#eons over eons like these men have to crack at some point

[sefynarose]

thinking of the boys and honestly?? just imagine since they traversed time and space for mc they have to be a little unhinged right? imagine the lifetimes that passed them by where they may have missed mc, weren’t able to find her or get to her in time before she dies in that timeline. the constant agony of searching forever for someone who is fleeting just like the sands of time. growing older and decaying only to be reborn again in a constant cycle. and never in the same place or at the same time. constantly having to travel the world to try and find her again. and the few lucky times mc is near enough for them to establish themselves in her life before they lose her again. but the time they get to spend with her is never enough and is so fleeting before they’re back to wandering the world looking for her soul again

[dykeishheart]

Saints In The Desert

“We are the saints.”

Damian surveyed the men before him. They stood, twelve of them arrayed like geese flocking south, holding in their arms a long hafted axe and a severed head. Each mouth was held shut, stitched at the lip with a shoddily worked leather strips. The axes looked well used, the men evidently more so—the severed heads were their own.

They spoke nonetheless, the stitches not seeming to be disturbed. It was as if the voice was cerebral. Spoken directly into Damian’s mind, not carried from lips on the wind.

“We are the saints, and we have come to Witness,” spoke the man at the fore. Layers of sound echoed in his voice, resonating in the back of Damian’s mind. He got the impression that this voice was not an individual, but a collective.

Damian kept his sword pointed toward the group, holding the hilt low to his waist defensively. He’d had enough of ceremony by this point.

“I’ve heard enough of saints. Damn them all, don’t talk to me about saints. I’ve held that honor, I could be fucked about yours. Tell me what you want or leave me in peace.”

The Specter cackled behind him from his silver chair. “Fool. Spitting on my holiness. I should’ve had you on the rack.”

The lead man of the twelve stepped forward, passing directly into Damian’s blade. He stopped short and lifted his severed head to meet Damian’s eye. The dim, unblinking eyes glistened weakly, their darkened sclera suddenly seeming moistened as if by some perverse vitality that had returned to them. Damian, transfixed in the gaze of this grisly visage, lowered his sword and dropped it at his feet. Something in him collapsed. The immense weight on his brow was far away, but he knew it was not gone.

“We have come to witness a new saint. In witnessing, we welcome to our fold another soul, should it choose.” The voice swam in Damian’s head. He began to recognize.

No.

No.

Not him.

Not them.

“Damian,” the stitched lip quivered and cracked open anew as it spoke in a familiar voice, “Damian, we’ve found you again. You always called us lucky, we knew we’d make it back. Well, ‘spose we did it. War’s over. Why’re you still wagin’ it?”

Damian felt the weight slam back down on his brow. Something in him was dimly aware that he was crumpling to the ground, but there was nothing for it. He fell to his knees. The weight of the sea fell around him, crashing the small ship of his mind down to the abyss. The desert sand beneath his feet welcomed back the waves as they had in eons past. Tears streamed Damian’s face and washed down his armor onto the sands below. They drank every drop.

The Specter was silent.

The tides rose, and Damian’s mind was flooded. He fell forward at the feet of his men and went slack. His body lay limp on the cool evening sand.

[demonologistfucker]

Free Angel GN! Angel MC x Obey Me, Part 1

Summary: You are the third Angel to be welcome in Diavolo’s exchange program. This is the first time in your life that you are free from any Angelic codes, and you’re interested to indulge. You can’t explore hell alone though, so you’ll be given the Avatar of Wrath as a guardian.

This is my writing out the AU i had for my own mc, but as an MC insert. This first chapter is SFW, but if I continue, there will be NSFW smutty chapters. This Angel wants to have some fun in hell, and is Poly so ✨

Word Count: 3459

“Are you excited?” Simeon looked down to Luke. Who was fussing over his own clothes. Making sure everything was neat and presentable. 

“Of course not,” Luke huffed. “This is going to be the worst year.”

“I don’t know about that,” MC grinned as they rocked back onto their heels. “We’re going to learn quite a lot.” So much about the Devildom had been kept away from the angels. MC was created by God after the revolution. All they had ever been told was what to fear about the devils and their land. However, MC knew there were gaps in the story. Noticed the longing that flared in Simeon’s eyes whenever The Morningstar and his family were brought up. Which is why, as the magic circle began to glow, MC felt a great excitement. Luke watched the magic circle glow with wide eyes. While Simeon continued on as if nothing was changing.

“Try to keep an open mind, Luke. The Devildom is not all bad.” Simeon patted Luke’s head. “You might even make some friends.”  just as the magic circle completed. Reality spluttered for a second, and then everything was dark. 

“Absolutely not!” Luke’s shrill voice was all that MC could sense. Then they tasted the air, cool and tinged with sulfur. “Make friends with Demons? I could never!” Luke prattled on while his eyes adjusted. After several blinks, MC could see the palace they stood in. The grandeur was almost repulsive. Gold trim and deep red walls. It was the beauty of wealth and statues. 

“I hope you’ll be able to make friends during your stay.” A deep voice said from behind. MC spun around, and then had to crane their head upward to see who was there. His broad smile was so warm that it clashed with the royal regalia the man was dressed in. The red jacket  with a medallion on the shoulder. MC scrunched their nose, wondering why Hell would choose to continue earths obsession with war decoration. “Thank you for joining us.” The Man continued, and he bowed his head to the Angels. “I am Lord Diavolo, Prince of the Devildom. As well as the head of the exchange program.”

“Thank you for having us,” Simeon smiles as he walks over to the prince. Without hesitation, the two embrace in a familiar hug. 

“I’m just so happy the program worked.” Diavolo rubs the back of his neck. “The humans will be coming this evening. So I’ll be able to help you all settle in and still make it for the humans.” Simeon and Diavolo continued to talk about details. Mainly the excitement over the humans. While Luke looked on with a fury. 

“I can’t believe Simeon is being so familiar with the Demon Lord.” Luke crossed his arms. “We cannot befriend the enemy.”

“Yah.. Enemy.” Mc can feel something tighten in their stomach. Instead of processing that, the angel turns to look about the palace a little more. Now that they knew what the Prince looked like. Some portraits on the walls made more sense. The one that caught the angel’s eye was of a young Diavolo. He stood alone in a field of red. A skull of a dragon under his foot, and a toy left in the distant background. It had been commissioned to show the great power Diavolo had ever as a child. Unintentionally, it spoke some truth. A small child alone in a field. Left with death at his feet. 

“I won’t be able to be around much in your day to day, I’m afraid.” Diavolo was now standing to face the whole group. So MC turned their attention back to the conversation. “But I do want to do my best to keep your stay in my realm as comfortable as possible. If there is anything we can do, please let us know.”

“Is there a way we can go back?” Luke asks with great seriousness.

“Luke!” Simeon gasps. 

“That is what would make me most comfortable,” Luke huffs and crosses his arms. 

“Luke, you can’t just-.” Simeon rubs the space between his brow.

“It’s fine,” Diavolo shrugs it off. “We all process homesickness in our own way. The spell to move between heaven and hell is a powerful one. So we truly won't be able to do this till next year, but if there is anything else we can do. Do ask and I will try to accommodate. Lucifer should be here soon, and he will bring you to your dormitories. As well as go down the basic rules of staying here.”

“Rules?” Mc asks, finally speaking up. 

“Not much but briefly - Michael requested that you three still follow your codes, but there is no way for them to actually check.” Diavolo puts a hand on his chest. “One of our realms defining features is that your god’s awareness cannot reach here. So the rules you must follow are the rules of the devildom and whatever you personally value. Our rules you’ll find are much more lax.” Luke gasps in horror, but excitement only brewed within MC.

Two men in uniform walk into the Palace hall. One walks directly to Lord Diavolo’s side. Dark hair falling into a shock of green that followed framed half his face. They were stiff and despite the collected look. MC could see the anxiety running through their spine. The other kept a distance from the Angels. A cool dark look, judging each of them openly. 

“My Lord we must be going.”

“I don’t have any more time?” Diavolo’s face falls. 

“No, your next meeting has already begun.” They kept their voice rather calm, but their eyebrow twitched. 

“Alright,” Diavolo sighs, but turns back to the angels quickly. “I truly hope you enjoy your stay in the Devildom. It’s an honor to have you here.” With that, Diavolo is ushered away. 

“Now who could that brooding gentleman be,” Simeon was once again walking up to the strange demon. Though the man looked as disagreeable as before. He did let Simeon hug him. Only adjusting his jacket the moment he was free. 

“You know who I am,” 

“I am asking for the children,” Simeon looks back to Luke and MC. While Luke gets all huffy about their age. MC is truly an adult by the fact that they can just roll their eyes and get over it. 

“My name is Lucifer,” He bow slightly to the three angels. “Avatar of Pride, and right hand to Lord Diavolo. When you need his help, come to me.” Lucifer sharpens his gaze on MC. “Diavolo is very busy, and I would prefer you to bother me than him.” Then his glare moved to Luke. Who paled and shuffled towards Simeon. “Now, if you will follow me. I’ll lead you to your housing for the year.” Lucifer walked briskly out of the Palace. “ Compared to the celestial realm, the Devildom functions much more like earth. The city is based on a money exchange. We will provide a small allowance once a month, but if you want to indulge, you’ll have to get a job.” Lucifer says all of this while walking briskly out of the Palace. Luke grumbles about nearly having to run, and MC has to fight back a laugh. “If you stay within the Devildom your life will be remarkably like that on earth. With a key distinction that there will be demons who lust for your blood every so often, and there is no sun.” Lucifer swung open the front door of the palace. Exposing the dark courtyard beyond, and the block void of the sky. Illuminated on the horizon was The Devildom. The glowing sector of Hell where Demons and spirits lived their personal lives. It glowed beautifully, and illuminated the Palace like a setting sun. 

Normally, this effect was made greater by the fact that the courtyards had no lights. If one was to see, it was their own gift, or from the light of the city. The angels broke this by having their own innate glow. Casting warm shadows against the cool nature of hell. Lucifer glanced at the glow with mild annoyance. Normally, the walk from the palace to the road was his moment of peace. Now each step he was reminded about the great task this year would be.

“To help with the exchange, we have enrolled you three in the local university. There you can learn about how the systems of hell truly function, as well as our magical training programs. We have some of the most skilled magic users training with us.” Part of Diavolo’s plan was to show what Hell was truly worth. The eons didn’t pass without change, and under Diavolo that change was being brought to its most refined point. Lucifer himself had led many of the projects to start translating Hell’s data into deeper means of understanding… Books with narrative instead of strings of numbers or archaic runes. 

“So you won’t be making us torture humans?” Luke snaps. 

“Only if you want to.” Lucifer doesn’t even look back to Luke. He knew enough about the little angel to know it would start on a rant if provoked. He was already battling a headache and couldn’t stand the thought of being lectured by a child. 

“I could never!” Luke brings his hand to his chest.

“Then you won’t.” 

“What will we be learning then?” MC asks. 

“Standard education for someone new to our system. History of the Devildom, Grimm economics, Devildom literature, Alchemy and potions 101, art, athletics,” Lucifer twirls a hand around. “The basics,”

“Oh that sounds… Fun” MC grimaces.

“Did you come here to have fun?” Lucifer glances back at the angel. 

“So what if I did?” MC tries to be defensive, but can’t help cracking into a smile. It was rather funny seeing the confused look on Lucifer’s face. 

“MC! We are not here to have fun, we have to learn and do as much research for our arch-”

“I know Luke,” MC groans. “We’re allowed to have Some fun.”

“Indeed,” Lucifer nods. “None of the classes should take all your time, so you’ll be able to have your own time. If you want to explore the Devildom please go in pairs. While you have Diavolo’s blessing, not all demons listen to authority. There is no promising what a rogue demon would do to a lone angel.” 

MC scrunches up their face, which makes Simeon laugh. Meanwhile, Luke is actually trembling. 

“Oh Luke, you look like a scared puppy.” Simeon tries to keep his voice sympathetic, but the hint of laughter is clear. 

“A little chihuahua,” Lucifer smiles. 

“I am not a chihuahua!” Luke shrieks! 

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

Purgatory Hall was a lot more comfortable than MC had expected. The interior was surprisingly bright and cozy. Though still favoring the overly ornate and plush. MC was wandering aimlessly through the halls. Luke was still hurt from the chihuahua incident by the time they were done getting situated. So Simeon had taken Luke out to get something sweet to make up for it. While at the time, MC had said they wanted to stay here and explore the house. They were now realizing that was a foolish choice. After looking in the rooms once,  MC was more than satisfied with exploring the house. So now they were draped across the couch. Flipping idly through their D.D.D. When MC opens the messages to pulls up Lucifer.

“You said I shouldn’t go out by myself. Simeon and Luke are often a pair without me. I could just risk it?” Dots appear quickly.

“No, let me find you a guide.” 

Lucifer leaned back. Thinking about which of his brothers, he wants to make baby sit an angel. No one who might find it enjoyable like Asmo or Beel. He already planned on having Mammon for the human...

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

“Satan, would you be a guide for one of the Angel exchange students?”

“Are you actually asking me?” Satan looks over the top of his reading glasses.” Or are you just telling me in a passive manner.”

“It’s not passive,” Lucifer crosses his arms.” Answer my question.”

“No,” Satan leaned back into his chair. Lifting his book up to block Lucifer from view. 

“You are just saying that because I am asking you.”

“Yes,” Satan smiles. 

“Which is why I am going to make you do it.” Lucifer smiles back. “I think it will be an informative experience for you.” 

“Informative?” Satan can feel the fires in his stomach boiling over, but his keeps his composure calm. It was centuries of practice. “As if I don’t hear enough about the celestial realm from you?”

“You hear our side of it, and now you can learn another.” Lucifer looks so sure of his convictions that it made Satan want to lift his chair and throw it through a wall. Instead, he took a deep breath for seven seconds and let it out in ten. 

“How do you intend on making me do this?” Satan propped his elbow on the armchair, and then his head in his hand. 

“I will tell Diavolo you refused to use your strength and knowledge to help his exchange program. If the angels are to learn the best qualities of Hell. Who is better informed than you? No harm would come to that angel with you near.” Lucifer has pride in many things. Not just himself, and that was one of his worst qualities. The way he looked at Satan with such knowing. Then how it could vanish into cold apathy. “It’s lazy work, really. You could have an audiobook in your ear if you truly needed it.”

Satan looked from Lucifer and down to the floor. Then he switched which way he was leaning in the chair. Fidgeting as he thought. Trying to find a way to accept that he will have to do this. Without having to agree with Lucifer. 

“Fine, I don’t want to be lectured by Diavolo as well as you.” Satan begins to read his book again. “When do I start?”

“Now, they want to explore.” Lucifer’s face was full of mirth. If Satan showed that he was irritated, that would only play into what He wanted. So Satan sighed as he picked up the bookmark and wedges it in. 

“The angels will be living in Purgatory hall, correct?” At least Satan could show he’d be competent in the task. 

“Indeed.  MC is an Angel a little younger than you and will not know what to expect in the Devildom.”

“That we’re not all monsters or that monster’s still exist?” Satan slowly took of his glasses. Cleaning the lenses before tucking them away. 

“Bit of both. Which you’re a perfect example of. ” Lucifer ignore the scowl that rips across Satan’s face. Instead, tapping his watch. “They asked me for a guide an hour ago, so I would appreciate it if we could hurry up.” Satan stands up and again takes a deep breath. Then many more. A deep breath each step of the way to purgatory hall. Asmo was hanging out in the hallway, but the moment they saw Satan. Asmo found an excuse to leave. 

It was right up to the moment that Satan knocked on the door. That’s when he took one final breath and let the tension fall from his shoulders. Suddenly the portrait of composure with a grace in his eye. The door opened easily, and there stood MC. Satan was shocked to see that, despite being an angel. They had changed out of any holy robes and into something more comfortable. There wasn’t the annoying level of arrogance Satan had come to expect. Off to a good start, it would seem. 

“Hello, My name is Satan. Lucifer sent me to be your guide.” Satan bowed slightly and smiled brightly as he stood up. His green eyes were glowing with genuine warmth. 

“Oh, awesome,” MC rocked back on their heels. “I don’t really know where to go. I just want to see… stuff?” MC shrugs and smiles sheepishly. Satan felt something new in his chest. This Angel was genuinely curious about the Devildom. 

“I know lots of lovely spots. Do you want some history or a bit of culture?” Satan raises a brow. Looking at MC as if they were co conspirators on some great plan. MC’s heart pick up the pace. 

“Why not both?”

“Good choice,” Satan offers an elbow to the Angel. With flushed cheeks, the Angel accepts. “A friend of mine commissioned a new branch in the museum nearby. It’s full of artifacts that were destroyed by invades. Now in the Devildom we can restore the artifacts and get first-hand facts on the culture.”

“An accurate history or ones written by victors?”

“Accurate, of course,” Satan looks almost offended. “We are not on any side of humanities battles.”

“You like their military regalia.”

“I don’t. Those in charge think it’s pretty.” Satan rolls his eyes. “One part of hell is under strict authority, and another is nearly pure anarchy.”

“Anarchy with demons must get interesting.” MC tries not to giggle. “I have the image of Demons fighting to create and making utter chaos.”

“You’re close, just throw in some packs working together, and rogues wandering around the city trying to push their chaos were ever. The principles of anarchy aren’t too bad, actually. I’ve read the literature, but in practice with magic beings, too many hot heads can ruin it for the rest.” 

“There’s so many rules in Heaven,” MC sighs and rocks their head back. “Anarchy sounds terrifying, but also refreshing? If that makes sense.”

“It does,” Satan nods. “What sort of rules does heaven have?”

“Well, the rules of angels and people are different.” Satan nods instead of saying, Obviously. “For angels, we literally have a mandated outfit. Can’t wear anything but the one holy look. We cannot stray remotely close to any sins, and must keep peace at all times. Which isn’t difficult with 1000 of human souls all wanting their own ideal conflicting paradise.” MC tenses with the anger, and then lets it slide out. “Sorry about that-”

“Don’t apologize,” Satan squeezes the Angel’s arm a little. “You got more than the right to be annoyed with such treatment. Speak what you feel.” MC looks up at Satan with bright eyes. 

“If I have to sing in another chores for God, I will scream.”

“You should! Screaming is cathartic.” The talk the whole way to the museum and through it. Both have more than enough to say, and genuinely want to hear the other. Satan has carefully made opinions and seems to be educated in every topic under the sun. The Niches of thing MC thinks of Satan can keep up with. He also seems to have causes at least half of the wars which destroyed the artifacts now on display. “Alexander was rather easy to manipulate,” Satan hums. “Just had to bat my eyes at him and ask if that’s what he really wanted. He would be up for anything after that.” Satan can’t keep back his mischievous grin. 

“Did you… Seduce Alexander the Great?”

“And helped kill him.” Satan smiles proudly. “He was an asshole, but fun to play with it.” Now Satan looks off with a distance in his eyes. Clearly lost in the past, where he could saunter about Rome. Arm and Arm with a brutal conquer. 

“How often do you accompany brutal killers?” MC asks with a sharp look. 

“This is where our working on opposite sides could come to a point,” Satan chuckles. “I am the avatar of wrath. I accompany most of the greatest killers. Push them to indulge just a bit more. If not me, one of my many underlings is probably there.”

“Funny,” MC says with a rather serious face. “I haven’t been given a title yet, but I spent the last century working with the angels in the peace department.”

“Oh that is some hard work,” Satan looks over to the Angel. MC had been prepared for Satan to look annoyed, but instead he looked more impressed. “Humans are so easy to manipulate with their emotions. Peace is going against their instincts.” By now, Satan and MC had entered the museum. Other demons milled about. Quickly commenting on the pieces of history elegantly on display. The explanations that come with each piece are at best wordy paragraphs. At worst, there is an essay attached. MC is saved from any reading by having Satan in toe. He knows all the information backwards and forwards, and the fact he’s more curious about the Angel. Saves MC from having to sit through lecture after lecture. Satan pauses to breath, and to hear the Angel’s own thoughts.

----- Rest of the museum date will be finished if people show interest in it.

A/N: Thank you for reading! If you have any requests for what Angel MC get’s up to feel free to ask! If people actually like this I’ll writing more parts consistently. If not more will just come as I feel like it.

[dynyamight]

I've seen a lot of people do it, so if you are up for it~ Ship your moots!

FINALLY. THE AWAITED LIST OF MOOTS IS COMPLETE. sorry this took forever anon!!

now, this is going to be long & i will try not to overexplain my ship pairings. did i take time to think about each paring? yes. but, will they be serious? no. they are dumb & silly.

let the crack pairings begin <3!!

@dekusneakers x BAKUGOU & TODOROKI now you would think? sneakers in a throuple? how come? mmm simple. i couldn’t choose one for her so she gets both. the more the merrier. besides, she deserves love from both sides, kisses on both cheeks. one begrudgingly smooch & one icy kith. as a deku kin, she’s completely satisfied. you’re welcome

@izusun x AIZAWA & ORCA similarly, i can’t have my bestie here with just ONE babe. so, i thought why don’t we get a fatherly figure & a dad bod to give her all the love she needs. so yes, bestie, you two deserves hugs at both sides of you. a twiggy one & a muscly one. the sun needs some shade, & that shade is these men.

@midnightpirates x SUKUNA he’s a mass murderer !! you can’t— oh, but i can. you see, yanna here hates mahito & guess who was the one to fuck up his shit. ah, that’s right, it was sukuna. two mahito an/tis sitting in a tree <3 it’s the perfect match made in hell.

@goth-himbo-dabi x DOCTOR WHO once again, people might wonder: why not dabi? my answer? it’s because my bby here finds the twiggy men attractive. i know, bummer. & you can’t get any twiggy-er than david tennant & matt smith. but which doctor? all of them.

@minisheku x KAMINARI i see you simp for his dunce face. & honestly, who wouldn’t?? also, i originally put sheepku,, but that’s ,, a bit weird. but, here’s the solution. you OWN a sheepku, with kaminari. ah yes, a modern day family unit. & he can entertain you, as well as be a source of electricity for your drawing tablet !! resources !!

@oyavaski x EN you said he was hot literally in your tags earlier in a reblog. so, i am simply gifting you water to quench your thirst. may you two meet in afo, & fall in love in the subconscious of deku’s mind. will deku feel awks? yeah. but like pfft, he’s so whipped for bkg, he’ll forget you two chilling in the corner of his thoughts.

@okworstie x GOJO & WATARI i never have to look up the gojo tag, like ever. because you’re always plastering his face all over my timeline. & yes, this is a good thing. but, the same applies to watari. i have never even seen bakudiez, or whatever it’s called, but apparently he’s aro, & there’s a moth man, & tape hits post limit thursday’s? yeah just keep both, mimi.

@rrandomtthings x AN/TI as one of fellow loyal, amazing bkdks, i think it’s only fitting that you find true love with a bkdk an/ti. create the banti we seek in our community. the enemies to lovers trope is in your blood, written in your deku genes. so, i dedicate the banti movement with this small offering of a ship. may you find diamonds on the minecraft server & build a diamond cabin.

@believeyourgalaxy x ITADORI you two are such cinnamon rolls !!!! super friendly. super kind. super relatable. & together, you guys can pin over megumi. maybe hopefully, sam can help itadori with his low iq brain to finally get together with megumi. because damn, sam can be like “this is my boyfriend, itadori. & this is itadori’s boyfriend, megumi.”

@wrensknight x SHIRAKUMO i didn’t even know it was oboro birthday, until you not only made a public post about to, but made art for him. cloud boy needs that partner to respect & cherish him entirely. & you just treat him so right?? draw him so good?? i hope you can go cloud watching & then later, ride the clouds with him. till death do you guys uh,, you know,,

@b1m0 x MIDORIYA you can't stand when he gets injured, let alone reckless & trying to save the world, when he should literally be saving his own ass. but, that just means you care about him DEEPLY. plus, you both are wholesome people. obviously two cinnamon rolls make a whole bakery !! & who doesn't want a bakery ?? i sure do! wehjw idk why i brought the point here, but just know you two make sense.

@mysterionrising x RENGOKU & VIGILANTE DEKU it’s that enemies to lovers trope once again !! for someone who wrote him off as annoying the first seconds she met him, kenny sure flipped over to the stan side. ever since then, i can only see kenny when i see rengoku. but, you know who else reminds me of kenny. vigilante deku. it’s super fruity that you have an entire bomb playlist for him. so keep him too !!

@kamishima x KIRISHIMA you are the biggest kiri simp i have ever met. you basically ship kiri with anyone who makes him happy. though, you do have a lot of ships, but with kiri it’s different. & so, i was thinking ‘mmm, if bug ships kiri with so many people?? shouldn’t she ship him with HERSELF?’ boom. suddenly both kiri & bug are happy, with a lovely home. my work here is done.

@ckatsudon x LAW LIET did i dig through your blog. why yes. & you know what i found? reblogs & tags dedicated to L. he’s best boy. he’s precious. he deserves a better end. an end with you. mmhmm !! because if we rewrote death note, where you were light, i think L & light could have been canon. & that also would make you happy. & the rest of the entire world

@drfox-kinnie x UNIKITTY i don’t even know the show, let alone who unikitty is exactly. but, you reblogged a banner, confirming your love for unikitty. & so, i am of course doing you a big favor !! she’s bubbly, friendly, & passionate just like you !! & bestie, while i may not know nothing about her, i know you love her. so, maybe you two platonically have a wonderful time, adventuring with the other wholesome characters !! also,, is she big enough to travel on? if so, look i got you a cat car!!

@midorree x MINACHAKO i ship you with another ship. why? because i can. besides, you are like my moot who is genuinely a head leader of the minachako ship on my timeline, & you have steadily been converting me?? but, i also noticed that mina AND uraraka have stolen your heart, & you have yet to fight them for it back. i hope you three can go into a brawl & see who can grab each other’s hands fastest.

@kiribakuxkacchakolover x HATSUME YOU HAVE IT AS YOUR TITLE HEADER. like you are literally having a billboard that calls mei your cutie patootie. &, you ask, & you shall receive. i hope you two can be the dorkiest nerds together, & ramble for eons & eons. i hope i’m invited to the transformer wedding you two will have <,3

@balaroo x MIRUKO like before, you too have your interest out in the open in your title header. but, you see, miruko is a total babe, with confidence & ego & with this stride that makes even the most alpha male quiver. you would be a total wife to miruko’s girlboss energy & that’s why this ship totally works.

@quix-mix x FREDDY FAZBEAR my precious lil young moot, i dug into your blog & noticed you enjoy the fnaf games. & mmm are you perhaps wanting to cuddle a certain demonic teddy bear? well, i approve. he'll fall in love, head over heels, with your art, he might not possess you right away !! might. but, listen, you always do enjoy the villains (; i gotchu !!

@lonely-rabbit x LANCE you said we’re moots & i agree, we are. however, i have noooo idea what even are your preferences. so, i went digging. & it’s such a coincidence that we bonded over our voltron trauma, & yet you still continue to simp over lance. &, like i don’t blame you !!! he’ll always be dumb baby & so all i ask is that you love him, for our sake. & sanity.

[uhhhhyandere]

halloween special!

hi everyone!!!! 

for halloween this year, inspiration struck and i decided to craft this halloween special demon/angel light au! i had so so much fun writing this and hope yall enjoy it!!!

no matter where you are in the world, if you celebrate halloween or not, i hope you all are doing amazing and know that you are so so loved (by me) and thank you all for the love and support you give! i love every single one of y’all and let’s finish out the year the best we can!!!! 

word count: 7.2k 

And He will bring hell with him. 

The grass will gray, and the trees will blanket with ash as all life is left withered, limp, and colorless in his wake. He takes, and takes, and takes with the full red moon on his back and the stars glittering on his lips in golden lies. Should his, Kira's eyes, red with ire from his unattained vision, seek you out, you are bound to the pits of hell itself for eternity. 

"Well, that's what the tale says," Misa said. "If you believe in that kinda stuff." She flipped the book over to display the illustrations. You leaned over to get a closer look. "They really have to make evil people this beautiful, huh?" You looked at her incredulously. "What? You're thinking the same thing! I just said it…" Her eyes trailed down to the pages again. 

"He was a mortal once?" Misa nodded her head and adjusted herself on the sofa for you to scootch closer. Her red manicured nails slipped the page over to the next. 

"Who tried to be a god." You squinted down at the new page and pointed. 

"She kinda looks like you." She laughed. 

"Just wait," Misa replied. "Anyway, he was young, a few years below us, when he came across the power to make him a god. He was not chosen nor special. The power was left to be picked up by any traveler. It just so handed to be dropped outside of his family's farm, and he just so happened to be who he was. An ambitious genius with the same hunger for power the poor have for food. He used this power to rise above all others and to kill any who dared step in his way." Tragic art painted the pages as Misa continued to flip through them. 

"How?" Misa shook her head. 

"They don't know. We don't know. A creature crueler than Kira. A bored god looking to stir trouble. A blessing that was used as a curse. Perhaps all. Perhaps none." She giggled. "Exciting, isn't it?" You scoffed. 

"Yeah, yeah. Keep going." 

"But he had enemies. No mortal man should wield what Kira wielded. Those who wanted to strip him of his power and deliver justice to those he had ridden of, not grasp the power, the golden throne, he sought. They played games with one another. Cruel, cunning games of who would outsmart the other. He who was supposed to condemn his power and he who had it used the same means to win.

"Us. Regular people used and thrown away to further their game. There was one," she pointed at the girl who resembled herself, "who picked up the same power as he. It was her who tried to love him, that bent at his word, that carried out his will." Misa swallowed, "but he had lost his ability to love, or that's what was thought until..." Misa cut herself off. 

"Kira and his nemesis continued to use, to manipulate the very ground the other walked on. All until he finally stood at the foot of the throne of the world he thirsted for. Pristine and shining, it stood above the clouds themselves. This is where he was slain, where his blood stained the stone, the rug, the throne, infecting and cursing them. The throne cracked, contorted, twisted, and fell. Down, down it fell until he and the now blackened throne were in hell. 

"One day, when the full moon shines on the bleeding night, he will rise, and he will bring hell with him. He will claim what he has lost to reign over the world of men. The grass will gray, and the trees will blanket with ash as all life is left withered, limp, and—,"

"I know that much," you interrupted, "but I'm confused. Did you leave a part out? Where you cut yourself off, I mean." White teeth dragged across her lip. 

"After," she started to rapidly flip the pages, "after he was banished to hell, they found…" Her flipping stopped at the very last page, "this." 

On the page was a cage with gnarled black metal and a large gash across the bars. A human whose arms crosses on their chest in an 'X.' Their feet were bound together and tied with rope to the middle's central support pole. Blood trickled down their face, torso, and legs. Beautiful, broken, ripped wings crumpled at their back. "He had stolen an angel. Broken them. Claimed them. Upon their back, scars from where he had failed to rip them off their back." She hummed. "Kinda looks like you." 

You laughed nervously then scoffed, trying to get the haunted picture out of your brain. "Should his eyes, red with ire from his unattained vision, seek you out, you are bound to the pits of hell itself for eternity because you are who he has lost, and he will not fail again.

"But that's just how it goes!" Misa laughed good-naturedly and shut the book harshly. "Pretty scary, right?" You shook your head.

"Absolutely not. First, it's actually pretty disturbing. Secondly, it's so vague! No details on how he died, if the other guy killed him. You'd think after eons of repetition, they'd make stuff up." Misa shook her head. 

"Yeah, if you ask a bard, but do you really want to hear a romanticization of it in a song where they talk about how he loved whom he locked away and claimed? They do not sing about the reality, for it is far too gruesome for even documentation, much less for song. At least, that's what Rem told me. Being vague is the only option to make it tolerable, but I think she actually knows the truth and won't spill." You laughed and rose from the library's sofa. "So? It's my favorite story." 

"That's because that girl looks like you." 

"And?" You clicked your tongue. 

"I dunno. I did say it was disturbing, but you don't really believe in this kinda stuff, right?" You scratched the back of your head. 

"Of course, I do!" She giggled. "Ever since Rem took me in and taught me to read, it's been my favorite book." How could you forget what an oddball Misa was? You sighed. 

"Alright, believe what you want. Halloween is the day after tomorrow, after all. Be as spooky as you want." Misa rose and slipped the leather-bound book back into her bag. "Are you stealing that?" You harshly whispered. She shook her head. 

"Nope! It's Rem's." Oh, gee.

"I'd rather steal from the library—which has free books—a concept I just remembered for some reason than Rem. Do you have a death wish? Nevermind, don't answer that. Why did you make me come to the library again?" 

"Isn't this where people read?

"...You're right. I got nothing. Come on. I need to get back to the market. I promised my parents I would pick up the pumpkins Mello grew and carved. Apparently, people are putting lights in them to make the faces glow at night."  

Your village was reasonably large, set on the misty hillside of the mountain. Though the nearest city where the Earl of the region lived was a few miles down the path and knights on horses frequented here on their patrols, your village felt world's away from society. It was also relatively famous for the chapel, so travelers often stopped to visit, especially with the holiday season. 

It rested closest to where the cliff dropped into nothingness. Flowers surrounded it, and moss grew up its stone walls. Vivid glass windows decorated all sides and around the wooden doors. A tower ascended from the front to where a millennial old bell sat still for just as long, for it was only to ring when the world was set to end.

Within, pews lined the plush red rug. The rug ran straight to the golden altar, where a large statue stood behind. The stained glass filtered color light upon its flawless, stone complexion. Water poured from the few holes in the body down into the small pond around it. 

"Are we going to meet on Halloween?" Misa asked. "You know it's my favorite holiday! Everyone will be on the square dancing and dressed up!" You smiled. 

"Of course. You know my parents would not miss a party. We can meet on my porch since it's closer?" She nodded enthusiastically,

"Yes! That sounds perfect! See you then!" The blonde blew you a kiss and skipped in the direction of her house. You smiled before turning on your heel and approaching the square. 

Of course, the market would be busy with both locals and travelers. It was mid-day, and each stand had its unique, limited-time holiday goods. You had to squeeze your way to make it to Mello's stand. The blonde grimaced as you approached. Ah. He's in a good mood! 

"Afternoon, Mello." 

"Y/N," he regarded you. "You're really going to buy a pumpkin with a scary face? Would it really go with your garden?" You scoffed. 

"It's my parents, actually, and yes! I can be scary and festive! Not as good as you, Mello. I heard that you carved lots of pumpkins for the village." He hummed and motioned to those on the wooden stand. 

"Not for the village," he replied. "You still have to pay, got it?" You rose your hands. 

"Of course, of course." You began to browse the selection. "Will you be attending the festivities night of?" He scoffed. 

"No. Now pick your poison or leave." You smiled and reached for one with a broad crooked smile. "Terrible taste." You furrowed your brows. 

"...But you're the one who made it?" Mello's eyes widened for a second before narrowing once more. 

"It's one of my worse ones. I guess it'll go well with you, then." You laughed and rubbed the carved circle around the stem with your hand. 

"Yep! Sounds good, Mello." You reached into your pockets and dropped a few coins in front of him. "Keep the change. Happy Halloween!" Mello snatched the coins from the table and shooed you off. You morphed back into the crowd, maneuvering your way through the group back to your house.

An abrupt, intense headache wracked your skull, causing you to suddenly stop amid the crowd and wince, nearly dropping the pumpkin under your arm. With your free hand, you grasped your forehead, but the pain only escalated and pulsed down your body. Two particularly intense strands of pain erupted on your back.

Peeking up, the crowd blurred around you, but your eyes on a figure at the corner of the inn. He was too far to make out the intimate details besides his lithe frame and brown hair. For moments you locked eyes before he disappeared behind the inn. 

The pain stopped as if it was an illusion. You snapped back into reality, chest heaving in relief. A few eyes looked at you in concern, but no one stopped to ask. Thankfully so. You wouldn't know what to tell them if they asked what happened. 

Shaking your head, you safely made it to your small house hidden behind a large oak tree. 

"Oh! You got the pumpkin! How was Mello?" 

"Charming as ever, of course. I was just with Misa at the library before that. She told me the story about Kira and his fall to hell." Your mom nodded her head and took the pumpkin from your arm. 

"Ah, that's an old one. I guess she's always been the type to be into that stuff. It freaks me out, personally." You followed your mom to the kitchen. 

"Yeah, me too. I try to remind myself it's not real, but there's also the small tick in the back of my brain that tells me it may be, you know?" She nodded again. 

"Oh, I like this carving! Nice choice, Y/N, but yes, I do that too. Especially since Halloween, this year, is on the full blood moon. An ill omen in all tales. Luckily the town's party rids my mind of such horrors, as should yours. Anything else happen today?" You paused.

"N-no. Nothing comes to mind. I think I'm going to go find father then wash up before dinner. Is he still in the forest?" Your mom nodded. 

"Yep. He's been hunting that same deer for weeks now. Apparently, it has a rack of the like he has never seen before. Something of beauty. I think he doesn't even want to kill it as much as he wants to see it again." Your dad was somewhat of a conundrum. As much as he awed and loved nature, he was a hunter who made income on the sale of its pelts and horns. "I'm sure he hasn't found it yet. Maybe you can help."

Unlikely, but you liked to explore the misty pines surrounding your village. They were too safe and had a few secret spots where hollowed logs led to hidden clear ponds. Wishing your mom farewell, you entered the pines and inhaled their thick scent. 

Your dad's job was handy in that you knew the backwoods like the back of your hand. He taught you the ways to track and navigate through the seemingly identical trunks. 

He also unknowingly taught you to sense when something was off with the forest. After ten minutes of traversing, you finally had the feeling of dread. The mist was inches too low, the grass droplets too wet, and the temperature degrees too low. You held your breath and glanced at your surroundings. 

A silhouette. A deer's head with a rack so vertically high you thought your eyesight was failing you. Except, as you stepped closer, this deer had the body of a man standing upon his two legs. Large hollow eyes oozed mist. 

"..." something was whispered into the air. You continued to hold your breath. "...—/N." The deer-man gave no indication of moving, and you could not bring your feet to even wiggle the frost from your toes. "Y/N."

Your name. Crystal clear. Your breath hitched. His hand with long, natural claws extended forwards towards you. "Y/N," it repeated. "You mus—....—ere. No t—." You could not make out his words. 

"Y/N!" Another yell. This time you recognized it as your father. Eyes blown open, you wretched your eyes from the deer-man and sprinted towards the voice of your father. 

"I'm...sorry." 

…

"You're not telling us everything." Your father accused. After you ran head-first into your father, petrified and stumbling over every word, he urged you home and waited for you to take the bath you begged them to allow you to have before sitting you in the sitting room, the fire roaring under the holiday wreath behind you. 

'It just scared me. I've never seen a bear of its size." Why are you lying? You had no idea. As soon as your mom asked the first questions, lies flowed out of your mouth like the truth. Stories you naturally never could have conjured on the spot. Stories you would never because you did not lie, which is why your parents, despite their dubious expressions, did believe you. "I swear. I just got freaked out. I think it's because of the story Misa told me today."

"That girl," your dad muttered. 

"She told them the story of the man who fell to hell. Kira." Your dad nodded and rubbed his chin with his hand. 

"Ah, I see. That would do it. Y/N, I know the full blood moon is coming, but there's no need to fret. Stories are just stories, alright? Leave your candlelight on tonight should you be scared of the dark, alright? Me and your mom are in the room over, alright?" You nodded. "Good. Now, what's for dinner?"

…

You lit the candle that night. In your nightwear, you sat on the edge of the bed. Muffled moonlight streamed through the frosted window and reflected off the full-length mirror in the corner. You inhaled deeply through your nose and exhaled through your mouth.

"They're just stories. Just stories." Like a mantra, you repeated this under your breath as you ducked under the covers. Opening your eyes, though, you were met with a flash of shadow in the mirror. You jumped and stared at it with eyes open enough to feel the cold air. You waited for something in the still room to move, for it to flash again, but nothing did. Thankfully.

Still, you threw the blanket off of yourself and approached to assure yourself that yes, it was nothing, and yes, there was nothing: just your reflection and the room behind you.

Until you blinked. 

For a second, blood poured down your body and wetted down your clothes against your figure—wings broken and limp behind your back. 

You screamed and smashed the mirror with your fist on impulse. Along with the shards, your body fell to the ground, and actual bloodied hands kept you from collapsing entirely. However, the features in the fragments were not yours. The man, the one from the square, stared back, but at this closer view, you can see his eyes. 

Red. 

You threw yourself back against the wall and screamed. Your door busted open, and your parents barged in. Your mother ran to your side and took your hand in hers while your father took in the big picture around him. 

"I-I thought I saw something in the mirror. Misa told me once the m-mirror is the passage to the other world. I-I know it's stupid for me to react like this, but I just… I don't know. Do you think it's the blood moon?" Your parents were quiet. 

'It could be," your mother said. "The blood moon is supposed to come with magic. It enables beings to crossover from other worlds, from other planes. It is the ill omen, but crossing over is all they can do. They can't touch you or hurt you. That, I promise." You nodded. 

Your parents stayed with you, and, for the first time since you were literally a toddler, you slept in their room, blankets wrapped around you on their floor. Relief flooded your system when sunlight broke through the window. Though your sleep was haunted by vague images and muddled whispers, you slept through the night after the incident. 

"Are you sure you're okay?" Your dad asked. "You can skip your daily chores if you don't want to do them. Tomorrow too. Aren't I generous?" You laughed but shook your head no. 

"That's alright. I think if I stay home, I'll just keep thinking about it. I need to get my mind off of it. Doing chores will put my mind at ease. Some normalcy, I think." Your dad nodded, though you can tell your parents weren't eager to just forget the events of last night.

You knew someone, though, that would be eager to learn about them. 

"Misa, can you keep a secret?" She bit into an apple. 

"No," she replied simply. "I tell Rem everything, but that's it. I don't really talk to many other people here besides you and her, so no one else to tell, but I know Rem will mind her business. She talks to fewer people than I do." That was true. You could count the number of times you talked to Rem on a single hand, and Misa said she liked you. 

"Okay, don't freak out, but…" 

She freaked out.

"And they were red?" You nodded. 

"Glowing. A sinister smirk on his face. His hands in the reflection, touching my own through the glass. It was the same as the one I saw in the square right after we met." Misa's eyes widened in enthusiasm and jubilation.

"It's him! It has to be! Kira!" You shook your head. 

"No, my mom explained it to me. It's a spirit from the other plane playing a joke on me. She told me that after I stopped crying and fled to their room before I passed out. That story isn't real. It… can't be." Misa shook her head and leaned forward. 

"It is! It's not that you don't believe it's real; it's that you don't want to believe it's real! Y/N, you have to believe me." You grimaced and backed away to create some breathing room.

"Why would I want it to be real?" You whispered solemnly. "Why would I want that to happen to me? I can't believe it's real. It can't be real. I'm terrified if it is real, okay? If my parents think it's real because I do, they'll tell the church, and if the church finds out? You know how they deal with spiritual trespassers and those they possess. I'd basically be dead. My soul stripped from my being to ensure I do not bring harm to anyone else. I would be a hollow body, Misa! Don't you get that!?" You inhaled a ragged breath. 

"...Has anything happened today?" You shook your head. "It's already almost sunset, so that's a good sign, at least. Sorry, I got too excited. Your feelings and safety are important. Okay, I promise I won't tell a soul about this." You breathed a sigh of relief. 

"Thank you. I just… don't know what to do." 

"Have you gone to the chapel? The water from the statue is supposed to cure any possession." You shook your head. "Okay! I think I know your next steps, then. Come on!" She stood abruptly from the bench and held out her hands. "Let's go!" 

She dragged you across the diameter of town until your footsteps echoed across the chamber. A few holy people greeted you as they did their duties. Some travelers prayed at the pews for good luck and well-being. A single man stood next to the pond where the statue stood. 

"Greetings," he welcomed. "I recognize you two from town, but I don't believe we've met. My name is Soichiro. Are you here to drink from the spring?" Misa nudged you forward. 

"Y-yes. Oh, I'm Y/N." He nodded. 

"I see. Does the blood moon have you nervous? Don't worry. Lots of people come to do the same before a blood moon. Come and cup your hands and drink the water. Any disease in your soul shall be healed." You lowered yourself down to your knees and cupped the crisp water between your palms. You lowered yourself to sip, and you swallowed. 

But it would not go down. 

You began to cough, and your body convulsed with coughs. Liquid did come from your mouth, but the drops upon the ground were not clear, but a vicious red. Soichiro yelled for the other holy people as your body shook and twisted. Ropes bound your wrists, and hands steadied your head—arms wrapped around your waist to keep you as still as possible. A man placed his palm on your forehead and whispered incomprehensible words. When he finished, he ripped his hand away, and your breath was restored. You were unable to fall with the tight grip they still had on you. 

"W-what happened?" You asked, feeling the tears on your cheeks continuing to inch down and the blood drying on your chin. "I-I don't know. I'm sorry." 

"Take them to the purification chamber."

"No! Please, no! Help me! Someone, please help!" It was a joint effort between numerous holy people to lift your struggling form from the ground. "Misa! Mom! Dad!" you called out for, yet, in the chapel, none of them were there. However, your screaming did not stop for them until you were placed on a large chair and gagged. Your legs were bound to the bottom of the chair, and arms rebound to the arms. Holy people circled around you. 

The chair you were in was much less a chair and more so a throne. Pure white metal was attached directly to the ground. Red cushioning provided comfort to your rear and back. With ragged breaths, you looked waited until one of them spoke or did anything besides watch you. It was the man who sentenced you here that approached. 

"Soichiro," someone called, but he ignored them and angled his head down towards you.

"I am going to undo your gag. Do not scream. I just want you to tell us the truth if you know anything. Sometimes… they do things without signaling a mortal." Large calloused hands undid the gag, and you inhaled greedily. "Now, tell us."

"A-are you going to take my soul?" 

"Speak first. I cannot make promises I do not know if I can keep." You swallowed and explained what you could to them. Your eyes were focused on the ground. The terror you would feel if his reaction was bad was too grand for you to meet his eyes. The silence after you ended your experience was deafening. "I see." He looked to a holy person nearby. "We need twenty-four-hours to prepare for the ritual. It leaves us with little room before the blood moon rises. If we do not store their soul… go now. It is much worse than any of us could have imagined." Your heart plummeted. 

"W-what? No! Please! Tell me what's going on! D-don't take my soul, please! I-I want to live! I'll run away! You'll never see me again!" Soichiro stared at you with what you hoped was empathy. The bags under his eyes spoke of his wisdom and his exhaustion. He motioned for the rest of the holy people to leave, so it was just him standing over you. 

"I'm sorry, child." He spoke softly, knuckles wiping the tears flowing down your face. "No matter how far you run, no matter how fast, no matter how well you hide, no matter how you continue on: alive or dead, he will come for you. The moment you locked eyes in the mirror, you were bound to him, just as you always have been." You shook your head, vehemently. 

"It's not true, is it? Kira... is he…?" Soichiro smiled sadly. "It can't be… it can't be me. It's impossible." You sobbed. "How? Please, at least tell me before… before…" You couldn't even make the words out. 

"My son," he began, "was always destined for greatness, but then greatness found him, and he became too great. The power he found was a single, black notebook. Write someone's name, and they would pass. It originally is from a Shinigami, a god of death, that possessed him while he owned it, but… there are forces more potent than Shinigami in the universe. He and his opponent, the one who sought to bring the mysterious killer Kira, my son, that plagued the land to justice, who we called L, always were at a battle of wits, of plans, but, in the end, my son won.

"But this victory angered others. It was they who killed him at the throne of the world. It was they who watched him plummet to hell. It was they who built the statue in this chapel and sealed him in hell so he could never return, but they have long passed. Their magic fading in time. I could do nothing in all this time except pray to angels to keep my son at bay." He paused and looked up solemnly. "You must be wondering how I am alive," He looked down at his pale hands. 

"The notebook is gone now. The Shinigami that dropped it fled back to his world when Lig- Kira, was cast down to hell. I, too, touched the notebook. A scheme my son created to get ahead. The curse of it never went away, and I am now stuck to live eternity until my son ends it." He clenched his fist. "I did not know you were so close. I did not know it was you. If I did… I would have taken your soul long before you could have known life without it." You shook your head. 

"I don't understand. What is my part? The book… the book only showed a cage with… someone in it. The story has no word of them. Just the girl… the weapon that served him." Soichiro sighed. 

"Back then, the plane between the mortal realm and other words was thinner when angels and spirits would roam mortal lands. You were an angel. A new one. Young. Wide-eyed and drawing silver linings wherever you walked. Someone he set to ruin. Someone with a soul so pure that he can take and twist to his own liking. No one should see you except him, so he locked you away and bound his soul to yours and your soul to his. As long as he lived, whether here or hell, you would too. 

"But just your soul. Unlike me, whose mortal body is stuck, it is solely your soul that has been recycled for eons. His part, the part of his soul within you, could only be awakened should your eyes meet his. Then, with his entire soul active and with the power of the red blood moon, he will be able to break the barrier that seals him tomorrow night. We must lock away part of his power, so he cannot walk this land again. 

"Should he, then he will seek to claim all that was taken from him. The mortal world will fall as we know it. Those he inevitably tricked in hell to follow him will breakthrough behind him. What the world deserves for not seeing him as the god he sees himself as." Tears pooled in Soichiro's eyes. "I still love my son. The bright-eyed boy, but he cannot love. What he feels for you is something far darker, something twisted. I do not know what he will do if he finds you. You will be better off soulless." You sobbed. 

"B-but the deer-man in the woods. Do you - I mean…" He furrowed his brows and shook his head. 

"I don't know, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry my son came upon you. No one deserves this fate." You wretched in your bindings, ragged breaths, and eery whines escaping your mouth. "Some will be around to feed you later, and someone… someone will explain everything to your parents. 

"Let me see them!" You yelled out. "Please! One last time! They don't know anything! I just want to… please, I… I get it. Why you have to do this, but please let me say goodbye. Please. I just," you bit your bottom lip to prevent another wail, "please." Soichiro shook his head. The man could no longer maintain eye contact with you.

"I can't. We cannot risk you talking to anyone lest risk his jealousy. As far as we are concerned, you are not you. You are his." You pulled against the ropes once more. "I'm… so sorry. It is best for everyone that he does not see you with others while he is powerful enough to watch this world. I hope you never forgive me." Crestfallen, he turned his back and approached the door. 

"No! Come back! Please! Don't leave me alone here! P-please! S-Soichiro!" Only the slam and locking of the door met your calls. 

You don't know how long you howled and wailed, how many times it echoed back in the circular chamber to your ear. There came the point where your body could make no more tears, so you were left with pathetic dry heaves. It was then that a voice whispered in your head. 

"Y/N…" It was different than the voice in the woods. It was sinister, deep, evil. You focused on anything, the floor's intricate patterns, the ceiling, the running water behind the chair, the plants around the circumference of the room, anything to not acknowledge it. "Oh, aren't you a gift wrapped up for me? Clearly my father's work. Don't ignore me, Y/N. I know your every move. I know you can hear my every word" 

"F-fuck you!" You cried, and he laughed. Then, he clicked his tongue.

"Such dirty words. You're not the angel I remember, fresh out of the clouds. Ah, but there wasn't much angel left, from what I can recall. Do you feel it, Y/N? It shouldn't be long now…" For a long time, nothing happened, then, like two knives down your back, you screamed. "Ah, there it is. Those screams, I do remember. I don't care if it hurts." Blood soaked the cushion behind you and flowed down to your rear. "You brought this on yourself. This is what you deserve." 

"I didn't do anything!" You writhed. 

"Is that what my father told you? Is that what the story says? Oh, they couldn't be more wrong, love. You denied me what I deserve. You could have fallen to hell right with me, where you can be where you belong, but you stayed. I couldn't have you running back to the angels to live your days without me. I wouldn't allow it. If I hadn't had Mikami lock you in that cage, if I hadn't bound our souls, your grave would be in the flower fields above the clouds, but you got conceited. 

"Let me remind you of something, love. You are mine. Your body, your mind, your heart, your soul, what's between your legs, it's all mine. We are bound for eternity, Y/N. There is nothing you can do about it." He got quiet just as the immediate pain receded, leaving you with intense throbs. 

"You… won't get the chance," you spoke through tears. "Big talk for someone who isn't even going to breach this plane." A flash of pain sparked in your skull. He chuckled. 

"Oh, Y/N. Perhaps you are just as green as you were when we met. I can't wait to feel you again. To have you watch me burn the world." Silence. 

Despite your exhaustion, you could not sleep. You might as well have melted into the chair in how your body did not move a single inch, too scared to bother your wounds, and have the pain come back that is still aching. You did not want to spend your last hours unconscious. No one came to feed you.

"They're coming," he said. "They'd better be quick, then. The moon is almost up out there, after all." He groaned, and you jolted at the feeling of a cold hand on your neck. 

Soichiro and a train of holy people entered the room and surrounded you. He approached your limp body and undid your bounds. You did not miss him tense, and his eyes widen at the pool of blood in the seat from your back. 

'We must hurry. Any minute he will come through." Soichiro enlisted others to help him carry you back up the stairs to the altar. "Twenty four hours in the chamber has amplified their soul. It explains the marks on their back from their past life. Quick, on the altar!" The cloth was smooth against your skin as they placed you. 

Movement flurried around you as different scents were sprayed, various objects were placed on the ground and on the altar around you, and foreign words were spoken around you. Fatigue racked your body. There was not a single inch of your body that you could to move. 

Soichiro stood over your body. Your eyes, dead and clouded, stared up at him. In his hand was a singular, transparent, glass object. Quickly, he lifted his hand, ready to plunge it down. 

A loud bang resounded in the chapel, and the glass fell with a splatter of blood. You rolled your head to the side and watched two bodies approach from the entrance. All of the holy people around you were blown limply against the walls around you. It was only when they were right above you that you recognize it was Misa and Rem. 

"Rem, can you carry them? Do you still have your strength?" 

"Do not worry, Misa," she replied. Long arms lifted you while Misa skipped ahead and smiled reassuringly back at you. Music filled the crisp air. Lights hanging from the trees and other ornaments swept by your visual field. You groaned and lulled your head to face Misa. 

"M-Misa, no." You groaned. "He's coming." She giggled and turned around. Skipping backward, her smile widened. Behind her, the crowd gathered in the village square. Their vivid garments stuck out under the lights. 

"Of course I know, silly! Rem is a Shinigami just as the one who gave Kira his power. Just like he had a notebook, I had Rem's, but it was destroyed eons ago. Still, it binds me to live eternally, just like Soichiro. Luckily, Rem's cloaking magic covered me when I've met him, or he would have spoiled it all for us!

"When I saw you, I knew it was you. No matter how you may physically change, your heart and soul are always the same. Now, he's going to return to us. He's going to spearhead the new world." She twirled her hair around her finger. "Isn't that exciting?" 

You had no strength to fight in Rem's hold. Even if you did, you were unsure if you would be able to beat a Shinigami. 

Eyes were drawn to you as your bloodied and weak form was carried by an almost unidentifiable figure. Gasps echoed across the crowd, the music stopping as you presumably reached the square. 

"They watch helplessly," he spoke. "They know you are not theirs to touch. Soon, they will all know my power. They will all know who you belong to. Keep your eyes open, love."  

"Y/N! Y/N! Move! That's our child! Move! Y/N! The desperate calls of your parents broke through the crowd, but Rem presumably pushed them far back just the holy people, scaring the public to still and part for your funeral march. You heard the sick smack of bodies against a surface. Misa hummed to herself in front of you. Your head rolling back, you met Mello's wide and helpless eyes as he stood in the crowd. 

Misa led you away from the crowd and stopped at the flagpole at the village's entrance gates with the group following. Rem retied you to the base of the flagpole; your arms crossed over your chest in a familiar 'X,' legs and waist bound to the pole. Misa's settled herself next to you.

"All!" She called. "Watch as the blood moon rises behind the chapel! He who fell to hell is rising again to take what is rightfully his!" She pointed to the moon as it brilliantly glowed crimson above the chapel. Murmurs rose from the crowd, suspicious and fearful. "Watch as our god returns to the mortal realm!" 

The church bell rang. Its deathly reverberations echoing in your ear. The crowd fell to silence. 

"Have you missed me, love?" He spoke. "Because I have missed you." 

A red beam of light erupted from the chapel, followed quickly by multiple explosions. The statue, the roof, the infrastructure all crumbling by the expanding beam of light that touched the sky, screams erupted from the crowd, and they began to scramble. You pulled with what little strength you had left, but the pole against your back seized you in pain to cease your movements.

A silhouette could be made out of the beam. Large black wings spread from his back, sharp and jagged. Hands rose above his head before he dropped down in front of the chapel submerged in flames. His shadow enraptured you, and though his shadow was mostly unclear from a distance, you could make out his eyes even from here. Slowly, he took his first step forwards. 

Every needle and leaf in the trees around him fell. The grass withered all around him. Ash from the sky and littered the ground. With each step, the radius expanded until more and more life died around him. Your eyes trailed to the unconscious bodies of your parents against a tree. His zone of death stretched farther than them. 

"Eyes on me." 

"You're going to kill them!" You screeched. "Stop this madness at once!" You shook in your bonds. Misa was frozen next to you, eyes wide in anticipation as he approached. 

"Ordering me around? Perhaps you still are conceited. I think killing them will remind you of your place, hm?" Unfortunate humans were reduced to ash in his radius. The wind blew the ashes all around him, gently lifting his brown tufts of hair. "These mortals are nothing compared to you and I. Accept me as your mate. Accept the part of your soul that is my own, and the pain will all go away. You'll be dragged down to hell, and I'll bring you right back up." 

Your parent's ashes were a different color than the rest. 

"You know, it's been an eternity since I've heard you call my name. Do you even remember it?" You shook your head and squeezed your eyes shut. The thick scent of smoke, of ash, of death, permeated the air. "Eyes on me." He was almost here. Arms extended to the side, he approached from the other side of the square now. 

"Misa, we need to leave." 

"No! He's here! He's finally here, Rem!" 

"His aura will kill you, Misa." 

"No, I won't! He won't!" Rem, at lightning speed, grabbed Misa and flew in the other direction. "No! Put me down! I'll never forgive you! Stop!" Her voice echoed until it was out of range. Your head lashed back and forth, looking for any sign of life, but there was none: just ash, dying grass, and gnarled, graying trees. 

Dressed in all black, eyes blazing, teeth sharp, wings stretched, he now stood before you with the moon on his back. You pushed yourself against the pole despite the shock of pain. The grass around you died, the bugs vanishing, but you remained fine. You stared at his feet. 

"Oh, love," soft fingers reached down and tilted your head up. "You're as beautiful as I remember." Black wings encircled you, so you could only see him. "Do you remember my name?" You shook your head, and he gripped your chin harder. "Do not lie to me. Say my name, Y/N. Sew the wounds of your forsaken wings and accept your place with me." His voice resounded in you. "You feel it. I know you do. I feel your pain. Your fear. I've felt every emotion your reincarnations have ever felt. Say my name." He leaned in close.

"Kira." He clicked his tongue. 

"Stop resisting," he hissed. "Say my name, Y/N." His breath glided against your cheek. His hand moved to cup your jaw, and the other trailed down your waist.

"Light." It came off your lips quickly, easily, and he smiled, eyes widening with pleasure. Immediately, relief filled your physical body, your back's pain dissolving. Your head tilted back in bliss. 

"Y/N," he whispered against your neck. "Finally." He inhaled your scent deeply, hand tilting your head to give him more access. He placed a small kiss against your skin. His kisses trailed upwards, along your jaw, frantic against your cheeks, nose, until he captured your lips and stole your breath. 

"Oh, Y/N," he whispered against your lips. "I love you."  

[2lim3rz]

Reunion After Death [40K FIC]

SO, I’VE BEEN LISTENING TO TO THE STARS HAHA, ANGST TIME! ANGST TIME DING DING DING, Y’ALL’VE HAD HAPPY SAD FLUFF TOO LONG!

Why am I so cheery about that? No clue, anyways have some Lorgar being dead, does this work in legit canon? NO! Turn the brain off and cry!

----

He awoke and there was.. an endless field. An endless field with the greenest grass he ever saw, with the most gentle of hills. Distantly, he saw a pond, maybe mountains. Taking a deep breath, the air was sweet and invigorating.

“Lorgar?” a voice roused him and he turned, his heart stopped.

“..Ferrus..? But- You’re-”

The man smiled, truly smiled until his eyes squinted. There was no lines of stress, only a healthy gleam of youth. His arms were no longer encased in metal. The sight was so foreign, so.. unsettling in a way.

“Dead? Yes, so are you, brother.” Lorgar stepped back at those words, took in well and truly how Ferrus Manus was dressed in traditional Medusian clothing. There was not one scratch or scar on his body.

Raising his own arms, Lorgar looked at them. He no longer had the skin he had as a Daemon Prince, neither did he even have the tattoos. It was… it was so liberating! So liberating to see the traditional Colchisian clothing on him. Yet where were they?”

“The others will want to see you, I’m sure, but someone else wanted to see you first.” Ferrus said and it shook Lorgar from his reverie.

“Me? Who?”

Ferrus shrugged with a smaller smile. Why was he so joyful to see him? Didn’t he know the part he played in his doom? Suddenly Lorgar felt a wave of what felt like anger before he realized what it truly was: Overwhelming shame.

“Someone who called himself your first father. He’s over there, at the pond.” the man raised his arm, pointing to the pond he saw earlier “We’ll be waiting at the tree on the hill. Take your time.”

Stunned, Lorgar watched as he walked away, whistling something. While he wanted to confront his brother on what he meant, he wanted to know whoever it was to claim to be his father. His father was the Emperor of Mankind before he forsook him.. was this some sick play of revenge? Giving him this taste of heaven and forgiveness before casting him out to a new hell?

How did he die? A heaven meant death. He already ‘died’ in a sense in his ascension, casting out his mortal flesh and blood to become a Daemon Prince. All he remembered was being in a fight.. a fight… that no details arose. He could not remember as he suddenly found himself looking at a man sitting by the water’s edge. He was so familiar.. why was he so familiar? Somehow it was not the Emperor, neither was it Kor Phaeron. The man was too thin, too wiry.

Turning around and standing, Lorgar fell to his knees.

It was Fan Morgal. While he could not recall the specifics over eons of memory, he could remember the blissful feelings. True familial love and not, what he now suddenly knew, was manipulative abuse.

“A shame we’re meeting this way, isn’t it, my boy?” his voice wasn’t the rasp it used to be, his resurrecting memory told him that. Just like him, he was dressed in robes, but it was odd. All Lorgar knew was the traveler's garb he wore.

He couldn’t speak as Fan approached him and hesitated.

“You’re..” Lorgar’s voice cracked. There was no helping it as it seemed the other found his resolve and hugged Lorgar tightly. With shaking arms, Lorgar returned the hug. Tears fled his eyes as he began to sob.

“I’m so sorry, Fan, I’m so sorry!” he felt as though he were a young boy in the arms of his first foster’s arms, it was almost liberating to felt himself blubbering his words “I- I didn’t know Kor Phaeron was going to.. I’m suh-such a disappointment and..”

Lorgar felt himself rocking slightly as Fan slowly rubbed his back.

“Hush, hush Lorgar. I’m not angry and I’m not disappointed. You just didn’t know, my boy. You just didn’t know..”

“But I could have changed! I could- I could have done something but.. but Tzeen.. and the others.. and then there was..”

“Hush Lorgar.” Fan’s voice turned more stern as he lightly pushed against Lorgar’s shoulders. The primarch let go as if the touch was fire, he still shook and clenched his fists. “I told you, I don’t hold any ill will against you. No! Give me a moment to speak now, you wily ulchao!”

Lorgar had began to protest against Fan Morgal. To try and ask why and of the things he had done. Yet he stayed quiet, both eager to have answers and still in shock of what was going on.

“It was only seventeen days I’ve had with you Lorgar. I.. admit I wasn’t the best of men, but I knew I’d make myself better the moment we had found you in that desert and it rained. That bastard Kor Phaeron may have lead you astray, but look at you now.”

Fan smiled, and though his bearded face was as though he was in his prime, Lorgar sensed the weathered age that loomed within “My boy’s all grown up! He became a leader for his people, shitty goals or not! You liberated slaves. And though you made those who followed you slaves of a different name, you stuck true to your goals and never wavered.That is something I respect, son. Besides, you’re going to find that.. in this place? The past doesn’t matter. Mistakes don’t matter.”

It hurt to cry so much, it did. It well and truly did as Lorgar looked to the ground and doubled over as though bowing. His first father was proud of him. Words that he never knew he needed to hear in all his life were spoken.

This time, Lorgar stood and lifted the man into a hug. Fan laughed heartily and Lorgar found him hiccuping along until his back was being playfully slapped. In return, the primarch placed the man back down.

“Now put me down, kid. You got brothers to see and I have kids to help.”

“You’re.. you’re not coming with me, Fan? I’m sure you’d enjoy meeting Ferrus- and.. brothers..? You sure they want to see me?” Sighing, Fan shook his head and patted Lorgar on his arm as if to encourage him.

“I think I’ve met him, he’s pleasant enough. I’m just as sure that he already told you that you’re meeting the other big boys, right?” Lorgar nodded slowly “Good. It’s not like I’m leaving you for.. oh.. a few hundred or however many years I’ve been gone, no. We’ll meet up right again soon enough and you can tell me all of your adventures, or we can tell stories just like old times.”

“..Just like old times..” he echoed back, taking a deep breath soon after and standing “Yes, yes I will. Thank you, Fan.” the man chuckled and waved Lorgar away when he began to search for a hill with a tree, and soon found it.

Just as he was halfway there, a massive winged shadow flashed overhead. It was much larger than the small songbirds he had glimpsed, and had the body of a human.

Sanguinius!

Lorgar looked overhead at the winged figure as he did a rolling flip in the air. Throwing his fist in the air and bolting out a cheer, Lorgar began to run for the tree and saw seven other figures standing beneath its shade.

He slowed his pace, his smile fading as dread took its place. There they all were! Konrad, with a healthy shine to his skin, no longer snarling. Then there was Magnus, red as can be! Perturabo, similarly to Lorgar in being bald, no longer did he have those head cables. Fulgrim, his fair and handsome appearance restored to its full humanity. With Horus, a companionable and happy grin on his face as he and Sanguinius embraced with laughter.

Two others, Lorgar did not recognize at first before it dawned on him that it was Mortarion without his respirator.. and Angron without his butcher’s nails.

He felt like the traitor he was to approach his smiling brothers. Well, not all of them smiled, but they certainly were all at peace. Nonetheless, he felt awkward and was the first to speak. Or would have if Angron didn’t stop him.

“Don’t you say it! Wise of the wise, pah! You ask the most obvious questions!”

‘Wha..what? What!” Lorgar was caught off-guard, blinking owlishly and stepping back with a yelp as Angron tackled him into a ferocious hug.

“Shut up! Shut up and just enjoy the moment you big word bastard!” Lorgar laughed at the new absurdity of the situation and at Angron’s words.

“Hey, thought I was that!” Horus barked over the new chorus of shouts and laughs. Angron soon let go and good-naturally slapped him on the back towards the gathering. A long moment of silence passed, they clearly awaited him to say something.

“You.. you all.. forgive me..? You forgive,” Lorgar paused, looking to the majority that had betrayed both the Imperium and their family “us?”

Sanguinius moved towards him as Fulgrim whispered something to Ferrus and the normally stoic figure cracked a snicker. Standing imperiously with his wings slightly flared, Sanguinius grasped Lorgar’s forearms and smiled.

“Of course we do, Lorgar. Why else are we all gathered here, laughing and carrying on? Sure, it was hard for some of us at first but.. you know..”

He turned and sent a look to Konrad who, despite his healthy appearance, gave an animalistic teeth-bearing grin with clattering laughter.

“We make it work!” the Angel finished, letting his arms go.

“Of course, you make it sound as if it was so easy, Sanguinius! Ferrus tried to chop my head of!” Fulgrim guffawed, just as Ferrus forced his brother into a headlock and harshly rubbed his knuckles on his head. The two shouted and yelped, playfully tousling with each other.

“We’ve forgiven and, in some ways, forgotten.” Mortarion shrugged from his post of leaning against the tree. Hearing his voice of what it was truly meant to be was off-putting.

“Don’t worry, we all looked at him like that when he first spoke.” Perturabo snorted.

“So.. we’re all dead then? All of us? How? I mean..”

It was Magnus who shrugged, responding with how they all couldn’t remember the circumstances of their deaths except for Sanguinius and Ferrus who only knew they were murdered by the other brothers when they saw them. The others, whose and if their deaths were known by the others, were told of how it happened. Which truthfully meant only Horus knew how he was killed.

“And that’s why you wake up.” it was Horus who spoke after.

“Wake up? But I’m dead?” When would this confusion end?

“Dead?”

“Mhm. You thought this could exist? Traitors never get what they want.”

Lorgar opened his eyes. He raised his hands, which trembled when they were revealed to be the same hands he had since his ascension. There was no heaven to be had. His brothers would never forgive him, not even the ones that were on his side.

[chachkayes]

Double Trouble

So... I wrote a spontaneous sister fic to @herrera-n-hayes ‘s newest fic post “The Four of Us”, where Amelia tells Link that they’re expecting baby number 2 on Christmas eve. Go read it first before this one! Link here. I got SUPER inspired to write a part 2 for it, where Amelia and link reveal to everyone else that they’re expecting, and this fic is that. It is quite possibly one of the fluffiest fics I’ve ever written. Many tears of happiness are shed in it. I love a good Christmas fic, and I have another Merhayes Christmas fic that I’ll be working on throughout the week. Anyways, enjoy!

“Wait, so what time are you guys coming over again?” Meredith asked her sisters in a group phone call. It was the evening of Christmas Day, and the sisters had made it tradition to have Christmas together as one large family ever since Scout was born. “Uh… I think we planned on heading over around 5pm? Right, Link?” Amelia asked her fiancé. “Yep. We’ll see you all soon.” Link’s voice rang through Mer’s phone. “Maggie, what about you?” Meredith asked her younger sister. “Oh, um, sorry! We were just packing some stuff into the car. We’re heading out in a few minutes.” Maggie replied. “Alright, well I’ll let you guys go then. I’ll see you soon!” And with that, Meredith hung up and headed downstairs to her children waiting impatiently for their aunts and uncles to arrive so they could open more presents. Luckily, Austin and Liam were quite content to sit in their rooms and play their new video games until their dad and Meredith called them down. Christmas was always an incredibly hectic time in the Hayes/Grey household, but Meredith and Cormac loved it.

Not long after, Maggie and Winston finally showed up at Meredith and Cormac’s house. Meredith and Maggie hugged once they got inside, as did Cormac and Winston. Everyone settled in and Maggie listened intently to the stories that her nieces and nephew were explaining to her. Their stories were certainly much more coherent now that they were 8, 11, and 14 – but they were still mostly nonsensical. Winston and Cormac brought in all the presents from the couple’s car. The kids got incredibly excited whenever they saw a big box with their name on it.

Just as all the adults had finally sat down and were talking, Amelia, Link, and Scout pulled into the driveway. “Ladies, it’s your turn this time.” Winston said with a chuckle as Meredith and Maggie stood up to meet Amelia and Link at their car. Link helped Scout out of his car seat and lead him inside while Meredith, Amelia, and Maggie gathered up every single present and brought them all in, in one trip. Scout happily greeted his uncles and then moved on to playing with his cousins. Cormac got up and walked over to the bottom of the stairs. “Austin, Liam, everyone is here!” He called for his sons, who quickly came downstairs and sat on the couch with the rest of the adults. Link and Amelia, and Winston and Maggie always got the boys something every year. They were family, after all.

45 minutes later and almost every present had been unwrapped, squealed over by the children, and ripped forcefully out of the boxes if it could be. There were only a few small gifts left to open. Maggie picked up two small boxes and handed them to Meredith and Amelia. “Oh, it’s got both of our names on it!” Amelia said as she smiled at Link. “Same here.” Meredith mentioned as Cormac wrapped his arm around her shoulder. As discreetly as he could, Winston began recording. Mer and Amelia quickly unwrapped the small boxes and opened the lid – each box revealing a positive pregnancy test. “Oh my god.” Cormac said with a laugh. “MAGGIE!” Amelia squealed in delight. “Are you serious?!” Meredith said, her jaw on the floor. “Is… are you guys completely serious?” She repeated, her voice breaking. “Totally serious. I’ve been trying not to cry all day.” Maggie responded as she wiped tears away from her eyes. “Oh my god.” Meredith said, standing up to hug her sister. “Oh my god!” Amelia repeated, doing the same. At this point, all three women were laughing and crying. “Aye, congrats man. I’m happy for you.” Cormac said, hugging Winston. “Same here.” Link said, joining the hug fest.

After what felt like a lifetime, everyone sat back down. Meredith leaned her head on her boyfriend’s chest, still sniffling and wiping away tears. “Wait, so have you told Richard yet?” Amelia asked, snuggling into Link. “No, not yet. I was planning on telling him tomorrow night during dinner.” Meredith smiled as another tear fell down her cheek. “Why are momma and aunties sad?” Scout said to Link, as he looked at his aunts and his mother, who were all tearing up. Everyone laughed at the young boy’s observations. “Oh, sweetie, we’re not crying cause we’re sad. We’re happy, Auntie Maggie is going to have a baby.” Meredith explained to her nephew. “Like my mommy and daddy?” Scout said casually, to which Amelia choked on her drink. “What did you say?” Maggie inquired, Meredith whipping her head around to look at Amelia. “I heard my mommy and daddy say last night that they’re going to have another baby.” Scout said, as if it were common knowledge, and turned back around to playing with his new toys.

“Amelia…” Meredith said, her voice cracking again. “We were, uh, going to wait to tell you guys since it’s still so early, but yeah. We’re having another baby.” Amelia admitted. Maggie and Meredith were both close to sobbing. “I’m so happy for you guys.” Meredith said through tears as she hugged Amelia and Maggie again. “I can’t believe we’re going to have kids so close in age!” Maggie said excitedly. “I’m so excited for more nieces or nephews. Hopefully at least one of you guys has a girl, I have so many clothes from when Zola and El were babies that I’ve had nothing to do with for the longest time.” Meredith said as she sat back down on the couch beside her boyfriend, wrapping her arms around his torso and leaning her head on his chest, feeling wholly content. Liam and Austin came back downstairs, sitting beside their dad on the end of the couch. Zola, Bailey and Ellis cuddled up with Maggie and Amelia, while Scout sat with his dad and his Uncle Winston.

“Oh, Mer, there’s one more present under the tree. It’s for you.” Link said as he smirked and reached over to pick up a small present with Meredith’s name on it. Link began recording again, knowing exactly what was about to happen. “Oh, hey, look who it’s from!” Meredith said happily as she looked up at Cormac, who was smiling widely at her. “I wonder why I missed it this morning.” She added on. The reason she’d ‘missed’ it was because it’d actually never been there in the morning. Link and Amelia had brought it with them in order to help with the surprise, but she didn’t know that. Carefully, she unwrapped the small square box. Everyone watched intensely, as they knew what was happening. Cormac had gotten everyone involved in the planning for this very moment. The only person who didn’t know what was about to happen was Meredith, and maybe Scout, who had the excuse of being 5. The wrapping paper tore away to reveal a small ring box. Now, Cormac had boughten small rings for Meredith before, so she didn’t think too much of it, until she opened the box and found a beautiful, sparkling diamond ring. She looked up at him, her jaw dropped. He started, “I, uh, debated for a really long time how I’d go about this. Truthfully, the kids, and your family helped me out, they all thought it’d make most sense to ask you this on Christmas.” Meredith looked at Cormac, wide-eyed, barely breathing, and still holding the ring box. He continued, “Um, you and I know better than anyone else how precious time is, and how we have to make the most of every moment we have with the people we love. Before Abby died, she told me I had her permission to fall in love again. That she wanted me to be happy. But I didn’t think it was possible. I didn’t think it was possible for me to fall in love with anyone again, that was, until I met you.”

A tear ran down Meredith’s cheek as she continued to look into Cormac’s eyes, and sniffles could be heard that were a result of the hardly contained tears coming from the pregnant women and their fiancés behind her. “You understood me, right from the moment I needed the understanding. I knew I loved you before we began dating. When you did your pro bono surgery day, that was the day that solidified for me, just how magnificent of a person you are, and that you were someone I wanted to love, every day for the rest of my life. And ever since we began dating, I’ve found more things to love you for every day. I love the way you love your kids, your sisters, your nephew, Austin and Liam, and me. And I love that we can always talk about Abby and Derek, when it’s just the two of us, or with the kids, and it’s never an issue. And as scary as this is for the both of us, I know that they’d want us to be happy. And god, Meredith, you make me so happy. You amaze me, every time we work together, or when I see you in the hallways, and every time I come home from work to you. And I feel like Abby would want this more than anyone. She sometimes berates me in my dreams for not asking you yet. So, with all that being said, Meredith Grey, will you marry me?” He finished. He and Meredith continued to keep direct eye contact. Amelia and Maggie had stopped trying to hold in their tear’s eons ago. At this point, they were sobbing. However, aside from the sniffling, the room was completely silent.

“Yes. A hundred thousand times, yes.” Meredith said breathlessly after a few moments, and the room erupted into cheers. Cormac took the ring box from Meredith’s hands and took the ring out, then he placed it on Meredith’s finger. She cupped his face in her hands and kissed him, then took another look at her ring. She showed off her ring to Maggie and Amelia, who were both complete messes. All 3 of the sisters were marrying the men they loved, and Amelia and Maggie were both ecstatic to be pregnant at the same time. Meredith couldn’t remember a Christmas ever being so filled with tears of joy, but she couldn’t complain. Everything about this Christmas had been perfect – for everyone.

[snakebites-22]

Ain’t No Rest for a Struggling Teen

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By: @the-panwitch for @sapphirestark

Rating: General Audiences 

Relationships: Irondad and Spiderson

Characters: Tony Stark and Peter Parker

Word Count: 1292

Warnings: angst with happy ending, high school is shit, Tony is the best dad, if anyone even thinks about tagging this as St*rker I’ll rearrange your digestive system 

Summary: Peter is the best intern and son that Tony could have ever accidentally discovered he had. He’s helpful, smart, goofy, and all around the best support system Tony could have ever hoped for, but lately Peter seems to be doing everything to avoid him. What’s going on? 

A/N: This is probably really bad considering I wrote it late at night after typing out an essay for government, but I tried to get in everything that was requested by @sapphirestark so I hope everyone enjoys reading it. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Being a teenager was hard. Even harder when said teen was also a superhero and the son of one of the most powerful men in the universe. Seriously. Peter Parker, also known as Peter Stark, Peter Parker-Stark, Spider-Man, Underoos, kid, loser, Penis Parker, etc, was that teenager. His dad was Tony Stark, genius, billionaire, loving father, philanthropist. It was discovered that Peter was Tony’s biological son totally by accident. See, when Peter first started interning for Stark Industries, he had several medical tests done by some of the most prestigious doctors to probably ever exist to make sure he wasn’t some alien imposter or something. However, this led to the doctors discovering that not only was Peter Spider-Man, he was also their boss’s kid. Turns out, Peter’s mom and Tony had a one night stand eons ago, so, yeah. 

Now, Peter was one of the best interns Tony could have ever asked for, as well as the best son. He was super helpful, a literal genius, a huge goofball, and the perfect support system for a man like Stark. Peter had been around Stark Industries for nearly a year now, and when he wasn’t in the lab he was on patrol. Tony couldn’t be prouder of him. Except, there was one thing bothering Tony: lately it seemed as though Peter wanted to be anywhere except around Tony.

He was constantly locked in his room or down in the lab working on who knows what, and whenever Tony tried talking to him he would brush it off and hide out somewhere. It was really concerning to watch. The more he investigated, the worse that concern got. He noticed the bags under his eyes, the unhealthy amount of caffeine, and the most horrifying of all, the slow increase of crime around the city. Peter wasn’t patrolling nearly as much as he usually did, yet patrolling was Peter’s favorite thing about any day. Going out as Spider-Man and helping a lady across the street or catching a little kid’s dog could brighten Peter’s day within a second. It was his calling. What happened? Tony was determined to find out. 

It was just a regular Tuesday and Tony was down in the lab perfecting the next Spider-Man upgrade. This was upgrade project 34, but Peter was only aware of about 13 of them. Probably a good thing, too. If Peter knew then the intervention Tony had planned would probably get turned back on him. 

The billionaire glanced at the clock. It was nearly four o’clock, band practice had to be over by now. Just as this thought crossed his mind, the doors to the lab slid open and FRIDAY announced, “Welcome home Peter.” 

“Thanks Fri,” came the mumbled reply. God he sounded exhausted. 

Tony turned in his seat, the screwdriver sliding out of his hand, just to see Peter shuffling off to his corner of the lab as quickly as a clearly drained teenager could. 

“Hey Pete,” Tony called, causing Peter to freeze in his tracks. “Got a minute?”

“I um, I actually have homework. I want to get it done before patrol.” He didn’t turn around which caused Tony to frown. 

“It’s just a minute. Come sit.” 

Peter sighed and dropped his head before shuffling back over towards Tony and plopping down in the seat across from him. Tony looked over him quickly, his eyebrows furrowing as he saw the dark circles under his kid’s eyes. Peter looked a little too similar to Tony when he was going through his worst days, and that was definitely not a good sign. 

“Yes?” Peter sighed. He wouldn’t look at his father’s eyes, his body language clearly stating he wanted to be anywhere but in that seat. 

“Peter are you okay?” 

The teen jumped a little and glanced at him, his tired eyes a little wider than they were a second ago. 

“Yeah um yeah of course. Why..why are you asking?” 

Tony sighed and rubbed his eyes. “Peter I know what struggling looks like. If those bags under your eyes get any darker you’ll look like you’re back in your emo phase.” 

“Dad I was thirteen-”

“Not the point. Look, you seem like you’re barely sleeping, I hardly see you anymore, and I know you aren’t patrolling. What’s going on?” 

Peter’s jaw clenched and he looked down at his lap. Tony watched him for a minute, and another, and he was about to call this meeting off and let Peter go when the boy let out a shaky sigh. 

“Graduation is coming up.” 

Tony nodded slowly. He knew that. Hell, he had that marked in his calendar the second he found out the date. 

“Yeah...is that the problem?”

“It’s..part of it,” Peter mumbled. Tony pretended not to hear how his voice shook and how whenever there was a pause a sniffle could be heard. 

“It’s just...I have so much work now a-and I have all these tests and assignments and projects and I don’t have time to patrol and my last test I barely passed on and someone found out and told everyone how they got a better grade than me and I feel like I-I’m failing and-”

“Hang on, hang on.” Tony reached over and held Peter’s now shaking shoulders as the younger barely held back the rapiding approaching sobs that threatened to spill over his lips. “Kid, you’re spiraling a bit. I need you to breathe okay?” 

Peter nodded, wiping his eyes on the sleeve of his school hoodie and breathing slowly. Tony waited a few moments to allow him some calm down time before continuing. 

“You said a kid shared your grade?” 

Peter nodded again and looked back down. “I got a 79% and I guess they did better than me...a-and now everyone knows that I’m not-not actually as smart as they all thought I was… I-I was being considered for valedictorian but now that’s probably gone...I don’t know what I’m doing anymore dad.” 

Tony’s shattered heart gained a few more cracks as he listened to this kid, his kid. “Oh Peter,” he said softly, gently gathering the small boy into his arms. “You are one of the smartest kids I know. Trust me, I don’t know anyone else who was able to develop his own webbing by himself or be one of the most important members of the Academic Decathlon. 

“I know getting a lower grade is hard. I also know it’s even harder getting compared to other people and having others tell you that they’re better than you. But you listen to me.”

At this Tony looked down and waited until he made eye contact with Peter. “You listen. I don’t care about you being valedictorian. I don’t even care about straight A’s. I know you’re doing your absolute best and I couldn’t be prouder. However, I also know how much valedictorian means to you, so I will support you on that okay? But this barely sleeping and overloading yourself isn’t working. So, I’m going to help you come up with a better plan. We’ll figure out what we can do to balance everything so that you’re sleeping and also getting work done and also making sure you have time to patrol. How does that sound?”

Silent tears were streaming down Peter’s face, and for a second Tony was terrified he did something wrong. All those fears went away the second Peter threw his arms around him and hugged him tightly. 

“Thank you. Thank you, dad. That sounds awesome.” 

Tony chuckled and ruffled his hair gently. “No problem kid. Let’s get to work. FRIDAY, pull up Peter’s school schedule. Pete let’s look at your homework. What do you got?”

“Calculus.” 

“Good God, no wonder you’re practically dying.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Tagging: @friendly-neighborhood-exchange @soft-petey @tommysparker @bebbeb  @stixnstripesworld @orowit @dreamerinthesun @ididntseeurbag @bruhelpimgay @yikes-n-bikes @becausewhatiam-iswhatimnot @thespydersargon @in-a-lot-of-fandoms-tbh @th0ttie4tommy

[mistdrinkersblade]

Culmination

It’s time.

The heavy winds of Zadnor’s plains whipped his hair back harshly. Sand and dirt and ash beat against his clothes, but it didn’t bother him for a moment. Syla was ready. Nothing and no one could deny him this moment.

In the past few weeks, Syla had spent what time he had to spare amongst the members of Bozja’s resistance. Though at first it seemed like a far fetched dream, their movement had gone from a torch in the night to a roaring blaze. Fighters and supporters from nations all around rose up to aid their cause: stopping the Garlean Empire’s defected IVth Legion. Everything, every single moment, had led up to this. To this fruition.

The heavy leather armor he sported, a gift from “Bajsaljen Ulgasch, was designed to mimic the look of Bozjan aesthetics. And though it wasn’t his homeland, Syla proudly wore them. The large gunblade clipped to his back was another, but this one carried far more significance. It was a symbol of freedom and liberation to be driven directly into the IV Legion’s heart.

Syla stopped approach, turning his head for just a brief moment to see his allies. A small menagerie of fighters, of all creeds and races, had banded together behind him. As their goal loomed in the distance: the Dalriada. The IV Legion’s gargantuan airship, now permanently grounded thanks in part to the resistance’s clever plot. The hulking behemoth smoking from their attack as its crew could be seen scrambling like ants. Clearly preparing for a fight. And one was certainly on the horizon. Just as he was about to give the order to march, Syla’s ears picked up something. Footsteps. Armored ones. And all stepping in rhythmic unison.

He knew what was coming. It was him. He was here.

Without a second thought, Syla quickly drew his gunblade as several of his fighters prepared their weapons as well. The wind storm had kicked up so much dust it was obscuring their view of the path ahead. Only the sound of boots marching in unison growing louder face any indication. So in turn, he decided to make the first move.

“GABRANTH!”

His voice carried as hard as he could make it, throat straining from the volume of his shout. He wanted to be heard. He had to be heard. To shout above the raging wind for all to hear and to convince himself he was ready. It all came down to this moment. “COME OUT, YOU COWARD! FIGHT ME!”

It was now. This was the culmination of four summers. Four summers since that night.

-

“So. You’re the one causing all of this noise. And for what?”

The man’s voice almost rattled from inside of his helmet as he stared the pair of viera down. The halls of Castrum Valnaini were empty, save for the three men in the armory. Syla Mistdrinker, one of the Dalmascan resistance fighters who had made a name for himself recently. Vali, one of his companions, a tall and slender black mage with flowing silvery hair.

And Legatus of the IVth Legion, Noah van Gabranth.

Having been fed up with Lente's Tears’s indirect tactics as of late, Syla and a few of the more impatient members had concocted a scheme of sorts. Rather than starve the beast from their homeland, they preferred to cut the head off. An assassination of the sitting ruler, Grabanth. Even though it had been in violence of direct orders from their superior, they took matters into their own hands. Fran might have been furious when they returned, but that might be cushioned if they presented the Legatus’ helmet.

But things were different now. Face to face with the man who held the entire country by iron grip, and the two men of twenty summers could do naught but almost quake in their boots. His sleek, intimidating armor deterred them for only a moment before Syla spoke up. “Noah van Gabranth, we are here. To make you pay. For everything you’ve done to Dalmasca, you must answer with your life!”

And with that, the young viera charged at Gabranth, wildly swinging his axe at him in an almost supernatural frenzy. But it was short lived, as Gabranth’s quick swordplay quickly and easily deflected the oncoming axe to the floor. A few chunks of stone leaping into the air as Syla’s axe smashed into them, only to be swung back around. His companion, Vali, gripping his staff tight to unleash a rain of fire on the armored man, but almost seemed to have no impact. It was going to be a long, long night.

-

“Come now, is that truly the best you have to offer? I had thought you wanted to kill me.”

Gabranth stood poised and elegant, pointing one of his twin swords at the pair of viera. Mere moments of combat with someone so skilled had felt like entire eons.. “I will admit, boys. You show promise, you show skill. And most importantly, you show potential.” The echo of his voice from inside of his helmet drove Syla mad, but he could do nothing but guard himself as he panted. He had exhausted almost all of his strength trying to kill him, again and again. But he had only done so much as dent the Legatus’ armor.

Blood dripping from his face as he cupped it, one of Gabranth’s sword strikes had cut deep into his left cheek. “B...bastard…” Syla huffed, trying to take one more swing, which was deflected yet again. “But no discipline! You charge in alone, with little allies to cause distraction. And for what? To kill me? You should know better. You should know your limits. And you now will pay the price for such steep arrogance.”

The clanking of armor echoing as the Legatus moved in closer, weapons poised for one final strike down. That was, until, a brilliant flash of light filled the room. Vali, having fished out a small, makeshift bomb he had concocted earlier, smashed it on the ground. A loud, high pitched boom and a flash of light filled the room as the black mage grabbed Syla by his arm. “Move. Now!” He nearly screamed at him as he scrambled to his feet.

Half leaning on his friend, Syla grunted as he hoisted to his feet. He could only turn his head to see Gabranth growing smaller in the distance, attempting to recover from the blinding bomb. The redheaded viera could do nothing but try to keep up and shudder. He was bloodied. He was worn. He was fighting back tears and anger and unbridled rage. The Mistdrinker had failed.

-

“Now, that’s not a very nice thing to say, lad. Say, where’s your manners?”

Syla’s memories shattered in an instant. He had gotten distracted, but no more. The viera’s head shot up once he heard that voice. No. No, no no. It couldn’t be.

As the opposing group finally marched out of the storm, the viera’s eyes settled on the front figure. His leather gloves gripped to the handle of his weapon so tight they both sounded like they threatened to break. Syla gritted his teeth to the point for a moment he feared he might break one. His anger and fear swelled up for a moment and then sank along with his heart all in an instant.

Standing where the IVth Legion’s Legatus should have been standing was the older hyur man. Lyon rem Helsos.

“Expecting someone else? Sorry to piss in your tea, lad.” Lyon spoke up, the Pilus prior cocking his head to one side and then the other. His hand on his hip as if he were having casual conversation. And with two dozen imperial soldiers standing behind him, weapons at the ready. Syla took an instinctive step forward, which caused a number of Lyon’s soldiers to almost spring into action. And they might have, were it not for the Beast King’s hand jutting outward as if to say “Stay where you are. Or else.”

“Where is he? Where’s Grabanth, Helsos?” Syla barked at the older man, he couldn’t hide the anger in his face. His demand causing a laugh from Lyon as he casually picked at his teeth for a moment. Was he taking any of this seriously?!

The hyur picked his head back up with a smug look as he gestured back towards Syla standing opposite. “You see, our dear Noah is a very busy man. So busy in fact, that he couldn’t even make it. Had to oversee something back allll the way in Dalmasca.”

“LIAR!” Syla wailed, almost lurching forward for a moment as he interrupted Lyon’s speech. The fire burning in his eyes only focused on the older man instead. His outburst only earned a sneer from the Beast King, who in turn laughed heartily. “Oh, full of rage today, are we? Don’t worry, lil’ rabbit. I’ll still play with you!” With a hefty grunt, Lyon swung his axe over his shoulder and loudly cracked his neck as he jerked his head side to side. “After all, I do still owe you for Lacus Litore. And what you did to my precious beasts.” He stared at Lyon in long, angered silence for what felt like days. Gabranth...isn’t here? He’s not here? No, that’s. That’s impossible. He’s lying. He’s lying…

“E-Even if he’s not….” Syla grunted, stammering on his words at first as he tried to compose himself. He couldn’t show weakness, not to anyone. “We have a goal to accomplish today. You can either surrender yourself to us. Or…” He grunted, pointing his gunblade towards the hyur in front of him. “I can beat you to bloody consciousness and drag your senile old body back to put your arse on trial! And that’s if I don’t feel like cutting an old man down where he stands right now!”

The hatred and acid in Syla’s words fell on Lyon’s ears, making the old man grin wicked. This was what he was waiting for. Not some skirmish against a few untrained men. But a worthy, challenging opponent. This was what the Beast King craved. Waving his axe in return, Lyon clicked his tongue and shifted his stance. No more playing around, from either of them. Without a moment’s passing, Syla sprung forth off of one heel, launching himself like a bullet towards the hyur.

Lyon, in return, mimicked his movements and the two clashed. Metal against metal, gunblade against axe, as their weapons met and the two men poured their strength into the struggle. The groups behind each of them took that as a signal and began their attack, a skirmish breaking out around the Beast King and the Mistdrinker.

The assault on the Dalriada was about to begin. Bozja’s fate hung by a single thread. And a new chapter in history would soon have its bloody start.

[f-117-nighthawk]

Playlist Update Part 2: Electric Boogaloo

Part 2! Here lies Endless War, Dystopian Fiction, and Filaments. EW hasn’t changed much, DF has a bit and it's all INFECTED's fault, and Filaments has more than three songs finally. My explanations for these aren't quite as fleshed out (partially bc there's less in my head to flesh out with and partially because these aren't nearly as set in playdough as the main playlist. more like set in syrup)

Part One

In chronological order:

Endless War

Dark Matter is here because it always is, twining through everything else.

(Don’t stop, don’t think, don’t look back/You’re a bolt of lightning in the sky now/Don’t stop, don’t think, don’t look back/I’ve pulled you in, nowhere to hide now)

I Am the One links into Eater of Worlds as sort of the aftermath, sort of during Apocalypse 1992. Our Fifth General has her realization about [REDACTED] far, far before Team Voltron does because she’s there in the thick of it during Through Apocalypse Skies.

(I am the one/I hold the dreams from fallen heroes)

(We are gods, we are monsters/We create to devour/Not for love but for power/What’s a life worth in the end?)

(From the caves beneath Dundee/Ancient hermit arrives/A messenger to the war in the stars/Korviliath is nigh!)

The Truth Beneath the Rose is from the perspective of our last (and first) Blade in the aftermath of Through Apocalypse Skies, as she realizes just what she helped create. Also… kinda connects to a song in the main playlist, but not very obviously.

(Blinded to see the cruelty of the beast/It is the darker side of me/The veil of my dreams deceived that I have seen/Forgive me for what I have been, forgive me my sins!)

Raise Your Banner is The Fifth General’s newfound resolve as she starts collecting allies against Zarkon’s empire.

(Wake up/I’m defying you, seeing right through you, once I believed in you/Wake up/Feel what’s coming deep within we all know)

Obey is a bit of a weird one. It’s in the same vein as You Keep What You Kill in the main playlist, but it’s more specifically about the creation of the first Druids and how Haggar uses them against the Fifth General and her team.

(Obey, we're gonna show you how to behave/Obey, it's nicer when you can't see the chains)

Silver Moonlight is cracks forming in The Fifth General’s new set of alliances and her desperate and occasionally rash attempts to get them to believe in her goal. Not just the main one to take down the empire, but the one that will allow them to do that.

(I’m impatient, but it’s colors that I need/Too many shades of grey, I cannot breathe/The dreams I have ain’t tainted, I need you to believe/The only way to make them real, oh)

Endless War is the title track, connected to Holy Ground and I’d Rather Burn as a specific event but also sort of encompassing the Fifth General’s motivations throughout the series. She’s “hunting a miracle” that is also those colors from Silver Moonlight, and then the end of Endless War kicks in with Holy Ground, and the Fifth General’s final stand in I’d Rather Burn.

('Cause you’re fighting an endless war/Hunting a miracle/And when you reach out for the stars/They just cut you down/…/Is it worth dying for?/Or are you blinded by, blinded by it all?)

(You got inside my head, I want you out/'Cause I’ve been betrayed on holy ground)

(Won’t let you take my soul away/I’d rather go to the stake/I’d rather burn)

Empty Eyes is [long spoiler beep]. (and yes! I found it on Spotify finally!)

(I don’t know where I’m going/In search for answers/I don’t know who I’m fighting/I stand with empty eyes/You’re like a ghost within me/Who’s draining my life/It’s like my soul is see-through/Right through my empty eyes)

Dystopian Fiction

Dark Matter is on here because title track, but also it does end up with effects. Especially by the end… and of course, the Thing that is Wrong With Earth.

(Don’t stop, don’t think/Move up, don’t blink now/On your knees pray for rain/Don’t breathe when you take your aim)

The Human Condition is the Éskhayklos manifesto. A warning of the end times. The condemnation of the parasites. The reveal of the only cure. The final extinction cycle. Also their new image song, as Cross the Line got moved.

(We have the cure for the disease/Locked down inside us/When all is dead, then we will see/We are the virus)

INFECTED is the Éskhayklos’s slow, well, infection of the Sol Federation, and their descent into full-blown terrorism. (And yes, I know the actual lyrics have ‘he’. Shhhhhh. It’s a STARSET song, it’s about a Shirogane, even if it’s sort of from Cascade’s POV)

(Here's a challenge for all mankind/The preacher man is warning of the end times/The weatherman agrees but she don't know/So she's got to go now)

Who Will Save You Now here is about Sam, and the aftermath of Here to Save You, in addition to its referenced role in the main playlist.

(Alone with this vision/Alone and blind/Go tell the world I’m still alive)

Codebreaker is Adam’s song! But here it’s also in conjunction with Cross the Line as the final Éskhayklos mission before...

(Codebreaker can’t you find/Can you read between the lines of code?/Tell me all that you know/How far down the hole does it all go)

(Cross the line, redefine, break away unbent, unafraid/Together we stand in the dark/Seeking the light and what is right, together we cross the line/Our journey will come to an end and then our human cause will be/Justified)

The Day the Earth Collapsed

(How much time has been elapsed/Since the day the earth collapsed?)

Dystopian Fiction is the title track for this part. With the events of The Day the Earth Collapsed, the Garrison and our heroes on Earth are at their lowest point. It really is a piece of dystopian fiction, between [spoiler] and [spoiler]. They’re fighting for something that, at that point, must seem like ‘superstition.’ And also: “Nobody can shoot me down, not just yet” is about Adam bc Fuck Canon. Even if he does, technically, get shot down.

(I’m a dead man/In the wasteland/I’m a soldier fighting for superstition/Under searchlights/In the long nights/We’ve been written like dystopian fiction)

World on Fire and The Reckoning are the two of their subset that make it over here because they’re the two that happen before the result of This is a Call can come to fruition, and are more focused on our Earth heroes anyway.

(Sent by forces beyond salvation/There can be not one sensation)

(We’re all alone, walking in twilight/The night has been long and so many have fallen/Feel no remorse, light will be breaking/Our freedom is worth it all)

Filaments

Filaments is still in flux but does have way more solid than it did. Like, you know, most of an ending. I just don’t really know how they get from A to B yet.

Dark Matter is here because, well. A) Title track, B) yes, it still has effects. It’s the overarching theme, after all. Filaments sort of has a subtitle itself, which is ‘The Undoing,’ after the other part of the lyric that the subtitle of the main playlist comes from. It’s about undoing a past mistake (that wasn’t obviously a mistake until much later) and reconciling the events of Your World Will Fail.

(I am the keeper/I am the secret/I am the answer/I am the end)

Filaments is the title track of this part. It’s… a little hard to explain without giving away the entire plot but it’s about the connections between different parts of the universe, and some fall-out of Cosmic Vertigo and Louder Than Words.

(These glowing filaments/Conducting this enchanting/Sarcophagus that’s holding us)

Starlight is, again, Adashi song, and this time the happy part

(Don’t leave me lost here forever/I need your starlight and pull me through/Bring me back to you)

Carry Me Home is its eponymous fic.

(Carry me home to the morning light/carry me home before you wave me goodbye/Oh, carry me home…)

And then we get to the new part. Know that stuff in Carry Me Home about “The record skip that only [Keith and Krolia] can remember”? Yeah, Prognosis is a huge step to figuring that out.

(How long is the body beholden?/How long 'til we run out of road?/Deep down in the black of the ocean/Fading from the glow)

The timey-wimey ball gets tossed around more in Blackstar. Partially due to [REDACTED] and a certain terrorist’s reemergence, but also due to Prognosis-related stuff

(They'll let you try/To reverse everything/Don't waste your time/Sing Hallelujah 'cause you can't change anything)

Eon straight-up plays Calvinball with the timey-wimey ball and gets the Paladins stuck in a groundhog-day situation, and the only way out? Isn’t good.

(If time's a song, I won't wait for its reprise/I am done wishing farewells and goodbyes)

The Art of War and Centigrade are the beginning of the end. The Art of War is Cascade finally showing his true colors, and the Sol Federation not having a good time. Centigrade is the other side of it, Team Voltron having a realization of just what they’re going to need to do.

(I can remember all the days of violence/I can remember all the days they fought for rights/When men united all by fear and interest/I mustered them with hopeful promises I've broken)

(What did you hope to find adrift and lost in time?/Is this the end ready to begin?/It's time to escape the fate of destruction, excavating within until salvation/No longer pretend the future's a lie from a past you cannot hide)

The Future is Now and A Theater of Dimensions are. Well. You’ll see. It’s a little hard to pick a lyric from AToD, I'll say that much.

(They said there was no way/But they forgot the black hole in the sky/Yesterday is nothing/I have half a life to rewrite)

(I’ve seen our freedom in the mist of time/The old signs I’ll follow and the day of relief will be yours and mine)

And then there’s Afterlife. Fitting to end on a UtA song, after everything, especially since The Immortal has repeatedly throughout DM been a metaphor for Voltron. Also fitting that it’s this one, considering the parallels between the end of The Immortal’s story and Filaments

(But with such power, think how you could rule/Hold to your promise to watch over those in despair/Why would you choose to serve when you could be master of all?/Be true to your honour and fight for a world that is fair!/Out of shadow, out of darkness, welcome to the light/As the day shines boldly over night/Follow me to finally be who you are inside/Open wide, embrace the afterlife)

[icecream-and-gadreel]

FMK Ch. 4: One last round

Series Summary: Gabriel is known for his cruel, oftentimes deadly pranks. So when you, Sam, and Dean found out he was up to his old ways again, you came with reinforcements. What should have been a swift victory turned into you being stuck in the wildest game you've ever played in your life. 

Summary: After Sam appears, you find a way to connect with Dean. The Trickster promises to be done after just one more game. 

Pairing: readerxvarious

Other characters: Dean, Sam, Castiel, Gabriel

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Language, shmoopy shmoops, das it

Word count: 2100+

Eternity squad: @sheinthatfandom​ @greenshinigamieyes @lipstickandwhiskey​ @feelmyroarrrr​ @bcarolinablr​ @mrswhozeewhatsis​

A/N: I found myself wondering who was end game, and decided that @sheinthatfandom​ would be great at unknowingly choosing for me. Bahaha enjoy pals!

Masterlist

Sam hasn't stopped staring at the notebook since you pulled it out. He rakes his brow together, a perplexed look washing over his face as he finally looks up at you. You hop to your feet with a clap.

“Alright, no use moping around –”

“So you married me?” he blurts, eyes falling to the ground. “I mean, you wanted to?” he adds. You shrug, staring around at the blank walls. There has to be a seam. “I only ever married you, out of respect, you know?” he says, running his fingers through his locks. You grunt in response, hands grazing over the walls. After a few moments of silence, you turn your gaze to him, twitching a smile.

“I chose to fuck you the first time,” you say. Immediately his face flushes red and he stutters over unformed sentences, a permanent smile tugging at his cheeks. You both fall into silence, him sitting stone in his place and you trying to find a way out. Finally, after what seems like eons, Sam clears his throat.

“Was I...good?” he blurts, eyes locked on the ground.

“I-is that really important?” you squeak, eyes widening when your hand lands on a crack in the middle of the wall. You give it a gentle push, and much to your surprise, it begins to move. “Hey, come help me real quick.”

Sam leaps up, claiming the space next to you and resting his hands on the wall. You push with all of your might, revealing an identical room to yours as the wall screeches forward. No windows, no doors. The only thing that changes is Dean sitting in the middle of the room, his eyes trained on the ceiling. “Dean!” the younger Winchester grunts, jogging deeper into the room with a smile. He smacks Dean on the arm, frowning when he gains no response. Your eyes train on the notebook next to him, and you cock an eyebrow. Among two women you don't know is your name, 'MARRY' sprawled out in neat cursive next to it. You lean down and wave your hand in his face.

“I love you, Y/N,” Dean breathes, making your eyes go wide. Sam frowns, picking up Dean's notebook.

“He must be on you,” Sam mumbles, glancing between you both. “How the hell do we wake him up?” he adds. You shrug, flinching as abruptly, Dean pulls you into a kiss, his hands gently cradling your cheeks.

“Dean?” you squeak, trying to pull out of the embrace. Dean pauses, eyes flitting open and his hands falling from your face.

“...Oh,” Dean grunts, chuckling awkwardly as he pulls away from you. Sam stares silently, jaw clenched and eyes looking anywhere but you. “So uh...happy anniversary,” he says, chuckling and staring down at his hands.

“Anniversary, huh? It was wedding day for me.”

“Huh,” Dean grunts, a smile crossing his face. Sam clears his throat, holding up the notebook.

“This is cute and all, but we're still stuck here. Any ideas?” Sam says, pulling you back to reality. Trickster. Notebook. Missing angel. You need to focus. You stare around the room, wondering if any other walls will move when your eyes land on two more glittery notebooks.

“I think he wanted this,” you say, your voice a near whisper. The brothers follow your gaze. “Why the hell else would a wall suddenly decide to move?”

“Look at the brain on her!”

You whirl around to the source of the voice, wasting no time rushing the Trickster when you see him. He smiles sweetly at you, not even flinching as you begin hitting him. “Relax, I'm starting to get bored –” You punch him in the face, cutting his sentence short.

“Let us go! Stop killing people! You –”

“One more game,” the Trickster sings, waving his hand and making the notebooks fly open. You keep your eyes locked on his, shaking your head. “One game and you go home, and I stop playing with the townsfolk.”

“I don't believe you,” you hiss, gaining a hum from him.

“I like that about you sugar, makes you a lot more fun to toy with,” he coos. With a snap of his fingers, the notebook is in your hands. “I'll even make it less 'murdery' for you.” You watch as the words appear on the page, brow furrowing.

FUCK: Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester, Gabriel

“There, now it's sudden death. Whoever you don't choose gets to sit this one out,” the Trickster says, gesturing to Sam and Dean.

“Who the hell is Gabriel?” you ask, eyes flicking up to the demi-god. He shrugs, wiggling his eyebrows. “A-and why is fuck the only option?” you growl, gaining another eyebrow wiggle. Dean huffs, throwing his hands up.

“Alright, let's get it over with –”

“Yeah, let's just, you know, and get home,” Sam cuts in, gaining a glare from the elder Winchester. Before you know it, both men are bickering back and forth, spitting out reasons why they should be the one you choose over the other. The Trickster watches on with a sparkle in his eye, a wide smile stretched across his face. Of course, he's loving this shit. You rake your eyes over the page, mind going back to Castiel. You have to find him.

“Fuck you,” you growl, eyes locked on the demi-god. His honey-brown eyes glide over your form, his tongue darting over his lip.

“Sooo Gabriel?” he asks. You open your mouth to speak, clamping it shut when he disappears.

Shit.

“Get back here you fucking coward!” you scream, finally gaining the attention of the bickering brothers. Smiling, you throw your hands up. “In case you haven't noticed, Cas is STILL missing!” you say, eyeing each brother before continuing. “I don't wanna fuck either of you, I wanna find the angel, alright?” you growl, gaining nods in return. “Alright. Last time I found him, I was in this fucking notebook.” You pick up a sharpie from the ground, eyeing the choices carefully. You tick off 'Gabriel', eyes fluttering shut at the lulling feeling taking over. “If he...shows up...I'll...” your voice trails away, and as you fall a sickly sweet smell fills the air.

–

You smile, rolling your head to the side as your lover rubs your foot. The smell of freshly baked pastries is carried by a warm breeze, along with the salty smell of the ocean. Your eyes flutter open, staring around the Cabana. Such a beautiful afternoon. As you lean up on your arms, you're met with honey brown eyes and a warm smile.

“Gabriel,” you breathe, trying to keep the smile on your face. “That feels amazing...”

“Yet you're thinking of other men, shame on you,” he says, poking his lip out. You frown and try to pull your foot away but his grip is too strong.

“What?”

“Don't play dumb! 'Castiel, Castiel I'm coming for you', Dirty girl,” he purrs, winking. You suck in a breath as Castiel's face flashes through your mind.

“No –” You kick at him – “I gotta find him,” you say, finally breaking free of his grasp. You close your eyes tight, forcing past the false memories. You pause, eyes shooting open. “Wait you're –”

“Gabriel, archangel, blah blah, come onnnn let's get back to the roleplay,” he says, wiggling his fingers at you. “I've got magical phalanges,” he adds in a whisper.

“Where. Is. He.” You stand from the bed and your silky dress falls around your frame. “I told you, I'm done!” Gabriel stares at you silently, stroking his fingers over his chin as he ponders your words. Nodding, he waves his hand, eyes training on something behind you. “Don't ignore –”

“Hello, Y/N,��� Castiel's voice booms, making you whirl around. He eyes you up and down, forcing himself to look away when his gaze stays too long. Before either of you can speak, Castiel is ushering you behind him, locking his eyes on Gabriel. “You can't be this powerful.”

“Seriously, what do you see in this guy?” Gabriel gestures to himself, mouth agape. “I'm cute as hell, he's a talking piece of toast,” he says, pointing at the other man. “But whatever, you want him so bad, you got him.” With that, Gabriel disappears yet again, leaving you alone with Castiel.

“Wait!” you yelp, staring around the cabana with wide eyes. This wasn't at all what you meant. “Shit,” you groan. Sinking down to the bed, you cover your face with your hands, mind reeling and heart racing. Now what? Castiel sinks down next to you, patting your knee. You raise your head, eyeing the angel. He's staring at the sky, a perplexed look on his face. Honestly, out of those three, Castiel was one you could tolerate the most. Sam beat around the bush too much, Dean was far too willing to risk his life, but Castiel? He always felt different. He knew he didn't have all the answers, but for some reason, you always felt like he'd get it eventually.

“I'll figure this out,” he says, making you laugh. Frowning, Castiel flicks his eyes to you. “What?”

“It's like you read my mind,” you say. “Always focused on finding the answers,” you add. He hums, pondering your words.

“Is that a bad thing?” he asks, smiling when you shake your head. “I never stopped looking for you.” You tilt your head, silently urging him to continue. “I wasn't going to leave without you. Even if the Trickster is far more powerful than I imagined.”

“Chasing after the Winchesters per usual,” you say, a chuckle in your throat. He meets your gaze, eyebrows raising.

“For once, I was chasing after someone different,” he says. You share a look, your heart pounding in your chest as flurries collect in your stomach. Just as you begin to close the space between you, the room glitches, bringing you back to the warehouse. Dean is shaking you, with Sam giving Castiel the same treatment.

“Wh –” You cut yourself off, gripping Dean's arms as he pulls you to your feet. He smiles, giving your arm a rough pat. Sam pulls Castiel into a tight hug, letting out a short breath.

“Good to see you, buddy,” the younger Winchester says, gaining a grunt in return.

“Look,” Dean says, pointing over your shoulder. Whirling around, your shoulders sink, a smile spreading across your face. An open door. Outside is the Impala peeking out from behind a row of bushes.

“Oh thank god,” you breathe.

–

You sink down onto the motel bed, rolling your eyes at Sam and Dean as they bicker. The case is still open, Gabriel is on the loose, and nothing feels complete. You frown as the bickering behind you stops, turning to them. Both brothers stare at you silently, expectant looks on their faces.

“What?” you ask, cocking an eyebrow.

“So...given the opportunity,” Dean begins, clearing his throat. Castiel stops fiddling with the TV, staring up at Sam and Dean with a furrowed brow. “Between me and the hair model, who would you choose?” he asks, gesturing between himself and Sam. Silently, you stand to your feet, grabbing them both by the arm and leading them out of your room.

“Have a good night, dumbasses,” you growl before slamming the door shut. You shake your head, turning back to the bed. It's only then that you remember Castiel is sitting there.

“They can be a bit much,” he says with a soft smile. You nod in agreement, sinking down on the other side of the bed and twiddling your thumbs.

“I chose to kill you,” you blurt, squeezing your eyes shut tight. “I-it felt like the only respectful choice,” you add, voice small. He chuckles, shrugging.

“I never chose, I just wanted to find you,” he says. This effectively makes it feel like your heart it's going to explode.

“God, you're awesome.”

“You sound more like Dean every day,” he says, laughing as you playfully shove him. Castiel stands to his feet, staring around the room. “You seem like you'll be safe tonight. I'll be going.”

“Oh...yeah, right,” you say, standing with him and heading for the door. “Thanks for everything Cas,” you say, opening the door for him. He nods, smiling and pausing in the threshold.

"Of course," he says, chewing his lip. "I would have chosen kill for you too. Out of respect."

"Always the gentlemen," you giggle, rolling your eyes. He shrugs, gesturing to you. 

"The other options seem like they'd be much better with the real thing," he says. Your throat runs dry, both dirty and romantic thoughts coursing through your brain. Before you can think to respond, he's pressing a chaste kiss on your cheek. "I'm certain we'll have our time." With that, he disappears, leaving you with the implication of a future with him. For once, it doesn't seem so bad. 

[jarienn972]

La Sirena -  Chapter Five

Captain Swan Supernatural Summer

Apologies for the delay in getting out the latest chapter of my @cssns​ story. With my kids back to school, I'm finding a bit less time to write so updates are running a little behind. I am still working diligently to keep the updates coming though!  Thank you @kmomof4​ for helping me fix a couple of minor roadblocks that I had with this chapter!  And thanks again to @courtorderedcake​ for her incredible artwork!

After leaving off with the major turning point of Killian learning the secret that Emma had been concealing, this chapter will pick up in the aftermath. Will cooler heads prevail once Killian awakens or will their budding relationship be tarnished? And of course, there's still no where else for him to go...

Read from the beginning:  One  Two  Three  Four  Also on AO3 and FF.net

Putting the Pieces Back Together

A faint tickle of a breeze caught the torch flame behind Emma's back casting uneven shadows across the cavern walls and sending delicate tendrils of smoke into the already heavy air. She was kneeling in the sand with Killian's head resting atop her thighs, not daring to stray from his side as her slender fingers combed idly through his tousled dark hair. She watched the rise and fall of his chest as she patiently awaited his awakening.

She'd frightened him. That hadn't been her intent but that damage was done and she was dealing with a relatively new emotion: guilt. Perhaps she truly was little more than a monster at her core. All of these decades of trying to suppress her innate urges and desires may have been for naught. All of her years of self-isolation hadn't changed who - or what - she was. She was still a siren. Still a threat to mankind.

Perhaps Regina was right. She'd never be able to change her nature.

But if she really was nothing more than a coquettish, evil siren, why did she have such a strong desire to protect this human? It went against every element of her being, every native instinct she'd trained and developed before turning her back on her kind. She scarcely comprehended these feelings.

Siren emotions were already complicated enough. She knew anger and indignation. She also knew emptiness. She'd been living here in solitude for nearly two centuries, give or take a decade, yet she'd never really experienced loneliness. She'd just felt that something was missing from her meager existence. She'd just never allowed herself time to think about what that void might entail.

All of that had changed the moment she confessed her true nature to Killian and he'd rejected her. Now she was overwhelmed with a barrage of new emotions - guilt, fear and something else that she couldn't yet name. For a nanosecond, she contemplated leaving him there in the subterranean cavern, doubting that he'd ever be able to accept what she was. But then she heard it again - the same tiny voice inside her head that had compelled her to save him from drowning now also compelled her to stay.

He was an intelligent being. Her revelation had been too much of a shock for someone recovering from the trauma he'd suffered. When he'd had time to process the news, he would hear her out, wouldn't he? She took a glance back over her bare shoulder at the beam of light streaming through the crack in the earth above the spring. The midday sun would soon be directly overhead and the ambient light would fade quickly within the lava tube once the sun's rays crested over the ridge.

Regina's arrival had backed her into a corner. She didn't feel as though she could adequately protect him if he wasn't aware of the scope of the threat, but now she worried he wouldn't trust her. In hindsight, she knew she hadn't handled her reveal well. Even though he didn't really have anywhere to go, she feared he'd run and the thought of that stung worse than even the most toxic jellyfish she'd ever encountered.

When at last he stirred, her siren heart nearly leapt with anticipation - another entirely new sensation for her. With a deep inhale, he raised his right hand to massage his aching skull, making incidental contact with her knee in the process. He yanked his hand away as if he'd touched a flame, his eyelids popping open in surprise as he struggled to regain coherency.

At first, he saw nothing more than darting shadows cast by the flickering torches but as his sight adjusted to the relative darkness, images gradually came into focus, becoming clearer and familiar. And then his peripheral vision captured the contour of a woman's soft, rounded ivory-skinned thigh and instantly, he was fully awake, recoiling in terror as he pushed away from the woman he no longer believed was real.

"What manner of demon are you?" he demanded, his voice pitching higher as he scrambled to take cover behind one of the aging sea chests, squeezing his eyes closed for a moment as he dared not stare at this unknown creature's naked, feminine form. "Are you some malevolent trick of my mind? Here to drag me to the depths of hell?" He couldn't fight this monster if he couldn't see her though so he reluctantly opened his eyes, focusing intently on her lovely beguiling face. Was this how a siren killed a man?

"Killian, please… Do not be afraid. I have no intent to harm you." She made an attempt to shift closer to him, to try to assure him that she wasn't a threat, but she feared she may have already done too much damage. The terror and betrayal she saw reflected in his eyes cut straight to whatever soul she had left as he continued to shy away from her.

"Don't come near me, demon!" he cried as he fumbled for the sword at his hip, sliding the blade free of the scabbard and brandishing it with an instinctive flick of his wrist. "Stay back… or I'll…" Both his voice and hand trembled at the same timbre while he held the weapon directed at her throat.

This scared human wasn't even the slightest threat to her. She could overpower him barely lifting a pinky finger, yet she was awash with that lonely emotion and it took control, leading to an unplanned action.

"Do it," she dared him, leaning into the blade. "I am a monster. End me!"

A glint of torchlight flashed off of the polished steel, illuminating her face which was etched with determination and his resolve began to waver.

"Wait… What…?" He shook his head in disbelief at her unexpected demand. His gaze locked with hers as she pleaded for death and his tenuous grip on the cutlass' pommel loosened. "No… no…" He may have been bewildered and perhaps a tad angered, but he couldn't take her life. She'd saved him.

"I am a siren, Killian. I have lured countless men like you to their demise, but while this is what I was created to be, it is not what I desire to be. I deserve to die for what I have done in my past…"

"But you saved me…," he stated as he allowed the sword to slip from his hand onto the dark, sandy cavern floor. His tone was softer as he relaxed and exhaled a deep sigh. "Whatever you are, I owe you my life…" He plopped his weary body down to the ground and drew his knees to his chest while lowering his chin in defeat. "I've no expectation of what will become of me, but I'll not harm you. If you intend to leave me here to perish, then that shall be my fate…"

"I don't wish for anyone to perish," she replied. "That is what brought me here all those ages ago. I had no desire to harm those seafarers any longer."

"But if you are a siren as you say, are the myths not true? Does your song not lure men like me to certain death? How did I arrive here still breathing?"

"At one time, I did use my voice in that way. I watched many a human plunge into the sea, transfixed and bewitched by the hypnotic spell of my siren song, at least until I could bear it no longer. Until you arrived, I'd not even used my voice in eons."

"So a siren can have a conscience?" he asked quizzically, raising one eyebrow as he awaited her answer.

"Apparently some can - at least this one, as I've been told," she said with a faint smile curling the corners of her lips, although it didn't last long as she switched the direction of their exchange. "But Killian, if we are to survive, there is much you need to know. You need to hear more of my story just as I must learn more of yours."

"How so?" His eyes narrowed as he sought to make sense of the statement. Part of his brain still questioned the veracity of any of this nonsense, but the adventurer within him remained intrigued.

"Do you recall, before you struck your head, how I had mentioned that my sister came here because I had used magic?" The memory was vague and somewhat clouded by his own skepticism but he nodded anyway and allowed her to continue. "In using my powers, I unwittingly drew the scrutiny of the council, the governing band of the most powerful sirens - of which I used to be a part. I hadn't used magic in quite a long time so I never imagined that something so innocent would have far-reaching consequences."

"What magic do you possess?"

"Aside from the ability to change form, I have other powers. Those chests you're sitting amongst, they didn't wash up on these shores as I told you. I conjured them and their contents so that you would have the objects you desired. I wanted to give you those things that the cove could not provide. I had seen many similar chests float in and out with the tides over the years, but I never kept them. I used magic to create them and I didn't think about the potential ramifications."

Killian's jaw fell agape as he listened to her confession. No one - not even Liam - had ever offered such a generous gesture meant for him alone and he was at a loss for how to respond.

"Emma… you didn't need to do such a thing…"

"I wanted to," she grinned. "I had been alone for so long and after these past few days with you, I found myself desiring to do something good with my magic. I wanted to provide for you and now, that act of goodness has put you in far greater danger…" He quickly averted his sight as she pushed herself back to stand up before starting to pace nervously along the precipice of the hot spring. "I must ask this - when I found you, you were clinging to a slab of splintered timber. Were you in a shipwreck?"

Still concentrating on focusing his gaze on the bounce of her golden locks rather than her feminine physique, Killian was taken aback. Of course, he'd been in a shipwreck…

"Aye," he replied. "Not my own ship though. I'd been taken prisoner aboard a pirated vessel that inexplicably ran aground. By the time I was able to crawl out of the flooding brig and reach the safety of the top deck, those rapscallions had all debarked, likely to an island off the distant horizon. No one was left in sight and I scarcely escaped with my life as the vessel broke apart and sank into the depths."

"You saw no one at all? Was the vessel sinking that slowly?" Emma asked curiously, pausing her pacing as she awaited his answer.

"It seemed to be taking on water quite rapidly to me so I assumed they'd taken off in the skiffs, but to answer your question - no. I saw no other men, not even my fellow crew who'd also been imprisoned, although if I'm to be honest with myself, they were likely already dead by the time the ship went down. I was the ranking officer, thereby the most valuable prisoner."

"So that's it…," she mumbled as she hovered to his right, fixated on the sparkling surface of the spring. "That's how Regina knew they may have left a survivor… Killian, don't you see? You didn't see any others aboard the ship because they'd already succumbed to the song of the sirens. The ship ran aground because no one was helming it."

"How is that possible?" he queried as he raised his head in renewed curiosity. "I heard no singing, only the cracking of aging wood and the slap of the waves on the hull."

"You heard nothing? No song?" She spun around to face him, bewildered by his statement. "If the sirens attacked the ship, you would have heard their song."

"I swear to you, I heard nothing out of the ordinary, at least not until the vessel struck the rocks and began her unraveling. Are you certain that your kind assailed that vessel? It's highly likely that the pirates merely strayed off-course."

"No," she insisted, shaking her head. "Regina specifically mentioned that a ship had sailed into siren waters… In the condition I found you in, you could not have traveled far from the wreck so it must be the same vessel she spoke of. None of the sirens would have waited around to watch the vessel disintegrate but some of our ne'er do well fellow sea-dwellers reported rumors of a survivor in the wreck and those rumors reached the council. That's the reason they became suspicious of me when I utilized my magic… You must be that survivor."

Killian's head was suddenly spinning again and this time, it wasn't from the concussion. Sirens were a part of maritime history and mythology that he'd been educated in. He'd entertained countless yarns about ships that strayed into uncharted waters, never to be seen again. All manner of sea monsters had been attributed to these vanishing vessels but tales of sirens had always been particularly beguiling. Demons taking the form of beautiful women were said to lure unsuspecting sailors into the sea where they'd devour their unfaithful hearts.

But they were all only mythical… Until now…

"According to the legends I grew up hearing, sirens preyed upon lonely sailors far from home and family. The siren song was said to enchant the unfaithful amongst them, luring them into the depths of the sea where they'd be devoured. Is that how it really happens?"

"That isn't entirely true, but it is very close," Emma explained. "The song does lure the unsuspecting sailors, but only those deemed unworthy of passage through our realm by the gods. The unworthy are not allowed to travel through our seas and the song puts them into a trance. The men will then leap from their ships into the sea and sink to Triton's lair. I honestly do not know what becomes of them after they drown, what Triton desires of them. It never mattered to me, not then and I certainly did not dwell upon it after I departed the council."

"Until you found me?" he offered, shivering at the fate he'd narrowly avoided. "This may be a pointless query, but has any man ever been found worthy?"

"Well, long before my creation, there was a single human whom Poseidon deemed to be worthy to pass. That man went on to become a great leader of his land and for a while, there was peace between the realm of man and that of the gods. Unfortunately, that man's successors were nothing like him and the years of peace ended. Triton ordered all of the creatures in his command to defend our realm from the evil of mankind. Poseidon unleashed innumerable monsters including dozens more sirens, including myself and for many years, I followed the orders of the gods…"

"I've heard many tales of these legendary gods of the sea. Never in all my dreams did I imagine they were real and that they alone determined the worth of a man."

"I broke away from the council when I began to suspect that the gods harbored more of a vindictive grudge against these men of the sea. I could no longer be convinced that there weren't good men among those we had deceived. Not every man could be so evil."

"Indeed, there are men with good hearts out there but I shan't deny that there is evil in the world. I've encountered those who might barely be described as human, yet most folk are just going about their lives and wish no harm. It would seem that the same might be said of the legendary siren as there is at least one who possesses a good heart… But if we are to circle back to the pirate ship I escaped from, how did I come to survive? Was it because I was secreted away in a cranny of the cargo hold? Was I too far below deck to hear the songs?"

"No, it doesn't work like that. The siren song resonates through every inch of a vessel and carries for several leagues out to sea. It is intended to be heard by every human ear that ventures into our realm."

"That makes little sense to me then," Killian countered. "Why didn't I hear the siren voices? I hear you speaking to me just fine as I am not deaf and despite my injury when you rescued me from the water, I had been fully conscious just prior to the ship's grounding."

"I… I do not know," she stammered. This was another first for her and she had no response. She honestly did not have any inkling as to how he'd resisted.

"Do you still possess the ability to sing?" he asked her bluntly and she found herself ill-prepared to answer.

"I am not entirely certain…," she told him, her voice trembling at the possible implications of the question. "It has been centuries… I believe I am still able to sing, but I cannot predict the outcome. There may be ramifications that you aren't ready for and it may hasten Regina and the council's return…"

He tried to avoid the darkening of her olivine eyes as she pleaded wordlessly for him to reconsider, but it was the only way he might discover how he'd managed to remain alive.

"Emma, you must," he pressed. "It's the only way I'll know… That we'll know. You would be able to tell right away if the song has the desired effect, correct?"

"Of course, I would know. I just cannot promise that I can stop it as I've never tried…"

"Then consider this your chance to find out," Killian stated bravely, although inside, his stomach was churning at the huge risk he was taking. "I must learn why I was spared, Love. Please, indulge my curiosity and desire to solve this one mystery…"

"Killian…" She didn't want to do this. She'd vowed to never sing again and she certainly didn't want to endanger this man she'd become so fond of. Could she deny him the answers he so desperately wanted? She'd know within a few notes but even if the song ended abruptly, would she be able to reverse its effects if he wasn't immune?

[drwcn]

RE: [Post]

I’M SORRY TO HAVE CAUSED YOU PAIN (not really, not even a little bit sorry).

Once upon a time I had hopes of writing a sequel to “Begotten”, but I don’t know which decade that’s going to happen - maybe not at all - since I’ve got “Discordance” and “Before the Sun Falls” to tackle now before my schedule eats me up in September.

So, I’m here to bite the bullet and face the music. Here is the condensed one shot of what would’ve been the Begotten Sequel:

“Alone Stands the Quiet ” 

[AO3] 

Word Count: 4005

Summary: The story of the Yin Iron starts with a celestial war and ends with Lan Sizhui. 

The story of Lan Sizhui did not start at the fall of Jin Guangyao. It did not start when Hanguang-jun brought him to Cloud Recesses. It did not even start when Yiling Laozu led the remaining Wens to the Burial Mount.

The story of Lan Sizhui started eons ago, before the sects were sects, before man could vie for divinity through cultivation.

Lan Yi once told Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji that the Yin Iron was an item of the ancient, a 上古之物. It existed with the sky and the earth. She was not wrong.

Long ago, a terrible war had broken out between the six realms: shen (gods), xian (immortals), ren (man), yao, mo (demons), and ming (ghosts). It was said that the God of War led the front for gods and immortals, protecting humans who could not protect themselves. The God of War was fierce, was brave, was righteous, but the God of War was flawed. They met their match in a Demon General, their nemesis on the celestial battlefield, yet a kindred spirit in every other way.

The war dredged on. The earth cracked open; the sky splintered into pieces. Creatures died. Fire raged. Victory was not promised, but Death surely would come for them all. Both the God of War and the Demon General knew the war could not go on, though hesitant they were to put an end to the other as they’d been ordered to do so by their heavenly/demonic masters.

In the final battle, the two unfortunate beings perished. How exactly, no one knew. As their existence faded into the expanse, like stardust scattered by cosmic wind, a single drop of their blood, mixed together, fell to Earth into the iron quarries beneath the mountains of Yiling, forming what will one day be known as the Yin Iron.

The Yin Iron as Lan Yi knew it, had never been anything but an instrument for the wicked, though try as she did to purify it to its original state. She had believed that the Iron itself, however powerful it had been, was not inherently evil or good. She believed that it was only Xue Chonghai’s malice and greed that had corrupted such an ancient item through dark cultivation. 

Lan Yi, though unsuccessful, was right.

What Lan Yi didn’t know and what no one knew, not even Wei Wuxian, was that something of that magnitude, of that divinity, could not be destroyed by mortal means, cultivator or not.

Before his death, Wei Wuxian was beyond magnificent mostly due to the Stygian Amulet in his possession. It grew so powerful that he eventually lost control of it. Part of the blame could possibly be laid on Jin Guangyao, but his loss of control demonstrated an important truth that no one realized: The Yin Iron and its spiritual force - its essence - were beyond the capacity of man. Every time a piece was supposedly destroyed, the energy was transferred to the closest remaining pieces. By destroying Wen Ruohan’s three Yin Iron shards, Wei Wuxian had unknowingly absorbed additional dark energy in his own Stygian Amulet.

When Wei Wuxian obliterated the seal at the final confrontation before his first death, its spiritual energy had no solid matter to bind to. Most cultivators’ golden cores repelled or were incompatible with demonic energy. Xue Yang’s piece was hidden far away in Lanling. The only place that could sustain such a large quantity of yin energy was the Burial Mount, and there it found a receptive host, in the form of an unwitting coreless child. The Energy itself was partially sentient, and for self-preservation, it laid dormant in the child’s body, hidden and waiting for the day to come.

A dangerous near-death experience during a failed night hunt triggered the awakening of Sizhui’s powers when he was thirteen years old. For years, he nurtured it, kept it a secret with the help of his friends Lan Jingyi, Jin Ling and later on Ouyang Zizhen.

Some day, the Gods of the Nine Heavens will say that it was always meant to be Wen Yuan… that Fate had chosen him to bear the powers of the God and Demon who had fought and died for the middle ground.

 ~~~

 Following the incident at the Guanyin Temple, Lan Sizhui lived up to his promise to Jin Ling. He came back for Jin Guangyao’s soul sealed within the temple along with Nie Mingjue. His uncle, the kind and gentle Lan Xichen had gone into seclusion, unable to face the fact that his blindness had allowed Jin Guangyao to go unchecked or that he had been the one to kill him. Nie Huaisang’s vague answer had confirmed everything he needed to know.

Confident and naïve as youths often were, Lan Sizhui believed he could find a way to bring Nie Mingjue and Jin Guangyao back from the dead without using life sacrifice as Mo Xuanyu had done. Mo Xuangyu had barely been a cultivator, and Lan Sizhui had grown in leaps and bounds and was on the verge of surpassing even the great Yiling Laozu himself.

Sizhui stole Nie Mingjue and Jin Guangyao's souls and brought them to a place that he knew no one visited anymore: The Wen Sect’s ancestral seat of power, Wen Yuan’s birthright, Nevernight. There, over the chasm where Wen Ruohan had once cultivated three pieces of the Yin Iron, Lan Sizhui kept the souls of his uncle’s sworn brothers in protected suspension.

If he were to do this, he knew he could not just save Jin Guangyao alone, but Nie Mingjue as well. He did not understand the grievance and hatred between the men of the previous generation, but his family deserved happiness and closure, and if he could give it to them, he would without hesitation.

This, he kept as a closely guarded secret. Only Jingyi and Jin Ling were his confidants.

As a child, he did not tell Lan Wangji about his power out of fear, but now, Sizhui kept his silence for another reason entirely. Let him be selfish just this once. He did not want to answer to anyone, to explain himself, his motivations or his powers. A part of Sizhui instinctively knew that Xue Chonghai, Wen Ruohan, Wei Wuxian, Xue Yang - they were all just vessels, a long line of cultivators that the Iron used to get to him. With him was where the Iron’s power always belonged; it may have taken centuries in the making, but finally, the wrong had been righted.

Sizhui hid his secret it from his fathers, from his sect, from everyone. Meanwhile, his powers grew, both spiritual and demonic, to the point where Wei Wuxian's willful ignorance could no longer deny the fact that something was very different about this boy he saved. He hoped it was not true, hoped that Sizhui hadn't been doing exactly what he thought he was.

"A-Yuan," he said to Lan Sizhui one evening when they were taking a stroll through the back mountains of Cloud Recesses. Lan Wangji was busy with Chief Cultivator business and could not join them.

"Yes, a-die?" Responded Sizhui. He heard the change in Wei Wuxian's tone, but he pretended to be none the wiser.

Wei Wuxian paused in his step, turned, and placed a hand on the shoulder of his child. Sizhui had grown taller over the last couple of seasons. He was no longer a boy.

"Is there something you'd like to tell me?"

By then, Lan Sizhui was already in too deep. Since the early days of his resurrection endeavours, he had realized there was no way that he, as a mortal cultivator, could bring back a life from nothing. A sacrifice was always needed, and even if he were to give up his own, it would only revive one of the two souls. 

Both Nie Mingjue and Jin Guangyao’s souls had been damaged, though in different ways. The seals placed upon them would hinder their reincarnation for a hundred years, and after that, there was no telling where they would end up. Without resolving the hatred they both carried into their deaths, their next several lives would be fraught with perils and misfortune.

Jin Ling had by this point come to terms with the passing of his uncle, but Lan Xichen…

If he could not bring back Chifeng-zun and Lianfang-zun to be reunited with Zewu-jun, then at the very least, Sizhui would alleviate his Uncle’s guilt by offering peace to his sworn-brothers. With this in mind, Sizhui did not give up, and eventually he had found a way.

So when Wei Wuxian confronted him, there were so many things he wanted to tell him, but he knew he couldn't. Sizhui was so close to the end, so close to achieving what he needed to do, and he could not afford anyone standing in his way. He had learned from the past. He'd heard of Wei Wuxian's audacious suggestions spoken right here within the walls of Cloud Recesses. Even then, as a guest disciple, he had planted the idea in the minds of his peers and mentors that he, Wei Wuxian, was a divergent from The Path, that he was to be wary of, to be monitored and to be taken down before he could uproot their lives.

Lan Sizhui had no intentions of allowing the small-mindedness of his elders to hinder him. He also did not want his fathers blamed for his own doings, though being his fathers, perhaps they would be blamed no matter what he did. He knew it was unfilial of him to disregard that, but he had gone too far to turn back now.

Lan Sizhui had started out wishing to help Jin Ling, to help Lan Xichen, but now… now he wanted to do this for himself. He didn’t want to stop; he wanted to know if he could do it, if he could make this one thing come true. They say power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely. They also say curiosity killed the cat, and Sizhui was willing to find out if satisfaction was really able to bring it back.

Thus, the secret of his power must be kept hidden until the spell was complete. Both Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji must have reasonable deniability. When all is said and done, Sizhui had made plans to disappear and save the cultivation world the trouble of removing him.

"A-Yuan, is there something you'd like to tell me?" Wei Wuxian repeated. The hand on Sizhui's shoulder tightened.

Lan Sizhui stared the man in the eye and lied, "No, a-die. There isn't."

 ~~~

 When Sizhui revealed the plans of his departure, that was when Jingyi finally broke.

"No, Sizhui, no! You were supposed to be Sect Master, it was supposed to be you!"

"I can't go back, Jingyi, if I do this, I can never go back."

"Sizhui, please, please don't - "

"You'll still have our friends when I’m gone. Zizhen is a good man, a trusted friend. He would stand by your side. And Jin Ling too, he would never leave you.” 

"J-Jin Ling?! Th- that brat, I - I don't know what you're -"

"It's okay. He likes you too." Sizhui smiled brightly at his friend's flushed cheeks.

"H-he does?"

"Yes, yes he does."

They didn’t know it then, but Sect Master Jin Rulan and Sect Master Lan Jingyi would one day become cultivation partners. Openly and without shame, they formed the Lan-Jin alliance their predecessors wished but could never achieve.

 ~~~

 The plan was this:

Sizhui had discovered that he could put souls into human bodies if he manipulated with their reincarnation cycle and transported them distantly enough in time. Jin Guangyao and Nie Mingjue were not destined to meet again in another life, but Sizhui had his ways.

Against Fate or not, he was going to do it.  

Somehow, Lan Xichen found out. After years in seclusion, he emerged one day and sought out his nephew at Nevernight where he couldn't deny what he'd been planning.

Sizhui had panicked, thinking his uncle would for sure admonish him for tampering with reincarnation and matters entirely too divine and out of his control.

But Lan Xichen simply stood there, gazing up at the two suspended souls above the pit of Sizhui's swirling demonic and spiritual energy. His sworn brothers. They had knelt before Heaven and Earth and promised that though they had not been born on the same day, in same month and in the same year, they would seek to die on the same day, in same month and in the same year.

And what became of them? Mingjue was beheaded, A-Yao stabbed. Both murdered. Yet, here he was, still alive.

Left behind.  

"I want to go with them." Lan Xichen said.

For the first time since his journey began, Lan Sizhui was truly horrified. 

"I - I can only transport souls, and yours -"

"Then transport mine."

Sizhui shook, sputtering, "But – but - you would have to die! I would have to kill you!"

"I know. Sizhui," Lan Xichen turned to the boy he helped raise into the fine young man he was now and bowed his head. "A-Yuan, please."

Sizhui floundered. What would Father say, if he knew his A-Yuan had been the one to take the life of his beloved brother?

"You can't ask this of me, you can't Zewu-jun, no - da'bofu… da'bofu don’t…"

But Sizhui knew, he knew, deep down, that he would do this for Lan Xichen. In the hallow abbey of Nevernight, his uncle held him as he cried, as if he was still that scared lonely little boy. 

"I am a selfish man. I'm sorry, child, forgive me."  

 ~~~

 Sizhui spun the spell for nine days and nine nights.

A barrier was formed from his mixture of demonic and spiritual energy, barring anyone passage into the palace. Lan Xichen’s disappearance from Cloud Recesses quickly alerted cultivators all round, and the strange energy coalescing around Qishan commanded the attention of Chief Cultivator Hanguang-jun and the other sect masters. Together, Sizhui’s fathers and the leaders of all major and minor sects marched on Nevernight for a third time, completely surrounding the place on day two of the nine-day spell. 

Lan Sizhui’s absence from Gusu Lan’s entourage drew speculations right away, as he was the unofficial Sect Heir.

Under immense pressure and terrified by the development of both political and spiritual tension, Jin Ling and Lan Jingyi caved and told their qianbeis the truth: that Sizhui was a practiced demonic cultivator from an early age, that he planned to release Chifeng'zun and Jin Guangyao's trapped spirits into reincarnation for a second chance, that Zewu-jun had begged him to send him as well, that Sizhui had agreed to it all.

The reveal shocked all, even the usually nonplussed Nie Huaisang.  “Is he really able to do it? To give my brother peace and absolution?”  Jingyi nodded. “If anyone can, Sizhui can.” 

For nine days the cultivators meditated, their collective cultivation keeping yet another barrier between the surrounding land and Nevernight’s epicenter.

As the only non-spiritual cultivator present Wei Wuxian knelt before the long stone steps, stained and darkened by the blood of countless lives that were ended upon it. 

Whose blood they were yet to spill he did not know and was too afraid to think on it further. Two live-times’ of memories flooded his thoughts, threatening to overtake him. Wen Ning knelt with him, silently by his side as always. 

When the spell ended, the spiritual and demonic powers in Lan Sizhui came to a culmination. The earth quaked, the sky darkened. For a minute, all was quiet.

Then, suddenly, four flashes of lightning cut across the sky, lighting up night as though it were day. Its thunderous echoes shook the cultivators down to their knees. Even the mighty Hanguang-jun, the Chief Cultivator himself, bowed to its strength. Men and women quivered and trembled, for they knew those were not your ordinary lightning.

Four, consecutive strikes, each hitting where Lan Sizhui would be within the main palace. Those were Omens, Heaven's Trial. It was clear to all of them what had happened.

Lan Yuan, Lan Sizhui, had ascended.

"That was...that was an ascension." Jiang Wanyin’s voice spoke out first.

Beside him, his nephew the young Sect Master Jin Ling bit back his sobs. He had hoped this wouldn't happen, though the signs were all there in the preceding days. Ascension was what all cultivators sought, though in this case, it was most definitely not a blessing.

He feared for his friend, and he blamed himself for ever posing that ridiculous request that day at the Guanyin Temple.

“Sizhui!!” Lan Jingyi was the first to break rank, dashing forward in a mad panic. He was stopped in his track by Jin Ling’s arms circling his waist from behind.  

“Jingyi, stop!! It’s too late, we can’t stop this!”

“Sizhui! Sizhui!”

“Jingyi! Jin Ling!”  Ouyang Zizhen rushed to their side and helped Jin Ling haul back their friend.  

“He’s ascended! He’s ascended, he’s ascended, it’s just an ascension, just an ascension,” chanted Jin Ling over and over to his friend as they crumbled to their knees.

"No, not 'an' ascension," corrected Lan Wangji, his voice rising over the deafening silence. He stood and helped Wei Wuxian to stand. His husband was white as sheet, for he too understood what four lightnings meant.

Historical records have always noted that one lightning was the sign of ascension from cultivator to di’xian (lesser immortal). Unlike popular belief, the lightning was not a sign of Heaven’s favour, but a Fated Trial. To be an immortal, a cultivator must survive the trial, and of the few who were ever graced with the lightning, even fewer survived. Aside from Baoshan, no cultivator had even reached anywhere close to this stage in over a hundred years.

Three lightnings, however, were the price to pay for the ascension from lesser to higher immortal (shang’xian). 

Lan Wangji and Wei Wuxian clung to each other. To leap through two tiers and ascend twice consecutively...it was completely unheard of. Was their son still alive?

“We have to find him,” said Wei Wuxian when the lightning faded. Sizhui’s barrier had slowly melted away from Nevernight. Above them, the thick clouds parted, giving way for the soft morning light. 

“Mn.”

“Jiang Cheng –”

Jiang Wanyin stood up right, drawing Sandu from its sheath and nodded. “I’ll keep watch. Go.”

When Lan Wangji and Wei Wuxian finally reached Sizhui, he was waiting for them. Well...a form of him was. 

Soaring around along the vaulted ceiling was a large fire bird, Qishan Wen’s symbol immortalized. Its feathers were as black and shiny as obsidian, and its belly as pale as pearls. Crimson flames trimmed the edge of its large wings and trailed behind in its wake. With a sharp piercing cry, the creature dived mid-flight and came sweeping down until it disappeared into fractals of bright lights and materialized the next instant into a young man. 

Half of Lan Sizhui’s hair had gone completely white. Mixed with black, it fluttered loose and wild in the waves of divine magic that now enshrouded his person.

His Gusu Lan robes once pristine were in tatters, and from where he stood several feet in front of them, Lan Wangji and Wei Wuxian could see the streaks of lightning scars running where his veins ought to be.

Then, he looked up, revealing a blood-red iris.

"A-die, fuqin.” Sizhui took a couple steps towards them and crumbled in their arms. Somewhere behind his shoulder, Lan Wangi saw his brother's body lying prone on a slab of rock. There was no doubt Lan Xichen was dead.

"I don't have long. They're coming for me." Sizhui hugged them close.  

Wei Wuxian was distraught, "Who's coming for you?! A-Yuan -"

"I've tampered with timelines, changed fates, the Gods are angry. The demons tell me so."

Lan Wangji cradled his child’s face in his hands and found it hard to imagine this was the little boy he saved from the Burial Mount early twenty years ago. "Sizhui, son, please let us help you -"

"You can't help me. This is my burden to carry."

But Lan Wangji refused to accept it. "We won't let you die -"

"I won't die, fuqin, a-die, but I will be going now."

"G-go? Where will you go? You’re not going anywhere! I won’t allow it!" Wei Wuxian held him tighter.

"A shangxian's place is with the Heavenly Court. That is where I must answer for my crimes."

“No…no, you won’t – A-Yuan, our little A-Yuan…”

Sizhui clasped all three of their hands together and whispered, "Qing-gugu once said that when there is too much to say, all one really need to say is thank you and I’m sorry. Fuqin, a-die, Sizhui has been unfilial. I hope you can forgive me.”

As he spoke those words, the entire hall was suddenly lit aglow. A figure appeared, too bright and blinding to discern its feature.

The voice that called out to him was calm but commanding, heavy with gravitas. "Lan Sizhui, your presence is requested." 

"I know."

"Do you admit your guilt?"

"I do."

"Then come."

A-Yuan stood, pulling his hands from his fathers' grasps. With one last gentle smile, half in pain half in love, he turned to face his future. He could no longer bear to see the devastation on his fathers’ faces, awash with tears.  

As he walked calmly into the light, his last words, spoken over his shoulder, were: “Tell, xiaomei that I would’ve loved to meet her." (xiaomei = little sister.)

“SIZHUI!!” 

“A-YUAN!!” 

 ~~~

 On their way back to Cloud Recesses from this eternal parting, Lan Wangji and Wei Wuxian happened upon an orphaned baby girl on the side of the road.

They brought her home and adopted her. Their daughter was named Wei Xiao, courtesy Lan Mengyuan.

To dream of a reunion...

Wei Xiao grew, happy and loved. Then, nearly a century later, at the end of a very long life, Lan Wangji and Wei Wuxian passed, peacefully and together.

 ~~~

 In front of a Starbucks in a modern metropolitan city, a young man holding a latte and talking quickly on the phone is attempting to cross the road without looking both ways.

"I'm honestly trying my best here! I have my thesis to finish and my PI is -"

He is struck by a car, which immediately took off. This is witnessed by a jogger coming from the opposite direction and a man in professional attires waiting by the bus station. The jogger and the bus taker both rush to the injured man at the same time, as many others crowd around to the scene.

The jogger introduces himself as "Nie Mingjue, a fireman", and the bus taker pulls out a stethoscope from his bag and replies with a polite smile and a quick handshake, "Lan Xichen, doctor – pediatrician specifically."

A student in the crowd exclaims, "Oh my god, that's Meng Yao, my finance TA. Please help him!"

“Do you have contact for his next of kin?” Nie Mingjue asks.

“N-no, but I-I can call his department. My prof should know, or HR, hold on.”

“Call the ambulance,” instructs Lan Xichen to another bystander, “Tell them we have a man, in his twenties, who’s been struck by a hit and run…”

…

Across the street, under the umbrella of Starbucks’ patio, a young man raises his head. His hair is cut short, though strangely dyed white on one side. The sunglasses on his nose slips a little, revealing a startling red iris. On the table beside his elbow, his phone pings, showing an email alert from lan.wangji@edugusu.org, bcc-ed to the entire class and cc-ed to wei.wuxian@edugusu.org.   

Midterm Tutorial Session: Updated Slides.

“Finally, I was starting to think it would never happen.” A young woman slides into the seat across from him, sipping on a freshly made frappuccino.

The young man picks up his own cup and smiles. “Good morning to you too, Mengyuan.”

“Satisfied now, my meddling rebellious brother?”

“Yes.” The god in mortal clothes sighs, content. “Yes in fact, I am.”

 FIN

 Note:  *Wei Xiao’s name Lan MengYuan isn’t the same Meng* as MengYao’s last name, and isn’t the same Yuan* as Wen Yuan. Completely different words and meaning. :) 

[kumeko]

A/N: Written for the Talia zine hosted by @lady-talia! Considering the changes her character went through throughout the years, I wanted to explore those changes a bit and the possibilities she could have had.

Summary: In another world, Damian could have grown up with both his parents, his grandfather, and his aunt. In another world, Nyssa and Talia could have changed the world for the better. It’s unfortunate that in this world she is alone.

…

…

…

…

1. Nyssa

 Talia stared at the absurd tableau in front of her. Her long-lost sister Nyssa. Her somewhat controlling, twisted father Ra’s. A sharp knife connecting the two, the blade plunged into her father’s chest. His hand gripped the handle, blood dripping down his mouth as he tried to pull it out but Nyssa held it fast, pushing it even deeper into his flesh. As dimly lit as the cave was, it couldn’t hide what was happening before her: the death of Ra’s Al Ghul.

 “This. Is. For. My. Family.” Nyssa grunted with each word, twisting the knife deeper and deeper. Her hand was slick with blood. Whatever droplets had splattered on her chest were absorbed by her black shirt.

 Ra’s mouth fell open, gaping soundlessly. His eyes darted from the dagger to his estranged daughter, as though he couldn’t believe his eyes either. The strength leaving his body, he fell to his knees and Nyssa let go of the blade. “Nyssa…” he gurgled, his hand weakly tugging at the blade.

 “Father!” Despite her part to play in this, Talia instinctively ran to his side. Helping him was engraved in her by now, as much a part of her as her flesh and bones. “I…”

“Talia…” His head rolled to the side, his dark eyes searching for her.

 “I’m here.” She cradled him against her chest. His body was so small, so frail. Nothing at all like the man who had travelled the world for eons, whose life spanned centuries. Talia had almost thought him invincible. Yet it had only taken an ordinary knife to take him down. “I’m here.”

 “Talia…” he croaked, his eyes still searching for her. Too late, she realized he couldn’t see anymore. His hand left the dagger, groping blindly in front of him. “My daughter…”

 “I’m here,” she repeated, clutching his hand. His grip was weak, too weak, and this hurt more than she thought it would. Despite what he’d done, despite her reasons, he was still her father in the end. Their bond would always be more complicated than she’d like.

 With a soft gasp, his arm went limp. His eyes stared blankly ahead. Noticing the change, Nyssa crouched before them, her expression flat as she studied him. The sticky blood was still dripping down her hand, landing on the dirt floor with a loud splotch. “Is he?”

 “He is,” Talia confirmed, gently closing his eyes. If killing him had felt absurd, cradling his dead body felt downright unnatural. Even in her wildest dreams, her father’s death was a moment of great import. Surrounded by dignitaries, by top subordinates, with the pomp of a king. Nothing as simple as passing away in a run-down cave, alone with his killers.

 “So it is done.” Nyssa sighed with relief, sitting on the ground, her legs bent in front of her. Crossing her arms on her knees, she rested her chin on them. “The demon is dead.”

 “The demon is dead,” Talia repeated, the words sounding less real with each passing second. She half expected him to walk out of the Lazarus pit behind her, despite his cooling body still in her hands. “And with him his plans.”

 “Good riddance.” Nyssa wearily closed her eyes, looking unguarded for once. She looked softer, gentler, like the woman she might have been once. The woman she still could have been, had her family lived. Had Ra’s helped. Had fate taken a different route than the one that had led them here.

 Talia said nothing. Carefully, she set his body on the ground. Down the tunnels, she could hear metal clashing, a sharp sound that echoed in the cave. Batman, perhaps. While her father was dead, his men didn’t know that. There was an organization to dismantle, people to remove, and Talia felt a headache forming already. The demon might be dead but he certainly wasn’t disposed of.  With a sigh, she got up and dusted her pants. “There is work yet to be done.”

 Nyssa cracked an eye open. Glancing down the tunnel, she shrugged carelessly. “Remnants. Easily disposed with. Your boyfriend is already doing it.”

“No, they still remain.” Talia grimaced. A failing of Bruce’s, really. The inability to kill. She both loved and hated him for it. “Besides, my beloved can’t reach the heart of it all, not like we can.”

 “True.” Nyssa lay on her back, stretching her limbs languidly. She looked far too relaxed for what they’d just done. “But my point still stands. Between the two of us, we can tear it all down. Or even repurpose it.”

 “Repurpose?” Talia raised a brow. “How do you propose we repurpose a gang of killers?”

 “Mmm…” Nyssa closed her eyes, mulling it over. “Community service.”

 “What?” Talia arched a brow, holding back an inelegant snort. “You can’t possibly be serious.”

 “No. A joke.” Nyssa chuckled, getting up now. “These killers aren’t good for anything else. It would have been nice to build something for once. To create instead of destroying.”

 Talia stared at her father’s corpse, thinking of the bloodshed he’d promised. The bloodshed she’d stopped. It was sentiment she could understand. Something completely unlike her father’s teachings. Reaching out, she squeezed her sister’s hand, staining her own red. “Perhaps we still can.”

   2. Bruce

 “Beloved…” Talia places a flat hand on her belly, on the slight, fragile bump. It was strange to think there was another life in her, to look in the mirror and spot the changes in her body. Some part of her still didn’t believe it was real.

 Sitting on her bed, Bruce looked up from the book he was reading. “Is something wrong?”

 Yes, she wanted to answer. Many things. Her father was out there, fighting Qayin. Alone. Yet the only person who could catch him, who could beat him, was sitting on her bed looking more and more like a domestic husband with each passing day. “What are you reading?”

 Bruce flushed lightly, closing the book. When she looked at his questioningly, clearly not going to drop the subject, he rubbed the back of his neck. “Different baby names.”

 “Baby names?” She snickered, walking over to his side of the bed. Sitting down, she plucked it out of his hands. Already he was on the letter ‘F’, and she could spot several Arabic names in the list. An international book of names, it seemed. “A little eager, are we?”

 “Just want to be prepared,” he muttered, avoiding her gaze. Bruce’s ears were still red and if there was one thing he couldn’t handle well, it was teasing.

 “Your motto in life.” It was amusing how excited he was for this baby. She could barely make it through the day without him worrying about her health, food intake, habits, even her sleep. If she were completely honest, it was even sweet how overprotective he was. If a little tiring.

 “It doesn’t hurt. You never know what could happen.” His eyes darkened slightly, and she wondered if he would ever be free of that moment, of those gunshots that ended and started everything.

 “I think we are fairly well covered in that regard.” She closed the book softly, setting it aside.

 Bruce leaned forward, his hand gently caressing the bump. His eyes softened. “I just want the best for him.”

 Her breath caught. “Or her.”

 “Or them.” Bruce smirked at her confused expression. “Twins or triplets are a possibility.”

 “I hope not.” Talia shuddered. Even with the best doctors money could buy, she did not look forward to the delivery.

 His hand still splayed on her belly, Bruce peered up at her. “So what is the matter?”

 Observant as usual. Far more observant than she desired. Outside, her father was waiting impatiently for Bruce to join him in his crusade. The only thing stopping her beloved was his overprotective tendencies, his fear to leave her side for longer than a minute. A part of her agreed with Ra’s: this could get Bruce killed. And that was something she couldn’t allow to happen.

 Her hand covered his, pressing it against the bump. While he tried to maintain a serious expression, he couldn’t completely hide the joy in his face. If she carried out her plan, if she pretended she miscarried, that smile would be gone. Forever, possibly.

 Her father was worth that, she knew. A risk she could take. A risk she should take.

 “Talia?” Bruce asks softly, concern colouring his voice.

 Their relationship would never be the same after that. When he found out the truth, that she’d used him, he would never open himself like this again to her. Her child might never know their father. Just like she never knew her mother, like Bruce never got to know his parents.

 “It’s nothing.” She leaned forward and kissed him softly. Her father was more than worth the risk but she did not lose this. Ra’s would find another way. He always did.

     3. Damian

 “Mother.” Sitting on one end of a long dining table, Damian crossed his arms. Despite the well-prepared breakfast spread in front of him, he pointedly ignored the food and stared at Talia. “We have to do something.”

 “Something?” Talia asked, delicately picking up her glass of freshly squeezed orange juice. Breakfast was usually a quiet matter between them and this change, while not unwelcome, was certainly unexpected. Perhaps she should shorten the table’s length. It certainly made it hard to carry a conversation and there was something ridiculous about how it made her short son appear even shorter.

 “About father.” Damian scowled, his fingers digging into his arms. He bit out the next words. “He has been prancing around with that harlot Selina.”

 Talia resisted the urge to chuckle. What would Selina’s reaction be, to hear her son utter such words? Unamused, most likely. “Your father is often found with other woman.”

 “True.” Damian’s frown grew deeper, if possible. If she had doubted he was Bruce’s son before, that expression cleared up any uncertainties. “However, this time appears serious.”

 Well, that much she had to agree on. Then again, Bruce had only ever been serious with a handful of women and this thing with Selina was years in the making. Spreading cream on her bagel, Talia replied lightly, “Then I suppose congratulations are in order.”

 Damian shot her a blistering glare. “Mother, you are not taking this seriously.”

 “I am taking this seriously enough.” Talia laced her hands together, elbows on the table, and rested her chin on them. “What do you propose I do?”

 “Stop him.” Damian bluntly stated, looking at her as though she were an idiot. “I do not want to call that woman ‘Mother’.”

 Talia tapped her chin. “I don’t know, I find the idea amusing.” Selina’s face would twist, she was certain of it. A strained smile, gritted teeth, and a chill down the spine as she heard the word. Oh, it would definitely be worth it.

 “Mother!” Damian rebuked sharply, grumpily puffing his cheeks. A completely childlike expression, one that she was unused to seeing on her child. The influence could only be from Dick Grayson and the rest of Batman’s entourage. Perhaps there was some good from their association.

 She could not recall a time when she had acted like a child. Her father had raised her to be perfect, whether it was in competition or leadership. For Damian, Talia wanted it to be different. For there to be love in her methods, a love unlike her father’s stern hands. An allowance for failures, room to learn, and perhaps a chance at companionship.

 “Very well. I suppose I owe your father a short visit.” Talia bit into her bagel. “Though I do not imagine that will change much.”

    4. Ra’s

 “You’re frail.” Damian’s lips curled into a haughty smirk, a sneer most impressive for a boy who was just five.

 Talia sighed softly. Just how did her son get to be so overly precocious? Bruce claimed Damian’s aristocratic tendencies came from her. Whether that was true or not, her son’s arrogance was certainly from his father. “Damain,” she warned sharply.

 “What?” Standing in front of his grandfather, Damian glanced over his shoulder to look at her. His immaculate appearance fit in perfectly with the manicured lawn and carefully crafted hedges of Bruce’s manor. Even his little bowtie was perfectly straight.

 “Respect your grandfather.” Talia set a hand on her hip, shaking her head when he tried to protest. Bruce had coddled the boy too much, leaving it to her to be stern. “Now.”

 “I thought you wanted the truth,” Damian muttered, his chubby cheeks forming a pout. A rare childish display from him and she was relieved that he hadn’t entirely grown up yet.

 “It’s fine.” Ra’s chuckled, crouching down next to Damian. He ruffled his grandson’s hair. “The boy already knows his mind.”

 “The boy has a name.” Damian scowled, swatting away his hands.

 “See? A true Al Ghul, ready to take on the world.” More amused than offended, Ra watched Damian fondly. It was an expression she had never thought she’d see on her father. Perhaps miracles did exist in this world.

 “Don’t encourage him,” Bruce admonished, holding a tray full of tea cups as he joined them. At Talia’s questioning look, he shrugged. “Alfred deserves a break—he had his hands full with Damian as is.”

 “Is that not why he’s the help?” In all honesty, her husband was far too soft.

 “He’s also family.” Bruce shook his head. If there was one thing he refused to budge on, it was Alfred’s status. Considering what the butler had done for her beloved, she was willing to let it slide. “Let him rest. Dick’s back; I’m sure he’s up for babysitting”

 “I suppose there is some good to your endless adoptions, beloved.” Talia leaned into his side, closing her eyes. Ignoring the occasional fights that broke out with Tim, Damian had more or less slipped in with the rest of Bruce’s children seamlessly. Or rather, he was forced to fit in; there were far too many busybodies in the house and Dick and Stephanie never seemed to understand the word ‘No’.

 “I think Damian likes them more than he lets on.” Bruce kissed the top of her head. “Besides, it’s nice to have siblings.”

 “What would you know about that?” Nyssa appeared on his other side, picking up a cup of tea. She smirked at her sister. “You have him completely housebroken.”

 “Almost,” Talia corrected, pulling back to flick her husband on the nose. “A certain someone does not remember his age and continues to galivant in the night.”

 Setting down the tray on a nearby table, Bruce raised a brow. “There’s a lot to do. I can’t just stop.”

 “Yet that is exactly what I expect, beloved. Is that not why you have those other children?” Talia admonished. It was an age-old argument, one that would not be solved until he either died or finally accepted her words. And she would not wait for the former.

 Around her was perfection: her father with his grandchild, her sister and her husband competing to spoil her son rotten, a family that was whole and complete. Come what may, she would make sure it stayed that way.

     5. Talia

 “Are you sure about this?” A servant asked, his knee bent as he stared at the dirt floor.

 Talia scuffed her foot on the dirt cave a last time. Like her father, the cave was old, outdated. A mark of times long gone, when technology didn’t rule the world. “No, it’s time we left this cave. You can’t conquer a world from here, let alone save it.”

 “Yes, but…” The servant swallowed before bravely forging on. “Forgive me, but I was talking about your son.”

 “Ah. Damian.” The word stung a little as she uttered it and for a moment, she understood her father’s pain when she had killed him all those years ago. Betrayal of blood hurt the most. “What about him?”

 “Leviathan,” the servant forced out. “Your son…he might die.”

 Talia lowered her eyes, staring at the floor. In the hollow cave, her servant’s words echoed, each reverberation weaker than the last. How strange it was, to plan her own son’s death. That after all of her fights against her father, she was doing the very thing she had hated him for. How much of her family’s blood lay on her hands?

 Yet somehow that thought wasn’t enough to stop her. Coldly, she dismissed her servant’s concern. “I had already considered that.”

 And perhaps the worst part was that she felt nothing about it. She was more like her father than she realized: ruthless, harsh, cruel. A killer to the core. There might have been a time long ago, a time when she could have taken a different path. Reached a different ending. One that was full of joy, one that was surrounded by family.

 That was neither here nor there. Now there was an inferno in her, a desire that no water could quench. A goal that she would achieve, no matter the stakes. Talia smirked, leaving behind the cave and those what-ifs.

 “You get me wrong. I intend for his death.”

[littlegalerion]

I said there would probably be more content on here, but then all content went elsewhere. So here, have some Laloriaran and Trechire build up, I guess. 

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

“Ah! Young Galerion!”

Trechire tensed upon Valorone’s tone. He was desperate, a very unbecoming thing for a Fighter’s Guild representative. Before her, he and Darien both looked heated and exhausted. Trechire’s chest stung looking upon Darien. The last time she’d seen him so on edge, it had been within the Crystal Tower. Fate had already claimed him then, and sadly Trechire knew that speaking up to him now would only corrupt time itself. She’d seen first hand what comes from that during her fight within the White-Gold Tower, caught between realities. No matter how hard she wanted to say something, she had to bite her tongue. It made the upcoming matter even more frustrating, as she naturally felt inclined to favor Darien due to the pity.

“This knight wants us to forsake our comrades outside this city!” Valorone cried, storming up to Trechire. “Look at this place! Look how many of us are missing!”

“I’m aware,” Trechire mumbled, and went to break some good news, but Darien cut her off. 

“Ol’ Trey knows that it’s useless to go out and retrieve our friends if we don’t have a safe base to return to!” he insisted, giving Trechire a look. 

“You want us to hide behind these walls?” Valorone pressed. “To leave our comrades to die while you sip wine and lounge about? You have no honor, knight!"

“Don't lecture me about honor, Elf! You have no idea what I've seen or what I've gone through!" Darien snapped back. 

“Enough!” Trechire barked, forcing herself not to bare her teeth. Her fangs were one pointless argument away from springing out for joyrun. “We will all go through much worse if we can not keep our heads! Arguing won’t bring back our allies, especially when both sides are of equal value!” She collected herself. “We do need to make sure this city is safe. Call me crazy, but I do not trust the Groundskeeper…” She resisted looking to Darien, memories ripping through her. “But do not forget, my father is among those missing… I know how critical it is for us to retrieve those lost.”

“So what do we do?” Darien demanded.  

“If you two had let me speak first, I would have already told you I brought back a new ally! One who can help!” Trechire lectured them. “He and Darien can remain here to secure this city. If you really wish to go charging through Coldharbour to help our allies, then by all means Valorone, you’re welcome to come with me.”

“Yes, Galerion!” Valorone agreed instantly. 

“You listen to her just like that?” Darien grumbled. “She’s Mage’s Guild, not Fighter’s Guild.”

“You hardly are one of us either,” Valorone reminded him bitterly. “I would trust my life in the hands of Caafire Galerion’s daughter!”

“Right,” Darien huffed. “So who did you bring?”

“The Last Ayleid King,” Trechire blurted. 

Both men stared back her, expressions blank. 

Before she could explain, King Laloriaran Dynar entered the hall behind her. He wasted no time whatsoever.

“Attend me, soldiers! We have a war to win and time grows short,” he announced, coming to stand beside Trechire. 

Trechire felt her heart skip, blinking up at him. He hardly looked phased by what had transpired only less than an hour ago. His eyes sparkled with magical purpose and keen wit. Yes, this was definitely what they needed to get through this nightmare of a war!

“So that's the last Ayleid, huh?” Darien smirked, crossing his arms. “I thought he'd be more… dusty. Isn't that what happens when Elves get really, really old?”

“Shut up!” Trechire and Valorone snapped at the same time, making Darien jump a little in surprise. 

“Who's in charge of this group? Step forward and address me,” King Dynar insisted. 

“Their guild leader is gone,” Trechire informed him. “Their numbers are thin.” She gave a cautious glance at them, then back at him. “And quarreling within themselves.”

“Then allow me to rectify that,” King Dynar decided. “I shall lead you. We shall recover your comrades and complete your mission. If that does not work for you, your services are no longer needed.”

“I don't know who you are, but you aren't Fighters Guild. You have no authority over us!" Valorone cried, disgusted by the implication. 

“Do you challenge me, then? Do you want me to kill you to prove my combat prowess to your companions?" King Dynar took a step towards him, eyes narrowing as he held the altmer warrior’s gaze. 

Trechire stepped between them. “No, but by all means, try to kill me.” Every instinct and lesson she’d been trained and drilled to adhere to among her packs were eating her alive. The King was lucky they were in public, and not somewhere no one could witness an accident. “I didn’t save you just for you to come here and terrify the Fighter’s Guild. Seizing power like this- I was under the impression you were a noble and wise strategist! These people are scared, torn from one another in Molag Bal’s realm! They don’t need a pacifier but they don’t need another source of despair!”

“How can you expect us to lay down our lives for someone we never met?” Valorone put in, coming in to boost Trechire’s side. “Trust is earned on the battlefield!”

King Dynar caught himself, shutting his mouth as he looked between Trechire and Valorone, then to Darien and around the guildhall. “If you want to survive, if you want to win this, you must trust me. Allow me to explain why you need my leadership.” When Trechire’s expression didn’t change, he added, “We shall work this out. I understand your reservations. But with my leadership, the Fighters Guild will help us win this war.”

“Do not disappoint me,” Trechire told him, and felt her face go red when her voice cracked. She gave Valorone a mumbled farewell and good luck, and then hurried towards the door back into the city. She heard King Dynar address the hall, but didn’t catch what he was saying. As she went to slam the door shut behind her, a hand caught her wrist, as well as patiently shut the door instead.

“I do not expect this group to blindly trust me. That would be foolish.” King Dynar released her wrist, having her alone on the doorstep to the guildhall. “I plan to instill them with confidence so that when the others arrive they will follow me without question.”

“That’s your plan?” Trechire snorted. 

"For now. I shall speak with each soldier here. Tell them what I think we should do and how we should do it. Perhaps listen to their opinions,” he explained to her. “To rush into battle with no allegiance is to command a unit that is already defeated."

“I understand that,” Trechire told him, keeping herself together. The King had her to himself right now, and he was so close… But of course this wouldn’t have been the first time Trechire had been blinded by a pretty face and ignored the obvious red flags. “But these are not soldiers- these are guild members. They have no loyalty to any kingdom or alliance, but to their own code of honor. It’s all that has kept them together when left leaderless.” She pointed up at him, trying to get him to understand. “You could kill Molag Bal himself and they wouldn’t see you as their leader, if you held no respect for their code. Understood?”

“Yes,” King Dynar assured her. “I apologize… I didn’t mean to come off as ruthless. The situation is dire, and our chances are already so thin.” He offered a smile, and for once it could be seen the wear and tear he was feeling. 

“Then tell them that,” Trechire replied, motioning to back within the guildhall. “We have allies that need to be recovered, and I can cover ground while you still get the guild organized.”

“Continue to amass our forces until we have enough troops. Then we meet in council and plan our attack,” he agreed. “The Chasm to the north protects Molag Bal's inner sanctum. We must cross it and confront the Prince if we hope to save Nirn.” 

Trechire gave a nod, already feeling her shoulders buckle from the weight. She gave a bow, as it felt right for some reason, and then went to leave back into the city. Again her wrist was grabbed, but gently. King Dynar stopped her, holding up her hand and kissing the back of it. 

“I will not disappoint you,” he told her, releasing her after the kiss. “You freed me from centuries of torment. I’ll never forget that, Lady Galerion.” 

Trechire brought her hand back, knowing her face was probably the same shade as Red Mounatin’s core right now. “You had better not, your Majesty.” This time Trechire kept her arms about her securely, and hurried back to the giant main doors that lead from the Fighter Guild’s little outskirt into the city. She yipped as fire exploded from the ground, and a shadowy figure burst forth. A black panther leaped out in front of her, fire burning around its paws and eyes as it looked to its mistress expectantly. 

“Yes, thank you Eon,” Trechire coughed, too embarrassed to look over her shoulder to see if King Dynar had still been outside to have seen her cry out like a pup. She jumped onto Eon’s saddle and the daedric mount rammed its head into the main doors, spilling into the city like the raging wildfire it was, taking Trechire as far away as possible and back to the problems at hand.

[orangeflavoryawp]

Jonsa - “A Violence Done Most Kindly”, Part 8

See?  I told you I wouldn’t leave you long without an update.  ;)

“A Violence Done Most Kindly”

Chapter Eight: Sowing Seeds

“The road is too long.  It winds too sharp.  And Sansa cannot see the end from her vantage point, cannot calculate the curve.  She discerns it through faith.  She travels blind, but for her hand in Jon’s.”  -  Jon and Sansa.  Stark is a house of many winters.

Read it on Ao3 here.

Part 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 fin

* * *

It’s a tomb, Sansa discovers.  One long, torchlit, communal tomb.

           She glances down the length of the crypt corridor where she sits and waits with the rest of the fear-rattled refugees, echoes of the battle raging above them, around them, resounding through the walls in an endless, harrowing nightmare.  The ground shakes at their feet, the dirt rattling loose from the walls and ceiling with the thunder of thousands of undead feet barreling through the army above them.

           At some point, Tyrion makes to reach for her hand, a measure of comfort – but for her or himself, she cannot tell.  In the end, he never lights his touch.  His hand stills mid-reach for her, fingers curling back into a loose fist that returns slowly to his side as he opens his mouth, voice a strangled hope. “We must take heart, Lady Sansa. Our loved ones will prevail.  Have faith.”

           “Your queen just tried to ransom all our lives – yours included – for a paltry, hollow crown,” she hisses, the terror making her voice tremble even as she glares.  “Do not speak to me of faith when yours has been so misguided.”  It’s a searing rebuke, her hands bundled tightly in her lap, the fabric of her dress clutched between white knuckles.

           Tyrion blinks pained eyes at her, glancing down to his feet.  He does not deny her – does not challenge her accusation. He simply hangs his head, a tremulous sigh leaving him.

           She watches him quietly, a faint memory teasing the back of her mind – Jaime’s return to King’s Landing after his stay as Robb’s captive up North. She’d watched them from behind the door of her and Tyrion’s newly shared chambers, watched their embrace in his solar, Jaime kneeling down to one knee, Tyrion’s face buried in his shoulder, each of their hands (the ones left, at least) bunched in each other’s tunics, before they pulled back reluctantly, hesitant, shaking sighs racking both of them, Jaime’s good hand reaching up to trail the scar over Tyrion’s face, a question in his furrowed brow, an apology in his salt-tinged eyes.

           But Tyrion had smiled at him, ruined face a mask of ill-kept pain.  “Welcome home, brother,” he’d said, voice breaking.

           Sansa had retreated before she could witness more, before the stain of Robb’s name could light her tongue in abject resentment.

           Looking at him now, this wreckage of past mistakes made flesh, she remembers suddenly the pain of losing a brother.

           The pain of losing many brothers.

           Sansa swallows tightly, the anger bleeding out of her face, brow smoothing out, lips softening in their frown.  She clears her throat gently, looking down to the bunched fists at his sides when she tells him, “Ser Jaime is like to survive the night.  He’s a good fighter, after all.”  She doesn’t know what compels her to say it.

           “Was,” he corrects, a sad sort of humor coloring the words.  He releases a wounded chuckle, eyes finally rising to meet hers.

           They stare at each other for long moments.

           He’d been kind to her, she knows, at a time when the world offered little kindness at all.  But he’s been mistaken in his affections before, and now they host a dragon in their den, owing in no small part to his own imprudent devotion.

           He was never meant to play the knight in her tale, like her favored songs had promised.  She sees this now, in a way she hadn’t when she was still a child, looking for the best in people, holding their small mercies to her heart like precious gems, mistaking lions and hounds for men.

           “But you’re very gracious, my lady,” he says finally, the gratitude choked off at the end, breath hitching with his dread.  He offers her a tentative smile.

           She finds it in herself to return it, in what small measure she can.

           And then a crashing weight falls upon the ground above them, rattling the stone statues.  The crypts go dead with silence.

           Sansa glances up at the suddenly tranquil walls, her heart swallowed down instantly.  Nothing breathes for what feels like an eon, the telltale sounds of battle ceased, the shaking of the corridors stilled.  She does not chance a breath, a word, even a hope.  She flits her gaze toward the heavy stone door they built to barricade the crypts, eyes unblinking in the shadowed hall, torchlight flickering about her like a threat.

           Long minutes pass, almost an hour of suffocating, uninterrupted silence, and then something bangs at the door.  A single, resounding clang.

           Sansa jolts to her feet, chest heaving with her terror, hand already fumbling for the dragonglass dagger fixed to her belt.

           Another clang.  Heavy, terrible scratching.  The slight push of the door in the sodden dirt.

           Sansa’s breath comes quick and shallow, the uneven hilt of her dagger digging into her palm even through her glove, her fingers flexing in their hold, feet planted in readiness.

           The door pushes further in on them, slow and grating, something grunting on the other side.

           Several somethings.

           More thuds against the door, more scratching, the sudden stream of light through a crack in the threshold, and then the muffled sound of a word.

           A word.

           A name.

           “Sansa!” it calls, stifled by the cold stone between them.

           She drops her dagger instantly at the recognition and it clatters to the floor, sharp and resounding in the still corridor.  A small crowd gathers a few feet behind her, too frightened to follow further.  She rushes to the door, gripping at the jarred open edge, sunlight striking her knuckles, a sob already raking through her, the tears sudden and hot on her lids, and she heaves.

           The door breaks open to a blaring dawn, several men – living, breathing men – tumbling through the threshold when the door finally gives from their combined strength.

           Sansa stumbles back, eyes wide, blinking back the blindness, adjusting to the light as she braces an arm over her eyes, searching, needing, frantic, and then –

           “Sansa.”

           That voice again.

           She blinks against the harsh light, his silhouette coming into focus.

           Edmure Tully hobbles through the threshold, one hand holding his side, his other arm lame and bloodied and likely lost, one eye swollen shut beneath a stream of blood.

           She stares at him, mouth parting, lungs clenching.

           A sigh of relief rushes from him, the pain of it clear when he winces.

           It breaks from her like a flood.  She launches herself at him, arms thrown about his shoulders, the sob dragging from her without restraint, and Edmure grunts from the assault, stumbling back from the weight of her, a cry of pain blunted at his lips just before the first wail breaks from her.

           He stills in her embrace, blinking beneath the gush of blood from his temple, until he tentatively folds his good arm around her waist, holding her to him, a cough sounding at her ear, wavering beneath the force of her, weak and trembling and barely standing.

           But alive.

           Sansa whimpers against him, clutching at his soiled tunic, tears smearing into the blood along his neck, the shadow of the crypts at her back, the blinding breach of sunlight at his.

           At the threshold between life and death, light and dark, day and night – they stand.

           Dawn creeps slowly past their forms, illuminating the stifled corridor behind her.

           Not a tomb, she realizes, but a sunlit garden, a place where the dead may offer new growth.

           A place of promised life.

           Winter has always been the herald of spring, after all.

* * *

           They say the dead all dropped at once – an instant, resounding wave, the weight of so many corpses tumbling to the earth at once quite literally shaking Winterfell to its foundation.  

The men keep fighting, swinging at air, even crossing blades themselves, feverish and feral and frenzied, their blood rioting in their veins, hardly noticing the fall of the dead, so lost in their own desperate will to survive, fighting, and panting, and fighting still, the smell of blood and shit all around them, shapes in the shadows, the frantic, blade-gripping, adrenaline-rushing fear still coursing through them, until gradually, man by man, breath by breath, a slow-dawning stillness overtakes them.

For every man standing, there is a litter of corpses at his feet.

An unearthly calm washes over Winterfell, the living barely that.  And then –

And then.

A hesitant, slow rise of voices.  A growing eddy of shouts.  Triumphant.  Glorious.

Crying, and laughing, and shouting.  Hands over blood-drenched faces.  Knees in the dirt. Heads thrown back.  A quaking, resounding exhale.  Blades falling from grimy palms.  Boots squelching through the putrid mess.  And still, a roar of exultation.

“The King in the North!  The King in the North!  The King in the North!”

Jon slips into a coma so deep, they’d thought him dead upon first entering the room.

Davos tells her that he and Jon’s personal guard were the ones to find him – laid out on the floor of her chambers, barely breathing, a pool of blood beneath him, her brother sitting calmly in his chair, blood-drenched dagger still held in his grip.

“Help him,” Bran had said, so quiet it was almost a whisper, almost never there at all.

It takes five men to hold Tormund back from lunging at Bran, shouting his vehemence so vile and hateful the spit flies from his mouth, even as he kicks out, foot catching the wheel of Bran’s chair, jostling him so hard he nearly tips over and crashes to the blood-soaked rug himself.  Bran stares dumbly at the space Jon’s body once occupied, red-steeped palm now empty of the blade that pierced his flesh, hanging limp in his lap, hardly even acknowledging Tormund’s wrestling form inches from him, the wildling’s heated shouts filling the dawn-touched chamber.

Davos tells her that his guard has been sworn to secrecy after taking Jon from the room, only the most trusted of men – those of them left after the battle.

Bran retreats from her solar and into her bedchamber, closing the door behind him in silence once Tormund is dragged from the room.

She stands staring at the closed door, eyes blinking owlishly.  Davos seems of a similar state beside her, perhaps still reeling from his own unexpected survival.  Perhaps still trying to process the scene before them.  Her eyes travel back down to the blood-stained rug that was once her parents’.  

She’s going to be sick.

Sansa reaches a trembling hand for the table edge beside her when the vomit rises suddenly, without warning.  She retches violently, bent double with the force of it, hand slipping against the table edge, trying to find purchase as she heaves and heaves, emptying herself out from the very pit of her.  Her face bursts red with the effort of it, tears springing to her eyes, sickly bile streaming from her lips when she stumbles to her knees, legs finally giving out.

“My lady,” Davos cries, urgent at her side, his blood-slicked gloves slipping over her elbow when he tries to steady her.

She takes a breath, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, eyes flitting to his red-darkened gloves.  She stares at them, eyes focusing and refocusing, throat raw and burning.  “I have to find my sister,” she says blearily, a ragged whisper breaking across her chapped lips as she struggles to get to her feet.

It’s many hours before she finds Arya.  Sansa walks through the halls in a faint stupor, having left the chamber without another word after Davos’s recounting, unable to look at the dark blossom of blood staining the rug, the bile still fresh in her throat, and she stumbles from the room, a hand steadying herself along the threshold, ignoring Davos’ concerned calls at her back, wondering from the room in a haze.  She sifts through the corpse littered halls, the ends of her skirts dark with mud and blood and worse, tripping over cadavers, her low heels catching in cartilage, trembling hands gripping at the walls for balance, lungs heaving beneath the foul air.

Arya stands dazedly at the end of the corridor Sansa has made her way through.  She blinks unsteadily up at Sansa, a dark bruise swelling up her right cheek, her eye nearly closed from the enflamed skin.  Her tunic is torn at the shoulder, a garish wound stretching over the exposed flesh.  She hardly seems to notice the bleeding.  The fingers of her left hand are bent at an unhealthy angle, broken surely, and Needle shakes in the grip of her other palm.

Sansa stands staring at her, one hand gathered in her trailing skirts, mouth parted on a sharp inhale.

Arya swallows, eyes focusing in the filtering daylight through the hall’s sparse windows.  She blinks.  Blinks again. Seems to recognize her surroundings a moment before Sansa breathes her name.

“Arya.”

And then she’s sprinting, Needle dropped to the floor with a sharp clang, bounding over corpses, slipping along the blood-slick stone, steadying herself, never slowing, breathless, gasping – “Sansa!” – a whirl of soiled leather and crimson-stained skin slamming into her, bundling her in her fierce grip, arms tight around her waist, sob buried in her chest, broken fingers digging painfully into the back of Sansa’s dress, stumbling them back along the ruin-washed floor, breath ragged and worn and desolate when it leaves her small, battered form.

It takes hours to find her.

It takes hours still to let her go.

* * *

Sansa makes her way through the ruined halls of her home, passing straggling soldiers, weaving through the wreckage to the main square.  She breaks into the harsh daylight, but it’s greyed since dawn, a haze of ash and snow blanketing Winterfell.  Arya follows the trail of her soiled skirts as they pick their way around corpses, walking over limbs and debris.

The words she needs to tell Arya about Jon are still lost to her, a vacant, empty wandering having overtaken her instead. Arya keeps her always in sight, a silent shadow at her back.

A blood-curdling wail streaks through the air and Sansa stills, whipping her head to the sound, catching sight of Daenerys staggering across the courtyard toward something, arms outstretched, mouth tipped open in a harrowing, anguished scream.  Missandei is steady at her side, an arm around her waist, holding her frail body up lest the winter wind take her and fling her about like this choking ash.

Distantly, she recalls Davos’ brief mention of the dragons’ fates.

She follows Daenerys’ tear-filled gaze across the courtyard, eyes landing on the form of a mortally wounded Grey Worm, dragging the dead body of Jorah Mormont over the stone and guts and toward his queen. His boot catches on a piece of debris, and he lurches forward, dropping to one knee, half sprawled over Jorah’s body. Daenerys makes it to them then, falling to the ground gracelessly, ignoring the putrid slush of human filth beneath her knees, eyes only for her bear, a desperate, bone-rattling cry ripping from her as she bundles his cold form in her hands, dragging him into her lap, rocking with him, sobbing, tear tracks etched across her ash-grey cheeks. Misssandei takes Grey Worm into her arms similarly and from where Sansa stands, she can see a handful of words tearfully exchanged between the two before Grey Worm convulses - once, twice, a last, jerky spasm – and then finally going still in Missandei’s arms. She bends her head low to touch her forehead to his and Sansa never hears what parting words she grants him, what farewell or peace.

Daenerys’ cries echo around the courtyard, and even still, exhausted, bloodied soldiers mill about as though she were just another corpse beneath their feet.  They pass her like shadows, unbent to her anguish.

It is just another death, after all.

Sansa turns from the sight, the bile returning sharp and pungent along her tongue, but she swallows it back this time, braces a hand to her ribcage, as though to keep the sickness in, as though to anchor it there with her wrath and regret and remorse.

It festers quietly and unobtrusively, settling low in her stomach.  

She turns from the sight of the grieving dragon queen, her pity too marred and eroded by a sharp resentment to taste like anything but ash on her tongue.  Eyes narrowed, jaw tight, she continues on – aimless.

Somewhere between the eastern corridor and the ruined door to the Hall of Lords, Daenerys’ faraway wails finally peter out into silence. Sansa takes a deep breath in, pushing the broken door open with all her might, Arya pushing beside her, and the wood creaks open, splintered beneath the crush of a giant’s maul.  More bodies flood the hall before them, but there are more living here than dead, and somewhere along the far wall, Sansa catches sight of Brienne seated along a step, elbows braced along her knees, her head in her hands, sword tarnished and copper-streaked on the floor beside her.

Sansa makes her way toward her sworn shield quietly, stopping before her and squatting down, braced on her haunches, hands anchored to her knees.

Brienne looks up then, face a ruin, hair matted and dark – no longer that brilliant, sun-lit blonde that had fascinated Sansa once upon a time.

Sansa offers an exhausted smile – half-formed and fleeting as it is – her hands going to Brienne’s cheeks, cradling her face in her palms.

“Jaime’s dead,” Brienne says evenly, without prompt.

Sansa blinks at her, nodding slowly, throat tight suddenly.  She wants to say she’s sorry.  She wants to say how she knows she cared for him, even against all reasoning.  She wants to say at least he died with honor. She wants to say so many things, but she isn’t sure yet how much she means any of them.  And so, she only has this:

“He kept his oath.”  It’s a small comfort, she knows, but perhaps it’s the only kind of comfort they may have.  The only kind Brienne would accept.

Brienne nods, sharp blue eyes blinking back the wetness.  And then her eyes trail to Arya’s form, half hid in shadow at her sister’s back.

Sansa brushes her thumbs over Brienne’s cheeks, the weight a lighter load, instantly – the words easy on her tongue.  “Thank you for keeping her safe,” she chokes out.

Brienne swings her gaze back to Sansa, the edges of a hesitant smile spreading beneath the pads of Sansa’s fingertips.  “She is half your mother’s heart, after all,” she says in answer.

Sansa nods, mouth trembling when she whispers out, “And half mine.”

Brienne reaches up a hand to curl tenderly along Sansa’s wrist, the breath raking from her – exhausted and battered.

Sansa leans forward, bracing her forehead against her sworn shield’s, eyes fluttering closed at the contact.

It’s only once Sansa parts from Brienne, glancing about the hall, that Arya finally speaks.

“Where’s Jon?”

The answer lodges in her throat like a knife, splitting her from ear to ear, choking her beneath a rush of blood.  Her heart hammers out a staccato of sour notes.

Arya stares up at her, just a girl.  Just a lost, wounded girl.  “Where’s Jon?” she asks again, voice infinitely small and hesitant.

Later, when Arya flees from the hall after Sansa tells her, she finds she cannot follow.  She cannot go to him.  She cannot look upon him.

Not yet.

“Stay with her,” Sansa commands Brienne, voice hollow.  “Make sure she doesn’t kill Bran.”

Brienne looks up at her, horrified, standing swiftly. “She wouldn’t.  My lady, she…”

Sansa swings a deadened gaze her way, lips pursed tight.  “She would.” She swallows thickly, eyes drifting back toward the broken door of the hall.  “That boy isn’t our brother anymore.”

Brienne only stares at her a moment longer, nodding without another word, picking her sword up off the stone and following her charge out the hall.

Sansa’s legs finally give out and she drops down to the step Brienne had previously occupied.  She stays there for well on an hour, perhaps two, eyes unseeing.  No one comes looking for the Lady of Winterfell. No one comes looking for the living.

She wonders if it will ever end, or if this is the disillusionment Jon spoke of once before – how war makes a home in your heart and never truly leaves.  She wonders if her father hadn’t also known this.

She wonders if he would have taught her such, of if he’d have let her continue on in the sort of ignorance he never spared his sons.

Sansa sighs.

And so it goes.  

So it goes for many hours that first night, soldiers falling where their exhaustion takes them, sleeping in thresholds and corridors and neighbor to corpses.  At some point, Sansa passes the open door to the kitchens, three famished, too-young soldiers tearing into one of the store’s preserved hams.  She hasn’t the heart to scold them.  The moans of the survivors have turned into a low hum at the back of her mind, never truly reaching her.

In the end, she simply doesn’t know what to do.

It’s Missandei that jars her into movement, coming upon her with Grey Worm’s blood still warming her dress, dark circles already settling below her eyes.  “I need bandages, cloth, clean water,” she says, voice even in a way that seems a disconnection to the tear-filled gaze she sets upon her or the trembling of her hands bunched together over her skirts.

Sansa stares at her, blinking when she recognizes Lord Varys standing just behind the other woman, face a haunt.  “Lord Varys,” she says in surprise, not knowing what else to say.

“My lady, the wounded are many – too many,” he says, sorrow lining his words.  “We need your help.”

Sansa opens her mouth, closes it just as slowly.

Missandei’s mouth trembles, tears brimming along her eyes, though they do not fall.  “Please,” she croaks out.

Sansa blinks at the word, something filling her she hasn’t a name for, and it all comes barreling into her – Edmure’s bleak smile, Davos’ gaze on his boots, Arya’s stony silence –

Bran’s eerie calm – the way his hands hadn’t even shook when he wheeled himself into her bedchamber and closed the door.

She heaves a breath, a hand over her eyes, lungs quaking in her chest as she smothers the sob.  “Yes,” she chokes out, shaking her head.  “Yes, of course.”  She sniffs back the tears, doesn’t let them fall.  Her hand drops from her face and she squares her shoulders, nodding fervently at Missandei.  “Of course, come with me.”

It was wrong of them to call it the Long Night, she finds, arms covered in blood up to her elbows by the time dawn breaks once more across Winterfell.

(Wrong, because it isn’t long – it’s endless.)

And so it goes and so it goes.

Jon is right – it never truly leaves them.

* * *

They never find the Blackfish’s body.  

Sansa asks Edmure at some point, when she finds voice enough to ask the question.  Edmure stares at her with heavy eyes, sitting still for her as she wraps the bandages around his waist.  She stops at his silence, blinking up at him.

He cannot hold her gaze, turning to stare at the far wall instead.  “Saved my life, the old bastard,” he gets out on a gruff exhale, eyes wetting instantly.

Sansa swallows, returning to her wrapping with a renewed focus.

Pack it away, bury it deep.  Take a breath and hold it tight.

She does not cry, mutely winding the roll of bandage round and round his waist, staring at the fresh patch of blood already peeking through the white linen.  Her brows furrow in frustration, the air scraping along her throat with her huff.

Later, she tells herself.  She will grieve for him later.

There is work yet to be done, and Sansa means to do it.

“Your parents would be proud.”

She ties the bandage off with a tight knot.

They never find his body, but then, there are many bodies they never find – Alys Karstark, Lord Royce, Randyll Tarly, Podrick Payne, Edd Tollett.  Sansa remembers each of them anyway.

Building the pyres is slow, agonizingly long work, and there are too many bodies mangled beyond recognition.  The fires burn day and night, needing to be relit several times before the many bones are finally turned to ash.  Smoke clogs her lungs, stains the grey walls with a permanent dark haze, the scent sinking into her flesh until she is rife with it – the dredges of their dead, come to live again in her skin.

Days pass in this manner, and Sansa forgets to sleep, too occupied with the running of a kingdom she never intended to inherit.

Jon remains unconscious, his body like ice to the touch, breath barely discernible.  Ghost is found perpetually curled at the foot of his bed, whining long and low into the night.  Sansa braces her hands to her ears and tries to drown it out.

Bran stays locked in her bedchamber, refusing food, and she has taken to sleeping with Arya when exhaustion finally takes her. Her sister spends that first day after the battle pacing the length of her solar, glaring at the closed door, never even bothering to bandage her wounded shoulder.

“Bran, get out here,” she seethes.  

Silence.

She kicks at the door, howls her rage, sobs and sobs and sobs for her brother to just open the gods-damned door, Bran, how could you, how could you and Sansa flees the solar, braces herself back against the wall in the hallway and tries to breathe.

Arya keeps a steady vigil at Jon’s side while Sansa attends to the wounds of the North, finding much needed support in Lady Olenna and Lord Varys and, surprisingly, the young Lord Arryn. Daenerys keeps to her chamber, only ever retreating from its sanctuary to retrieve a flagon or two of wine from the kitchens, her salt-white, fire-dimmed silhouette casting lingering shadows in the corner of Sansa’s eye.

Davos is true to his word, the harrowing truth behind Jon’s condition never leaving that bloodied chamber.  But word spreads of Jon’s true parentage.  The wounded soldiers, in their beds of straw lining the corridors, whisper it through the halls.

A Targaryen.  A trueborn one at that.

An imposter.

Sansa comes upon one such whispering horde of Northmen just when Lord Glover, with his one missing eye and half-burnt face, grabs a loose-lipped soldier by the collar and drags him up, snarling in his face. “And what Targaryen ever died for the North?” he bellows in the man’s sheet-pale face, shaking him.  “What Targaryen ever bled for us the way Jon Snow has?”

The man splutters in his grasp, hands clawing at the fist at his throat.

“I know no king but King Jon of House Stark,” he roars, spit flying in his rage.  “And I swear, on the old gods and the new, that I will gut the man who besmirches his name, do you understand me?”

The man in his grasp nods sharply, gulping his fear down, sighing in relief when Lord Glover drops him back to the floor.

Sansa stands at the end of the hall, watching with a lung-tingling fascination.

Lord Glover seems to notice her then, dipping into a slight bow at her presence, a hand at his chest.  “My queen,” he says, and Sansa’s breath catches in her throat at the address.

She stares at him, eyes unblinking, hands bunching in her skirts.

He does not move until she nods her dismissal, and then he’s sweeping from the hall, his cloak billowing in his wake. She does not notice the curious stares of the soldiers.  She watches the space he once occupied, heart thrumming in her chest, throat parched.

“My queen.”

Sansa retreats from the hall without further word.

A new whisper begins, this one voiced in reverence.

The White Wolf and the Red Queen.

It spills over the castle, past the walls, echoing from ear to ear – until they are lore, as entrenched in the Northern spirit as snow is to winter.

“I’m sorry he could not be laid to rest at sea,” Sansa tells Yara one morning, the faint pink of the sunrise casting slants of ghostly light across the pyres, now barely embers in the snow.

She holds tight to her chest the memory of Theon’s last embrace, that night before the end.

She holds tight.

Beside her, Yara digs her booted toe into the cinder-lined snow, watching it crest and break before her.  “Still,” she says, voice hoarse, “he did not die away from home. For that, I am grateful.”  She glances up at Sansa with the words.

She dares not speak, throat tight with unspoken yearning.

Yara nods at her, a hard smile breaking across her lips.  “The Drowned God takes even his wayward sons, after all.  Theon is at peace, perhaps for the first time in his miserable life.”

Sansa winces at the words, though not from offense. It’s a willowing regret, memory washing over her.

(His trembling hand in hers as they leapt from the height of Winterfell’s walls.)

Yes.

Peace.

Give him peace, gods, please, if you’ve any mercy left in you – give him peace.

Sansa’s eyes flutter shut, heart carving a hollow between her ribs.

“My brother respected you, cared for you in a way I may never understand, but – ”

Sansa opens her eyes to watch Yara in the slow-brimming light of dawn.

Yara swallows tightly, turning to her fully.  “I wish to honor his faith,” she promises staunchly.  “I swear to you now – queen to queen – the North will have the Iron Islands’ friendship, from now until the waves take us.”

Sansa stares at her, a visage of her lost Theon, in the lines of her nose and the clench of her jaw and the curl of hair sweeping across her brow.  Something aches in Sansa that feels jarringly like the beginning of a long, quiet grief. She releases a shaky breath with her words.  “I would gladly trade it to have him back – even for a day.”

Yara offers a tender smile, something like gratitude passing through her eyes.  “I know. That’s why you shall always have it.”

Sansa nods, feeling the lingering heat of the spent pyres at her side.  Like a promise.

“I would have died to get you there.”

           Yara extends her hand, salt-grimed glove open and waiting.

           Sansa does not let it stay empty for long.  She reaches forward, clasping arms with her fellow queen.  “Sail well,” she tells her, a gentle hope lining the words.

           Yara smiles at her, fingers gripping at her forearm, head bowed in respect.  “What is dead may never die.”

           Perhaps such words might have been a haunt in moons past, the threat of the Night King still a visceral, immediate thing.  But now, the words are heartening.

           Now, they sound like a plea that’s been begging her lips for freedom.

           Now, they are a promise.

(She doesn’t want to be a Red Queen if it’s only to a dead king.)

* * *

She visits Jon on the third day.

           She finds Arya sitting outside his door, sharpening Needle.  It seems a pointless task, but she does not tell her so, because then –

           (Sansa ignores the quiet reminder at the back of her mind that whispers ‘Daenerys’ over and over, like a chant, a mantra.  A dragon without wings is not without teeth, after all.)

She stares down at Arya, watching as her sister stills the whetstone over her blade, eyes a blank mask when she blinks up at her.

           “Will you let me through?” she whispers with an exhaustion she has not let herself feel until now – until she is at his door, merely paces from him.

           Arya cocks a brow her way, leaning back in her chair.  “Took you long enough.”  There’s a sharpness to the words – an accusation.

           Sansa swallows tightly.  She just wants to breathe.

           (She’s been trying to catch her breath since she first saw the stain of his blood along her furs.)

           She just wants to breathe.

           “Will you let me through?” she asks again, the words a strangled whisper.

           Arya narrows her eyes at her, jaw clenched tight.  She nods finally, gaze drawn down.  Sansa slips into the room beneath the whisper of her wool skirts.

           The door slips shut behind her and she’s left staring at him as he lies there, tucked beneath furs, so peaceful she might have mistaken him for asleep any other time.

           She takes a step closer, trembling.  A short, stunted breath leaves her.  Another step.  She feels the horror branching through her lungs – slow and indelicate.  She makes it all the way to the edge of his bed before she manages to breathe his name.

           “Jon.”

           He doesn’t answer.

           “Jon,” she tries again, this time louder, this time with the irrational belief that were she only louder, he would hear her and wake.

           He stays still atop the bed.

           That slow-branching horror, it sinks its hooks, brittles her bones.  It roots her there before him.  She sinks to her knees mindlessly.

           He’s so pale.  So sickly pale his skin tints blue.  

           Sansa blinks, brows furrowing.

           That blue…

           It’s frost, she realizes, a trembling hand reaching out to brush against his temple, feeling the sheen of thin ice beneath her fingertips.  She pulls her hand back instantly, a small gasp breaking over her parted lips.  

           There’s a winter in his veins, freezing him in this moment, keeping him suspended in this hopeless halfway point between life and death.  She fumbles for his pulse, two fingers pressing into the cold flesh at his throat.  His heartbeat wanes, sluggish and faint – barely even there at all.

           She licks her lips, hand retracting.  She takes a moment to look at him, eyes traveling over his scar-lined face, the unruly thatch of beard at his chin, the broad expanse of his chest when she pulls the furs down, riddled with the evidence of his betrayal – twice borne now.  Beads of blood dot the edges of his never-closing wounds.  Sansa frowns at the sight.

           There’s a cloth and clean water at the bedside, and after several moments of staring at the gashes, of trying to discern the motion of his breath, she reaches for it and sets about cleaning him.

           The blood will run again, she knows.  It is a perpetual stain, a constant reminder.  But there is something soothing about dragging the wet cloth across his flesh, wiping the filth from him.  Her eyes catch along the tangle of his dark curls lining the pillow now, brows furrowing. She finds a brush and sets to work, moving on to his beard next, taking a delicate blade to the overgrown hair, cleaning him up as best she can.  She tucks him beneath the furs once more, changes his woolen socks, calls for lukewarm broth from the attending servant girl that Arya sends in.  When the woman returns, Sansa sends her out with an appreciative smile and gentle nod, setting the first spoonful to Jon’s mouth and dabbing up the lost broth that trickles over his chin with a fresh cloth beneath her steady, fine-boned fingers.

           Arya does not come to collect her that evening, and Sansa wakes to find she has fallen asleep against the bed, knees still folded painfully stiff beneath her, Ghost nudging her to consciousness with a wet snout.  She clenches a hand in his fur and buries her face in his neck, breathing him in.

           He smells like Jon, she finds.  Like soiled snow and leather and figs.  She holds him to her for many long moments.  And then she finds the will to face another day.

           She returns after the work of tending the wounded and rebuilding Winterfell is done, after meeting with the remaining Northern lords as they try to contain the aftermath.  They’ve taken to following her rule in Jon’s absence, an unspoken act, perhaps bolstered by such vocal allegiance as Lord Glover’s and Lady Lyanna’s.  Jon’s lineage becomes the insignificance of yesterday, when there are too many walls to rebuild and too many mouths to feed and too many wounds to stich closed.  After all, there is truth to Lord Glover’s words.

           “What Targaryen ever died for the North?”

           They still call him King Jon in their whispered tales, in their fervent pleas to the old gods to heal his ailing body, to halt his perishing.  The stories are vague, blurred at the edges, no one truly knowing the way in which Jon Snow defeated the Night King, only knowing that he had.

           And perhaps that is enough.

           Sansa leaves a tray of food outside Bran’s door each morning and returns to it untouched each night.

           She will not do more.  She cannot do more.

           Not when Jon’s hand sits like ice against her small palm and the bandaged linens round his chest stain with fresh blood each morning.

           Sansa curls her vehemence back behind a still tongue, tasting its tartness with the kind of steely resignation that comes from having buried so many dead already.

           The pyres never seem to stop burning, the sky a permanent grey haze. Sometimes she finds herself staring over the ramparts at the ash-covered hills, the tainted snow of her home.  But yearning is not building, and she has grown used to busy hands.  She does not stare long.

           There is a kingdom to restore.

           She says goodbye to Lady Olenna at the gate, after her half-moon stay in Winterfell following the battle.  The older woman takes her hands in hers, a jarringly public and informal gesture of affection that makes Sansa’s chest grow warm with fondness, with the aching wonder of what might have been.

           “Take care, dear girl.  I fear this winter has only just begun.”

           Sansa nods, eyes falling to their joined hands.  “I think you might be right.”  She doesn’t let the weary sigh leave her, but she thinks Olenna might have heard it anyway.  She blinks back up at her, gaze sure.  “But we are not alone anymore.  Keep sending that grain up North, Lady Olenna, and we stand a far better chance.”

           Olenna pats her hand, a wrinkled smile tugging at her lips.  “Then I shall, Your Grace.”

           Sansa opens her mouth to object to the address, unable to keep her features from showing her startle, but Olenna only shushes her, patting her hand one last time before withdrawing.  She eyes the shadow that Daenerys casts from her perch atop the ramparts, watching the farewell in stiff, darkened silence.  “Take heed, Your Grace,” Olenna whispers.  “This world has not seen the last of dragons, it seems.”  A glint passes through her eyes as they resettle on Sansa’s.  “I wish you good fortune in the wars to come,” she says pointedly, head inclined toward her.

           Sansa does not glance upward at the indication, already feeling the dragon queen’s presence like a hand at her throat, cinching ever tighter.  But she nods her understanding, a faint smile pulling at the corners of her lips.  “Thank you, my lady.”

           Edmure Tully leaves but a few days later himself, his lame arm bandaged to his side, his Tully armor both a comfort and a haunt.  His bow is reserved, the quirk of his smile an affectionate thing when he rises back to his full height, head high.  “You know, you’re quite unlike her, in many ways, and yet, exactly like her in all the rest,” he says suddenly, a thoughtful expression gracing his features.

           Sansa cocks a curious brow up at him, a startled laugh lining her lips with earnestness.  “Oh?”

           “Like Catelyn,” he says, as though it ever needed clarifying.

           Sansa beams up at him, a hand braced to her chest as though to stem the warmth.

           His face takes on a somberness, his eyes a soft-hued blue that makes her ache with memory.  “I miss her, still. I miss her always.”

           Her mother’s brother, she reminds herself.  Her brother.

           She thinks she knows a little something about brothers – the needing of them.

           And the losing of them.

           She reaches out to grasp his gloved hand in hers, a tender thumb running over his knuckles.

           Edmure releases a soft laugh, a flicker of pain crossing his brow when he looks down at the motion, but then he’s smiling again, that Tully blue a familiar comfort now.  “I’m glad I shall not have to miss you, niece,” he tells her.

           Sansa reaches for him, and he goes to her.  They hug in the snow-veiled courtyard, gently and ardently.  She says goodbye to both her uncles, in the hollow of her heart, in the silence of prayers she has learned to always keep inward, in the kind of faith that has only ever been born of blood.

           Her gods wear familiar faces now.  She keeps them close to her heart.

           (Family is the only faith that’s ever seen her through, after all.)

           “I can’t say I’ll miss this dreadful cold, cousin,” Robin tells her upon his own farewell, shrugging his cloak tighter about his shoulders in a motion of discomfort.

           Sansa takes pity on him, moving to adjust his furs with sure, practiced hands, tightening the cross-straps over his chest and smoothing her hands over his startlingly broad shoulders.

           Not a child anymore, she finds.  But then, none of them have had that luxury for quite some years now.

           The recollection makes her softer, makes her worn heart clench just a touch tighter. “Then I shall have to make you a fine, new cloak when next you visit, my lord,” she says, her voice bright in a way it hasn’t been for far too long.

           The excitement that lights his face could not be masked even if he’d tried.

           It’s a small, endearing bit of honesty that brings a smile to her lips.

           “Will you?”

           Sansa nods fervently.

           Robin beams at her, chin lifting, standing just a bit straighter than he had before.  And then a touch of sadness wilts his smile.  “I’m sorry Lord Baelish won’t be able to join me.  I know how much he must have meant to you.”  He worries his lip.  “Arya told me he died in the battle.”

           Sansa returns her hands to his shoulders, smoothing over the edges of his cloak with a motherly touch.  “He died in service to the North.  I could not ask for more,” she tells him, voice steady, not a quiver to be found.

           Robin nods, brows furrowed, face caught somewhere between pride and regret.  And then he offers a comforting smile, dipping into a slight bow in farewell, turning almost fully before –

           He stops, glances back at her, opens his mouth with a line of hesitation worrying his brow.  “Your Jon,” he begins, and Sansa blinks at him, breath tightening in her chest.  “He’s a brave one, isn’t he?”

           Sansa resists the urge to fold the young lord into her embrace, settling instead for a grateful smile and a soft sigh.

           “I should like to get to know him better, when he wakes.”

           Sansa lets the breath flutter from her, a catch to her voice.  “I’ll see to it, my lord.”  She watches the billowing of his cloak when he leaves then, the familiar banners of the Eyrie disappearing behind the main gate with the afternoon sun.

           She returns to the council chambers that same day to find Tyrion waiting for her, standing swiftly from his chair at her presence.

           Brienne eyes him disdainfully at her back, but Sansa only gives him a blank stare.

           He worries a hand at the edge of the chair for a moment, seeming to contemplate his words.  A stilted silence breathes between them, and then he takes a step toward her.  “Your Grace,” he begins, and never gets to finish.

           “’Your Grace’?  Not ‘my lady’?  Not ‘Sansa’?” She keeps the bite tame in her words, the snap of her jaw cushioned by restraint.

           It is still strange and new, this quiet acceptance the Northerners have granted her, this title born of war and its necessities.  Davos is as insightful and stalwart a Hand to her as he was to Jon, and none of the great houses seem eager to dispute her choice, or her rule.  She wonders still, in the back of her mind, if they’d have chosen her in any other circumstance.  Or if she is simply the default now, the only Stark left worth following, with Bran sequestered in her chambers as though in self-imprisonment, and Arya slinking through Winterfell’s shadows in a grief so furious she seems more wolf than human these days.

           (Even still, she remembers the way Lord Glover had looked at her that first night in the hall, and the way Ser Davos inclines his head in deference, and the way silence blisters in the room upon her arrival, fierce and humble in equal measure.)

           Tyrion clears his throat, gaze shifted toward the table so that he does not look at her when he says, “I think by now it’s rather clear you were never my lady. Especially now that you are…”  He clears his throat again, eyes flicking back toward hers.  “Now that you are his.”

           She does not offer a rebuke, but neither does she offer confirmation.  She simply stares at him.  The room seems smaller suddenly, the air tight in her lungs.

           Tyrion’s hand falls from the chair and he takes another step toward her, looking up at her with a plead in his eyes she cannot discern.  “But that’s not why I’m here.”

           “And why are you here, Lord Tyrion?” she manages through pursed lips, tongue sharp behind her teeth.  

           (She was there when they presented Jaime’s gold hand to him after the battle, in the filtering light of a red-hazed dawn.  He’d stared at it with salt-tinged eyes, lips trembling as he bit his tongue to hold the curse, or perhaps the wail.  Eyes fluttering closed, breath raking from him like a gale, he’d finally spoken.

           “Melt it down,” he’d choked out, and then turned instantly, stalking away with a shake to his shoulders that had Sansa bracing a hand over her mouth, the sigh tumbling from her in its wounded release.)

           “I’ve come to offer my services,” he says, fists bunching at his sides.

           Sansa cocks her head at him, eyeing him carefully.  “Has your queen finally decided to rejoin the council?  To venture outside her self-imposed isolation?  Tell me, is she tired of living like a mere guest in a castle that should be hers?”

           Tyrion swallows tightly, his voice hoarse when he replies, “Daenerys is in mourning, but – ”

           “And we are not?” she scoffs.

           “But I am not here for her,” he finishes gruffly.

           Another silence pricks at them, the air bristling with unease, and Sansa tries not to notice the trembling of his fists or the downward tilt of his mouth or the anguished, lonesome look in his eye.

           The last of his name.

           And yet he’s here –

           (not for ‘her’).

           Sansa will not turn away council for spite.  She will not let her people suffer to keep her burning resentment alive. She will not place pride above peace.

           “Please,” he tries again, blinking up at her with barely concealed tears, a face so instantly aged and worn she’s surprised she hadn’t seen it before. There’s a weariness to him that wasn’t there before.  “May I – may I be of any help?”

           “I won’t ever hurt you.”

           Sansa has taken to distrusting such promises in her experience, but there’s the same earnestness in his words now, and she understands what it means to want to believe in simple sincerity – to need it even, especially in an insincere world.

           Sansa finds herself nodding stiffly, just as the door behind her swings open. Lyanna Mormont stops in the threshold, eyeing the two of them in stilted concern.  “Your Grace?” she asks cautiously, hand clenching on the door handle.

           Sansa takes a deep breath, motioning toward a seat at the table.  “Lord Tyrion will be joining us for a time,” she tells her.

           Gratitude lights along the scar-addled lines of his face, a shaky smile pulling at his mouth.

           She does not ask after his queen.  She does not invite the dragon back to the table.

           And he does not urge her to such.

* * *

           Sansa consults with every healer and maester and wildling witch left in Winterfell. Nothing seems to affect Jon.  No collection of herbs seems to make the right salve, no pressure of practiced hands seems to ease the bruising or the wounds, no incantation seems to invoke the gods’ mercy enough to wake him.

           Sansa visits him daily, sleeping either at his side, or with Arya.  She begins her day with him.  She ends it with him, as well.

           She enters the familiar chamber now to find Tormund standing in the middle of the room, staring down at Jon, still as the morning light.

           “Tormund,” she greets, hesitant, making her way around the large man to stand at his side.

           He grunts his acknowledgement of her, never taking his eyes from Jon.

           She bundles her hands before her, fingers clenching and unclenching.  She eyes the clean bowl of water at the bedside table. “Did you come to help me wash him?” she asks tentatively, needing to broach the silence and yet not knowing how.

           He slides his intense gaze her way and she swallows back the words, unable to look away.  He heaves a heavy sigh, a hand wiping down his mouth and along his rough beard.  The motion is so reminiscent of Jon that she nearly takes a step back at the way it knocks the breath from her.

           “Let him rest, little wolf,” he tells her.

           She blinks at him, confusion marring her features.  She glances back to Jon’s unmoving form, before returning her attention to Tormund.  “I…”

           “He deserves the mercy of a clean blade.”

           The panic is instant – sharp at her throat.  Her hand comes up to grab at the hook-and-needle chain lining her collar.  “No,” she croaks out, breathless, staggering beneath the suggestion.

           Tormund turns fully to her, eyes the darkest blue she’s ever seen from him.  “He’s done his part.  He’s won the fight.  Now let him rest.”

           “And were you not there when he rose from death the first time?”

           Tormund grumbles, but doesn’t answer.  

           She takes a daring step closer to him.  “Were you not there?” she asks harshly.

           “Aye,” he grinds out.  “I was there.”

           Sansa stares at him balefully, her hand unclenching from her chain and sliding back to her side.  “You didn’t let him rest then either.”  It’s nearly an accusation.

           “Things were different.”

           “Yes, he wasn’t still alive.”

           Tormund levels her with a frustrated glare.

           “I can’t let him go.  I can’t.”  Her breath catches, her hands gripping at her skirts.  “Not like this.”

           Heaving a sigh, Tormund glances back to Jon’s still form along the bed.  “You know he never was the same – after that death business.”

           Sansa softens at the admission.  She feels the unexplainable urge to rest her hand upon his wide arm.  She resists it – just barely.

           “He was never the same,” he breathes out.

           “I know.”

           “No,” he says, near on a growl.  “You don’t.”

           Sansa blinks at him, mouth pursed into a tight line.  Something rattles in her chest she cannot recognize.  

           He turns back to her.  “You can’t know that.  No one can. He won’t talk about it – about wherever the fuck he went when those bastards closed his eyes for good.  So, no – you can’t know that.  You can’t know how he’s changed because you don’t know where he’s been.  None of us do.”

           She remembers Jon’s heavy breath pooling in the dip of her collar bone as he braces himself above her.  She remembers the quiver that racks through him when she settles her touch at his chest. She remembers the mournful way he mouths her name as her fingertips graze his scars.

           And she remembers how he takes her mouth with his before she can ever ask, his hand stilling her at the wrist.

           The thing is, she’s done quite the same when he’s tried exploring her own scars.

           Ramsay was a form of death himself, after all.  

           She’s never told Jon the depraved things Ramsay used to whisper in her ear when he took her like an animal, or how he brought her to begging by knife-point each night, or even how she miscarried during her escape to Castle Black – staining her saddle with blood, Brienne’s firm, mindful hands pulling her from the horse, cradling her in the snow as she cried out from the pain, a rending, terrible wail that shook the frost from the trees while Theon watched on with quiet, horror-filled eyes.

           (No, never that.)

           Something in her died on her way to him.

           Something in her has been dying ever since.

           Sansa gulps back the memory, frigid in her own skin, a winter’s gale passing through her like a howl.

           She told him to come back – demanded it even – because she has had enough of dying.

Because a collar is just another kind of violence.

Because she has finally learned to bare her teeth.

(Because wolves were never meant to be tamed – even by death.)

“Maybe it’s selfish,” she says, chapped lips parting on the words.  “But I won’t let him go,” she repeats.  “Because I think he deserves to be fought for.  I think he deserves it more than anyone.”

Tormund stares at her for a long time, just watching her, and she has to wonder what he sees.  He’d been there, after all, the day she’d arrived at Castle Black.  He’d been there – watched how she’d flown herself at Jon, arms going wide, sob raking from her instantly, trembling in his hold, face buried in his neck, rocking with him, back and forth and back and forth and –

He’d been there when she’d poured herself into him, never to return.

“Don’t take too long, little wolf,” he tells her finally, a gruff sigh leaving him as he turns for the door.  “The dragon queen won’t sit still forever.”

Sansa watches him go, catching sight of Arya in the threshold as Tormund drifts past.  They share a nod of familiarity, and Sansa is a sudden stranger, the show of acknowledgement a window into lives she’s closed herself off to – either willfully or not.

Have they shared a pint as easily as they’ve shared this nod?  Have they shared stories or laughs or hands?

She wonders, suddenly, at all the moments she’s missed in her single-minded rule, at this life her sister has built for herself, this life that Jon has built for himself, all the people and all the trials and all the joys that they’ve known.

She’s never shared her darkest parts, no, but she wants to now, suddenly.  She wants to know what it means to be seen – wholly and cleanly.

Arya stands before her.  Jon lays behind her.

And she wants them to know.  She wants them to know everything – all the horrid, rancid details, all the gruesome little workings of her insides – peeled back and emptied out.

(Perhaps this is what living means – perhaps this is what she demands of herself, as much as she demands it of Jon.)

She stares at Arya and her perpetual hold on Needle at her hip.  She stares at Tormund’s back as he stalks from the room.  She stares and stares and stares – vacant and longing.

(Tired of unkindness.)

Sansa makes her way from the room, silent and stiff. She finds herself at Bran’s door.

Before she can knock, the door swings wide – open for the first time since he’d retreated that bloody, unforgettable night, as though he’d been waiting for just this moment.

“Sansa,” he says, and he’s her little brother again – though his cheeks are gaunt and his eyes are hollow and there is nothing fond in his voice at all.

Her chest clenches from the harrowing sight of him. “Bran,” she exhales softly.

He sits staring up at her, hand still held at the door.  And then he wheels back, inviting her into the darkness of the room, shadows playing on them like taunts.

She thinks of their trek south.  She thinks of the summit.  She thinks of the beat of dragon’s wings shadowing their journey home. She thinks of the dragon queen, her white-sheened brilliance like a threat, even now, her mourning a fire-brewed thing.

She thinks of the start of it all.

Sansa takes a seat before Bran, the fire crackling at her side.  She licks her lips.  She finds her words.                                   (At the beginning.)

                                                 She will start at the beginning.

                                                                  Sansa clears her throat, eyes a dark demand, breath rising like wind-swept embers in her chest. {“Why did you bring her here?” –

* * *

Daenerys becomes a haunt – a silver, shadowy thing Sansa hardly ever sees outside the dim veil of sundown.  Sometimes, when she takes to the halls at night, she finds the dragon-less queen just lingering in a threshold, as though she has suddenly lurched to a stop, caught halfway between one place and the other, forgetting where it is she means to go.

The war has left widows of most of the North – wives who have outlasted their husbands.

But there is no such word for mothers who have outlasted their children.  

Sansa knocks on Daenerys’ door just the once – short and solid.

“Come in,” Daenerys beckons with a voice like ash.

Sansa enters her chamber smoothly, offering a polite curtsy and closing the door behind her.  She finds Daenerys lounging in a cushioned chair near the window, holding a near-empty wine glass loosely in her hand.  She sneers at Sansa’s entrance, a jarring expression for a face otherwise perfectly poised, a model of regal disinterest when she turns back to the window.  “And how is my nephew?” she asks coolly, fingers curling around her glass.  At Sansa’s silence she turns a single, raised brow her way, looking at her out of the corner of her eye.  “Come now, I know you’ve just come from his chambers.  You practically live there now, don’t you?”

Sansa smooths her hands over her skirts.  “He is much the same, Your Grace.  Nothing we’ve attempted has yet to wake him.”

Daenerys scoffs, taking a swig of wine.  “Such a doting sister.”  She seems to catch herself, lip curling as she turns fully to her. “Or should I say cousin now?”

“Jon is…dear to me, Your Grace, no matter the relation you attach to it.”

“Yes,” she says, emptying her wine glass.  “Dear enough to fuck, it seems.”

“Your Grace – ”

“Let’s not pretend, shall we?  It’s a rather tedious affair at this point.”  Daenerys arches a challenging brow at Sansa, tipping her empty glass back and forth.

“She burnt the Temple of the Dosh Khaleen when the khals refused her rule.  She burnt the slaver ships when they denied her their fleet. She burnt Euron Greyjoy when he rescinded his allegiance.”

Sansa blinks, remembering Bran’s words.

“She destroys what she cannot have.  House words have never rung so true.  She will take what is hers, with fire and blood.  Or fire and blood will take it instead.”

Sansa draws in a deep, steadying breath, lowering herself to the seat across from Daenerys.  Her hands fold together over her lap with certainty.

Meereen will be the last city she lays ruin to.

           Sansa catches sight of the flagon of wine on the side table.

           (The last, she vows.)

           Sansa grabs the flagon, offering it to Daenerys.

           After a moment of contemplation, Daenerys extends her hand with the wine glass expectantly.  Sansa begins to pour as she speaks, “If we’re not pretending anymore then I gather it’s safe to say you’re not particularly interested in Jon waking.”

           Daenerys throws her head back with a stunted laugh and Sansa stops pouring, replacing the flagon, her hands shifting seamlessly back to her lap.  Daenerys bites off an indignant scoff when she looks back to Sansa, eyes flashing.  “You’re much too smart to think I’d ever cross an ocean with an army such as mine only to sit second seat at the table.”

           Sansa doesn’t answer her, but she doesn’t need to.

           Daenerys’ eyes harden on her, taking a sip of wine like a threat, never blinking from her when she swallows.  “I did offer him an alternative.  He refused.”

           “It’s only an alternative when it’s a choice, not a threat.”

           Daenerys purses her lips, the fingers of her free hand thrumming along the armrest.  “I didn’t relish the idea of harming my own blood, no, but I’d have done it if it meant stability for the throne.”

           “I believe that.”

           Daenerys eyes her critically, shifting in her seat.  “And you understand why I must.”  A long sip of wine.  A thrum of silence between them.

           It is said like a statement, but even Sansa hears the question in it.  She offers a perfunctory smile.  “I understand why you believe you must.”

           Daenerys’ cheeks tinge a harsh pink, her nostrils flaring.  “It is not belief.  It is fact.”  She takes a large gulp of wine.

           “You’ll pardon me, Your Grace, if I hold such a fact up to speculation.  You did, after all, base your entire campaign for the throne on the misguided ‘fact’ that you were the last – and rightful – Targaryen.”  Sansa cocks her head thoughtfully, reclining in her chair.  “We’ve since seen the truth of that,” she finishes calmly, no hint of smugness to the words, though the boldness of such a sentiment is inherently unspoken.

           Daenerys narrows her eyes, her jaw locking, a cold, even calm blanketing over her. And this is it.  This is the dragon queen in all her bereaved splendor. This is grief made sharp – made fire-licked.  “You would do well to hold that tongue, my lady, before I have it cut out.”  It’s such a soft-spoken threat, her voice lilting as though it is a secret shared, a hidden joy.  Daenerys’ lips curl with her dark smile, stained with wine.

           Sansa glances to the slowly emptying glass in her hand.  

           “So eager to defy me,” Daenerys muses, all hint of grief gone.  “Treason is an easy crime for you, isn’t it?”  She is fire again – the small, blue flame at its origin.  A quiet destruction.  She looks off into the corner of the room, taking a drawn-out sip of wine, a needful distraction.  A sigh leaves her when she finally lowers her glass – a sound not unlike the exhaustion of bruised hearts.

           Sansa thinks of Jorah Mormont then.  The quiet bear at Daenerys’ back, and the way she always inclined her head at his words, the way her smile seemed a tender, girlish thing in his presence, the way her hand reached for him in the end, with desperation and yearning and loneliness.

           So much loneliness it was painful for Sansa to watch.

           “You love him so?  That you would risk such treason to speak to me thus?  That you would give your life for his claim?”  Her eyes slip back to Sansa like a demand.

           “For his claim?  No.” Sansa shakes her head softly, a sad sort of smile tugging at her lips, and she knows now that there is no keeping it any longer.  There is no way to stop it spilling from her, in waves and waves and earnest, fierce waves. “But for him?”

           There is no keeping this.

           She imagines Daenerys sees the truth of it in her face, because she is nodding slightly, jaw quivering, a heavy breath drawn through her lungs.  “And you think I haven’t loved like that myself?” Her eyes are wet suddenly – jarringly.

           If Daenerys is trying to hide the regret, she’s doing a poor job of it. And for a moment, Sansa wonders what they might have been in another life.  In another time.

           (When they’d not crawled over leagues and leagues of heartache too ripe to ever call it finished –

           Leagues and leagues of it and –

           The road is too long.  It winds too sharp.  And Sansa cannot see the end from her vantage point, cannot calculate the curve.  She discerns it through faith.  She travels blind, but for her hand in Jon’s.)

           What they might have been – Sansa wonders – in another life.

           But they have only this life.

           And she will not waste it.

           “I think you’ve loved,” she answers her in a whisper, and it’s not a truth that’s hard to see.  

           Daenerys does not take her eyes from her, hand tightening over her forgotten wine glass.  She is a haunt, yes – still a visage of mourning – but fire does not die so easy.

           (Sansa reminds herself that fire sows no seeds.)

The words lodge in Sansa’s throat, scraping their way out – a wreckage of sorrow lighting her tongue.  “I just don’t think you’ve ever loved anything so well as your throne – so well as yourself.”

Daenerys looks upon her with barely held contempt, her chin tilting high, eyes blinking back the wetness.  “You’re treading on thin ice, Lady Sansa,” she warns.

           “But it is my ice, and I will tread it how I will.”  

           Her North.  Her home.  Her Jon.

           (Even if she burns for it – this she will not surrender.)

           Daenerys takes a last, violent swig of wine, emptying her glass and nearly slamming it on the side table as she stands.  “You would be dead without me,” she hisses, a harrowing glint of shadow lighting her pale features.  It is almost a plea.

           Sansa only shakes her head, her eyes sharp under the firelight, hands still held primly in her lap.  “I would be dead without a great number of people – mainly Jon.  And Arya, and Bran, and Theon.  But not you.”

Daenerys blinks wildly at her, mouth parting with no words to follow.

Sansa stands as well, her height lending an air of assurance to the words.  “We would be dead without your dragons, Your Grace, but hardly without you,” she corrects, something of compassion seeping into her tone, remembering –

           There is no word for mothers who outlast their children.

           Yes, she has loved.  But so have they all.

           “I’m sorry,” Sansa says.

           (Daenerys will never know what for.)

           A scoff leaves the queen’s lips.  “Sorry?”  She’s practically shaking with the indignation.  “Sorry?”  Her face twists into a mask of disdain.  “You will be,” she promises, voice a tight whisper.  “You will all be sorry.”

           Sansa does not wilt in the face of her wrath.  She simple waits.  She simply watches.  

           “Father will know if you do.”

           “My armies will sweep through this land and lay waste to all who defy me.  I will retake that which is mine by right, and you will learn to properly cower before your queen,” she sneers, a shadow-crept wrath etching over her face.  “You think you have won, because my dragons are dead.  Because my children are dead.  But I was a queen before I was ever a mother, and a queen I will stay. They heralded my name like prophecy, they knelt in reverence, they bled for me, because I demanded it, and because they knew it was right.  Westeros will tremble before me, dragons or not, because I am the last true Targaryen.  I am the fire, and I am the blood.  And you will know my wrath.  You will know that I carry the greatness of Old Valyria in my veins.  You will know – ”

           Daenerys chokes on her own vehemence, a cloud of blood spraying suddenly from her lips as she jolts to stillness, eyes wide.

           (Words were not the only poison Baelish taught her.)

           Sansa tucks her hand back into the folds of her dress, the powdered drug between her fingertips a weight she has learned years ago.

           Daenerys snaps wild eyes to her emptied wine glass in recognition, lips flecked with blood.  She stumbles, blinking furiously, hands grasping for air she hasn’t the lungs for.

           Sansa does not turn away, even when the dragon queen collapses to the ground, gripping Sansa’s skirts between white knuckles, choking on her own blood.

           “I would give my life for his, yes,” Sansa offers demurely, lowering herself to the floor, a tender hand on the dragon queen’s elbow just before she starts seizing.  “But first, I would give yours.”

           It’s an ugly, inglorious death that takes her – the blood seeping from her mouth like a wound, fingers gnarled into trembling, grasping claws, eyes red-rimmed and hateful when she finally gasps her last – small and infirm and less than a queen.

           It is not a dragon’s death.

           Daenerys’ eyes slip shut, and instantly – like a dark, thieving mirror – with Ghost’s distant howl breaking against the night, somewhere across the castle –

           Jon finally wakes.

* * *

           {“There is a price.  Only death pays for life.”

It is an echo of years past.  An echo that rings unfamiliar to Sansa’s ears, but in the dark hour, in the hollow of night, it comes to her –

           “Some say the witch’s magic still lingers inside me.”

           Sansa’s eyes go wide, her mouth parting.  Bran offers what might have passed for a smile once on her lost brother’s face.

           “Because she is needed.”

           There is an old sort of magic to sacrifice, after all – a violence done most kindly.

           And fire sows no seeds.

           So Sansa will sow her own.}