#he usually started barking and howling before the bell was even done echoing

[heybaetae]

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[mustardyellowsunshine]

All of Your Pieces

"I love you, I love you

And all of your pieces"

Pieces | Andrew Belle

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Protective

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"Here."

Kagome startled when a bundle of bright red cloth was abruptly shoved under her nose. She blinked at it for a moment, before her gaze traveled up an extended white-clad arm, across broad shoulders, up to intent grey eyes surrounded by hair so black it nearly blended into the night.

"For... me?" she asked.

A corner of Inuyasha's mouth curved down in a half-scowl. "No, for the rock behind you. Of course you! Who the hell else would I be talking to? "

Too bemused to be offended by his sarcasm, she hesitantly reached up and grasped the suikan he held out to her, noticing as she did his blunted human nails against the fabric. "But," she said tentatively, "won't you be cold?"

He'd already retracted his arm and dropped down to sit on the ground a few feet away from her. He'd just finished building up the fire, which guttered weakly in front of them, already on the verge of going out. It had been raining steadily for most of the day, and though the rain had stopped some hours ago, the ground was still damp. It had taken them ages to find wood that looked dry enough to burn, and even longer to get a flame started. The prospects did not look good for their little campfire, which meant they were in for a long, uncomfortable vigil. The moonless night was dark and chill, and had only just begun.

At her question, Inuyasha merely scoffed. "I'll be fine. Just 'cause I'm human for the night don't mean I'm a complete weakling." His tone was all gruff nonchalance, but the set of his jaw was stiff, and his shoulders looked tense.

Afraid to offend him by refusing it, and much too embarrassed to suggest they share it, Kagome frowned as she slipped the suikan around her shoulders, gripping the edges closed under her chin. "I wasn't suggesting that you were. But even strong humans can get sick in the cold."

"Just shut up and keep it on, will you?" he barked out, sharp and irritated. "The last thing I need tonight is your ass getting sick." His voice trailed off with what sounded like a muttered, "Pathetic woman."

For a moment, she felt a lick of anger, a smarting sort of offense. Her frown deepened, and she opened her mouth to snipe right back—until she noticed the way his eyes kept glancing between her and the quickly-dying fire, between her and its narrowing radius of light, the dark night beginning to hem them in. She saw his jaw clench, watched his hand grip his sword and the minutest movement of his legs as he shifted ever so slightly closer to her.

And she realized all at once that his roughness was not the pompous contempt he pretended it was—it was concern. Deep concern. For her.

He should have been fearing for himself: should have been afraid for his own human body's susceptibility to the elements, worried for his own security against unseen enemies through the long night of his vulnerability.

But perhaps, in his eyes, it was no longer just his night of vulnerability. It was hers, too, and that's what bothered him the most. And for the first time, she began to understand just how deeply her safety mattered to him. How protecting her had gone from a practicality to an instinct, a need.

Just as suddenly as it had come, her anger faded. Closing her lips with a soft sigh, she looked back towards what was left of their campfire. Its smoking embers glowed feebly, and neither she nor Inuyasha made any move to stoke it. She glanced back to the man beside her. He fairly radiated tension, face tight with it, posture utterly rigid as his eyes kept darting between her and their surroundings.

Wordlessly, Kagome scooted across the remaining few feet between them, until her right side was pressed against his left. He startled a little, muscles twitching, but didn't otherwise move. Knowing it was the only comfort she could offer him—wishing she could do more—she slowly leaned her weight against him, resting her head on his shoulder and hooking her elbow through his, her hand sliding down his forearm until it found his larger hand where it rested on his thigh. Not quite brave enough to hold it the way she wanted to, she settled for looping her pinky finger around his. She felt his gaze—warm as a flame—on her face, but she just kept watching the fading embers of the campfire.

When the fire went out and the dark of night rushed over them, she rubbed her cheek against his shoulder and squeezed his arm. A moment later, she felt his finger rub against hers in the barest caress.

They stayed that way until dawn.

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Wild

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The first time Kagome heard him laugh, all she could do was stare.

She rode on his back, knees clamped on either side of his waist, arms looped around his shoulders. His hair streamed out behind him as he ran, tickling her face when it wasn't dwarfing her completely.

It was early morning, the sun still low in the sky as the half-demon leapt through the trees of an expansive forest. They had just spent the better part of two days holed up in an abandoned hut while a storm raged outside. The entire two days, Inuyasha had prowled around the confines of the hut, apparently unable to sit still and wait it out. He'd paced and grumbled and cursed. The few times she'd managed to coax him into sitting down, or stretching out in his usual careless sprawl, he'd tapped his foot, jiggled his legs, strummed his claws against the ground, flicked his ears—some part of his body in constant motion—the whole time scowling at the wall across the room as though the sheer force of his frustration could end the storm.

Kagome had been about ready to strangle him when the storm finally broke early that morning. Inuyasha had taken one sniff of the air, muttered a relieved "Finally!" and wasted no time slinging her onto his back and taking off through the door.

He ran with extra energy and speed that day, his leaps farther and higher than usual. As a result, his landings were few between and a touch on the reckless side, his feet finding purchase on thin branches, steep ledges, and precarious boulders. The whole time Kagome's stomach felt like it had climbed up into her throat. All she could do was grip his shoulders and keep her eyes fixed on the back of his neck.

Then he'd taken a particularly tall leap, up into the branches of a towering tree near the crest of a hill. He'd paused for a moment on one of its highest branches, foot braced against the bark—then with one powerful push of his legs, he'd launched them both into the air, soaring through the sky. Wind tugged at their hair and clothes, creating the feeling of complete weightlessness. At the peak of the jump there came a moment of breathless exhilaration, when Kagome felt like she was simply floating in midair, the world spread out below her like a pastoral painting, beautiful and remote.

But then the inevitable descent began, and she realized what Inuyasha probably hadn't cared to notice: he'd jumped off the highest peak in the vicinity, and there was nothing of equal height to land on. They were going to have to drop nearly straight to the ground.

The realization took a split second, and then they were falling. Kagome's stomach dropped, her heart stuttered in her chest, and burying her face against Inuyasha's neck, she let out a shrill squeak—there was no other word for it—and gripped his shoulders with all her strength, knees squeezing his waist for dear life. He tightened his grip on her legs, and she felt rather than heard his voice, rumbling through his back, reverberating into her body.

They fell with a speed Kagome would remember in her nightmares. Her heart thudded so hard she thought she’d have a heart attack. Their hair whipped around their heads, silver and black mixing in a waving mass, and wind howled in Kagome’s ears. It was all cold slicing wind and the sensation of plummeting, her stomach shriveling with fear, and—

—suddenly the air was punched out of her lungs, Inuyasha’s shoulder slamming right into her diaphragm (when had she slid up so high?); a hard jolt shuddered all the way through her body, and she would have flown forward over Inuyasha’s shoulder if he hadn’t wrapped a strong arm around her waist, keeping her draped over him. They were still in motion, skidding fast down the slope of a hill. A quick succession of images—tree branches, rock-studded dirt, Inuyasha’s feet, the red of his robes—blurred together, disorienting her. She closed her eyes and struggled to inhale. After a few heaving breaths, she was able to get her breathing somewhat back under control.

They finally slid to a halt, Inuyasha’s torso lurching forward, then snapping back from the momentum. Kagome opened her eyes and was met with the sight of Inuyasha’s waist and legs; his feet were planted firmly apart, toes spread wide in the dirt. She tried to lift herself up, bracing her elbows against the line of his shoulder, and turned her head to look at him.

He was smiling, wide and exhilarated. Adrenaline had brought color to his face and a gleaming spark to his eyes. The sight of him had Kagome sucking in a quiet breath. Any irritation she may have felt, any residual fear from the reckless freefall, melted away in a single moment.

Then he closed his eyes, tilted his head back, and let out a whoop of laughter that echoed through the forest.

And Kagome could only stare, her heart fluttering.

She’d never heard him laugh. Not like that.

She’d heard him jeer at enemies. She’d heard him snicker in contempt or dismissal. Sometimes she’d even heard him snigger at her expense when he thought she’d done something stupid. But never a laugh like that. So carefree. Wild. Completely unguarded.

Then he looked at her, still with that broad boyish smile, the hint of a fang poking out from beneath his lip, and said, “Ready to go again?”

She twisted her fingers into the material of his suikan. She opened her mouth to say “Hell no!” but instead heard herself whispering, “Okay.”

She wanted to keep that smile on his face.

He rapidly moved her to her previous position against his back, and then he was off, leaping high into the air.

And though her stomach roiled, and her limbs quivered, she just pressed her face into his neck and smiled, listening to him laugh.

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Thoughtless

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“Could you be any more useless?”

Kagome couldn’t get it out of her head. His voice raised, harsh, dismissive.

She pressed her face into her raised knees, hugging her legs against her chest. The tree branches above her swayed in the breeze, leaves fluttering against each other. The sound should have been soothing, but she couldn’t hear anything beyond his voice in her head.

“Are you even trying?”

Her breath hitched. Her throat felt tight.

Of course she was trying. She’d been trying since the day she was thrown into the past. Trying to learn to fight, trying to use miko powers she hadn’t even known she had. Trying to befriend a prickly half-demon who wanted nothing to do with her.

“Could you be any more useless?”

Her arms squeezed more tightly around her body. Sighing against her legs, she turned her head to rest her cheek against her knees.

They’d been fighting, of course. And she’d certainly been just as insulting to him, giving back as good as she got. Even egging him on a bit. Part of Kagome knew he probably didn’t mean it, just as she hadn’t meant half the things she’d said. But remembering that sharp edge in his voice, part of her had to wonder…

She sat under the tree, trying to listen to the wind, watching the light slowly fade in the evening sky. She felt wretchedly alone.

There was a quiet rustle behind her. Lifting her head, she glanced to her right—and there he was. Sitting cross-legged beside her, a few feet away.

He wasn’t looking at her. He stared out into the woods around them, taking as much notice of her as he would a pebble on the ground.

She frowned, opened her mouth to say something. But then she stopped. Maybe it was the tenseness around his eyes. Or the grim line of his lips. Or the way his shoulders were a little hunched, as though waiting for some anticipated blow. Or maybe it was the way his ears were turned in her direction. Trained on her.

Closing her mouth, she lowered her head back down to her legs, watching him next to her in the twilit gloom.

A long stretch of silence passed. Kagome kept watching him—his pale hair almost glowing in the dusk—when finally his gaze cut to her, gold glinting in the starlight. She sucked in a breath. Waited.

He kept his eyes on hers, steady and resolute. Too caught to look away, Kagome lifted her head again. Parted her lips. “Inuyasha… I’m…”

She trailed off, unsure how to continue.

A beat passed. And then he nodded at her. Just a short jerk of his chin. She might have thought she’d imagined it if she hadn’t been paying such close attention.

She hesitated for a moment, then nodded back.

He glanced away, back towards the trees. Kagome couldn’t help but notice that the line of his shoulders looked less strained.

He sat there with her in silence, and she no longer felt alone.

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Jealous

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"You smell terrible."

Kagome paused in the middle of her dismount from the edge of the Bone Eater’s Well, and glared at the hanyō standing nearby. "Excuse me?!"

It looked like Inuyasha had been lounging against a nearby tree before she arrived. Now he stood a few paces from its trunk, arms crossed over his chest and a scowl on his face. “You heard me.”

Kagome stepped away from the Well and approached him, clenching the straps of her backpack hard. She frowned and snapped, “What’s gotten into you?”

The hanyō leaned forward, took a loud exaggerated sniff, and growled, “What’s gotten on you? Your time ain’t exactly fragrant, but this downright reeks.”

“I do not reek!”

“You do.”

“Do not!”

“Yeah? And which one of us has the yōkai nose?”

Kagome’s face heated, and an unwelcome twinge of self-consciousness leached away some of her ire. She hadn’t exactly taken the time to bathe before she came back…. resisting the urge to sniff at herself, Kagome opened her mouth, closed it, and finally huffed out in a blustery sigh, “You are completely insufferable sometimes!”

She turned on her heel, heading towards the direction of the village, but stopped when he called out, “And here I thought you went back home for your tests. Tch! Lying bitch.”

Spine going completely rigid, Kagome slowly turned back around. Her blistering glare would’ve sent anyone else scurrying for cover. “What did you say?”

But Inuyasha had never had the good sense to back away from a fight, and had never had any sense when it came to the girl in front of him. “I said,” he repeated slowly, punctuating each word with a step towards her, “That you’re a lying bitch.”

Kagome walked forward to meet him, getting right up in his space and jabbing a finger into his chest. “I don’t know what your problem is, Inuyasha, but let’s make one thing clear.” Reaching up and grabbing a lock of his hair, Kagome tugged on it hard, making him snarl. “I’ve never lied to you! Not ever! What exactly are you suggesting that I do at home, huh? It’s not like I’m running away to goof off! I have serious things to do there too, you know!”

The sneer that lifted his upper lip had her blood boiling. “Sure,” he said, voice dripping in cynicism, “things. That’s why you smell like that.”

She grit her teeth, practically snarling herself. “Like what?!”

He leaned in an inch, and she was suddenly aware of how much taller he was than her, his body practically dwarfing hers. She wouldn’t let herself take a step back, though, and continued glaring up at him, fingers still tight around his hair.

There was no mistaking the animalistic aggression in his tone when he bit out, “Like some bastard has been all over you.”

Kagome frowned, blinked. “Huh?”

Inuyasha lifted his chin, eyes narrowed nearly to slits, and exhaled harshly through his nostrils. “You reek of some… some…” he floundered for a beat, then snarled, “some weakling boy.”

It took Kagome a few seconds to process that. Then realization struck, and before she could really think better of it, she murmured a quiet, “Oh.”

His face tightened, and he stared at her a moment. “Yeah,” he replied, “fucking oh. I’ve been waiting here for days, thinking you were at your school, and instead you were,” he faltered again, and flapped his hands angrily in her direction, “running around with some boy—”

Kagome’s hand released its grip on his hair and dropped down to clutch gently at his sleeve.

“—and it’s not like I fucking care, because I don’t, but if you’re leaving just to spend time with that,” he bit off the next word, growled low, “then you damn well should’ve had the decency to say so—”

Kagome stepped a little closer into his space. He didn’t seem to notice.

“—and I’ll tell you right now, Kagome, I ain’t gonna tolerate you running home just for him, got it? Your responsibilities here matter more than that little—”

“Inuyasha.”

Her voice was calm and quiet—no trace of anger or frustration—and that more than anything made the hanyō pause, eyes still narrowed on her face. When her lips started to twitch up at the corners, he growled, “Oi, you think this is funny? Hell, Kagome, if you think for a second that I’m just gonna let—”

Her hand tugged on his sleeve. “Inuyasha,” she repeated.

His mouth twisted, and he barked, “What?!”

“You have nothing to worry about. The person you’re smelling is just a classmate.”

Inuyasha’s lip curled ever so slightly, features still tense. “A classmate?” he repeated, an echo of that cynical timbre returning to his voice. “That sure as hell doesn’t explain why his scent is all over you.”

Seemingly unaware of the movement, his hand reached over and gripped her forearm where she was clutching at his sleeve. As he spoke, it slowly skimmed down her arm to lightly circle her wrist, his thumb resting against the heel of her palm.

Warmth suffused her stomach at the touch. She tilted her head, her gaze steady on his. “You know my grandpa’s been making up excuses for me at school, right? Everyone there thinks I’ve been sick. Like, really sick.” She sighed with mild chagrin, thinking of the ludicrous illnesses her grandfather had been coming up with. Then shaking her head, she continued, “When Hōjō saw me after class, he was just glad to see me doing all right. He gave me a hug. That’s all.”

Inuyasha’s eyes were still narrowed, but the longer he looked at her—her expression so open and calm—the tension began easing from his posture, his shoulders relaxing. Finally he snorted, nose wrinkling. “A hug, huh?” When she nodded, he grumbled without much heat, “Must’ve been one long-ass hug, then.”

Kagome felt her cheeks heat again, and her smile was somewhat embarrassed. “Um, yeah. It, uh, it was pretty awkward. Hōjō isn’t the best at picking up social cues.”

At the hint of discomfort in her tone, Inuyasha paused, watching her. Whatever he saw, it seemed to reassure him, because his face lost all its stiffness and the scowl cleared away. But he was frowning slightly when he said, “Oi. If you didn’t like it, you should’ve just stopped him.”

Kagome shrugged. “I didn’t want to hurt his feelings. Not all of us enjoy being rude, you know?”

Inuyasha’s hand tugged gently on her wrist, drawing her closer. “If you don’t want someone touching you, just say so. Ain’t nothing wrong with that.” He brought up his free hand and flexed his fingers slightly, showing off his claws. “Or I can do it for you, if you want. Just point me at the bastard.”

Kagome bit her lip to keep from smiling at the gruff sincerity of the offer. “Hm, I’ll let you know if I need you.”

They stared at each other for a moment. Then Kagome slid her wrist from his grasp, only to replace it with her hand. She threaded her fingers through his, pressing their palms tightly together. At his bemused—and vaguely flushed—look, she smiled and said, “Let’s go.”

She pulled him by the hand towards the village, delighting in the feeling of his fingers curling around hers.

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Kind

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"You know, if you're not careful, your face will freeze that way."

Inuyasha's menacing glower turned Kagome’s direction, followed quickly by a snarled, "The fuck are you talking about?"

Teeth gritted, eyes narrowed and furious, ears laid flat against his head, he looked on the verge of exploding. Kagome sighed. "Never mind."

With a muttered "Tch," the hanyō returned his attention to cleaning his sword, which was proving to be an exercise in futility. Thick, viscous yōkai innards of an indeterminable brown color—blood? bile? mucus? some form of stomach acid? it was impossible to tell exactly what that gunk was—coated Tetsusaiga from point to hilt. Inuyasha had spent a good ten minutes trying to clean it off, but had only managed to spread it around, smearing long sticky streaks along his hands and the sleeves of his suikan.

The consistency of the stuff reminded Kagome of superglue, which didn't bode well for Inuyasha's efforts. She wasn't going to tell him that, though.

Sighing again, she seated herself on the ground and watched him try to remove the slime from his sword by wiping it on the grass, scraping it against the bark of nearby trees, and even swinging it through the air with all his might, as though sheer brute force would propel the mess off.

"Was that stinking eel made of slime? Dammit!" Inuyasha slammed Tetsusaiga point-down into the ground and dropped to a crouch next to it. She could see a muscle in his jaw working even from where she sat.

Poor guy. It had been a rough day. They were two weeks into a shard-hunting expedition, and they hadn't found a single shard—or even the rumor of one—until that morning, when Kagome had faintly sensed the Shikon's power, like the minutest flutter in the back of her mind. But faint as it was, she'd struggled to pinpoint where it was coming from. They'd had several false starts, spending hours traveling in a direction only for Kagome to realize it wasn't quite the right way, or that they’d somehow veered off course. By that afternoon, even Kagome's frustration was getting to her. She could only imagine how Inuyasha felt doing all the leg work. He surprised her, though, and didn't say a word about it; he just silently went wherever Kagome directed him to go.

After half the day running near-aimlessly around the countryside, they'd finally hit on the right direction. The pull of the shard grew stronger and stronger, eventually leading them to sprawling swamplands swarmed by biting flies, littered with stagnant pools of water, and dotted with more than one human corpse in various stages of decay.

And the smell. Like sulfur and the mineral tang of mud mixed with rotting flesh. Inuyasha had looked downright queasy, covering his nose with his sleeve and grimly muttering, "Let's get this over with quick."

Kagome tracked the shard through the mire, shoes slipping and sliding in the sludge; she did her best to steer them around the stagnant pools whenever possible, but they'd both been forced to wade through muck up to their knees when they ran out of solid ground to walk on. The trail of the Shikon's power led them deep into the swamp, and finally ended at the largest pool of standing water they’d yet seen, the size of a small lake. The pull of the shard was coming from its center.

Kagome had only just lifted her arm to point towards the lake when a giant plume of water shot up from its depths. In the midst of that plume reared the massive, sinuous brown body of an eel. Kagome immediately saw the glow of the Shikon shard lodged in its jaw, buried behind rows of sharp teeth as long as her forearm.

Inuyasha hadn't waited for it to make a second move: he launched himself forward, Tetsusaiga raised with both arms, a hoarse shout ripping from his throat.

Under normal circumstances, Kagome doubted the eel would have presented much of a challenge; it was about the size of Mistress Centipede, an enemy Inuyasha had torn apart with nothing but his claws. But this yōkai had a distinct advantage over them: they weren't on solid ground. Inuyasha wasn't able to get traction in the swampy mud, which meant his jumps weren't as high, his landings sloppy, and his movements slower.

Which is probably why the yōkai was able to land a glancing blow on Kagome. The eel darted forward, jaws wide and ready to snap down on flesh; Inuyasha jumped out of its path, but quick as a flash it changed course, veering at an angle towards Kagome, where she’d been standing with bow at the ready. With a shriek, she leapt aside as quickly as she could, but one of those long teeth caught her arm, dragging up from her elbow all the way to her shoulder.

She’d barely registered the stinging, burning sensation in her arm when she heard Inuyasha’s ragged bellow.

“Stay the fuck away from her, you piece of shit!”

She didn’t see him move, but she heard his wordless yell; saw a spear of sunlight glint off Tetsusaiga’s blade as it arched down; felt the spray of water on her face as the eel violently writhed, Tetsusaiga imbedded into the flesh below its head.

Even injured, the yōkai’s body—pure sinuous muscle—flailed with such ferocity that it threw Inuyasha off his feet. He was able to hold onto Tetsusaiga’s hilt, dragging the sword with him as he was hurled into the ground. The eel reared and darted towards him.

“No!” Kagome roared, already standing and drawing her bow. Ignoring the burning in her arm, she drew an arrow back and released. It lodged deep into the eel’s left eye, her spiritual power flaring as the arrow hit, burning half its face.

Half-blinded and almost certainly mortally wounded, Kagome thought it was nearly over. But she’d forgotten: cornered animals are at their most dangerous when they’re most desperate. The eel’s tail lashed out from the water and shot forward with terrifying speed. Kagome tried to dodge, but wasn’t fast enough: its tail caught the edge of her uninjured shoulder and sent her flying through the air. She landed on her side in the muck, skidding a few yards before the boggy ground stopped her momentum.

Dimly, through the throbbing pain she now felt pulsing through her muscles, Kagome found herself grateful for the water-saturated quagmire. If she’d landed on solid ground, she’d probably have some broken bones right about now.

“Kagome!!”

She lifted her head a few inches, cracking her eyes open.

In the time it had taken her to hit the ground, Inuyasha had put himself between her and the yōkai. Half-turned towards her, he had Tetsusaiga pointed at the eel while he looked at her over his shoulder.

His expression was downright murderous.

“You okay?” he rasped through the snarl twisting his features.

When she gave a brief nod, he turned his full attention back to the eel. “What did I say about getting near her?” The lethal calm with which he asked the question nearly had a shiver going down Kagome’s spine.

Inuyasha raised Tetsusaiga—then planted it point-first into the ground next to him. Lifting both his hands, he flexed his fingers, knuckles cracking. “For you, motherfucker? I’m gonna use my hands.”

Then he was leaping forward with a low, guttural shout. Claws connected with flesh, biting deep. He sliced clean through the yōkai’s body, at the same spot he’d injured earlier. Blood sprayed into the air.

The length of the eel’s body slumped into the lake with a tremendous splash, slithering down under the foam, disappearing from view. The head fell in the other direction, towards the boggy shore. It landed in a clump of springy weeds, rolling for a few feet before coming to a halt in a patch of mud.

Inuyasha stood in swamp water up to his waist, looking at his blood-stained hand with a wrinkled nose and an almost pouting expression, as though already wondering how long it would take to get rid of the smell. Seeing it, Kagome couldn’t help the (admittedly pained) giggle that broke from her lips as she sat upright.

Inuyasha’s gaze went straight to her, and the rest of him quickly followed. He dropped to a crouch next to her, eyes skimming her body for injury. “You okay, Kagome?”

She took a moment to assess. She patted her abdomen, around her ribs; she slowly moved her hands and feet, arms and legs; she rolled her shoulders, especially the one that had been hit. Her muscles were definitely twinging, and the cut on her arm still stung, but... “I think I’m mostly okay. I’m just going to be really sore tomorrow.” She winced as she stretched her shoulder. “And probably bruised.”

Inuyasha’s eyes landed on her cut arm. He scowled. “We need to clean that up.” Vigorously rubbing his hands in the patchy swamp grass—wiping off as much of the eel blood as he could—he then slipped his arms beneath Kagome’s knees and around her shoulders, hefting her up against his chest. Pausing to scan the area around them, he mumbled, “Where’s your damn backpack?”

“Uh,” Kagome swiveled her head around, then pointed over Inuyasha’s shoulder. “There! I put it down when we reached the lake.”

Inuyasha started moving in that direction, but Kagome smacked the back of her hand lightly against his chest and said, “Hey, wait!”

Glaring at her, Inuyasha kept moving. “No. That cut could get infected. We need to take care of it now.”

“But—”

“Now wench, now.”

She sighed, her breath ruffling the ends of her bangs. “Okay, so you don’t want to collect the jewel shard, then?”

He stilled. Then he glanced over at the yōkai’s head where it lay in the mud; glanced back at her, the oblique set of his brows almost calculating. Releasing a loud, annoyed exhale, he turned back towards the eel’s head.

Kagome grinned up at him. “I can’t believe you almost forgot the shard.”

“Shut it.”

“Aww, don’t be embarrassed! It’s sweet that you were so worried about me.”

Color suffused the skin along the bridge of his nose. “Keh! I just need you in working order. You’re useless to me otherwise.”

“Of course,” she agreed, nodding solemnly. “I believe you, Inuyasha.”

He mumbled some curse word or other under his breath. When they reached the decapitated yōkai head, he gently set Kagome on her feet. She kneeled down, felt for the shard with her power, then pointed at a spot behind the eel’s gaping jaw. “It’s in there. Could you…?”

Inuyasha used one of his claws to slice open the flesh behind the rows of teeth. Then Kagome—visibly shuddering and chanting “ew, ew, ew!” to herself—probed with her fingers until she found the shard. She pulled it out, holding it up for Inuyasha to see. “We did it!”

“Uh-huh, great.” He scooped her up into his arms and leapt over to where her backpack lay on the ground. “Now we clean this.”

He sat her down on a large rock, then slid his hand under her elbow, lifting her injured arm up for closer inspection. “You got lucky,” he said, a slight growl underpinning the words, clearly still bothered that it had happened at all. “It’s not very deep. Won’t need stitches.” He considered her arm for a moment longer, then said, “Right, first thing’s first.” With his free hand, he used his claws to cut her sleeve off at the shoulder.

“Hey!” she cried as he pulled the shorn sleeve carefully down her arm and off her wrist. “These uniforms aren’t cheap, you know! I’m going to have to replace this.”

“It was ripped anyway.”

She pursed her lips, a sullen slant to her mouth. “I could’ve mended it.”

“Tough shit,” he said. “It’ll be in my way, and you don’t need loose threads getting stuck in the wound.”

She couldn’t exactly fault his logic, but she pouted anyway, fingering the sleeve now laying in her lap. Inuyasha bent over to rummage through her backpack. He pulled out the things he remembered seeing Kagome use before—cotton dressings, antiseptic spray, alcohol wipes, gauze. He picked up the package of alcohol wipes, sniffed at it, then made a face. Still, he took out a wipe and began cleaning his hands with it, even taking the time to get under his claws.

Kagome watched him, completely fascinated.

Tossing the used wipe into her backpack, he uncapped the antiseptic spray and held it up to her arm. “Ready?”

Biting her lip, Kagome nodded.

He sprayed the length of her arm, thoroughly coating the cut and the surrounding skin. She tensed up, and released a soft hissing breath. He frowned and mumbled, “Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” she replied. “Just stings.”

He used a piece of cotton dressing to wipe off the skin around her cut. His hands were so gentle, his fingers exerting a barely-there pressure around her elbow. Each swipe of the cotton was slow and almost cautious.

And the look on his face — Kagome couldn’t tear her eyes away. He was so intent, so focused, and yet there was a quiet, almost serene quality to his attention. She wondered if she’d ever seen him look so absorbed before. Certainly never so absorbed by her, anyway.

Kagome blushed a little at the thought.

Finally, Inuyasha had the wound cleaned to his satisfaction. Selecting two more strips of clean cotton dressing, he placed them carefully along the length of her arm, over the top of the cut. Then, unwinding the roll of gauze, he began wrapping her arm.

When he’d finished, he appraised his work by running a hand along the bandaged portion of her arm.

It shouldn’t have felt like a caress, Kagome thought, and yet…

Face heating up, Kagome coughed. Startled out of his concentration, Inuyasha shot her a swift glance. Noting the pink in her cheeks, and the way she kept looking at his hand where it still gripped her elbow, Inuyasha flushed. Abruptly dropping her arm, he took a big step back and shoved his hands into his sleeves.

“T-there. Don’t have to worry about your pathetic human body getting infected now.”

She couldn’t help but smile at his flustered frown, the way his ears kept twitching atop his head. “Thank you, Inuyasha,” she murmured, resting her hand on her bandaged arm.

He flicked an ear back at her. She didn’t expect him to respond, so was surprised when she heard a quiet “You’re welcome” drift over to her.

It was, Kagome thought, a wonderful moment.

Until Inuyasha glanced over to where he’d left Tetsusaiga impaled in the ground. And finally registered the thick layer of slime oozing down its blade.

It had pretty much gone downhill from there.

Leave it to a swamp demon to totally ruin a good moment.

Now safely on the outskirts of the swamp—Inuyasha hadn’t wanted to stay there a moment longer, not even to clean Tetsusaiga—the hanyō was glaring at his slimed sword as though it was flipping him the middle finger. His glower was beginning to take on a suspiciously sulky edge.

Poor guy. Sighing and casting her gaze to the side, she noticed her backpack sitting beside her. She blinked. Wait…

“Inuyasha,” Kagome called.

He was still glowering at his sword, jaw tightly clenched.

“Inuyasha,” she said again, injecting the word with a cheery lilt to get his attention.

He shifted his glare to her. “Not now, woman.”

“But—”

“Can’t you see I’m busy?”

“Doing what?”

“Thinkin’!”

“Hm,” she intoned, “so you don’t want help cleaning off Tetsusaiga, then?”

“What the hell are you—” His invective was cut off when Kagome tossed him the package of alcohol wipes.

He caught it easily, eyebrows lifting as he stared at it. “What…”

“The alcohol in the wipes should help break up that sticky stuff. Theoretically, anyway.” When he looked at her, she shrugged. “It’s gotta be better than scraping it against a tree, right?”

Inuyasha hesitated, glanced at his sword. Without looking at her, he took out a wipe and began rubbing it against the side of the blade. After several long moments, he pulled it away to reveal a small clean patch of steel.

Kagome beamed.

“Erm,” Inuyasha mumbled, darting a quick look her way. He applied the alcohol wipe to the blade again, rubbing away at the slime. Without looking at her, he said quietly, “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome, Inuyasha.”

________________________________

-

Loyal

-

He stood at the door of Kaede’s hut, his head bowed.

“I’m sorry.”

He aimed his voice over his shoulder. To her, where she sat inside by the hearthfire. Her heart wrenched in her chest at the defeated ache in his voice.

“I know,” she whispered.

He lingered there a moment longer, clawed hand gripping the doorframe tightly. “Kagome, I… I’m…”

“I know,” she said again. “Go. You should see her.”

His knuckles turned white against the wood, but he nodded.

Taking a step out past the door, he halted long enough to say, “I’ll be back, Kagome. Just… trust me, all right?” Then he was gone.

She knew. And she waited for him.

________________________________

-

Gentle

-

Kagome woke with a frightened gasp, disoriented in the dark. Panting, she stared up at the starry sky and tried to reacclimate to reality.

“Oi.”

Jerking up to her elbow, she looked across the glowing embers of their earlier campfire and saw Inuyasha sitting there, holding his sheathed sword in the crook of his elbow, watching her with a frown.

“Inuyasha,” she whispered. “You startled me.”

“You were lookin’ pretty startled already. Smelled it, too.”

“Oh,” she replied, plopping back down onto her sleeping bag. She took a deep breath to settle her heart rate. “Yeah. I had a nightmare.”

She heard him shifting around. “About what?”

“Oh, um…” She took another, smaller breath and closed her eyes. “Nothing really important.”

A beat of silence. More shifting, the soft rustle of cloth. Then his voice, much closer. “Tell me,” he said.

She opened her eyes and saw him above her. He’d moved to sit right next to her, his thigh almost brushing the crown of her head. She could see his face so clearly now, the soft play of firelight warming his features. And he was looking down at her with concern, eyes nearly gilt in the dim light.

There could be no resistance to that look. “I dreamed,” she said slowly, “that I was stuck somewhere dark. Enclosed. And I was… alone.” She curled onto her side, drawing her knees up to her chest. “I couldn’t get out. I called for help, but nobody could hear me. Nobody came. I was just…”

She swallowed thickly and tried again. “I was just alone in the dark.”

She waited, listening to the soft snap of the dying embers.

Then she felt fingers slide into her hair, combing gently through the strands.

“It won’t happen,” rumbled his voice above her, his fingers weaving through her hair again and again. “You’re safe, Kagome. I promise.”

Taking another deep breath, she closed her eyes and leaned her head back into his touch. “Say… say it again.”

His fingers paused in her hair. Moved to graze along her cheek, down to her jaw, until he had her face cradled in his hand.

“You’re safe with me, Kagome,” he said. “I’ll protect you. I’m not going anywhere.”

It was like he’d taken something heavy off the very center of her chest. She could breathe again.

She placed her hand over his, smiled for him. “I know. And I’ll protect you too, okay?”

His mouth tugged up in answer. He ran his thumb across her lip, tracing her smile. “I know,” he said.

[laurelsofhighever]

The Falcon and the Rose Ch. 59 - The Storming of Castle Cousland, part 1

Chapter Rating: Teen Relationships: Alistair/Female Cousland Additional Tags: Alternate Universe, Fereldan Civil War AU - No Blight, Romance, Angst, Action/Adventure, Friends to Lovers, Slow Burn, Mutual Pining, Canon-Typical Violence, Cousland Feels, Hurt/Comfort

Read on AO3 or start at Chapter 1

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Second day of Haring, 9:31 Dragon

It was a bronze dawn. Curling threads of smoke rose from the city of Highever, too few for such a large settlement, but stained bloody all the same by the first peek of a red sun over the eastern hills. All lay quiet. Frost silvered the grass, clung to the whiskers of the horses as King Cailan and his chief aides lined up at the edge of the Marl Plain with the entire force of the royalist army behind them. The king had raised a glass to his eye as soon as the halt was called, and his mouth pulled down as he scanned Castle Cousland’s walls.

“The Bear is still flying,” he said out loud. “And the gatehouse is still being patrolled by Amaranthine soldiers. Whatever they’re doing, the alarm hasn’t reached the curtain wall yet.”

“Don’t count Her Ladyship out yet, Your Majesty,” Commander Gideon replied. “She’ll get it done.”

Beside him, Arl Teagan nodded his agreement. “We ought to give her every chance we can. We did prepare for this eventuality.”

“We did…” The king lowered the glass and turned to Bann Loren on his left. “Is it certain Loghain’s army is still a day away?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

He nodded. “Then we go ahead all bells a-ringing. We’ll be snug and warm inside the bailey by lunchtime. Prepare your units.”

A chorus of assent met his words as his aides turned their horses away, but he remained, casting one last look over the distant walls. Whatever worry lingered in his expression melted into his usual genial grin as he noticed Teagan had yet to leave his side.

“It’s natural to worry for them, Nephew,” the arl said gently.

Cailan loosed a harsh bark of laughter. “Ho, you think so? If we haven’t been led a wild hunt, three of the people dearest to me in the world lie within those walls, and I have little hope of reaching them.”

“Trust Her Ladyship, and His Highness.” Teagan smiled. “He would never let anything happen to her, and she would never stop, not until every last inch of that castle could be called hers again.”

It was sound advice, but Cailan only frowned. The heart rarely succumbed to the logic of words, even in situations where the mind could not afford to be clouded by emotion. Here, all he could do was turn his horse away and play his part, and pray to the Maker that Rosslyn and Alistair had made it into the keep.

--

The light grew slowly in Rosslyn’s cell, entering through a small drain at the bottom of the wall that had been drilled directly into the cliffside, so dim the feathered breath of every exhale might have been imaginary. She had stopped shivering hours ago. Maybe she had slept, or maybe the combination of numb cold and pure darkness had warped time, like the water-damaged pages of a book, and she had been imprisoned for days already.  

When they had pushed her in, and slammed the door behind her, she had raged. She had thrown herself against the door until the hinges creaked, kicked it, howled like a demon until her voice had cracked, until her shoulders were bruised and her bones aching, and the taste of blood had dried in her mouth like dust. And once exhaustion had calmed her, she had concentrated on freeing her arms from behind her back, still thinking to fight and wanting to level the advantage as much as possible for when they came for her.

And then no one had. Without a target to fuel it, the ember of rebellion flickered, shrank, and at some point the ambush she set in the corner behind the door became true huddling, hiding against the plummeting temperature, and the echo of her breath against the walls, and the darkness that robbed her of all chance for distraction from her grief.

Cuno, gone. Alistair, gone. Before her fingers lost their circulation she had hugged herself tight, brushing an absent rhythm along the length of her neck in poor imitation of how he might have offered her comfort, but nothing warded off the ache in her chest. Whether her eyes were open or shut, her mind’s eye remained a canvas upon which she saw him painted, the blow that knocked him down, the sickening way he just… crumpled, like a puppet with its strings cut. She knew even a simple-looking injury to the brain could kill – Canavan had waxed lyrical about it enough times in her lectures on wearing your helmet – but she couldn’t stomach the idea of him falling to something so easy, so lacking. Had they executed him? Had they known who he was before they did it? She tried to force her mind away from such speculation, to hold on instead to their brief time together, to his kisses pressed against her lips and the warmth when he held her, but she had lost the energy for such feats of imagination.

She tried singing sea shanties to distract herself instead, to purge the sound of Cuno’s last snarls from her ears, but got stuck on the third verse of ‘The Soldier and the Seawolf’, and after the fourth or fifth repetition, fell silent altogether. She drifted. Her stomach growled and her throat baked with thirst, her tongue swollen and heavy in her mouth. She wondered distantly when they would come for her, if she would fight them when they did. After all, who was left for her to fail? The battle would be over by the time she was freed, Cailan and his army destroyed, the royalist cause nothing but churned mud and scavenged bones.

Something changed, though her fogged mind roused to it only slowly. Frowning, she blinked away from her contemplation of the veins of marble the growing light had revealed lacing the wall of her prison and cocked her ear to the steady beat of footsteps in the corridor, too quiet for one of the guards. Whoever it was halted outside the door of her cell, and the grate of the key in the lock screeched bold as a carnyx after so many hours of silence. Lantern light spilled over the hewn floor, stinging her eyes.

“My lady?” a tentative voice called.

Recognition stirred, but only to give her enough strength to turn her face to the wall. Graela was dead, just as the rest of them were dead. The Veil must be thin this far below the castle walls, in the ancient Alamarri tunnels where the sun never shone.

“My lady,” her maid said again, kneeling at her side with a waterskin proffered in her hands.  

“Leave me be.” She was too cold, too tired, too lost, and turned her head further away. Even when Graela reared back in a telltale portent of a scolding, she wished merely for darkness again.

“There’s still fighting to be done – there isn’t much time,” Graela tried. “What would your lady mother say if she could see you given up like this?”

“She’s dead,” Rosslyn replied, without feeling. She had nothing left. Heat pricked behind her eyes, vision flashing with the view above the western gate – the crossbow raised – a shield smashed against an unprotected head. “They’re all dead. It’s my fault…”

“My lady –” The waterskin was pushed towards her again. “Please…”

“He was going to come here,” she remembered. “We were going to…” She closed her eyes against the onslaught, warm sunlight and birdsong in the meadow – We. Us, together – the feel of his lips, the hitch in his breath as she touched his bare skin. A tear escaped beneath her lashes when she thought she had none left to weep. “It doesn’t matter anymore.”

“Oh don’t you dare!”

Before she could react, Graela’s arm snapped towards her, snakelike, and pinched the top of her ear. She jerked away with a yell, face contorting into a snarl as she batted away the offending hand.  

“So there is some fight left in you,” the elven woman said.

For a moment, Rosslyn could only stare, so off-balance by the sudden resurgence of emotion her mind refused to function. It truly was Graela before her, her sandy-brown hair tucked behind her slender ears and her freckles almost obscured by the indignant colour that always appeared when her charge was being stubborn. Her eyes flashed in the reflected lamplight as she all but shoved the waterskin into Rosslyn’s hands.

Her fingers were too numb to drop it. “I said to leave me alone,” she snapped instead, and tucked her knees closer against her chin. “I can’t help you.”

“All those stories were just stories then.” Graela made a noise of disgust. “Or maybe you just cared about the rest of Ferelden more than you cared about us.” She stood, plucking up the lantern so that her shadow swung wildly about the tiny space. “Stay here and rot with your shame, then, but Andraste help me, someone has to end this nightmare.”

She lingered for a moment more, heaving a long breath as if startled by her own daring, but pursed her lips nonetheless and stalked out to leave Rosslyn alone in the darkness with her incredulity. The venom in the other woman’s tone formed a hard lump at the back of her throat, a taste of bile made worse because perhaps she hadn’t cared enough. She hadn’t thought anyone would be left for her care to matter. Part of her still wanted to refuse the call of the open door, to curl away from any further sting to her already battered heart, but her ear had yet to stop hurting where Graela twisted it and the instinctive outrage at being manhandled by a servant lit an unexpected spark in her chest. Alistair would not have approved. The thought pierced her like a shard of broken glass, but she could not shrink from it – his disappointment in her would have been greater for that. And yet to shelve her grief again, to go on alone like one of Bann Ferrenly’s unfeeling clockworks, seemed impossible.

To steel herself, or perhaps merely as a distraction, she fumbled with the cork of the waterskin and took a long swig. The water had been warmed enough that it didn’t kick her in the guts on the way down, and even if it did nothing to thaw her extremities at least her tongue felt less like sandpaper. She looked up towards the door again. The light from the corridor was steady, and she heard the click of the key in the lock of one of the other cells, and Graela’s voice an indistinct murmur to whoever was inside.  

Curiosity piqued, she stumbled from her prison, supporting herself on the wall. She heard a male voice now, raised in urgency, and the clatter of chains falling to the floor, and as she made it to the open door a figure barely skin and bones lurched into the light. Rags hung off his frame, too faded with dirt to be a recognisable colour, and what little of his face could be seen was streaked with grime beneath the overgrown tangle of his hair and beard. He smelled like a sty. And yet, when he grabbed her arms, off-balance, to try and right himself, the sea-blue gaze that locked on hers could not be mistaken, nor the tilt of his shoulders, nor the disused rasp of his voice when he said her name.

“Fergus…” she breathed.

A hand, stiff with swollen knuckles and torn fingernails, reached for her cheek. “It really is you.”

“You – you fell. Father said…” She remembered again the moment she had stood before him at Glenlough, the tightness of the embrace that spoke in place of words.  

“I was injured,” he explained as he drew her into a hug. “Captured, then used as bait. I’ve spent every day cursing Howe since then.”

Rosslyn’s wrists were still manacled, her hands closed around the waterskin despite all its sharp edges, but his arms went around her like it didn’t matter. The last time she had hugged her brother he had been shining and strong, not wasted away and trembling from the effort of staying on his feet.

“The rumours…” she tried, clinging to him as best she could, eyes clenched shut. “I thought you were dead, I thought…” How many more ghosts would return to haunt her? “I let Father leave at Glenlough, I – if not for me – I’m so sorry.”

“No,” he choked, and held her tighter.

“I should have protected them.”

“I…” He shook his head. “Don’t talk about it, not now. You’re here, You’re –” He hissed a breath through his teeth. “It’s good to see you, little sister.”

“Fergus –”

She dropped her head against his shoulder, for the moment so lost in the whirl of emotion they stood back on the steps of the keep drenched in winter sunshine, surrounded by rippling blue banners and the polished ranks of Highever’s army. When she opened her eyes again, however, the illusion blew away into rough stone walls and the steam of their breath in the low, grubby light of the lantern. A pair of boots appeared in her line of sight. As she glanced up, all feeling drained from her limbs and her heart stuttered in her chest. Alistair watched her, rubbing his wrists where his own restraints had cut into the skin, with the brief flash of a smile beneath his worry when she caught his eye, a reassurance that while he was glad to see her, he had no wish to intrude on such an important moment with her brother.

She moved towards him anyway. He was supposed to be dead. Her steps dragged as if through deep water. A small, detached part of her mind chided her for believing Howe at all, for letting him taunt her with her worst fears, anything to control her, make her capitulate – but it was drowned out by the rushing in her ears, the echo of her breath on the stone, the sob that tore from her lips as she threw her still-bound hands over her lover’s head.  

He caught her, and a sigh ruffled against her cheek as his arms folded around her waist, over her back, bringing her close enough to bury his face in her hair.

“I thought they’d killed you,” she whispered to him, afraid that anything louder might scare away the illusion of him, and leave her holding nothing but the empty air.

“It’s alright.”

“I thought I’d never see you again.”

He shook his head and hushed her. “I’m here – I’m alright. I’m – I was so worried.”

She had no response but his name, the comfort of it cut short be a polite cough from Graela, who was still trapped in the cell behind Alistair’s bulk.

“There isn’t much time,” she reminded them.

Rosslyn heard the blush in Alistair’s voice as he reluctantly pulled away. “Of course. We should –” He frowned at her, lifted his hand to her face. “What –? Let me see.”

She flinched away from his touch, remembering the blood and the bruises only as the tender flesh reacted to the pressure of his fingertips. “It’s nothing.” She didn’t want to go back to that room, to the rotten smell of Howe’s breath, the crossbow rising. “They didn’t hurt me. It’s not my blood.”

Alistair steadied himself, his hands gentle on her shoulders now, knowing what she really meant. It was enough to leave her trembling, to break the dam of her shock and make the rest of what had happened spill from her like meltwater.

“They wanted to, but I got to Howe first. I… He wanted be to beg, but I wouldn’t.”

“What aren’t you telling me?” he asked as her gaze dropped to her feet. “Rosslyn –”

“They shot Cuno.” The words rang through her, hollow as a dry bone. “I wouldn’t do what Howe wanted so he ordered them to kill him.”

“He would have done it anyway,” Fergus interjected, coming forward with the waterskin in his hands. She didn’t remember dropping it. “That’s what he always does. We’re going to end him.”

Graela edged forwards, holding up her keys. “My lady – your hands.”

The cuffs fell away with a clatter, half-missed as cold air rushed in to sting her chafed skin. Alistair pressed close as they turned and filed out of the dungeon, leaning against her with his fingers resting lightly on the small of her back as if the smallest break in contact might leave her to vanish in the darkness. After so many hours in the cold, the warmth of his body felt like a furnace, and she snaked an arm around his waist to draw him closer. Leading the way with the lantern, Graela glanced at them over her shoulder every few steps, her expression unreadable in the gloom, but Rosslyn hardly cared. She refused any space between them until they reached the stairs that wound up into the entrance hall of the keep, and only then to look back for Fergus. He was still bracing himself on the wall, struggling to keep up, and now he paused, a rueful tilt to his chin as he looked up at the distance they still had yet to travel.

“What’s wrong?” Rosslyn asked, with a step towards him.  

He grimaced. “It’s my legs. They were broken, and beyond keeping me alive to gloat, Howe didn’t much care how well they healed.”

“Why didn’t you say anything before?” A look passed between her and Alistair, and without a word he crossed the space and lifted Fergus’ arm under his shoulders to help support him up the stairs.

“And interrupt such a charming scene?” Her brother shot her a familiar rakish grin, but it held a haunted edge that she had never seen before. “Never. Did you know, Your Highness, there was a time she actually pretended to twist her ankle to avoid talking to any of the young men at Arl Leonas’ Summerday feast? Mother was scandalised.”

Heat surged into her face, never mind that she was ahead of them on the stairs. “Not as scandalised as the time –” and bit her tongue. It had been Oriana he was caught kissing in the gardens.  

“It’s not like you to leave bait half hooked,” he teased. “What were you going to say?”

Light cracked ahead of them as Graela peered through the door to check for prying eyes.

“We should be quiet,” Rosslyn said.

The entrance hall was unnaturally silent, too still in the grey winter light. Even in the darkest hours of the night, she had always felt the castle warm, lived in, but creeping through it now as a stranger in her own home, that familiarity fell away, and the hollow that was left echoed like the held breath before a summer squall. A distant roar reached them from beyond the barred main doors as they filed into the once-familiar space, its uneven ebb and flow uncanny until the familiarity of it clicked into place and sent a jolt of ice through Rosslyn’s veins: the battle had already been joined.

“Where are Howe’s soldiers?” she asked.

Graela’s response was clipped. “Taken care of.”

Rosslyn remembered what Gareth had said, about Commander Lowan being the only one with a set of keys to her manacles, and let the matter lie. Guilt already twisted into a hard enough knot in her stomach without the added reminder that before the long reach of the war, her lady’s maid would have been incapable of violence, let alone relished it.

They reached the kitchen down a side corridor that led off from the entrance hall, and as they approached, the sound of voices resolved itself into a crowd of people crammed around the large, scoured tables serving as workstations for the cooks and scullery maids. Rosslyn spotted Gareth, and other faces she recognised from before the war, all in dark blue surcoats bearing the Laurels. A shock of red hair flashed to her right, and she barely had time to turn before Leliana swept her into a crushing hug, with the dozen survivors from the beach arrayed behind her in various attitudes of relief. She pulled away quickly, eager to make sure Fergus was seen to, but before she could give the order, the crowd parted for a short, slender woman with thin features, golden hair, and a gaze every bit as piercing as that of her father.

“Your Majesty…” Rosslyn breathed, and bowed low, feeling Alistair and Fergus imitate the gesture behind her.

“Food for these people, immediately,” Queen Anora called, in a clear voice not used to disobedience.

A couple of servants disappeared back into the throng at the same time the queen called for Amell, and watched Fergus settled at one of the tables. She was dressed in one of the splintmail suits used by the Amaranthine guards, either as a disguise or for extra protection while moving through the castle, but despite the ill-fit of the metal plates she held herself with the cool authority of one born to privilege. Rosslyn eyed her warily, unsure how to deal with the woman she had only ever known by reputation, at a distance, and as a potential rival despite the difference in their ages. The queen was shorter than her by a good five inches, and while her face was settled into the neutral mask used by so many nobles in mixed company, signs of age had started to make themselves known on her forehead and around the corners of her mouth.

“Teyrna Rosslyn,” she said, “I do not believe we have had the pleasure of being properly introduced. Fergus, I already know, of course. Though they are late, please accept my condolences for what happened here.”

Rosslyn stiffened. She saw Fergus clench his fist on the table. The servants returned and laid crocks of thick wheat broth in front of them, dotted with herbs and pieces of bacon, as well as a flagon of small-ale, a bowl of apples, and slices of buttered bread. Their last meal aboard the Windcaller had been almost a full day ago, but even though her stomach growled mutinously, she ignored the rich, savoury odour and faced Anora.

“Your Majesty is gracious,” she said, and gestured. “This is Prince Alistair, His Majesty’s younger brother.”  

The queen flicked her gaze to him, a guarded, appraising look that reminded Rosslyn of a dog watching a shadow behind the door. When she spoke, however, it was in the same sweet, measured tone as before. “It is good to meet you at last,” she said. “I have heard much about you.”  

“Uh…” Alistair paused with the spoon halfway to his mouth. “And so have I, Your Majesty. About you. Good things, of course. Um.”

Rosslyn stepped in. “Your Majesty, I’m afraid there’s little time for conversation. The castle is under attack and Cail– the king is outside the walls as we speak, relying on us to open the gates.”

“We must formulate a plan,” Anora agreed.

“Eat something first,” Fergus interrupted. “There are three bowls, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

“Your brother is right, Your Ladyship.” The queen laid her hand on Rosslyn’s arm. “Please do not stand on ceremony on my account – I doubt Arl Howe was as generous with your rations as he was with mine.”

Alistair pushed one of the bowls towards her as she sat down, and pressed his knee against hers under the table. She returned the touch like it was a lifeline, hoping he understood the warning in it. Anora was not her husband; she had no bloodline to secure her position, no war record, and her father was a traitor, which gave her every reason to be dangerous.

“Who knows the state of things beyond the walls?” she asked to the room at large. “Where is Howe?”

Gareth shuffled forwards, but Anora cut across him, with the first touch of a frown in her features. “Surely His Majesty is our first concern?”

“My first concern is the liberation of this castle, a task King Cailan entrusted to me,” Rosslyn replied evenly. “I appreciate your concern, Your Majesty, but the guards on the walls still follow Howe’s orders, which makes him the primary obstacle in any counterattack. Gareth?”

She ate as the young guard talked, absorbing the information without feeling. Howe was on the field; the keep was theirs; the upper floors had been cleared and the doors barricaded against any intruders. And someone had even climbed the tower and seen the royalists pinned against the walls, hammered hard by Loghain’s forces and the castle’s artillery, waiting for rescue.  

Gareth straightened as she polished off a final crust of bread. “We have over two dozen Cousland loyal ready for your orders, my lady.”

“That’s not including us, ma’am,” Riley added next to Leliana. “Just give us the word.”

The food sat warm in her belly, inviting sleep after so many hours of deprivation, but she shook the feeling away. Instead, she pushed to her feet, the hazy swirl of her plans settling into solid form with the new information.

“We need to take the towers,” she decided. “If we make the barbican, we can offer the king a route to safety, and turn the ballistas on Loghain.” Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the sour twitch of Anora’s mouth, but ignored it in favour of a hasty construction of the curtain wall from cutlery and spare scraps of food.  

“We’ll split into two teams, one for the east wing, and one for the west. Enchanter, you’re to come with me along the east wing so we can deal with any guards left in the barracks. Whoever leads the west will have to disable the portcullis over the western gate to stop any attempts by Howe’s men to get back in that way, before moving on to make sure the armoury is secured.”

“I’ll lead them,” Alistair said. His gaze met hers for a long moment over the impromptu map, but eventually she nodded, and continued.

“The grooms among you should follow us to the stables and tack up every trained horse that’s left in case we have need of them. We won’t know until we see the field first-hand, but be ready when the Laurels fly over the barbican.” She paused, frowning. “Everyone not in the fight will stay here. Bar the door. If you hear fighting outside, you are to take the queen back through the pantry and to the Windcaller. Get her to –”

“Am I to have no say in the matter?”

Rosslyn kept her expression neutral. “My concern is for Your Majesty’s safety.”

“And your concern is admirable, but I am no shrinking Orlesian violet who would faint at the sight of blood,” the queen replied. “My father has gone mad, it is true. I didn’t want to believe it at first, but he is gripped by a paranoia so severe it prevents him from seeing sense, and the people suffering the consequences are as much mine as yours. I can fight, and I have had enough of being carted from one end of Ferelden to the other as if I were nothing more than some pretty trinket with no greater use.”

If Rosslyn were better rested, without a war going on outside and grief still threatening to overwhelm every conscious thought, perhaps she would have found the change from Cailan’s easy manners easier to meet, but her day had already been long enough without having to bite her tongue into the bargain. And yet, she was outranked. An open confrontation with the golden Dove of Gwaren would go badly. Aware of the sudden turn in mood, their audience of servants and soldiers looked on in complete silence as the moment stretched, with only the occasional sideways glance or shuffle of feet to betray their discomfort.  

“Your Majesty,” she began eventually, once she could be sure of her voice, “every moment spent arguing here increases the danger faced by the king. There is already one battle that must be fought today, I would rather not start another.”

Anora weighed her. In her immediate favour, Rosslyn had the strength and the allied forces in the room to carry her point, but only at the later cost of having Cailan learn she strong-armed the Queen of Ferelden into submission. After Eamon’s accusations, the political consequences of such a move would dog her, and perhaps even Alistair as well. The question, in the end, would be whose side the king would take.  

At last, Anora turned aside, only a tiny movement of her head, but enough to show defeat. “You will have need of space for the wounded once the battle is done,” she said. “I will have the stores inventoried for healing herbs and bandages, and anything else that might be useful.”

Rosslyn nodded. “Thank you, Your Majesty. Leliana, I want you to stay here as well. You’re best experienced to slow any pursuit, should it come to that, so you’ll be in charge.”

“Understood, Your Ladyship.”

After that, they wasted no time dividing their forces. Tension hung thick in the air, nor quite the usual anticipation that came before a battle, but something sharper, harder, because they were the fulcrum that could lever freedom for the whole of the North, or send it tumbling unchecked into ruin with the rest of Ferelden if they failed. As Rosslyn directed, two of the Windcaller’s crew hauled in a heavy chest containing both her and Alistair’s armour, and Gareth disappeared only to return with their weapons, snaffled away before Howe could get his greedy paws on them. Servants brought fresh gambesons while Amell tended Rosslyn’s bruises, and then what little talk was left died away as they gathered water canteens, strips of died meat, and injury kits from the ship’s stores. Amell counted the swirling blue vials of lyrium on her belt.

When the last strap on her vambraces was buckled into place, Rosslyn glanced around the party for one last check that all was ready, and Fergus caught her eye. He struggled up from his place at the table, half of his food still uneaten in the bowl, and jerked his head over to the large, empty space by the hearth where they might talk with some semblance of privacy. Alistair noticed the gesture and brushed a gentle hand along her arm for reassurance.  

“We’ll wait for you,” he murmured.

“I’ll catch you up.” She squeezed his elbow, then turned to follow her brother to the fire. “Last time it was you leaving me behind,” she pointed out to him as she approached.

He frowned at the flames. “It didn’t work out so well. Make sure you come back.”

“This is just another battle.”

“All it takes is one lucky shot.”

“I’m luckier,” she assured him. “Besides, I still have to make you jealous about all the places I’ve been.”

“And all the growing up you’ve done,” he mused, with a wry glance in the direction Alistair had gone. “You’ve got good taste at least.”

She followed his gaze, heat beyond that of the fire on her cheeks. “I know – but you can tease me about it later, when there’s time.” She swallowed. “Lady keep you safe, Ferg.”

She felt his eyes on her back all the way up the stairs. The soldiers were already pulling back the first of the heavy oak beams that had barred the door, with the grooms waiting behind them, their hands gripped tight around daggers and longknives in case of any resistance they might encounter in the stables. For the rest of them, the fastest way to the barbican lay along the guard route from the terrace at the top of the keep steps, then through the tunnels built into the curtain wall. The narrow passages had blinds built into the corners of the towers to help defenders during invasions and limit the advantage of numbers, but as difficult as the fighting would be, their small company had surprise, and they would be attacking from the keep itself, which would automatically put Howe’s soldiers at a disadvantage.

“So that was Anora,” Alistair said as they waited.

“What did you think?”

A long, heavy breath puffed through his cheeks. “Well I don’t think she likes me very much. But she’s not quite as scary as you, and at least you like me.”

She laughed. It always amazed her how easily he could draw humour from her, even at the worst times. The last bar thudded against the flagstones and the bolts snapped back in their gates, and Rosslyn drew in a steadying breath as she donned her helmet.  

“Be careful,” she told him.

He turned into her touch on his arm and placed a delicate kiss against her mouth, careful not to bash his noseguard into hers. “I love you.”

She wanted to say more, but their soldiers hauled the door open. Cold air rushed in with the distant churn of battle. They blinked in the pierce of daylight and had no time for looking back.

[merinnan]

AO3  |  Nevermore Masterlist

A pair of eyes the colour of dark honey; a flash of white amidst a waterfall of silky hair; a warm smile that had no place being so pretty. All of them spun together, settling in and refusing to be dismissed.

“Why don’t you just tell him?”

He spun, images shifting and changing until he saw the smiling face of his brother in front of him.

“Huh?” he said, very intelligently.

“Lai Han. Why don’t you tell him? The graduation ceremony’s over, if you don’t tell him now you’ll never get the chance.”

Jiang Cheng looked around, his surroundings solidifying into the grounds of his high school. Around him he could see his classmates, laughing and celebrating the end of high school and the end of the gruelling entrance exams, taking photos with friends and teachers alike. He shook his head.

“What’s the point? We’re going to be on a plane to Alaska in a month.”

“Aaaah, Jiang Cheng, Jiang Cheng.” Wei Wuxian draped himself over his brother’s shoulder, not at all bothered by the half-hearted shove that failed to dislodge him. “Even if it only lasts a month, that’s still something, isn’t it?”

Jiang Cheng snorted. “It wouldn’t even be that, and you know it. I know what the answer will be, so why bother asking it?”

Zhu Lian’s rejection still stung. Maybe it wouldn’t have stung quite as much if she hadn’t been the first person he’d tried to ask out without being set up by his parents or siblings, or maybe if every single one of those hadn’t also rejected him, but it was what it was. Of course Lai Han wouldn’t be any different, so why put himself through the pain of yet another reminder that no-one wanted him?

“One of these days,” Wei Wuxian was saying, still hanging off of his shoulder, “I am going to get you to go on an actual successful date.”

Jiang Cheng snorted again, giving his brother another shove and this time managing to push him away. “Yeah, and one of these days you’ll actually date someone at all instead of just flirting with them but backing off at the first sign they might be taking it seriously.”

“How do you know I haven’t?”

“Because if you had, you’d be even more insufferable than you usually are.”

Wei Wuxian grabbed his chest with a gasp of mock offence. “So mean! A-jie, did you hear that? Jiang Cheng is being mean to me!”

“A-Xian.” Jiang Cheng turned at the sound of their sister’s voice, soft and amused. “A-Cheng does have a point.” Her eyes twinkle with the same amusement that fills her voice, and Wei Wuxian gasps again.

“A-jie! How could you?!”

“Told you so,” Jiang Cheng told him. He enveloped Jiang Yanli in a hug, and Wei Wuxian quickly got over his faked offence to join them. “It’s good to see you, A-jie.”

“I wasn’t going to miss your graduation,” she said. She disentangled herself from them, and pulled out two small boxes, holding out one to each of them. “These are for you.”

“Thank you!”

“You didn’t have to…”

Both boys spoke at once, even as they each took the box offered to them, opening them to see that each held a lovely silver lotus, with a ribbon threaded through it – Jiang Cheng’s ribbon a deep violet, while Wei Wuxian’s was a bright red.

“Since you both said you planned to grow your hair out after graduation,” Jiang Yanli said, “I thought you might like something to wear in it that reminded you of home while you’re off saving the world.”

The violet of the ribbon bled into the silver lotus, until it replaced the silver entirely, the lotus growing and growing in size. It was in front of him, now, and above him, held in a giant clawed hand as it hammered at the jaeger in front of it, while beside them chunks of glass and concrete fell down to the ground. There were holes ripped in the building that the lotus had been torn from, exposing the offices inside – or what remained of them, anyway, since some of them had been part of the debris raining down to the ground, while the ceilings of others had collapsed.

He looked, and looked, and could tear his eyes away, barely even reading the ticker that was across the bottom of the screen, barely feeling the tiles beneath his feet, or the phone pressed against his ear. That’s where the ringing he could hear was coming from.

This time, the ringing stopped as someone answered, and he heard his father’s voice.

“This is all your fault.”

“Wh…what?” Jiang Cheng stammered. The purple lotus on the screen in front of him shifted, and there was an actual lotus now right in front of his eyes. He blinked, and found himself standing on muddy ground.

“I said,” Wei Wuxian repeated, lightly tapping him over the head with the lotus, “that this is all your fault.”

“What’s my fault?”

“This!” Before he could react, his brother had tossed the flower aside and pounced on him, sending them both sprawling into the shallows of the lake.

“Wei Wuxian!” Jiang Cheng spluttered as broke the surface. Wei Wuxian’s head popped up a moment later, the boy shaking wet hair out of his eyes as he laughed.

“Ah, don’t be mad, Jiang Cheng! Since I’m leaving for Beijing tomorrow, this was my last chance to do this! Who knows when we’ll be back here once we’re rangers?”

“Well, whose fault is that for taking off on a trip to Beijing with his friends instead of spending a last couple of weeks at home before we go to the Academy?” Jiang Cheng huffed, standing and squeezing water out of his shirt. He grimaced at the mud over their clothes. “A-niang is going to kill us.”

“How is she going to do that,” Wei Wuxian asked, “when you’ve killed her?”

“What the fuck are you talking about?!” Jiang Cheng spun around to confront his brother, only to find his brother bow behind him.

“You killed her, Jiang Cheng. Her and A-die. You’re the reason they were in Shanghai that day, taking you to the airport, seeing you off. They wouldn’t have visited the Shanghai office until the following week otherwise.”

Jiang Cheng spun around again, only to find that, again, Wei Wuxian was behind him. “That’s not true! And where were you?! You abandoned us! You vanished!”

“You know it’s true. You should have come to Beijing with me. Then they wouldn’t have been in Shanghai. A-jie wouldn’t have been in Shanghai. And you would have been with me, nothing would have happened to me, you could have made sure we got on the plane together.”

An inarticulate howl of rage echoed in his ears for several moments before Jiang Cheng realised that it was coming from him, and he spun again, swinging his fist at Wei Wuxian. His fist went right through Wei Wuxian and collided with a tree trunk. Wei Wuxian vanished, along with the lake, and Jiang Cheng found himself standing in a cemetery, two familiar headstones only a few meters away. He punched the tree again, and again.

“Wei Wuxian! Come back here!” he screamed as his knuckles scraped on the bark, just as they’d done four years ago when he’d screamed these same words just after his parents’ funeral. “Where are you, you bastard? Why have you abandoned us? Why aren’t you here? You should be fucking here!” He punctuated each statement with another punch, before slowly sinking to his knees. “You should be here…you can’t leave me to do this alone…”

~~~

Perhaps it was the gentle chiming of a bell that woke him, or perhaps it was the sting in his hand from where he’d flung it against the wall in his sleep, but either way, Jiang Cheng found himself awake, tangled in his blankets and his face wet with tears. The numbers of his clock, the only light in the room, told him that it was 5:17.

He lay there for several moments, taking several deep breaths, then reached out to the bell that hung beside his bed. He wrapped his fingers around it, stilling its chiming, and held it for several moments more. He could feel the lotuses carved into it, a soothing reminder of home. He released it, tapping it lightly to set it to chiming again, and reached out to turn the lamp on.

It had been awhile since he’d had a dream like this, but he knew there was no point in trying to get back to sleep after one of these. Blinking against the light, he untangled the blankets and swung his feet around to the floor. Might as well get an early start to the day and keep active enough to push the dream from his mind.