#he has marks around his legs from heated up manacles and chains

[awkwardknight]

Here's an unarmoured dragon!AK

[bounce-a-coin-off-your-witcher]

Hi love!

Can I please beg for Tangled Geraskier?

Rapunzel Jask. You know I’m a sucker for angst so including the scene where he cuts her hair would slay me 💖💖💖💖💖

TYILYYYYY

Hello, Stina dear! Sorry this took me actual months to write, but it broke me out of my writer’s block and for that I am eternally grateful.

I chose several pieces of the Tangled narrative to write Geralt and Jaskier into... enjoy! 

2k-ish words (please leave me comments I’m so tired my dudes)

tw: blood, injury, major character (near) death, if you’ve seen Tangled you’ve seen this

---

“So,” Jaskier smiles playfully up at the thief sitting beside him. “Roger Eric, huh?”

Geralt rolls his eyes but Jaskier catches the flush that settles high on his companion’s cheekbones. “It was… It’s a long and boring story about a lot of sad little children that I’m sure you don’t want to hear on such a lovely evening.”

Jaskier scoots closer, until the sides of their arms are pressed too tightly together for even a slip of paper to slide between, and leans his weight against the thief. He bats his thick eyelashes and pouts his lip in a way that always seems to work with his Father. “C’mon, Geralt, please won’t you tell me? Just one little story? I told you about my magical hair, after all.”

“Hmm,” the thief glares dawn at the doe-eyed blonde for a moment before nervously clearing his throat. “Fine. I… I got the name Geralt of Rivia from a collection of short stories that I used to read the other boys at the orphanage in Kaedwen; they were all about this knight who was loyal and brave and courageous despite his hideous appearance. He was rejected by princesses and noble women but was beloved by the people. Having been born with white hair… well, a lot of the folks that came looking for children thought I was under a spell or curse so…. I wasn’t their first choice for adoption.”

“You and Geralt were a lot alike, then. Different. Special… Kind.”

“I wouldn’t say I was spe-”

Jaskier’s hand darts forward and his long, slender musician’s fingers grasp Geralt by the wrist. The fledgling bard clings onto his escort tightly, his large blue eyes suddenly brimming up with tears. “Don’t you dare say you aren’t special, Geralt Roger Eric whatever your surname really is. I’ll never forgive you if you spew such nonsense where my delicate ears can hear it.”

Geralt swallows thickly and glances away. Jaskier always looks so sweet and sincere; the features on his boyish face flicker in and out of focus as patterns of light thrown by their small campfire play across his pale skin. His gaze is intense, focused on Geralt and Geralt alone. The thief panics and asks: “What is it, Jaskier? Why are you looking at me like that?”

“You saved me, you know. You saved me from those men back there at the inn, you saved me from being trapped in the tower all my life, you saved me from getting lost in the forest, you… you’re a good person, Geralt. Don’t let the world or the Captain of the Guard or anyone else change your mind, do you understand me? You are-” Jaskier’s hands scrabble frantically to grasp Geralt’s, as if the white-haired man might disappear entirely if Jaskier so much as loosens his grip “- you are the best thing that’s ever happened to me since I’ve been locked in that foul, awful tower!”

“Well I…” Geralt clears his throat again. He stands slowly, disentangling his hangs from Jaskier’s as he takes a slow step back. And then another. “I should go get more firewood.”

Despite the uneasiness in their parting, Jaskier smiles after him. 

The momentary spell cast by their closeness is only broken when Jaskier hears a familiar voice from just behind him: “Well, I thought he’d never leave!”

The blonde jumps up from his seat and spins on his heel to face the black-cloaked wizard. “Father? How… How did you find me?”

Stregobor wraps his arms around Jaskier’s shoulders and squeezes so tightly that it feels more like a threat than an embrace. “It was easy, I simply followed the sound of absolute betrayal.”

Jaskier flinches and tries to pull away but cannot yet escape. 

“I just brought you this,” his Father continues. He finally releases Jaskier and hands his son the worn leather satchel he’d found hidden in his tower. “If this Geralt creature really is the man you think him to be -and don’t deny it, little flower, I can read your thoughts- give this back to him and see how long he stays.”

“Father, I-”

“Goodbye, my child. See you soon, I’m sure. Just remember that Father knows best!”

And in a swirl of black smoke and confusion, Stregobor disappears.

---

“Why do you look so scared?” Geralt asks. He slows the small gondola he’s rented to a stop, turning it slightly more to the side so that they have a better vantage point to see the lanterns spread over the harbor from the city. Jaskier sighs deeply and shakes a stray flower petal away from his eyes, the enormous golden braid shifting ever-so-slightly against his shoulders.

“I’ve been looking out a window for eighteen years,” he says softly. Nervously. “What if… What if it’s not what I expected? I’m terrified to see what it all looks like up close because what if it doesn’t meet my expectations? What if it’s not everything I dreamed it would be?”

“It will be,” Geralt replies without thinking. 

“And what if it is?” Jaskier queries, voice growing frantic. “What if it’s even more spectacular than I could have ever hoped? Then my dream will have been fulfilled and I’ll just… go back to the tower again.”

“You’ll just have to find a new dream, I guess,” Geralt offers. When Jaskier settles down into the boat a bit more comfortably and smiles shyly back at him, the thief knows he’s hit the right mark for once. Behind Geralt, the first lantern lights up the sky. Jaskier gasps and points, eyes wide and sparkling with excitement; Geralt is utterly enchanted by his easy beauty. The thief digs two paper lanterns out from beneath his seat and offers one to Jaskier, giddy when he grins even more excitedly than before. “I got this for you… I hope you like it.”

“Oh, I love it! And I have something for you, too.” Jaskier turns and pulls something from behind him. The bardling hands Geralt his very own satchel, which the thief briefly accepts and then drops to the floor without a second thought. The anxious blonde musician beams over at him more gloriously than the midday sun and then turns away, blushing a sweet shade of pink. “I should have given it to you earlier, but I was so scared… and now I’m not! I’m not scared anymore!”

“Good,” Geralt smiles back. He’s elated. It feels as if his heart is glowing twice as brightly as any of the lanterns floating past and around them. “That’s very good.”

I know what my dream is now, Jaskier. Now that you’re here by my side I never want to see you frown again. You don’t deserve to be hidden away in a tower where your art is stifled… even if you don’t want to love me back in that way, I’ll still protect you. I want to see how you see the world, Jaskier. I lo-

“Geralt! Look! That one has runes painted on it, what does it say!?”

---

Geralt pulls his daggers from his belt but before he can stab them into the craigy stone wall and begin his ascent, the familiar tresses of Jaskier’s long golden hair topple down to reach him. Thank fuck, he’s still alive. 

“Jaskier! I thought I’d never see you again!” he calls as he grabs hold of the thick blonde strands. 

The thief climbs quickly, his arms and legs nearly cramping with the effort to hurry back to Jaskier. As he hauls himself through the large window and into the tower proper, however, he’s met with a confusing and unsettling sight: Jaskier stands across the room, a cloth gag pulled tightly between his teeth, his hands manacled together behind him. A short length of spare chain attached to the manacles keeps the frightened, struggling blonde tethered against one of the building’s thick support beams. Someone had knocked down a mirror or vase during the previous fighting; shards of pottery and silver lie scattered across the floor, working as a weak barrier to keep Geralt away from the bound man. Jaskier screams out in warning as their eyes meet: “Ghmphh!”

If Jaskier is being held captive then who let his hair do-

Before Geralt can finish fully forming his question, a bright flash of pain arcs out from his side and sends him toppling to his knees. A wet, sticky heat begins to spread from a spot beneath his ribs and when he presses his hand against his shirt it comes way red. 

Oh. Oh, no...

He hears Stregobor’s voice addressing the sobbing blonde, “Now look what you’ve done, Jaskier.”

Geralt collapses to his knees and then falls to his side, curling up in the fetal position and clutching at the wound as if that will be any help at all. He knows he’s doomed, but there must be some way for him to help Jaskier… to save his… his love. 

“Don’t worry, little flower, our secret will die with your little thief, here, and then we’ll be safe again. Just the two of us.”

Jaskier keens loudly and the sharp, desperate sound of it makes something deep in Geralt’s heart ache. The younger man pulls and yanks against the chains that hold him in place, his bare feet slipping against the polished floor as he tries and fails to reach the wounded Geralt. 

Stregobor yanks at the lead, pulling Jaskier back harshly by the arms. The young musician’s shoulders burn with the strain of it but Jaskier pulls forward anyway, uncaring. He must save Geralt, he must. The wizard tugs him back again, more roughly, and the jarring movement loosens his gag. He spits it from his mouth and cries out: “Stregobor! Strego- Father, listen to me!”

The wizard pauses, his interest piqued by Jaskier’s use of the word Father given the circumstances. “Yes, child?”

“Father,” Jaskier pants, turning to look at the man who’d held him captive for eighteen years. The man who kidnapped him from his cradle and forced him to grow up without the love of his real parents. The man who had, mere moments ago, stabbed the love of Jaskier’s life with the full intention of killing him. “I want you to know that I won’t stop fighting you. Every moment of every day for the rest of my life will be spent trying to get away from you. I will scream and kick and struggle and yell and you will have to keep me caged away as a bird or a mouse to make me stay by your side unless-” Jaskier pauses to take a breath, his shoulders sagging as his gaze drops submissively to the floor between them “-unless you let me save this man. Let me save Geralt’s life and I will follow you all around the Continent without a single word of complaint. I will never attempt to run away or hide from you, not once. Everything will go back to being exactly like it was before, Father, I swear on his life.”

Stregobor considers for a moment. 

He nods. 

“Alright, then. Let’s be quick about it, little flower.”

He removes the shackles from Jaskier and clamps them tightly around Geralt’s wrists instead, securing him to the bannister at the foot of the stairs. To keep him from following us, he remarks offhandedly. 

Jaskier pads his way across the floor as quickly as he can in his bare feet and falls to the ground at Geralt’s side. He pulls the wounded thief against his side to steady him and gathers two heavy handfuls of his own long hair. “I’m so sorry! Everything is going to be okay now, Geralt, I swear it.”

Geralt shoves his hands away weakly, “No, Jaskier.”

“You have to trust me, Geralt, I-”

“I c-can’t let you d-do this,” Geralt grunts, teeth gritted against the pain. 

Jaskier stares down at him, tears already gathering at the corners of his sky-blue eyes. His voice trembles when he whispers, “And I can’t let you die. I won’t let you die.”

“But if you do th-this then you-” Geralt coughs and Jaskier wipes a trickle of blood away from the corner of the thief’s mouth “-you will die.”

“Shh,” Jaskier quiets him, dropping one fistfull of blonde tresses to cup Geralt’s face instead. “Everything will be alright.”

Geralt smiles sadly up at Jaskier, his decision already having been made. He lets the back of his knuckles ghost across the musician’s peach-soft cheek. Jaskier’s eyes flutter shut for a moment and then open again, curious. “Jaskier, I…”

The thief uses the last of his strength to push up into a sitting position. The hand on Jaskier’s face slides back and gathers his hair at the back of his neck. Geralt’s other hand comes up, a shard of glass gripped tightly in his fist, and slices through the long blonde strands. He watches as Jaskier’s hair turns from radiant gold to chestnut brown. Geralt falls back with a short, sharp sound of agony, his vision already fading around the edges. The shard of mirror, dagger-sharp around the edges, clatters to the ground beside Jaskier. 

“No!” Stregobor screams, gathering up an armful of Jaskier’s still-blonde hair. The golden hue is already fading, shifting to match the short brown hair still fluffed around his head. The lost prince watches with wide, horrified eyes as the wizard trips over a loose floorboard and goes careening out the open window. 

More worrying than his kidnapper’s death, however, is the man lying in his arms, breathing shallowly. Jaskier gathers Geralt close, tucking the thief’s head against his neck and wrapping his arms around the older man’s broad shoulders. “No, no, no, no, Geralt. Stay with me, okay? Stay with me, right here.”

He grabbed at Geralt’s hand, holding it against the top of his head as he sang desperately. “Flower gleam and glow, let your power shine, make the clock reverse, bring back was once was mi-”

“Jaskier!” Geralt says, pulling his hand down to cup the prince’s face. He can feel his limbs growing cold and numb, distant from him and out of his control. “You… You were my new dream.”

Jaskier sobs, clinging to Geralt with all he’s worth. “And you were mine.”

Geralt manages to smile up into those beautiful blue eyes one last time. And then the world goes dark and his hand falls to the floor, limp.

---

Jaskier buries his face in the crook of Geralt’s neck and screams. He throws back his head and howls like a wounded animal, his heart shattering to pieces within the confines of his chest cavity. Then he quiets himself down, adjusts Geralt’s body on his lap, and finishes the song the way he’s been taught to do: “Heal what has been hurt, change the Fates’ design, save what has been lost… bring back what once was mine.”

A single tear falls from his eye and lands on Geralt’s cheek. A cheek that will never blush again, never turn up in a smile, never-

A faint yellow glow catches Jaskier’s vision, just from the corner of his eye. He turns his head to look at Geralt’s wound and gasps: the outline of a golden flower covers his abdomen, glowing so brightly that Jaskier must hide his eyes and turn away to keep from being blinded. When the glow fades enough that can safely look back again, Geralt’s wound is gone and the blood that was once staining his jerkin has disappeared. 

He leans over the white-haired thief with bated breath, waiting for a movement or a breath or something… anything. 

After a long moment, two honey-hazel eyes blink open. Geralt inhales quietly and then asks, with the sweetest smile Jaskier has ever seen in all his eighteen years of life, “Did I ever tell you I had a thing for brunettes?”

Jaskier squeals with glee and throws himself into Geralt’s waiting arms, pressing their eager mouths together for the first kiss of their Happily Ever After. 

[justkeeptrekkin]

Your Life is Golden

a ficlet inspired by my need for angst and badass Aziraphale content. 

***

“Crowley. We’ve known each other for a long time, and… no. That’s not right.”

Aziraphale steps in a puddle, and it splashes muddy water up his leg. He sighs, continues walking. “Crowley, old chum. Six thousand years, eh? Or was it longer? We’ve been through an awful lot, you know, and… no, no, no. Bother.”

He passes a shop window and catches sight of his twisted, anxious expression. He tries to correct it, looks away. Shakes his head to himself and starts rewriting his speech in his mind. 

“I’ve been in love with you for a good few decades now, Crowley, and I think it’s about time I did something about it… how about we go a little faster, after all?” Aziraphale nods a little to himself. “Not perfect, but it’s something.”

Aziraphale turns the corner opposite the bookshop, a bottle of far too expensive wine in his hand. At roughly three o’clock on a Wednesday afternoon, Soho is still busy, still filled with tourists, the smell of beer and Chinese food in the air. For the rest of the world, life goes on; for Aziraphale, the world has changed. He settles into a familiar and delicious anticipation that has always prefaced seeing Crowley, but this time, things are different. The End of Times never happened, and since then, Aziraphale has waited for the moment he could summon enough bravery to invite his friend over.

“I’ve been meaning to tell you how I feel for a while, now,” Aziraphale presses on, muttering to himself and prompting a few funny looks from passers-by. “Naturally, if you don’t want them to, things needn’t change, but…”

It’s only as he’s crossing the road that he sees that the shop light is on. 

And it’s only when he steps back onto the pavement that he picks up the lingering taste of multiple demonic auras; the footprint in the sand betraying Crowley’s recent presence. Though he’s not here any more. 

It’s when he ascends the steps to the shop door, hand poised by the handle, that dread sits on his chest and makes him nauseous. 

Aziraphale pushes open the door.

He has never had his shop ransacked before. There have been moments where he’s imagined what he’d do, if someone broke in and tried to steal anything; how far he’d go to find and punish whoever did it; whether he’d simply forgive them like he’s meant to. Worse than that, he’s allowed himself to imagine what would happen if Gabriel and Sandalophon came back, like they did during his shop launch; what would have happened if they’d simply turned around and seen Crowley, top hat and all, holding a box of chocolates.

Now, the sound of his brogues against the wooden floor sounds more hollow than it ever has before. It fills the room too much. It aches. 

He casts his eyes about the fallen books; some of them are charred. Some of the bookshelves have come down. There are claw marks in the floorboards.

He puts down the bottle of wine. The door is left open behind him, and he can hear people talking about normal things. 

Aziraphale extends a hand- a hand that doesn’t feel like his own- and sees it land on a copy of Sappho’s poetry. The pages have fallen open to one of her lesser known elegies. The fingers dance across the words like they’re scribbles, silly little pictures that no longer make sense. Crowley had bought him this particular book. His eyes turn away from the book and scan the shop, trying desperately to absorb what’s in front of him and failing. Everything in chaos. The sharp tang of sulphur in the air; demonic battle. It isn’t a smell that he’s come across in a long time. 

“Crowley,” he says to himself. 

Then, as it finally begins to settle. “Crowley.”

He steps over the shattered splinters of a table, stumbles over scattered books. He turns on the spot, looks up, around, behind and below. He doesn’t know what he’s looking for; he hopes he’ll find something that will tell him who won this fight. At the centre of the bookshop, there are more claw marks across the floorboards, little troughs like Crowley had been scrabbling for something to hold onto. 

He’d been here looking for Aziraphale. 

He breathes in suddenly, gasps like the air is forcing its way into his throat, pouring itself inside him- and he feels his hands shake. He feels himself fall back inside his body again, sees his fingers trace the claw marks, feels the jagged wood beneath his fingers, trying to reach for Crowley- too late. 

“No,” he croaks. 

Aziraphale falls to his knees and clasps his hands together, almost in prayer. He unclasps them and presses his palms together instead, poised in front of his face. And yet, there’s the ache of knowing that no one is listening. And so he runs his hands through his hair, sitting on his heels and willing his mind to think of something. But he has only ever known how to pray and hope, not knowing how to do. 

“Where are you?” he asks Crowley, asks in a whisper to himself. “Crowley, please. God, please tell me he’s alive.”

It falls from somewhere above; it falls down in front of him, tickles his face and lands on his leg. Aziraphale looks at the single black feather, picks it up and holds it like it’s alive. All that’s left of Crowley.

Perhaps you’d expect him to cry. Perhaps you’d expect him to try praying again. Perhaps you’d expect him to remain paralysed in shock, or walk out the door, or figure out a rescue plan. You’d expect Aziraphale to reason with himself- remind himself that Crowley’s wily, after all, persuade himself that there’s no way he could have lost this battle. You might wonder whether he’d fall into his old habits of staying quiet, asking no questions, or whether he’d gather up his bravery and do something. Do something, for the one being he’s loved outside the appropriate realms of angelic adoration. 

There is no miraculous plan for this catatonic mind. What happens instead is this: hope and despair and fury. Incandescent, invulnerable fury that suddenly sparks into life. Something dormant and hiding in the heart of an angel that has not been unleashed since the stars were first moulded, since the volcanoes were first filled with lava and since the first lightning kindled. Something old and deep, something that lives only in divine beings that have seen the dawn of time, something that can only be described as titanic. 

Aziraphale falls into the centre of himself. He feels himself step back and feels something else take over; not quite displacing him, not controlling him, rather covering him like a cloak. He sees its blinding light, feels its scorching heat, and he wears it. He flexes his fingers inside its gloves and rolls his shoulders against its hot fabric. Wings explode into existence; eyes open, white and burning all over his body; hot tears run boiling down his cheeks like acid. He shines all over. A perfect, blinding ring sizzles above his head, appearing slowly as condensation does from a glass on a table. He bathes in his righteous fury until everything else evaporates. 

When he stands up, his fingers gently wrap around the single, black feather. 

***

At three thirty-two in the afternoon, on the streets of Soho, people stop and stare at the wind that gushes out of a bookshop doorway like a flood. They watch as sheets of paper- perhaps pages from books?- fly out of the doors like leaves in an eddy. They marvel at the strange, beautiful, blinding light that burns through the windows. 

People in the adjacent Chinese restaurant see the windows suddenly shatter and take cover. And everyone within a three mile radius suddenly presses their hands to their ears against a terrible, ringing noise. 

A screeching bird call, an angel crying in outrage. 

***

Crowley wakes up to the sound of nothing. He knows he’s in Hell. 

He opens his eyes. Black feathers- his own feathers- scattered across the floor. His pale arm stretched out in front of him, nails digging into his palm. The taste of blood on his tongue. He groans. It’s been a while since he’s bled. 

When he breathes in, something burns. It scalds his skin and he gasps, a staggered breath that only becomes more fractured when his ribs expand and touch the chain wrapped around them. Slow, careful movements- he tries to prop himself up as gently as possible to get a better look. He sees the metal wrapped around his ribcage, sees manacles around his wrists and ankles, tastes- tastes it. It’s not blood that he’s tasting, then- it’s metal, like a horse’s bit between his teeth. He’s chained to the wall like a feral animal. 

He’d like to say that it’s overkill, but he knows how frightened Beelzebub is of him, now. 

He rolls his tongue underneath the bit, tries to swallow- it hurts. His throat is dry and every breath struggles inside of him. The manacles dig into his wrists. But none of that hurts like the chain around his bare torso, his shirt stripped to reveal his pale, almost-translucent skin and the burn marks from adamantine. Crowley pants, teeth clenched against the bit, and stares wide-eyed at the red sores; stares in amazement and confusion and horror and eventually, acceptance. Because adamantine only burns angels. 

Well that’s new, he thinks. Aziraphale really has been rubbing off on him, it seems. 

The heels of his boots kick against the dusty floor. His cell is small, bare, dark. There are bars and a little post-box shaped hole in the door, like this is a pale imitation of a Hollywood movie set. 

He growls. They’d known. They’d waited. They’d somehow known that he’d decided to surprise Aziraphale by swinging by early; he’s just that fucking predictable. His dedication and loyalty to an angel, his puppy-dog pining for Aziraphale so blatant that they’d waited for him there and ambushed him. Hastur, Ligur, Beelzebub- the three of them cornered him and they fought, really fought tooth and claw, for the first time since the Fall. 

They’d torn his wings. 

They’d thrown him across the room. 

They’d dragged him across the floor like they were auditioning for Paranormal fucking-well Activity. 

“Azzurghs,” he tries, the cold metal in his mouth flaking and sharp. Bastards is what he’d been going for. Then, “Azzuruhuh.” Aziraphale. It just comes out a pained whine.

His back meets the wall. His head knocks against it. He casts his eyes up at the ceiling. 

God. I’d ask why you’ve forsaken me, Crowley thinks, but I’m getting pretty used to it.

***

The people of London go quiet all at once as they feel the Earth shudder. 

That moment of dread and confusion- the incomprehensible scale of whatever is coming, whatever’s out there on the prowl suddenly dawning on them. People in meetings stop mid-sentence, feeling the vibrations under foot- they look through the window down at the streets below. Tourists on the London Eye peer through the glass, seeing a blinding white light across the river. Children splash in puddles, see the water tremble with the footsteps of something huge. Pub-goers stare at the shattered remnants of their pint glasses. The ringing in their ears has subsided, but the anguish of it is still echoing in their head. 

Something’s out there. Something’s hurt. And it’s fucking angry.

***

Time in Hell runs differently. It isn’t just slower; it loses meaning. After all, time is angel-created. It’s something that brings order to the universe, something that contains chaos and makes everything just a little bit more organised and tidy. Something like that has no place in Hell. It’s therefore hard to know just how long Crowley’s been lying on the floor of his cell, adamantine burning his skin and bones aching. Dust in his throat. Eyes closed. 

He’s grown soft. No- not soft. Brittle. He’s become fragile, something hollow and aching and desperate to be filled with validation and love and attention and everything that Hell isn’t. It’s made him foolish, made him someone who waits. Like a dog at the door. When will they come? 

What’s worse, though, is that it’s not Beelzebub or Hastur or Ligur that he’s waiting for to walk through that door. It isn’t punishment that he’s waiting for in particular, even though God knows that’s what he should be used to by now. Trained to expect pain after waiting, alone, long enough that he begins to wonder if they’ve forgotten about him. Yes, even though he’s been trained to live like this, they’re not the ones he’s waiting for. 

When will he learn that Aziraphale won’t come? 

***

Even if he does come, it’s always when it’s too late. Crowley reminds himself of this, as he considers Aziraphale possessing Madam Tracy. It was only after he’d pushed Crowley away that he’d come back. And-

Well. Obviously Crowley’s forgiven him for that. Forgiveness; that’s one of the only angelic characteristics he has left. 

***

Aziraphale could come.

Endless time swims around him in a fog; Crowley has been lying on the floor, waiting, hoping, for some indefinite stretch of no-time. 

And Aziraphale could come. That part of him fights back- the same part of him that runs after Aziraphale time and time again, the part of him that saves books from burning ruins and begs for Aziraphale to run away with him. No matter how much Hell try and kick him down, no matter how many times Aziraphale proves it wrong, that little bit of hope always flickers back into life. 

It’s pathetic. It’s all Crowley has right now.

***

He hears his rattling breath and feels something wet on his cheeks. His wings have unfurled at some point, too exhausted to keep them in. They’re tattered and tired, draped across the floor.

***

There had been one afternoon recently, after the apocalypse. It had settled on them that they could be together without the weight of impending war sitting on their shoulders. So, they’d decided to be a little frivolous and go for a day out. 

Aziraphale had suggested the beach. Crowley had shrugged, closing his eyes in resignation behind his sunglasses. “Fine,” he’d sighed. Anything for you, he’d thought. And they’d hopped in Crowley’s Bentley and rolled down the windows, plummeting down the motorway towards the South West coast. Lulworth Cove was meant to be busy that day, the warmest day of the year so far, but he knew it would be quiet. Crowley had willed it so. 

Crowley had kept his eyes on the road, the white lines streaking till they blurred, the bad local radio station chattering in the background, soon to turn into Good Old Fashioned Lover Boy. Aziraphale was smiling so much that day. Aziraphale smiled in so many ways, and that day it was like the first: angelic and beatific, the way God had smiled the day She created the world. Maybe it was because he saw the world laid out in front of them, ready for them to live it in a way they’d never been allowed before. Maybe he was just in a good mood. Either way, Crowley had found it impossible not to stare. 

The wind had rushed through the rolled-down windows, and once they’d hit the country lanes, Aziraphale poked his arm outside and let the air pull through his fingers. Crowley had watched him close his eyes and smile again, that smile. 

“We could live like this forever, now,” Aziraphale had said. “You and I.”

Crowley had driven and known that that moment was important. Like initials carved into a wall, that moment would stick around with him. 

You and I, Crowley thinks now. Is it so naive to think you’ll come for me?

***

The ground shakes beneath him. There’s the sound of demons and poltergeists and incubi screaming down the corridor, outside his prison cell door. 

Crowley’s eyes snap open. 

There’s a screeching sound. It’s not anything demonic; he’d thought it was at first, but that was before he realised he could hear it inside his head. No, it’s something far too- far too something to be demonic.

Furious?

Hurt? Righteous?

It’s a sound that frightens him. It makes his heart stutter and his feathers ripple nervously. His pupils are dilated in the dark, but they narrow at the sound, fight-or-flight response kicked in. Something’s coming; something awful, something that Hell hadn’t prepared for. And just for a moment, the relief of that chases away the shadows in his mind. 

The sound of demons screaming, louder now, mixing with the ringing in his ears. A thud, as something- someone, more likely- is thrown down the corridor, landing close to Crowley’s door. And-

Oh, God. That light. It burns and it soothes all at once, it pours through the cracks of the door, stretching out towards Crowley like it’s searching for him, trying to bring him into its embrace.

The door falls from its hinges.

Crowley scrabbles up onto his knees. He hangs his head, turned away from the light, his hands splayed on the floor. Then he hears his voice in his mind. 

Crowley. 

The light doesn’t burn anymore. It’s like a switch is flicked and the anger in it simmers down; still there, oh yes, it still bubbles beneath the surface. But what Crowley feels overwhelmingly in that moment is not anger, but something kinder. The bright, shining feeling of his smile. 

He dares to look up. 

From his knees, prostrate on the floor of Hell, Crowley beholds the light of a star poured into the vessel of a human. The shape of Aziraphale, covered in bright, wide-open eyes and wings that encompass the room. They curve around him, like that very first day at Eden. And Crowley turns his head to watch them surround his broken body, a sunflower following the orbit of the sun. 

He looks back up. Cannot look away; there is something about that light that is less like the sun, and more like the moon. Fascinating, hypnotising, calming. And he gazes into the pair of eyes in front of him, the pair that he knows, with blue irises, watching with love. 

There’s something else in those eyes, too. There’s love, and there’s also something destructive- something frightening, something he hasn’t seen since the days of the Old Testament. Something that threatens floods and plagues for anyone who stands in Aziraphale’s way. 

A scalding white hand reaches to touch Crowley’s face. He closes his eyes, and feels only a soft warmth. Soft. Just as Aziraphale always is, even like this.

My dear, he hears inside his mind. 

His mouth suddenly feels empty. The bit and the chains are gone. 

“You came. I wasn’t sure,” he laughs sadly. 

The hand on his cheek grows warmer, almost uncomfortably hot. Aziraphale doesn’t respond- out loud, or in his mind. He doesn’t need to. Crowley feels it in the heat of his hand, feels it pouring under his skin; that they are on each other’s side; that Aziraphale will never sit by and watch ever again; that he will always come. 

He feels it in the press of Aziraphale’s lips against his.

The ground fractures beneath them. Hot air meets cold air, rain meets sun, and water meets hot oil. The room shudders with it. Hell vibrates with it and Heaven feels it, too. Two sides coming together, the order of the universe disrupted. 

God smiles when She sees it. 

And perhaps it’s because Crowley’s been awake for what might be weeks in here. Perhaps it’s because he’s been waiting for Aziraphale to come for him, to save him like this for millennia. Whatever the reason, Crowley suddenly can’t keep his eyes open. He feels himself relax into Aziraphale’s arms, inside the cocoon of his wings. 

He holds onto consciousness and feels himself being carried through the seven circles of Hell, over purgatory and back home. 

[kettlequills]

black emporium exchange fill: anything, anything

now all the gifts have been revealed, i can finally post this! done for little_abyss. pretty proud of this one! TW: grief/mourning, implied/referenced self harm, blood magic, implied sexual content, violence. Audacity/Merrill.

What would you risk, to save it all? // In the aftermath of Tamlen's disappearance, Merrill meets a spirit that calls itself Audacity.

Merrill met Audacity in a nightmare.

It was the same one it always was. Every night, back there, like she’d never left, heaving-sick in the belly of a boat, emerging coughing into the dampness of the Marches, the least free she’d ever been. The City of Chains had grinned at the elves it swallowed into its docks, and the mages had escaped only by hiding their staffs. Merrill remembered the smell of the lyrium-lingering Templars, the dense crush and press of human bodies and sweat. She had never seen so many people before in her life. In the nightmare, though, she was alone.

The mirror was dark and taunting in the hollow embrace of the crumbling ruins of the Brecilian Forest, where no wise Dalish went. In it, the fleeing edge of Tamlen’s back through the mirror, imagined, for Merrill hadn’t been there, wondered, sometimes, if it would have taken her instead. Wondered, sometimes, if that’s what Marethari would have wanted. Wondered if that was what Merrill wanted.

Merrill saw the hunter’s mouth, spilling black taint. Merrill had been there for that like she hadn’t been for Tamlen, there for the way he’d coughed and gasped, bubbling on the fluid in his lungs, as Merrill cast spell after spell to save him. Even blood only delayed the inevitable. For nothing, in the end. The clan never looked at Merrill quite right after that. Like she’d walked away and come back ghoulish from the ruins, like they’d kissed her, smeared her with a stain that was all the clan saw when they looked at Merrill’s face marked with the same gods they wore. Like the Creators hadn’t made blood with magic in it to be used.

Death when it came for him had darkened the hunter’s eyes to smudges and the hollows of his cheeks like he was gaunt, an old creature in a young hunter’s body. Like the ancients, wrathful wraiths that waited, cursing Fen’harel the Trickster for taking their gods away and shattering their curse-mirrors to the realm of dreams and demons that whispered, help me.

Through the mirror, she could see them – their ancestors, their people, their suffering faces and their tear-grave eyes, screaming as they clutched to them Tamlen, who had always been kind to Merrill. Tamlen’s gaze was spawn-dark, his smile was gone, gone, and he had no kindness left for Merrill, none at all. Was he with the Creators now?

Like clockwork, the mirror shattered, and Merrill was left, looking into in her own eyes. Green as grey-leaves, lost, and confused, alone against the darkness. Or almost alone. Around her feet, the bodies of her clan, spawn-bloated, blood-drained, Marethari’s staring eyes accusing, accusing. The blood between her toes that soaked and squirmed like her skin soaked it up, to replace the blood she’d lost on the hunter. The blood she’d given with a knife jagged as the mirror-shard and hope cutting each breath and each poisoned promise she begged from the hunter’s blight-licked lips.

Help me, the demon whispered. Help me.

Merrill closed her eyes and prayed to wake up. Every time, she feared it was real, felt immeasurable relief when she saw the rippling fabric of the aravel and knew herself among her clan and alone, except for her dead – Tamlen’s face, the hunters they’d lost along the way. This time, she opened her eyes in the dream, and knew she was not.

The demon was there, and it saw her.

On the green slopes of the Fade beneath Sundermount, Merrill felt the hole in the world. The Fade here was rippled and pinched, like a scar. Kirkwall was a burning blister in the distance, the howling grief of the city swelling like a canker, night after night. The sea-wind was foul and carried the screams of darkspawn-fodder, left behind on the docks of Ferelden but for the price of passage.

(Ferelden, where Tamlen’s body didn’t rest, uneaten by the worms that had crawled through the eyesockets of Brecilian Forest elves for decades of generations. The mirror shard pressed like a dagger into her skin through her pocket. It was heavier here, in the Fade, and warm like a breathing creature. Merrill always felt it. Always just on the edge of cutting her. Disagreements with Marethari had grown more and more pointed, and the shard sharper and sharper.)

Sunken into the darkness, the hole in the Fade where the demon cried was in the shape of chains. They sloshed when Merrill tugged them, curious, and her hands came away sticky and red. Help me, the chains whispered in elvhen voices, remember me.

“I remember you,” said Merrill, moved, and she saw in her eye a white-haired man, an elf, old, old as the mountain, close his eyes in bitter suffering. His face had no Dalish tattoos at all, but he carried around his shoulders a wolf-pelt. His throat smiled in a wet gash, and the chains pushed their way out like the grasping hands of an infant, out of his blood, out of his body. In his closed eyelids were mirrors.

The ancient ones slept on Sundermount, but they did not rest.

“Do you, brave elfling?” asked a voice, strained, indistinct, and Merrill looked for it – found-

The demon was bound, like the old elf, and it was beautiful. It was like something that had never been a wolf, with more eyes than legs, and the spiralling horns and scales of a dragon. The fur pushed its way out between the scales like vines, like the pitch between the boards of a ship. It smelled of shem-wine and the gull-cries of the new shore, of dusty books and magic. It was vaguely purple like forget-me-nots, each coloured scale smooth as an old statue, washed clear by the ages. Sparks cracked and snapped in its nostrils when it breathed laboriously, and its eyes, seven, maybe eight of them, looked at Merrill like a challenge.

Like they saw her, beneath her dead.

“What are you?” Merrill asked the demon because it paid to be polite. She had never seen Pride like this before, proud enough to ask for help, proud enough to demand it. Maybe desperation had made itself bedfellow in its purpose. The things that Merrill had done for desperate love of her clan – she knew that it could make any feeling stretch liquid to fill the containment of necessity.

The chamber it lay in was as red as the secret inside chamber of a peeled heart. Elfsblood was dark, dark and still warm where it rose around Merrill’s calves. When she opened her mouth to speak, the air tasted of iron and the adrenaline just before a bone-snapping fall. It was dizzying. Merrill had never been so conscious of her aliveness.

“Anything,” said the demon. “Anything I want to be. I am the pride of every one of us who has gone before. I am the boldness of the sun swallowing the night. I am Audacity.”

“Where are you?” Merrill asked. “Did you kill these people?”

“Hurting,” said Audacity. “Do you dare to help me?”

Now – Merrill wasn’t born yesterday, contrary to what Marethari thought. But after that night, she didn’t have that nightmare any longer. Instead, she had Audacity.

“What can you teach me?” Merrill asked the demon.

They were in the Fade again. Merrill sat and felt the warm blood ebb and flow around her knees. She gazed into her eyes in the shard of the mirror and Audacity’s fingers – humanlike, since Merrill had met Hawke, but still clawed, like Fenris’ gauntlets – curved over Merrill’s shoulder. Their body was feminine, crowned with feathers over the shoulders like Anders��� coat, dragonlike, wolflike, piratelike, since Merrill had met Isabela. Audacity’s breasts against Merrill’s back felt like the hand between the shoulderblades that pushed Merrill tumbling over the cliffs into the tossing waves of new experience, of the melting pot that was Kirkwall – comforting, warm, sure, since Merrill had met Varric. Audacity’s face was approximately elvhen ever since Merrill had met her own eyes in the cracked washbasin in the Alienage and known herself, but the band of crowning horns around the delicate, scaled features gleamed Aveline-sure and Aveline-strong.

Merrill’s dark hair was a raven’s wing against Audacity’s shock-storm cheek. Audacity’s chin was the pointed fork of a tree struck by lightning against a black wreathing sky, defiant til the end, against Merrill’s shoulder. Promise hung about it like perfume. Audacity held Merrill close, like no one could for Tamlen, like no one had for the dead hunter. Except Merrill.

There was Tamlen’s absence in the sanguine wetness that stained Merrill’s feet and Merrill’s hands and Merrill’s magic, and that left footprints when she walked in the Fade. The Blight sung its discordance through the bones of Merrill’s dream where she held the mirror shard. Where Audacity held Merrill and Merrill held the mirror shard.

It was warm and hard in Merrill’s hands, but her flesh was soft and chilled from the blood, the dream, the shadow of the nightmare Audacity ate, and it dimpled against Audacity’s searching grip. The chains clanked and shifted, heavy as snake-coil, all muscle. Merrill felt the echo of them, when Audacity was this close, in their corner of the Fade. In the warmth they made together, in that secret little hollow between Audacity’s spiritstuff ribs and Merrill’s thundering heart.

Audacity’s nose found its resting place in the shadow behind Merrill’s pointed ear, and it said, in its voice of the People whose blood wrapped manacles around Audacity’s spirit and Audacity’s body it had made for holding Merrill, “Anything.”

“Anything?” Merrill echoed, and Audacity’s pointed teeth grazed Merrill’s neck when its lips measured her pulse. Its clawed hand spanned Merrill’s stomach like the pinpricks of knives, like the rusty spikes that stabbed through Kirkwall’s walls and its listless summer heat.

“What will you dare to learn? What will you risk to know?” It was probably lonely, prideful creature, all alone in its pit of blood, Merrill thought. Kept apart from the world, soaked in death. When Audacity’s new-made fingers curled in the fabric of Merrill’s tattered and torn-again shirt, Merrill thought she felt desperation there. Hunger, there.

Or maybe that was Merrill’s own. It hadn’t asked her to free it. But Merrill dreamed of it in the daylight, its pointed tongue, its enamel-bone horns.

Anders called her a fool. But Merrill looked at him and saw Justice engraved in the lines of his flesh, and thought – Audacity would hate that.

“Tell me,” Merrill tipped her head back against Audacity’s cheek, felt its not-breath against her skin, its razor-crack singe of electric-tail looped around her thigh. It made her nerves prickle like they did when Merrill tried sips of the foul alcohol Varric pushed on her, chuckling with warm whiskey eyes when she coughed and spluttered. Never sweet, shem-ale and shem-wine. Not like Dalish Red. Not like Audacity. “Tell me of the pride of the Elvhen.”

Audacity’s words were rhythmic and soft, and they wove into her thoughts like glue for the mirror she made with blood and guile, each piece painstaking, weeks of work.

“Where are you, kitten?” Isabela needled once, halfway through a game of Wicked Grace with Merrill’s wrist limp and her mind sore with mental equations of metallic magic. Merrill looked at her and thought of Isabela’s lips, so soft, so inviting, so warm when she laughingly kissed Merrill on dares she made up, spewing darkspawn bile like the hunter’s had, at the end.

What was behind the mirror? Was Tamlen there, waiting, like Audacity was with brighter eyes like coals fanned with the sighs lovers made each time when Merrill rested her head against the thin pillow in her damp little house in the Alienage? Merrill wanted to know. Wanted to save her People. They had known once. The knowledge was there, locked away under the dusty sheafs of history. There was a way to fix the mirror, Merrill just had to be –

“Brave,” Audacity called her, when Merrill gripped its face between her hands and felt its scales cut her palms. Her blood mixed with the seething sea of everyone who had come before her that surged around Merrill’s hips, bracketing Audacity’s grapevine thighs. Its voice was the storm of Sundermount, deep as the sleep of the ancients that waited in the heart of its peak.

“What do you want from me?” Merrill asked Audacity, all of her breath left inside of Audacity’s chest, its mouth that tasted of sparks and stepping in front of charging carriages.

“Anything,” said Audacity, “What are you bold enough to give me?”

Anything, thought Merrill, for the taste of the strength to keep going with the thankless task of repairing the mirror, of banishing the Taint a cut at a time. She felt always faint, these days. The blood in Audacity’s prison was richer than ever. And Tamlen was still gone, the dead still distant, and the clan ran away from her when Merrill wandered the hunting paths.

Merrill answered by biting Audacity’s lip until it burned in her mouth and she saw herself reflected in the ivory mirror of Audacity’s scales. Her own eyes seared into Merrill’s soul, her face in the blood, in the scale, in the chain and the old man whose neck smiled redly. In Audacity, who moaned and met her touch for touch, kiss for kiss.

All spirits are dangerous, she said to Anders, I understood that. I’m sorry you didn’t.

Audacity traced the edge of the mirror shard that was as heavy as Merrill’s dead with a claw white as bone. Their reflection together was beautiful in the mirror’s Blighted face, Audacity’s horns spiralling over Merrill’s head while its lips kiss her hair. The ivory tips were beaded with red, red, from where Audacity had laid in the blood underneath Merrill and twisted and gasped, like it felt pleasure in the body it had made to hold Merrill. The horns crowned Merrill like thorns, like the spirals of vallaslin that marked her face.

“What will you risk to find out what your People have lost?” Audacity asked, its clawed palm upraised where it wrapped its arm around Merrill’s waist like a chain, an offering, a promise. Its skin was scale-soft when Merrill kissed the pad of its thumb, and its fingers twitched, as if it fought not to hold her cheek.

And Merrill said, “Everything.”

[diskwrite-ffxiv]

ffxivwrite2021 - #25 Silver Lining

Ala Mhigo, 1552 6AE

The innards of the convoy stank with the familiar reek of piss and shite and the sweat of unwashed bodies jammed together too close, tinged with the metallic undertone of old blood. But there were only eight of them clenched in cavernous darkness, including herself- distantly Ojene had counted them as they were loaded in- left with no sense of where they were or where they were going save for the fact that they were moving as the thrum of the ceruleum engine vibrated beneath their feet, punctuated by a sharp lurch now and again as the vehicle took a turn, thumping Ojene’s shoulder into the metal wall.

Dimly she was aware that some of the others were speaking, their voices low and furtive. But she couldn’t recall a single thing said, as if the sound drifted into one ear and slipped out the other with little more than a shallow imprint that left her with the sense that something had happened, but she couldn’t say what.

It was just as well. Curled up in a corner she rested with eyes closed- not that it made a difference- aware of little else but the tepid beat of her heart in her ears and the everlasting ache in her left arm.

The muted whine of wheels and the heave of the floor forward then back brought her to her senses as the engine’s vibrations cut out, and the persistent sense of movement halted. So did the voices, if only for a beat before they launched into new vocalizations, heated and urgent.

A resounding bang echoed through the convoy’s innards, and with a sharp metallic shriek the world turned white. Wincing, Ojene flung her arms up- the manacles around her wrists clattered as she buried her face in the crook of an elbow, squinting vociferously against the pour of light as footsteps thudded in- the sharp retort of metal boots to a cermet floor.

“Get up!” cracked a voice. “One at a time, file out.”

As the pain receded the shapes around her began to resolve, throwing the Garlean soldier into sharp relief. A sword bristled in his hand, and he thrust it demonstratively towards the huddled lumps hazed into vague definition beyond the brilliant line demarcating the dark.

They obeyed, sheltering their eyes as they stumbled forward out the open lip of the convoy, the chains on their ankles turning each step into a commotion of steel. Ojene watched as the first stepped out, then the second, til finally she peeled herself from the floor. It was a miracle her knees held as she staggered forward, but she kept her eyes averted to the ground as she passed the soldier and stepped off the edge.

On the first heartbeat she was blind. She thrust her face back into her arm, and her throat crackled as a low hiss slipped between her teeth. A peculiar sensation twitched at her skin, prickling all the hairs on her arms to stand, when all at once realization flooded in. With a quiet gasp she dropped her arm. The light assaulted her, driving her eyes to slits, but she forced through, blinking rapidly until vision seeped back.

It had been so long. A lifetime, it felt like. She’d been treated to light this bright now and again, the sear of a ceruleum glow so concentrated it blazed like white fire directly into her eyes. But this wasn’t the unnatural light of Imperial machination, nor even the duller burn of a normal flame. And the sensation pillowing on her skin wasn’t the occasional gust through a vent, nor the humid mustiness of breath. This was fresh- alive. Real.

It was the breeze. Trickling against her like the subtle pull of a creek. And the light, warm and potent, was the consecration of the sun.

Ojene turned her head upwards, and the sun’s rays fell in graceful fingers against her cheeks, casting a gentle heat into her skin. Squinting still she searched for the source, and above the crest of the Royal Palace she found it- the brilliant orb hanging in a clear blue expanse. Like a comet, she thought absently, pointing her on.

A smile crept onto her face. How quaint it was, that the Garleans should bring her this gift! To take her here upon the roads of Ala Mhigo, beneath the open sky.

But just as an unidentifiable sound began to burble up in her throat, a surge of awareness struck her as the clamour of voices folded itself out of the blank fuzz of her senses. And as the two prisoners in front of her stepped forward her thoughts hastily ratcheted through what she’d missed- their orders. She hurried forward.

There were more soldiers walking astride them now, she distantly noted, each one of them visibly armed. A couple officers here and there, from the gunblades clasped at their sides. And beyond them- a crowd? Yes, that was it- a collection of people of all sorts lined the streets, shifting about on their feet. There was an energy about them she couldn’t quite place, a frenetic quality as if the lot of them had collectively held a breath.

Perhaps it was the soldiers posted around, black dots here and there in entryways and corners. Or the line of Garleans they approach, standing at attention. And just past them-

She wasn’t quite aware of her feet, numb as they were. It was for the best, for if she had any more self-possession she might have stopped short. For behind the line of expectant soldiers stood their destination- it could only be that. A gallows, long and accommodating with five waiting nooses.

Sensation curdled in her stomach, and Ojene lost all notion of her fingers. A strangeness fluttered in her chest, like the scintillation of a butterfly’s wings, and her chains rattled as she clenched her hands tight.

They were finally discarding her. She supposed she should be happy. It was after all what she had wished for, spitting blood and bile onto a stone floor she could barely see. An end to this, one way or the other. And she’d known, deep down, that no matter how hard she clung to the fantasy of slipping free, this would always be the result. It was just a question of when.

An odd sense of loss bubbled in her middle. Strange, given that she’d known she was a dead woman for weeks. Moons- years maybe. Perhaps she could imagine Sylbfohc’s face one last time. Yet as she groped for him all sense of it slipped away, a mirage to her fingers. A faint rumble burbled from her throat, splintered and hoarse, and as she squeezed her eyes shut the corners of her eyes burned.

There was no sense in mourning it. The wooden stairs were warm beneath her bare feet as she climbed, and the shadow of the noose fell across her face. It was a bit too long, a distant thread of thought noted grimly, knotted for someone shorter. A fact that promised an elongated death.

Even so, it would be over soon.

Five of them lined up in their places, and one of the officers stepped in front, facing the anonymous sea of faces upturned from beyond the line of Garleans.

“Mark this day!” the officer bellowed, her voice buzzed through the enclosed pipe of her helmet. “You stand witness to the hanging of eight traitors to the Garlean Empire.”

Movement caught the corner of Ojene’s eye, and she tilted her head slightly to see a soldier settling a noose around the neck of the first prisoner, a Hellsguard woman whose arm was chained to her side, for her second arm was gone. Her eyes bored into the wooden platform, sullen but blazing.

“It is the will of Gaius van Baelsar that you look upon their faces and study them well, for theirs is the fate meted out to all who defy his will. Anyone who affiliates with the so-called resistance will join them. And so will their families, down to the last parent and child.”

The noose drew sharply into place around the neck of the second prisoner, a short Highlander boy who couldn’t be more than fourteen. His body shook with shivering force, but to his credit he stared forward.

“We will tolerate no challenges, nor brook any dissent. Our demands upon you are simple, to follow the law and pay your tithe. Nothing about this should surprise you. But if your memory has lapsed, then simply look up to these gallows and watch.”

Ojene felt rather than heard the footsteps of the soldier as they drew up to her shoulder. Sensed the presence of their arms as they reached for the rope. She closed her eyes, and despite the rapid flutter of her pulse a peculiar sense of calm settled over her. Twine brushed the top of her head, then slid over her neck.

But as she felt the length of it move, rough fibers scraping against her skin as the soldier prepared to jerk it tight, a small hollow pop resounded under the rising tenor of the speech. The shifting rope stopped short.

“What-” she heard the soldier mutter under their breath.

A sharp crack retorted, and in a blink of an eye Ojene’s vision went white.

“No-” she heard the soldier’s sharp exclamation behind her, but other voices rang out in sharp cries of alarm as a series of answering cracks filled the air like hails of gunfire.

A chaos of sound erupted, pouring with heavy footfalls and the sharp bark of orders drowned out by the crashing screams of the crowd. Ojene turned, or tried to- one leg buckled beneath her, and though the rope was slack it barred against her throat. Stars sparked before her eyes, and her feet desperately groped for purchase as she pushed herself upright, grasping at the rope with a sharp gasp.

She stood there numbly, seeing nothing as her fingers looped between the rope and her neck, when a figure billowed through the whiteness, a vague shape darting into view then out again. Smoke bombs, she realized belatedly. But who-

A hand shot from the smoke and seized her arm- the grip squeezed down on the old break and pain sparked up her shoulder.

“Come on!” barked a voice, and a face surged out of the smoke. A Highlander, her eyes half-concealed by her brown hair splayed across them, a bandana wrapped over her nose and mouth. Beneath the loose collar of her sweeping Ala Mhigan robes, a slip of leather armor protruded.

Resistance, Ojene’s thoughts stuttered. It had to be. But that idea was a single disconnected thread pulled from the morass left of her mind. Her body froze around the impossibility, the ludicrousness, as if her reality splintered leaving all agency somewhere else apart. She didn’t move.

The woman loosed a low frustrated sound from her throat, and all at once she seized the noose and ripped it away. The ground dropped out from Ojene’s feet, yet she didn’t fall- instead she was left with the odd sensation that she was floating sideways through the air, with a weight clasped around one of her legs and the other hooked over her arm.

She’d been flung over the woman’s shoulders, Ojene realized in a start, and every pounding step the woman took jostled her bony side against the Highlander’s head.

“How-” Ojene whispered into the smoke, but the fangs of skirmish drowned her out, shattering the air in the sharp retort of metal on metal. The crack of wood. A halting scream.

Her head tilted, straining against her shoulder. Peering back the way they’d come- or at least the way she’d thought they came. It was impossible to tell, for though the smoke had begun to thin, disgorging the tempest of shapes reeling and crashing in vague silhouettes, the noose had already vanished out of sight.

It was odd, as her rescuer’s feet thundered against Ala Mhigan brick, carting her away, but for the second time Ojene’s middle bubbled with a strange sense of loss.

They spilled out of the far edge of the smoke into an empty alley, and the Highlander broke into a full-tilt run.

((@sea-wolf-coast-to-coast))

[aethelflaedladyofmercia]

What Might Have Been - 17

@goodomenscelebration - Theme Prompts

Continuing to post as many as possible in one evening!

If you missed a chapter, they are all available on AO3!

CW for briefly described but very bad injuries; and for creepy abandoned towns

For those who need a reminder: “Crowley” is our Crowley, while his “mirror image” is the Alternate Universe version. “Aziraphale” (or the “Guardian of Humanity”) is the Alternate Universe angel, while “Kasbeel” is ours, in disguise.

I apologize for that being confusing.

Holiday

“Tell me about the angel.”

Crowley’s mirror image slumped against the wall, looking blankly at the space between them.

It was the only thing he ever asked. He never spoke of his own Aziraphale.

At first, Crowley had thought it was a trick. He’d kept his responses vague, evasive. What do you want me to say? Smug bastard with white wings. The mirror image had simply nodded.

Over time, Crowley started telling stories from their past, short ones, ones he thought over carefully, to ensure they wouldn’t reveal too much.

He likes oysters, way too much. Just. Salty, briny disgusting oysters, and he’ll eat a dozen of them in one sitting. Slurps them, too.

He can’t stand Charles Dickens. No idea why. Might just be that his customers are always asking for him, but I think they met once.

He’s been trying to learn to pull a coin from someone’s ear for over a century. Still drops the damn thing half the time. Isn’t it only supposed to take ten thousand hours to learn a skill? He’s coming up on a hundred thousand hours I think, and he still can’t get the fingers right.

And then, somewhere along the way, he stopped even guarding himself that much.

“He helps people,” Crowley said, turning his leg, which was still stiff and sore from the last torture session. The floor around him was black with demonic blood. “Even…when it’s really not worth it, even when there’s something way more important going on. One time, we were at this little restaurant in Italy. I turn my back for a minute, and there he goes, off washing dishes. He hates doing that sort of stuff, you know, always leaves them in the sink until I take care of it. But the girl in the back had been sick, and he sent her home and took over the job himself. Didn’t even use miracles, by the way, and couldn’t figure out how the machine worked, so he did it all by hand.”

“What…” the mirror image asked. “What was the more important thing?”

“Oh, uh, I’d been planning to ask him something. Not important what. We picked up the conversation later, but, um, he really ruined my first attempt.”

--

A hundred and forty miles to London.

Alone, Kasbeel could fly the distance in just under five hours. He would be exhausted, but he’d had a lot of practice the last few years.

He was not alone.

A Roman legion could walk twenty miles a day, setting up camp every night and breaking it in the morning. They could have made it in a week. Harold Godwinson had crossed from Yorkshire to Sussex in a little more than that.

But Kasbeel wasn’t leading an army.

He was leading nearly three hundred tired, hungry humans, most of them young, through enemy territory. Where they could be spotted at any moment and taken from him.

He took a deep breath, and walked through the crowd.

“Patrick, how’s the leg? Healing well? Ollie, make sure you hold onto Jennifer’s hand. Mrs. Sherwood, that’s not too many children? Please let Mrs. Kumar know if you need help. Amiyah, why don’t you move up to the front where we can see you? Alex, please, stay with your group, I don’t want to ask you again.” He greeted as many as he could, clasping shoulders, grasping hands.

When he reached the front, Lyla was waiting. She’d arranged her hair to hide the Mark on her cheekbone, as many did if they could. He bit his tongue and didn’t say anything. It was her choice.

“Are we ready to go?” she asked, tilting her head towards the highway, cutting south towards London.

“I believe so.” He glanced at the sky, black, filled with stars once more. It was comforting, and frightening. What else would change? “Let’s get as far as we can before sunrise.”

--

Ishliah had never seen the world before the apocalypse. Just barracks and training until the day the war started, then fighting, and fighting and fighting.

What spread before her now was almost incomprehensible. Little short plants growing everywhere from the ground, a vibrant, impossible green. And the taller ones – the trees – reaching almost to the top of the wall, branches spreading thick with fruit. Little animals sat in the branches, singing, not as varied or interesting as the singing of angels, but music nonetheless.

All that, and the sky above, brilliant blue again – it was almost enough to bring tears to her eyes.

“Ishliah of the Seventh Battalion. Welcome to New Eden.”

She turned, and her heart stopped in her chest. That face – she knew him, would never forget it, though now he was in uniform, flaming sword in hand. But the pale curls – the round face – the blue-grey eyes…

“You…” she managed, weakly.

“That would be the confirmation I need.” He stepped closer, still smiling. “I am Aziraphale, Angel of the Eastern Gate, Principality of Earth and Guardian of Humanity. I believe you met someone claiming to be me, three years ago, according to your report.”

“That…it really was…you?” Her hands began to tremble, and she wondered if this was what fear felt like. She never felt it on the battlefield, but this was much, much worse.

Ishliah had lied in that report.

“No, it was not.” He patted her on the shoulder. “And I don’t believe many others understand what you truly witnessed. I don’t fully understand it myself, but I mean to. Now. You said this angel…” a screen appeared in his hand and he scrolled down, lips pursed as he read. “Here it is. He took you into a hidden room and tortured you for information? Is this true?”

“Yes?” She cleared her throat and tried again. “Yes. There was a great deal of pain and…he asked me questions…”

Something caught her eye down in the garden. A group of humans, being led to a smaller walled area not far away. The human in the lead was shouting, and they all seemed to be bound together on some sort of chain.

“Even here we have our troublemakers,” Aziraphale said, with something like regret. “Sometimes the children don’t grow obediently as we’d hoped, and sometimes the Retrieval teams make mistakes when identifying the Elect. Not often, but we have been very busy lately.” He nodded towards the smaller walled section. “The holding pen is their last chance. Gabriel will arrive in a week to deliver the final Judgement on them.”

“And…if they’re found wanting…?”

“They’re cast out, of course. Far from here. The Eastern Gate, you understand, is purely ceremonial.” He gestured to the outer wall beside them.

Ishliah glanced down to see, not quite directly below them, a single stone missing from the completely smooth face of the wall. It hardly looked large enough for even a young human to slip through. She checked the inside curve of the wall. No breaks there – the missing stone didn’t even reach all the way.

She looked up again to find the Guardian scrolling through her report with pursed lips. “Ishliah. I wonder if, perhaps, you weren’t completely honest in what you said?”

She clenched her jaw, the fear suddenly reaching a height she had never suspected. Was this why traitors deserted? She would do anything not to feel this way again…

But the Guardian merely smiled, stepping close, lowering his voice. “My dear. Do not worry. What you witnessed was…truly extraordinary, and of course you thought no one would believe you. But this is no longer an isolated incident. There have been…other reports, curious ones, and yours doesn’t quite line up. But if you tell me the truth now, all will be forgiven.”

Her eyes slid again to the holding pen. “All?”

He rested a hand on her back, turning her away, until she faced him and only him. “Now, Ishliah. Tell me about the angel.”

--

“Tell me about the angel.”

Crowley tried to sit up straighter. His leg had healed, but now there was some great gaping gash across his stomach, and the way his manacled arm hung kept stretching the wound.

“He’s a complete hedonist. Foods. Wines. He goes to the barber every month. His hair doesn’t grow, he’s never had a beard, and he never even changes his look. I have no idea why he does it, except to have someone wash his hair and buff his nails. But he always comes out smiling, like he’s found the secret to peace on earth.”

“Nh,” the mirror image said. Crowley looked up to find he had a hand pressed to the bleeding wound on his neck. But it hadn’t sounded like a noise of pain. “I…uh, yeah. I know the look.”

“He likes to spoil me, too, when he has a chance. Trying to cheer me up, I think. I don’t tell him when it works, though. I’ve got a reputation to maintain. One time in Rome, there was this place with oysters—”

“Stop.”

Crowley looked across the cell, but his mirror image might as well have lost interest, tugging himself towards the corner to sleep.

--

After three days of travel they reached Burton-upon-Trent.

The gang of wanderers divided into teams to explore, looking for supplies: food, medicine, clothing, shoes, anything that could be used as a weapon. Kasbeel and Lyla walked together with Squad A down the empty street, hot with the kind of blistering heat that only comes on a sunny day. Barricades were put up here and there, signs of the Marked painted on the walls, but no one came out to challenge them.

“I don’t like this,” Lyla muttered. “I don’t want to fight, but…where is everyone?”

All of the villages they’d passed had been abandoned. Apart from the angelic patrols, England was apparently empty.

Kasbeel shook his head. “The Sainsbury’s should be up ahead. Why don’t you…” he trailed off, looking at a few unbroken windows up the side of the street. “Why don’t you go on ahead? I have something to investigate here.”

Two hours later, Squad A emerged with four shopping trollies loaded with cans of soup, vegetables, powdered milk – everything they thought might still be edible after seven years. Lyla doubted it would last them more than a day or two.

No sooner had she stepped into the overly-bright day – she’d forgotten how painful the sun could be – then she heard a shriek, a high-pitched scream of a small child.

She spun, grabbing a can of food, ready to throw it at whatever angel, demon or human threatened her people –

The wanderers had gathered in the parking lot of the carwash across the street, and jets of water filled the air. She could still hear the children shrieking, but everyone else looked relaxed, calm, many of them smiling.

“What’s going on?” she demanded, prepared to push her way through the crowd, but they parted, pressing her forward until she saw the set up.

Four chairs, padded and high-backed, stood in a line across the parking lot. In each one, a child sat, dripping wet, while behind them the adults scrubbed and combed their hair, snipping with delicate scissors. They passed a hose up and down the line of chairs, rinsing the children off.

On one side, Alex had mastery of a single hose, waiting until a chair was free. “Next!” Ollie ran up, bouncing eagerly for his turn. Alex turned on the hose and drenched him, from head to toe, while the little boy shrieked, jumping up and down in the water. “Alright, you’re clean, go get your hair cut.”

On the other side, Kasbeel had set up a small table with two chairs. He sat on one side, and delicately rubbed at Mickey’s nails with an emery board, a pair of glasses she’d never seen before perched on his nose. “Ah, Lyla, you’re back. Join the queue, but be careful, many of the older customers are finding Alex’s methods a little intense.”

“What are you doing?” Lyla shoved at the table, causing little bottles of nail varnish to rattle. “You could have been helping us find food, and instead you’re – you’re wasting time!”

“I most certainly am not. Time is a precious commodity, you know, and ought never to be wasted.” He put down the emery board. “Do you want a color, Mickey? I think the pale pink would look wonderful.”

And Mickey – tough, stoic Mickey, veteran of five battles in the demonic army, Mark emblazoned on his brow for all to see – asked, “Can I try the gold? I like the way it shines.”

“Of course. A wonderful choice.”

“Look at me!” Lyla slammed her hand onto the table again. “What is wrong with you? We need to get everyone ready to move, we’re still weeks away from London. We don’t need—”

“My dear, you most certainly do need.” Kasbeel pulled off the glasses, brows snapping down. “Look at our people. They’ve been living in the mountains, in the dirt, covered in their own filth. It isn’t right.”

“So what? Who cares how we look? Humans lived like that for thousands of years. Our ancestors didn’t need to be pampered, they survived with the bare minimum—”

“Oh, no, who told you that?” Kasbeel shook a jar of nail varnish and began applying the first coat to Mickey’s nails. “I was there, and I can tell you. People bathed. People spent hours on their hair, and their eyebrows, and their nails, and elaborate henna tattoos, although I wasn’t able to find any supplies for that. It isn’t about wanting to look good, or to impress anyone. It’s about taking care of yourselves.” He blew a breath across Mickey’s nails, encouraging them to dry. “Being clean, being groomed, it makes humans feel human again.”

Lyla’s lip curled in disgust. But she looked back at the crowd, the smiling faces, the way the kids splashed in the puddles with bare feet, the way the adults laughed behind the stolen salon chairs, passing the hose back and forth. The teenagers all tugged at each other’s newly-short hair, running their fingers through it, marveling in how light it felt on a hot day.

She hadn’t seen her people like this. Hadn’t seen anyone like this. Not in so very long.

“Fine. If that’s what you want. And since we’re clearly going to spend the rest of the day here, I might as well look for a place to sleep. Something that’s actually necessary.”

She stormed up the street, past the shattered windows of the salons and nail parlors, past the Sainsbury’s again, and around the corner. She kept walking until the sounds of the crowd at the carwash were long gone, then just stood, quietly, in the street.

She wanted to scream, until the knot in her stomach was gone. But she wasn’t a kid anymore, and she couldn’t find the voice for it. So, she just stood there, in the street, fists clenched.

Until Kasbeel’s hand landed on her shoulder. “Would you like to talk about it, my dear?”

“Talk about what? I told you – I’m – I’m looking for a place for us to stay.”

“There were plenty of townhouses in the other direction, you know. And I’ve already sent a team to explore them. Unless you think a, er, door stripping establishment would make a better place to spend the night.”

“I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t know why I’m mad, I feel like I don’t have any control over my mind. I’m just – I have a million thoughts racing in my head and I can’t even slow down long enough to actually think any of them, I just know we have to keep moving.”

“You’re afraid,” he told her. “You’re stressed, and although I forget it sometimes, you are still very young. I shouldn’t ask so much of you.”

“I can handle it!”

“Yes, you can. You handle it very well, taking care of the others, taking care of your brother before that. But, you know,” his hand rested under her chin, lifting her gaze to meet his. “It’s perfectly alright to take care of yourself, too. Indulge a little. Let yourself be happy. They deserve it. You deserve it. And it will make you feel better.”

“I just…I’m not sure I can relax anymore. What if they come for us while we’re all standing around, or—”

“If they do, I will be ready. I promise. I have not let my guard down for an instant.” He wrapped his arms around her, pulled her close, rubbed her back like a child. “That fear you feel. You know if the angels come back, there’s nothing you can do, but you want to be ready anyway. Your mind is telling you to find a solution that doesn’t exist. I’m sorry. But there is something you can do, I think.”

“What’s that?”

“There are many of my former colleagues who believe that anything which makes humans happy is a sin. I believe it is always worth indulging, just a little, to show them how little you care.”

--

“Oh. And one other thing.” Gabriel wasn’t happy. He often wasn’t happy these days. Bringing about the end of the world, it seemed, was more complicated than anyone had expected.

Aziraphale kept his face carefully blank.

“We have reports of a gang of hundreds of humans moving south, but the scouts can’t seem to get near it. Vanishes every time they try. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about this, would you?”

“Yes. I’ve been following up on these rumors for some time. The circumstances appear to me, well, nearly incomprehensible.” He hesitated, but only for a second. “It would appear these humans are being led by a rogue angel, posing as a scout or a messenger.”

“Rogue? You mean a deserter?” A brief flash of anger in Gabriel’s eyes, but it quickly vanished, smoothed over by something calm and patient. “Well. At least my best agent is already on this. Glad you took the initiative. Now. Tell me about the angel.”

--

The mirror image didn’t say anything today. He wasn’t a mirror image, either. He’d angered the angels who had come in earlier, refusing to cry out as they hurt him. Shoftiel had left him as a serpent, coiled mutely on the ground, and then they’d turned to Crowley.

“I can tell you about the angel,” Crowley offered. His throat was still raw from the screaming. They hadn’t even asked any questions, simply given him back his wings and broken every bone in them. It hurt, worse than almost anything else in the last three years. He wondered if it would ever stop hurting.

The serpent lifted his head, then let it fall heavily.

“He…he…” Crowley closed his eyes. It was so hard to think of a story. Not just the pain. His mind longed to be blank. “He is so soft. Like a cloud, like a warm blanket, like a pile of feathers. And that’s all most people ever see of him. A fool and a pushover and a – a – a lazy pleasure seeker who likes his books and his chair and his food. It’s what he wants, though. He wants to be soft.”

He closed his eyes and tilted back his head, ignoring the way his wings felt like a thousand pieces of shattered glass.

Far away, an angel led a troop of humans down the motorway. He laughed as he walked, carrying one of the youngest on his back. In the week of travel, they’d grown dirty again, their nails had lost their color, their clothes become faded and stained. But they still smiled, still tossed their heads, running fingers through their hair. The young woman beside him had hers cropped almost completely off, exposing the Mark on her cheekbone.

Suddenly, the angel stopped walking, his eyes locked on the sky above. None of the others had heard or sensed anything, but he knew what was coming. Three hundred humans gathered close in the shelter of his wide white wings, and his eyes took on the color of steel.

“But then…when he needs it…when the things he cares for are threatened…he isn’t soft at all.”

[nightwang96]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, Nightwing (Comics) Rating: Explicit Warnings: Rape/Non-Con Relationships: Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson Characters: Dick Grayson, Slade Wilson Additional Tags: Blood, Biting, SladeRobin Week, Day 1: Highest Bidder Series: Part 1 of SladeRobin Weekend 2020 Summary:

Slade hasn't attended an auction in years, but apparently this year there's going to be something...special.

For the SladeRobin Weekend prompt Highest Bidder.

Slade didn’t usually go to these events. He had no real desire to mix with the kind of people they were aimed at and, frankly, he had better things to be doing with his time. He was only here now because he’d heard that there was going to be something special and, well, colour him interested. Interested enough to show up at least.

Leaning casually against the back wall, he scanned the huge room for anything or anyone that could potentially become trouble. Slade had only been to a couple of these in his time, but he was sure that this was the biggest crowd there’d been. They were crammed in like sardines, jostling and muttering excitedly. Even still, they were giving Slade a wide berth, a little pocket of space.

The only other empty space in the room was the stage. A clear delineation between the audience and the auction. Small and only slightly raised, but enough that even from his position at the back, Slade could still see it clearly.

The crowd was getting restless, the muttering now an impatient chatter that was grating on Slade’s nerves. Just as he was considering that maybe this wasn’t worth it, a woman stepped out onto the stage. All eyes were immediately on her as a hush fell over the room. Amelia Hart, the event runner, Slade recognised her from the few times he’d attended before.

She was a commanding presence, even Slade could admit that, tall and conventionally attractive with a confidence that rivalled Slade’s own. She spread her arms out to encompass the entire crowd and smiled.

“Welcome everybody!” She paused to scan the audience, her gaze catching on Slade and lingering for just a moment. “We have a treat for you tonight! I know you are all excited to see what surprise we have in store, but you will just have to wait until the end.”

She gave them a mischievous smile, dark eyes glittering and the crowd responded, swelling with anticipation.

“In the meantime we have some lovely pieces to auction off. First up this genuine Ming vase.”

Slade tuned her out. He wasn’t interested in whatever trinkets they were auctioning off. He watched the audience instead. Most of them were nobodies, new money with more cash than sense. Some though, Slade recognised. Drug kingpins and “business men” who’d gained their wealth through more...nefarious methods. Not a single honest person in the entire building.

Slade was forced to amend that statement as the last item was announced and an annoyingly familiar vigilante was dragged onto the stage.

Slade stiffened, pushing away from the wall. Nightwing had obviously been drugged, skin pale and sweaty, jaw slack but Slade could tell that he was coming around quicker than anticipated. He could see the subtle twitches of muscle under Nightwing’s scandalously tight suit as he tested the restraints.

The audience was silent for a moment before they burst into a flurry of cacophonous excitement. Amelia was playing up to it, twisting long fingers into Nightwing’s hair and pulling his head back to reveal the long expanse of his throat.

Her expression was one of smug satisfaction, almost gloating. Slade clenched his fists against the sudden surge of possessive jealousy.

“I knew this would get you all excited,” she laughed, winking at the audience. “This is your chance to find out who Nightwing really is,” she teased at the edges of his mask and, even drugged, Nightwing reacted, jerking his head back to snap his teeth against her fingers.

She snatched her hand back, her lip curling in anger briefly before suddenly remembering the audience and turning to smile widely at them.

“He’s a bit feisty, but I’m sure you’ll be able to handle him, and, well,” she stroked a hand across his tense shoulders, curled her fingers around his throat, “he’s pretty easy on the eyes.”

A ripple of laughter, some low murmurings of agreement. Nightwing’s jaw clenched.

“How about we start the bidding at a million.”

Slade’s wallet was about to take a very nasty hit. One billion to be precise. Slade knew that Harry Roswell at least would have kept bidding - had a personal grudge against Nightwing - but Slade has glowered him into submission. Dick Grayson was his and he’d be damned if he was going to let someone else get their hands on him.

They’d dragged Nightwing off stage and then Amelia had taken Slade’s arm and directed him into a back room.

“We’ve secured your purchase in the next room for you,” she met Slade’s gaze, “you are, of course, free to make use of the room if you wish. Or you can leave with him now. We can provide sedatives, for an additional price.”

“That won’t be necessary.” He stood, sweeping past her to push the door open.

“Take your time,” Amelia said as his hand closed on the doorknob. “Enjoy.”

Slade grunted in reply, stepping into the next room and closing the door behind him with a soft click. The sight that greeted him sent a rush of heat straight to his groin. Nightwing was chained spread eagled across the bed, completely naked except for his mask. His head snapped to Slade immediately, face set in a snarl.

“My, my, don’t you make a pretty picture,” Slade purred, leaning back against the door with a smirk.

“Very funny Slade,” Dick snapped. The drugs had obviously worn off. He was alert and flushed an angry red as he tugged viciously at the chains. “Get these off me!”

Slade hummed, tilting his head. “You’re not acting very grateful here Grayson. If it weren’t for me anyone could have found out your identity. Why don’t you say thank you.”

Dick scowled, gritting out a “Thank you,” that sounded rather more like a fuck you.

“We both know that I’m the lesser of two evils here. I already know your identity and I’ll let you go...eventually.”

They both knew that he was right. Slade could see it in the slump of Dick’s shoulders, the tension in his jaw. He stalked over to the head of the bed and ripped the mask off of his face none too gently.

“How’d you even get into this mess kid?”

Blue eyes blinked up at him. “It was a mistake. It won’t be happening again.”

Slade traced a finger gently across the red mark left by the mask almost absentmindedly, enjoying the uncomfortable look that flickered across Dick’s face.

“Slade,” he said, low and quiet. A warning. Not that he was in any position to be making threats. “Unchain. Me.”

Soft skin beneath his fingers, the burning, steady gaze. Slade couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this turned on. His armour was uncomfortably tight.

“I don’t think so,” he breathed out, savouring the look on Dick’s face - anger and underneath, a sort of uncertain fear. “I paid a lot of money for you pretty bird, I’m going to get something out of this.”

Dick’s eyes widened, his face twisting up and then Slade’s fingers closed around his throat, squeezing. Dick made a choked noise, his mouth opening instinctively, and Slade couldn’t help but lean down and seize that wet, pink mouth for himself.

It was like sparks across his skin. He groaned as Dick wheezed, squirming, and slipped his tongue into Dick’s mouth, licking into the heat of it. His fingers tightened convulsively and then Dick was biting down, blood spilling into both their mouths.

Slade jerked back at the sharp pain of it, releasing Dick who gasped in a desperate breath. He looked wild, chest heaving, eyes wide and blood on his lips.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Dick croaked. He twisted against the chains but whoever had secured him had known what they were doing. These weren’t some low grade handcuffs you could just slip out of, they were heavy duty manacles, locked tight around his wrists. Dick wasn’t going anywhere.

“I’m taking what’s mine.”

“I’m not yours!” Dick gasped, panicked. Blood trickled down his arm from beneath the manacle but he didn’t seem to notice. It was like watching a pinned bug, trying to flap its wings and escape, but only hurting itself further.

“For now? You are.” Slade brushed a thumb across Dick’s lips, smearing his own blood into the plush skin and Dick jerked his head away with a snarl. Undeterred Slade smoothed his hand downwards, across the flat planes of his chest, rolling a nipple between his fingers. It hardened beautifully beneath his touch. Dick hissed out an angry breath.

“I always knew you were gorgeous, but seeing you like this…” he flicked the nipple and whistled lowly.

“You’re a sick fuck,” Dick spat, “I never thought you’d stoop this low.”

Another flick, another angry hiss, like a cornered cat, or a snake before it struck. “Trust me,” Slade said, “I’ve gone much lower than this.”

If looks could kill Slade would have already been six feet under. As it was he only smiled indulgently and slid his hand lower. Dick sucked his stomach in instinctively, and Slade pressed down on it, feeling the soft give of flesh over muscle. He pressed harder until Dick made a pained noise. The sound of it went straight to Slade’s cock.

He stripped his armour off briskly, but left the clothes underneath. No longer constrained, he reached down and palmed himself, heat curling low in his gut. Dick was watching him, his face pinched, like he’d sucked on something sour. Slade’s cock throbbed.

There was a key to the chains on the desk. Slade picked it up and deftly unlocked the manacle on Dick’s left ankle. As soon as it fell away Dick kicked out, aiming for Slade’s face. But he’d been ready for it and with his other limbs still immobile Dick couldn’t get the proper leverage. He caught the ankle easily and folded his leg down until it was pressed against his chest in a position that looked uncomfortable, would probably be painful for anyone else.

It opened Dick up nicely. Slade pressed in against him, his weight trapping the leg and also forcing a startled breath from Dick. Slade rubbed his still clothed dick against him and enjoyed the brief flicker of panic that Dick wasn’t quick enough to hide.

“Get off me,” he grit out from between clenched teeth. Slade rolled his hips, wanting to get completely naked, to stretch out across Dick’s body and feel all that bare skin against his. But also enjoying the rush of power he felt, fully clothed whilst Dick lay naked beneath him, vulnerable.

Slade couldn’t help his groan, pressing his mouth against Dick’s collarbone. Dick grunted, trying to push his leg out from under him, squirming deliciously.

Despite what Slade had said, he’d never actually raped anybody before. Had never felt the need to hold someone down and force himself on them. And when he’d imagined fucking Dick it had always been consensual. He’d never expected to like this so much. Hadn’t expected the thrill at having Dick so helpless beneath him.

He reached between them, tugging his waistband down just enough to pull his cock out, hissing out a breath as cold air hit his overheated skin. He rutted forwards, his cock sliding across smooth skin and Dick jerked like he’d been struck.

“Slade please,” he said, desperation in his voice like it had only just hit him that this was really happening. Slade bit gently at his shoulder, sucking in a mouthful of flesh. He wanted to mark him up so that he’d never forget that he belonged to Slade.

More squirming, Dick’s voice louder, higher. “Please don’t do this!”

Slade shifted, pressing his hard cock against Dick’s limp one and lifted himself onto his elbows so he could look at Dick’s face.

“You beg so prettily,” he purred, thrusting down so that Dick was jolted across the sheets, the chains rattling. Dick’s face was a picture - desperation and animal fear.

Slade didn’t know what his own expression was, but Dick blinked at it and pressed his lips into a thin line, resignation and then a deep, primal anger igniting in his eyes.

“You’ll regret this,” he said, voice low and trembling. Heat prickled across Slade’s skin.

“I doubt that.”

He bent back over him and bit a deeper mark into the junction of neck and shoulder. Worried at it until Dick made a pained noise and then positioned himself against the soft heat of him.

Dick tensed, inhaling sharply. Slade pulled back enough that he could watch Dick’s face as he pushed in, see the pain and horror and disgust before Dick ground his teeth together, and squeezed his eyes shut.

It was tight. Tight and hot and so good and Slade couldn’t hold himself back from thrusting in hard, the dry friction almost painful.

Dick made a gasping, whining noise and then clenched his jaw so hard Slade was surprised he didn’t crack any teeth. Slade pulled out, pushed back in, groaned at the heat - the electric spark up his spine.

“Good,” he heard himself say, smearing the words into Dick’s skin, and was met with a breathless sob.

His hips were moving on their own, picking up speed. Heavy thrusts pushed Dick into the bed, jolting his body roughly, and Slade could feel a wet heat around his cock as something presumably tore. Dick choked out a cry and the sound spurred Slade on, urging him faster, harder.

The bed was hitting the wall with every thrust, the sharp bang accompanied by breathless noises that were being punched out of Dick. Slade was panting harshly, his own moans falling unbidden. He buried his teeth into Dick’s skin until he bled, over and over, the metal tang only heightening his pleasure. Dick was trembling beneath him, like a bird beneath a cat’s paw.

It rushed up on him, took him by surprise. He buried himself deep, held himself there as he came harder than he ever had before, his nerves singing.

Dick whined as Slade slumped down onto him, panting into his sweat slicked skin. Slade waited until the pressure around his softening cock became uncomfortable before pulling out and sitting back, surveying the mess he’d made of Dick.

He was pale and shaking, his face wet, and his eyes were still scrunched up. He was breathing heavily through clenched teeth, and he was covered in blood. It was dripping down his arms, painted across his neck and chest from the bites, smeared over the pale skin of his inner thighs. When Slade went to tuck himself away there was blood on his cock and speckled across his trousers.

Slade hummed, reaching forwards to brush his fingers over one of the deeper bite marks, still sluggishly bleeding. It was going to scar he noted with satisfaction and a warm, curling pleasure. Dick jerked at the touch, and finally looked at Slade, eyes bright against his washed out skin. Slade lifted his hand and licked Dick’s blood off of his fingers.

“Why?” Dick managed to croak out. He probably wasn’t thinking straight. Slade was a villain, and he’d never made his attraction to Dick a secret. The vigilante should have expected something like this.

Slade grabbed the leg that was still tucked up to his chest - now probably stiff and cramped in position - and tugged it straight. Dick groaned, his leg kicking reflexively but Slade pinned it to the bed.

“Why not?” He shrugged. “I want you, and this was the perfect opportunity to have you.”

Dick’s eyes were shiny as he looked away, his arms going limp in the chains. Slade bent and pressed his mouth against the soft skin of his throat, savouring the frantic flutter of his pulse. Then he pulled back and stood, moving away from the bed to pick up the key to the chains.

Dick watched him warily as the manacles dropped away, wincing as he pulled his arms and legs into a foetal position. Slade tutted and tugged an arm towards him to examine the damage to his wrists, rubbed raw and bleeding.

“You’re a mess kid,” he dropped the arm, and Dick pulled it against his chest, cradling it to him.

“Whose fault is that?” He hissed, glaring at him. Slade was glad to see that the kid still had some fight in him.

“Yeah, yeah, come on pretty bird let’s get out of here,” he stooped to pick him up bridal style and Dick gasped in surprise, shuddering at the contact and twisting away instinctively. He cried out as he fell back against the bed, squirming to get away from Slade.

“I can leave you here, if you’d like,” Slade growled, knowing that he wouldn’t. Dick was coming with him whether he liked it or not.

“I can walk!” Dick snapped, struggling into an upright position. He grimaced, panting, his hands gripping the edge of the mattress tight enough that his knuckles went white. Then he pushed himself up to standing on shaky legs.

“Where are my clothes?”

Slade shrugged, pulling his own armour back on. Dick scowled and wobbled forward a step, turning his face away too slowly to hide his wincing.

“I don’t have time for this,” Slade knocked Dick’s feet out from under him, catching the back of his legs and lifting him into his arms. Dick squawked and flailed against him. Slade could feel the sticky slick of blood where his arm was cradled under Dick’s thighs.

“Put me down!” Dick hissed, squirming angrily, but Slade was ready for him this time and clamped him tight against his chest. “Stop- stop touching me!”

As though Slade hadn’t already touched him, hadn’t claimed his body. Slade scoffed, gripping him tight enough that Dick let out a soft, pained breath.

“Settle down kid, I’ve had my fun,” he carried Dick over to the door, jostling him around so that he could pull it open. One last glance back at the blood-stained sheets sent a shiver of pleasure down his spine. And then they were out of the room.

Amelia was nowhere to be seen, but her guards were everywhere. Dick was tense and shaking in his arms, his hands covering himself, and he flushed at the weight of their gazes. Slade bared his teeth at them, his gut heating with possessiveness, but also underneath, a smug sort of satisfaction. They could all see the mess he’d made of Dick, the claim he’d bitten into his skin.

He was glad he’d brought a car and not a bike as he leveraged Dick into the passenger seat. Dick winced as his ass met the leather, shifting in a vain attempt to get comfortable. He should have put a towel down Slade mused. Blood was a bitch to get out.

The area Slade intended as a drop off wasn’t far away. He sent the coordinates to a number he knew would get picked up by the Bat. He had to time it right so that he wasn’t there when Batman showed up but also so that there wasn’t enough time for anyone else to get their hands on Dick.

He pulled Dick out of the car and pushed him down to sitting - his back against a tree - tying his hands behind the wood with rope. Dick made a protesting noise, his knees curling up against his chest. The rope had to be hurting his wrists but his expression was fierce as he glared up at Slade.

“You can’t leave me here like this.”

“Sure I can. I sent Bats a message, he’ll be along soon.”

Dick‘s face pinched, his lip curling. “I meant- I don’t want them to see me like this, I need some clothes.”

Slade smirked, reaching down to cradle Dick’s jaw in one big hand. He looked down the length of his exposed body, causing Dick to shudder and draw his legs closer to him.

“I think you’ll be just fine like this.”

Something flashed in Dick’s eyes, his expression strained.

“Please,” he said and the desperation in his voice was so similar to how he’d sounded as he’d begged Slade to stop that it sent a pulse of heat straight to Slade’s groin. He was surprised to find himself half hard in his armour. He was almost tempted to untie Dick and just take him with him, to keep him for himself, but he wasn’t exactly thrilled with the idea of an angry Bat on his tail, or trying to keep a determined Nightwing for any amount of time.

“See you soon kid,” he said, enjoying the look of defeat on Dick’s face. “Who knows, maybe we’ll get another chance to have some fun.”

Dick spat at him, eyes bright with fury. Slade only laughed and bent down to press one last, lingering kiss against Dick’s lips, his hand tightening on Dick’s jaw to keep him in place.

It was hard to pull away but the pay off would be worth it. Now there would alway be a little part of Dick that was his and, more importantly, Batman would know, would see it written all over his body.

When he got back in his car the smell of sex and blood still lingered, stains streaked across the black leather. He started the car, watching Dick through the rear view mirror. He’d visibly deflated as soon as Slade was out of view, face crumpling in a moment of vulnerability that Slade knew he wasn’t supposed to be witnessing.

And then Slade got to watch as it hardened, going carefully blank just as a black figure appeared in his mirror. Batman turned to Slade’s car and caught his gaze in the reflection. He started towards him - radiating dark fury - before freezing as Dick said something, his cape sweeping out to block Dick from Slade’s view.

He’d seen enough anyway. Batman would take Dick home and fix him up and Nightwing would be back on the streets in no time at all. Slade felt a low curl of satisfaction and anticipation heat his gut. The next time he saw Nightwing, he was going to have some fun.

[ifrit-ghoul-blog]

To Ashes

(continued from here.)

(part 2/2)

“Ghoul.”

The word cuts through the quiet dark, rippling through the void like a raindrop on still water. Awareness develops slowly; a soft process of becoming, of finding that there there is a body around the consciousness, sturdy and strong, that there is hard ground beneath kneeling legs, cold air caressing naked skin.

“Ghoul.”

Eyes blink, vision focusing, shapes taking form as pupils expand and contract, adjusting to the light. Lips part, sucking in air that is both life and death, cold and ash-filled, then another, and another, filling his chest, fueling the rapidly expanding awareness.

“Look up, ghoul.”

Eyes snap up immediately at the command, talking in the red robed figure watching with a closed expression. The cold eyes blink at the demon slowly before asking in the same quiet voice, “What is your name, ghoul?”

Name? Do we have one…? But there is nothing there in the recesses of its mind. Just quiet and static.

“We are… nameless,” the demon breathes, voice cracking and breaking as it stretches and tests its newfound vocal cords, words tripping on the ash-coated throat. The robed figure nods in satisfaction, their approval making its blood sing in happiness.

“You will serve the clergy and your master well,” they murmur, a hand reaching out to caress a cheek, wiping gray-white ash from speckled dark skin. “We chose you specifically for this task, rid you of the imperfections tying you down from coming in to your full potential. A new beginning, a clean slate.”

Stepping away from the ash-covered ghoul the cardinal motions to the waiting clerics, nodding at the first and second of them. “Get him cleaned up and provide him a new uniform.” He looks at the the third and fourth as the first two skirt around him after bowing slightly, going to speak softly to the kneeling ghoul. “Go make sure that his rooms have been thoroughly cleansed. It is unfortunate that we do not have the space available to house him somewhere else, so we make due with what we have. Keep nothing, burn it all without question. Failure will not be tolerated.” The last two brothers of sin bow and scurry away, leaving the cardinal to watch the other two clerics slowly help the ghoul to stand, giving him support as he relearns the function of his legs.

His eyes rest on the pile of ash the ghoul had been settled in, the only remains of his previous form and the granite altar. Five small, hardened puddles of melted silver mark where the chains and manacles had been, ruining the lines of the pentagram. A waste, for sure, but as he watches the ghoul totter after the two brothers of sin he smiles, knowing just how valuable a tool he’d just made.

Unseen to any, near one of the pools of silver, is a small splatter of gold. It’s the remains of a ring, melted down in the purifying flames, lost and forgotten beneath the ashes.

Basic functions slowly filter through, muscle memory coming to life. Legs move like this, knees bend like that, weight shifts, balance adjusts. Some ways down the hallway he pulls away from the cleric supporting him, body feeling weird and heavy but able to lumber along without tripping over his feet or tail.

The stone floor is smooth and cold under the soles of his feet, and at that realization the chill of the air becomes apparent, a shiver going down his spine, breath hissing through clenched teeth. Eventually he is lead through another doorway, one of the clerics splitting off to jog down the hallway while the other urges him to follow with a light touch to his shoulder. The floor of this place is different, not longer the smooth stone but instead rougher tile, and after another moment of staring blankly at the unfamiliar surroundings his mind seems to shake itself from it’s stupor. Baths, showers, washroom. The brother of sin guides him to one of the shower stalls, quietly murmuring “Call out if you need assistance,” before walking away. Ifrit stares after the man for a moment, blinking slowly before advancing to the knobs and handles set below the shower head, cranking on the hot water as high as it could go. As the water heats he glances at the items on a small shelf in the corner: soap, a washcloth, cheap containers of generic hair products. Ignoring them he steps into the spray of scalding water, sighing gratefully as the heat seeps into his body, chasing the cold away like the streaks of ash that darken the tile.

As he runs claws through his hair his fingertips graze something strange, something smooth and metallic around the base of his left horn. He touches it gently, finding it would turn after some gentle prodding without any pain, indicating it wasn’t something attached to the horn itself. He turns and pulls at it and it becomes loose, allowing him to slide it along the ridged curves till it comes off and he stares at it in his palm.

The heavy coating of ash slowly washes off, revealing a heavy gold band with intricately braided edges, glittering amethysts set alongside garnets on the face. Staring at it he wonders what it’s significance is, the metal heavy with more than physical weight but there is nothing in his mind that could explain such a thing. He sets it on the shelf as he reaches for the soap, turning his mind away from the piece to instead work at cleaning himself as he was bid.

He's leaning against one of the sinks dripping water all over the floor, peering at himself in the mirror, trying to find some bit of recognition in his reflection. He drags a claw down a maze of the blotchy dark skin, tracing along the bright speckles dotted across as his tail twitches. There's lines of old scars all over, the patterned skin masking them but he can feel them under his fingertips, a story mapped out on his flesh that he doesn't have any memory of. His mind is a clean, blank slate, just as the cardinal said.

The brother returns with armful of items, the first of which is a towel that he hands over, the rest seeming to be a folded uniform, complete with a mask and shoes. He dries off quickly, grunting softly in annoyance at the long strands of hair, combing it back with his claws to try and settle it yet it was an unruly mess. I'll just cut it off, what's the point of it anyways? It's just going to get in the way.

“You'll need to glamour them,” the brother shyly says when he looks at the mask, wondering how it fit over his horns. And just like that it snaps forward in his mind, the faint knowledge dredged from the deep recesses of his mind of the soft blanket-like magic to hide the most prominent of the ghoulish features. It's slippery at first but does not take him long to let it snap into place, blackened hide turned to pale skin, black curling rams horns replaced with the small horns common to the half-human ghoul forms. Pulling on the balaclava and mask he takes a last look in the mirror, straightening his cassock before he remembers the bangle he'd left in the shower stall. He goes and retrieves it, turning it over in his hand.

“What is that?” The brother of sin steps close, craning his neck to try and see what was in the ghoul's palm. He seems to pale when he sees the metal band, voice strained as he speaks. “Where did you get this, was it left in here?”

“It was around one of my horns.” His voice is still hoarse and gravelly, vocal cords needing more use to make it sound clean and smooth. He tilts his head slightly, noticing how the brother swallows heavily and takes a shaky breath. Why does the band bother him? What is it about it, is it cursed or something?

“Here, I'll take it.” The brother held out his hand, though now the thought of giving it up feels… wrong, like it's something someone else shouldn't touch. He can't disobey though, and reluctantly drops it into the waiting hand. The brother quickly pockets it, then motions him to follow. The ghoul falls into step easily, arms clasped at the small of his back at he stays a few steps behind the brother as they wind their way through the halls and corridors, up staircases and under archways. They finally come to what seems to be a dormitory section, the brother opening a door and ushering him inside.

“This is your quarters, if you need anything else, let one of us know and we'll do what we can. There's a list of your assigned duties, to attend to, if you have questions the clergy will be happy to clarify things for you.” And with that the brother darts away, as if he could no longer stand to be in the ghouls presence any long. The ghoul takes a moment to look around at his dwelling, finding uniforms hung in the closet and two guitars on stands, the desk having a phone with instructions on its use and the aforementioned list of work for him. But other than that, the place was cold, impersonal, devoid of anything that would say someone lived there. He takes off the mask and balaclava, sitting on the edge of his bed, feeling lost and adrift now that he’s alone.

Unable to stay still he sheds his fascia and cassock, laying them neatly over the chair at the desk before wandering into the attached bathroom. He finds scissors and a hair trimmer in a drawer and sets to work, trimming down the curly mass of soft dark hair, shaving the sides and back but leaving it a bit longer at the top. He runs his hands through it, admiring his job in the mirror and making a mental note to ask for some product to help style it a little. At least now it wouldn’t be as bad a mess under the balaclava and mask. Despite fixing his hair being a simple task he feel exhausted, worn out as if he’d been up and going for days instead of hours. He flops back down onto his bed, staring up at the ceiling and wondering why a strange, unfathomable feeling has lodged itself in his chest, till he drifts off to sleep.

[drabbleitout]

WIP Page | Tag | Characters

Chapter 1: The Job

The heat was stifling. Had been for days.

In its capital, people flocked to the docks at market to see what goods they could buy. Summer was a popular time for slave buying. Myghal knew it all too well. At the foot of the platform stood a variety of curious customers. Most were Druel, natives of Akafar, staring up with their beady yellow eyes, square heads, and short noses, all a leathery shade of clay. As prices were announced they grunted in protest, some shouting lower offers trying to haggle. As foot traffic passed the mass of bystanders, they slowed, looking over the Humans as if at a zoo. Akafar was a planet of tradition, a rare place for someone who owned Humans. Younglings pointed, pulling their parents to stop as they shouted their nosiness.

“For all of those looking for a young servant, here we have a female just fresh of age with no previous owner.” The wiry octopod at the end of the stage announced. The girl beside Myghal lowered her face as all eyes turned to her, “Tall and petite she is made perfect for interior duties, costing little to none in feed.” 

“Pick your face up.” Myghal whispered, catching her attention. With a nod towards the crowd he repeated himself, “If they can’t see your face, they won’t buy you. They’ll think you’re sick.” She didn’t lift her head or speak, her chains lightly clattering with her shaking, “If no one buys you they’ll send you to a kennel.” She paused, drawing in a deep breath before picking up her head to look out over the crowd. At once people called out offers, “Put your hands in front of the chains, if you have clean hands they’ll buy you for maid work. Trust me, it’s the best there is.” She moved slowly, unclasping her hands from her rag of a shirt to let the links slide around. It made the chains heavier but earned more bidders. 

She was bought by a slender Taxol man who was being shaded by a servant to keep him cool despite the wooly strands that covered him. Expectantly the girl looked to Myghal, waiting for a signal. He smiled, winking which made her sigh. 

“And for those of you in search of a veteran, this one may be just for you. We have a towering male, experienced with security, protection, mercenary service, or simply valet. This one has served in seven galactic armies, four mercenary guilds, and even as a close protection officer for your late General Pryork.” Myghal shifted his weight again, huffing as the girl stared at him. No one made a bid even as the price dropped to forty five orbs, “What he costs in feed he makes up for in profit. Never worry about theft or assault again! Send this Human into the draft in your stead!” By his voice Myghal could tell the man was beginning to give up. Few people mumbled to one another, shaking their heads, some leaving. If they couldn’t sell him now... Myghal shuddered thinking about it.

“I’ll give sixty orbs for him.” At the shout, Myghal turned his head to look at them, burning his jaw on the manacle. A preteen Druel boy stood near the back, lifting a clutch of orbs up into the air, waving madly. The salesman stood dumbfounded, “Sixty orbs if I can have him right now.” 

“Sixty orbs?” Myghal whispered to himself. 

“Of course!” The salesman waved to his partners, the rough ones who leapt on stage. From habit, Myghal took a step back, wincing as they roughly removed the cuffs. As they released him the Druel boy rushed up to the stage, his head still pointed in adolescence. He handed the seller the purse, quickly signing away at the paperwork. The assistants wrenched Myghal’s head back to remove the manacle about his throat.

“We’ll see you in a few months, Dekka.” One of them menacingly hissed.

“Getting too old for profit now. Next time we’ll just take you out to one of those dying systems.” The other chuckled, pressing the collar against his jaw, burning him as he worked the lock. 

“Now, fellas, I know you get heartbroken when I leave—” 

“Careful with him! Careful! I won’t have any damages.” The boy shouted, wagging a finger at the two men. Myghal smirked as they released his bonds. 

“That’s right, don’t tarnish the varnish.” 

“Get out.” The first and taller one growled. With that he was shoved towards the stairs, the boy waving him to leap down. With a sigh Myghal took direction, hopping down for the boy to take his wrist, tugging them through the crowd.

“Make way! Make way –move.” He shouldered past people who stood and gawked at Myghal, horrified shock on their faces as he grew too close, “We’ve got work for you and little time. We’re going to need to clean you up, you look horrible. You need something better to wear than just rags. Lady Imdali won’t accept you like this. Not at all.” He pulled trying to make Myghal go faster, “Come on, we don’t have a lot of time. We need to hurry!” Myghal lengthened his stride finding it was more acceptable for the rushing teen.

As he was taken through the towering, clay buildings more and more people gawked at him. He didn’t mind, too caught up in the coolness of the shade. With at least one hand free he wiped sweat from his brow, smearing dirt and his messy bangs away from his eyes. The farther they traveled up the winding hill, the more greenery embellished homes. There were trees with thick, wide leaves which provided shade on the brightly decorated houses. Myghal remembered the wealthier sections from previously being bought to fight in Druel's civil war. Luckily, it hadn't lasted long and damage was minimal.

Still they walked, homes growing several stories tall complete with gardens and courtyards. The home they rounded was three levels high with a taller tower, lined in arched pillars and teardrop windows. They passed through a gated arch, into a dark hall that led into a wide, sun filled courtyard. He gawked at the practical forest that lined the walls. Everything from wide palms and thorny succulents to flowering ferns and wrapping vines. Myghal had never seen such in a residence, nevertheless on the baked clay of Akafar.

“Hurry!” He was reminded, tugging him from his daze.

Inside was much cooler, open windows sweeping in wind laced with sweet scents of flowers. Every room had a rounded ceiling, the halls long decorative arches, an array of vining decorations lining the trim and insets on walls and doors. On a few of the walls were framed pictures of landscapes and strange pottery on pedestals. The air smelt of warm spices and nectar, intoxicating in the summer air. Several other servants met them, looking to be well off, fed often without bruises or marks, none of them even calloused. It was strange to see such, even given his own room to bathe in. When he exited he was given an outfit of white and black, tailored and trimmed like some sort of uniform. His dark hair was dried and styled, face shaven, and then he was lead out through a secret door into larger and wider halls. These were lit buy sunlight, leading around the courtyard where a few young trees stretched up. Myghal awed at every new room they entered, floors slick marble, shined and cleaned.

A room ahead was lit by muted sunlight that pressed through sheer curtains. There was much less air flow, letting the smoke of incense hang low. An array of pillows and cushions were thrown in piles around the room, on one of the towers sat a stocky, old Druel woman. She didn’t look at him when he entered, working a glittering cloth through her large hands as she sipped on a waterpipe. Myghal stood before her, subconsciously taking up his straight military stance. Her silken white hair fell to one side as she nodded, handing the fabric to a nearby servant. Her face was just as pale as her hair with strange dark markings like marble all across her skin. There were wrinkles around her mouth and closed eyes. The servant causally turned and left the room, leaving it quiet. Myghal began feeling weary at the warmth, comforting after a chilling shower. 

“Well, well, you were still there after all.” She chuckled smoke, her voice grating warmly like most elders did. She smiled, moving the hose slowly to her mouth as she lifted her head towards him, “How fortunate. I hope you haven’t been ill-treated.” 

“Absolutely not, your staff is wonderful.” She laughed again. 

“I meant the slavers, but I’m glad to hear my servants were good to you as well.” 

“Oh.” Myghal grimaced at the mistake. 

“So, tell me, what do they call you where you’re from?” 

“Myghal.” He answered with a bow of the head. 

“Hm, then you must be from Maga, correct?” 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

“Fine, fine.” She nodded, blowing smoke from the slits of her nose, still not opening her eyes to look at him, “Myghal, why don’t you sit down, you must be exhausted from your trip.” She motioned to any of the piles behind him. Backing up a few paces he sank down into a fortress of cushions, gritting his teeth at the rush of pleasure from resting his legs, “So, you’re from Maga? From what I hear you’ve been to a good many places. Is this your first time to Akafar?” 

“I served here under General Pryork when I was young. I’ve noticed very little has changed.” She rocked with heavy cackling, pausing to breath on the waterpipe before answering.

“You speak like such an old man. Even for being considered middle age of your kind, you must remember, there are those of us who watched the birth of stars.” She shook her head, “Unfortunately, you are wrong. So much has changed.”

A figure moved in from a doorway, Myghal double taking at the sight of them draped in a dark cloak, hood covering their features. He scrambled to his feet, at the ready if command was given. The cloaked figure drew up short, the room’s warm lighting of the room only shining on parts of their face: a chin, high cheeks, and the end of a narrow nose, “Stand down.” Lady Imdali snickered, “This louse won’t do you any harm.” 

“Mirth, what is this?” Came a dark and dangerous voice from the hood. 

“This is my newest purchase.” She was still amused, nodding to Myghal, “Take a seat.” Backing away hesitantly, Myghal lowered back into his place, eyes locked onto a bit of floor between him and Lady Imdali, “They had him for sale at the docks.” The cloaked figure hadn’t moved but Myghal could feel an acidic stare on him. 

“This was the replacement?” A snort, “Doesn’t look like a very good one.”

“Not a replacement.” She shook her head, facing lifting as the hooded man moved over to her. Myghal wondered if she could actually see somehow, considering the man moved just as silent as a shadow. Expectantly she held out a thick, four fingered hand, flashing large, square molars as a jingling purse was dropped into her palm, “You see, now he’s free.” 

“You paid that much for him?” 

“I didn’t pay anything for him.” She held the purse by the mouth, shaking it as she snickered. The cloaked figure sighed, hood shaking slowly as they turned away from her. His thin form drifted to a bare place of crimson carpet on the far wall, dark robes circling him like black hole. 

“I doubt he’s even worth that much.” Myghal heard the grumble, but kept his face impassive in front of his new owner. 

“Ira, what have I said about your manners? This is our newest Hailite.” 

“You can’t be serious.” Ira huffed, slouching back upon a pile of cushions, stretching out two long legs that crossed at the ankles. Myghal’s distrust eased into curiosity. 

“I’m very serious.” Lady Imdali turned to Ira, “You mustn’t forget I bought him.”

“You stole him.”

“No, my dear, you did that.” She reminded him with another shake of the purse. Ira responded with a throw of his narrow shoulders, “Well then, while we talk, would you like something to eat, Myghal?” And then, before he could answer, “Of course you would, I doubt they’ve fed you much.” She called for a servant to ask for meals, “And you, Ira?” She looked to him only gaining a grunt, “Very well, only for the two of us then.” The servant left and the room was filled in awkward silence, “Myghal here is from Maga.” Ira snorted, two slender hands escaping the darkness with a knife, cleaning his oval nails with it. Myghal couldn’t help but notice how more and more Human like he was, “He’s been a bodyguard and even served in Akafar’s army.”

“Is that what makes him a Hailite?” Ira hacked the title of protector.

“It would be wise to hold your tongue. Myghal here is more than capable, Ira. I’m sure, if it came down to it, he would have no problem dealing with you.” Ira mumbled his doubt, “Ira?” 

“What?” 

“Look at me.” Myghal wasn’t sure how she could see his face for the hood, or at all for that matter, “Tell me what you see.” Her whisper was calm, careful, like a mother speaking to their child. The void of the hood turned to Myghal. 

“A Human.” Ira muttered darkly, “A full blooded Human Kelt.” Myghal held face at the spitting word, clasping his hands as he stared unwavering into the hood. 

“What else?” She whispered, patiently waiting. “Ira?” 

“Nothing. That’s all I see –it’s all he is.” 

“There must be more.” Ira was quiet, easing his knife away as his legs retracted into the cloak as if ready to spring up. 

“Their skin is thin, they bleed easy –soft.” Ira continued in a dark whisper, “He can only take a few shots and cuts. It’s surprising he’s lasted this long.” Again he paused, hood tilting, “He’s the color of rust, something hungry about his eyes. Bloodthirsty probably. Yet he sits tall for a slave, someone’s trained him, taught him, but lessons only go so far.” 

“And?” Lady Imdali pressed. 

“He’s tall, even for a Human. His legs and torso are even in length, so he has decent balance –which may be what saves him.” 

“Is he strong?” 

“Probably.”

“And fast?” There Ira didn’t answer, merely standing. 

“I won’t stomach being in this room with him any longer.” He moved across the floor, grating a noise of disgust as he passed Myghal. 

“Ira, stop.” Lady Imdali commanded and he drew up instantly in the doorway. The cloak spilled from his thin frame, hanging from sharp shoulders like a shadow stretched by the angle of the sun, “Don’t forget what you owe me, sit back down.” Myghal cautiously glanced between them at the warning in her words. Ira didn’t move, “Sit.” The hooded head lowered before he snapped in a turn, sitting in place, “You’re to be present for this discussion.” With that she looked to Myghal, lifting her chin, “Human or not, the rumor is you succeed at every job you’re bought for. You practically work yourself out of an owner.”

“I do.” Myghal bowed his head still unsure if she could actually see him.

“Then this job will be no different. I’m sending you on a very important mission to deliver something for me.” Ira sat up straighter at her tone, “On the far side of our supercluster resides the smallest galaxy in the universe. In fact, it marks the very center of the universe.” Ira was to his feet again.

“This wasn’t what we discussed.” He interrupted, stopping her. Myghal noticed the man’s hand, smooth and padded with five fingers in a fist. His skin however was that of moonlight, a pale blue, “This was my job.”

“It still is your job. The whole reason I bought you!” She snapped in return, “If you would let me finish.” 

“If it’s my job, why is this Kelt here?” 

“To escort you.” Myghal gawked as he looked back at her, completely dumbfounded. He only ever worked completely alone or in an army, never with a –well, whatever Ira was. Lady Imaldi turned back to him, ignoring Ira’s jutting hand, “It’s called the Womb, the beginning of everything. I’m certain you’ve noticed the dying stars, races, entire solar systems? It’s spreading.” 

“The dying of stars?” 

“The death of life.” She nodded, “The universe is old, extremely old. Even older than the one that came before.” 

“Before?” 

“He’s a Kelt, too stupid to understand.” Ira snapped. 

“Ira, sit.” She said with a low voice of finality. He froze but didn’t follow orders. “Ira.”

“He doesn’t have the merit to see the Womb or the Nuclei.” She lifted a hand to him, spreading her thick fingers before slowly pressing down to the floor. Ira sank to a knee as if gravity suddenly changed. Myghal’s insides tensed, nervously looking to her not sure what he was witnessing.

“The universe is in a constant loop of death and rebirth, nothing about it or within it immortal. There have been several universes, each coming and going to give birth to the next, just as the years come and go. How long they each last depends on how they are born. This universe was cradled into existence by an order of diverse beings –true Hailites. Now, however, The Cite look to change it for themselves.” 

If Myghal’s stomach wasn’t a knot, it was now.

“Ah, I see you know the threat Cites can be. They were the ones who took you from your native planet Earth, weren’t they?” He only nodded, “They want as many of the stars to die out, reigning in their control for the rebellion of underlings. I predict they will let anyone besides their own freeze in space before they seek a solution. Then they will have nothing but loyal hounds of their own to restart the universe and shape it to their liking. They look to become gods.” 

“Won’t the Cite know what we're doing?” Myghal whispered as if speaking about them would bring them storming in.

“I doubt it.” She smirked, “That’s why I’ve hired only you,” she looked to Ira, “and him. Ira is a thief, if there’s one thing he can do, it’s get to and from a place undetected. But, as you can guess, Ira isn’t honed to battle or travel space such as yourself. He needs an escort. Someone with experience.”

“This wasn’t the agreement, Mirth.” Ira grumbled, “The Cite will be suspicious of a Human Hailite.” 

“No one is suspicious of any Hailite. If they are, make it work.” She stated slowly for emphasis, “You know what will happen if you don’t.”

“If it works, if I succeed, is the reward still the same?” 

“If you succeed together, yes.” She nodded deeply, “You will both be free.” Myghal became numb at the word, throat closing as he watched her, “I’m certain that’s something both of you can find comradery in. This is your only chance to gain what you seek. Do I have your word, Ira?” He hesitated before gathering himself, sitting back against the corner of the doorway. The servants entered with warm plates of soup and broiled meat. Myghal’s stomach was still unsettled, but the smell was pleasant. Once the food was handed out Ira stood, hooded head turned for Myghal. The servants left and there was quiet. 

“You may go, Ira. Pack for the morning.” He didn’t bow or snarl, turning on his heels to leave the room. 

[joshbreal16yes]

About the Author

Maria V. Snyder is the New York Times bestselling author of the Study series, the Glass series, the Healer series, Inside Out, and Outside In. Born and raised in Philadelphia, she earned a Bachelors of Science degree in Meteorology from Penn State and a Master of Arts degree in fiction writing from Seton Hill University. Unable to part ways with Seton Hill, Maria is currently a teacher and mentor for the MFA program. Find her on the Web at MariaVSnyder.com.

From Publishers Weekly

Starred Review. Shivers, obsession, sleepless nights—these are the results not of one of the milder poisons that novice food-taster Yelena must learn during her harrowing job training but of newcomer Snyder's riveting fantasy that unites the intelligent political focus of George R.R. Martin with a subtle yet potent romance. Through a stroke of luck, Yelena escapes execution in exchange for tasting the food of the Commander, ruler of Ixia. Though confined to a dank prison cell and doomed to a painful death, Yelena slowly blooms again, caught up in castle politics. But some people are too impatient to wait for poison to finish off Yelena. With the help of Valek, her steely-nerved, cool-eyed boss and the Commander's head of security, she soon discovers that she has a starring role to play in Ixia's future—a role that could lead to her being put to death as a budding magician even if she hits each cue perfectly. The first in a series, this is one of those rare books that will keep readers dreaming long after they've read it.

Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

Locked in darkness that surrounded me like a coffin, I had nothing to distract me from my memories. Vivid recollections waited to ambush me whenever my mind wandered.

Encompassed by the blackness, I remembered white-hot flames stabbing at my face. Though my hands had been tied to a post that dug sharply into my back, I had recoiled from the onslaught. The fire had pulled away just before blistering my skin, but my eyebrows and eyelashes had long since been singed off.

"Put the flames out!" a man's rough voice had ordered. I blew at the blaze through cracked lips. Dried by fire and fear, the moisture in my mouth had gone and my teeth radiated heat as if they had been baked in an oven.

"Idiot," he cursed. "Not with your mouth. Use your mind. Put the flames out with your mind."

Closing my eyes, I attempted to focus my thoughts on making the inferno disappear. I was willing to do anything, no matter how irrational, to persuade the man to stop.

"Try harder." Once again the heat swung near my face, the bright light blinding me in spite of my closed eyelids.

"Set her hair on fire," a different voice instructed. He sounded younger and more eager than the other man.

"That should encourage her. Here, Father, let me."

My body jerked with intense fear as I recognized the voice. I twisted to loosen the bonds that held me as my thoughts scattered into a mindless buzzing. A droning noise had echoed from my throat and grew louder until it had pervaded the room and quenched the flames.

The loud metallic clank of the lock startled me from my nightmarish memory. A wedge of pale yellow light sliced the darkness, then traveled along the stone wall as the heavy cell door opened. Caught in the lantern's glow, my eyes were seared by the brightness. I squeezed them shut as I cowered in the corner.

"Move it, rat, or we'll get the whip!" Two dungeon guards attached a chain to the metal collar on my neck and hauled me to my feet. I stumbled forward, pain blazing around my throat. As I stood on trembling legs, the guards efficiently chained my hands behind me and manacled my feet.

I averted my eyes from the flickering light as they led me down the main corridor of the dungeon. Thick rancid air puffed in my face. My bare feet shuffled through puddles of unidentifiable muck.

Ignoring the calls and moans of the other prisoners, the guards never missed a step, but my heart lurched with every word.

"Ho, ho, ho...someone's gonna swing."

"Snap! Crack! Then your last meal slides down your legs!"

"One less rat to feed."

"Take me! Take me! I wanna die too!"

We stopped. Through squinted eyes I saw a staircase. In an effort to get my foot onto the first step, I tripped over the chains and fell. The guards dragged me up. The rough edges of the stone steps dug into my skin, peeling away exposed flesh on my arms and legs. After being pulled through two sets of thick metal doors, I was dumped onto the floor. Sunlight stabbed between my eyes. I shut them tight as tears spilled down my cheeks. It was the first time that I had seen daylight in seasons.

This is it, I thought, starting to panic. But the knowledge that my execution would end my miserable existence in the dungeon calmed me.

Yanked to my feet again, I followed the guards blindly. My body itched from insect bites and from sleeping on dirty straw. I stunk of rat. Given only a small ration of water, I didn't waste it on baths.

Once my eyes adjusted to the light, I looked around. The walls were bare, without the fabled gold sconces and elaborate tapestries I had been told once decorated the castle's main hallways. The cold stone floor was worn smooth in the middle. We were probably traveling along the hidden corridors used solely by the servants and guards. As we passed two open windows, I glanced out with a hunger that no food could satisfy.

The bright emerald of the grass made my eyes ache. Trees wore cloaks of leaves. Flowers laced the footpaths and overflowed from barrels. The fresh breeze smelled like an expensive perfume, and I breathed deeply. After the acidic smells of excrement and body odor, the taste of the air was like drinking a fine wine. Warmth caressed my skin. A soothing touch compared to the constantly damp and chilly dungeon.

I guessed it was the beginning of the hot season, which meant that I had been locked in the cell for five seasons, one season shy of a full year. It seemed an excessively long time for someone scheduled for execution.

Winded from the effort of marching with my feet chained, I was led into a spacious office. Maps of the Territory of Ixia and the lands beyond covered the walls. Piles of books on the floor made walking a straight line difficult. Candles in various stages of use littered the room, singe marks evident on several papers that had gotten too close to the candle's flame. A large wooden table, strewn with documents and ringed by half a dozen chairs, occupied the center of the room. At the back of the office a man sat at a desk. Behind him a square window gaped open, permitting a breeze to blow through his shoulder-length hair.

I shuddered, causing the chains to clatter. From the whispered conversations between prison cells, I had determined that condemned prisoners were taken to an official to confess their crimes before being hanged.

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