stab anyone while we’re sitting on big fat birds, you know.”

Will falls off his eagle for the second time and says, “This bastard better not roll while we’re flying.”

“Again, for fuck’s sake,” strains Orlia, “they understand Common.”

Will’s eagle pecks him on the head.

*

Bian can’t quite hear what Rime is yelling at her until they snap their fingers and throw their words across the roaring, open skies directly into her left ear.

“This is amazing!”

Bian doesn’t have thaumaturgy like her adorable teifling priest buddy. (For whom, by the way, she has come out to this miserable inland war zone.) So she can’t tell her newest partner in crime (friend, ally, and genuinely good person pal) to literally go fuck themselves with a cactus the way she would like to. She can only cling to the back of a giant eagle and resist every single instinct in her body to sink tabaxi claws into the feathers beneath her.

They are about half a mile in the air and Bian has been trying not to think about that. Just imagine she’s riding a very feathery magic carpet barely two feet off the floor. The deafening roar of the wind, freezing air, and Rime’s occasional magic bursts of cheerleading are not helping. She would flip Rime off, but she can’t bring herself to spare a paw.

“Murder,” she says to herself like a mantra. “Stabbing. Future glorious vengeance.”

Her eagle’s head jerks a little bit. It eyeballs her suspiciously.

“Not you. Another guy.”

The eagle doesn’t look convinced, but that doesn’t matter because it’s about then Rime’s voice booms at three times its usual volume. Bian jerks, fur standing on end as Rime shouts in panic: “WYVERN! WYVERN, BEHIND AND FOLLOWING!”

Bian risks it then to jerk her head around and look over her shoulder.

Rime is ducked low against the back of their eagle, the wind ripping wildly at the ribbons and flowers that encircle their head. They’re pointing backward and up into a thin mist of cloud cover… and at a massive, draconic shadow as it abandons stealth and dives, screaming, from the stratosphere to gain ground. Bian struggles immediately for the crossbow on her hip, yelping as her eagle starts to fly a lot fucking faster away from the fuck-huge predator now chasing them.

“No, you dumb bird! Go back!”

The eagle flaps even faster.

“Goddammit!”

She looks over her shoulder. Rime shouts something and a flare of divine light ignites at their chest and spirals down their outstretched arm. A blinding bolt bursts from their palm and cuts a line of pure white through the sky, exploding into radiant fire across the wyvern’s chest. It screams as bright beads of magic cling like static to its hulking frame. It’s eyes shimmer with rage even from a distance as it rears up and –

Instantly gets a ball of chromatic lightning to the face.

The sky lights up with azure electricity, crackling as the wyvern shrieks.

Blue is twisted at the waist on the back of her eagle, thighs dug into its flank, one fist buried in dark plumage. Her right arm is up over her head gripping the crackling diamond component of her spell. She bares her teeth in a big battle-grin, her smile white in the light of her spell as her eagle inexplicably cuts its speed and begins to lag back. It places itself between Rime and the shrieking dragon-kin racing after them.

There’s a boom from Bian’s far right as Will pulls his scimitar one-handed from his back and activates the thunderous spell effect on the blade. He, like her, is not doing much good a mile in the air. He, like her, is realizing their eagles are pulling ahead of Rime and Blue. He, like her, is imagining the future six seconds from now when the beast hunting them picks its next target from the two spell casters.

“Fuckity fuck fuck,” Bian hisses, scrabbling for a crossbow bolt, jamming it between her teeth, fangs biting wood as she uses her other hand to rack the bow before slotting the arrow and locking it. “This is so fucked.”

She looks over her shoulder in time to watch Rime light off another bolt of tracing magic from their hand, the glow silhouetting their body against the dreary sky. Ribbons spin in an uncontrollable halo around their head. Their fingers spread wide and infused with light. Impact. The wyvern’s shadow blooms massive across the bone-white backdrop of the cloud wall behind it and it roars, blood spraying as a chunk of lightning-charred flash disintegrates from its neck and shoulder.

Blue’s eagle is still lagging behind, its claws flared with predatory intent.

Bian and Will exchange a look of horror.

“IS SHE TRYING TO FIGHT THE FUCKING DRAGON THING WITH HER FUCKING BIRD?!?!” Will bellows, horror in his wind-reddened face. “IS SHE TRYING TO FIGHT THE–?”

To Blue’s credit, she appears to be kicking her heels into the eagle’s flanks like a rider encouraging a horse to gallop, but the eagle ignores her. Blue yells something inaudible, turns, raises her fist and another lightning burst roars chromatic across the sky and ignites the wyvern, tearing flesh from its back and wings. It thrashes, tumbling, screaming… then flares its wings to catch itself.

It dives at Blue’s eagle.

It hits like a cannonball, feathers and blood bursting into the atmosphere. Blue’s body disappears between two massive beasts as they collide. The wyvern shrieks, talons tearing red lines into flesh. The eagle screams, clawing back, trying to break away… The tail lashes out, like a scorpion’s strike, slamming into the giant eagle’s ribcage and punching deep. Ribbons of blood begin to spiral out from beneath its body, snatched away in the wind. Its wings stop flapping.

“BLUE!” Will is yelling. “BLUE! BLUE, NO!”

Bian stares, transfixed, unmoving, and flying away from the battle.

As Blue’s eagle.

Falls out of the sky.

And drops through the clouds.

Rime screams. They do it with their real voice, the demonic one, and it sounds like a roomful of people screaming their friend’s name. Bian’s eagle just flies away even faster as she yells at it to turns its useless dumb bird ass around. Will’s body erupts on the back of his mount, fur and muscle swelling against the constraints of his chainmail and leathers. He bellows something werewolfy at his eagle and it begins to dive, following Rime’s mount as it too begins to dive.

Then they, like Blue, are gone beneath the clouds.

The wyvern is already gone, chasing its prey to the ground to finish off anything (if anything) still breathing.

Bian doesn’t see what happens next. She only sees the end of the fight.

Will though…

*

Will is a werewolf riding a giant eagle with a roaring scimitar that’s now on fire. It would be fucking legendary if he wasn’t scared shitless and diving at terminal velocity toward the ground. Even that would not be so bad if he wasn’t almost certain that Blue just fell half a mile out of the sky and she’s a burst corpse of organs and blood on the permafrost. Even that would not be so bad if… if…

His eagle slices through the cloud cover into the lower atmosphere, hooking hard up to level out at three-hundred feet up from the ground. The momentum is so intense Will has to literally bearhug his eagle which immediately shrieks as the flaming sword hazards it face.

Immediate landscape: Almost directly beneath them, Blue’s eagle is on the ground, flat, smeared like bloody throw rug. Blue herself is visible, sprawled half on top of the dead bulk of her bird, unmoving, but not (importantly) herself a fucking smear of internal organs across the moorland. Rime’s eagle is not diving with the same zeal that Will’s eagle dove, so the cleric is about 50 feet up from Will, their bird circling downward like an anxious vulture.

Most importantly: The fucking wyvern is on the ground, waddling its way like a hulking, leathery, lizard bat toward Blue who may or may not be too dead for their cleric to do something about.

Their cleric who is stuck on the back of an eagle too far away to do shit.

Will is thinking things like ‘Can’t these stupid birds go faster?’ and ‘Maybe if I jump, I’ll be fine. I’m a werewolf. Yeah, I think… I think it wouldn’t kill me.’ and ‘Blue can’t die yet, we didn’t finish this thing out.’

And that’s what he’s thinking about when Rime jumps off their eagle.

Later, Rime will explain that what they did was pull out the spell scroll they found in a crypt two weeks ago. Later, Rime will explain what Death Ward is: a spell a that wraps the hand of a god around someone and asks a favor from the pantheons of death for a just a little leeway. Later, Rime will explain they clutched that spell scroll to their chest like a fistful of flash paper burning in their fingers as they cast a spell too advanced for them to know.

And it worked.

But right now, in the moment, Will is calculating his odds of surviving the very same jump to the ground…

So Will has enough time to think ‘What the FUCK’ as Rime Raishon falls past him in a blur of armor and ribbons. They drop two-hundred plus feet to the permafrost. Will hears them hit the ground with a hideous, bone-shattering crunch. Will stares down, then, at Rime’s body outlined, sprawled, unmoving, on the rock and grass 200 feet beneath him.

He has time to think numbly, ‘Why did they do that? Whydidtheydothat? Why the FUCK did he—?!’

And then Rime stands up.  

Not, like, easily. But they get up.

Rime levers themselves up on one elbow, then up on one knee. Their scream as they do so – agonized and feral – comes to Will on the wind as they stagger to their feet. Will watches their cleric stumble into a run toward the wyvern, hobbling on phantom limbs splintered in a suicidal drop to earth. Their hand comes up and across the field a familiar eruption of ribbons blooms like a razor-wire flower and begins to tear at the wyvern. Rime’s spiritual weapon whacks the dragon-kin across the skull as it looms over Blue’s body.

Will has no time to figure out, in that moment, what the fuck Rime just did.

He’s too busy hitting the ground as his eagle dives, pulling into a flat glide feet from the ground where he can roll off its back into a stumbling run. He bolts past Rime whose standing, shaking, their eyes glowing with arcane light as they unleash bold of radiant fire, screaming something that might be Infernal at the wyvern as it starts to take flight, the corpse of the giant eagle (not Blue!) in its claws.

Will barely notices. Blue is a crumpled tangle of lacy blue dress, ghost-white hair, and twisted limbs in the grass. She’s like a broken doll and as he skids on his knees to her side, he can hear the ugly, wet, dying noise of her punctured lungs gargling. He tears a potion from his belt, uncorking the vial with his teeth and grabs her jaw, turning her face up and pouring the entire contents into the blood-filled ruin of her mouth. (It looks like she bit through her tongue on impact.)

“Fucking drink it,” he hisses, terrified she’s going to choke it up instead of swallow.

The wyvern is screaming, its wings buffeting the air nearby, but Will ignores it. It’s flying away. Some other direction. He can’t physically tear his eyes away from Blue’s mouth, the pool of purplish blood and glittering magic liquid on her tongue.

“C’mon, c’mon…”

Blue’s throat bobs.

She wretches, rolling on her side and vomiting up blood and phlegm as her lungs knit and immediately struggle to expel what’s blocking her airway. She coughs. Gags. Yells as a twisted wrist snaps back into alignment and cuts on her face sluggishly congeal and clot. She growls in pain, punching the ground repeatedly before rolling onto her back and looking deliriously around her.

“What happened?” She blinks blearily at him. Her eyes drift somewhere over Will’s shoulder. “Where is…?” Her eyes focus. She screams. She jackknifes instantly into a sitting position. “RIME!”

Will looks over his shoulder. Horror makes it slow, like time drags its heels in a nightmare.

He looks over his shoulder.

To see the wyvern flying away at speed.

It’s got something in its jaws – a dripping ragdoll trailing bloody ribbon the colors of a festival god. It’s flying away with Rime’s unmoving body clamped between its jaws. Because, obviously, obviously – idiot, idiot, idiot, oh fuck, oh no – it was flying back to attack the only spell caster left on the field. The one fucking stupid enough to keep inciting its attention until it mauled them unconscious while Will was getting Blue back up.

Will stands, even as his brain tells him it’s too late, it’s too fast, too hale, too healthy to run down.

It’s going to fly away with Rime. If they’re alive it’s going to eat them that way. If they’re dead, there’s no undoing it. Bian, Will thinks dully, Bian is going to be so fucking –

Blue screams in Aquan – a pure primal, primordial shriek – and her hands spin through complex pattern then lock like she’s got her fingers around something’s throat. The air around her sours with ozone, the smell of her magic as her eyes ignite lightning bottle blue.

Static leaps between her teeth and she says, “GO THE FUCK TO SLEEP!”

And the wyvern, against all fucking odds, instantly goes slack in midair.

Its ungainly bulk glides for a moment on its momentum, like a tossed dart through the cold winter winds, the arc of its trajectory falling ground-ward. Not far to the ground (it must have kept low to snatch Rime in its mouth), but it hits and skids to a halt after about 30 feet, a long drag of torn dirt in its path. Then it lies there in a pile of muscle and burnt hide. It doesn’t move. Just lies there, its massive flanks rising and falling slowly.

Dead asleep.

Blue’s hands are shaking. Arcane light still glitters in her eyes. She’s whispering to herself, softly, “Just barely. Just barely. Oh fuck… fuck…”

Will breaks into a run at precisely the moment Bian’s eagle comes wheeling down at a leisurely, cautious flight speed to alight on the ground about nintey feet off from the downed wyvern. It fucks right off the moment it realizes the dragonoid is still breathing and Bian kicks herself free of it, cursing and swiping her claws furiously at the giant bird. Then she rockets, tabaxi-quick, across the gap between her and the wyvern and immediately dives under one limp, tented wing.

Will skids around the body, hand jumping to his belt for a potion, fumbling at the strap.

But Bian looks up – her fur sticking up along the back of her neck – while Rime coughs, choking on the contents of the healing potion she’s just given them. The cleric is literally still wedged between the wyvern’s jaws, the massive points of its fangs grinding and squeaking on the battered metal of their breast plate. Rime’s covered in blood – a slick, sticky dark color just barely distinguishable from their natural tiefling complexion.

“Don’t wake it up!” Will hisses, ducking down and carefully prying the creature’s jaws apart. Like a dog with a chew toy. “Get out. Fast, fast, fast, it’s gonna wake up.”

“It’s asleep?!” Bian yowls, lunging away.

Rime wiggles out of its mouth, gasping with pain as the fangs drag across their armor, using one hand to grip a massive lower canine and push it out from where its shallowly lodged in a gap below their armor. They slip free, blood still running from their gashed arm and upper shoulder, soaking through the ribbons around their arms. Bian drags Rime all the way away across the grass as Will readies a direct blow to the beast’s skull. The burning scimitar flares in his fist.

“Blue?!” he shouts.

She has her diamond in hand already. Lightning crackles in her fist as she strides toward them, hell fire in her eyes.

“Do it!”

Will brings the blade down as Blue calls down lightning.

[grimweaver]

                                                             ~*~

            Lucien and I were met first with a washover of festive sounds in the streets, muffled no longer once the heavy doors of the smith shop groaned outward; a few common percussion and wind instruments playing along with loud, happy-drunk singing, laughing, and cheering. As it had at roughly the same time the previous nights, the air was beginning to thicken with a mostly pleasant mix of the usual scents; smoke billowing from grills and clay ovens, charred and baked goods, perfumes, and hard-partying bodies.

            Immediately in front of us was a little more than a dozen laborers that were sent out for us, and standing out amid them was a stout figure— a bosmer with slicked back brown hair, wearing a brown cotton vest over a white peasant shirt that was tucked into dark brown capris, and a pair of doeskin shoes. He gave himself away when he bounced up and down as he pointed at us, shouting:  “LOOK! LOOK! LOOK!”  It was Dorandil, assuming the role that he had already been playing since the start of it all, except under a different name: Norabil Windthorn. “  BY AZURA! BY AZURA! BY AZURA!  It’s the G—!” One of the female workers gave the bosmer a firm and deserving smack upside the head. At least he had enough brain cells to understand the message in the scolding strike and come up with a decent correction.  “...Great Dancing Duo !” he finished, rubbing the back of his head, then joined the workers in helping Jahruu and Hennia with their things.

              “Ah!  Master Atterius and the lovely Lady Nelvani !” the voice of Ocheeva called out from our left. We turned to see four people in bronze scale armor, with burgundy cloth wrapped around their shoulders and faces, and draped over their heads to cast dark shadows over their eyes—not an inch of flesh could be seen.

Each individual called out their name.

            From Ocheeva: “Stone-Scale!”

            From Teinaava: “Ebon-Claw!”

            From Bremman: “Denarius Saxtus!”

            From Farwil: “Sreth Rellintilys!”.

            In perfect unison, they saluted by pounding their right fists against their chests, bowing their heads, and shouting together: “ At your service! ” 

            It attracted some attention from some celebrants nearby. Those who understood that the masked man was Atterius whirled completely around and cheered ecstatically as they pointed at him. Lucien gave them a smile and wave, then urged us all to get a move on before some real crazies started coming out of the woodworks to commence a blocking and grappling frenzy— that was part of the reason why he wanted us to leave so early. The other part was the fifteen-minute walk quickly becoming a forty-minute one— there was very little flow control on the public grounds, so the pathways had become a jumbled mess far worse than anything we had encountered before— people, shoulder to shoulder, jumping and bumping into each other as they threw marigold petals into the air and at each other. The vendors were a bit more aggressive in their efforts to grab attention from people walking by—instead of just sitting behind a counter, they were actually getting in front of people and intentionally blocking their path. Thankfully, our ‘bodyguards’ did an excellent job of getting a pathway cleared for us and shielding us from an onslaught of zealous Atterius fans.

            When we got through the bulk of the crowd, just a little ways past the Guild Traders, a cool flush of gratefulness went through my being and relieved the swell of rage mixed with nausea— our amusement of the inner-city partying had disintagrated when we entered the outer rim of the bulk, where the cloud of stagnant air had a mild undertone of bile, curry flatulence, and undiluted beer-sweat.

            “Thank All the Powers !” I blasted as I gasped for air. I owed gratitude to military aquatics training as well, otherwise I wouldn’t have been able to hold my breath for 2-3 minutes at a time. “A second longer in all of that and one of you would be wearing my eggs and bacon!”

            “T’h-h-yeah!” Farwil chuckled with a cough. “Agh… I think we’d all have worn each other’s breakfasts!”

             “There they are,” Lucien said, pointing to a group gathered near the first lamppost beyond the market square. All but one kept their gaze fixed on the plateau ahead— an effeminate male with long and wavy platinum-blonde hair, wearing a robe made of quilted white silk, jeweled rings on every finger, layers of necklaces made of gold and glass beads, and a steel-plated belt over a dark red sash. He motioned to the rest and pointed back at us. “By the Black Nights of Boralis! What breathtaking beauty!” he cried out, and that’s when I knew who it was:  Vicente!

            “Speak for yourself…  Fabiere ,” Lucien replied, suppressing a chuckle he looked him up and down. 

            “Oh!” Vicente blasted, grappling at the shirt of his robe. “Are you talking about this old thing?? It’s  so-o-o-o  last week. And this sand-caked bird nest that used to be lovely locks of pure sunshine??” He fussed with his hair and looked at it with feigned disgust, before daintily slapping it away from his face with a light, hauty grunt. “I am rather embarrassed by it all… but thank you!” 

            There was an eruption of laughter all around, even Lucien couldn’t hold back his. Vicente was doing a good job of getting into his character. 

             “Astaunne is right,” Gabrelle said. “You two look amazing !”

            The whole group voiced their agreement.

             “Indeed… Nine still my heart,” Farwil said, “you… um… no others among us… could accentuate the finery so well.”

            “Thank you, Sreth,” I replied, trying not to think about all the unshareable things that were probably going through his head, and turned to face him directly. “ Please  … promise me that you’ll stick to the plan and remember  everything  instilled in you...by… um… your training at the Fighters Guild—our survival depends on it.”

            “I’ll promise to  try ,” Farwil replied, returning the back-pat in a respectful friend-and-comrade sort of way that did not give me the creepy-crawly cringes. “I’ll do what I must, if I have to do it. I’ll not forget the good point you made… about… our ‘top priority’.”

            “Ah… right. Well that’s… good.” I sighed. “I just… that thing I was going to tell—“

             I was interrupted by Lucien nudging me with his hip.

             “What??” I snarled at the Speaker, and I was cheeky enough to glare up at him too. “I wasn’t going to actually say it yet.”

            “Say what?” Farwil asked.

            “Never you mind now. Just… just try to stay alive, please… please. I will… I will tell you after uh…  our ‘performance’.”

            I couldn’t see his face, but I sensed confusion and annoyance rising in him again. But he nodded and replied, “Alright.”

             “Let us be on our way ,” Lucien said, this time using an insistent tone of voice to nudge me, and gestured for me to hook my left arm around his right. With noble grace, I accepted his arm and kept deep beneath the surface an immense thrill over its feel.

            “Atterius, ” Farwil seethed.

            “For the sake of appearances, sir,” Lucien whispered to him. “Please... do permit me.” Even then he preserved diplomatic humility, conscious of the Cheydinhal Sanctuary’s dependence on the Dark Brotherhood’s good relationship with House Indarys.

            “Agh-h-h-fine,” Farwil replied. I sensed there was more he wanted to add to that, perhaps something similar to what he had said before back in Taneth:  “Just don’t forget what I told you back in Cheydinhal!”  But he probably remembered that I was short on patience with his threatening words towards LaChance and swallowed them.

                                                               ~*~

             Where the road began to curve towards Sentinel’s northwest entrance, we joined the steady stream of guests and entertainers making their way up the wide sandstone walkway that was built into the side of the plateau. Most arrived on rickshaws, elephants, camels, and horses, but our unit remained on foot— one of the things that Atterius was known for was his humbleness.

            We were cheered on by crowds of people lining the path to the gates of Surraiah’s property. Bursts of marigold petals, several dozen at a time, flew out from people's hands and cascaded from the treetops and the ledge of the cliff wall. I almost wished I had taken my sandals off, thinking about what a wonderful textural experience it would’ve been to feel the supple flower petals crunch beneath my feet. I was distracted from the temptation by the massive drums and horn instruments blaring from the center of Surraiah's party, which could be heard from a mile in every which way; it lifted my spirits up to a height untouched by the fears that had me minutes ago, or any regard to the true identity and reality that I had left at the doors of the smith shop. I felt as though I was truly becoming the person that I was pretending to be, to the point of not giving any second thought to tightening my grip on LaChance’s l arm and giving the parent shoulder a few affectionate pats to express to him my excitement over a welcome fit for royalty.

            “Enjoying yourself, Lady Nelvani?” Lucien asked, drawing up a small grin as he mildly gave return pats to the forearm hooked around his right.

            “Damn right I am!” I cried out, bouncing a bit like a school-aged child as I waved back at the crowd. “Come on, Atterius! Let yourself be raptured up into the moment! We might never know a night like this again!”

            “Actually…  we might .”

            My head snapped from the crowd and to Lucien’s masked face. “Oh? What—?”

            “Hush, now,” Lucien barked through his teeth as he faked a smile, giving a quick nod to the upper end of the walkway. “We’re almost there. Get your head out of the clouds and focus on the task at hand.”

            “My mind can occupy multiple places at the same time,” I argued. “Stop worrying.”

            Lucien’s head whipped around and I could feel the heat of his intense scowl permeating through the mask. 

            I corrected myself. “I mean…  yes, sir .”

             We all kept an outward calm as we reached the top and followed the line of guests, but I’m sure I wasn’t the only one with a head full of hornets, watching the guards without blinking or breathing as the distance between us and them shortened, two people at a time. Whenever I felt the surface give slightly to the pressure, I smiled and acted as though the shakes were caused by sheer admirition of Surraiah’s home; the grandeur and mesmerizing details in the moulds, ceilings, and floors that spoke of a wealth that had been accumulated and preserved throughout generations.

             “What’s with all the extra security??” asked someone ahead of us.

            “A necessary precaution; that’s all we’re at liberty to say,” answered one of the guards, holding a clipboard up to the couple’s faces. “Negative. Move along, and enjoy your stay.”

            “Thank you!”

             To ease my mind, I turned my attention to the beautiful multicolored metal embellishments along the wall made of sun-bleached sandstone. But just as I was beginning to relax, Farwil gave my arm several frantic jabs with his elbow. 

            “What, Sreth??” I snapped at him, at a volume just under that of the surrounding clamour. 

            “Remnants…  all of them,” he hissed.

            “Remnants? You mean…  daedra ?” I whispered.

            “Yes.”

            “Are you sure?? How can you tell??”

            “It’s something they all wear to generate an illusion. I’ll explain later… when or if I can.”

            I nodded, then turned to Lucien. “Did you hear what Sreth said?” I asked him.

            “Of course I did," Lucien answered, phenomenally calm. "I hope he’s mistaken… but… he's likely to be right.” 

            "Do you think that means…  you-know-who  is also here?"

            "It might. But that doesn't change anything. Do not, under any circumstances, deviate from the plan unless I instruct you to. Understood?"

            "Yes, sir."

(CONTINUED)

[certifiedskywalker]

Old Ghosts (Part Two) - Jon Snow

“You love her,” you choke out, “and that will be your downfall.” Pulling your hand away from his shoulder, you make your way out of the Godswood. Jon’s Ghost and what was left of his spirit following after you

READ PART ONE

After Jon left to fight the Dragon’s Queen War, you were sure that he was lost. Your jealousy remained as your dreams were haunted by images of Jon and Daenerys together. However, when a letter from Ser Davos calls a meeting of all the Great Houses of Westeros to the crumbling ruins of King’s Landing, you don’t know what to feel about Jon Snow. 

Ash still fell from the sky like snow, only it had been kicked up from the ground in flurries of lost souls. The Unsullied were much too angry to properly clear the streets of King’s Landing, even with a host of leading house representatives visiting the ruins. The sight had appalled you: charred bodies, splatterings of blood on burn wounds, and homes reduced to mere piles of stone, without the family that once lived within their walls.

What Ser Davos had shared in his letter, the one that called you and the remaining members of House Stark to the destroyed city, had not done it justice. The Red Keep was in shambles and it was difficult for you to imagine what it had looked like, how King Maegor Targaryen had built the mounting castle. The Onion Knight had also failed to mention the smell. Now seared into your memory was the scent of charred flesh and the iron tang of blood.

Your nose had wrinkled up in disgust then, as you pulled your eyes away from the sight. 

“You’ll get used to it,” Arya said, dark eyes all the more haunting. Like Jon, something in the young Stark had changed in her absence. Sansa had been privy to what that change had entailed but chose not to share it with you. Part of you was thankful for that, as Bran’s altered behavior and identity was enough to handle.

“The gathering will be in the Dragon Pit, with all of the other leading houses,” Sansa explained. “Y/N, would you be alright with waiting-”

“Of course, Sansa,” you interrupted, a plan already well brewed as ale in your head. You gave the Lady of House Stark a smile and danced your gaze around the carriage. Both Arya and Bran had their brown eyes stuck on you as they studied your face like an old tome. “What?”

“You’re going to look for Jon,” Arya said, as coolly as the snow that, despite the old dragon fire, had gathered in some of the homes-turned-charcoal.

“That is bold of you to assume, I-”

“You are,” Bran chimed in, “he’s in a room, tied. A storage house between the Keep and the Dragon Pit.” Yes, you thought, Bran’s change was much more difficult to comprehend.

“Y/N, you mustn't disrupt the loose peace the Unsullied have come to,” Sansa added in a panic, “even with the Northmen left surrounding the city, they outnumber us.”

“I just wish to….” you weren’t entirely sure on what you wanted. Not really, at least. You felt like you might scream, cry, or maybe even laugh. You had been right after all, to not place so much trust in the woman that called herself The Dragon Queen. While you had hoped to be wrong, so dreadfully wrong and see Daenerys put in place a system better for all who called Westeros home, you had been right. Too right, and now others were suffering, Jon included.

“Y/N?” Sansa leaned over and rested a gentle hand on your knee. There was understanding in her Tully-blue eyes, underneath the worry. 

“I just want to see him,” you admitted quietly, your voice so small that it could fit between the fallen brick and out of sight forever. 

“Be careful then,” Sansa said as she leaned back in the seat, “the meeting should carry on long enough; until a new ruler is found. Be careful, that is all I ask.” 

“Of course, my lady,” you replied, the slightest hint of teasing graced your voice. Not enough of a jab to laugh, but enough so that a small smile pulled at the Stark’s children’s lips. It looked as if even Bran smiled.

Their smiles gave you a renewed sense of courage as the carriage came to a sudden stop. Sansa released a heavy breath and stepped out as soon as the carriage door opened. Arya followed and a few Northmen helped Bran down into his wheelchair. Then you descended the steps and the smell hit you again with a fury. 

Ash and smoke filled your nostrils, choked out any other smell. You spared a glance at Sansa who wore the same look of fear and revulsion as you did. Her face screwed up, nose upturned as if it alone were trying to flee from the scent of death. Arya, on the other hand, seemed at home, if home was haunted. 

“May the Gods be with you,” you said, although you knew Sansa had lost faith long ago when it concerned figures she could not see. Yet, she smiled and dipped her head at you kindly.

“And with you as well,” she replied before she was lead off to the Dragon Pit, with her younger siblings behind her. You watched them go, sail off into an unknown future in search of stability. Silently, you wished that they would bring some back with them.

Before the scattered Northmen and Unsullied could lead you off, you darted down a somewhat worn path. The dirt and ash mixture almost crunched beneath your feet. You pushed the thought of ‘who’ you might be stepping on rather than ‘what’ and darted along the way. Light and Sun did not shine as you walked, swallowed by the grey clouds of doom that lingered in the dragon’s wake. Recovery seemed as far off as the stars. 

The path narrowed as a building came into view. Stones, seemingly untouched by flame, stood tall with a false sense of ruined pride. It was fitting that a prison of sorts, with chains and shackles, remained standing amidst the wreckage. An echo of the order that once was, before Dragons flew and Lannister Queens waged war. Two Unsullied, more call backs to that time, guarded the entrance with unmoving faces. 

“I wish to see the prisoner Jon Snow.” Your voice shook when you spoke, unsure as to whether all of the Dragon Queen’s forces spoke the common tongue. The two men eyed you before the one on the left answered.

“He sees no one. After the gathering of nobles, say farewell then.” Your breath caught in your throat at the thought of ‘farewells’. Not a single ‘hello’ had been exchanged prior. You were not ready for Jon Snow to leave you so permanently, not yet. 

“Then I shall wait here until then,” you said shakily. Equally shakey feet stumbled and tripped over each other as you searched for a place to wait. The Unsullied that had remained quiet during the affair stepped forwards, as if he wished to put a halt to your persistence; but the other extended an arm and stopped him. Silence fell over the clearing before the makeshift prison, leaving the only sound the thoughts in your mind as they bounced off of your skull. All thoughts of Jon, alone, a mere few paces and steps away.

After the White Walkers fell and the North was left bloodied, you had hoped Jon would stay. That, perhaps, he would grant himself a form of leave and let Danerys’ war wait a moment longer. You had hoped, but it was all for not. No matter the words exchanged between Jon and Arya; the politics discussed with Sansa; and your own argument in the Godswood, Jon was sure in the fight. The sleepless nights you had left him to blame and perhaps that was why you were so, suddenly tired. 

You eyelids felt like wagons full of dragons glass, heavy as you  rested against the old tree-carved bench you had found. The Unsullied were still as stoic as ever as you drifted in and out of sleep. Neither one seemed to care as you leaned down and settled soundly against the surface of the bench to sleep. 

As soon as your eyes closed you were plunged into a dark dreamscape, one all too familiar to what remained of the King’s Landing around you. Screeching set your whole being on edge as you made your way down the nightmarish road towards a pile of rubble. A crooked wing stuck out of the rocks along with hands still clenched around sword hilts and ashen faces with dead eyes. One face, Jon’s face, stuck out with his limp body strewn on the bricks. With speed only a dreamy duplicate of yourself could possess, you rushed over. Blood, all the blood and fire; house words lessons taught by Maester Luwin rang in your ears like a ghost.

“Y/N?” The voice felt too real, recognizable, but to foreign all at once. As if it were a true ghost calling out your name. “Y/N? Are you alright?”

You caught yourself before you rolled off the bench with your still sleep ridden eyes flying open like a bird’s wings. A gently touch to your shoulder grounded you in the waking world. Alert, you sat up and studied the man before you with a small smile.

“Tyrion? Is that you?”

“I fear it is,” he replied, green eyes fell downcast, “time and war has not been kind to me.”

“Nor anyone else,” you assured before standing. “I was led to believe that you too were imprisoned.”

“My, it has been too long since our last meeting in the walls of Winterfell,” Tyrion joked lightly, but a frown still plastered on his lips. “My talent for talking is what most remember about me.”

“It’s hard to forget you,” you jabbed back, just as lackluster as his own words. The man nodded before he glanced over his shoulder at the prison.

“He’s in there,” Tyrion said finally, not needing to elaborate on the subject.

“I know.” Tyrion’s frown deepened when you met his gaze. “How is he?”

“Not good,” he admitted, “but alive. Do you wish to see him?”

“Only to say goodbye again,” a pause, “no. I do not wish for that.” Tyrion’s dark brows furrowed before he shook his head.

“He is not to be executed, Y/N. The King has exiled him to the Wall for his crime.” Your eyes widened in pure shock.

“The King?” Tyrion gave you a crooked smile, a weary one that was unlike any you had ever seen. “Who rules Westeros?”

“That is a matter for him to explain,” Tyrion said as he fumbled to sway the conversation. “You should see him, Jon, that is. He….he’s lost everything, so he thinks.” You felt a sting of fresh tears behind your eyes. Of course he felt that way. Jon’s words to you in the Godswood echoed in your mind. He was not a Stark, not you, without true family and now he had killed the Queen he had sworn to protect. 

“He has done this to himself. He is the one that-”

“We all did this,” Tyrion corrected, his voice tactfully cold. “We all played a part like a pawn in this game, whether we knew it or not. Even you, Jon, myself. All the more reason we stick together now and make amends for this new world.” “It seems guilt has made you wise,” you observed as you knew Tyrion spoke the truth. There was no point in attempting to argue it further. 

“I feel that all the wise men I met before felt guilt ...but now they’re all dead.” You reached and gave Tyrion’s shoulder a squeeze of reassurance.

“You have a long life yet to live.” Tyrion smiled wryly and shook his head.

“Your faith remains unshaken I see. Let me get you past the guards.” Tyrion walked back over to the two Unsullied in front of the door. After exchanging a few words in Valyrian and a dirty look from the guard, you were allowed inside. “Fare well, Y/N.”

You gave Tyrion a nod before you mounted the steps. The stone stairs case lead up to a cramped looking cabin space. Windows had long since been reinforced with iron bars, giving the somewhat comfortable space a darker feel. When you took your first step inside, you caught sight of him. His dark hair was long; the ends of his hair met and mingled with his beard that only served to age him. Yet, he was still Jon.

All of your anger subsided; the stab wound left by betrayal healed and scabbed over; your bleeding heart found rhythm again, all when he lifted his eyes to yours. 

“Y/N….” You watched as Jon stood up, the binding on his ankle shifted with the movement, reminding you of how far you had both come. He looked skinnier, bones in his face more pronounced as if he hadn’t eaten. Jon looked boyish, untamed, just as he had when you were children. 

“You’re going to the Wall again,” you said softly, still holding fast to Jon’s gaze. 

“Aye, I am. Y/N, I am so sorry. I thought that she would-”

“I don’t want to talk about her, Jon,” you croaked and tears spilled over your cheeks. 

“What do you want?” That question again. It rattled in your mind until all your saw were brown eyes that looked back at you with wonder. Until there was the familiar ring of youthful laughter in the Great Hall at Winterfell. Until you heard the echoes of Jon and Robb sparing in the courtyard and a baby Arya crying out to join them. 

“I want what we had,” you whispered through the tears, “but that’s in the past where only Bran can go.” Jon’s face fell and you bit your lip. “I want you to be you again and for everything to fade to black while we live. That’s all I’ve ever wanted, Jon.”

Jon tried to step towards you but nearly tripped on the binding. He let out a muffled curse and a huff before he turned to look back at you. His eyes were pleading and you could feel the walls around your heart breaking, crumbling like those outside. 

“C’mere, please, Y/N.” You met Jon half way, until you felt the warmth of his body as it mingled with yours. He extended his arms, his fingers brushed your hands as he entangled them. 

“I've ...everything we’ve done has taken us further from what I’ve wanted. I know how selfish that sounds and I-”

“Come with me,” he murmured, dark eyes lifted to meet yours. 

“I-I can’t I….”

“Bran will allow it,” Jon replied and your brows knitted together. “Now that he is King, things will change. He knows they will.”

“Bran is King?” Jon gave you a half smile, the kind that threw you back into Winterfell on summer days out in the sun and bellies full of sweet treats snuck out of Septa Mordane’s sight.

“Aye, that’s how I’m alive.” Pieces fell into place for you as Jon lifted a hand to your cheek. “I plan on ranging out, with the Wildings. Make a life there. I know it’s not what you want, not all true to plan, but it’s away from here. The bad memories…”

“Yes,” you replied without a moment's hesitation. The word slipped from your lips before you could even register their weight. In the moment, you didn’t care. Jon was there before you and ready and wanting you as you do him. 

“Yes,” Jon repeated and you nodded. Your fingers untangled from his and danced up his chest until they traced over his cheek. He leaned into the touch before he pressed his forehead to yours. “Yes, Y/N.”