#frost got no lives just a prophecy/warning

[dogwoodclangen]

Moon 4 (8/15)

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will clarify here that frost did not receive any lives, he just got a prophecy!

[soulc-hilde]

Prologue - Bizcocho

Pairing: Carmen Berzatto x OFC! Caden Woods

Warnings: Family trauma, mental illness, improper coping methods, cursing, implied sexual scenes, mentions of suicide, drug abuse

Synopsis: Caden was never a sociable person, preferring her pastries and cemeteries to the human world. Carmen, on the other hand, is drenched in chaos; his need to be perfect in life, echoes his work ethic in the kitchen. Desperate to prove his brother's spirit and former boss wrong, he forges his family's restaurant into his own image. Is it possible for bears to get lost in the woods? Or do they just make it their home?

divider by ... I forgot, but if y'all know who created this please tag them in the comments!

Loneliness. Is it as grim as people make it out to be or is it just a misconception? Can one really drive themselves into madness or is it all just an illusion? A trick of the mind?

A series of questions that required a list of answers remain, floating in the back of Caden’s thoughts like some mystical prophecy waiting to be fulfilled. Conditioned to live life in her own way, viewing the world through a third eye and abandoning any emotion outside of the usual deadpan. Even in the unruliest moments, that’s all she’d appear. Dead. Cold. Unwilling to process anything.

Escaping to Chicago wasn’t supposed to be as successful as it was. She believed that within the first week of her settling in, police would kick down her door and drag her all the way back home to her oh-so worrisome mother. Yet, nothing came. No texts, no calls, no police. Just silence, and she welcomed it until it became unsettling. So, she searched for a job.

It wasn’t like she was a walking Jeopardy of career experiences, but it’d be a lie to say that she wasn’t well-rounded. She could cook, clean, sell, fix, and paint just about anything in record timing. Anything to get some money in her pocket and keep her bills covered. Although, there was a skill of her’s that was a bit personal, a reminiscence of her life that didn’t involve a stonehearted girl and her shit of a family.

She lived to bake. Never bothered to attend proper schooling for it outside of vocational school nor could she afford it, but it was where she was at peace with herself. Drawing the different pastries and their ingredients before bringing it to life, it was like she was in her own Wonderland.

It was how she met her neighbor, Tina Marrero, who designated herself as the girl’s Tia. The woman and her son, Louie were walking past the open apartment door when the familiar smell of Bizcocho Dominicano. Leaning inside, the older woman knocked on the metal frame of the doorway, watching the small, curved figure appear from around the corner with a pan in hand.

“Oh, uh, hi,” she stutters, lifting the recently baked cake as a wave. Tina nods, “hi. Sorry to barge in, I’m Tina and this is my son, Louie. We were walking by and smelled Bizcocho.”

Caden sends a small smile her way, setting the pan down on the closest table nearby. “Ah, yes. Yes, bizcocho Dominicano. Are you?” Tina nods, a small smile growing across her freckled features, “yeah. Yeah, I am. It’s good to meet you,” she trails.

“Oh, Caden. Caden Woods,” she answers the unspoken question. “I was in the middle of making the second cake and it got really hot in here, so I propped the door open. I’m sorry if that caused any trouble.”

Tina shakes her head, “no. No, no problem at all. I’d rather deal with this for a neighbor than some baboso.” Caden chuckles, nodding in understanding, “I don’t blame you at all. Uh, would you like to take a cake home? The first one I made has already cooled, I just have to frost it.”

“Oh, no, you don’t have to. I’m the one who trespassed into your home, there’s no need.” Caden stops her, “no, please. I kind of came to Chicago on a whim and didn’t see what areas were had the highest Dominicans, if any at all, so it’s been kind of lonely at times. I want you to have it.”

Tina smiles, “thank you.” Caden simply nods, walking back into the kitchen. Within a few minutes, the girl returns into the kitchen with a round sage green cake carrier.

She sets it on the living room coffee table, pulling the lid off with a small ‘tada.’ The older woman’s jaw drops, eyeing the blinding white traditional merengue frosting and tiny sage green hearts lined the top and bottom of the cake.

“Anda el diablo,” she gasps. “This looks amazing, kid.” She looks down, hearty cheeks pushing up against her almond shaped eyes. “Thank you, Miss. Tina.” She places the lid back on, locking the cake away. “It has the traditional pineapple jam inside; I hope you enjoy.”

Tina stands, holding the carrier to her chest. She gently pats the girl on her shoulder, “Gracias, mija. I’ll return this to you when we finish the cake.”

“No, it’s yours to keep,” she laughs, leading the woman back to the hallway. “I have way too many of those.” Tina just looks at her with a soft gaze, “welcome to Chicago,” and leaves with Louie following behind.

Stepping inside her own apartment, Tina sits the cake down onto the dinner table. Louie sits down, eyes wide and focused on the dessert. “Can I have some?” He asks, drool nearly dropping from his lips. “I got you, papito.” She smiles, opening the case. She grabs her kitchen knife, slicing it into the airy dessert.

Carefully serving the slice on a blue rimmed, white porcelain saucer. The golden center contrasts beautifully with the ivory white merengue that seemed to melt into the white center of the plate before bleeding into a deep blue ocean. It was the picture-perfect definition of baked with love. Her son digs his fork into the triangular tip, the pineapple magma slurs onto the plate. 

His lips wrap around the slightly sharp edges of the fork, humming as the sponge melts against his tongue. He swallows the remnants of jam and cake, nodding with content. “That good?” Tina asks, eyes watching with surprise.

“That good,” he nods with a grin. “Let me try some,” she grabs a fork. Taking her own dive, she inserts the tip full of cake into her mouth. It melts perfectly, the taste of vanilla and pineapple working together as it warms against her tongue. The merengue was as soft as the cake itself, smooth and sweet yet not too much that the taste of sugar was strong.

She nods, humming, “damn good.”

The next morning, Tina walks out her door when she sees Caden leaving out of her’s. “Hey, kid,” she greets. The girl turns, sending the older woman a small smile, “mornin’, Miss. Tina. How are you today?”

“I’m pretty good, gotta head to work. You?” Caden shrugs, “as good as I can be. This’ll be, well, I lost count how many times I went out for a job.”

Tina raises an eyebrow, “is there a certain job you’re looking for?” She shakes her head, “no. I’m a Jack-of-all-trades and I’m desperate, so if you know anyone or anything, please let me know.”

“Oh, I do. Come with me,” she walks off. Caden follows the woman, confused.

After a few moments of driving, Tina pulls outside of the The Beef of Chicagoland. Caden’s eyebrows raise at the familiarity at the restaurant. “Have you tried getting a job here before?” Tina asks, stepping out of the car.

“Uh, no, actually.” The young woman scoffs, “I’ve only been here for a quick bite. Do y’all have a bakery in here?” Tina shrugs, walking through the back, “somethin’ of the sort.”

--

“I need two honey rolls, three cannolis, a chocolate cake,” Carmen calls off the receipt during the lunch rush.

It’s been a few years since Caden first stepped into The Beef and got the job thanks to Tina. Getting the job on the spot, she became their residential baker, replacing their old one who turned out to be a junkie, selling meth out the back of the restaurant. Working in the tiny square space was something to get used to, for sure, but the workload wasn’t abnormal for her as a freelance caterer.

Within The Beef, a family-oriented team created a space of joy and familiarity. Tina was, of course, her mother-figure while Richie was like the funny yet annoyingly drunk cousin, Mickey was the cocky, overzealous older brother that you love but wish he could shut up. Marcus, a recent hire under Caden’s watch, was a sweetheart and there was Ebra, who reminded her of her uncle.

As usual, once life believed that things were going just a little too good for her, things had to fall apart. After Mickey committed suicide, things began to change. The days at The Beef seemed long and pointless, her pastries were bland and commercially appropriate. In his will, he left a part of the restaurant to his little brother, Carmen.

She’s heard a lot of things about him. Good, shy, kid with a passion for food who gained acclaimed success within the culinary industry. Unlike his little sister, Sugar, Carmen never attended his funeral. Richie complained, ranting about it whenever Berzatto was mentioned. A part of her believed he was mad that he was never mentioned in Mickey’s will, but she knew Richie wasn’t that shallow.

She wouldn’t lie, though, Mickey could’ve at least warned her that man was like a fucking siren. “Chef, I need three more cannolis,” he barks. “I need to hear you, do you… understand me?!”

“Yes, chef.” Caden barks back, serving out the fresh Sicilian pastry without a blink. “Hey, don’t shout at her like that, what the fuck is wrong with you? What the hell got caught in your ass, Bear?” Carmen keeps his focus on the service, sending out plate after plate.

“I wasn’t shouting at her, Richie, I just needed to know that she heard what I said.” Richie leans over the window, ignoring the crowd of customers in front that watched the chaos. “Well, I’m just sayin’, you could act like you’ve got manners. Alright? Okay? She’s a lady, this is Honey, we’re talkin’ about.”

Carmen clenches his jaw, “shut the fuck up, Richie, alright? I got it, okay? Look,” he turns to Caden, “Caden, I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry.”

She simply shakes her head, not bothering to pay mind to either one of the two. “It’s cool, I got two dozen honey rolls comin’ out the oven, Chef.” Watching her, his wide cerulean gaze follows her around that tight corner.

For Carmen, his take on Caden was fresh and a journey he had to partake on his own. There was no forlorn voicemails or letters from Mickey that told him about her despite the constant reminder from Richie that she was like the star in his eyes. Coming out of hiding, he was told at the last minute that his brother left a portion of the restaurant to him. The same restaurant he refused to let the younger Berzatto work in for unspoken reasons.

There was a lot of shit Mickey left behind that just didn’t make sense. From the amount of debt he was in down to who owned the other 50%. It was all too much. If Sugar wasn’t trying to spam his phone in hopes he’d respond, he was playing fucking Sherlock Holmes. A bad one at that.

After the final rush of the day, The Beef was closed, and the kitchen was as spotless as the staff was willing to do. Carmen holds the back door open for Caden, the two being the last to leave. He watches her all black form walk across the gravel, heading for the green and black Kawasaki Ninja with a matching skull designed helmet in hand.

“I’ll see you, tomorrow, Chef,” he calls after her. She simply raises a hand in return, keeping straight before straddling the leather seat. She starts the engine, its roar echoing through the quiet neighborhood. The smell of exhaust takes over, replacing the one of grease and beef.

He takes quick, timid steps toward her side. Praying that she doesn’t back over his toes. “Uh, Caden,’ he clears his throat, cigarette bouncing between his lips. “I wanted to, uh, I wanted to apologize, ya know? For, for my actions today. I, it, it was really shitty of me to, uh, act like that, especially put, putting you on the spot.”

Impulsively, she lays a gloved hand on his chest, shaking her head. “Dude, you’re cool. Richie’s just acting like an asshole, like usual. Especially towards you. If I was insulted, everyone would know, but it takes a lot for that to happen.”

Her lidded eyes stare into his wide ones. Anxious gaze clashing with the nonchalant glare. His fingers twitch, the spot her fingers touched was warm and taking its time to leave. God, she was beautiful. Short, honey blonde afro fluffy and glistening paired with a round, oval face and dark features. The center of her face was painted with dark freckles, like Tina’s, but her skin was darker. Her brown skin always glistened, ignorant of the feeling of being ashy.

Despite her work in the kitchen, her hands were void of blemishes and cuts. They weren’t perfect, but they were soft and small. Her right arm was tatted from her wrist to the top of her shoulder, a blended sleeve of cartoon characters and designs of a panda bear and thorns. She was a small thing, taller than Tina yet smaller than him with curves that whined for days.

Snapping out of his mind, he nods, stopping his jaw from biting on the head of the cigarette. “Goodnight, yeah?” She nods, “Goodnight.” She slides the helmet on as he watches, backing out of the parking slot and down the Chicago streets.

Baboso: Dominican adjective term for a liar or an idiot

Anda el diablo: Dominican phrase for Oh My God or like, Wow

Bizcocho Dominicano: Dominican style sponge cake made with a fruit jam and vanilla merengue.

I decided to make Tina of Dominican descent since I'm also of Dominican heritage. I also wanna practice my Spanish, so I'm kind of living through Caden. Other than that, I hope you enjoy our intro.

Taglist: @spiderstyles04 @lostinwonderland314

[mareenavee]

For the director's cut thing, what's a scene you're really excited to share and why? 🤩

Director's Cut: Favorite Upcoming Scene in The World on Our Shoulders

Hi and welcome!! Thank you so much for asking.

This is a tough one to avoid spoilers for people who haven't had the chance to read yet. I've only just got chapter 10 published today! I am rewriting, but getting to the point where I can keep most of the work I did, and just fix a few things. I have about 52-54 chapters mostly done. Maybe not quite ready to post yet, but there's still a backlog while I'm editing. New content is in fragments, but the whole story is planned out.

So, the tags on my fic are there to set expectations. We know it's a LDB/Teldryn fic. We also know that I've been writing with the hc Teldryn Sero is the Nerevarine theory. I'll share a tiny fragment as a teaser so to speak for this favorite chapter of mine below!

One of my favorite chapters so far is a flash-forward from Teldryn's perspective. Nyenna asks him to tell a story when they stop for the evening on their travels back to Whiterun. It references Morrowind's Bloodmoon DLC and it was entirely a fragment, practicing Teldryn's voice before I actually wrote most of the fic. And it turned out so charming that I turned it into a whole chapter. It was perfect for the flash-forward timeline in the story! And perfect for nostalgia reasons, to be honest.

So here's a fragment, just a tiny one, of Chapter 16: Once Upon a Bloodmoon

“Tell me a good story? It would get my mind off everything,” she asked after a few minutes of companionable silence. He leaned over and kissed her again. He gently brushed his knuckles over her cheek and she smiled softly. The campfire lit up her bright orange eyes perfectly, even now while the sky was still blue and the sun hadn't quite set. She seemed even more gorgeous in this light. It surprised him how she could do that. He wondered if she even knew. But if she wanted a story, he’d do his bardic best while he was making food for them both.

“Alright. Did I ever tell you the one where I defeated a real live Frost Giant? Perhaps the foremost Frost Giant of our time?”

“Yes. Of your time, you mean. Also, I was there when you defeated him…or his ghost, rather… a second time,” she said with a small laugh. “But I like that one. Go on.” 

“Well I did warn you about the skull. That thing felt wrong all the way across the cave,” Teldryn said. She laughed. “You wouldn’t listen. Ah, if only I knew how much more trouble you’d be back then.”

“Hush, you. Tell the story.”

“Okay well. It involved Hircine. So, thinking clearly here, is it a good story, really?”

“Teldryn!”

“FINE. Okay. So I was on Solstheim. It was the Bloodmoon. For whatever Godsforsaken reason, I had roped myself into a situation regarding yet another Daedric Prince and their endless prophecies. But here, I woke up in a room literally filled with werewolves. Disgusting, smelly beasts, if you ask me.”

“Three of my best friends are werewolves,” Nyenna interjected pointedly.

“I said what I said,” Teldryn answered with a wry grin. She playfully shoved him and he cackled. She shook her head and giggled to herself despite her previous faux-indignation.

Anyway :3 I'll post the whole thing in due time. But I hope you like it! It's still my favorite chapter, even as I'm editing, and even though I know how this thing ends, I haven't put it all to prose yet, so it may change...but I love this scene. And I hope you'll all like the whole chapter when it's posted.

[ktheist]

2 | all yours to enjoy [m]

title inspired by blackpink’s sure thing cover.

⟶ read part one, play me like a toy, here.

muses. heiress!reader x ex-mafia!hoseok

genre. age gap factor. chaebol-mafia au. arranged marriage au. modern au.

warning. implied smut, mentions of gun use and all that mafia shizz

verse. knj. ksj. myg. kth. pjm. jjk. jhs.

synopsis.

“marry me or be killed.”

“is there a third option?”

“we fucked but you were too drunk to remember so that option’s invalid.”

x

the carved name above the handle points in wayward angles. as if made by a child.

well, 5 year-old-you lacked tact. and a sense of artistry but nobody dared insult the work of the only daughter of the han group.

the room hoseok stepped in feels familiar yet foreign at the same time. it’s been years, but the pink unicorn plushie still sits on your bed like it’s waiting for you to climb in and cuddle it every night.

the pastel peach walls have been repainted in a deep maroon shade. at your order, hoseok suspects. it’s as if you’ve renounced that childish innocence and took on a blood oath for the han family name.

much of that youthful wander in your eyes has disappeared.

‘it was my fault, i shouldn’t have left her all alone in this wretched place,’ hoseok surly thought to himself.

before he can even think about how inappropriate his actions are - to have stepped into a woman’s room without a reason - a surprised voice echoes from the door adjacent to where he’s standing.

“hoseok...” you’re standing there, in front of the ajar bathroom door, with a pristine white towel around your body and another wrapped around your head, water dripping from the stray strand that manages to escape from your towel turban.

perhaps he had a reason, after all.

perhaps he just wants to see you, the person who coerced him to come back to this god forsaken house where he’s seen more deaths than his fingers could count.

“i’m sorry- i didn’t know you were taking a bath-” hoseok didn’t even manage to take a step back when you shake your head, a smile he’s not used to seeing curved on your lips.

“it’s fine, come in. close the door behind you.”

when he remains frozen in his spot, hand on the handle that seems to seep cold, icy frost into his palm - you raise a pair of trimmed brows, “what? we’re getting married, aren’t we? you forgot but you’ve seen all of me,” a coquettish smile on your lips, “don’t tell me you’re getting all shy now after announcing to the entire head of families that they should sleep with one eye open.”

the funeral had been handled by uncle jihoon, your father’s right hand man and most trusted confidant. he probably cleaned up the skeletons in your father’s closet more times than you’d met your own father in your 25 years of living.

your father had enemies and someone had to get rid of them.

such was the ways of the hans.

yeojun was yours and sehun was chanyeol’s.

hoseok was meant to step in once uncle jihoon resigned since at an early age, he’d gathered enough support to ruin the whole nation. his only fault was being loyal to your father, han jiseok.

and it was his loyalty that made your father drive him away.

because no matter when hoseok was and what he was doing, he’d never betray the hans.

“he’s just a kid,” you’d once heard him say to uncle jihoon.

several months later, he’d announced at the annual family gathering that hoseok got into yonsei university as a business major. it also meant that his ties with the han group would cease to orphan student-influential family sponsors. every record of his existence was wiped clean. he was no longer the child uncle jihoon took in because he pitied hoseok’s miserable state of living. he’d come to your house in tattered clothes and a bluing bruise on his cheek.

jung hoseok was meant to carry half of the burden of the head of family until the true heirs grew up and learned the ropes of leading the han group.

in short, hoseok was a proxy. a stand-in who gathered a little too many support that threatened the powers of the actual heirs.

their bow lingered longer, as if they were thanking the gods for bringing him back just as they’d lost a great leader.

you didn’t mind though. you liked hoseok - he was the only one that didn’t look at you like you were a prophecy of death. a child who’d grow up just as wicked as her father.

he’d looked at you like a human.

han jiseok took a liking to hoseok, the loyal dog of the han family that would drive a fist into someone’s gut at the command of the head or any of his heirs. hoseok wouldn’t question it either - why he was beating someone up half-dead, he just... did it.

so when that jung hoseok who got cut off from the han family at chanyeol’s whining over how his succession would not be supported by the branch families if hoseok were to remain as the stand in - came back and announced  first thing after his return, his engagement to the heiress of han group, naturally, all hell broke lose.

hoseok had stood by your side as you’d kept your head low, the black veil covering your eyes and nose did well to hide your dry gaze.

true to his reputation, as soon as he stepped into the mansion with you, the men who swore their loyalty to the han family, one by one, started bowing at hoseok whilst the heads of the vassal families started whispering among themselves.

“hoseok, the loyal dog? that’s him?”

“did the boss ever say who was going to inherit the family business?”

family business was just a white washed term of the commercial front of han group that was meant to blur the eyes of the korean government on what truly goes on underground.

“the attorney hasn’t been found, right? that means nobody here knows the contents of the will.”

“did he ever mention chanyeol would inherit the business?”

“____’s achievements aren’t something to be turned a blind eye on either.”

one of the heads of the branch approached you, he smiled too sweetly on the day of his principal’s passing. rubbed his hands together schemingly as he murmured words of condolences that sounded like congratulations, “the boss suffered for so long from leukemia, the gods must’ve answered his prayer. i’m sorry for your loss, miss ____.”

foolish fiend.

kang sungho was chanyeol’s uncle from his mother’s side. he was the head of one of the closest branch family who’d swore loyalty to the han’s. yet he acted like a stranger who didn’t have anything to do with his brother-in-law’s passing.

“say, hoseok, you’re here too,” sungho didn’t even wait for you to respond - perhaps he thought you were too in shock to say anything, “it’s been a while, thank you for coming even though you have no relation with han group anymore.”

just like that, sungho made a u-turn and spoke on the behalf of han group.

your hand that you didn’t even know was balled up into a fist shook silently - that was, until hoseok slipped and grasped it with his large hand as he lowered his head in a nod.

“it’d always been my intention to come back to serve the new boss,” his hand had left you to wrap his arm around your shoulders, “well, a husband is a slave to his wife, anyway, right?”

it was clear from what hoseok said that he didn’t mean chanyeol was the soon-to-be wife.

you’d sent yeojun to the hospital to confirm your father’s status while you’d met up with an - well, you were holding her son and husband hostage if she didn’t corporate but still - acquaintance who works at the korean embassy to speed up the marriage registration process.

it was when you were walking out of the embassy and to the car that hoseok slips his hand in yours and murmurs to himself.

but you’d heard every word of it, “your hands are trembling. you’ve never shot a man, have you?”

a sense of melancholy paints his face as his grasp tightens on your hand, as if saying ‘sorry i left you all alone in that house.’

you shook it off, heart too dried and withered to ponder on what he’d thought. thoughts of you father filling your heart.

no ceremony, no nothing.

and now you’re married.

the hoseok from just hours ago stood with his back straight and an ease in his aura. yet his presence alone was enough to make even the eldest of the head bow to him.

“are you... are you okay?” this hoseok asks you with hesitance in his voice.

“what makes you think i’m not?” you amble to the bed and drop your towel, letting it pool around your ankle.

there’s no mistaken low breath hoseok let out at the sight of your naked body. as if he’s a teenage school kid who’s never seen the body of a woman.

“do you mind zipping this up for me?” you say, standing with your exposed back on him, damp hair pulled to drape over your shoulder and chest.

hoseok lets out a cough. as if to announce that he was in the room and he was coming closer.

the fingerpads feels callous against your skin. you have to remind yourself to breathe through your nose than hold it in until your lungs feel like they’re about to burst.

hoseok takes his sweet, leisure time tracing down his index finger down your spine to get to the zipper. and when he does, he drags it up in an agonizingly slow pace, the grazing sound it makes causing the hairs on your neck to stand.

“skip the after-reception... you look tired,” he says after his hand falls away from your body and you’re suddenly missing what warmth it provides, like a flame that thaws the ice in your heart.

a dry laugh escapes you, “the elders are finally looking at me as an heiress, you know i can’t afford to slip out of the spotlight on the pretense of fatigue.”

before hoseok can offer any response, you twirl around, arms banding around his waist and bare face buried in his chest.

“hold me like you used to when i woke up from a nightmare and i’ll be fine,” the remnant of your sob threatens to spill from your mouth - true, you didn’t shed a single tear when you arrived late at night at the hospital.

the death of your father had been announced at 1703 hour.

but it’s only ever sunk in that the only family you have is gone - once you’ve left to your own devices to take a bath and change into new clothes before the after reception begins.

it’s then, that the waterworks began to pour over your cheeks without any hints of stopping.

hoseok must have seen the aftermath of your puffed, pink eyes when you stepped out of the bathroom, not expecting for anyone to be there except the silence.

a pair of strong, secure arms wrap around your body wordlessly. hoseok tilts his head so his cheek is pressed against the side of your head.

“you grew a few inches,” his husked voice brushes your ear like a dream you’d never want to wake up from.

a small laugh escapes you, “oh come on, i got more than my height on me but you-”

hoseok groans and you clamp your mouth shut, chuckling.

“i’m sorry,” he confesses, a treasure trove of remorse laced around those two little words.

all of a sudden, guilt gnaws at your conscience for having teased him too many times about forgetting something he couldn’t control, “don’t say sorry,” you mumble, “now i feel bad.”

“i used to tease you a lot about your obsession for ponies and unicorns.” his voice drums in your ears.

“i used to fantasize about finding a unicorn in the forest behind our beach house and beating chanyeol at a race someday,” without you realizing it, your cheeks are hurting from how wide you’re smiling.

silence lapses around you.

but it has no space in between your flushed bodies. you hear hoseok’s unusually fast heartbeat.

“you’ve changed...” you murmur, somber.

“i did?” he sounds melancholic, as if reminiscing about the days in this household.

chasing after the troublemaker daughter that always thinks they’re playing hide-and-seek. beating and threatening any rival members he sees hovering around the han group’s territorial influence.

“i didn’t say i don’t like the new you,” you tear your face off his chest, tilting your chin to gaze up to his warm eyes that appear deep brown under these fluorescent lights.

standing on the tip of your toes, you peck his lips lightly.

a sweet smile plays on your lips.

‘yeah, his lips are as soft as they look,’ you affirm.

it’s the way his eyelids cover his eyes as he blinks. the way his lips part as if surprised at the sudden, unannounced advancement. the way the realization seems to sink in that there was nothing stopping you from kissing him again-

an index finger presses against your pouted lips as you stand on the tips of your toes once again.

“it’s dangerous...” is all he offers.

but with the way his gaze becomes hooded as the chains of self-restraint shackles his hands and ankles, you think you know what he means.

instead of offering an answer, you sweep your tongue over the length of his digit, mouth opening to lightly bite his finger all the while gazing into his stormy eyes.

“guess i’m just a little kitten compared to the wolves in that room full of old wolves to you, huh?”

once the storm passes, his gaze becomes hooded with something - something you can’t pinpoint.

yet you let him slide his finger deeper into your mouth, feeling the soft pink flesh of your tongue on his fingertip.

you flutter your lashes skittishly, hand pushing the hair to the back of your ear as you lick a strip down his finger like you would his other head. but the rap on your door and the “miss ____, it’s yeojun,” coming from the other side almost sends your heart leaping into your throat.

you suck in a deep breath around hoseok’s finger before pulling away and stepping to the side, completely aware of the sexual tension that hovers in the air like thick, dark clouds.

“yeojun, is everyone here?” your gaze is fixed on the handle that your hand’s reaching out for.

“everything’s set, we’re waiting on the priest to arrive,” his voice sounds muffled through the door.

you step out of the door with half-damp hair and a face bare of make up whilst patting down the skirt of your dress.

but it’s not your half-as-acceptable appearance that makes yeojun stare at you for five solid seconds.

rather, he’s staring at something behind you as you feel the warmth of a body heat against your back.

“i’ll be the one escorting my fiance, yeonjun.”

he speaks casually despite yeojun being older than him and yet it felt natural. hoseok holds out his arm for you as yeojun stepped back with a bow, making way for you and hoseok to walk down the hallway leading to the flight of stairs where the main hall would be.

x

“god, i hate ties,” hoseok murmurs under his breath from next to you, nimble fingers pulling on his collar.

“you wear it well for someone who claims to hate going around in crisp button downs and shiny leather loafers,” a smile tugs on the corners of your lips.

chanyeol finally stepped away with the madam for some fresh air. maybe the death glares she’d been shooting you since you arrived - has finally got the world spinning behind her eyes.

“was the only option an orphaned nobody like me had when i was offered to work a nine to five,” he says casually, still fumbling with his tie.

your hand feels like a child’s when you place it on his. he pauses, gazing down at you before letting his hand fall on his side whilst yours remain on the knot of his necktie.

“may i?”

hoseok’s head moves, not quite a nod but not a shake of ‘no’ either. so you take out the pin from your hair that yeojun fetched from your room after your hair started falling into your face with every head bow you made in front of the guest. undoing the knot on hoseok’s tie, you slip the pin between the knot before looping the end over the knot and patting it down once you’re done.

the ‘how did you learn to do that’ look that hoseok shoots you makes you laugh. he’s both impressed and suspicious.

“my mom-” the one who’s confined to the house your father give and can’t even attend her late husband’s memorial service, reception and after reception, “-taught me all the things i needed to know to be the ‘perfect’ wife.”

“never pegged you for someone who’d obediently absorb her teachings,” he comments.

back then, you were as ruthless and spoiled as they come. the fine lines on your mother’s forehead was probably caused by your bursts every time she tried to push her views on you.

“a year after you left the seong’s proposed for our families to join together... they had a son and daddy had a daughter at his disposal... i was preparing to be a bride because that’s all people around me made my life to be until i just... had enough of being treated like a doll. so i cut a deal with seong joongki, got rid of his dad so he could step up as head, we remained engaged until i turned 18 and broke it. now he’s one of the people i know i can count on,” a shrug of your shoulder and you look up to him, locking his gaze with yours.

“seong, huh?” hoseok scanned the faces of the guests behind you, eyes narrowed like a hawk before they paused on something.

his gaze returns to you, an overly sweet smile appearing on his face as his dimples dig into his cheeks, “people like him cut and run when things get messy.”

you laugh, it sounds tired, but it’s still laugh, “if he does, i’d be the one to tell him to.”

“and i’ll put a bullet in his head if you didn’t,” he says words of murder like a romantic confession as he gazes into your eyes like there’s no where he’d rather be.

that is, until an unfamiliar voice calls the husband of the heiress by his name.

x

“namjoon,” hoseok hugs the chairman of kimcorp. for a lingering moment as the man pats his back once, as if unspeakingly consoling him.

kim namjoon, the second child and heir of kimcorp. and hoseok’s college friend and boss who booked a sudden trip back to seoul at the news of the head of the han group’s passing.

though the later generation washed their hands off the dirty work that got them where they are, they still remember their roots.

when they break apart, hoseok turns to you, arm around your waist, “___, this namjoon. namjoon- ___... my wife.”

hearing the word ‘wife’ slip out of hoseok’s mouth warms your heart yet makes your stomach knot painfully. ironic how you’d want to believe the heartrendering way he introduced you to be anything more than the act you told him to put on.

“ah,” kim namjoon narrows his eyes at you, as if shifting through his memories, “the kid hoseok babysat.”

the disparaging regard to your status as heiress tells you enough what this so-called friend of hoseok thinks of you.

“the friendless nerd hobi befriended out of pity,” you state, flashing you best smile.

a nod from his side. as if saying ‘touché’.

“ah, mrs. aera didn’t come?” hoseok asks, eyes searching the crowd until namjoon shakes his head, a meaningful smile playing on his lips.

“she’s too tired so i told her to rest at home,” he says and hoseok nods, as if understanding the underlying reason that kim aera is missing from honoring the master his husband’s family’s served for generations.

the kim’s are one of the oldest families that was tied down to han group by an oath. your great great great grandfather helped his great grandfather build the legacy the kim’s found themselves on now.

though the later generation washed their hands off the dirty work that got them where they are, they still remember their roots.

he steps away, greeting chanyeol and han chohee, your father’s legal wife before meandering away and keeping out of the spotlight for the rest of the night while you amble languidly with your hand on hoseok’s arm, exchanging pleasantries with the guests like it’s a wedding rather than a funeral until it’s time for the head of the family to gather in the boardroom.

everywhere you and hoseok goes, eyes follow. those who you approach tenses up while they wear their best smiles and utter words of sweet saccharine but as soon as the attorney turns up, you have no sliver of doubt that these people will be the first to vote for your head if it turns out the will appoints chanyeol as the next and rightful heir of han group.

those who you pass by end up with twisted faces. they’re the acquaintances of the han group, loyal to no master - the actual people who’d cut and run.

“mr. jee,” the middle aged man with too big of a nose and overbearing personality turns his full attention to you after hoseok was done talking about the stock market he’d been investing in, “a friend of mine, doctor maria wong, is a skin specialist who just received the asan award in medicine for her recent findings, i can introduce you to her, if you’d like.”

the youngest jee suffers from a rare skin condition which is why she never attended any social functions. they claimed she got accepted to a boarding school in europe when she was actually getting treated in one of the most prestigious private hospitals in the world in switzerland.

the situation is kept under wraps. you lost one of your holiday villas for this piece of information.

“o-oh, yes,” it takes a moment of him staring at you like you’re emitting halo from your body before he stammers back to life, “i- we,” he looks at his wife who shares the same hopeful gleam, “would really like that.”

“one down... tens more to go,” hoseok murmurs under his breath when you walk away from the couple, “you’re pretty good this ‘you know whose side you should be on, don’t you’ kind of threat.”

“i threatened the jung hoseok to marry me, this is child’s play,” you shoot him a coquettish smile, not expecting for him to lean down to your ear and whisper lowly.

“the lock was on the whole time,” he chuckles as he straightens his back at the announcement summoning all the heads of the families present, its representative, the children of the han’s and their spouses to the meeting room.

hoseok pulls out a pair of tucson, ariz’s tucked behind him and places them on the metal tray soobin’s holding out. he slips a hand under his suit, pulling out a revolver from his shoulder holster you didn’t even know he had on. then, two grenades from each of his pockets like he’s taking out a piece of candy. a foldup knife from the pocket of his blazer.

red lights go off when he walks past the metal detector, cursing to himself before he shoots you a sheepish look - the one the new hoseok would - and bends down before pulling out two kolibri the size of your palm and appear like toy guns in hoseok’s that was strapped on both his ankles.

one of your father’s men manually hovers a handheld metal detector and scans him from head to toe before giving him the greenlight to walk into the room just as kang sungho screams, “i’m the uncle of the future head, you’ll regret this!”

you roll your eyes at the old man’s outburst, taking out the dagger strapped to your thigh and pretending to not notice hoseok’s ogling at your exposed thighs when the dress rides up.

“bringing a knife to a gun fight - ballsy,” hoseok murmurs under his breath, his words meant only for you as you join his side, both of you stepping into the still-empty boardroom as the heads of the branch families you pass by grumble to themselves, pulling out the weapons they have on them and piling the tray in front of them.

one even pulled out a bandolier wrapped underneath his coat. the others merely have a pile of handguns and revolvers on their tray.

“oh, i brought something better,” you feel your lips stretching into a smirk as hoseok pushes the chair behind you before slipping in the one next to you, inquisitive eyes boring into yours.

a peck lands on his lips as you giggle at the way his eyes go wide for the briefest moment.

“tch,” someone says as they pass you and hoseok. chanyeol sits across from you, glare digging holes into your skull as he looks at you as if you were guM under his sole.

“please, tell me you have a plan that involves me driving my fist in his face,” hoseok’s low voice sends shivers down your spine.

it takes a moment for you to grasp that his statement needs a response.

“even better,” you murmur, head tilted to him, “you’ll get to do whatever you want with him after we walk out of this room.”

x

“we can’t go on without a leader for longer than 48 hours!” kang sungho smacks his pudgy fist against the clear glass surface of the oval table.

“we get your frustrations head family kang, but we need to locate attorney hyeon first,” seong joongki speaks informally to the man 20 years his senior and kang sungho can only grit his teeth.

in this room, no peerage title exists. every head is equal and that means every single person here is below you and chanyeol, the heir and heiress of han group.

“for all we know, attorney hyeon could be dead,” ahn sujin glances around the room, meeting every eye of the head until her gaze rests on you, “they found traces of tires on the road and a wrecked tree trunk a few feet away.”

“are you saying attorney hyeon got into an accident on the way here but someone quickly moved the car and bodies as if they were planned it, auntie sujin?” chanyeol baritone cuts through the tense air.

he throws you a side glance as he sits at the end of the oval table where your father and his father and his father’s father sat, bearing the weight of a legacy as old and majestic as the royal family had they survived all these years. the audacity of this man you call a brother walked straight up to the seat your father used to occupy and plopped down as if he owned it.

“the crash mark in the bark of the tree was still fresh,” ahn sujin nods.

“well...” at the sound of your voice, the whole room falls silent, “let’s ask him shall we?”

soobin, nods at you like he’s known your ways for years. he pulls out a remote and the tv screens tacked behind the leader’s seat.

the screen flashes with a picture of uncle jihoon getting into a sleek black car with the plate number HG that only you, chanyeol, the madam and your father have access to.

a blurred buzzing echoes against the soundproof walls of the boardroom before it gradually becomes clearer.

“...get the names?” a deep voice asks - the owner sitting directly across from you stares with knitted brows as he focuses on the familiar sound.

“a-... -re you... sure about...? ...involve ...your mother’s family...” uncle jihoon’s dialect wrapped around the syllables of the words, giving out who that voice belongs to.

he used to be proud of where he came from and wore his dialect like a medal.

“..-actly, they’re my mom’s family. not mine. ‘sides, kang sungho’s been clinging onto dad like a fucking leech even though he knows there’s nothing he can offer us that we want.”

silence fills the audio.

hoseok’s hand slips over yours, as if reminding you to let out that breath you’ve been holding.

chanyeol’s jaw tightens as he shoots daggers at you with his eyes.

“the names, uncle.” a sense of urgency laces around chanyeol’s voice.

“th-the kang’s, byun’s and ahn’s agreed to get molly to the scorpios in thailand on 23rd of april on flight ka8792 at 2:35 pm.” uncle jihoon says after a heartbeat.

each of the families listed are known for either their couture designs that receive orders from ministers’ wives all over the world, custom made colognes or either owns five star hotels in south korea and overseas.

“this isn’t enough, you think the cops are gonna believe all we have is the names of families involved in some mid level drug smuggling? my reputation’s on the line here.”

“a-and a fishing vessel will be making port at around 3 in the morning five days from now. it’s owned by the cha’s, they’ve been using it to smuggle meth and hide it under the hauls of fish they caught.”

the cha’s hold the monopoly to the wet market business.

“that’ll do for now, get out.”

the audio cuts off and the screens begin to move again, this time showing shots of chanyeol and a man in his 40′s sitting across from each other, having coffee.

shifting your hand so your palm is facing up in hoseok’s, you slip your fingers in the gap of his longer ones.

“that’s detective kim namseok and my beloved brother having brunch together - that’s right, chanyeol with the held of uncle jihoon, sold the kang’s, byun’s, ahn’s and cha’s off in his grand scheme of getting the leader position in exchange for police immunity for the han group... oops?” your lips purse into a mocking pout.

“lies! you know how much this bitch wanted to take over han group!” chanyeol roars, pushing himself off the chair and turning to face the wide-eyed gazes and dropped jaws of the heads of the families.

“i-i was b-blackmailed...” uncle jihoon stares at his reflection in the table, as if in a whole different world, “i-it’s not my fault! the young master threatened me!”

“let’s ask the detective shall we? since it’s been  proven that men from the han group have a hard time believing the women’s words,” you roll your eyes.

the screen flashes with an dark, barren room with nothing but a man tied to a chair in the middle of it. his head is hung low but there’s no mistaking the sight of blood covering his face and shirt.

the ghost scent of the blood makes your stomach churn yet you wear the malicious smile of someone who’s about to grasp the very thing she desires - perfectly.

“he’s a little... tied up. we caught him just in time before he called up his partner and spilled everything your darling heir provided.”

“uh, hello? are we live?” a cautious, brittle-like voice echoes from the intercom as a man with greying hair enters the frame as he adjusts his glasses to sit higher on his nose bridge.

“attorney hyeon, you’re live,” you affirm, smiling tightly.

“ah, good evening,” a light of recognition glints in the man’s eyes as he smiles, bowing deeply before straightening his back and backing up until he’s standing next to the half-conscious detective, “i apologize for not being able to attend the meeting myself. i got into an accident, drugged and would have had my nails pulled out if miss han didn’t come to my rescue and brought me here.”

“argh... a... ah...” the detective interjects, groaning.

attorney hyeon laughs calmly as if he didn’t just hear the bloodied and bruised man asking for help.

“in my hands here, i have the contents of the will which i will now have my... uh, assistant-bodyguard share it to the screen and send to your phones... are you sure... they’re sent?” his voice becomes quieter whilst phones and tablets begin to ding with a notification simultaneously.

“... the three holiday villas in incheon, jeju and daegu will respectively go to the madam...” he begins listing out the properties owned by your late father and the distribution of a portion of it to the madam and your mother.

no one interjects even though attorney hyeon’s voice seems to drone on and one despite the tape and audio that leaves everyone on the edge of their seats.

“...and for matters regarding the succession of the new head, the boss, han jiseok, wishes a fair voting system be used to decide whether mr. han chanyeol or miss han ___ will take the position a starting a month after his death.” by the end of it, the room is deathly silent as if a pin drop would echo like thunder in this spacious room.

“the heir and heiress are given three months for them to prove themselves to the vassals and in the absence of a leader, jung hoseok will be appointed as proxy-”

at that, the whole room breaks out into a roar.

“jung hoseok hasn’t stepped foot in han manor for over fifteen years!”

“miss ___ and hoseok are married! this will lead to unfair results!”

a screech against the floor as a chair falls over.

“you still want to support the son of a bitch that’s willing to sell all of us out to the blue bastards?!”

“who’s to say the young master’s not selling out the names of sons of bitches like you who switches sides the first chance you have!”

in the midst of the shouting, chairs screeching and the elderly lawyer trying to gain calm the elders, chanyeol turns to you with the eyes of a man who’s watching his legacy fall right in his very eyes.

“i should’ve left you in the forest when we got lost 15 years ago,” he reaches for something behind his back.

you recall the brother with scratches all over his body, the sun was setting and his back had looked broad for your 8 year old self. you were just two kids who lost their way, slipped and fall in the forest not too far from the family villa.

that same brother is holding a gun to your face.

x

hoseok takes a long whiff of the cigarette that sits in between his index and middle fingers.

“that was a shitstorm,” someone laughs from behind him - your voice sounds oddly free for someone who’s about to either get hexed or get worshipped within three months.

the curve of smile on your lips makes him smile too. he breathes out, laughing, “yeah...”

“do you mind sharing?”

hoseok blinks once. then he regains his senses, looking at the smoldering bud and tapping the middle part of the cigarette with the tip of his index finger to get the ash off so it wouldn’t hurt you if it fell.

“yeah... here.” he pushes down the wince that comes from the slightest strain of passing the cigarette to you.

the way your eyes linger on the clean white bandage on his arm tells him you’re not fooled by his unfazed mask. yet you don’t say anything, your eyes flutter close as your matte burgundy lips wrap around the beige colored bud and inhale.

when chanyeol pulled out the gun, hoseok tried to reason him out of it. promises were made at the expense of his own life. all that, in exchange for yours. in the fleeting moment that chanyeol took to consider pointing the gun at hoseok, you find your opening, shoving his hand upward and hitting that spot in his rib.

the bullet didn’t hit you but it grazed hoseok’s arm. he was standing right next to you.

And hoseok has a brand new pack of cigarettes in his pocket along with an electric lighter - he’d probably grab them both in one grasp if he slipped his hand in his pocket now.

for some reason, he takes the cigarette you pass and takes a good, long whiff out of it.

“did you know?” the puffs of smoke pass through your mouth as you speak and breathe out.

“when i left,  boss told me that i should be ready to drop everything i have... everything i am at any moment... they would have dragged me back one way or another and it’s not gonna be with a gun with its safety lock on if i didn’t walk in on my own accords,” hoseok taps the ashes off a second time, watching them flutter down and settle in between the green blades of grass.

a sense apprehension follows your nod as you stare at your reflection in your polished pumps, “after all this... after i convince the vassals, i’ll make sure you walk out of this alive. heck, i’ll sign the divorce papers today-”

the half of the unsmoked cigarette hits the ground.

hoseok finds himself swallowing the gasp that slips out of your lips at his sudden movement. you freeze underneath his fingertips like the ice you build in your heart but you don’t push him away and hoseok takes that as a maybe.

maybe there’s stability in this chaos.

maybe love does bloom in the most desolate place.

he feels his heart leap into his throat when your arm goes around his neck as you kiss him back just as desperately.

maybe, just maybe, you need him as much as he needs you.

x

the three months fly by with you gathering the majority of the votes by exposing the dirt you have on chanyeol as well as obtaining support from the main branch families by giving them more control over the underground market that was previously monopolized by han group.

though you’re competing with no one, the three month grace period still went on to ease you into the leadership spot.

to keep everything fair, you and hoseok lived apart. him in his apartment he’d been living in up till now and you in one of the holiday villas that your father gifted your mother.

by virtue, you had every right to keep staying in the main mansion as the heiress but chanyeol’s presence was still too strong. his people still lurk behind the mask of the so called loyalty for the han group. he’s locked in one of the safest hideout where only a selected few know where it is. one of them being hoseok. you never asked him what happened with your brother.

that brother of yours was dead to you the moment he pointed a gun at your head.

and with that, you find yourself in a standstill when it comes to your relationship with hoseok.

the last time you mentioned divorce was on the day the will was read. you ended up in one of the empty guest rooms in the mansion because yours was too far away. hoseok fucked you into the silk satin material of the bed like he did that night. as if begging you to keep him - even if it was only for cheap thrills and fleeting passion.

once you stepped out of that room - somewhat presentable and barely any feelings in your leg, so much so, he had to wrap an arm around you to keep you upright - he was whisked away to discuss ground rules of what being the proxy head is entitled.

and that included maintaining a professional - as professional as a mafia leader can be - relationship with the heir and heiress he were to oversee.

once the three months were over, hoseok moved in with you. did all the things married couples would do - attended social functions and established your power as the head and him, the husband of said head. as if saying he had no eye for the position of the head. as if saying if they’d get on their knees and bow down at his will, they better be ready to die for you at his will. only when you’re away on trips overseas, visiting other ruling families in tokyo, hong kong, china and everywhere in asia - would he take over your job.

he kept the men in check and made sure they had a good beating if they went astray. and even then, they’d still follow him to the ends of the earth.

jung hoseok has the full support of the people who swore loyalty to the han family and you have the majority support of the heads of the branch family.

to anyone and everyone, you two make a dangerously powerful couple.

except there’s one problem: you’ve only consummated your marriage once and you can barely kiss your husband without him running away like you’re the literal devil that’s after him.

“h-honey, you’re back,” hoseok stammers, his adam’s apple bobbing as he gazes down at your exposed cleavage that’s pressed up against his body, trapping him between the desk and you.

he looks as if he’s a touch away from losing his mind and fucking you against the table in front of the frames of your predecessors on the wall.

but then his phone vibrates in his pocket and he doesn’t need to take it but he does, a ‘namjoon’ flashing across the screen.

as if seeing a lightbulb go off his head, you shake your head, ‘don’t you dare’.

“i remember taehyun caught the baek’s men in our territory, they’re in the tortu- interrogation room. i was gonna kill them and get rid of their bodies, but since you’re back... i have golf with namjoon, see you tonight.” with that, he kisses you on the corner of your mouth.

in other words, hoseok was saying ‘they’re your problem now, boss.’

“wh-what, jung hoseok, you-!” you manage to yell back but he’s out of the door before you knew it.

hours later, the clock hands strike an hour and a half past midnight as they mock you for making your own husband run away at the sight of you. the door clicks twice as some slips in and shuts it behind them.

you don’t even catch the sound of footsteps as hoseok goes about the room, taking off his shirt and wrapping a towel around his waist. the only indication he’s even here is the body that suddenly freezes up at the sudden flash of light on the nightstand on your side.

“where were you?”

“i was out... golfing... with namjoon...” he drags out the sentence as if his brain short circuited when put in the spotlight in nothing but a flimsy towel around that muscular body of his.

“your wife comes back after two weeks and you decide to go golfing on the very day she touched down?” you say curtly, arms crossed over your lace donned chest.

“i-...” hoseok starts pointing to the open bathroom door behind him that he was about to go in had it not been for your abrupt intervention.

“come here,” you order.

“i just got back and i sweated a lot-” is it the way your eyes bore into his without so much as blinking that makes him clamp his mouth shut?

“yes, ma’am.”

a sigh leaves your lips heartbeats after he comes to stand by the bed, head hanging low like a puppy who knows he’s about to receive a scolding. but you’re not his owner and hoseok’s your husband. your lifetime companion.

“hobi,” the nickname slips out of your mouth without you realizing it as your fingers graze his, tugging on his index finger like a child.

he seems to understand your beckoning, bed dipping when he takes a seat, facing you. it takes everything in you not to let your eyes linger longer than a millisecond at the way the towel ends up stretching, revealing a very noticeable lump protruding in between his thighs.

you clear your throat, mentally chiding yourself for the wave of memories that flood your mind when hoseok is looking at you with attentive eyes. all ears for you.

“for some reason, i feel like you’ve been avoiding me and it’s not just this afternoon. since we started living together... it feels like we’re back to being strangers with memories who happen to have to spend their lives together from now on.” you play with his fingers that you tuck into your lap, heart beating too fast for you to look at him in the eye.

and to think you started off like a lioness prepared for war.

all of a sudden, the temperature of the room drops as you mention the word you promised you’d never utter again since the day of the reading of the will.

“i meant what i said about divorce - monthly alimony until the day you die, a house in gangnam a car with a driver, all expenses paid. and if you find someone and want to start a family with them, i swear on my honor as the head of han group, your family will be protected under our care for as long as i’m alive.”

“i don’t want a divorce.” hoseok says, sounding somewhat hurt.

“then- why-” you begin but he cuts you off with his troubled voice.

“____, i watched over you, i dropped you off and pick you up after school,  taught you how to ride a bicycle-”

this time, it’s you who speaks over him,“-ten years ago. hobi -”

i’m an adult who literally knows how to put a bullet in someone’s head.

but you don’t get to say that when hoseok shakes his head.

“do you remember why you started calling me that? because you came home one day and said you learned a new word- hope. you said i was your hope and you were so excited because you could equate a new word to someone you know... someone who’s been like a brother figure to you- how messed up am i to marry the little girl that i watched over and actually desire her as a woman now?”

“so you do see me as a woman.” is all you say.

“is that all you heard, ___?” hoseok’s wide eyed gaze bore into yours, as if disbelieved by your nonchalance.

“it’s the only thing i care about,” you shrug, the easy arrogance almost costing you another ruined relationship but you sigh a second later, eyes fixed on the motionless hand in your lap before you slip your hand in his, holding it like you’re about to commence a thumb war, “i may have acted like a spoiled brat the majority of the time after we met again which is probably why this whole existential crisis is happening right now,” you laugh, “it’s easier to play the role of a bimbo daughter than a strong overbearing heiress. i guess i acted like that for so long, i started becoming that.

your hand lies still in hoseok’s as you look up, meeting his gaze for what it is, “i admit, it’s my fault if you think that my feelings spurred from the fond memories of the only person who treated me like a human.”

“but i assure you, i didn’t get to where i am now because i’m driven by sentiments like hate for chanyeol and everyone who looked down on me nor the love i had for you as a guardian. in life, there’s only one thing i want and that’s to be the head of han group. you’re a chest piece that helps turn the tables around for me but you’re not my only piece.”

the line of hoseok’s shoulders sag, as if hearing the truth hurt him more than the lie convinced himself of.

“choosing to make you my king is entirely up to me... not because of some childhood memory or dependency on a guardian figure like you thought but...” your thumb grazes hoseok’s knuckles as you lift his hand to your lips, pressing a lingering kiss on his knuckles, “we can take it slow, i won’t tease you anymore and you can see for yourself how true my words are.”

“feels like i should be the one saying that,” the lips on your forehead feels warm, spreading through your body like a mid summer’s night.

arms wrap around your body, hugging you to a strong, tight, unclothed chest as your breath hitches in your throat. you raise your hands to return the embrace but decide against it - it feels like a sin to be drooling over hoseok’s abs and greek god-like body when you’ve just promised to stop jumping the gun.

“you smell nice,” you finally cave, slender hands wrap around his naked torso as you breathe in his scent - a faint trace of musk and sea and masculinity.

at that, the body underneath you seems to freeze up, “i-i think i should take that shower now.”

hoseok’s sudden retreat almost has you falling face first into the sheets. you watch as he covers his face with that large, pretty hands of his while his feet carries him into the bathroom door and closes it shut.

x

the room is silent.

save for the sound of the droplet gathering underneath the tap before hitting the quartz countertop.

hoseok stares at himself in the mirror. lips parted, glazed eyes that are becoming clearer with each passing second as if gradually realizing the sticky situation he found himself in.

the bathroom smells like your favorite floral bath gel but he can still sense the scent of his arousal that, after running the shower head over, finally washed down the drain.

the water was obviously hot. not scalding - hoseok couldn’t take scalding hot showers like you do. but since he’d moved in and after screaming and almost tumbling down to his death if the water didn’t boil him alive first - the next day, he’d found the water to be cooler. warm enough not to make him freeze but not hot enough to have his skin emitting vapor like a half cooked human meat.

but that’s besides the point.

the point is - he’s already had a good, warm shower and jerked himself off but he’s still hard.

it’s the way your delicate frame presses against him when you try to hug him. no- hoseok shakes his head mentally, it’s the way you breathe and compliment his scent which, hoseok is certain, smells like sweat and grass and soil that he rolled over after miserably failing to hit the ball.

he might be well acquainted with riches and luxuries but he’ll get used to these rich people hobby namjoon’s been trying to get him on after his marriage with the head of han group.

these days, it feels like namjoon’s been trying to get hoseok to meet him more than the times they have to actually see each other when he was slaving over his perfectionist ass at work.

before hoseok can even ponder further on namjoon’s unarousing quirks and get his boner down, he hears a rap on the door and a hesitant,“hobi?”

“y-yeah?” ha manages to answer somewhat smoothly.

“i just wanted to say that i can sleep in my old room... if you’re not comfortable sleeping in the same-”

“no!” a rushed rejection, a heart trembling inside a chest.

hands of fear grasps at his wrists and ankles as though if he stayed tight-lipped any longer, he might actually walk out to an empty bedroom with no trace of you at all.

as this is all just one beautiful, tragic dream.

“no, i like sleeping with you.” hoseok slaps himself in the cheek, “i mean i like sleeping next to you... in the same bed.”

the silence seems to stretch on for hours until he hears the giggle coming from the other side of the door - hoseok’s heart warms, you sound like you’re back to yourself, “okay, well, come to bed faster.”

“i will!” he curses himself for that rushed response but you’re probably back in bed with the lights from the nightstand off, probably tired as fuck after a one hour flight back to seoul, having had baek’s men’s territory breach matters shoved into your arms and waiting up on your pitiful husband who was avoiding you over his conflicted conscience.

by the time he’s out of the bathroom, loose pajama pants hanging lowly around his hips, he sees that small lump underneath the blanket, your fetal position telling him you fell asleep facing his side of the bed.

hoseok slips into bed, laying on his side and admiring your pretty lips and thick lashes. his hand clenches and unclenches as if he’s not sure if he should sleep hugging you the way he’s used to.

he caves, hand wrapping around your back as he kisses the top of your head.

unbeknownst to him, you’re still awake. you pretended to be asleep because you didn’t want to make hoseok uncomfortable. but now he’s cuddling you like a child whilst his semi erected head presses against your stomach and it’s kind of too late to say anything.

not to mention, you were a virgin up until awhile ago and you’re not sure if it’s normal for men to be able to hold out this long without fucking their wives or if hoseok’s self-restraint is just over the roof and you’re the one with too high of a libido.

‘damn it, should’ve jumped on his dick before initiating a heart-to-heart.’

[peacefiresky-archive]

hunting song

Eleski’s brows furrowed, her anger ebbing further upwards. “Everything falls to an arrow to the chest.” “Not everything,” Ma said. Her arms began to tremble - she would sometimes have fits of weakness, where she could barely hold herself upright. “No arrow can fell the Fanged Stag.”

the beastfolk company belongs to @mothermara !

Eleski Ahlealdottir hadn’t earned her name yet. She had just seen her seventeenth winter, and she thought she might starve before she had the chance.

Shor’s Stone was a mining town, making their meager profits from the iron inside the mountains; they were poor, they were tired, and they were hungry. Eleski started hunting when she was young, apprenticed under her father, running through the forests of the Rift with laughter in her lungs and joy in her heart. Pa said she would be a natural, and she was - she could track a stag from Ivarstead to Riften without losing its trail, always knowing just where to land her arrow that it would fall without suffering.

“Easy,” her father would whisper. “Focus your breathing. Keep your eyes on the stag.”

It was as easy as drawing breath for her, her heart beating to the notes of a song she knew since birth. Her mind felt clouded and cleared all at once. Her eyes focused, her muscles tensed - and her arrow found its mark.

--

“Blessed by Kyne!” Her father cheered in his rolling accent, clapping her back when they came into the village. The doe was taken from around her shoulders, and Pa’s voice was like thunder congratulating her. The miners ate well that night, and Eleski crawled into her furs with a full stomach and a new deer-hide cloak. She hovered on the edge of sleep, imaginary scenarios drifting through her mind.

What if I find a dragon, she thought, her mind conjuring up images of the glorious beasts. What if I kill a dragon? Can you eat dragons? Can you ride them?

Just as she was about to drift off, there was a voice - on instinct, she laid still, quiet, silent, as her mother - when had Ma came to her side of the house? -whispered something she couldn’t understand, caressing her forehead. She traced the mark of the Eldergleam and Eleski fought back a flinch. It felt wrong when Ma did it. She couldn't explain why. “Child of the chase,” she sighed wistfully, before drawing away.

--

They were prosperous, her and Pa working jointly to bring in enough food to keep them fed through the winter. They never took in excess - Ma had warned her of a deer, with antlers crafted by Kyne and teeth sharpened by the daedra, who came in the night to steal away those who took more than they needed.

She had been terrified, and her Pa was amused, but compliant. “It’s about respect,” he told her when she was curled into her furs, clutching his hunting dagger in case the deer decided to take her away. “Respect the creatures you hunt, respect the woods you stalk, respect the men and women you work to feed, and Kyne will protect you.”

It was a lesson she learned easily. Every other day, she would disappear into the woods, listening to the steady music of her heart, and return with rabbits and deer and, if she was lucky, a wild pig, wolf, or moose.

That was all before Helmar Thaneson.

His father was some noble from Solitude, coming to Shor’s Stone after a scandal involving ties with the Bear of Windhelm; despite living among the miners and poor folk, he managed to afford his son every entitlement, every privilege. Helmar got away with anything he wished.

He was huge, and terrifying, and Eleski’s best friend, though not by choice. He would hurt her if she tried to leave him - he had said as much, and proved it through the scars on her face. He was touched in the head by Uncle Sheo - he was strong, sure, and a damn good brawler, but messy, uncaring, stupid. He chased the foxes and rabbits around the village and when he caught them - and he always caught them -, he’d throw them into the boiling stew, still alive and squealing. He thought it was funny to pounce on her like a wild cat, leaving her features marred and slashed by ribbons of red.

He hunted with her, too. Not properly; there was no careful footing, no learning the land, what creatures were mature and which were too young to give good meat. He left that to Eleski. That was how he grew so attached to her- they would venture off together into the thick woods, Eleski wincing at the sound of his heavy footfalls as he marched carelessly through the Rift. If she strained her ears, she could hear the wood’s creatures fleeing through the trees.

He was also bloodthirsty. She had watched, helpless, as he used his warhammer to savagely crush a stag’s ribs; all the while, he just laughed as it died, slowly and painfully. The meat was unusable, and the poor creature suffered a cruel death. Helmar's eyes were bright with mirth and joy - and that laugh set frost in her heart. Eleski didn’t like to watch her marks suffer. It was cruel - they were living creatures, just as much as she and Helmar. When she objected, he marched right up to her and cracked her cheek, the sound like wood splitting. The bruise had yet to heal after three weeks, and there was still a divet in her cheek where the bone had cracked. It ached in the winter.

The rabbits and foxes stopped appearing in the village’s outskirts. The deer were slaughtered wholesale, and so stopped grazing in the woods nearby. The wolves, starving, followed their prey; all that was left were the rats and vermin. Even the skeevers were skinny and disease ridden, barely enough meat to cook into a cabbage stew, but that was only when it didn’t fester moments after harvesting.

--

“We’re cursed,” she told Ma. “We’re cursed and it’s Helmar’s fault.”

“You seem so certain,” her mother replied, voice light and airy. Pa always said that he mistook Ma for a wisp mother when they first met; her hair was blonde, nearly white, her skin a luminescent alabaster, unmarred by freckles or moles. Even her eyes were ethereal, bluer than the glaciers to the north. Eleski took more after her father - tawny skin, thick, honey-gold hair, dotted by freckles and moles and crinkled, laughing eyes.

“I am.” Eleski set her bow down, slamming the door shut and roughly tugging her braids loose. She didn’t bother combing them out. “He killed the fawns before they could grow and mate. He ate through our crops like a starved rabbit.” She sat at the wooden bench, crossing her arms. Her father was tending to the hearth, the ghost of a smile on his lips. His amusement only angered her further. “He and his pa grow fat with fortune and food and the rest of us starve!”

Pa clicked his tongue, stirring a pot of boiling water. A chopped, skinny carrot and wilted cabbage leaf floated lazily within it. “And just what are you going to do about it?”

“I’ll kill him myself,” she replied. She knew she might just be mad enough to do it.

“Don’t be silly,” Ma hummed. “You’re not a killer.”

“I’ve killed plenty!” Eleski stood from her seat, eyes flaring. So fierce for one so young; wolf-blooded, Pa always said. “I’m a hunter! I’ve killed more than anyone in this village!”

“Don’t be so naive.” Pa tapped the wooden spoon against the pot, and set about pouring the soup into bowls.

Ma just laughed, the sound hollow and empty, shaking her head. “No, she may be right. But it would do her well to remember there’s a difference between killing a deer and killing a person.”

Eleski’s brows furrowed, her anger ebbing further upwards. “Everything falls to an arrow to the chest.”

“Not everything,” Ma said. Her arms began to tremble - she would sometimes have fits of weakness, where she could barely hold herself upright. “No arrow can fell the Fanged Stag.”

Pa raised his brow, and Eleski paused. Ma’s eyes stared dispassionately towards her, and slowly, she lowered herself to sit back on the wooden bench. Pa placed a bowl in front of Ma, then Eleski, and then took a seat for himself.

Ma raised the bowl to her lips, drinking deeply as though it was something holy, and sighed longingly as she placed it back onto the table. Her hands were shaky as she flattened her palms on the table. “He always collects the Hunter’s debts. May he take that blasted child’s heart and use it to breathe life back into these woods.”

Eleski’s ma looked like a woman out of a fairytale, and acted like it too, always reminding Eleski and Pa of old superstitions to be mindful of, murmuring vague prophecies and curses. Pa’s eyes, bark-brown and softened by age, met Eleski’s, sharp and vengeful. They never quite understood. Eleski wasn’t sure they ever would.

They didn’t speak until late that night, when her father traced the mark of the Eldergleam on her forehead - a nighttime blessing, his thumb connecting the leaves to the trunk. Eleski sighed and flopped onto her cot, and prayed that sleep would ease the pains of her stomach.

--

Her rest was fitful, as it always was. She dreamed of chasing, of being chased, her legs aching as the Game reversed; she dreamed of her frost-bitten hands warmed by blood, her mother’s, her father’s, Helmar’s; she dreamed of a red moon, hung in the sky like a blood boil ready to be lanced -

She woke to the sound of a scream.

She jolted upwards, her heart racing; she had a nightmare, but couldn’t recall of what - there was every chance that the scream was just an echo of her mind’s terrors, she told herself. And if it wasn’t that, it was a fox - she used to bolt out of the house every week, convinced some poor woman was being slaughtered, only to find Shor’s little fox laughing gleefully, satisfied at his prank.

The scream echoed again. It was deep, guttural; too human, too pained to be a fox’s cry. She pushed herself from her bed, flung the doe-skin cloak around her shoulders, pulled on her leather-soled shoes, and rushed towards the door, grabbing her father’s hunting dagger from its place by the hearth as she went. She threw open the door, the cold air stinging her face and eyes, before she gasped -

Her mother, ethereal and half-present in the moonlight, stood facing her. Her eyes, silvery blue and unblinking, bore into hers. She looked like a ghost, a fae, a wisp floating in the fields. She looked anything but mortal.

“The Stag always repays the Hunter’s debts,” she echoed, her voice like a bell.

Eleski tried to calm her racing heart. “Ma?”

“He comes and He hunts and He chases. He is His Father’s Son, though he wishes it not so.”

“Ma, you need to go inside.”

“He’s calling for you,” Ma sing-songed, pausing just long enough for that terrible screech to echo, bouncing through the village. “Can’t you hear him? You should go, watch the hunt; partake, if you want. I would. Oh, how I would.”

Eleski stared at her mother and saw a stranger. Her mother stared back, without warmth, without love - her eyes were empty.

“Go inside,” Eleski said, before turning towards the woods and running.

It was harder to navigate in the night, the only light being the dappled moonbeams filtered through leaves. Her feet thumped steadily below her, twigs snapping softly in time with her heartbeat. Tha-thump, tha-thump, her blood sang. A tree trunk in the shape of a bear marked the one-mile mark. An eagle’s nest marked the second. The thickening of the tree trunks marked the third. She ran, following those shrill wails, ears straining - before hands grabbed her from behind.

She stifled a scream as she was pushed against a tree trunk, a meaty hand muffling her - she slashed uselessly at it with her dagger, before the figure suddenly backed away. It left something on her face, some kind of liquid, warm and smelling of copper.

“Eles?” The voice was shaky, deep and familiar.

“...Helmar?” She hissed, panting, wiping away the liquid on her face with her sleeve, still brandishing the dagger threateningly. “What in Oblivion are you doing out here?”

“Running,” he whispered. She could see him trembling, even in the low light. “I’m running.”

“Running from what?”

“From it-” He tried to take a step forward, his knee buckling from under him. He groaned as he fell, reaching out to her - though she only took a step away from him, staring as he laid there, kneeling.

“Help me,” he whimpered. “Please. Please, I don’t wanna die.”

Her eyes had finally adjusted to the darkness, and she could see the wound. Her first thought, superstitious and silly, was the Stag.

Don’t be so naive. “What did this?” She asked, looking down at him. Some great beast had taken a chunk out of Helmar's leg. She could see the bone, and it called to her. Her heartbeat slowed to a steady rhythm. She heard music.

“I - I don’t know, I didn’t see-”

“It hurts, doesn’t it?”

The boy faltered, his breath hitching. Eleski’s voice had chilled from a fluttering panic to a strange sort of calm. “Y-Yes,” he muttered.

“I bet it does.” Her chest was still heaving, her voice breathy. “You’ll never walk again, not with that wound.”

“I - I -” Helmar stuttered uselessly. She had leaned forward, her body moving on its own accord; he fell backwards, palms pressing against the dirt as he tried in vain to scramble away. Eleski felt a rush of power, looming over him. Quietly, she kneeled beside him.

The forest was silent, save for his heaving breath, and the wind through trees.

“You’re - you’re nice, Eles,” He pleaded, smiling fearfully. “You’re nice. You can - can help me walk again, help me - help -”

“It’s nice to put animals out of their pain,” she hummed, blood pounding through her ears as she raised the dagger.

“No,” he sobbed, voice cracking, smile fading. “No, please, I’m sorry -”

She raised it higher, her free hand going to clutch at the hilt. The music soared joyfully.

“Eles - Eles, please -”

The sound of a branch snapping broke her out of her torpor, the melody broken; her head snapped towards the sound.

Her eyes searched in the darkness, but - nothing. Nothing, save for the flash of a stag’s antlers. She glanced down to the sobbing boy beside her, and shakily lowered her dagger.

“Let this be a lesson,” she whispered, voice not entirely her own.

She pushed herself to her feet, glancing back to the source of the sound. There, barely visible in the moonlight, she could just make out the shape of a huge deer, his antlers stretched above him like the branches of the Eldergleam; as its gleaming eyes bore into hers, she clutched her dagger so tight the hilt made an indent in her palm.

It could feed us for weeks, she thought. She felt herself shake with the force of the thought, images of her parents well-fed, her hands bloody, flashing through her mind. The beginnings of a melody sounded in her ears. That meat could save us. Hunt it. Hunt it. Hunt-

She took a step backwards, not breaking its gaze. It stepped forward in time, hooves leaving no tracks. She paused, before shakily lowering her head.

It stared, and lowered its head - it seemed to nod, and so she turned and she ran. She pretended not to hear the sound of bones cracking under hooves, of flesh squelching between teeth. She pretended not to hear Helmar’s wailing screams, broken cries for mercy, and bitter curses. As she bolted further away, lungs burning from the exertion, she pretended not to hear as Helmar Thaneson’s dying screeches came to a sudden stop.

She broke from the treeline, dried blood still caking the side of her face. Ma wasn’t on the porch; in fact, it was as if no one in the village was awake. She came to a stumbling stop, chest aching as she struggled for air. She rested her hands on her knees as she doubled over, and emptied the cabbage-carrot soup by the porch of her home.

***

When Eleski Kyne-Blood, who had just passed eighteen winters, returned to the village, she was dragging a moose on a skiff behind her. It had taken time, but nature’s blessing returned to Shor’s Stone - birds sang in the trees, hearty meals of venison and goat and boar were had every night, and the rabbits and foxes played at the village’s edge.

Her eyes looked forward - her father was there, as he always was when she went off on her own, awaiting her return. He seemed to be talking to a group of adventurers - that’s what she assumed, at least. A moss-skinned Orc in heavy armor, a scaled Argonian in mage’s clothes, a green-eyed Khajiit in robes, a wood elf in light armor, a Nord in an iron cuirass, a gold elf in master’s robes - they were outsiders, and Pa seemed happy enough talking with them. He loved outsiders.

His amber eyes lit like a wildfire when they fell on her and her prize. “Just in time,” he called. Eleski squinted against the sun, waving in response as she grew closer. “We’ll be having guests tonight!”

Her arms ached from dragging the damned moose as she finished her approach - a fact the Orc woman seemed to notice. She gave a tusk-toothed smile, and Eleski went a bit red despite herself. The Orc gestured to the skiff. “Here, let me get that for you.”

“Ah, uh - thanks.” Eleski moved so she could take hold of it. She watched as the woman dragged it with ease to the center of the village, until her father clapped her on the back.

He cleared his throat, and with a dramatic flare that made him seem much younger, he declared, “Meet the Beastfolk Company! These fine mercenaries took care of a few bandits who’d planned a raid. Stopped them before they could get to the village.”

Eleski again looked over the Company. They were raggedy, a bit bruised, and covered in dirt and mud. She smiled. “Wind be at your back,” she greeted. “You’ll fit in just fine.”

“We’re not planning on staying long,” said the elf. “Ah - I am Syrabane. We ask for nothing but a warm meal and a place to sleep.”

“And a bath,” said the Argonian towards the elf. They turned towards Eleski. “Hi. I’m Weedum. Praise be to Todd.”

“Oh, are we doing introductions?” The Khajiit’s ears perked up, their tale lashing excitedly behind them. “I’m Aldra!”

“I’m Maces,” said the Nord. He seemed a bit quiet.

The wood elf was silent until Weedum poked his side. “Rindolin,” he said simply.

“Badbr!” called the Orc woman, armor clanking as she jogged over to join them. She flashed that same toothy grin. “Good to meet you.”

“Eleski,” she responded. They were a motley crew, and yet something about them struck her as warm. Welcoming. “We’ve a few bedrolls to spare, and I’m guessin’ my father already opened our hearth to you.”

Pa beamed.

“Make yourselves at home,” she continued, nodding to the group. “We’ll get some stew started.”

They made their way around the village, chattering among themselves. Badbr and Syrabane went first, with Rindolin following them, and Weedum following him. Aldra spared a glance towards Maces, before disappearing into the hut. Soon, all that was left was Pa, Eleski, and Maces-the-Nord.

There was a short silence, before one spoke. “There’s not normally just one hunter in a village,” Maces said, staring off into the woods. “It’s safer in groups. What happened to the others?”

Pa answered before she could. “I’m gettin’ too old. We’re a small enough village - we make do with just the one.” They didn’t talk about what happened to Helmar. No one really knew. Maces hummed absentmindedly, eyes still trained on the forest, and Eleski got the feeling he knew that wasn’t the whole truth.

“You should get inside,” Eleski said. “Sundown’s approaching.”

Maces glanced towards her, raising a brow. “You don’t stay out past sundown?”

“Strange creatures lurk in those woods.”

He laughed quietly, eyes glinting, and Eleski went to bed that night after endless stories with a full stomach, a warm cloak, and a secret shared.

[foursideharmony]

The Cat, the Prince, and the Doorway to Imagination (Chapter 5)

Summary: Roman confronts the other Sides.

Pairings: Platonic/familial LAMP/CALM, Platonic/familial DLAMPR

Content Warnings: Violence and threats of violence, nightmare imagery

Word Count: 3,194

Read on AO3: here

“Won't be long now,” said Mr. Beaver as the group rounded a low hill. The sun was just starting to sink, and the resulting shadow made them all the colder. They had been on the move for nearly twenty hours, with only brief and infrequent rest stops, and had long since begun dragging their feet. Their trail made a continuous ragged line through the snow.

“I can't feel my anything,” Patton moaned.

“Well if nothing else,” said Mrs. Beaver, trudging alongside him and patting his hand, “they'll at least have decent campfires where we're going.”

Another twenty-five or so minutes brought them around the base of that hill and the next one, and then the Beavers led the group up the slope of a third and tallest hill. “And here we are,” said Mr. Beaver once they reached the summit. “The hill of the Stone Table.”

The hilltop was a broad space, clear of trees, with a grim gray construction in the very center: the Stone Table itself. It seemed like the whole snowscape of Narnia spread out before them, all the way to the twinkling ocean. It would have been a lovely view if not for the circumstances that had brought them there.

No one greeted them. They thought at first that no one was even there, but Virgil pointed to a hunched figure crouched on the ground some distance away from the table, tending the embers of a small fire by means of an awkwardly long poker held at full arm's length, as if she were afraid to go too near it. She was very slender, with lightly tanned skin and misty pale green hair that stuck out from her head in bristly locks, falling down to merge with her dress, which was the same color and texture.

“Ailim, is that you?” said Mr. Beaver.

“Oh!” said the woman, rising to her feet in one motion, more gracefully than any human could manage. “Beaver...I wasn't expecting you.”

“Ailim...where is everyone?”

She shook her head with a sound like leaves rustling in a breeze. “A few are nearby, keeping to cover. As for the rest...they are safe in their homes. Where else would they be? Aslan has not come after all. Of my people, only my conifer siblings and myself are even awake. The rest of our cousins still sleep.”

“Ailim is a dryad,” Mrs. Beaver explained. “That's the spirit of a tree. In her case, a fir tree.”

“And you must be the humans of the prophecy,” said Ailim. “Do you know why Aslan has not returned?”

“B-beats me, Miss,” Patton said, teeth chattering. “The story seems to have hopped off the rails at some point.”

“Oh, how rude of me not to notice how cold you are. Do come sit by the fire. She crouched to poke up the flames, and used an equally long-handled set of tongs to add another log. Soon it was crackling nicely, and the Sides were clustered around it, sitting on small boulders that had been cleared of snow and soaking up the warmth.

“It doesn't bother you?” Virgil said as Ailim fed the fire again. “Burning wood? I mean, if you're a tree too...”

“This was all fallen and dead already when it was gathered,” she explained. “No Narnian of good heart would ever cut down a living tree, or even take so much as a single branch. Sometimes an aged dryad who knows she will die soon will bequeath her wood to those who need it, but living trees are sacrosanct. Or,” she added sadly, “so it was before the White Witch came.”

“We'll figure something out,” Patton said. “I think…I think the Witch is hurting someone we care about too.”

“In the meantime,” Mr. Beaver cut in, “this lot needs food and rest.”

“Of course,” said the dryad. “There are shelters in the thickets on the southeastern slope, and provisions. Tap three times quickly and twice slowly on the large boulder and the fauns will let you inside.” She met each of their gazes in turn. “In the morning we must hold a council of war.”

*******************************************

At least Jadis's bed was comfortable enough.

Roman had found it eventually, after wandering the frozen castle for what felt like hours. It was only a broad, thick slab of ice on the floor, but it was heaped with enough blankets and furs that he was adequately shielded from the worst of the cold, both from the frigid air of the castle and the bed itself. He crawled in, his head still spinning, and wrapped himself in layers of bedding like a caterpillar forming its cocoon.

Sleep came quickly, but proper rest did not; Roman's dreams were full of ice and crystal and stone and snowflakes that came spinning down out of a black sky like tiny sawmill blades. Where they touched him he flinched and bled, and his blood was the pale turquoise of a glacial core. It whispered to him in sounds that were almost words and phrases in a language he only partially understood.

Perhaps he thrashed or cried out in his sleep, but if so, no one noticed or responded.

And with the coming of the dawn, Roman opened his eyes...and knew who he was. And what he was.

*******************************************

The war council never happened.

After their long trek, the Sides had just enough energy left to swallow a few mouthfuls of the stew  the fauns had prepared and fall asleep on rough cots in a den of sorts excavated from the hillside. The Narnians hadn't the heart to disturb them, and they didn't wake until the sun was well over the horizon, and then only because a strange, piercing sound was blaring from outside the shelter, coming from some distance away. It was like a horn, but shriller, and it set their teeth on edge.

Bleary-eyed from stolen sleep, they bustled out to find their hosts interrupted in the act of preparing breakfast. “What's going on?” Patton yawned. “Is it time for the council meeting thingie?”

“We're not sure,” said one of the fauns, whose name escaped him. The peculiar sound continued at intervals of a few seconds, and seemed intended as a signal of some kind.

“Something is approaching!” came Ailim’s voice from the hilltop. “Let us all gather as a show of our numbers!”

“What numbers,” Virgil muttered, but he joined the other two, and the Beavers and fauns and other handful of Narnian citizens now emerging from their respective shelters, in hiking back up to the summit, where Ailim was waiting with another dryad, taller and wirier than herself. They got there just in time to see, bursting through the trees on the northern slope, a Dwarf they barely recognized as the White Witch’s driver. He was blowing on some kind of wind instrument that appeared to be made from silvery crystal—or perhaps ice—which was of course the sound they had all been hearing. Behind him, further downslope, there was some kind of commotion that wasn’t yet visible through the brush and piled snow.

“Narnians!” bellowed the Dwarf. “Make ready to receive your most exalted ruler, the White Warlock!”

“What?” Virgil growled.

“White Warlock?” said Patton. “No, it’s supposed to be the White Witch. A scary lady! I remember that part!”

“'Warlock' is a semi-archaic term for a male witch,” Logan observed.

“Guys, I have the worst feeling about this…” said Virgil.

More creatures were emerging from the trees on the hill slope, and it took the Sides a moment to realize that they were looking at a procession of monsters. First was a group of Goblin heralds carrying gonfalons that seemed to consist only of crosspieces crusted with masses of icicles. Then came a formation of Dwarf archers, and then several Ogres bearing clubs. Following this were a few Hags, hissing and pointing threateningly into the gathering.

(“What is this, the whole bloody entourage?” whispered Mr. Beaver. “Dear! Mind your language!” Mrs. Beaver retorted.)

As the procession reached the hilltop, it broke to its right, circling the space counterclockwise and fanning out along the other side of the Stone Table from the Sides and their allies, effectively corralling them—they could retreat, technically, but there was only one direction available; they would be easy pickings if they tried.

Finally, the White Warlock himself appeared, lounging in a fur-lined sedan chair on the shoulders of four massive Minotaurs. His crown glittered as he moved in and out of patches of shade and his robe was made entirely of ermine, with a train that trailed behind the chair for ten yards, held off the ground by a team of Yew-dryads, their short shaggy hair speckled with scarlet berries. The Minotaurs crested the hill, and one of them kicked snow over the smoldering campfire, extinguishing it. They eased the chair down, and the Warlock rose from his seat, stepped lightly to the ground, and turned to face them.

It was Roman...and he was wrong.

They knew what “evil Roman” was supposed to look like. The fans loved to imagine him, for some reason, and they tagged Thomas in their fanart of the concept often enough that the Sides were familiar with the consensus image: the haughty expression, the gaudy gold crown studded with rubies, and especially the transformation of his suit from pristine, heroic white to Disney Villain black.

It wasn't...it wasn't supposed to become even whiter. It wasn't supposed to gleam almost too bright to look at in the sunlight, so that even the ermine barely looked white by comparison. The gold braid wasn't supposed to be replaced with silver, nor the noble red of his sash with a dusky grayish mauve like dried rose petals under a veneer of frost. The crown was not supposed to be made of silvery ice, with only a single huge diamond set under the central point.

His hair was not supposed to be shot through with white strands that turned out, upon closer inspection, to be ornamentation of impossibly delicate ice filigree. His eyes were definitely not supposed to be gray, flecked with blue-green. And he was not supposed to be pale, but he was—paler than Virgil, if such a thing were possible, lacking even a cold-induced blush to his cheeks, yet without looking the least bit unhealthy. It was as if he had been molded out of ivory.

The only hint of warmth in his appearance was that diamond, which flashed all the colors of fire.

He was wrong.

“Hark! You are all guilty of high treason against the Crown!” he said without preamble, and his voice at least, if not the disdainful tone, was familiar. “Except you three,” he added with a curt nod at his fellow Sides. “However! We are in a lenient mood! Abandon your rebellion at once, and swear fealty to us, and you will not be punished...this time. As for you...” He addressed the Sides again, and for just a moment, his cold arrogance retreated, “...in exchange for your fealty, I will make you all lesser Kings in my court. Think of it! This glorious winter kingdom could belong to all of us!”

The Narnians shuffled on their feet, making no reply. The Sides traded glances, Logan frowning uncertainly and Virgil shaking his head with a haunted expression. Finally, Patton spoke.

“Roman...this isn't fun anymore, with you acting like this. This isn't how you said the story was going to go. Can we just...go home? We can talk out whatever's bothering you.”

It was shocking how quickly Roman's eyes hardened. “I will not be mocked,” he said, low and dangerous. “You have one day and night to change your minds...or else prepare for war. And these—” he made an expansive gesture at the creatures he had brought with him, “—are merely the outermost tip of my armies.” He returned to his sedan chair and the Minotaurs hoisted it up. The procession began to descend the hill.

“Down with the White Warlock!” blurted the taller Dryad, Ailim's companion. “Aslan is King!”

Roman's head whipped around to glare at her. Without a single word, he nodded to the nearest of the Hags, and she lunged at the Dryad, shrieking and making a throwing gesture. There was something like a flash of light in reverse—a flash of darkness—and the tall tree-spirit sank to the ground with a sigh.

“Muricata!” Ailim cried as one of the Ogres stepped forward and lifted the fallen nymph in one massive hand.

“Find her tree,” growled the White Warlock. “Cut it down while she watches.”

“No! Please!” Ailim begged. “She is my sister!”

“Take the other one as well. Let them both watch.” A second Ogre seized Ailim and began dragging her along while she screamed in terror and grief.

“Roman!” Patton gasped. “H-how could you?”

“Don't make me punish you as well!” Roman snarled. “Move out!”

The procession withdrew back down the hill, leaving the Narnians devastated and the Sides both bewildered and appalled. “So now what?” Virgil said, pacing erratically and pulling at his hair. “This is really bad, you guys. Super bad. We're not just talking rail-jumping here. Roman's taken a flying leap off...off something, I don't know, but there is something wrong with him. I thought maybe he was just throwing a surprise twist at us, but did you see him? That look in his eyes? This is so bad—”

“Virgil, you are spiraling,” said Logan. “Try one of your breathing exercises.”

“I don't understand,” said Patton. “Why would Roman go this far? Do you think he's mad at us for something?”

“It is possible,” said Logan. “He has undergone a number of upsetting occurrences recently, and his mood has not been the most stable. Then again, with his talk of 'swearing fealty'...perhaps he is simply craving validation.”

“Should we just give it to him then?” said Virgil. I mean if it's the fastest way to get him off the crazy train...”

“Unfortunately, I have to advise against indulging him in this,” said Logan. “While it may work in the short term to, as you say, 'get him off the crazy train'—which does not sound like a practical or enjoyable means of transportation, by the way—the likely long-term effect would be to encourage him to continue these destructive methods of addressing his self-esteem deficits.”

“Patton, you're the 'should' guy around here...what should we do?”

“I'm honestly thinking we should just leave. The best way to send a message that the game is no good, is to quit playing. He can grapple with his feelings as long as he needs to, and we'll be there for him when he's ready to come out and talk.”

“I would tend to agree,” said Logan, “but I doubt there is any way for us to leave the Imagination without Roman noticing, and in his current state he would be certain to take steps to stop us, possibly violently.” He began to pace rapidly, wearing a tamped-down groove in the snow. “However...perhaps one of us could make it back to the door undetected, leave, and come back with...additional resources.”

“What kind of 'additional resources' did you have in mind?” said Virgil.

“It occurs to me,” Logan said, still pacing, “that Roman is rather...comfortable, with the three of us. That may cause him to take our points of view for granted, which ironically makes him less likely to listen to us than to someone with whom he might experience more interpersonal friction.”

There was a beat while Virgil and Patton took that in. “Oh, no!” Virgil said after a moment. “If you're suggesting what I think you're suggesting, then...no. I can't agree with that.”

“Just so we're on the same page,” Patton said carefully, “you want to go get Janus? You think he could help?”

“I think his presence might shock Roman just enough to shake him out of his assumptions about how this story is meant to go,” Logan explained.

“You could be right,” said Patton. “Roman arranged all this because he hasn't felt much like a hero ever since we started including Janus in our discussions. But somehow he wound up going completely the other way, to being the villain. Maybe seeing Janus will remind him of what he's trying to avoid?”

“Okay, cool, so I'm outvoted. Coolcoolcoolcoolcoolcool. So which one of us should go?”

“I was planning on doing it myself,” said Logan. “It would not be fair to ask you to carry out a plan to which you object, and between myself and Patton, I believe I have a greater chance of making the trek without getting sidetracked or losing my nerve. No offense, Patton.”

“None taken. It's an awfully long way to go by yourself, though. Are you sure you even know the way?”

“I have an excellent head for navigation and I believe I can triangulate the location of the door based on our travels thus far. I would feel more confident if I had some form of transportation, however.”

“I can carry you, sir,” said a deep but young-sounding voice from among the Narnians. It was the largest of those gathered, a Talking Bear not quite full grown but undeniably burly and powerful. “Name of Stoutpaws, sir. I'm not as good as a Horse but I'll do my best.”

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Stoutpaws. My name is Logan. If we start now, I estimate you can get me to my destination before sundown.”

“You're leaving already?” Patton said, fretting.

“Roman has only given us until tomorrow, Patton. Given the round trip, I need to use every minute I can to make sure I bring Janus back here before the deadline.”

Patton strode up and pulled him into a hug. “You be careful.”

“Likewise,” said Logan.

“I'll guard him with my life, sir,” said Stoutpaws. He crouched on all fours so that Logan could climb onto his back and then loped away down the westward slope of the hill.

“Gosh, things are happening fast,” Patton said, watching them go. “It all started so simply.”

“Come on, Pat,” said Virgil with a lopsided smile that got nowhere near his eyes, “you should know by now that nothing in this mind of Thomas's is ever simple. And on that note...we should probably pull this bunch together and come up with some contingency plans, just in case Logan doesn't get back in time.”

“Yeah,” Patton agreed noncommittally. “And someone oughta buck them up. They just watched two of their own get dragged away by the bad guys to be...” He trailed off.

“Don't think about it too much,” Virgil said. “Just...yeah, don't think about it.” The gathering was breaking up, the Narnians returning dejected to their hillside shelters. Patton and Virgil joined them.

Unseen in the snow-dusted brush nearby, someone was watching...

[scribeofmorpheus]

Himmeløyne [18/?]

Pairing: Loki Odinson x Reader

Catch Up Here | Masterlist

Warnings: Angst???

A/N: Nothin’ to report Cap’n

Taglist is open! Reblog, comment or leave a like please ☺

~Heimdall

Heimdall looked over at the corner where Y/N had nestled into. She looked smaller, so much smaller than he’d ever seen her. A part of him was angry, though, to his detriment, he didn’t know what he was mad at the most. There were too many options: Odin, the carnage in the throne room, the leeching, Dagma’s prophecy that lingered on his mind day in and day out. He wished Sigrid were there with him, at least he’d be able to ask her for help. He was only just getting used to the idea of fatherhood. On any occasion, that would be a mountainous task to undertake, but this last month, it felt like a planet was crushing his shoulders. That’s why he rarely wore his armour, and why he rarely stood at his post by the bi-frost.

Sif walked over from Hogun’s side, a look of concern pulling her eyebrows knit. She followed Heimdall’s gaze to Y/N. She too held a look of anger.

“Do you think she’s up to this?” Sif whispered. “We only have one shot at this. If we fail…”

“We won’t,” Heimdall took a moment to steel his voice. “We can’t fail. I won’t lose my daughter to this madness.”

“I hope you’re right,” Sif pressed the bridge of her nose in frustration. “Because if we do, that’s the dungeon for us.”

“Focus on your end, the portal will stay open,” he said with feigned assurance.

Sif tilted her head in disbelief and Heimdall placed a hand on her shoulder.

“The portal will stay open,” he said again with more control over his voice.

“I’ll hold you to that,” she said before re-joining Hogun to discuss their end of the plan.

Cautiously, Heimdall approached Y/N. He held out his hand that had a loop of red thread twisted around his palm. He pulled one end of the thread and handed it to her. She held onto the thread for a moment, focusing on its ridges and texture, then she looked up at him in confusion.

“It’s ordinary thread.”

He held back a laugh, “Yes.”

“What am I supposed to do with this?”

“It’ll act as our anchor through the portal,” he began wrapping one end of the thread around her palm, he noticed how cold to the touch she was, it made him feel uncomfortable, like he was touching a block of ice. “If you feel overwhelmed, tug on your end, I’ll do the heavy lifting in sustaining the portal.”

She looked him over with knowing eyes, “You don’t think I’m ready.” It wasn’t a question.

“Do you?” he challenged.

She smirked, showing some of that wily nature Sigrid had in youth. “I’ll do my part.”

 Heimdall drew an old sigil on his forehead to focus the energies, blood dripping from the slash on his thumb. The room permeated with a ghastly wind. Smell of sea salt and copper and the distinct ashen taste of volatile magic made his nose itch. Sif tugged at her collar as though it were hard to breathe. Hogun’s nose went red at the bridge. Y/N’s eyes turned glassy, water collecting near the ducts.

“Visualise opening a portal here,” he offered Y/N his hand, their thumbs leaving bloody prints on each other’s wrists. “I’ll show you where it leads.”

He searched his memories for the rare occasions he’d visited the vault, of how the walls towered strong and bright. Of the Destroyer standing dormant, held in the centre of two columns. Next to come were the stands and all the artefacts he remembered. Through their pulse connection, he transferred his vision into Y/N’s mind, letting her see what he saw.

There was a wave of energy, for the briefest moment, Heimdall thought of that soulless look she had in the throne room, and he felt afraid. Y/N narrowed her eyes at him, he knew she’d felt his fear. The candlestick on the table fell over, flames dying out as wax dripped over a carved rune on the stone table. Rime formed over the window overlooking the sea, creeping like a thief until the glass coated in a net of snowflakes.

Between Heimdall and Y/N, a portal, first black and then purple like the nebula’s he watched over, opened. Heimdall stepped through, and in a shaky instant, he was in the vault.

Send them through, he sent his message through the thread. In response, Hogun and Sif jumped into view.

Sustaining the portal proved more difficult than Heimdall anticipated. The thread grew colder in his hand, Y/N’s powers were unstable, unpredictable. He felt a tug at his organs, a driving force of a thousand horses pushing him towards the portal’s opening. A taste of blood filled his mouth, but he breathed through the pain.

“Got it!” Sif whisper-shouted as she and Hogun retrieved something that bore a resemblance to Vanir craftsmanship.

“Hurry,” Heimdall said through gritted teeth, feeling the icy sting of the thread cut into his hand. Ripples of magic passed out of the portal, shaking the room slightly. With that delicate change in atmosphere, the Destroyer awoke, peeled face honing in on their location. “Jump through, quickly!”

Heat from the Destroyer’s blast melded at odds with the portal’s waning magic. Sif and Hogun went in together, then Heimdall. Back in the archive room above the library, Heimdall smelt the smoke before seeing the singed bits of his cloak.

Before anyone could react, a blinding sun-golden light erupted from the closing portal, clashing with the magic that slithered like an angry ribbon around Y/N’s frame. In dangerous volatility, both lights collapsed a section of the wall. Y/N screamed, panting for more air as she kept one hand over her face. A delayed shockwave knocked all four off their feet, flinging them out of the room, and into the sea below.  

 ~Odin

Odin felt like a piece of parchment held under a paperweight. Ever since he came to, his world had been one unending panorama of bad news and the poor taste of regret.

Loki slept, his mind too broken to wake up. Frigga was missing, and with her was his anchor and conscience. Heimdall refused to see him, even under orders, and the bi-frost had remained unguarded since Y/N began her leeching treatment. Thor would only visit when he smelled sourly of mead and anguish. On those nights, Odin pretended to be asleep.

“My liege,” Fandral walked into Odin’s chambers, his face looking pale.

“I told the guards I didn’t want to be disturbed,” he said harshly, looking away from Fandral.

“I beg your pardon, but, it would seem, sometime during the night, the Destroyer awoke,” Fandral cleared his voice. “And, it would also seem, there has been a theft.”

Odin sat up, feeling a nick of pain where Loki’s dagger had made its home a month ago, “Do we know who was behind it?”

“No, but…” Fandral blinked several times.

“Spit it out,” Odin demanded.

“We haven’t been able to locate Sif, Hogun, and Heimdall or… Y/N for that matter.”

"Do we know what was taken?"

"Your father's belt, My Liege." 

 ~Y/N

You woke up to the sensation of drowning as you coughed up saltwater. The ground was hard, like rock.

“Wha—” you rasped, vocal cords hoarse.

“Relax, you’re safe,” Sif’s voice was light, careful. Warmth spread to your forehead when she brushed your damp hair from your face. “We got what we needed. Just rest now. We’ll be in Knowhere soon enough.”

“I can’t see,” you panicked as you blinked.

“A side-effect,” Heimdall answered. “The Destroyer’s beam passed through the portal, the light damaged your corneas. They’ll heal quicker if you rest.”

You felt a warm cloth cover your eyes, and Sif’s hair wafted the scent of fire as she tied a knot behind your head.

You felt someone try to lift you up, but then they abruptly set you down with a painful wince.

“I’ll carry her,” Hogun offered.

Hogun reached down and successfully carried you off the ground. Your neck was stiff as it dangled from his arm.

“Here, drink this,” Sif placed something small by your lips.

You opened and drank the foul liquid, choking as your stomach tried to regurgitate the potion back up. Soon, a swirl in the fog of your mind dragged you back under.

 There was a meadow blooming from your balcony window—wintersweet and a bright pink flower you’d never seen before painted the landscape in lively colours. There was an odd contrast covering the land, glowing and too clear, it looked imagined.

A pair of arms ensnared you in a close back hug. You didn’t need to turn around to see who it was, you felt his magic pool in your stomach the instant your skins touched.

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” Loki whispered into your ear.

“I’m right where you left me,” you said.

“Evidently not since you made me scour the palace halls for what felt like ages,” he sighed with a dramatic flair, placing a kiss on your pulse-line beneath your jaw.

“Where did you go?”

Loki spun you around, cupping your face with a curious smirk adorned on his, “What do you mean, pet?” 

You shuddered. His smirk grew deeper. 

He kissed all the way from your cheekbone to the softness of your ear, whispering in an even deeper voice: “I’ve right here, dreaming of you.”

With your front facing the mirror above your dresser, you noticed your reflection was different, older, healthier. You were in a dream. But Loki’s presence, and the scent of his hair, and the touch of his magic, it all felt real. Like the dreams of the cave.

Slowly, the world began to dissipate, and you pulled Loki’s face flush to yours. “I’ll get you back. I promise to get you back because you have to know. You have to know that I love with you.”

In a frenzy of desire, and afraid this may be the last time you’d ever feel the softness of his lips again, you pulled him into a hungry kiss that was both impatient and desperate. When you broke away, you awoke in the real world, cloth still tied over your eyes.

 You hadn’t noticed that it never rained on Asgard until you stood under the cascade pouring out of the celestial eye cavity of Knowhere port. Even though it wasn’t raining on Knowhere either, the tricklings from what Hogun called a ‘recycling plant’ were as close to rain as you’d seen since leaving Midgard.

The rain held no petrichor, no smell of wetness like you were used to. This one had a faint chemical burn that clung at the back of your throat. The coolness of the water was also different, more lukewarm.

Knowhere was vibrant and distinct, even experienced solely through sound. Where Asgard was ethereal in its timeless beauty, Knowhere was a hard wrench in the belly of a metal beast. If Sif’s descriptions were to be believed, you were now walking inside a god’s head made of artifice. Sounds of metalwork and conversation held the eerie touch of normalcy, of universality, but the dialect and the refined metalworking sounds that filled the port were anything but ordinary.

The ground pulled at your muscles much weaker than Asgard did, making you think you were a mere gust away from floating into the blackness, where, you imagined, the stars burned brighter.

Maybe you wanted to burn with the stars. Be at peace in that blanketed darkness, like nights when you’d sleep soundly, ignorant to gods and magic. Maybe the only things keeping you rooted were your bones, in the same way your mother’s crone bones rooted her visions in the future. You shuddered when a droplet of water fell near the edge of your eye, surprised that your skin was colder than the water.

“Keep your head down,” Heimdall lifted your hood to keep the poor-mans rain off you. “Try not to look—” he swallowed loudly, “to seem as lost as you do now.”

“This morning, I thought Asgard and the nine realms were all there was to the universe,” you intoned. “Now I know there are more veils to be pulled back, so if I seem lost, it’s with good reason.”

“She has a point,” Hogun said.

Heimdall lingered close by and then sighed, he sounded a little further than before. “The person we’re going to see, he’s… odd. But most dangerous of all, he is enamoured by other oddities. Try to act like you belong, and…whatever you hear or feel in there, don’t react to anything. Magic or otherwise.”

“She’ll be fine. That’s why I’m here, remember, to keep an eye out.” Hogun said.

Sif let out a groan and Heimdall let out a strong exhale. You found it in you to smirk at Hogun’s poor phrasing.

Heimdall walked away, and from the clanking of light boots, Sif followed.

“You seem different,” Hogun said to fill the void.

You pulled your cloak tighter around you, feeling even smaller than before.

“You seem older, is what I mean,” he clarified.

You didn’t know how to answer him, so you simply nodded.

“I had a wife, once,” he said out of the blue.

You were astonished by his sudden chatty disposition, “I didn’t know that.”

He chuckled, a delicate tone of joy and sadness worked in tandem. “No, I don’t imagine you would. Few know about her. Fandral, and his big mouth, I’ve known the longest, he’s the only one that met her. Maybe Heimdall with his all-seeing powers.”

“But not the others?”

“No.”

“Why are you telling me then?”

“Because I know what it’s like to lose someone you care for. It’s an irreplaceable void you can never fill. And when Lindel’s health failed her, I had to choose between moving mountains to save her, or accepting fate and staying by her side.” Hogun paused, a shuffling sound of his feet gave away his discomfort.

“I see the way the prince looks at you,” he said after a crowd’s rumble died down. “And you and I, and even he, I suspect, know you can’t be together. Pragmatically, I mean. Your lifespans are... at odds.”

“Because I’m mortal and he isn’t?” you bit back, your temper rising. “You aren’t the first to tell me that.”

“I’m not saying you must put your feelings aside. On the contrary. All I’m saying is, there will come a time when you, or he, will be forced to choose between moving mountains, or accepting that some things eventually run their course.”

“Which did you choose?”

“The wrong one.” Hogun went eerily quiet, his feet stopped shuffling too. Then, suddenly, with a more transparent tone, he said: “Let’s go, Heimdall’s waving us down.”

Another droplet fell onto your face, and you shivered, again.

[gizkasparadise]

cdrama rec: ashes of love

Master drama rec list.

Series: ashes of love / heavy sweetness, ash-like frost Episodes: 63 (that i watched in like 5 days dont judge me) Genres: fantasy/wianxia, romance, comedy, angst Spoilers in the Rec: minor ones If You Like, You’ll Like: eternal love (both the show and also the meta concept), moon lovers, tragically coughing up blood to indicate that you’ve been betrayed, reincarnation, dramatic interruptions of weddings, mmmWhatchasay villains, idiots in love, some Romance with your romance 

Rank: 8/10

premise

thousands of years ago, the Floral Deity/Zi Fen was dying due to being literally burned by love (long story, flashback eps later). Right before she bites it, she gives birth to a baby girl named jin mi and is so capital-D Done with men and their lowercase d’s (and saw a prophecy or whatever) that she gives her baby a pill that makes her unable to feel love as well as a seal that locks down her powers. she tells her assistants not to fuck with either.

the assistants are clearly uncomfortable by this whole premise, but agree to raise jin mi without her knowing her true heritage, power, or love. this will work well in the long term, everyone thinks. everything will be great, everyone thinks. 

for 4000 years, it all seems to be going well enough as jin mi is raised ignorant but happy in her little bio-dome.

but then a fucking bird falls through it:

lol toasty

that bird is actually the true PHOENIX form of Heavenly Prince Xu Feng, who has been injured after reaching nirvana by some SCHEMERS. jin mi takes him in, nurses him to health (after attempting to cut off his penis because she thought it was a tumor yeah really Flower Realm sex ed leaves a lot to be desired), and in exchange she makes him take her to the Heaven Realm aka the EXACT place mama Flower Deity NEVER EVER wanted her to go for REASONS

from there, jin mi meets various deities, gets caught up in some intrigue, carries around a succulent, and maybe there’s a murder or ten. get ready for some Epic Shit.

main characters

jin mi

our hero! having been given an elixir that stops her from feeling or understanding love, jin mi comes across as naive, bubbly, and sometimes a lil dense. as a minor magical being (grape elf lol), she doesn’t have a lot of power but that changes because we’re on an epic, baby. she wears a hairpin that suppresses her gender and power and so she’s often mistaken for a dude 

center of a reverse harem that includes dudes and ladies. bestower of terrible nicknames. has mastered the DRAMATIC HAIR TWIRL. is amazing and knows it. watches ur dirty dreams For Science

 xu feng / god of war / prince of heaven

the Crown Prince of the Heaven Realm whose natural form is a phoenix. he’s also the god of war because why not and a bit of a himbo/bird brain (ba dum tish). he falls in love with jin mi and completely misses the signs that she is missing his signs.

only drinks natural spring water so you get the vibe that he’s a cosmic foodie. jock that goes through a pretty intense goth phase. could better check his privilege. seduction a la the art of war 

runyu / god of night

xu feng’s older half-brother via concubine, and therefore Not the Crown Prince. his natural form is a dragon, and he’s the god of night. a certified Sad Boy, he’s lonely all the time, like his only friend aside from xu feng is a lil baby deer that eats dreams and burbs them out as bubbles. 

he’s really chill and nice and yeah the illegitimate son who lives in isolation, falls in love with his bro’s girl, and has severe mom hang-ups is going to have a totally great time in a cdrama :| mmwhatchasay

some support characters selected by how much they are my favorites

yanyou / mr puchi

the actual, literal definition of a “smug snake.” yanyou is the snake deity and Up To Something No Good that we don’t know for awhile. BUT he’s been bros with jin mi since she was in the floral realm, and is pretty much the bestest of friends to her despite all his bullshit (he’s got a lot of all that bullshit). will take you to BOTH types of brothels because he supports your journey, man

liuying

demon princess and bestie of xu feng (and just friends! REFRESHING). she is five ounces of whoopass with a Thing for phantom of the opera cosplayers. whips it baby, whips it right

dan zhu / the fox fairy

xu feng and runyu’s uncle, the younger brother of the Heavenly Emperor. he’s a fox fairy as well as the god of love and marriage. grade-A meddler. diehard jin mi/xu feng shipper. lover of porn.

some support characters selected by how much they are NOT my favorites but are important to the plot or whatever

suihe 

princess/current leader of the bird tribe (natural form a peacock) and xu feng’s cousin. is super super trying to lock that shit down with him, so she can become heavenly empress and because she loves him or whatever. is STUPID gorgeous like what demon did she deal with for that face

the heavenly empress

xu feng’s mom, also a phoenix/original head of the bird tribe, and i really don’t think i need to explain this character after you’ve seen this picture. she is exactly who you think she is.  

there’s also the heavenly emperor but that bitch don’t get a photo in my recap

Drawbacks

holy hetero, batman! there’s a few lines that had me rolling my eyes 

almost all of the main cast have an EQ as deep as a teaspoon, xufeng in particular is super insensitive at times

i am probably in the minority but GOOD GOD we did not need the amount of muci that we got. at all. there was too much/i started skipping all his scenes. you’re tragic, we get it 

not a drawback so much as a warning, but jin mi is often the victim of manipulation. she breaks free/has an EPIC “reason you suck!” speech later, but it’s good to know ahead of time

Reasons to Watch.

genuinely hilarious??? which is super impressive considering how DARK this shit could get. 

jin mi is so loveable. team jin mi forever

costume porn and how. and also my Supreme Jam of the costuming reflecting the character arcs as the show goes

this series has everything: a baby deer that vomit dreams, sad dragon merman princes, a girl that becomes a grape. corpse weddings

idk you want your DRAMA you want your ROMANCE you want all the colors pulled from your eyes and put into an ORB???

Actually has a pretty happy ending which is LMAO fucking phenomenal based on my (limited) experiences w/ cdramas!

Final Thoughts.

it’s on netflix! go go go 

[thisdiscontentedwinter]

Stella and the Wolf - Chapter 7

You can read it here on AO3 or find the Tumblr Chapter Index here. 

The last of the streetlights slides in a bright corona up the windshield of the Jeep as Stiles turns onto the road through the Preserve, and then the road is dark and deep, and reminds Stiles of a Robert Frost poem on that alone. The light from the headlights bounces off the potholed asphalt and the trees closest to the road, causing Stiles’s heart to jump whenever he thinks he senses movement, but as far as he can tell it’s only light and shadow and his imagination.

It’s reckless to be doing this, coming out here, with a bloodthirsty Alpha on the loose, but that’s Stiles all over, and it always has been. It’s partly because of his ADHD, he thinks, but there’s no denying he got a healthy streak of it from his Mom too. She didn’t have ADHD but Stiles can remember waking up in the car a bunch of times when he was little, before Stella came along and before Mom got sick, and discovering it wasn’t even dawn yet but they were halfway to the coast so they could have a picnic breakfast on the beach. Every day with her was an adventure. Stiles wonders what the hell she’d make of all this werewolf business. And then he remembers too, with a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, how she’d seen monsters towards the end, while her brain withered and died inside her skull.

He wonders if her hallucinations took place on dark roads like this one.

He could be driving into a horror movie right now, he knows, but he’s been out here before in the daylight, and dark is just the absence of light, right? He knows what the Preserve looks like in the day, when the sunlight filters through the trees, and it’s beautiful. But right now, with just a sliver of the moon riding in the sky above the scant clouds, it’s a whole different world.

There was a time when Stiles would have thought that Derek belonged out here in a nightmare world, but he’s seen past the claws and the fangs now, the glower and the growl.

The road curves like it’s following the path of an unknown river as it cuts through the Preserve. Stiles follows the final curve, the shift grinding a little as he drops down a gear into second, and then the road ends at the clearing where the Hale house once stood.

It must have been beautiful, once, but now it’s nothing but a shell. The façade is still there, jutting up into the night sky like a headstone.

And god. Stiles needs to stop jumping straight to the horror movie imagery, in case he turns it into a self fulfilling prophecy. Stiles is the mouthy sidekick in this story. If it’s a horror movie, he knows how it ends for that guy, right?

Stiles pulls to a stop in front of the house, the headlights of the Jeep illuminating the charred, blackened porch. They’re illuminating Derek as well, where he’s standing at the top of the steps, looking at the Jeep. With his werewolf hearing, he probably heard the Jeep’s whining transmission from miles away.

Stiles climbs out of the Jeep, and slams the door shut. His sneakers crunch on dead leaves as he walks toward the porch. “Hey, Derek.”

“What are you doing here?” Derek’s voice is low, his syllables cut off into short, unhappy sounds.

And this is the part that Stiles hasn’t thought through. Because Derek needs his help, and Derek needs to not be alone, but Derek is also a brick wall. If he were a Stilinski, Stiles would have grabbed him and forced him to hug it out by now, but that’s not Derek at all. He’s more vulnerable that he wants to show, but Stiles knows he can’t just point that out and expect Derek to agree and come home with him. It’s absolutely no exaggeration at all to say Derek would rather die than show any weakness.

So he shrugs and says, “Stella was worried about you.”

It’s a low blow, but it’s not a lie. And okay, it’s not a conversation that Stiles has had with Stella, but he knows his little sister. She’s as protective of the people she cares about as Stiles is. Stiles’s list is a lot shorter than Stella’s but somehow Derek Hale has made his way onto both of them.

Derek stares at him. “It’s past midnight. You shouldn’t be out here.”

“Afraid I’ll turn into a pumpkin?” Stiles asks. The sagging porch steps creak as he climbs them.

Derek glares at him, but come on. He wasn’t raised on an alien planet. Stiles knows he gets the reference.

“Yeah, it’s past midnight,” Stiles says, squaring his shoulders. “And you’re camping in the burned out remains of your family home. It’s stupid. I mean, my house has a garage we can put an air mattress in. Dad parks in the driveway. He’ll never even know you’re there.”

Derek’s mouth presses into a thin line before he speaks. “I’m not coming to sleep in your garage, Stiles.”

“Why not?” Stiles demands, because he’s pretty sure Derek responds better to aggression than he does to comfort. “At least it doesn’t have holes in the wall.”

He actually growls. “I don’t need your pity!”

Derek is all hard angles and bristling anger now, but there’s an undercurrent of vulnerability to him. It’s always been there, like one of those dumb Magic Eye pictures. For a while Stiles just saw lines and shapes and colors, but he’s seen the real picture now, and he can’t pretend to unsee it.

“I’m not offering you pity, sourwolf,” Stiles says, part of him almost enjoying the way Derek turns up the wattage on his glare when that word falls out of his mouth. “I’m offering you shelter. It’s way before pity on Maslow’s hierarchy of needs. It’s right at the base of the pyramid. You don’t get anywhere near esteem and self-actualisation until you’ve got a place to sleep. That’s science.”

Derek is unimpressed with science. “Go home, Stiles.”

He turns away and Stiles reaches out to grab his arm. “Look, you gave Scott that whole dumbass talk about being werewolf brothers now, and you know he’s not here for that, but, like, Iam.”

The slight widening of Derek’s eyes warns him he’s crossing into territory he didn’t mean to, and wasn’t supposed to, but Stiles’s mouth has never needed his brain to engage first in order to operate. Words just sort of happen for Stiles.

“And I know I’m nobody’s first choice, dude, but I’m offering you shelter, and probably even the occasional hot meal and shower, and that’s a hell of a lot more than you’ve got going on out here.”

Derek wrenches his arm away. “I’m not going with you, Stiles. Don’t you get it? The Alpha is trying to pull me and Scott into whatever game he’s playing, and soon that might mean coming after the people we know. Even coming out here tonight you might have put a target on your back. You think I should go and stay at your house? Where your dad and your little sister live? What the hell is wrong with you?”

Oh.

Oh, okay.

Stiles gets it now, he thinks.

It’s more words that Derek has ever spoken to him, probably, and it makes a painful feeling bloom in Stiles’s chest.

It’s not just Derek’s pride at play here at all.

Derek is trying to protect him, and Dad, and Stella.

“Yeah,” he says, his voice rasping. “But if the Alpha is coming after the people you know, then I’m already on his list, aren’t I? I’m Scott’s best friend.”

“You’re prey,” Derek tells him. “You’re supposed to stay quiet and still and hope the wolf doesn’t notice you.”

“Have you met me though?”

He hoped it would get at least a snort out of Derek, but Derek just stares at him a moment longer.

“Go home, Stiles,” he says at last, and turns and goes back inside whatever remains of his house.

Stiles stands on the porch a moment longer. When he speaks, it’s in his usual tone. He knows Derek will hear him.

“Dad’s on earlies this week. He leaves before six. Stella and I have breakfast at around six-thirty. We’ll put out a spare plate if you change your mind.”

Then, his eyes stinging a little, he leaves and drives home.

***

Derek doesn’t turn up for breakfast.

Stiles drops Stella off at school, hugs her goodbye, and drives to the high school. He’s early enough that he gets a good park, and sits in the driver’s seat staring at the school building, his finger and thumb pressing tight on the key in the Jeep’s ignition.

This is a mess.

This is a whole fucking mess, and nobody is doing anything. The Alpha is playing them all—Derek and Scott and the hunters, and even Stiles. He’s batting them all around like a cat does with a shivering mouse that it’s caught, and Stiles knows that sooner or later something has to give, and it’s going to be the mouse.

They need a game changer.

They need to break the pattern and shift the balance.

They need something.

Fuck this.  

Stiles might not be a werewolf, and he might not be able to fight the Alpha, but there’s one thing he’s always been good at, and that’s research. If he can find the connection between the Alpha and the murders, then maybe he can find the Alpha’s identity, and Derek and Scott can have a chance at getting the drop on him.

It’s about time Stiles stopped pretending that werewolf stuff was just something he can get around to after school and on weekends. This is life and death. The normal rules don’t apply. He’ll deal with the fallout for skipping classes when it happens, because—best case scenario—at least he’ll be alive to get his multiple detentions, right?

He stares at the school for a moment longer as the parking lot slowly fills, and then restarts the engine and drives home.

***

Stiles hears Dad’s cruiser pulling up in the driveway at just past nine. He shoves the files he’s printed out from the photos he took back into his old gym bag, and pushes the bag under his bed. By the time Dad gets upstairs, Stiles is curled up under his comforter, a glass of water and a conspicuous bottle of Tylenol on his bedside table.

His bedroom door squeaks open.

“Kiddo?”

“Hey,” he says, hoping he sounds weak and sad.

“I got a call from the school,” Dad says. The mattress dips when he sits on it. “They said you didn’t come in. Are you feeling okay?”

“Headache,” Stiles mumbles into his pillow. He doesn’t skip very often, which he hopes makes the occasions he does seem more believable.

Dad leans over him to feel his forehead, and Stiles feels a rush of warmth at the gesture. Then Dad straightens up again, and rubs Stiles’s back gently, the way Mom used to when he was sick. “You need anything from the pharmacy?”

“No. I think I’ll be okay if I can sleep it off.”

“Okay, son,” Dad says. “I’ll pick Stella up this afternoon, so you can rest. Do you want me to make you some soup before I head back in?”

“No, I’m good,” Stiles murmurs.

Dad leans down and kisses him on the top of the head, and Stiles feels like he’s a little kid again, warm and safe and loved. “Call me if you need anything.”

“’kay.”

He waits until he hears Dad tread down the steps again, and the front door clicks closed. Then he waits until he hears the cruiser leave before scrambling out of bed and pulling the files out again.

Because Stiles might not have fangs or claws, or super speed and super hearing, but he can still hunt the Alpha in his own way.

He gets back to work.

[imagine-loki]

The Sound of Silence

TITLE: The Sound of Silence CHAPTER NO./ONE SHOT: Chapter 18/47 AUTHOR: nekoamamori ORIGINAL IMAGINE: Imagine you are mute, and Loki comes to Avengers tower for the first time. Loki asks you a question and you answer through sign language. Loki looks at you crazy and thinks your making fun of him, he starts yelling saying that you should respect him since he’s a god and prince.  RATING: T+ NOTES/WARNINGS: Also on AO3 Click here

    It was weeks and multiple angry phone calls between Cap and your mom before things quieted down. Sammi came to your defense at school when the more stupid of the students tried to demand prophecies. They finally knocked it off when they realized you weren’t going to do it no matter how nice they pretended to be, or how much they threatened you.

    You actually got back to a fairly normal life much more quickly than you had been expecting. Cap pulled you back on missions and only let you come help once the danger had been completely secured. You didn’t mind and knew he’d ease up once you got through a few missions without being injured again. Loki was extra overprotective until the wound had healed and even after that you had to threaten to stab him before he would believe that you were ok.

    One December Saturday you went on a mission with the team. Everyone was shivering and miserable on the jet except Loki who was laughing at their misfortune while he wrapped a blanket around you. Stark hadn’t gotten the heat working properly on the jet when he had ‘fixed’ it last time. Loki’s frost giant heritage left him immune to the cold. The team was going even further North too for this mission; it was going to be a miserable battle. Loki used a little magic to put a warming spell on the blanket around you. You looked up at him confused, you hadn’t known he could do that. He held a finger to his lips in reply, keeping the secret of this skill from the others. You snuggled further in your blanket, finally starting to feel warm thanks to his warming spell.

    The jet landed and everyone else got out. This was supposed to be a straightforward mission. They weren’t even sure it would become a code green. You were only here for emotional support unless the code green actually got called. Loki kissed you goodbye before he left the jet with the others and you curled more comfortably with your blanket at the reading assignment you needed to do over the weekend. Bruce was staying behind unless the code green was called, so you invited him over to share your blanket.

    “How is this heated?” he asked you as he settled under it with you.

    [Loki] you signed. He nodded, accepting that explanation and you went back to your homework. Loki’s clone didn’t stay with you tonight since Bruce was here. You were the Hulk’s favorite person, so he was plenty guard enough.

    The code green was called and Bruce left you too to go deal with it. A clone of Loki appeared to keep you company when Bruce left. The team wasn’t taking chances with your safety.

    The battle didn’t take long once Bruce got into the fight. “Siren, you’re up!” Cap’s voice called over the comm.

    You sighed when you had to remove your heated blanket, but left the jet and went to go find the Hulk. You saw the enhanced the team had been fighting were being loaded into a prison van of some variety, all hooded with their hands cuffed behind them.

    You found the Hulk waiting patiently for you surrounded by the team. You laughed at the absurd sight, but the Hulk loved you and your singing, and you got to it faster if he was waiting patiently for you. So you stepped up to him and began to sing. It took longer this time, Hulk apparently liked your song choice and didn’t want to change back. You finally had to put more force and effort into your intention before he’d change back. When he did, you wrapped the heated blanket around him and helped him back to his feet. He was more out of it than usual this time and you had to support him on the way back to the jet.

    You were so focused on getting Bruce to stumble his way back to the jet that you didn’t notice you weren’t alone until the SHIELD agents were standing around you all in uniform and masks from the battle. You waved at them, sure they’d recognize you and Bruce and moved to walk past them into the jet.

    You didn’t know what was happening until after they’d moved. One of them opened a can of some kind of gas and threw it at your feet. You opened your mouth to scream, but just breathed in a lungful of gas instead. You fought to stay standing as you coughed your lungs out, dropping Bruce as you fought to breathe. He was coughing too and the Hulk was nowhere to be seen.

    The agents grabbed you while you were fighting for air and shoved a gag in your mouth before throwing a hood over your head. Your arms were bound behind you, just like the other enhanced’s had been. You fought to breathe through your nose while struggling against the agents. It was no use. They frog marched you back toward the battle site. “Last one,” one of the agents said as you were forced into the van with the others. “Collar this one quickly. It’ll cause trouble otherwise.” You tried to scream behind your gag, but you couldn’t get your airway clear enough from the gas. You felt the familiar hated shock collar snap shut around your neck despite your shrieks, struggles, and protests. “Shut it!” one of the agents snapped at you.

    You shrieked and sobbed at the first shock you’d had to suffer in six months. The shocks didn’t stop until your shrieks did. Until you fell back into the silent hopeless haze you’d lived in during your time in the prison in self defense.

    “Go!” the agent ordered the driver. The van started and drove away carefully, obviously not wanting to draw the team’s attention.

    “Where is she?!” you heard Loki’s roar from outside the van. You lifted your head, but the shocks started again before you could figure out how to get his attention. All you could do was sob helplessly at the pain.

    This had been a very well thought out trap. 

[storystartsanew]

Solo Para: Prophecies and Suprises

Many eons ago, elves and humans in Xadia were at war. Humans could not agree to share the land, and the elves did not take kindly to newcomers in their homes. One elf, Ithlinne, fell in love with a human. She left her people to be with him, and for a time they were happy. They had a beautiful baby daughter, and Ithlinne loved her with all her heart. Her husband grew wary of his wife, the other humans poisoning his mind against her and their daughter. 

When Ithlinne realized that her husband was turning against her, she ran back to her people. The small village of elves were no match for the armies of man. The humans came and destroyed her village. As they murdered her family, her rage grew and grew. Their blood, magic in and of itself, seeped into the land. In her dying breaths, she used that magic to speak a prophecy and place a curse upon the world. 

“Verily I say unto you, the era of the sword and axe is nigh, the era of the wolf's blizzard. The Time of the White Chill and the White Light is nigh, the Time of Madness and the Time of Contempt: Tedd Deireádh, the Time of End. The world will die amidst frost and be reborn with the new sun. It will be reborn of Elder Blood, of Hen Ichaer, of the seed that has been sown. A seed which will not sprout but burst into flame. Ess'tuath esse! Thus it shall be!”

She gave her power to her daughter to bring upon the end of the world and rebirth it for elves alone to live in peace. 

The daughter was the only one to survive the attack. Elves who heard the story took her far away from Xadia in order to keep her safe. They took her to the land of Oz. There they lived with the fairies who ruled the land. It was a peaceful time, full of love and joy and hope. The daughter grew up safe and happy and cared for. 

Then the fight for Oz began. Witches fought to take control of Oz, and the fairies were no match. When the final battle was done, most of the fairies fled to other lands in order to escape. Amongst them was Ithlinne’s daughter and her own daughter. They fled to what would become Auradon to live amongst the fairies there. Her line flowed from generation to generation, creating magical daughters with extreme powers. 

The Blue Fairy was one of such daughters, the latest in Ithlinne’s line. She used her powers for goodness and truth, just like she was taught, never wanting for anything selfish. As a young woman, she met a man, a handsome elf who was cursed to walk the world as an animal all but one hour of every day. She wanted to help him, but she had no idea how. The only way she knew how would require her to destroy her wand, to leave Auradon and her life as a fair. A strange elf by the name of Rayla was traveling through Auradon and heard her plight. She taught Blue how to break the curse without giving up her most integral part of herself. In return, Rayla claimed the ancient Law of Surprise, expecting something like a trinket or gift that she would be able to deny later. 

Fate works in mysterious ways, and Blue found out she was pregnant in the days after the Law was claimed. Rayla was entitled to the Child Surprise, even though she did not want her. She promised to never claim the child and tried to return to Xadia. Blue could not take the risk. In one truly selfish act, she imprisoned Rayla on the Isle of the Lost. Her husband could not stand what she had done and returned to Xadia himself. In the end, she was all alone. 

Years later, the Isle was abolished and Rayla was free to leave. She returned to Xadia to be with her family and to leave Auradon behind once and for all. Things changed when she heard of a plot to kill The Blue Fairy from a faction of elves. They spoke of Ithlinne’s prophecy and how Blue’s daughter would be the one to bring upon the new world for the elves. Rayla raced back to Auradon to warn Blue, but it was too late. Her attackers got there first. 

Blue’s daughter, Cirilla, was nothing more than a child when it happened, barely fourteen. The murderers kidnapped Cirilla and attempted to take her back to their growing kingdom. The stress and trauma of the events unlocked her latent abilities. She brought hell upon her kidnappers, sapping the magic dry from the land around her to do so. There was nothing left of them when she was finally found. 

Rayla took her in and protected her from those who wanted to use her magic for harm. She taught Ciri about her culture and about the family she had in Xadia. She and her husband, Callum, taught her how to use her magic safely. They taught her how to redirect magic instead of steal it. Eventually, it became too dangerous for them to live in Xadia. Elves and humans alike became wary of Ciri’s powers as they grew stronger every day. When it became clear that there was no safer option, Rayla made the hardest decision of all. She returned to Auradon once more, Ciri and Callum in tow, in order to protect them.

[childrenofankhseries]

Tragic Fools Extended Teaser. Titillating New Dark Fantasy Scifi 2021.

Chapter 1

Psychic Ex Issues

The bliss of sun-kissed skin awakened her. Twitching fingers in velvety sand as a heavenly breeze tickled her spine, Kayn peered up, grinning. Somebody gave her an immortal time out. Even with unlimited free passes to the in-between, a surprise trip was jarring until she recalled why she died. Who killed her this time? Cross-legged in pristine desert with silky granules trickling through fingers, her memory kicked in, clarifying why she was deceased. Lexy knocked on her door and took her out of the equation. Their Oracle must have caught Kevin telepathically asking her to warn him before Ankh stole the girl he had a thing for. Her attachment to him was always getting her in trouble. She shouldn’t be having conversations with an ex-boyfriend while in bed with her new one. Frost’s patience had to be wearing thin. They’d just been separated as punishment for killing Kevin at a banquet. She tossed her ex off a balcony for giving her a clover. It was still funny. Sensing a presence, Kayn got up, squinting in luminescence.

    Ankh’s Guardian Azariah sighed, “I’m beginning to think you enjoy being punished.”

    She didn’t know what to say, she kind of did.

    “Being part Guardian doesn’t mean you can bend rules to your will,” the angelic entity reprimanded.

    Brushing the sand off her short ivory in-between attire, Kayn responded, “I wasn’t going to say anything.”

    With divine angelic light attaching Clan Ankh’s Guardian to the sky, Azariah wandered off, explaining, “That’s just it, if he can tap into your mind, you have no say over what he knows.”

    Keeping pace, strolling the clean slate desert with warm silken sand underfoot, beneath an azure sky, Kayn thought of a monarch butterfly. An orange and black distraction flitted by as proof she wasn’t focusing on what the Guardian was saying.

    The angelic entity trailing radiant light, scolded, “I’m not talking to hear myself speak, child.”

    She wasn’t a child. Now, a variety of vibrant butterflies were fluttering around. She couldn’t shut her feral imagination down. Wincing, Kayn apologised, “I’m listening, I swear.”

    With a clap of her hands, distractions vanished. Smiling, Azariah carried on, “Here is the issue, Ankh needs a Venom before Immortal Testing. As you know, the Third -Tier sped up the timeline in response to the glitch your group used to get out. Currently, Triad is the only Clan with one. Your ex’s crush means nothing. Residual mortal sentiment is clouding your judgement.”

    It was, she couldn’t deny it.

💘

    Back in the land of the living, Ankh’s Oracle voluntarily stayed with Zach to make sure Kayn remained deceased until their compromised job was finished. Relaxing on the queen-sized bed by Kayn’s corpse, Jenna mindlessly flicked channels.  

    With Kayn’s head on his lap, Zach gently stroked her hair, asking, “Do we have to keep killing her? Can’t we lock her in a tomb?”

    “The bracelet to block Kevin’s connection isn’t working. I need to tweak it. He’s psychic, they’re linked. Taking her out when we’re dealing with Triad may be our only option.”

    “We all have ties to other Clans, I used to be Triad,” Zach implored, meeting Jenna’s eyes.

    “Aren’t you glad we stole you?” Jenna baited as Kayn’s chest rose and fell. “Heads up, Handler. She’s back.”

    “Can’t we just keep her occupied? She doesn’t know where they went,” Zach bartered.

    “Azariah needs time with her, a Guardian’s word is law, take her out,” Jenna instructed.

    Looping an arm around her neck, he released his grasp as she went limp, muttering, “You’re doing it next time.”

    “Suck it up Zach, you’re immortal.” Jenna teased with a smile.

💘    

    Everything was uncomfortably white as Kayn opened her eyes with a brief flash of waking up in the hospital after her Sweet Sleep. This time, it wasn’t Kevin by her side as she clued into where she was. She remembered this place. She’d been here before.

    Radiance encompassed Ankh’s Guardian Azariah as she helped Kayn up, praising, “Impressive regeneration time.”

    “I’ve been healing faster,” Kayn admitted, grimacing as she took in where she was. A blank white cell. The word nothing described this destination. She had concentration issues. Funny, well played Azariah, bravo. It felt like their Guardian was working up to an epic punishment reveal.

    Grinning, Azariah explained, “Time runs faster in a blank cell. Your soul can’t escape or think up distractions. We’ll stay here, so your Handler doesn’t have to keep killing you each time you rise.”  

    An immortal penalty box, so she couldn’t think up butterflies or heal herself to escape the boredom, clever. Kayn had to ask. “Am I going to be punished?”

    “Do you need to be punished?” Azariah probed with a knowing twinkle in her eye.

    Damn it, she did. There was a lingering silence as it sunk in. It felt like she could stop Kevin from having access to her mind if she wanted him gone. There it was…her truth. She wanted a way to keep their friendship alive, even if they were supposed to be enemies. Even if they always would be. He was her last attachment to a mortal simplicity that was no longer. She was going to lose the trust of her Clan. It felt like she was in the Testing again, being forced to see past mortal bonds engrained in her being.

    “Calm down, we don’t want to sever the connection. The Clans join forces on occasion. We need to control the flow of information. Having two Guardian offspring in the same Clan, Ankh may require assistance as you did when Abaddon tried to force you to send a group through the Hall of Souls. My brother jumped the gun when he took the cap off your abilities. You are a spiritual anomaly, a Conduit who is part Guardian. The Third-Tier will be looking for a way to take you out of the equation to hold off the Daughters of Seth Prophecy.”

    It would be helpful if someone explained what the Daughters of Seth Prophecy was.

    Grinning, Ankh’s Guardian, replied, “Prophecies have a loose narrative. New moves come into play. It couldn’t be worse timing to train a new group for Testing, with survivors in the middle of the evolution process. Believing they’ve set us up for failure by giving us an unbeatable scenario, reveals the Third-Tier’s weakness. They underestimate us. We thrive in impossible situations. Knowing a Venom can put trapped souls into hibernation in a sleep chamber to await freedom with the next continent in gives us a way. When all is lost, all one needs is a faint glimmer of hope and courage to fight. If we find a Venom for the next Testing group, we have an insurance clause. It’s that simple.”

    Sure, they’ll just find a rare immortal being in a North American population of 346.3 million. “Do Guardian magic and point one out, I’m on it,” Kayn saucily replied.

    “Being confined to this spiritual plain has limitations. If you’ll allow me, I’d like to have another look at the basis of your connection to the Triad,” Azariah asked in shimmering light with open arms.

    As Kayn stepped into the Guardian’s divine embrace, the predatory Conduit was subdued by tranquillity in the root of her being. Beautiful memories floated through her stream of consciousness with easy smiles and magical healing kisses on wounded knees. She drifted off to sleep each night snuggling stuffed animals, feeling safe. She recalled easy laughter in carefree moments, racing siblings in the upstairs hallway to see who’d be first to slide on their tummy down carpeted stairs. Family days on the beach building sandcastles by the sea, turning over rocks to capture fleeing crabs. Salty ocean air through an open car window on the drive home and grape soda stains on her sleeping brother’s face. Childhood sleepovers using hairbrushes as microphones, jumping on beds. Snuggling under blankets watching movies devouring bowls of pink elephant popcorn on the couch. Climbing to the highest branch of the apple tree where they’d perch to eat while viewing their entire world. In every scenario, Kevin was present or referenced to tug her heart back.  

    Maturing in visions, she reached the age of Correction. Blissfully unaware of her demise, she sprinted across a finish line as a track champion with Kevin overzealously cheering. Each moment, every action, forging an unbreakable bond, maturing into love, solidifying a link created by thousands of unforgettable moments.

    Caressing her hair, Azariah summoned her out of the visions, whispering, “We can leave the connection open. I’m secure, he won’t violate your trust.”

    Part of her wanted to remain in the beautiful lucid dream with only light in her soul, void of the darkness she often found herself lost in. “I wish I could go back,” Kayn confessed, in her arms, pining for the simple bliss of childhood.

    Knowing she wasn’t ready to let go, Azariah assured, “Those memories will always be wherever you are.”

    “I’m not good at being immortal,” Kayn mumbled.

    “Who is?” Azariah taunted, stepping away to meet her eyes, lovingly tucking curls behind her ear.

    “You kept Jenna for decades,” Kayn sparred, smiling.

    Intrigued by her choice, the Guardian disclosed, “Jenna sacrificed herself for someone else’s misdeeds.”

    She hadn’t heard this story.

    Her luminescent relation explained, “We accepted an ill-advised deal believing Haley’s Testing group was destined to survive. Alas, Oracle’s predictions rarely come with a time stamp. Haley did survive twenty years later when intuition led her to you. Fortunately, Jenna was powerful enough to maintain duties through psychic connections.”

    Their Clan was soap opera. Curious, Kayn enquired, “Whose punishment did Jenna take?”  

    Azariah teased, “You’ll figure it out.”

    Why aren’t we using Haley?  

    “She’s a talented intuitionist but decades lost in a Venom-induced dream state stunted Haley’s Enlightening process. She isn’t a viable Oracle yet,” the angelic being responded to her thought.

    Psychics advertise, they can’t be that difficult to find. Fascinated, Kayn suggested, “Can’t we just make an appointment with a psychic and snag one?”

    “There are varying degrees of Clairvoyant. Only top tier has a shot at surviving Testing. The new girl Emma is top tier, but if her group can’t connect, it won’t matter,” Azariah clarified with a genuine smile.

    Standing in a blank slate room having a casual chat, Kayn forgot she was speaking to a heavenly being. Her Aunt. That was still weird. If they stole the girl, Kevin would think she didn’t care. She wasn’t supposed to. She needed to get back to Frost so she could explain. Feeling a tickle, Kayn looked at her hand as it began disintegrating into sand. Well, this isn’t supposed to happen.

    Unamused by her niece’s ability to override commands, Azariah loudly clapped her hands, scowling. Kayn solidified, the miffed majestic being, reprimanded, “I haven’t granted you permission to leave.”

    “I can’t control this shit,” Kayn lipped like an insolent teen.

    “Are you insane? Have you forgotten who you’re with?” Azariah fired back.

    What was wrong with her? Kayn said, “I’m not doing it on purpose.”

    Furious, Azariah paced back and forth, towing a beam of sparkling light in the room of nothing, muttering, “Seth, you ignorant ass. Idiot.”

    Oh, shit. She broke a Guardian. Kayn nervously apologised, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to say that.”

    “I guess there’s no point in staying here. We might as well enjoy the scenery,” the luminescent being, sighed, half-assed waving her hand.

    In a flash of blinding light, the pair was in a meadow of flowers, ankle-deep in lush, fragrant grass under a splotchy blue sky. It always looked like someone tossed buckets of paint up there. They wandered in silence. With each step into the bliss-inducing experience, fragrant flowers, gentle humming of bees and whispering butterfly’s wings, reminded her of how blessed she was to be granted access to this magical world.

    Out of nowhere, Azariah coyly asked, “What powers do you have?”

    Her horrible excuse for a parental figure cautioned her about disclosing certain things.

    Stopping, Azariah laughed, “You know I can hear your thoughts, just tell me what we’re up against so we can find a way to hide it.” Making herself comfortable in the grass, she prompted, “Sit, confess all, I vow to find a way to help you.”

    Guess there was no point in attempting to hide anything. Kayn sat by her, disclosing, “I’ve created orbs of light. Blue orbs blow things up, and white ones get me in trouble, you know about that incident.”

    “Yes, accidentally sending forty demons through the hall of souls doesn’t go unnoticed. Tri-Clan will be cleaning up that mess for years, and now, you have a target on your back. You are the magical ticket to mortality for every demon out there,” Azariah chuckled, picking grass and tossed it.

    Kevin always did that. Kayn’s heart clenched as her thoughts travelled back to her mortal life. Steering her mind away, she confessed, “Conduit, Siren and I may have stopped a bullet or two.”

    “Next time, you’re here we’ll talk about that. I’m sensing our time is up,” Azariah answered. Plucking a pink flower, the Guardian tucked it behind Kayn’s ear and whispered, “Don’t worry, we’ll figure this out.”

    White light blinded her. As the glare ceased, Kayn saw Kevin’s Granny in youthful form, with freckles and flowing red hair. Winnie announced, “The job is done. Kayn is free to leave.”

    A part of her always wanted to run into Kevin’s grandmother’s arms. She’d loved Granny Winnie and missed her but knew they weren’t the same people. They weren’t even people at all, only pawns in an immortal game. It was time to go back and deal with the fallout from her secret conversation with Kevin. If the situation were reversed, and Frost was chatting with an ex next to her in bed, she’d be hurt. Her Mother’s words, sprang to mind, ‘Omitting part of the truth to protect someone’s feelings never works out how you think it will.’ She was right. She may never have the chance to say those words, but she could honour her memory by listening to her advice.

    Smiling at her inner dialogue, young Granny suggested, “Tell the truth, and let chips fall where they may. It’s a long afterlife, you have nothing but time.”

    With that telltale glint in her eyes, she’d always know it was her, no matter what age Winnie appeared. Unable to help it, Kayn asked, “Did Ankh take the girl?” Laughing, Azariah vanished.

    Used to her one-track mind, Winnie disclosed, “She was stolen by Trinity while Ankh and Triad were fighting. Kevin knows it was Trinity,” Winnie replied as the scenery flashed and they were strolling through the warm, inviting desert.

    This timeout was for nothing. Feeling strange, Kayn looked at her hand as she disintegrated into a cloud of golden dust and floated away on a gentle breeze.

    Opening her eyes, with her head on Zach’s lap in the land of the living. There was panic in his eyes. Here we go.

    “Trinity may already be here. Small talk later. Get your jacket, grab your bag, we need to run,” her Handler urged.

    “What’s going on?” Kayn said, scrambling into her boots. They sprinted down the hall, took the stairs and dashed out into the frigid Alaskan air. Oh, sweet lord, it was cold. The RV was gone. They got left behind.

    Going back inside, Zach gave her the rundown, “Trinity snuck in and stole the Venom while Ankh and Triad were fighting at the other job. Jenna had a vision and took off. Mel came in and gave me an Aries group card, saying, if the RV is gone, don’t panic, join the distractions at the pub.”

    Walking down the hall, Kayn vowed, “I wasn’t going to tell him anything.”

    “I know,” her Handler affirmed as they entered the pub and took off their jackets. “Game face, Brighton,” he teased, as they strolled up to the counter of local riffraff. Chuckling, Zach patted down her bedhead, whispering, “You’re looking recently resurrected feral this evening.”

    She’d been hoping it was Frost and Lily with Mel as distractions. She didn’t see anyone she recognised.

    Nudging her, Zach whispered, “Ten o’clock.”

    She glanced to her upper left and giggled. Ten o’clock. In an unexpected plot twist, their backup was Killian from the other continent with his massive muscular frame and wavy mane, sitting by a curvaceous black goddess so breathtaking, everyone was enamoured. With those two alluring unicorns, Mel seamlessly blended in with locals, downing shots like it was the end of the world.

    Leaning in, Zach whispered in her ear, “She is insanely hot, I’m going in.”

    That seductive being was way out of Zach’s league. He was in the minors, destined to strike out so fast, all you’d see is a blur of her blowing him off. Owing her Handler for blindly believing in her innocence, Kayn said, “Go Zach.” Snickering, as they picked up their drinks and strolled over.

    Killian raised his glass in greeting, “Guess we’re diversion buddies, our plan to be newbie protection backup was foiled by a five-minute bathroom break. Drink up, you two. Jenna says, acting like nobody is showing up until tomorrow and looking unprepared is how we’re going to buy the others enough time to get away.”

    “Emery,” the hot stranger introduced herself, extending her perfectly manicured hand to Zach.

    Awestruck, Zach shook her hand, flirting, “Your British accent is amazing.”

    Grinning, Amar’s continent’s vixen, cheekily reciprocated, “Your everything is amazing.”

    Wow. Zach didn’t usually have girls come on this strong.

    A tray of shots was placed on their table. Killian raised one, saluting, “Go hard or go home.”

    The table of immortals slammed three in a row, throwing caution to the wind. Emery seemed familiar. “Have we met?” Kayn enquired, shaking her hand.

    “I was blitzed at our last banquet, it’s possible. Either way, it’s nice to meet you coherent,” Emery toyed.

    The way Mel was slamming drinks back, their play was obvious. They were expecting Thorne. Mel was the bait.  

    “Slow down, love. I don’t want to hold your hair later while you’re parking the tiger,” Emery commented, coyly sipping wine, adjusting her seductively crossed legs.

    Parking the tiger?

    “Hurling, upchucking, technicolour yawn, ralph,” Killian deciphered British slang.

    “Praying to the porcelain god, barfing, boot and rally, blowing chunks, tossing your cookies,” Zach commentated.

    “Chilling my anxiety, it’ll sting less when he ignores me. The girl Thorne was seeing made it out of Testing with the other continent. He may be over me,” Mel disclosed, doing another shot.

    “You’re not that easy to get over, Mel,” Zach affirmed, giving her hand a reassuring squeeze.

    Where did she know Emery from? It was driving her crazy. All eyes darted to the door as Trinity wandered in.

    Zach whispered, “Heads up.”

    Raking a hand through his sexy mane, Killian whispered, “Immortal lie detector in the house, get ready to pull out the big guns, Mel.”

Chapter 2

Royal Pain in Thorne’s Ass

            Some bonds can’t be broken by time. Mel’s eyes locked with the leader of Trinity’s as he came in.

Ultimately, losing him had been a choice. She’d chosen Ankh over Trinity. It was her call.

Her time with Trinity before coming to Ankh was tumultuous. She’d been a royal pain in Thorne’s ass. Guilt-ridden, she spent nearly a year trying to kill herself as penance for her family’s demise. For an immortal with a healing ability, it was pointless. She lured him in with ridiculous drama. His days were devoted to convincing her she was worthy of being saved, and hers were spent proving why she wasn’t. With an intense connection teetering on the edge of more, everyone knew they cared for each other. On her final night with Trinity, she was about to leap to her temporary demise when their feelings came to fruition in an explosion of passion on a cliffside beneath the stars. The next day, she ended up in Ankh.    

    Since becoming Ankh, whenever she found herself in the leader of Trinity’s presence, either he was aggravated by the games she was playing or cautioning her to stay away during a fight so he wouldn’t be forced to harm her. Tonight, Mel was plotting to use his feelings to distract him so her Clan could get away with their unsealed under eighteen Ankh. When he walked past her to the bar, she couldn’t help but smile. He wasn’t stupid.

    Pulling a chair up to their table, her old friend Glory, declared, “I’ll bite. Mel, Zach and Kayn, we expected. Emery and Big Sexy are a surprise. Are you here protecting Amar’s kid?”

    Big Sexy, that was funny.

    “Go ahead, take a shot for having the balls to strut in here like you stand a chance,” Killian provoked, sliding the tray over.

    “They’re in the hotel, aren’t they?” Glory grilled, looking into Mel’s eyes.

    Smiling, Mel redirected their conversation, “It’s nice to see you too.” She didn’t have to turn around, she felt him there. She did another shot before saying his name, “Thorne.”

    “Melody,” Thorne responded, pulling up a chair. “Did we get here early?”

    “I’m not saying a word,” Mel laughed, downing another.

    “You will,” Thorne boldly decreed, holding her captive with piercing blue truth-seeking eyes.

    She wanted him. Maybe she always would. Pretending to be carefree when she was freaking out inside was proving to be difficult.

    “If you keep slamming shots, you’ll tell me everything,” Thorne teased, snatching a shot of whisky off their tray.

    Without his fib extracting eyes leaving hers, he licked a droplet off his bottom lip, and her mind went blank. What was she supposed to be doing? About to match his shot, Mel put it down. He was right. She needed to buy time, good thing she had a million things to confess. If it wasn’t what he was here for, why not? Shaking her head, Mel switched topics, “I’m glad the girl you were seeing made it out with the other continent.”

    “That was nothing,” Thorne confessed, sliding his hand over hers like they were alone in the room. “I was just trying to stop myself from doing something reckless at a banquet.”

    “Me?” Mel baited with a charming, dimpled grin.

    “You,” Thorne disclosed. “In retrospect, we should have spent the night together for closure.” Caressing her palm, he whispered, “I still miss you.” Getting back on task, Trinity’s leader compelled, “Is it just the five of you at the bar?”

    Checking for witnesses, Mel said, “Yes.” Bringing up the elephant in the room, she whispered, “You’re here to steal our unsealed Ankh.”

    Tucking her shoulder-length brown hair behind her ears, like she usually wore it, Thorne answered, “Obviously.”

    He thought her nervous tick was a style choice, cute. “You won’t,” Mel confidently stated, sliding him another whisky.

    “Trinity doesn’t participate in drunk fight club,” Thorne teased, downing the drink.

    Grinning, Mel provoked, “What about pillow fight club? You used to love pillow fight club.”

    He mic dropped reality, “There were no pillows on our cliff.”

    Our cliff. Tears filled her eyes as the passionate encounter on a cliff beneath the stars surfaced. She whispered, “I spent a year trying to kill myself, knowing it wouldn’t work because I’m immortal. How did you have the patience to deal with me? How are you so optimistic and understanding when our afterlives are this hard?”

    “Because there were people like you, along the way,” he admitted with a sheen of tears.

    She was going to have to confess everything else to stop herself from telling him what she wasn’t supposed to say. Pulling it together, Mel said, “I tuck my hair behind my ears when I’m nervous.”

    Playing with her hair, Thorne probed, “Do I still make you nervous?”

    Mel nodded, lost in his steel blue lie extracting eyes. No matter what she did, her heart wouldn’t let go of that beautiful night. They had to get over each other this wasn’t healthy.

    Tenderly kissing her hand, he admitted, “You make me nervous too. Whenever we run into each other, it aches like we lost each other yesterday. I try to stay away. I’ll be arguing with myself, then you smile with those dimples and I can’t.”

    “Thorne,” she whispered as he slid a hand onto her knee.

    Caressing it, he whispered, “Mel.”

    She wanted to tear his clothes off.

    Making it clear he caught her thought, Thorne leaned in and whispered, “Right here?”

    “Come to my room, so we can be alone. You foiled the job and stole the girl. You know where our backup is,” Mel persuaded. She needed to prove her heart wrong.

    Thorne suggested, “Let’s go to my room where we won’t be interrupted.”

    Worrying she was the one being played, she put it to rest knowing who he was. In this scenario, she was the bad guy. Leaving their coats on the rack, they slipped out, speed-walked down the hall, hitting nearly a jog as they scooted into the elevator, laughing. As the elevator door slid shut, their mouths met in passionate persuasion.

    Breathless as their lips parted, Thorne gazed into her eyes, confessing, “I do love you.”

    “I’ve never stopped. I wish…” Her declaration of love was interrupted as the elevator door slid open, revealing a Trinity poised with bow drawn. He’d set her up. An arrow whooshed into her heart. Stunned, Melody dropped. Thorne cradled her in his arms as the light flickered and went out.

Chapter 3

Big Sexy Snacks

The rest of Ankh’s distractions were three sheets to the wind dancing when Ankh symbols heated beneath their fingerless gloves, letting them know one of their own was dead. They sprinted out of the pub into the hall. The elevator opened as they approached. Mel’s body was on the floor with a gaping chest wound and blood pooling behind her.

    Killian commented, “Taking out our only Healer, smart. Emery, there’s a camera. If the footage is stored online, we’ll need to call the Aries group. Zach, go with her, watch her back.” They slipped out as the door closed.

    “An arrow to the heart?” Killian questioned as he broke the camera and pressed garage.

    Focused on willing energy into Mel, Kayn didn’t reply. Mel gasped as her eyes opened.

    “Impressive, you’re a Healer too,” Killian remarked, as he held out a hand to help her up.

    Dizzy, Kayn held his gaze and said, “Trust me,” as she siphoned enough energy to stay on her feet through their joined hands. Confused, the burly Adonis swayed, quickly regaining his bearings. While helping Mel up, Kayn looked at her snack and asked, “You good?”

    “All good, energy thief,” he chuckled, shaking his head.

    His energy made her feel like she could bench press a Buick. Kayn directed, “Mel, take off your shirt and sop up as much blood as you can. Killian, give Mel your shirt so she isn’t topless.” They dressed, and cleaned with the elevator open, thankful for the heated landing.

    Reading a text, Killian announced, “They have our bags and jackets from the bar. Trinity’s coats were still in the pub. I bet they’re searching the hotel. We’ll have to run out to the truck without jackets. Let’s go!”

    Darting out into frigid two am Alaskan air through icy crackling snow, they got into the truck. Emery casually drove away from the hotel with the biggest grin as they put coats on and noticed there were too many.

    Killian chuckled, “Did you take everyone’s jackets?”

    “I did,” Emery laughed. “Zach also may have flattened the tires of every vehicle in the parking lot.”

    Everyone was celebrating their escape. Kayn dug through her bag praying her cell was in there. The light was blinking. There was a message. Afraid to read it, she stared at the flashing light. Reality was a buzz kill. She’d been the cause of their separation again. He had to be getting sick and tired of her shit. Hell, she was getting tired of her shit. Nobody uttered a syllable until they hit smooth highway. They started talking, avoiding the topic of ex-boyfriend’s arrows. Strength shifted to fatigue as Kayn’s brain recalled bringing Mel back to life. She needed to close her eyes.

    Nudging her, Zach prompted, “Look at the message.”

    “So, I can see how ticked off he is? No thanks. I’ll wait for the live show,” Kayn said, yawning.

    Zach instantly yawned. Yawning loudly, Killian scolded, “Stop that crap. I don’t need to be yawning for hours.”

    He’d mentioned yawning. They all yawned again triggering each other in a ridiculous chain, except for Emery, which struck her as peculiar.

    Snatching Kayn’s phone, Mel read it, and gave it back, saying, “Yeah, he’s pissed. At least he didn’t seduce you into an elevator, tell you he loved you and get a Trinity to shoot an arrow into your heart when the door opened.”

    “Shit Mel, that’s brutal, I’m sorry, hun,” Zach consoled, caressing her shoulder.

    “Why are you sorry? You didn’t shoot an arrow into my heart?” Mel sparred, lightening the tension. Meeting Kayn’s eyes, she assured, “It’s not that bad. He just says you need to talk.”

    When though? How long would she have to wait? All Dragon excuses aside, if she wanted their relationship to last longer than five minutes, she had to start thinking about how her actions affected him. Ripping off the band-aid, Kayn texted Frost. Full disclosure, Kevin has a thing for the Venom girl everyone wants. He must have had a vision. He asked me not to take her. You were asleep. She gave it to Zach to read over. He looked at it and pressed send. “What in the hell, Zach? I just wanted you to read it.”

    He chuckled, “You’ll thank me later. It would be silly for him to be ticked off after reading that. You didn’t really do anything wrong, Brighton. You just omitted the truth so he wouldn’t be ticked you were in bed with him, mind chatting with your ex.”

    Everyone else started laughing as Killian glanced back, asking, “Is Brighton American slang?”

    “That’s her mortal last name, Kayn’s Canadian,” Zach explained, grinning.

    “I love that, Brighton,” Killian stated. “Were you really in bed with Frost mind chatting with an ex? I’d be choked.”

    With her eyes on the snowy road ahead, as tires crunched over gravel-strewn icy highway, Emery shared, “If memory serves a night with Frost is many hours of cardio. I think it’s badass that you bedded him and chatted with an ex. He’s been a player for eight hundred years. He deserves that Karma.”

    Great, she wasn’t going to be able to unhear that. Emery and Frost slept together.

    Catching her reaction, Emery backtracked, “Sorry about just blurting that out, it was a long time ago. No big deal.”

    If you’re going to get ticked off every time you bump into someone Frost slept with, you’re going to be pissed off a lot,” Killian chuckled, changing the music. Emery slapped his hand. Giggling, he playfully swatted back.

    Mel changed the subject, “Where are we going?”

    “We’re driving east through northern B.C into Alberta to meet up with Markus’ crew,” Killian explained. “Who can drive? We should break this up into four-hour shifts.”

    Zach and Melody volunteered, Kayn admitted, “I drove once in a parking lot.”

    “I’ll teach you how to drive,” Emery laughed as the tail end of the truck swerved on black ice and recovered.

    Unaffected by the drama, Killian suggested, “Pull over, I’m switching seats with Zach. Brighton stole my energy.”

    They stopped, leapt out into snow much deeper than it looked and comically switched up the seating arrangement. Kayn grinned as the mountainous Viking looking guy made himself comfortable, taking up a humorous amount of the backseat.

    “Wake me up when it’s my turn,” Killian mumbled as he conked out.

    She’d never seen anyone go to sleep like that. The musclebound Adonis had a breathy coo as a snore. It was kind of adorable. Sleep was doable. Closing her eyes, Kayn slipped into a dream, listening to Zach and Emery chatting like long lost friends.

    Waking up, stiff and sore, Kayn stretched as she sat up. They were parked at a rest stop with a convenience store. What time is it? It smelled like greasy burgers. There was a gross amount of garbage in the back. How long was she asleep? She gathered up the trash into a bag. They must have let her sleep. She couldn’t go inside and leave the engine running. Groggily, she searched for her cell. There was another message from Frost. Her growling tummy took precedence as she texted Zach. I can’t get out of the truck, please bring snacks and juice. Her phone vibrated with Zach’s response. Already on it. Grinning, she read Frost’s message. You can make it up to me today when you get here. Joy flooded her senses. Forgetting her relationship paranoid boyfriend filter, she wrote, love you. She pressed send. Oh, crap. Mortified, Kayn stared at her phone. Why did she do that? Her cell vibrated. She read his response. Ditto, Queen of mixed signals. Giggling, she relaxed. She hadn’t wrecked it yet. She wasn’t meaning to give him mixed signals. This wasn’t how she imagined love would be. Loving him felt like she was always about to lose something. Things were much simpler when she was blissfully ignorant relationship-wise. The love she had for Kevin was pristine childlike certainty. Loving Frost felt like jumping out of a plane with a chute that may not open. What she felt for him terrified her. He must feel the same way. She’d been all over the place mentally since surviving the Testing, rarely in control of which ability surfaced. Only the Siren ability came easily. She thought back to that night in Mexico when Frost tried explaining how hard it was going be with the complications of their abilities. He’d vowed to keep trying, so had she, but hadn’t understood what he meant. She did now. Trying, was all they could promise each other. Her road trip buddies were on their way back to the truck with bags of snacks, chatting. Kayn silenced her inner dialogue as Emery fumbled with the keypad.

    As everyone got in, Killian commented, “Sleeping Beauty has awakened and summoned the backseat cleaning elves. I’ll run this to the garbage. Sorry, I knew it was gross back here. You’ve been out cold for a day and a half.” He hopped out and sprinted to the trash can with the bag.

    A day and a half? She wasn’t a napper. That was strange.

    Killian got back in and shut the door as Mel passed her a takeout bag. Yes. She was starving. Kayn peeked in. “You got me a burrito, you’re amazing, thanks Mel.” As they pulled away, she quietly observed Zach, riding up front flirting with Emery. Mel was pretending she wasn’t devastated. Killian was trying to lift her spirits. Being murdered by your ex dampens one’s mood. She’d experienced that heartbreak. She barely knew Thorne, but the guy radiated goodness, what he’d done was hard to believe. It felt like there must be way more to the story. On the bright side, maybe Mel would finally be able to move on from the fantasy of what might have been. A flicker of memory brought her back to Kevin slitting her throat in Immortal Testing, solidifying the truth of where they stood with him in Triad and her, in Ankh. Yes, being murdered by someone you were devoted to made the situation crystal clear. She’d gone on an unhinged murder spree in the Testing. Melody wasn’t like her though. Her friend was rational, calm, and innately good to her core. Naughty, on occasion, but those lines between right and wrong always seemed finite for her. Unwrapping her burrito, Kayn dumped a disgusting amount of hot sauce on and devoured it.

    Watching with morbid fascination, Killian commented, “You do the hot sauce thing like Lexy. Amar does that too you know. I’ve always been curious as to why?”

    Shrugging, Kayn downed a jug of juice. She was still hungry. Ravenous, she dug through bags. Nothing was appealing. Killian smelled good though. She’d brought Mel back from the dead, fed off his energy and he’d stayed on his feet. It was rather impressive. She didn’t know him well enough to ask him for the kind of snack she suspected, she needed. Hi, nice to meet you. I’m Kayn, and I eat supernatural energy. Yours is rather addictive, I’d like more. Her inner dialogue was getting crazy. Oh, fantastic. More immortal brain growing pains, when was this bullshit going to stop? Her stomach went off like a whale’s mating call.

    Eyes wide, Killian chuckled, “You alright, kid?”

    Scowling, Kayn nodded, knowing it was a lie. The burly immortal carried on chatting with Mel about being Orin’s daughter. Broiling, she wiped the perspiration off her brow. The crackling tires were echoing. She should ask them to pull over, something was happening to her. She’d had this sense of ability related foreboding before, it rarely went well. Deep breath in. Deep breath out. Be calm. Her peripheral vision flickered ominously. Her heart was thudding like she ran a marathon. She’d been asleep for a day and a half. She needed to feed her ability but didn’t want these new people to know she fed off immortal energy. It might make things awkward. Killian smelled amazing. He had sweet, tasty, potent pheromones. She needed to get out of here. She wiped her brow. Her throat was so dry, she could barely swallow. If she ate them all, they’d have a nice long nap. Usually, someone called her out on her feral inner commentary by now. Maybe they couldn’t hear it? That was unfortunate, survival of the fittest wise. What was that? It felt like spiders were running around under her jacket. She didn’t like it. Imaginary arachnids scurried down her arms into her palms, making every hair stand on end. Oh, no. There were dark veins on her hands. Something was bubbling up under her skin. If spiders exploded from the boils on her hands, she was going to lose her shit! Struggling to remain calm, she cautioned, “Guys, I’m having an issue.” Nervously, Kayn watched sparks glittering on her fingertips. Shit. This was new. She nervously warned, “Guys.” Flames lit from the boils.

    Nudging Mel, Killian declared, “Your friend is on fire.”

    Panicking, Mel barked, “Pull over! Quick!”

    Looking back, her Handler cursed, “Shit! Calm down, Brighton. Breathe. Deep breaths.”

    Emery looked in the rear-view, the vehicle swerved to the side of the road. “I’m trying! Out! Get Away!” Kayn freaked, with her hands going off like sparklers on the Fourth of July. Everyone scrambled out, bailing into a snowbank as flames shot out her hands, igniting the interior. Power was coursing through her, it felt amazing. This is so cool. “Holy crap, I’m fireproof!” Kayn giggled as her flesh melted, laughing.

    “Get out!” Zach shouted, running at her as everyone else frantically pitched snow at the fire.

    Blistered, charred, engulfed in flames, Kayn hopped out. Zach leapt on her, smothering the blaze in a snowdrift. She giggled beneath her Handler. Her back stung. Maybe she wasn’t fireproof? That was stupid.

    Looking at her ash-covered face, Zach chuckled, “If you keep laughing like this, they’ll think you’re crazy.”  

    Everyone was fighting to put out the fire. They should help.  

    Zach wiped her cheek, and beneath the layer of ash, her skin was pristine. Shaking his head as he got up, he reached out a hand and urged, “Come on, Brighton.” With a peculiar grin, Zach enquired, “Feeling chilly?”

    Not really. Kayn looked down at the dangling shards of burnt material. Shit, her clothes were not fireproof.

    Emery shouted, “Run!”

    Everyone sprang into action as fluorescent orange winter jackets and a nearly naked girl covered in ash sprinted away from the engulfed vehicle. They stopped to watch like it wasn’t a big deal as it exploded.

    Covering her with his jacket as they stood, watching it burn, Zach quietly teased, “Nobody can see anything, you’re covered in ashes.”

    Her head was tingling. Kayn winced as she touched it and felt patches of stubble. Crap. Seriously? She sighed, “Am I bald?”

    Grinning, her Handler confessed, “You’re a little patchy. I wouldn’t worry, it’s visibly growing.”

    Launching a snowball, Killian announced, “Everyone left their phones in the truck, didn’t they?”

    “Mine was in my pocket,” Kayn answered casually.

    “A heads up on the pyrokinesis would have been nice,” romance novel Viking looking Adonis, baited.

    “Yeah, it sure would have. Am I still burned or is it the temperature on my ass?” Kayn saucily countered, winking at Killian. Almost cool for a split second, she tripped over her own feet. Zach caught her before she faceplanted.

    “You’re hilarious,” Killian chuckled as they trudged away from the flame gutted truck through knee-high drifts, with nothing but snow-covered farmland for miles.

    Everyone’s auras were a trippy light show. Nobody was too concerned. If their symbols went off so did the rest of their Clan’s. They were coming. She was toasty warm. So much heat was radiating from her, snow was conveniently melting, making her hike much easier but her head was crazy itchy. Zach was trembling in his t-shirt. She unzipped his jacket and suggested trading it for his shirt.

    “I’m fine,” Zach replied, shivering.

    Feeling guilty, Kayn pressed, “My healing ability has me toasty warm. Take the jacket. I did this, not you.”

    Smiling, Zach said, “You only got to that point because I was so busy flirting, I didn’t notice you were in trouble.”

    “She’s hot, it’s understandable,” Kayn sparred, as they wandered down the deserted road. She took Zach’s hand. His fingers were so frozen. She stopped, urging, “Trade me for the jacket, you are being ridiculous.”

    “Fine,” Zach chuckled. “Now that I’ve felt how warm your hands are, I’ll take it.” The others stopped as Kayn and Zach swapped clothing.

    They’d been trekking through the snow for a good hour when Kayn realised she’d drained her energy reserves. If she fed on anyone, they’d go down. Having faith, she could keep going until help arrived, she was a second from passing out when their ride showed up.

    Markus rolled down the window and laughed as he saw Kayn staggering like she was drunk in a t-shirt with a melted trail of snow behind her. He commented, “Rough day?”  

    Oh, thank god. Kayn teetered over and was out cold before she landed in the snow.

💘    

    Picking her up like she was as light as a feather, Killian placed Kayn in the back as exhausted Ankh squeezed in. Nobody spoke until Ankh’s leader pointed out, “Wouldn’t it have made more sense to walk in the melted snow behind her?”

    “Behind the surprise Firestarter, you failed to mention?” Killian ribbed, laughing.

    “Yes, the unconscious one,” Markus replied with a grin.

    “She’s tuckered out,” Mel decreed, lovingly stroking her hair. “Her Healing ability shorted out. She’s been melting snow for hours.”

    Markus pressed, “I need the whole story, to figure out how to pre-empt this. What happened, Zach?”

    “I was up front, I didn’t notice she was in trouble,” Zach admitted. “Mel started yelling for us to pull over. I tried to get her to breathe but she was already shooting flames from her hands. We all jumped out, except for Brighton, who thought she was fireproof.”

    “Our symbols went off, Zach started screaming at her to get out. He ran back, leapt on her, and smothered the flames in the snow. She was burnt to a crisp, but healed remarkably fast, and didn’t seem to be feeling any pain,” Mel disclosed, making sure their leader knew Zach acted heroically.

    “Go back further, something happened after you three were left at the hotel,” Markus prompted with his eyes on the road ahead. “Our symbols went off, one of you went down.”

    Mel confessed, “I thought I was playing Thorne, but he was playing me. He convinced me to go to his room, and when the elevator opened, I took an arrow in the heart.”

    With soft eyes, Markus asked, “Are you alright?”

    “Yeah, I’m okay,” Mel replied, avoiding his gaze.

    Markus quizzed, “Whose energy did Kayn use to heal?”

    Raising his hand like a child in elementary school, Killian confessed, “I thought we were going to have to hide a body. When I looked down, Kayn was done healing Mel. I didn’t even know she was a Healer. When I took her hand to help her up, she apologised and siphoned my energy. She only took a hair of what Amar’s Healers usually take.”

    “So, she brought Melody back without an energy transfer and fed from Killian after. Where were you, Zach?” Markus questioned.

    “I went with Emery to disable the security. I wasn’t with her in the elevator,” Zach admitted.  

    “Zach, her abilities are unstable. What happened to Mel could have hit too close to home and triggered the Dragon. Moving Killian’s body would have been an ordeal. It’s your job to keep her on an even keel,” Markus reprimanded, scowling in the rear-view.

    “I ordered him to go with Emery as backup,” Killian explained.

    Markus clarified, “We have no idea what she’s capable of. You’ve heard about her Guardian paternity but she’s also a Conduit. We haven’t dealt with this ability before. She can siphon and replicate our powers. She’s figured out how to summon Healing and Siren abilities but hasn’t been taught how to shut them down. She must have fed off Grey to have pyrokinesis on the menu. Now, she may have your strength, Killian. It’s my fault for not disclosing everything about the situation.”

    “How’s Lexy doing with everything?” Emery enquired, looking out the window.

    Watching the road as they hit the outskirts of the city, their leader answered, “Lexy rarely has deep chats with me about feelings. Normally, I’d tell you to ask Grey, but do us all a favour, don’t open that can of worms.” Noticing Zach’s silence, Markus met his eyes in the rear-view, reassuring, “Don’t beat yourself up about it, kid. I get it, someone more experienced gave you orders, and you obeyed. I know you’ve had a lot on your plate. The Handler job is relatively new. Shit happens. I’m sure you’ve heard about Trinity sneaking in and stealing the girl we were after while we were fighting Triad. Thanks to you guys, we didn’t lose our new Ankh. They’re safe because you five distracted Trinity.”

    “Personal drama aside, Trinity was on the ball this week,” Mel admitted, stroking Kayn’s restored hair. She looked at Killian and questioned, “She brought me back and didn’t go overboard feeding from you?”

    “I was dizzy,” Killian admitted, watching Mel playing with her hair. “She doesn’t look dangerous now, she looks like a soot dusted angel. She’s going to be freezing when she wakes up in nothing but that t-shirt. She’s clearly chilly.”

    It took Mel a second to figure out, Killian was referring to her sleeping friend’s headlights on high beam. She swatted him as he giggled.

Chapter 4

Enlightening Brain Growth Spurts

Groggily listening to crackling tires on gravel winterized road, Kayn questioned, “How long have I been asleep?”

    “For future reference, you’re not fireproof,” Mel teased, with city traffic outside the window.

    Confused by the tall buildings, Kayn sat up, wrapping her arms around her chest. She was losing a concerning amount of time during these Enlightening brain growth spurts. Zach took off his jacket and gave it to her, grinning as they pulled into the parking lot of a fancy hotel. She wasn’t dressed for this. She wasn’t dressed at all. Awkward.

    Everyone got out. Markus looked back, asking, “Feeling better?”

    It came back to her in an embarrassing whoosh of ability induced crazy behaviour. “I’m good,” Kayn answered, doing up the jacket. Her bottom half felt breezy. Oh, yes. She lit the truck on fire and burned her clothes off. She must have summoned up Grey’s ability, Killian smelled like a snack. She should keep that to herself.

    “You can’t eat anyone, Brighton. This is Lampir territory. We’re here under the pretence of mending fences. After that unfortunate incident with part of Lucien’s crew in Mexico, we’ve been sent to check the northern Hives for suspicious activity,” Markus lectured as he got out into the snow.

    Shit. She wasn’t wearing boots.

    Crouching, Killian offered, “Your chariot, my lady?”

    “Thanks for not leaving me to run over there barefoot,” Kayn giggled, climbing on his back, feeling like a kid as he jogged to catch up with the others.  

    Squatting in the covered area, Killian announced, “Front door service, my lady.”

    Knowing the jacket covered her, she didn’t give her chilly toosh a second thought as they walked into the classy beige lobby, like worn-out tourists who’d been on the road for days. Handing out key cards, Markus directed, “Clean up, order room service and stay on your floor until morning.”

    Hearing Frost’s laughter amidst humming voices, Kayn noticed the trendy bar and tried to look.

    Picking her up to shift her position, Killian chuckled, “Nothing to see here, energy thief. You aren’t going into a bar full of Lampir. We don’t need an international incident.”

    She wasn’t a moron. She knew what he did for the Clan. Hearing Frost’s musical laughter again, she wanted to sneak a peek. Everyone was deliberately blocking her line of sight like kids. Kayn laughed, “Come on, I’m not going in there to attack whoever he’s flirting with.”

    Staring into the bar, Zach cautioned, “Don’t look.”

    Well, she had to now. Kayn giggled, “I just need to use the washroom.” Manoeuvring past, she stopped cold as she saw what they were trying to prevent her from seeing. Frost was whispering in a scantily clad blonde’s ear. He noticed her watching and didn’t miss a beat pretending she wasn’t there.    

    Putting his arm around her, Grey walked her out, saying, “He’s trying to get information. Don’t make a scene. Come on, let’s go find you something to wear.”

    Crap. She forgot she was half-naked wearing a fluorescent orange parka. Squirming out of Grey’s grasp, Kayn asserted, “I’m fine. I know what his job is, I’m not going to eat a bunch of Lampir.” Embarrassed, she strutted adorably past the group, barelegged in a parka covered in soot, beckoning, “Zach! Come!” She didn’t even know what floor they were on.

    She was standing by the elevator stubbornly waiting as Zach wandered up, teasing, “What floor are we on?”

    “I don’t know,” Kayn curtly replied in awkward silence. Trying to keep a straight face as it opened, she marched into the elevator.

    As the door slid shut, he leaned against the mirrored wall, stating, “That was ridiculous.”

    “I know,” she admitted, giggling.

    “Let’s go, half-naked weirdo,” Zach chuckled as they wandered out of the elevator to a room conveniently across the hall. Opening the door, he stepped aside, grinning.

    This week sucked. She was genuinely bad at her job. Going directly to the minibar to get herself a tiny bottle of vodka, Kayn tried opening it. Oh, come on. She was a frigging superhero. She passed it to Zach, he couldn’t open it either. That was strange. “I give up, I’ll go shower,” she mumbled, shutting herself in the bathroom. Sighing, Kayn leaned against the door, reflecting on her behaviour. It was silly to be upset. She’d used her mirrored ability many times for the sake of the Clan with no self-control at all. If she got pissy about this, he’d just come back at her with the half dozen times she’d done the same thing since coming out of the Testing. She was acting like a headcase. She stuck her head back out, apologising, “I’m sorry, Zach.”

    With a smile, her Handler prompted, “I know, have your shower, so I can have mine.”

    Undoing the ugly parka, she grinned at her reflection in the mirror. There were black veins on her chest. It looked like she needed an exorcism more than a snack. Before Immortal Testing, nobody thought she could hurt a fly, and now, everyone assumed she was an inconvenient emotion away from a murder spree. Looking at her Conduit anxiety response veiny situation, they may have a point. They were blocking her from seeing Frost because if she got pissed off, they were on the menu. It was hilarious. Her inner commentary was getting weird again. Be calm. Be Zen. Be chill. She got into the shower, but there was no rushing the amount of soot she had to wash off. Zach should have showered first. Shit, she didn’t have clothes. Wrapped in a towel, Kayn wandered out. Her Handler wasn’t there, just Arrianna.    

    Lugging her backpack, Arrianna explained, “Markus told me what happened. Come on, let’s go back in the washroom, I’m sure we can find you something of mine to wear.”

    How? She felt like a big oafish giant, who ate small children and lived at the top of a beanstalk next to her.

    Shutting the door, the petite blonde made it clear she’d heard her inner commentary, taunting, “Shut that negative self-talk down before I chop down your beanstalk., you are beautiful.” Inspecting her hungry Conduit ability situation, Arrianna explained, “Emotions are the trigger, that’s why seeing Frost working wasn’t a great idea when you were already having issues. Feed from me, Healers are the safest dish on the menu.” Arrianna held out her hand.

    She didn’t know Arrianna well, but she seemed to know what she was talking about. Taking her hand, the soothing warmth of her energy travelled up her arm into her chest. Fearing she’d take too much, Kayn quickly let go, saying, “Thank you.” Metaphorical demons exorcized, she began sorting through options in the bag, opting for yoga pants and a t-shirt. It was going to be a stretch. Prying wideset hips into tiny pants giggling, she squeezed into an obscenely tight top next. Raking fingers through her curly damp mane, Kayn announced, “I can’t believe I got into your pants.” Music was playing in the other room. Arrianna laughed as they walked out. The party started while they were in the bathroom. There was a mountain of snacks from the vending machine on the counter. Zach was dancing with Mel, drinking from the minibar. Shimmying over, her Handler gave her a mini vodka. “You did it! You opened it!” Kayn praised, giggling.

    Towing Arrianna to the fridge, Zach tempted, “Pick your poison.”

    Shaking her head, taking in the crammed minifridge and overflowing mountain of snacks on the counter, Arrianna toyed, “Which one of you stole liquor out of all of the fridges in the empty rooms and used telekinesis to steal everything from the vending machines?”

    “They were all in there?” Zach fibbed, grinning. “Are you telling Daddy or joining us?”

    Giggling, Arrianna swatted Zach, scolding, “You jerk that’s going to be stuck in my head.”

    Rattling boxes of junior mints like maracas, Mel chanted, “Join us, join us.”

    Cracking a whisky, Arrianna drank it, strode over to the adjoining door, and loudly pounded on it, yelling, “Join us!”

    Opening the door bare-chested with a shit-eating grin and crinkled happy eyes, Grey flirted, “Hello trouble.” Lured into their web of fun, he pissed himself laughing as he saw their mountain of stolen snacks. “This is a lecture waiting to happen.”

    “Look in the minifridge,” Arrianna dared, grinning.

    Following Grey into the room, Orin playfully shoved Arrianna, taunting, “I hope there’s a Snickers in that pile. I recall Markus saying something about behaving ourselves.”

    Digging in the snacks, Grey pestered, “No, it was, stay upstairs and don’t let Brighton eat anybody. I’ll save him one just in case.” Putting it in a drawer, he found another, wound up and called out, “Heads up, Brighton!”

    Turning as the Snickers sailed at her, Kayn caught it, and declared, “I’m eating you first.” Chasing her sister’s Handler out of the suite, Grey raced down the hall, cackling. Ducking behind a housekeeping trolly, he rifled toilet paper rolls at her as Kayn superhero blocked each one with a wave of her arm. The elevator opened. They turned to see who it was.

    Walking out, Killian saw the mess, warning, “Markus is going to lose his shit.”

    They chased Big Sexy rifling rolls as he ran for the room, laughing, “Stop! I surrender!”

    Gathering armloads of toilet paper ammo, they busted into the room, pitched rolls at everyone and left the mess to do shots.

    Looking out into the hall, Arrianna sighed, “Seriously?” She went to go pick them up.

    Flinging her over his shoulder, Killian strode across the room and tossed her on the bed. As Arrianna bounced, Big Sexy pointed, comically reprimanding, “These assholes feed on our Siren. Nobody is cleaning up shit.”

    Now, she knew where Frost was. She didn’t need that visual.

    “Here,” Zach said, passing her a whisky.

    She drank it, shaking her head. Three vodkas, a whisky, and a, your boyfriend is having sexy Lampir feeding time reveal. It must be Christmas.

    Putting an arm around her, Mel gave her a tiny bottle of tequila, whispering, “How are you doing?”

    Downing it, Kayn teased, “Drinking vodka, whisky and tequila in the same night is the trifecta of stupidity, but I’m having fun.” Thorne shot an arrow through Mel’s heart. She hadn’t even given her a chance to vent. Feeling horrible, she hugged Mel tightly, whispering, “Want me to kill Thorne?”

    “Yes, make it hurt,” Mel sniffled, giggling.

    Swaying to the music embracing, Mel’s chest shuddered. Kayn offered, “Let’s order pizza and get you a Snickers.”

    Joining in their group hug dance, the trio swayed as Zach whispered, “I ordered pizza half an hour ago.”

    Giggling, Mel whispered back, “You’re awesome, Zach.”

    “I have my moments,” Zach chuckled, wildly rocking the trio back and forth as a fast song came on.

    Tears ended, pizza came, and pointless talk of romantic entanglements ended as the endearing troop of joy junkies revelled in their unbreakable bond. When the rest of Ankh showed up, they were three sheets to the wind, leaping on the bed dancing and singing along to the music. The allure of mindless shenanigans was no match for the pull Kayn felt as Frost walked in. He’d changed his clothes. Far too tipsy to be coy, she ceased jumping. He grinned, sauntering over in a black fitted shirt and jeans. Heaven help her. The motion of everyone still leaping made her topple backwards. She fell between the bed and wall with a thud. Mortified, she decided to stay there.

    Mischievously peering over the side of the bed, Grey baited, “Markus is shutting this down, if you stay there for a minute, we’ll all be gone but I’d just own it.”

    Guru Grey was right. She got up and curtsied. The room of immortals cracked up.

    Everyone’s eyes turned to the door as Markus declared, “Who was the asshole that threw toilet paper everywhere?” They all raised their hands. Amused by their solidarity, he shut the party down, “My room is beneath this one, I need sleep.”

    Turning the tunes off, Zach pressed a finger against his lips, drunkenly motioning, “Shhh.”

    Giggles silenced as Emery rushed in, calling out, “Jenna!” Their eyes met in a movie worthy moment.

    “Emery?” Jenna gasped, “How are you here?”

    It always felt like a psychic shouldn’t be able to be surprised.

    Overcome by joy, they raced into each other’s arms and seductively kissed. Everyone’s jaws dropped. Fascinated as they left together, Orin just stood there.

    With a supportive pat, Grey put his arm around Orin, saying, ‘Digest it. Let’s go, buddy. Time to move on.”

    Shrugging as they went into the adjoining room, Orin asked, “Where’s Lexy?”

    “Don’t get him started,” Markus scolded, pitching a toilet paper roll at him.  

    Sauntering over to Markus, Arrianna gave him a Snickers, toying, “Don’t be grumpy.”

    Laughing, their leader hugged her, teasing, “It looks like you had fun.”

    “I did,” Arrianna stated, strutting away, summoning him to follow with a finger.

    As witnesses left, their eyes met. Placing a hand on the wall behind her, Frost whispered, “Hi.”

    “Hi,” Kayn whispered as every hair prickled in response to his pheromones.

    Pressing his body against hers, he whispered his breathy intentions, “I want to take you to bed and kiss every inch of you.”

    Caressing his dark hair, gazing into his seductive eyes, she leapt from a plane with no parachute, “Let’s go.”

    They straight face walked past the Clan lingering in the hall. He swiped his card. As the light turned green, Kayn flashed back to a night in Vegas, when her attempt to sneak up to his room was foiled by their Clan’s Oracle. He tugged her in and slammed the door as she laughed.

    Flirtatiously walking her backwards to the bed, Frost chuckled, “I wanted you so bad when I saw you standing there in nothing but that parka. After I’m done making you scream, you’ll have to tell me what happened.” She lifted her arms over her head as he tugged her shirt off and tossed it with a cheeky grin.

    Siren were creatures with volatile sensual energy hidden beneath the surface, ready to release incapacitating pheromones, able to change the rules of anyone’s game. Neither was capable of G-rated behaviour, once their fuses were lit. The self-destructive Dragon in her yearned for the reckless way he made her feel like air to breathe.

READ THE REST  

BUY IT NOW  books2read.com/tragicfools

[angelfireeast]

Why are Caitlin’s meta powers evil?

We saw Caitlin use her powers serval times without glowing eyes evil. It makes me wonder what triggered this ‘meta powers=evil’ thing? Given a number of times, she used her powers just fine and amount of time being very upset emotionally trigger her powers which trigger ‘Killer Frost’ persona. So it seems to me it’s negative emotions trigged by powers, not powers creating negative emotions.

What made her decide her powers were evil? We saw her use a number of times in start of s3 without any evil. So it makes wonder did she decide they were evil because of Earth 2 Killer Frost? Caitlin offend referred to fearing ‘becoming her’ & ‘I don’t want to become Her’ which is of course E2 KF & referring self-made idea of other personality KF taking over. Harry warned everyone that knowing too much about doppelganger's life was dangerous because it could negatively affect how people lived their lives. I think Caitlin is a prime example of it. If she never heard of E2 KF there wouldn’t be a boogeyman to scared of becoming. She wouldn’t have feared her powers in such a manner other than possibly be scared of her life-changing becoming a metahuman.

Given how she kept using her powers in early parts of s3 before her mother told her using them made mutations stronger I would say there wasn’t some big negative thing that happened when first got her powers (pre-show) or else she wouldn’t have casually used her powers to made ice mist, freeze glasses. I think she associated her powers with E2 KF and the fear drove on a self-fulfilling prophecy. I think the real fear came when she after she almost killed the guy who tried to kidnap her. When she liked the way her powers made her feel aka not like a victim anymore. I think the fear kicked in when she had “Killer Frost episodes” and she realized she enjoyed being bad, enjoyed the power and hurting people with her powers. Like she told Barry when he told her she could fight bring Killer Frost. She didn’t want to. She told Cisco later in cutscene being bad was fun. I think that’s part of she was scared of. Deep down a part of her realized that truth and didn’t like it. Didn’t want to face it so this ‘evil meta’ powers theory was created. The only thing that made Caitlin’s meta powers evil is Caitlin.

[newstfionline]

What If America Hadn’t Done the Dumbest Things Imaginable After 9/11?

By Danny Sjursen, TomDispatch, November 29, 2017

“Of all manifestations of power, restraint impresses men most.”--Thucydides

You’ve heard the platitude that hindsight is 20/20. It’s true enough and, though I’ve been a regular skeptic about what policymakers used to call the Global War on Terror, it’s always easier to poke holes in the past than to say what you would have done. My conservative father was the first to ask me what exactly I would have suggested on September 12, 2001, and he’s pressed me to write this article for years. The supposed rub is this: under the pressure of that attack and the burden of presidential responsibility, even “liberals”--like me, I guess--would have made much the same decisions as George W. Bush and company.

Many readers may cringe at the thought, but former National Security Adviser and Secretary of State Condoleezza Rice has to be taken seriously when she suggests that anyone in the White House on 9/11 would inevitably have seen the world through the lens of the Bush administration. I’ve long argued that just about every Bush-era policy that followed 9/11 was an unqualified disaster. Nevertheless, it remains important to ponder the weight piled upon a president in the wake of unprecedented terror attacks. What would you have done? What follows is my best crack at that thorny question, 16 years after the fact, and with the accumulated experiences of combat tours in Iraq and Afghanistan.

Taking It Personally. 9/11 was an intimate affront to me. It hit home hard. I watched those towers in my hometown burn on televisions I could glimpse from my plebe (freshman) boxing class at West Point. My father worked across Church Street from Manhattan’s World Trade Center. Only hours later did I learn that he’d safely escaped on the last ferryboat to Staten Island. Two uncles--both New York City firemen--hopelessly dug for comrades in the rubble for weeks. Stephen, the elder of the two, identified the body of his best friend, Captain Marty Egan, just days after the attacks.

In blue-collar Staten Island neighborhoods like mine, everyone seemed to work for the city: cops, firemen, corrections officers, garbage men, transit workers. I knew several of each. My mother spent months attending wakes and funerals. Suddenly, tons of streets on the Island were being renamed for dead police and firefighters, some of whom I knew personally. Me, I continued to plod along through the typically trying life of a new cadet at West Point.

It’s embarrassing now to look back at my own immaturity. I listened in as senior cadets broke the news of war to girlfriends and fiancées, enviously hanging on every word. If only I, too, could live out the war drama I’d always longed for. Less than two years later, I found myself drunk with another uncle--and firefighter--in a New York pub on St. Patrick’s Day. This was back when an Army T-shirt or a fireman’s uniform meant a night of free drinks in that post-9/11 city. I watched the television screen covetously as President Bush delivered a final, 48-hour ultimatum to Iraqi leader Saddam Hussein. I inhaled, wished for a long war, and gazed at the young, attractive lead singer of the band performing in that pub. She was wearing a patron’s tied-up New York Fire Department uniform blouse with a matching cap cocked to the side. It was meant to be sexy and oh-so-paramilitary. It might seem unbelievable now, but that was still my--and largely our--world on March 17, 2003.

By the time I got my “chance” to join America’s war on terror, in October 2006, Baghdad was collapsing into chaos as civil war raged and U.S. deaths were topping 100 per month. This second lieutenant still hoped for glory, even as the war’s purpose was already slipping ever further away. I never found it (glory, that is). Not in Iraq or, years later, in Afghanistan. Sixteen years and two months on from 9/11, I’m a changed man, inhabiting a forever altered reality. Two wars, two marriages, and so many experiences later, the tragedy and the mistakes seem so obvious. Perhaps we should have known all along. But most didn’t.

How to Lose A War (Hint: Fight It!) From the beginning, the rhetoric, at least, was over the top. Three days after those towers tumbled, President George W. Bush framed the incredible scope of what he’d instantly taken to calling a “war.” As he told the crowd at a Washington national prayer service, “Our responsibility to history is already clear: to answer these attacks and rid the world of evil.” From the first, it seemed evident to the president: America’s target wasn’t anything as modest as the al-Qaeda terrorist network, but rather evil itself. Looking back, this was undoubtedly the original sin. Call something--in this case, the response to the acts of a small jihadist group--a “war” and sooner or later everyone begins acting like warriors.

Within 24 hours of the attacks, the potential target list was already expanding beyond Osama bin Laden and his modest set of followers. On September 12th, President Bush commanded his national counterterror coordinator, Richard Clarke, to “see if Saddam did this... look into Iraq, Saddam.” That night, Secretary of Defense Donald Rumsfeld told the president and the entire cabinet, “You know, we’ve got to do Iraq... There just aren’t enough targets in Afghanistan... We need to bomb something else to prove that we’re, you know, big and strong...”

Nonetheless, Afghanistan--and its Taliban rulers--became the first military target. Bombs were dropped and commandos infiltrated. CIA spooks distributed briefcases of cash to allied warlords and eventually city after city fell. Sure, Osama bin Laden escaped and many of the Taliban’s foot soldiers simply faded away, but it was still one hell of a lightning campaign. Expected to be brief, it was given the bold name Operation Enduring Freedom and, to listen to the rhetoric of the day, it revolutionized warfare. Only it didn’t, of course. Instead, the focus was soon lost, other priorities (Iraq!) sucked the resources away, venal warlords reigned, an insurgency developed, and... and 16 years later, American troop levels are once again increasing there.

Over the days, the months, and then the years that followed, the boundaries of the Global War on Terror both hardened and expanded. In his January 2002 State of the Union address, President Bush ominously included Iraq, along with Iran and North Korea (though he left out “liberated” Afghanistan), in what he called “an axis of evil.” Who cared, by then, that none of those countries had had anything to do with the 9/11 attacks? In a flash the president conflated all three in the public mind, ultimately constructing a self-fulfilling prophecy. Saddam would be toppled and Iraq occupied 15 months later and, had it not been for the ensuing chaos, Iran and North Korea might have been next. Unsurprisingly, both countries intensified their bellicosity and grew all the more interested in nuclear weapons programs.

So much followed the 9/11 attacks that it’s no small thing to sum up: the Patriot Act, warrantless domestic wiretapping, Guantánamo, Abu Ghraib, a Taliban resurgence, an Iraqi civil war, drones as global assassins, the Arab Spring, the overthrow of Libyan autocrat Muammar Gaddafi and the collapse of his country, the Syrian bloodbath, the worst refugee crisis since World War II, and that’s just to begin a list.

In short, U.S. policies have left the Middle East in chaos: perhaps a million dead, Iran empowered, and radical Islamists resurgent. Meanwhile, this country has become a garrison state, forever at war, its military budget doubled, its populace seemingly indifferent, and its warrior caste shattered--physically and mentally. Sixteen years have passed and Washington is no closer to its goal (whatever that was). Retired general David Petraeus, our nation’s prodigal “hero,” has now ominously labeled the Afghan War (and by implication the rest of the war on terror) a “generational struggle.”

Few, to be honest, even remember the purpose of it all. Keep in mind that Army recruits today were perhaps two years old on 9/11.

Lost Opportunities. It didn’t have to be this way. Nothing about it was predetermined. Much of the necessary information--certainly the warning signs of what was going to happen that September 11th--were already there. If, that is, one cared to look. History is contingent, human beings have agency, and events result from innumerable individual decisions. The CIA, the FBI, and even the Bush administration knew (or should have known, anyway) that an attack of some sort was coming.

As the 9/11 commission report painfully detailed, none of those agencies collaborated in a meaningful way when it came to preventing that day’s attacks. Still, there were warnings ignored and voices in the dark. When Richard Clarke, counterterror czar and a Clinton administration holdover, requested through official channels to deliver an emergency briefing for Bush’s key foreign policy officials, it took four months just to arrange an audience with their deputies. Four more months elapsed before President Bush received a briefing titled, “Bin Laden determined to strike the U.S.” Unimpressed, Bush quickly responded to the briefer: “All right... you’ve covered your ass now.”

Barely more than a month later, the World Trade Center and the Pentagon were burning.

Whatever else it did, 9/11 presented the United States with an opportunity, a Robert Frost-like fork in a divergent path. And we Americans promptly took the road most traveled: militarism, war, vengeance--the easy wrong path. A broad war, waged against a noun, “terror,” a “global” conflict that, from its first moments, looked suspiciously binary: Western versus Islamic (despite Bush’s pleas to the contrary). In the process, al-Qaeda’s (and then ISIS’s) narratives were bolstered.

There was--there always is--another path. Imagine if President Bush and his foreign policy team had paused, taken a breath, and demonstrated some humility and restraint before plunging the country into what would indeed become a war or set of wars. There were certainly questions begging to be asked and answered that never received a proper hearing. Why did al-Qaeda attack us? Was there any merit in their grievances? How did bin Laden want us to respond and how could we have avoided just such a path? Finally, which were the best tools and tactics to respond with? Let’s consider these questions and imagine an alternative response.

Why They (Really) Hated Us. Americans and their government were inclined to accept the most simplistic explanation for the terror attacks of 9/11. As George W. Bush would assure us all, Osama bin Laden and al-Qaeda just “hate us for our freedoms.” The end.

Something about the guilelessness of that explanation, which was the commonplace one of that moment, never quite seemed right. Human motivations and actions are almost always more complex, more multifaceted, less simpleminded than that. While Bush boiled it all down to “Islamic” fundamentalism, even a cursory look at bin Laden’s written declaration of “war”--or as he called it, jihad--demonstrates that his actual focus was far more secular and less explicitly religious than was suggested at the time. Couched between Koranic verses, bin Laden listed three all-too-worldly grievances with America:

* The U.S. military had occupied bases in the vicinity of Saudi Arabia’s holy sites of Mecca and Medina. (Well... that had indeed been the case, at least since 1990, if not earlier.)

* U.S.-imposed sanctions on Iraq had caused the deaths of hundreds of thousands of Iraqi children. (This was, in fact, a reality that even Secretary of State Madeleine Albright awkwardly acknowledged.)

* America’s leaders had long favored Israeli interests to the detriment of Palestinian wellbeing or national aspirations. (A bit simplistic, but true enough. One could, in fact, stock several bookshelves with respected works substantiating bin Laden’s claim on this point.)

None of this faintly justified the mass murder of civilians in New York and Washington. Nonetheless, at that moment, an honest analysis of an adversary’s motives would have been prudent. It might have warned us of the political landscape that bin Laden was beckoning us--in his own bloody, apocalyptic fashion--to enter. In addition, as journalist Stephen Glain astutely observed, “By obscuring the real motives behind the attacks, Bush relieved the U.S. government of any responsibility for them.” This was a fatal error. While the overwhelming majority of Arabs and Muslims worldwide did not approve of bin Laden’s methods or his theology, much of his critique of Washington’s Middle Eastern policies was widely shared in the region.

Avoiding the Al-Qaeda Script. Al-Qaeda’s leadership knew this perfectly well and they dangled it (and their suicidal acts) as a kind of bait, yearning for the sort of conventional U.S. military response that they knew would further inflame the Greater Middle East. Even in 1996, when journalist Abdul Bari Atwan interviewed bin Laden, the Saudi militant had expressed the desire to “bring the Americans into a fight on Muslim soil.” Only then, bin Laden surmised, could al-Qaeda buttress its argument, win converts from the apathetic Muslim masses, and--hopefully--bankrupt the United States in the bargain.

Suppose, for a moment, that President Bush had taken the high road, a path of restraint focused on twin tracks. First, he might have addressed broadly-shared Arab grievances, pledging a more balanced approach to the question of Israel and Palestine in his still-fresh administration, tailoring Iraq’s sanctions to target Saddam and his cronies rather than innocent citizens, and vowing to review the necessity of military bases so close to Mecca and Medina (or even the necessity of so many of the American bases that littered the region). He could have followed that with lethal, precise, targeted action by America’s intelligence, law enforcement, and Special Operations forces to hunt down and kill or capture the men actually responsible for 9/11, al-Qaeda’s leadership.

This manhunt needed to be ferocious yet measured in order to avoid the very quagmires that, 16 years later, we all know so well. Allies and adversaries would have had to be consulted and cautioned. Remember that, although al-Qaeda was disciplined and effective, on September 12, 2001, it remained diminutive in size and utterly marginal in its regional support. Dismantling its networks and bringing the true criminals of that day to justice never required remaking distant societies or occupying fragile nation-states with conventional military forces.

And keep in mind that such thinking about the situation isn’t purely retrospective. Take the Nation magazine’s Jonathan Schell. That October, after the invasion of Afghanistan had begun, appearing on the Charlie Rose show he called for “police work” and “commando raids,” but not war. He then prophetically observed:

“I think the question doesn’t revolve so much around the justification for war but about its wisdom, and I know that’s the question for me. I know that, from my point of view, terrorism is chiefly a political issue and secondarily a police issue and then, only in a very minor way, can it be addressed by military means and I think that, on the contrary, the war we’re fighting now will tend to worsen our problems. The question I ask myself is, at the end of the day, do you have more terrorists or do you have fewer and I think... today, right now, it looks like there are going to be more.”

Of course, at the time, just about no one in this country was listening to such voices.

A prudent president might also have learned from his father. Just as George H.W. Bush had meticulously constructed a broad international coalition, including all-important Arab states, to dislodge Saddam Hussein’s military from Kuwait in the Persian Gulf War, George W. Bush could have harnessed widespread international sympathy after the 9/11 attacks to blaze a judicious path. A new, broad, U.N.-backed coalition, which ought to have included several Muslim-majority nations, could have shared intelligence, rooted out jihadis (who represented a serious threat to most secular Arab regimes), and ultimately discredited al-Qaeda, dismantling its networks and bringing bin Laden himself to justice.

The Right Tools. Global sympathy--Russian President Vladimir Putin was the first world leader to call George Bush after the attacks--is as rare as it is fleeting. So that moment represented a singular and singularly squandered opportunity. The United States could have led a massive international effort, emphasizing law enforcement, not warfare, and including increased humanitarian aid, U.N.-sponsored peacekeeping operations, and a commitment to live America’s purported values by scrupulously avoiding crimes like torture and civilian casualties. Of course, it wouldn’t have been perfect--complex operations seldom are--but sober strategy demanded a rigorous effort.

One more imperative for the new campaign against al-Qaeda would have been garnering broad support and a legal sanction from Congress and the American people. Two weeks after 9/11, President Bush vapidly suggested instead that this country’s citizens should respond by getting in airplanes again and “enjoy[ing] America’s great destination spots. Get down to Disney World in Florida.” Instead, he might have steeled the population for a tough fight and inspired a new era of public service. Think: John F. Kennedy. Think: “Ask not what your country can do for you, but what you can do for your country.” Bush might have requested from Congress a narrow, targeted authorization for the use of military force rather than the rushed, expansive, open-ended sanction he actually demanded and received and that is still being used two administrations later to justify any acts against any group or country across the Greater Middle East and Africa.

He could have followed this with the presentation of a new National Service Act, rallying the young and incentivizing military or Peace Corps enlistment, infrastructure improvement, inner-city teaching, and various other kinds of public service. Imagine a new “Greatest Generation,” pulling together in a time of crisis. This, in retrospect, was a real opportunity. What a pity that it never came to pass.

It’s hard to know, of course, how such an alternate path might have played out, but honestly it would have been difficult to do worse. The U.S. remains stuck, spinning its wheels in regional conflicts and feeling no safer. The number of worldwide terrorist incidents has exploded since 2001. New Islamist groups were formed in response to U.S. actions and counteractions and they continue to spread without an end in sight.

I don’t know if there will be a next time, a chance to do it right. But should new threats emerge, more devastating attacks be endured, there simply has to be a better way, though the odds that President Donald Trump and his generals will find it are, honestly, next to nil.

Complex ideological threats sometimes demand counterintuitive responses. In such moments, hard as it may be to imagine, rational calculations should rise above the kneejerk emotional responses. True leaders step up and weather criticism in times of crisis. So next time, Americans would do well to set aside comforting illusions and take the world as it is, not as we imagine or wish it to be. The future may depend on it.

Major Danny Sjursen is a U.S. Army strategist and former history instructor at West Point. He served tours with reconnaissance units in Iraq and Afghanistan. He has written a memoir and critical analysis of the Iraq War, Ghost Riders of Baghdad: Soldiers, Civilians, and the Myth of the Surge.

[under-the-lake]

Fenrir and Greyback: a liiiiiiitle digression about werewolves - part 4: Norse Mythology

The Middle Ages in Europe are fascinating. Not only do Southern and Central Europe bloom and blossom in arts and literature, but the North is home to the boom of civilisations often forgotten: Vikings, Saamis, Finns. And yet, Vikings did have a huge influence on the development of economy in Europe and the Middle-East via Russia, they discovered Iceland and Greenland and Canada and settled there (even if the Canadian colony was only short-lived), they raided the British Isles and dominated them for centuries. And their helmets have NO HORNS. Just saying.

The Saami and Finns are small peoples but they do have a different type of society and their myths and relationships to animals and shape-shifting are not similar to the ones we can see in Central Europe. Therefore it is rather interesting to have a look at them, even if sources are scarce. But let’s start with the more widely-known things: the Norse Fenrir.

NORSE MYTHOLOGY

Many people are familiar with Norse mythology through watching the Vikings-series on their coms or on the telly. I must admit not having watched it. Lack of time is to blame I reckon.

Warning: I know many of you are experts in the domain I’m going to travel now, and I ask for your forgiveness as to the shortness and lack of detail I shall provide. This isn’t meant to be a thorough study of either the Edda (or Eddas) or any other source.

So. Fenrir, the fen-dweller (that’s what it means in Old Norse). He’s not mentioned often in Norse mythology, but he’s an important character. He goes by many names, yet his genealogy is doubtless: he is the son of Loki and the frost giantess Angrboda of Jötunheim (Angrboda means ‘she who bodes anguish’ - see the rest of the tale). The story goes Loki was leaving his wife Sigyn from time to time, but always came back to her, eventually. One day Odin asked him about his children. Loki answered the names of his legitimate kids. Odin knew, thanks to a dream, that Loki had illegitimate descendants as well, with the giantess Angrboda. Those kids were the strangest things on Earth: they were three, as different from each other as the rose is from the Devil’s Snare. Odin had foreseen that those children would be the downfall of the kingdom of gods. He sent his best people to get them to Asgaard to try and have them under his control.

The first child was a serpent called Jormungundur. It grew and grew all the time and spat deadly venom at his foes. Odin made him live in the ocean circling the Earth and people would call him the Midgard Serpent.

The second child was a girl, but the most unusual and strange being ever seen: one side of her was a beautiful lass, while the other side of her was a dead one, decrepit and rotting. She was called Hel. Odin sent her to guard the lightless world, the kingdom of death, Niflheim. I don’t know if there’s a link, but hell is something like that, right? A place where, as Hel puts it, her companions are Famine and Hunger and Sickbed.

How Odin’s plan regarding Fenrir went to the dogs

The third child, Fenrir, is the one that interests us for this time.  The gods were so much afraid of what he could do when grown up that they wanted to keep him under their watchful eye. Yet Fenrir was only a wolf-cub when it reached Asgard. Only Tyr was willing to feed it. It grew quickly, on a diet of raw meat. It ate like a wolf but spoke like a human being. Odin knew Fenrir was going to be a threat to the realm, as would both the other children of Loki’s. He held council with the other gods and they decided to tie Fenrir so that he wouldn’t harm the gods, as Odin has foreseen. So they bound him in chains, telling him it would be to test his strength. Fenrir broke the chains and the gods weren’t happy. They forged a second set of chains. This time, each link was so heavy that no single man could lift it. The chains were called Dromi. They thought that would do the trick with Fenrir. Well, they were wrong. It took much time and effort from Fenrir, but he eventually exploded the chains. It is said that bits of them could be found all over the place for ages after this event. This was a blow for the gods.

Odin thought. And thought. Finally he came up with an idea. A new set of chains called Gleipnir (it means ‘open’ - which the gods weren’t towards Fenrir…). Odin had to pay a huge lot of cash to the dwarves who made it for him in Swartalfaheimr. Gleipnir was to be woven out of six magical ingredients: the footstep of a cat, the beard of a woman, the roots of a mountain, the sinews of a bear, the breath of a fish and the spittle of a bird. No wonder the price was high. The result was what looked like a silk ribbon. When the Aesir saw the ribbon, they were happy and went to find Fenrir near the Black Lake (see, that too is like in Hogwarts… a Black Lake with a beast nearby). Fenrir despised Gleipnir. When the gods insisted upon his trying his strength on it he started feeling suspicious. He was thinking the gods weren’t being entirely open with him, and that they wanted to bind him forever rather than merely test his strength (a bit slow on the uptake, the Fenrir…). The gods said they’d free Fenrir if these were ties he couldn’t break. Fenrir didn’t believe them. In the end Fenrir suggested he being tied only if one of the Aesir would put his hand in his mouth. Fenrir wouldn’t bite on it unless there was some treachery. None of the gods would risk their hands, though. Finally, Tyr put his hand in the wolf’s mouth, and the gods bound the beast. As Fenrir had thought, the gods were never going to free him. They had taken a leaf out of Loki’s book for a change. So the wolf chopped the god’s hand off.

For those who want to see the work of the writer of this cartoon and read the text as it is, here’s the link: https://blacklemonjuice.deviantart.com/art/Loki-and-Fenrir-Tyr-s-Hand-351526878

All this happened only because the gods were scared of Fenrir. Fenrir, out of spite, told the Aesir: ‘I’d have been a friend to you had you not been treacherous to me. Now look what you got yourself: a death sentence. At the end of the times, at Ragnarok, I’ll kill you, Odin, Father of the Gods, and I will eat the sun and I will eat the moon.’

Fenrir was brought to a far-away place, and Gleipnir was tied to a boulder. A sword was placed into Fenrir’s mouth to keep it open. Fenrir howled and howled. A river, called Ván (meaning ‘expectation’ in Olde Norse) flowed from his drooling mouth until Ragnarok. He had an oath to fulfill, and he wasn’t the like to break it. He waited.

How Fenrir’s plan regarding Odin didn’t go to the dogs

Fenrir kept his word. And here’s how it happened.

Slowly, the end of the Aesir and the World as it was known would come. Signs showing that would be the falling honour standards and the lessening importance of kinship and human relationships. Oaths sworn weren’t kept. Not only did humans act in this way. The gods weren’t strangers to such betrayals or lack of honour. See what they did to Fenrir, among other tales.

Among other prophecies about Ragnarok (that’s the Norse name for the periodic end of the world they face), one said that three winters would come in a row without a summer to part them, and that then Loki and his son Fenrir, who had been bound to prevent the prophecies from happening, broke free of their fetters and started doing exactly what the Aesir had feared they would.  Loki went to gather an army of giants to destroy Asgard, the fortress of the gods, but also the rest of the land. Fenrir, on his own, set off to destroy the world too. He roamed the world with his jaws open, the lower one on the ground and the upper one in the sky. And he ate the sun and he ate the moon. And one part of his prophecy was fulfilled. Then Fenrir killed Odin and Tyr. And the other part of the prophecy was fulfilled. Fenrir didn’t go on wreaking havoc forever. He was eventually slain by Odin’s son Vidar, who survived Ragnarok to be the bearer of ancient knowledge with the new generation of gods who would reign on Asgard after the earth has risen from the sea again.

SO WHAT ABOUT ROWLING’S FENRIR, THEN?

Fenrir Greyback is a werewolf, we know that. He’s a special one, that we know too. So is there an influence of the Norse Fenrir on the wizarding world one? Yes, yet small. I don’t know how much Rowling knew about Norse mythology but to pick such a name as Fenrir 20 years ago she should have known. The Vikings series wasn’t aired yet, and there’s an awful lot to say about the comparison. Here is a small bit.

Greyback is exceptionally strong for a man. He resists Bellatrix’s Stunning spell in Malfoy Manor, after she discovers they have the Sword of Gryffindor, while the other Snatchers are… well… stunned.

‘What is that?’ [Harry] heard her say.

‘Sword,’ grunted an out-of-sight Snatcher.

‘Give it to me.’

‘It’s not yorn, Missus, it’s mine, I reckon I found it.’

There was a bang and a flash of red light: Harry knew that the Snatcher had been Stunned. There was a roar of anger from his fellows: Scabior drew his wand.

‘What d’you think you’re playing at, woman?’

‘Stupefy,’ she screamed, ‘stupefy!’

They were no match for her, even though there were four of them against one of her: she was a witch, as Harry knew, with prodigious skill and no conscience. They fell where they stood, all except Greyback, who had been forced into a kneeling position, his arms outstretched.

(DH, Chapter 23)

We can draw a comparison between Fenrir and Greyback based on this. Fenrir, as we saw, has extraordinary strength, so much so that it takes the most skilled dwarves and the rarest material to make chains that would bind him. In comparison, Greyback is nothing, of course, but he retains that sort of inhuman strength from his condition. Being a part werewolf even when the moon is not full has apparently granted him some wolfish qualities along with the werewolfish lust over blood. Greyback’s strength is not natural. ‘Normal’ people are knocked out by Stunning spells. He isn’t. He was ‘forced into a kneeling position, his arms outstretched’, which means he got the blast but it didn’t affect him more than that. Hagrid either, on another scale, doesn’t get the full blast of a Stunning because of his giant blood. It’s a bit strange though that the strength and resistance to spells has been kept out while the werewolf hasn’t transformed. I can’t help wondering how that could happen. In Hagrid’s case it’s genetic. In Greyback’s it’s not. Being bitten can’t affect the genes that much. Or has his will made his genes mutate in some weird extra-quick way? That’s most unlikely. This is a total mystery to me. As for the general idea of werewolves being resilient to curses, there is a theory that goes like this: Werewolves in general would be more resilient to curses and therefore wizards would tend not to use spells on them but rather bind them, like Snape did to Lupin in the Shrieking Shack in PoA (Chapter 19). If we link Fenrir and werewolves as having similar characteristics, we can draw a bond again: Fenrir too was bound and not killed, yet the Aesir could have got rid of him when he was a cub.

Fenrir has as an aim to get revenge by killing the chief of the gods, the Aesir Odin, and then eating the sun and the moon. While doing that he aims to destroy as much of Asgard as he can. While not aiming to destroy The World, Greyback wants to destroy a world, the world of wizards. He is bitter and resentful because he was bitten and because werewolves are shunned by wizarding laws, and also because of what he heard Lupin’s dad had said while the Ministry officials were interrogating him: werewolves were ‘soulless, evil, deserving nothing but death’. Greyback wants to make a society of werewolves, killing all the wizards to the last one. Plain revenge. In this, Fenrir and Greyback are similar.

A third comparison, maybe a bit more far-fetched, is that both tend to kill innocent beings: Fenrir wants to deprive the world from the sun and moon (who did nothing in the tale of his binding), and Greyback wants to kill children, who are the epitome of innocence, at least according to common canon (I mean Tom Riddle wasn’t exactly an innocent child… but that might be the exception): ‘Greyback specialises in children … bite them young, he says, and raise them away from their parents, raise them to hate normal wizards. Voldemort has threatened to unleash him upon people’s sons and daughters; it is a threat that usually produces good results.’ (HBP, Chapter 16). This quote covers both the use of children and the revenge part of Greyback’s motivations...

Then we can also examine the descent of both creatures. Loki and the giantess Angrboda gave birth to Fenrir. Loki is the son of a giant, Farbauti, and someone who could be a goddess, a giantess or some other being, we don’t know. So Loki’s ‘classification’ is a bit tricky, but he’s commonly considered a half-god because he lives in Asgard. Fenrir came to the world the son of an unfaithful father. We know nothing about Greyback’s lineage. There’s however something remotely linked between being illegitimate and being bitten. None of the situations is ‘normal’, and both are leading to the individuals being shunned by a part of the society for some reason, be it good or bad.

Both Fenrir and Greyback embody the outlaw. Fenrir is exiled from Asgard and from doing anything because he’s feared by the gods. They bind him so that he can’t move and keep his mouth open so that he can’t talk. He’s exiled from the world, in a way. His name, the fen-dweller, refers to marshlands that are usually on the outskirts of human living places. They are regions which are hostile to ‘common’ people and where outlaws seek refuge. They are also regions of weird tales and strange beings. Greyback is an outlaw as well because his position as a werewolf makes him dangerous to the society and also because he has decided to be a fully-acknowledged one by pushing the boundaries of his werewolfitude out of the full moon-period. Both Fenrir and Greyback embody a death of some sort, and death by murder is out of the law. Fenrir will kill Odin and eat the sun and the moon, and Greyback kills people in a very uncivilised way (I don’t know if there’s a civilised way though). Remember, if you read the part about medieval times, that outlaws in Knut’s Laws in the 11th century in England named outlaws ‘werewolves’. Literally.

We can also ponder how the Battle of Hogwarts involved werewolves and how it’s related to Norse mythology. After all, Ragnarok is also called ‘wolf-age’ in Völuspa, and Voldemort started recruiting werewolves from the start. We know that because Lupin was sent as a spy among them, as he tells Harry in Half-Blood Prince: ‘I’ve been living among my fellows, my equals. [...] Werewolves. Nearly all of them are on Voldemort’s side. Dumbledore wanted a spy there and here I was …  ready-made.’ (HBP, Chapter 16) So that means werewolves, as well as giants, were part of Voldemort’s plan for an army. He had had them with him in the First Wizarding War too. Well, interestingly enough, wolves and giants are The Enemy during the Norse Ragnarok as well, and both were there to help destroy the old world and bring a new one to birth. In the Harry Potter series, it’s hard to imagine the positive role of werewolves in the Battle of Hogwarts, the Rowling version of a Ragnarok, but they are finally defeated, like Fenrir was at Ragnarok, bringing a new order to rule. Fenrir, like Greyback, have a further similarity linked to the new order that is set after the battles: both are killed or vanquished by members of the new generation. Fenrir is killed by Vidar, who is said to be Odin’s son and survives to bring knowledge to the new generation of gods, while Greyback is defeated by Ron and Hermione. However, the importance of both characters in that battle is hugely different. While Fenrir’s presence is paramount to the success of Ragnarok and the rise of a new era, Greyback’s presence is not important at all per se. He doesn’t kill significant characters (Fenrir killed Odin, the Father of the Gods), nor does he have a prediction to fulfill upon his shoulders (yet, as Dumbledore would put it, predictions are only fulfilled because we know about them). Furthermore, Greyback doesn’t actively kill many people during the battle. He merely scavenges on weakened bodies:

Two bodies fell from the balcony overhead as [Harry, Ron and Hermione] reached the ground and a grey blur that Harry took for an animal sped four-legged across the hall to sink its teeth into one of the fallen. ‘’ NO!’’ shrieked Hermione, and with a deafening blast from her wand Fenrir Greyback was thrown backwards from the feebly stirring body of Lavender Brown.’ (DH, Chapter 32) In that respect, Greyback is completely different from Fenrir.

One could argue that wolves aren’t that special a representation of the enemy. Indeed, most of the civilisations which had wolves among the list of their natural predators didn’t like them much, but often they revered them in a way or another. Man’s relationship to wolf, apart from the completely manicheistic one the Christians have, has always been ambiguous. In Fenrir’s case, it’s symptomatic that he is The Enemy, but he is also the son of a half-god, and the most feared creature by the Aesir (notice the Aesir didn’t kill Fenrir as a cub, as they could have). We sense that in the Harry Potter  books too. Greyback is not The Enemy, that’s true, but he’s nearly his right hand in cruelty, obscene cruelty. Even Bellatrix doesn’t reach that level of lust in her actions. Maybe not even Voldemort. The latter only kills by habit, sort of. You annoy me, I’ll get rid of you. No pleasure in there, because there’s probably not enough human left in him to feel emotions. Greyback on the other hand is rejoicing at the perspective of biting, licking, sucking and everything that is not mentioned as such in the book but that can be guessed via the vocabulary Rowling uses. All these elements make Greyback probably the most disgusting creature in the book and one of the most feared.

There are many links between the Norse Fenrir and the British Greyback. Was Rowling aware of all?, I have no idea, but one day I’d like to ask her…

PS: If you are a gamer, and you want to plunge into Norse mythology, why not have a look at Senua’s Sacrifice? Description here! Just follow the link:

http://under-the-lake.tumblr.com/post/164632016201/hellblade-senuas-sacrifice

Sources for Part 4:

Page 394

Gaiman, Neil, Norse Mythology, Bloomsbury, London, 2017

Ward, Renée (2008) J. K. Rowling's Fenrir Greyback: identity, society, and the Werewolf. In: Terminus, 7-11 August 2008, Chicago, ILL, USA.

Rowling, Joanne K., Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, Bloomsbury, 2005

Rowling, Joanne K., Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Bloomsbury, 2007

Fenrir: https://norse-mythology.org/tales/the-binding-of-fenrir/

Loki: https://norse-mythology.org/gods-and-creatures/the-aesir-gods-and-goddesses/loki/

Ragnarök: https://norse-mythology.org/tales/ragnarok/

Wikipedia, Fenrir: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fenrir

Völuspa (Annotated text): http://library.flawlesslogic.com/voluspa.htm

[jflashandclash]

Attrition of Peace

Ten: Joey

Waiting in Line is the Next Best Thing to Being Dead

 From what Joey had seen so far, the Underworld sucked. She didn’t care how much “bandwidth” Mr. Charon said their lines could hold, or the sign that read how many people had died that minute—147—or that day—151,600—a number that threatened to make her feel really small. She’d spent too long waiting in that elevator to wait in another stupid line. She was wholly unimpressed and expected more from Hades.

When she’d first found herself in the lobby for the elevator, Joey didn’t remember how she got there. One moment, she’d been screaming in pain, her skin encompassed in a searing heat, like each particle was being ripped out with a pair of tweezers. Then she was there, in a lobby with a lot of other spirits… waiting.

If anyone asked her, and someone had better ask eventually, she handled it all with finesse. She would scoff and say, “It’s just death. Augh, you make it sound like such a big deal.”

She would neglect to mention how she’d curled into a ball and sobbed for her sister and father for the first half hour. Because dying—at least her dying—hurt. She would be lucky if there was anything left of her body after it was pushed into that raging fire. She’d hiccupped in her sobs. Was a pretty corpse too much for a girl to ask? They’d need something for the viewing, so Pax could make some ill-timed joke about her death.

Joey guessed her friends were all still alive, since she didn’t see any of them in the lobby. She just hoped Euna wasn’t doing anything stupid without her around and that Pax had managed to man-up and kill his father.

Would that mean his father would be down here somewhere? She didn’t know. There was no welcome pamphlet on death or how it worked. There was nothing to give her direction and nothing to strive towards.

Joey had watched the sign on the wall that read Number of Deaths Today slowly roll to 151,601. Something felt hollow inside her.

Until Joey’s fingers touched the rosewood box in her pocket: Hera’s quest item.

Then Joey remembered that she still had a purpose. She still had to get Hera’s quest box to Persephone, to finish the Trials of Psyche, as predicted in The Traitor’s Prophecy. Which would make her a full quest above Miranda Gardiner, so she could usurp Miranda’s position as head counselor. She could prove to Euna—once and for all—that she was better than her older sister, that not even death could keep her down. And she could really impress Apollo and leave Pax speechless—a new goal in her life. Er, in her death.[1]

Joey didn’t know the details of how that would all work, but she didn’t care when she walked up to the lobby security guard. He wore a white Italian suit that matched his military-cut hair. His skin was chocolate colored and he was tall. Joey might have thought he was hot, if something hadn’t given her the creeps about him.

She walked up to his security guard podium and leaned against it. Her arm—which she just noticed was transparent—went right through, almost making her scream.

“Hi, you must be in charge here,” she said, trying to keep her voice light. She’d learned that faking confidence was half the trick to confidence and people respected it. “I would like to get to the Underworld please.”

“I would like to get to the Underworld please, Sir,” he corrected. “Your honesty and straightforwardness are refreshing, young miss. No screaming. No—wait. You are actually dead, right?” He leaned forward to inspect her through a pair of shades, like lots of living people came up to him for a tour.

“Duh,” she said.  

A lot of other people probably were confused or in denial of their death. “No, I can’t be dead. I was only grazed by that 18wheeler. I’ll walk it off.”

Maybe having nightmare prophecies about her fiery death for the last two months did it, but she wasn’t surprised at all. Unsettled and feeling a creeping sense of being lost, but not surprised.

The security guard didn’t seem to like her response, but what did he expect when he was in a room full of dead people? “Duh, Mr. Charon,” he corrected with an irritated frown. “And how did you die?”

She tried not to frown or cry. For some reason, talking about her death choked her up. Instead, she raised her nose. “Sacrificed in a ceremonial fire,” she said.

Mr. Charon paused. He went to pick up a pen, but set it back down. “In a ceremonial fire? We don’t get many of those anymore. What kind of ceremonial fire?”

Joey knew she’d start to sob again if they kept talking about this, and her makeup was already smudged enough. “I don’t know—Mesoamerican? It could have been a barbeque for all I care—I’m dead.” She huffed and tried to regain her composure. At least it was a cooler death than anyone in her dojo or dance class would get.

“I see. And were those who sacrificed you kind enough to give you funds to cross the River Styx?”

Funds? Joey didn’t have funds. She was lucky if her Dad gave her money for clothes. He always gave all their money to Euna, and she either forgot about it or spent it on food. Was there anyone she could access as a ghost to ask—

“I’m Apollo’s girlfriend,” she said, about to continue.

“And Barack Obama is a my homey,” Mr. Charon responded dryly. He sighed, his expression becoming more sympathetic. “I’m sorry, my sweet girl. I forgot how young you were, and didn’t realize you were a demigod.”

He shook his head.

“Those gods don’t care about you once you pass on. Apollo only wants living toys to play with. I’m afraid only one god cares about you here.”

Joey’s eyes widened. “Jesus?”

Mr. Charon coughed back a laugh. “Now, that is far too politically and socially sensitive for me to respond to in full. But I was referring to Hades.”

Joey forced herself not to think about dancing with Apollo, the warmth of his smile, and the tenderness of his hands. She withdrew her rosewood box and set it in front of Charon. “I’m on a quest for Hera. It would be really unfortunate if word got out that you prevented a demigod from doing the Queen of the Gods’ quest, especially when it involves visiting my poor sister when she’s loneliest in the Underworld.”

Charon recoiled. “You’re one of Persephone’s sisters?” he asked and stood a little straighter. Apparently that meant something more to him than mention of Hera. “That should be payment enough.”

“Yes,” Joey agreed, having no real idea if it was.

He frowned at the box on his podium. “Child, good things do not come of that box,” he warned.

Joey snatched the box back up and put it in her pocket, wondering how it didn’t fall right out when she couldn’t seem to touch anything else. That box was her reason for living—er—trying right now. Besides, the story of Psyche ended well, right?

“That’s not true,” she said. “A mortal became immortal with it. Maybe I can do something like that.”

Mr. Charon shook his head. “I will take you on the next ferry ride, but the fate that awaits you might be worse if you pursue this quest, instead of accepting your current death.”

Joey didn’t know how it could be worse. She wanted to politely knock on Charon’s bleached hair and say, “Helloooo! I’m dead, remember?” Besides, she hadn’t completed enough heroics yet to just be dead. And now she needed to add punching Apollo in the face onto her list.

Her friends and sister needed to finish that prophecy. They were counting on her.

“I’ll take your next ferry ride,” she said, trying to think of something cool to say. “The Underworld needs its next popstar.”

 [1] So, I have to do a call out here. Frost has some major foresight and close reading skills. She immediately noted that I’d given the person who needed to go to the Underworld an express pass down there. Awesome predicting skills dude!

Hey guys! Thanks for reading! We’re just about to get into some of the juicy stuff ^^ Plusssss, Joey’s back! Er, well, sort of >>’‘ Please like or reblog if you enjoyed :D