#how long before it means something beyond a painful mockery or a reminder of weakness

[potionwine]

Thinking about Margrace as Joshua's name post-Phoenix Gate.

Mar-grace.

In FFXVI the Undying choose their own names (Cyril explains this in-game), and many of them have names drawn from Final Fantasy XII, including their leader 'Margrace' himself, from Al-Cid Margrace. The page for Al-Cid notes that Margrace is likely an alternate form of the title 'margrave', an old title for military commanders on the border.

That aside. This is the name chosen (by the boy himself?) for the boy who should have rightfully been known henceforth as 'Your Grace', 'His Grace'.

Grace (style of address), from the Oxford English Dictionary:

With a possessive adjective: a title of respect, esp. for a person of royal or noble rank. Frequently (in 'your Grace') as a form of address. Now archaic or historical. Formerly (in England until the reign of Henry VIII and in Scotland until 1707) used for a monarch or prince; now replaced by Majesty or Highness. Even so, "Majesty" for the sovereign of England was not used exclusively; it arbitrarily alternated with both "Highness" and "Grace", even in official documents, until "Majesty" finally became the official style to the exclusion of others (source).

Grace (other meanings):

1. Divine favour, benevolence, or providence bringing about worldly benefit or advantage. 2. A person's lot, destiny, or fate; luck, fortune. 3. The quality of being pleasing; attractiveness, charm; esp. (in later use) refined elegance of manner, expression, form, or movement, esp. regarded as natural or effortless; gracefulness.

Whatever the etymology of margrave, the name Margrace in-game is probably meant to call to mind the meaning of 'mar' as in damaged, spoiled, ruined. All the grace that ever belonged to his family, his home, his birthright—marred, of course.

Mar+Grace, the last heir of the oldest unbroken ruling dynasty in the Twins at the time of the opening events of the game**.

The living ghost, carrying the desecrated corpse of his legacy in his new name. Introducing himself by his humiliation: "Hello, I am Margrace", "Hello, I am the ruined dignity of my house." "Call me Margrace", "Call me the wreckage of one fallen from divine favour." "My name is Margrace", "My name is blemished fortunes and diminished nobility".

It's appropriately brutal and dramatic for such a character, especially since the game is frustratingly silent on how Joshua personally feels about the loss of his duchy which is a rant for next time.

**Footnotes:

In the Year 860 (Prologue year/Phoenix Gate), Rosaria is about 260 years old (est. Y600). Older, if you count from the time of the Rose Alliance (est. Y550). The Rosfields have been on the Rosarian throne since the inception of the duchy in Y600, and prior to that House Rosfield was already known to be the chief of/the preeminent house of the Seven High Houses that united to found the duchy. House Rosfield has held ruling power for 260-310 years at a minimum.

For reference, England's longest-reigning dynasty was the Plantagenets, who held on for 300+ years. Rosfields aren't doing half bad!

Veldemarke would have been older had it not been overthrown by Barnabas; therefore Waloed is the youngest nation state at the time of the prologue (only 17 years old). Also we do not know much about the governance of Veldemarke, although as a 'kingdom' it was likely some type of monarchy.

Sanbreque was formed 100 years after Rosaria, and at any rate is not actually a hereditary monarchy. The Holy Emperor is voted into office by his fellow Cardinals, likely the five who form the Council of Elders. We are also explicitly told that Sylvestre 'won his throne' in 865; there is no indication either way that his predecessor emperor was a Lesage. The wording suggests the throne is not Sylvestre's by lineage or birthright. How this is supposed to relate to the concept of Sanbreque having a 'crown prince' (Dion) is unclear and contradictory, since an emperor by election should probably not have the authority to unilaterally decide on the succession of the throne, and his issue—legitimate or no—should not automatically be in the line of succession.

Dhalmekia is a republic with elected officials.

The Iron Kingdom apparently has a royal family, but nothing else is known apart from it being impotent and sidelined by their state religion.

The Northern Tribes likely do have hereditary rule, and Jill is referred to as a princess, but once again little is known.

Ergo—and I am ceaseless in this propaganda—Clive and Joshua are really, properly posh! Absolutely baffling that Anabella would allow anyone to put down the pedigree of her sons when they are so blue-blooded precisely because she is! For someone with such entrenched ideas of blood purity she should not stand for it, no matter how she feels about her eldest.

[tiaragqueen]

What I Want To Hear

✂ Pairing: Yandere! Villain! Shinsou Hitoshi x Reader

✂ Word Count: 1,1k+

✂ Trigger Warnings: Manipulation, possessiveness, murder, death

[Edited]

***

If you like my writing, please support me on ko-fi!

“Baby, you understand me now if sometimes you see that I'm mad. Don't you know no one alive can always be an angel? When everything goes wrong, you see some bad.” - Don’t Let Me Be Misunderstood [Nina Simone]

You knew there was something wrong with you when you felt nothing over your friend’s death. No, perhaps nothing was too strong of a word. You definitely felt sad, but it was too far down, too familiar, and too frequent until you could only gaze emptily at her photo on the TV. The reporter relayed the news of her suicide – at least, that was what the police concluded based on how she ‘willingly’ jumped over the bridge and fell to the gushing river – with professional coldness.

But you knew better than to trust their judgment because it wasn’t true at all. She was brainwashed to plunge into her demise, and who else in this country that possessed brainwashing quirk if not the infamous Shinsou Hitoshi?

Funny how the police didn’t even think about suspecting him or even got suspicious with his sudden absence. Then again, it was proof of how sly he could be when he wasn’t trying to attract attention.

And it was funny, in a somewhat ironic way, that he was doing this just to grab your attention.

Your phone buzzed beside you, the number that had been haunting you like the monster under your bed lit up the display. What a coincidence; just as you were pinning all the recent ‘suicides’ to him, the said man decided to call you. You contemplated the possibility of him being a secret psychic but decided that it was too farfetched and too frightening. Merely imagining the crimes he would’ve committed beyond people's comprehension sent a chill down your spine, one that you hadn’t felt ever since you rejected him and cut off any contact.

One hand hovering over the quivering device, you pondered if it was worth accepting the call. You could almost hear his deep voice, mocking the futility of your predicament and luring you into his grasp. And honestly, after everything you’d watched these past few days, you thought you deserved at least a little bit of a rest.

But, of course, Shinsou was relentless. He would stop at nothing to get whatever he wanted, even if it meant causing a few casualties along the way. The end always justified the means, after all.

“Are you watching the news right now?” Your correct assumption and his fake questioning tone brought you no relief whatsoever, only accelerating your thumping heart. You didn’t respond, but he must’ve known that you were indeed watching because he soon continued. “What do you think?”

“… I think you’re sick.” you finally replied after seconds of recollection and controlling your voice. You didn’t want to give him another display of weakness, not after you called him on one restless midnight and berated him for his blatant disregard of human lives.

“That again?” Shinsou sneered, and you wondered how good it’d feel to strangle him. Your hands twitched, itching to wrap them around his slender neck. Though, knowing him, he probably thought you were being kinky instead. You shuddered when the image of his sultry smirk flashed on your mind. “Oh, dear. You should be more creative with your insults if you want me to stop.”

“But you’re not going to stop, are you?” You didn’t know why you were him asking that. It was rhetorical, anyway, and the answer was simply too obvious. “Not until I have nobody else with me.”

“There!” he suddenly exclaimed as if he’d been waiting for you to say that. “I was beginning to think that maybe you were really dense, after all, especially after your bold action at that time.” He chuckled, the mockery as clear as the sight of your friend’s body being carried on a stretcher.

You gritted your teeth, aware of what he was referring to. “You’re not my parents! You have no right to tell me what to do!” you screamed to the line, ignoring the logical part of your brain that begged you to not fall victim into his provocation.

And you wished you would’ve listened before you let anger clouded your judgment.

“Ah, you’re right.” Shinsou sighed, and you sensed danger crashed on to your shoulders like a meteor. “How could I forget about them? I’m such a forgetful person…” Another tired sigh drifted into your keen ears as though weary of his own self. “Thanks for reminding me, [Name]. I’ll be sure to visit them later.”

Your throat felt constricted, and it took all of your strength to utter a single word; a word that halted the time and bestowed upon you a fragile hope. “Wait.”

Shinsou was quiet, but you knew he was listening. He was always listening, whether you wanted it or not. That was what initially attracted you to him; how he hung on to every word you spouted despite his apathetic face. When other people would’ve been bored and moved on to a more interesting subject, he urged you to continue instead. The amount of attention you got from him – how intense his lidded eyes against your sparkling ones – was flattering, and you hoped he was the one for you.

However, being a naïve young woman you were, you’d made a mistake of believing every single lie that left his enticing lips. You’d made a mistake of believing that he could be your one and only boyfriend, probably even soulmate because everything looked so easy in movies. How quickly the girl got the boy after a single conversation. How love seemed to fix and justify everything even the most questionable acts. How the misunderstood boy immediately became attached to the girl because she showed him kindness that he never got to experience in his life, or hadn’t received in such a long time.

It looked so easy, you forgot that reality was much different than movies. It was more real, more painful, and more severe.

“Yes…? Do you want to say something, [Name]?” he inquired once a moment had passed since you spoke. Opening your mouth, you whispered.

“… I’m sorry.”

The line went mute, and for a split second, you feared he might’ve hung up. However, a pungent – and slightly relieved, if you discerned deeper – chuckle diminished any doubt and anxiety that bubbled on your chest.

“Now that’s what I want to hear.”

Definite silence greeted you this time, and you slowly lowered your phone. Looking at the clock that ticked off the last hour of your finite freedom, the tears you’d been holding in fear of vulnerability finally trickled down your cheeks.

You kept weeping and weeping until the tears had long run out and you were left curling pathetically on the floor. Even when the front door opened and you perceived a hand stroking your back in a mock attempt of consolation, you refused to look up.

Regardless, it didn’t hinder him from greeting you as though you’d been anticipating his arrival.

“Hello, [Name].”

[hothian-snow]

Sparagmos: First Draft

To celebrate me reaching 32K with my WIP, here’s a bunch of drabbles which inspired the initial first draft. I might reuse one or two scenes, but not the stuff with Darth Zhorrid. Both Yen and her master has changed a lot through my second revision of the fic too, and so has my writing style. Enjoy!

Darth Kharopos knew damn well that he was intimidating. He must be, lest all the other Darths devour him whole. He was also acutely aware of the effect he had on Yennevyr. It was almost amusing, the sudden change in her posture, her back snapping straight the moment he stepped into the room. Her deference towards him, the soft words and lowered eyes. Was she eager to please, or eager to survive?

From her quick feet and mind, he thought it was the latter. Self-preservation was a necessary trait among the cutthroat Sith, but for his apprentices - his legacy - he wanted more. He thought with her keen eyes and her outsider’s perspective, she’d be able to see the Empire for what it was. To see beyond the rabble, beyond the rat’s race and see what truly mattered. Instead, her eyes were puffy and pink, the next morning they met during saber practice.

Pathetic.

And it wasn’t a one off occasion too. Every time she’d come back from a particularly grueling mission, her mind was elsewhere, her blows lacking the conviction he’d expect from an acolyte worthy of being called his apprentice.

Drawing his attention back to the current practice, he swung a saber at her, the saber deflected mid-swing by a well-placed parry. He stepped aside, and noted how her feet were firmly planted into the ground, readying the body to absorb the weight of a heavy thrust or jab. A defensive stance- again. Must he truly hurt her for her to finally switch to the offense?

The tip of her saber was shaking, her stamina running low.

With the ease of swatting a fly, Darth Kharopos knocked the saber out of her hands. Scowling, he walked away, not pausing to glance back..

*******

Something was different. Clearly, something had changed.

Yet, it was less of a change or a growth and more of a pot bubbling over, the pressure and the heat exploding, the fragile cage of a badly crafted glass teapot cracking, its jagged shards flying into the wall before smashing into sharp little pieces.

Something flared in her eyes and her single red blade came to life, slashing in his direction.

He stepped right and striked left. She jumped back, moving like a spooked jungle-cat, before bouncing back forward with an unexpected speed and thrusted her saber towards his form. He blocked her, catching her blade with the end of his own. Her stance buckled under his strength, and so she slid her saber away but not before suddenly twisting her grips - shifting form, right in the heat of combat, inches away from her enemy - and plunging the blade into where he stood. Darth Kharopos spun his double-bladed saber, creating a quick shield that deflected away Yennevyr’s weapon.

The weapon flew out of her hand.

He felt her clearly. Frustration. Loathing. Wrath.

Their force bond was never this strong, but now he could feel her closer than ever. The way her heart raced, the blood thumping in her ears, her ragged breath and barely held back sobs- it was a dam broken loose, her force presence like a whirlpool throwing the cold serenity of his mind into chaos. Decades of careful restraint and calculating control kept him from drowning in the waves of her emotions.

Yennevyr, with her lithe form and dancer physique, sent a butterfly kick towards his head. Darth Kharopos reeled back. He could’ve blocked her again, that he was more than capable of- but his senses were screaming, alarm bells ringing.

With that distraction - that uncharacteristic distraction, that daring, was so different from the cautious acrobat who used to dance in and out of his range - she summoned her saber back, the hilt smacking into her palm with a loud slap. Fluid like water, she leaped and swung the saber like a guillotine axe above his head. Eyes wide, Darth Kharopos raised his saber up to form a cover, digging his feet into the sand below as the impact hit him. Yennevyr was not relenting.

Her eyes were scarlet. Those amber orbs now glowed red, the color looking like freshly spilt blood against her snow-pale skin. It reminded him of the first time he saw a total lunar eclipse: the moon bled red, as if someone had stabbed its white soil and the wound began gushing glistening ruby.

He let her hit him.

*******

Despair was an emotion Darth Kharopos never experienced, not truly and certainly not personally. Whether that was an indication of mental strength or privilege, he didn’t know.

Lord Atala’s death hit them all hard; the empty space where his mother once stood still felt like a void. Darth Kratais second marriage with Darth Labrys could never fill that gnawing, missing hole, but the woman’s hands were tender and her gaze was warm and when she whispered words of comfort to him, it felt like he had a mother again. Her presence had gentled his father’s severe disposition, and when she brought about his half-sister - Tatyan - into the world, the younger Sith Pureblood felt like a tiny bird fluttering in his palms. She truly was worth protecting.

When his father passed, it felt like a bad dream had come again.

Except this time, mother was grieving and Tatyan was bawling and they all cried together.

“Never show weakness in front of outsiders”, Darth Labrys said. “But here, we’re family.”

Because of family, he’d never known despair.

He was used to inflicting it upon others, though.

Hearing prisoners beg for death, attempting to gouge their eyes out as if the act could wipe away the vision of seeing their loved ones writhing as lightning tore through them, was something he’d grown accustomed to. He saw it coming like a holofilm in slow-motion: the moment where a war veteran’s mind was about to break, their will and determination ready to be shattered into dust at just a single jab. He always made sure their descent into madness was quick- no need to prolong the suffering. Genuine torture was only reserved for the worst of his enemies. It was satisfying, forcing some arrogant Republic general to their knees and making them scream, or exposing some tough Jedi for the weakling they were, like ripping open a bandage to reveal the ugly pus beneath.

How then, had he become so numb to the agony of others, that he missed seeing the same signs in his apprentice?

She was in despair, so upset she wished she’d died.

The circular burns on her arms looked like the ones he was used to inflicting upon Republic foes. It was an easy interrogation technique: stamping a recently deactivated lightsaber onto bare skin, the still-hot metal like a sizzling brand. And when he gazed into her eyes (oh sweet Yennevyr, when was the last time he truly looked at her?), they were dead. Empty glass orbs that had given up on life, if only her heart would just stop beating and give up on her too.

“Do I disappoint you, my lord?”

There was no mockery, no snippy retort in her voice, only pain.

*******

“I’ve always wondered how the law would work out in the long run,” Darth Labrys said, her voice lilting through the holocall. She was referring to the law to bolster Imperial ranks with worthy slaves and aliens, the law which also applied to the Sith. “You can’t expect a slave or a foreigner with no background, no exposure to Sith culture or history to integrate smoothly into Sith society without intervention, much less demand top performances from them.”

Not to mention the consequence of overwhelming power suddenly awakening within someone never taught to wield it, Darth Kharopos thought. The dark side was intoxicating, and one could lose themselves to everything from bloodlust to misery.

“I’m not advising you to go easy on her… but do be understanding, Tyrkos.”

His mother warned that even with the best medicine or therapy available, it would take time, and heavens knew that the Sith journey was already difficult enough, requiring one to fall apart and be reborn from the ashes, to kill who you were for what you could become.

Trust between Sith, especially master and apprentices, was rare. Now, he doubted she’d ever place her faith in him beyond hoping to one day take his place.

*******

Is this how I die? Darth Kharopos thought.

Every breath felt like hot knives stabbing his lungs. The rebreather was dying on him, for he could taste soot in his mouth. Collapsed against the cool floor of his hideout, back leaning against a bloodied wall, his apprentice loomed over him. How embarrassing, for his apprentice to see him so helpless.

“What’s the meaning of this?” she cried out. “Master!”

He thought he’d take that secret to the grave, to ensure that the fallout was minimal. Sith Pureblood, heir to the Rosokor family, involved in a light-side conspiracy. Should he be exposed, the Dark Council would have his mother’s and sister’s heads.

He pleaded for her to understand.

And if she didn’t, he wouldn’t blame her.

Her left hand clutched his holocommunicator where the damning evidence of his treachery laid, and in her right hand was the scarlet lightsaber, poised for execution. In the months under his tutelage, she’d grown into a stunningly beautiful Sith assassin indeed.

He closed his eyes.

“Tell me how to help.”

In shock, his eyes snapped open.

Her eyebrows were scrunched up but whether in anxiety or concern, he could not tell. There was a flush in her cheeks, and wildness in her eyes. Against his every expectation, Yennevyr chose mercy. She chose a chance at the Light. She chose him.

Master, did you not choose me, on Korriban? You saw something in me. I see something in you, too.

*******

Yennevyr hated mopping up blood. She had watched her late father’s maids do it all the time, his underlings scrubbing a crime scene clean. She later played the role of the domestic servant, doing the same back when she was enslaved under the Hutts, whether it be with spilled drinks or bloodstains from a brawl. She wasn’t afraid of blood- the coppery stench just smelled revolting.

Her master bled liters, the liquid forming sticky pools beneath his broken body. Sealing the wound wasn’t too difficult once she found the medkit, although her clumsy handiwork would definitely leave a scar. What was even more concerning was her master’s breathing, the fact that it sounded agonizingly labored and worryingly irregular.

With effort, they managed to haul their way to the hideout’s medical wing before he slipped into unconsciousness.

When his armor was stripped away and it was only his form in plain robes on the simple bed, her master looked more exhausted than she’d ever seen him. Heavy fatigue was written all over his sleeping face. It reminded her of those times she woke up especially early to see the Kaasian sunrise, the soft orange peaking through grey, stormy clouds. Some days, she deduced how master had been running some secret errands the night before, and she’d spot him limping home, his feet dragging, with an uncharacteristic slouch burdening his usually proud posture. Logically, she knew her master was no more or less a person than her, but to glimpse him tired and worn out had shocked her.

She spent the night by his side, the implications of her actions becoming clearer with each passing moment.

To reform the Sith society from inside out, she thought. A lofty dream. When did I become such a cynic?

With curious eyes, she glanced at her master’s resting form, the sound of his still ragged breathing filling the room. She wouldn’t even need a lightsaber; all she had to do was wrap her hands around his neck, and squeeze. She wondered if suffocation felt like sleep.

Oh, will I ever see you this vulnerable again?

Instead, she gingerly placed a palm on top of his limp hand, entangling her fingers with his. His hand was warm.

*******

After the suspicious death of Darth Jadus, Darth Zhorrid - in her sick ways - sought to consolidate her position as a Dark Lord of the Sith.

As if the Council would stand her, Yen scoffed. After they’ve sucked her dry of whatever knowledge Jadus may have passed down to his daughter, she’s dead.

It was no secret that her master disagreed with many of the actions taken by Darth Jadus, but he’d always respected the chain of command, bowing whenever the Dark Councillor requested his presence, amicable before his superiors. This time, however, Darth Zhorrid asked for her master and would not expect anything less than absolute submission.

“Wait outside, Yennevyr. Do not interfere no matter what happens.”

Many may claim force cloaking to be an act of defense, like the Jedi Shadows who’d rather sneak past their foes than needlessly spill blood. Perhaps she truly was like that, in the past. Eager to run, to dart in and out unseen. Conflict-avoidant.

But a cloak was also a tool, like a viper’s green scales that blended into the grass, obscuring fangs and venom. To take it a step further: force cloaking was manipulation. It was to force upon someone a false visage, to bend the mind of onlookers to the point of them rejecting the evidence of their own eyes, denying the existence of a sword pointed at their head. On Korriban, Yen had figured out how to twist her force cloak, inverting it so that her opponents’ visions were plunged into darkness and the world became invisible to them.

It only took hearing her master scream for the first time for her cloak to become a dress.

The scent of ozone reeked through the semi-closed office door. By god, no matter how many times in the past she’d angrily fumed - fantasizing of sweet it would be to give her master a taste of his own medicine - actually hearing her master who had just barely recovered from his previous ordeal now screaming under the powers of some bratty Darth who probably did not even deserve that title...

Yen’s hands curled into a fist, and she was surprised by the anxious lump that formed in her throat. She took in a sharp inhale and when she breathed out, the Force coiled around her like serpentine tendrils, slick and cool. Shadows rested around her shoulder blades like a fashionista’s scarf.

Or for her enemies, a noose.

When her master stumbled out of Darth Zhorrid’s office, a hand clutching at his side, she took the opportunity to peer into the slit of the half-opened office door and caught the Dark Councillor’s sadistic gaze. Yen gave a smile.

*******

Yen had always been good at force cloaking. But this time, instead of projecting the lie of invisibility, she’d chosen an illusion- a glamour, a mirage. To project something false into the world required unwavering will and mastery over that image.

Her mask was fueled by hatred.

Never had she thought she’d one day hate anyone more that she hated the Hutts or herself, until she met Darth Zhorrid. That pathetic mix of insecurity and sadism was infuriating. She had read up on Darth Jadus’ treatment of his daughter. It took everything for her not to barge into that office and wring that sick woman by the neck and ask her if she thought she was the only one who had ever faced abuse. Everyone faced pain at some point in their life. Suffering was the story of all beings, especially so if you were Sith. Yet, when she hated herself, Yen only hurt herself. Unlike Zhorrid, she’d never tortured others as a way to lessen her own pain, to hide her weakness.

And for that, Yen wished Zhorrid was dead.

But not before providing use for her and her master, of course.

Wearing the Force - the fabric of the universe - as if it was a garment, was an act of complete domination. With a smile, she had sparked a flame of interest within Zhorrid. With a light touch of her fingers, she’d quicken or calm the Dark Lord’s pulse, the woman’s heartbeat hers to command at her pleasure. In a blink of an eye, Zhorrid would forgive her master for any misdeeds he’d supposedly done, and most importantly, Zhorrid would leave him alone.

Why pay attention to some grumpy old Sith when the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen was standing there in front of her eyes?

A drugged cupcake ready to be eaten.

Darth Kharopos felt his stomach sinking when he received the holocall requesting that Yennevyr go meet Darth Zhorrid in her chambers. His muscles tightened, as if readying for battle. He wasn’t scared of that snooty brat; anything she threw his way he could take. But Yen, his student, his ward, his protege, his apprentice-

She was smiling.

The Force swirled around her, draped all over her form like a dress blowing in the wind. It was as if she wore a robe of woven flesh, of slithering serpents and tendrils that wrap and cling and coil. There was a gleam in Yen’s eyes, her russet eyes mirthful, radiating confidence. The last time he remembered seeing his apprentice so self-assured was when he was bleeding on the cool tiled floors, her red lightsaber hanging over his head like a bloody guillotine.

“My lord, I am every bit your apprentice. Trust that you’ve taught me well.”

When Darth Kharopos was later summoned to Darth Zhorrid’s office, Yennevyr sat on Zhorrid’s lap like an overpriced poodle. What Zhorrid did not see was the undulating threads latching onto her, their ends sinking into Zhorrid’s skin like a snake’s fangs, or parasites whose teeth pierced her bloodstream, draining her dry.

“Ah, you’re here, Darth Kharopos,” Zhorrid said with a grin. “Very good, you look very nice indeed, perfect for the job.”

Darth Kharopos only nodded, his eyes glued to Zhorrid’s pale hand which stroked Yen’s hair as if she was some exotic pet.

“I need you to look into two places: Belsavis, and the Arcanum.”

Belsavis was a tightly guarded secret he was privy to knowing, but his heart skipped a beat when he heard the name ‘Arcanum’. The Emperor’s property. Jedis have died to get a glimpse of the space station, and there were words of a rogue Dread Master recently robbing the place. Was it even under Intelligence’s jurisdiction?

A squeal snapped him from his thoughts.

“So you do know about the Arcanum!”

Her voice went from a slimy purr to an abrupt shriek. He felt a hard shove and invisible cold fists pinning him to the wall. His legs hung in the air, and he glared at that wretched woman.

“My lord,” Yennevyr murmured, her doe-like eyes widening at Darth Zhorrid. “My master’s a Darth of Imperial Intelligence. Is it not his role to know all that is going on?”

The pressure released and soon he was free. Zhorrid made a noise of agreement, muttering ‘Yes, yes… you’re right, of course.”

Zhorrid began ranting, a semi-coherent monologue punctuated with giggles and sudden screeches on the unfairness of her fate and the need to prove her worth to the Dark Council. Before her anger boiled over, a force tendril planted soft kisses on Zhorrid’s lips, quieting the woman’s anxiety in one swift move.

When the Dark Councillor appeared distracted, Darth Kharopos broke eye contact and glanced at his apprentice. He suppressed a shudder, seeing the predatory glint in Yennevyr’s eyes. Everyday, they grew more scarlet.

You will drink my words, or I will pour them down your throat.

*******

Belsavis he took care of alone, but as per Darth Zhorrid’s orders, he allowed Yennevyr to accompany him on the mission to the Arcanum. It was perfect: with every eye glued to the young rising-star commander, a Sith not-yet-a-lord with the bewitching presence of a black hole, nobody noticed him slipping away, leaking whatever information he could find on the Emperor to Republic SIS. His heart thundered the whole way, but every time he looked at Yennevyr - black hair tied up in a bun, a saber and light armor ready for combat - he felt like he could breathe easy again.

The mission was a success. They tracked the thief, Lord Tagriss, down to Ilum. His dualsaber stabbed a hole in the Sith Lord’s chest, and he felt his apprentice’s pride flared through their bond the moment Lord Tagriss’ dead husk fell into the snow.

When they returned home, she was ready to be a Lord.

“From this day onwards, you are known as Lord Soteira,” he declared, his apprentice kneeling before him. “It means savior.”

His apprentice stood up. When she looked at him, something swirled in his chest.

You honed my blade and sharpened my edges until they are lethal. You scrubbed away the rust, and revealed the blood-soaked truth. Master, don’t feel guilty thinking you turned me into something I already wasn’t. I’ll try to reach for the Light as you want me to, my lord, but don’t pity me if I fail.

[interstellarstorms]

13x21 Coda

Summary: The scene between Lucifer and Sam from Sam’s perspective

Pairing(s): Gen

Warnings: Canon Temporary Character Death, Rape / Non-Con, Suicide

Word Count: 1880

Read on AO3 

The first gasp was unbidden, like a drowned man from the bottom of the deepest sea. He sat upright with a start and knew he was panting for air but it was like static. His mind was nearly blank apart from the shock of the moment but as the moment wore on, it was as if the fog was subsiding on a desolate landscape.

The first things to come back were sensations: the ground beneath him, the coolness of the air, the quiet surrounding him, the metallic smell of blood. For some reason, his hands instinctively shot to his throat, even though his mind was still too empty to recall why. All he could feel was the roughness of his stubble and the sharp rise and fall as he struggled to catch his breath. That’s what was so strange; there was no particular feeling, no pain. Yet somehow, that felt so wrong. And that was when the emotions began to resurface.

Initially, it seemed like it was just confusion, but confusion never felt so sinister. Then came the realization that he was terrified. And in that moment, a whirlwind overcame him and he looked around the room: terror, devastation, grief, and familiarity. He was almost afraid he might vomit, or even worse, that he might cry. But still, he couldn’t explain why. In an attempt to regain control, he stood up, continuing to search for something, expecting something , although he couldn’t recall what.

“Boo!”

That’s when the memories flooded back into him like a tidal wave, nearly forceful enough to knock him over. He was Sam Winchester, and he had died. And he’d been been here before.

A cold laugh. He spun around. He knew that cackle. He knew that face. Lucifer. Again. “Hey, Sammy.”

“No,” he whispered, willing it to not be real, willing himself to still be dead. It felt like panic rising in his throat, except “panic” was a word used for how Sam felt around clowns and pitch darkness. There were no words to describe the feeling of looking into the face of the being who had flayed, tortured, disemboweled, and assaulted him in every way imaginable for time longer than the human mind was built to comprehend.

The devil grinned over at him. “Yeah. I mean you could do the whole pinch yourself, rub your eyes thing or you could put on your big boy pants and just, you know, cut right to the realization that yep, it’s me.” Sam could only look back with resentment, trying to subdue the flashbacks rushing through his head. Lucifer in Jessica’s form, invading his deepest sleep. Lucifer smiling serenely in the mirror after using Sam’s body to kill. Lucifer tearing the flesh from Sam’s broken form. Lucifer invading every part of Sam. Lucifer taking every vulnerability that Sam had and violating it. Lucifer keeping Sam awake so long he lost his mind (never mind they said it was all in his head). Lucifer taking the form of his best friend in the world besides Dean and forcing Sam to watch. Lucifer the first time Sam was resurrected, that same ease about him, watching as Sam pieced it all together from the blood on the carpet and the knife that had fallen from his hand.

“You, you..” he stuttered, “you brought me back?” Again. Against my will, when I would much rather have died.

“I did! You’re welcome.” Lucifer said happily. It was the same tone he’d used when Sam would beg after his body and soul could take no more. It was the tone that told Sam that even death could not help him escape his fate. The same tone he’d use at the end of every day in the Cage, telling Sam that it wasn’t so bad, that deep down, Sam knew he deserved it and he wanted it. It was awful: casual, sarcastic, and so familiar. It hadn’t been like that last time Lucifer had brought him back--no, this voice had only come after the Cage. After hundreds or thousands of years of torture, Lucifer had slowly lost his formality. It was a cruel mockery to Sam’s consent that he did it, to talk as if they were friends, “roommates” or ���bunk buddies” as Lucifer put it. It was a reminder of the eons they’d spent together, Sam’s flesh being ripped or melted from his body, his body itself being violated countless times over.

“But why?” Sam pleaded, hoping that he didn’t sound as desperate as he did in his head. Sam knew Lucifer well enough at this point to know what vulnerability got him, and that was not something he desired to relive.

“Uh, well, I’m getting to that,” Lucifer sounded irritated at Sam’s deviation from whatever script he had built inside his head, a script in which Sam always immediately complied. If the cage had taught him anything about the devil, it was that rebellion never went well. While Sam thought it was necessary to keep up the fight, after the first few hundred years, it was nearly unbearable. Scratch that--it was unbearable, to begin with, and it was at that point that he had begun to lose the will to keep going.

Sam forced himself back into the present. And when was that again? Cage? No. Oh, yes, alternate universe, he remembered. A sudden realization struck him. “The rift! The rift,” he exclaimed, thinking back to how he had arrived in this mess. “Rowena!”

“Oh, she’s okay,” Lucifer assured him. “I mean I-I was gonna kill her, but she blasted me here before I had a chance to, so,” he trailed off, “‘s great, self-defense. I was coming here anyway.”

“But we drained you!” It just wasn’t fair. Nothing ever was with Lucifer. He’d fight and he’d fight for good, and all he’d gotten was the worst Hell could offer.

“So...how did I have the juice to pull off my little Lazarus trick? Ah, that’s a long story, but I was basically tracking you here, and then I came across a handful of Michael’s angels, and I...ate ‘em. Guess its not really a long story, is it?” I don’t fucking care, Sam wanted to respond, but having just come back from death yet again had drained him. It was taking a lot to even physically stay on his feet.

“”What do you want?” The first time he’d been in this position, at least he had known the reason. Lucifer had wanted his true vessel, and that meant he needed Sam. In the cage, every time Lucifer would tell him the reason for the day’s torture: revenge, boredom, indifference. Here, it was beginning to feel as if there was no point to it at all.

“What do I want? I want what everyone wants, I want a personal apology from Pop. I want rerun-free, year-round episodes of ‘Drag Race’.” Sick fuck. Lucifer played at human well, but Sam knew better.

“Yeah, got it, okay, right. We’re done here.” Sam said conclusively, impatiently, wanting desperately to put about a hundred thousand miles between himself and Lucifer. He bagan to make his way out, quickly as he could, truly not expecting to get very far. Nothing was ever so simple, yet he prayed anyway that it somehow would be.

“Are you going? Here, it’s dark out there.” Lucifer responded nonchalantly, handing a flashlight to Sam, who bewilderedly accepted. He clicked to button to turn it on so the light shone onto the ceiling of the cave, watching as Lucifer nodded, and then lowered it. He tensed with a start: the vampires. They were everywhere.

“Yeah, they’re sort of all over there and I’m holding them back. They’re just waiting for a little snap of the fingers but I didn’t want them flooding in here and eating ya again, until we’ve finished our convo.” Sam watched them snarl. It was a horrific, messy death, but it didn’t look so bad from where Sam stood. All he wanted to know was why, anger surging through his veins.

“ What do you want ?” Sam shouted, fury and fear overwhelming him.

“I want what you already have: a relationship with my son” Sam looked down. It was impossible to look Lucifer in the eye. Jack. Sam could see his face now in his mind’s eye. He’s only a child, Sam thought, and the closest I’ll ever have to a child of my own. “Okay, there was a time where I would, you know, just grab him, but I’ve grown.”

“Yeah, sure you have.” Sam exhaled, attempting sarcasm in spite of how his mind was screaming in horror and fear.

“I have, Samuel. I want my son,” he said seriously, “and you’re gonna help me.”

“How?” Sam tried to keep only his confusion on his face, but he was afraid he felt the desperation leaking into his features, and his horror. Even after the years of torture, this kind was new, and Sam could feel how much Lucifer relished in it. He had a new weakness, and Lucifer knew it.

“Well, I don’t feel like he’ll give me a chance unless I come bearing gifts. Yep, boop! ” he added at the disgust on Sam’s face and poking Sam. “That’s you.” Sam could feel his chest go cold where Lucifer had touched him. It was a feeling he never got used to. Even after all this time, after all the places he’d felt it. It was beyond unnatural.

“Look, Sammy, I’m not asking you to like it or to like me, all I’m asking is that you acknowledge the truth: that I was the one who brought you back to life and I was the one who lifted you from the darkness, and into the light.” Impatience was seeping into Lucifer’s voice, bringing back the millions of times Sam had heard it like that before. “Okay?” There was a pause. “Apocalypse world, Michael’s armies, you really think you and your family can handle that stuff alone? You need me.”

“And what if I say no?” Sam asked, summoning all his courage and defiance to stand up against his long-time torturer. That damned hope, somehow he couldn’t give it up.

Lucifer cleared his throat. “Let me just make this really really really easy, easy enough for even you to understand, Sammy. I’m getting to Jack, one way or the other, the only question is, you coming with, or that?” He said, gesturing at the vampires--Sam’s death sentence, or were they the world’s? In either case, Sam looked out at them, watching them snarl and fight against the invisible wall that seemed to separate them from him, feeling sick to his stomach in way only Lucifer could cause. “Your move, Champ.”

Sam could only stare back, heart sinking. There was a long pause in which Sam could thought back on his options. The only way he could see was to go along, try to derail Lucifer later, as he had by jumping into the pit. Lucifer smiled as a tear fell from the tall man’s eye. Sam shuddered as Lucifer reached forward to wipe it away, just as he had the first time Sam had killed himself to escape. So much cold. No escape.

“Promise me you won’t hurt him.”

[refractionrp]

LOADING DATA . . .                                                                                              AYGÜL ADALET ( astraea ) the SCALES OF JUSTICE                                  43k.87.056-007.exe /  79. 03. 21 - 43. 10. 17                                eternally 26

life before death (tw: suicide, self-harm, self-loathing)

justice, just like history, is written by the strong – so aiguli grows up with neither on her side. she knows what it means to be weak. she’s determined to be strong.

the law is in service of those who know it, but unlike power, it can be learned. so she learns it, devoting the first half of her life to studying the law and its intricacies. but it’s impenetrable from the outside, crumbling the opposition and dissent against it; brute force on her part is ultimately futile. aiguli spends four years spent trying to defend those who don’t have any power, but she herself has nothing backing her. justice is blind to what it’s being used for. the only way forward is to get behind the blindfold itself and rip it off.

becoming a procurator doesn’t leave as bitter a taste as she’d expect. among her fellow procurators, she stands out with her sheer conviction to leash the law to justice. she’s unpopular, of course, but uncompromising and relentless in her beliefs. she’s willing to take on the cases that no one wants for fear of retaliation, too high profile and high risk for those trying to climb the ladder. aiguli is the only one idealistic enough to believe that the birth lottery doesn’t guarantee impunity, and act on it.

some of this works in her favour; her reputation grows in xinjiang, gaining their trust. change is slow, but it will happen. the more she’s stopped, the closer she knows she is to her goal. injustice isn’t a prerequisite for power, and she makes friends who share her ideals, mentors who take her under their wing. their chief procurator takes her as his protege, preparing her to fight beyond the borders of their region. she still has a long distance to go, and aiguli begins by building a strong foundation from which to create a better system.

but behind the blindfold of justice, greys start to seep in. as she rises in ranks and pushes forward, aiguli loses sight of her vision. it becomes a question of how much she’s willing to sacrifice against her ideals. she convinces herself that nothing is black and white. she justifies each decision she makes for the greater good, qualifying everything she turns a blind eye to, but a corrupt system will only corrupt those within it.

there are many sayings for the path she takes from then on. none of them matter. even silently, she condones the atrocities that happen in front of a blind justice. she becomes weak to the possibility of power, wanting for change but forgetting how to fight for it. the foundation she’d built her ideal of justice on has warped, no longer strong enough to support a law that can be impartial and fair. the position of procurator general is hers for the taking, but getting there has taken away the strength of her beliefs.

the only thing she’s still capable of is razing the system they have, and hoping someone will build something incorruptible in its place. the conversations held in front of luxurious banquets are recorded. she leaves paper trails hidden just well enough to be overlooked, but not erased. the rot spreads and she documents it all, even as she spreads it herself. when they find the evidence she’s laid out for them, she’s sure it’ll be enough to cut out the corruption that’s rooted into their system, once and for all. it will ruin her, but it’s a small price to pay for everything she’s done; she must be complicit for all she’s done to mean anything. she’ll be the last blood sacrifice to save their failed system.

but when she falls, it does not feel like justice. 

life after death

she doesn’t expect to wake up in the afterlife – this is a luxury that belongs to the wealthy, a kindness for the virtuous. aiguli is neither and she’s made sure those living know it. she waits, for six months, to be wiped. she knows this because the programme reminds her as each hour passes, a smiling, impartial voice that cannot pass judgment. there is nothing the afterlife can offer her, no tutorial she needs. it’s only a matter of time before her programme is deleted. when they realise the sort of person she had become, the only course of action should be to destroy her, more thoroughly than she’d been able to herself.

but she remains, for all that she’s done. the afterlife won’t let her delete herself from it, nor will anyone mete justice from the outside. someone knocks on her box and generously guides her through the tutorial, completely unaware. no one knows who she is. not even those who arrive after her death, after everything she’d torn her reputation to shreds for the sake of her justice system. in the end, her sacrifice had just been her penance, and a failed one at that; she is unknown, and the world is unchanged.

it feels like a mockery to find herself back in the physical age she’d been before everything. her decisions had made her aged and sour; the afterlife had no right to take it away from her. aiguli tries everything with reckless abandon, but her avatar is just a set of codes in an unfeeling system that refuses to allow her to self destruct within its walls. after all, it is but another system that knows nothing about justice, only its own preservation.

the afterlife spouts generous platitudes about equality and kindness, and lets her roam free. she wastes her stolen time in self-loathing and blame, keeping everyone else out. her actions have hurt too many people already; she can’t be allowed to hurt anyone else. so she lets them hurt her, instead, anyone who wants to – just sparks of pain as meaningless and impermanent as she ought to be.

this should have been her eternity. it would have been, perhaps, but the system is blind and unknowing and it gives her a second chance to something right this time. the afterlife drops someone she’d wilfully sacrificed for her blind ideals into her sector. aiguli spends their first year quietly protecting them, helping them wherever she can. there are those who abuse the system and wreak havoc on the inhabitants of the afterlife, but she will not allow that to happen to them again.

unknowingly, her protection spreads. her new charge is kind and open, and so are the people around them. perhaps aiguli can never find justice for her actions, but she’s willing to spend all of her afterlife trying to protect the world as much as she had hurt it, no matter how inconvenient or risky or painful it will be. where the system is blind, she is not, and aiguli works tirelessly to help those in need. she might not be able to trust her own sense of right and wrong anymore, but kindness bears no judgment.

redemption isn’t justice, but maybe it’s better.

[easkyrah]

Elorcan Werewolf AU part 8

If you haven’t read the previous 7 installments, I highly recommend you read those first in order as this series is chronological based. My masterlist is here. Also, I have no idea if this part makes any sense at all, so please give me your thoughts. It’s also quite long. I think there may be only two or three parts left, actually! On the bright side, the angst is over. Or at least I think so.

Yuputka — the phantom sensation of something crawling on one’s skin

Elorcan Werwolf 8

Now

Elide drank from the heavy cup of bitterness and spat out the viscous liquid of forgiveness. She lost track of time and sense in the sodden cell, and found paths of bruises and sores lining her body. She gave up on hope towards the light and retained resentment towards what laid on the other side of her prison.

All was dark. Dark was all.

Her hair hung matted as a rat’s nest, perspiration running down her skin, cracked and peeling. Her lips bled frequently, her ankle more mangled than she could remember.

Pain replaced her loneliness. Regret was a mere notion she entertained of what could have been. Suffering served her reality.

Sleep was simultaneous torture. Nightmares of the day’s assault and night’s cold swept through every crevice. The first stay in the cell, Vernon had tore her clothes into tatters, fangs tearing at her skin. Elide had screamed and thrashed until those teeth had bit down on her throat, threatening to tear out her neck.

“I conquer,” was all her Uncle had said before she’d screamed out in pain, blackness slashing across her vision. Aches had throbbed in parts of her body where she had waited for her mate, waited to be respected, waited to be worshipped.

At first, tears had persisted, the tang of salt cracking her lips. Now she cried no more, for the seconds she knew were filled with the consistency of raw anguish. It was just her own shaking, shredded skin and devastating poor excuse of family that haunted her.

The chains became her tether, lest she slip away into the next life or what awaited. Her ankle became a figment of a reminder in her story, of living with a disability, to a euphoric type of enmity in true healing, to a shattered piece of her inked soul.

For all she knew, the seconds had passed to minutes to pass to hours to pass to days and perhaps months. For all she knew, her presence was a forgotten whisper of dust between the burning and burnt stars. For all she knew, her life was declared deceased, her mate with another, her legacy into ashes, her pack free of an invalid.

And perhaps it was better that way.

She could not fathom how the Lycans could have fought for eons, loosing themselves in the raging battlefield, in the horrid torture chambers, in the unescapable sea of blood.

But perhaps they had never been caged, for this was a different war.

This was a battle to live, persist, endure. This was torture in every sense. This was an ocean of loneliness, pain, and belittlement.

She did not want this to be another facet written within her pages.

For Aelin she would not dwell in darkness, but in light.

For Manon she would not toil in coldness, but in warmth.

For Lorcan she would not waver in passiveness, but in aggression.

Her story was not of loneliness and sorrow, but of hope and affinity.

The cell doors rattled open, and the shadow of the Morath Alpha lurked in.

Predatory eyes met her own bleary ones.

“Hello, Elide,” Uncle Vernon said. “Sleeping well?”

When she didn’t answer, he slapped her cheek, the sound richotechting across the walls. When she didn’t bat an eye, he kicked her in the stomach, her teeth grating across one another. When she didn’t flinch, he jerked the chain on her ankle, the scraping scratching the barren floor.

She supposed she should thank her uncle for teaching her to befriend pain.

“I have special news,” Vernon sneered. “Regarding your friends.”

A momentary thread of anticipation tore through her. She kept her face blank under Vernon’s scrutinizing gaze. Her heart did not beat faster, for she had learned that any component of hope was an offering from the devil.

And any dance with the devil ended in the purest sense of hopelessness.

Finally, he said, “I’m moving you to a more secure location.”

Moving.

Hands gripped the chains against the wall, and a key clicked several times. The pull of the metal and steel slammed against the floor, Elide’s knees following suit. She hissed as Vernon wrapped the chains around her, and dragged her about by her hair, her roots harshly yanked and protesting in pain.

The cell was a ghost, surrounding and haunting and cursing her. As soon as her body passed through the doors, elation poured over her, the flickers of pain seeming to subside.

Moving.

“What do they see in a frail, worthless invalid?” Vernon said as her body was limply hauled across stones, the dripping of droplets digging into her cuts and scrapes.

The damp hallways seemed an eternity’s walk, Vernon’s nails digging into her scalp. Little lines of blood ran down her neck and face, her heart twisting and turning.

He tossed her onto the curve pathway of stones, and kicked her ankle. She curled into herself, her withered and emaciated body already tired from movement, her muscles faded away into complete atrophy. Her bones seemed to rattle as coldness prickled at her skin.

“Look up,” Vernon commanded.

Elide looked up.

“Look left,” Vernon ordered.

Elide looked left.

“Move,” Vernon sneered.

Elide looked down—and then looked up at the first step of the many stones that spiraled up into an ascension of a new fatigue. All hope dissipated as a lit candle in a storm. The cuts on her knees and shins flared. Her ankle collapsed and twisted and flared with pain.

This was beyond her limits, and her Uncle knew it.

Vernon yanked the chain around her neck. One harsh tug forward, tossing her against the fragmented stones, leaving her gasping for breath, cutting off her circulation.

Dry coughs filled the air as she blinked away the dizziness and clouds fogging her vision. Manon would have fought back with that sheer strength of hers. Aelin had have snapped back with that vicious tongue of hers. Lorcan would not have been in this situation in the first place with his clear brutality.

She was the weak link. The disabled. The handicapped. The misfit.

She struggled to lift herself onto her knees. Her palms hit the damp stones, the crescending slope a mockery of how far she’d descended.  

“If you have all the time in the world, Elide, then perhaps I should entertain myself.”

Her nails dug into the cracks as she forced her head to slowly turn around, her neck aching, the ghost of fingers choking her.

Her heart sunk.

Vernon slowly unbuttoned his collared shirt, and slid the belt off his pants. With expert grace only mastered by practice, he brought the whip down in a single strike across her back. Her body splintered against the base, and her hands desperately reached up to scrabble for purchase.

“You little slut,” Vernon grinned, a maniacal hint tinging the smirk. His fingers went to the hem of his pants. “You want another round, don’t you?”

His eyes raked over her body, her exposed skin, her brokenness.

She turned her head back towards the slope of the slanted stones, cold determination fixing within her.

Biting harshly down on her peeled lip enough to draw slivers of blood, Elide Lochan, true heir to the Morath Pack, slowly began the rise of a climb up.

Three Weeks Ago

“What do you mean you don’t know where she is?” the dark-haired male snarled.

Trend carefully, her mate had warned, when Lorcan had first arrived, beaten and battered and the borders of her pack.

Standing in front of the Alpha of the Fireheart Pack was a Lycan coated from head-to-toe in blood. Standing in front of the Alpha Lycan’s mate was the commander, oozing a stench of something darker and wild.

Standing in front of Aelin Galanthysius was Lorcan Salvaterre, the one who broke Elide Lochan and was broken by Elide Lochan.

Aelin swallowed. As Alpha, she felt each string of connection to her pack members. But a week ago, after her trip to the royal castle, Elide’s familiar and warm presence had disappeared.

Vanished.

Without a trace.

“You’re a shit excuse of an Alpha,” Lorcan swallowed, but she held her stance, finding a soothing in the blades pressed against her skin.

An hour ago, this male had held too-many deaths within his palm. An hour ago, this male had realized that Elide was fully missing. An hour ago, this male had not sensed his mate anywhere within the safe parameters of all the packs.

Yesterday, the onyx-eyed male had snapped her elbow. Yesterday, the male had executed a flawless punch towards her eye. Yesterday, the commander had her ears ringing with his infuriated roaring.

She had merely pointed out that he had been temporarily suspended from his own pack until he resolved the issue with his missing mate.

A week ago, Aelin had lost connection to Elide. A week ago, she had scoured through every book in search of reestablishing the link. A week ago, her pack had been victim to rogue attacks.

A week since Elide’s disappearance, Lorcan had gained full control back of his body, demanding to see his mate.

Only to find that his mate had dissipated if she were nothing but a faded passing.

His rage had destroyed fundamental tenements many omegas depended on. His fury had ceased the fields of crops and plants many werewolves depended on. His enmity had caused the execution of many females connected to the Shadow Market.

She had watched the after-effects of losing scent and connection to his mate drive Lorcan to his knees.  

She had watched the dark-haired male wreck up his guts into the bucket for the thousandth time today. She had lost count as her Pack Doctor, Yrene Towers, had replaced each bin with another, dutifully monitoring the impossible male that would have given her own mate, Alpha of the Lycans, a run.

Lorcan gazed at her with a dark look in his eyes.

Aelin braced herself for another attack, but the male merely painfully closed his eyes, and croaked out, “I miss her.”

Longing.

Aelin let the dagger fall back into her sleeve, and looked over the commander of the Lycan’s armies.

Sweat and grime painted the heaving male’s skin, those ghastly eyes cracked and shattered. He was shivering, fists clenched against the rim of the bucket. His had lost his voice frequently, only to have the sound rasp out into a guttural scraping.

Aelin loosed a breath. “What did Sorscha say?”

Flinging open the heavy, steel door with all her might from that fateful day in visiting the castle, walking down the damp and dark hallway, Aelin had seen Lorcan convulsing on a bed of spikes and bones.

No Elide.

No connection.

Only a feral Lycan bringing down the castle from its very roots, shattering the entire southern complex.

It had taken three hours and the rest of the cadre in order to restrain Lorcan against the heaviest chains of silver, surrounded by circles of wolfsbane.

But Lorcan’s feral side still remained, roaring and hissing and screaming for his mate. Sweat and a thick, glowing green liquid had oozed out of his skin for hours until the commander had gained clear consciousness.

“Yellowleg’s Death,” Lorcan said so softly Aelin almost missed it.

Her heart skipped a beat. The manipulative, slow-working concoction created by the blessing of a witch’s spell, only found within the depths of the Shadow Market.

Manon stood next to them, and watched without emotion as Lorcan leaned against the wall, rubbing his forehead. The half-Lycan, half-witch had spent her evenings and mornings looking for their pack’s apprentice healer, her afternoons honing her already skilled abilities with the blade.

A hole had emerged within her pack. A wide, gaping emptiness.

The Fireheart beta let out a dry laugh. “The poison worked.”

Aelin coughed, and muttered out, “Obviously.”

Lorcan didn’t budge from his spot against the wall, a look of concentration and fatigue holding his focus.

“Yellowleg’s Death grants the creator full access over the victim’s body for an hour. It can usurp power from the victim whenever and wherever. It can take years or months to occur.” Manon tapped a nail against the sheath of her blade. “All it took was an hour to break Elide from Lorcan, to spur a rejection, to foster a wound to deep to be mended.”

To seize Elide Lochan, true heir to the Morath Pack and second-Pack Doctor to the Fireheart Pack, away from them all.

Aelin looked at Lorcan. “That’s why you destroyed the Shadow Market, and executed all those connected to the drug.”

A curt nod, and the female Alpha could see the acceptance of the drug settling between the granite-hewn face.

Temporarily expelled from his pack, Lorcan Salvaterre had taken refuge in her pack, where Yrene coaxed the final remains of the poison out.

Where Lorcan had wallowed in self-pity, disappointment and regret drowned him.

Aelin had watched the beta to the Alpha Lycan fade away into a shell, and realized that Rowan Whitethorn had been right: A Lycan would rather die than hurt his mate.

And Lorcan Salvaterre, although slowly being freed of Yellowleg’s poison, would die if he did not have his mate near him.

One Month Ago

Lorcan watched as the spines of the guards snapped with a surety to rival death’s inevitable appearance himself. The darkness wrecked havoc, de-rooting trees around the castle grounds and slamming into entrances. An ominous wind screeched along the fading sunlight, those managing to near him collapsing to the ground, thick rivers of blood pouring out of their ears.

A massacre of those in his bloodlust.

A divine retribution for daring to cast him out.

A welcome for Hellas’s realm.

With a glance towards the newly installed barricaded, Lorcan pushed his will of shadowed obscurity into the silver force. Large dents imprinted onto the wall, and seconds later, the ground shuddered as the barrier collapsed against the marbled floor.

Lorcan stepped through the rubble, stalking towards the center meeting room. Here, the Lycans hung back, heads bowed and eyes cast down. A warning had been issued, and they would obey.

His hand violently jerked the golden knob to the side and pushed the hardened door forward. Silence sagged across the immaculate room as soon as he stepped in.

Five pairs of eyes landed on him, the Alpha Lycan rigidly sitting at the head of the chair. Fenrhys sprawled lazily at the left side, goblets of wine surrounding him. A flicker of something deeper with wronged remembrance flickered through Lorcan’s head, but he dismissed the amiss feeling and flexed his aching back muscles.

“I’m leaving for Morath,” Lorcan said abruptly, striding to the right, empty seat—his spot—at the head of the table. He did not sit down, but calmly gazed at the Prince Rowan Whitethorn with a menace that would have cowed a lesser man.

Fenrhys choked on his wine, Gavriel crossing his arms. Vaughan merely arched a brow, Connal’s face pinching slightly.

“Your ban does not end until you can prove to my mate that you are in control.” Rowan’s words echoed across the room. His hands clenched, and Lorcan knew he was restraining the order to further his banishment.

“Having half of her pack members end up in the infirmary and killing our guards probably isn’t the best way to do it,” Fenrhys chimed in.

“Wrecking Sollomere into a ground of ashes hardly demonstrates control,” Vaughan added.

“You also broke the covenant searching for Elide Lochan,” Gavriel observed.

Rowan’s eyes twitched, his resolve slowly chipping away. Lorcan warily threw up his shields, ignoring the tension wading through the air.

“That’s why you’re travelling to Morath,” Connal mused. “To find your mate.”

Lorcan didn’t bother to object to his pack members. Today marked a month in which Elide Lochan, his mate, had disappeared. A month of futile, ceaseless searching, of unending longing and loneliness. A month of wandering through a parallel trail of sorrows and agony, restless wishes never answered.

The Alpha Lycan shook his head. “You destroyed the Shadow Market. Our connections there have ceased.”

“And what if the chance that Yellowlegs poison harmed your mate?” Lorcan growled. “In which you had no control over?”

No control.

The Lycan’s worst fear.

Whether losing control to their feral wolf side or having dark magic posses them, Lycans eluded any poison, liquid, or scenario that would test their control.

Because absolute control meant absolute power.

To control others, Lycans had to control themselves.

And Lorcan had not been in control one month ago.

Rowan Whitethorn released a burdensome sigh and exhaled quickly. “I revoke your suspension. I grant you full privileges and rights to travel to Morath and do what business you need to do.”

Full control.

His friend, the Alpha, the King—Rowan Whitethorn was giving him full control and access to his actions and the extent of the consequences.

For his mate, for the other half of his soul, for Elide Lochan.

Lorcan bowed his head in acknowledgement, the only recognition and expression of gratitude the Lycan Alpha would receive. When Rowan held out his hand, Lorcan clasped it.

Gavriel cautiously looked between the Prince and the Commander. Finally, he said, “I suppose you need a few nuclear arms, silver covers, and a shit ton of wolfsbane?”

Fenrhys gave them a wolfish grin. “Imagine the terror on Morath’s face when they see the cadre united.”

Connal slowly smiled. “Morath’s time has come to an end.”

Avoidance of the Pack that had violently sucked the former ruling off the throne, had notoriously experimented on the supernatural, had utilized brutal tactics to remain their power didn’t reach for from the Lycans.

Ultimatum after ultimatum, the Morath Pack had ignored the cadre’s warnings.

Now that a direct threat to one of their own had been issued, Morath could burn. Legally within the borders of the covenant, annihilating the pack appealed to the Lycan on another level.

Yet—before more plans could stipulate, Lorcan slammed his shield into the iron table, the hollowing sound causing the five pairs of eyes to once again land on him.

“I go alone,” he firmly stated.

Silence. Then—

“Absolutely absurd,” Vaughun snarled. “You’ll die. Morath broke Maeve’s legions. What do you stand a chance?”

Cold froze through the air at the mention of the former Lycan queen’s name. A curse, an abomination, an infamy. The stinging of lashes whispered in haunting strokes across his back, the silver cell of insanity unfolding within Lorcan’s mind.

The true savagery—

Connal snarled, a thunderous growl building leaking out. “Say the bitch’s name one more time, and I’ll tear out your throat.”

Fenrhys teleported next to his brother, and laid a hand against Vaughun’s chest.

Rowan loosed a bark, and Connal slouched against his seat in submission. The Alpha turned towards his commander, an unfathomable look sketched across his face.

“We have every reason to be concerned. Especially when it concerns another’s welfare. We do not know what lurks in Morath, save for death.”

Lorcan stared at his pack with eyes of the soulless. He had already wasted too much valuable time loitering. The darkness summoned an abstraction into reality, Hellas’s raw power pulsing around him. Lorcan swung the convened hatchet in his hand, the craving for his mate ushering senseless violence through his veins.

Rowan raised a brow at the burst of power emanating from Lorcan.

Before the Prince of Lycans could speak, Lorcan answered the call of darkness webbing through him, his onyx eyes perceiving more than he’d ever before.

“What—” Gavriel started.

“When your gift is Death, you no longer fear him.” Hellas’ might flowed to him.

Lorcan welcomed the sheer control pulsating through every inch and cell.

His voice sounded far away as he spoke with an ancient, long-feared and worshipped guttural tone. “Death is my ally. Mine to control.”

His.

Death had always belong to him.

It was life instead that slipped through his fingers, the facets and faces of true existence evading him.

An integral part of living would not escape him one more time: his mate.

Elide Lochan.

Lorcan stalked out of the castle, the darkness cascading through him and around him in large streams and flares.

Two Months Ago

Lorcan laid in his bed, breathing heavily.

Pain lanced through every pore. Grogginess laced his vision. Lead settled in every muscle.

His wolf roared at him to visit his mate—that he would be content and pliant if he could just settle his eyes on her lithe form or soak in her scent even from afar. Her presence, if utilized correctly, would be the worst type of military tactic used against him. She would be his downfall, and she would not know.

His fingers brushed against papyrus scrawled with loops of elegant curls and spirals, a golden and flaming embroider filling the edges. In another realm, perhaps he could have been the prince charming, showing up to the ball completely unannounced with his finest clothes, locking eyes with Elide, and asking her for the first dance.

He would have kissed the top of her hand and charmed his way into her heart; she would return his affections, and they would have their lives carried out by fate as perfect mates.

But he was Death’s Right Hand.

And she was a living Angel.

This was not a fairytale in which the maiden lived happily ever.

This was reality in which the maiden either was massacred from the vices through violence or was forged into the sculpture created by the monsters.

This lie was that if the maiden followed her mind, then she would not follow love.

The truth was that if the maiden followed her heart, then she would lose her mind.

He lived with forgotten violence and remembered cruelty brimming from every surface. She lived with colored perceptions and warm neutrals on a floating canvas.

His thoughts were polluted with fabrications that belonged to the Devil’s Mind, hers a beautiful universe waiting to be seen.

A creak broke his melancholy.

The doorknob slowly twisted in a torturously slow manner, and Lorcan grimaced in pain as he glanced towards the entrance. If Fenrhys was about to mock the misery of a state he was in just one more time—

A soft, ever-familiar voice filled the room, the sound almost hesitant.

“Lorcan?”

Lorcan hissed in response. The scent that did not belong to his mate seeped into the room. It was an unwelcomed scent, one he constantly regretted and condoned, one he believed better off in the grave, even if royalty. It was a persistent scent that lingered in front of his doors and followed him through the hallways, one that drove his wolf into insanity.

A doe-eyed female leaned in the doorway, eyes sweeping through the darkness. Those gentle orbs locked in his direction when he loosed a grunt, his chest heaving with pain.

“Get out,” he rasped. “You are unwelcome here.”

Lorcan winced in the cover of darkness and and snarled lowly as the quiet padding of footsteps filled his room.

She did not listen.

A soft glow lit his room, the burning wax chasing away the deep shadows. He closed his eyes with the sweeping light, his nose twitching from the candle’s aroma.

The female trespassing into his room stirred the bloodthirsty side of him. She either him as his canines slide out or wished to die as growl thundered in the base of his throat.

A hand caressed his forehead, and Lorcan flinched.

“I said. Get. Out.” Warnings after warnings, and she still paid no heed.

The tips of her fingers touched his lips, and she clucked her tongue once. “That’s no way to treat an old friend.”

He had once thought she knew the line between his animalistic needs and her loose fantasies. She had been nothing more than a body to satiate the Lycan’s feral side, nothing less than a body to use and manipulate. Not a friend, not a lover, not his mate. Nothing more than a passing acquaintance.

The intruding female brushed back her hair, revealing the pale column of her throat, and gracefully settled herself onto his duvet sheets. “You need to relax, Lorcan Salvaterre. You’ve been through so much. I can help you.”

“You know nothing.” He knew the way she said his name was meant to entice him. He knew the purr in her lilt was meant to arouse him. She knew that he was in a vulnerable state.

His eyes managed to catch the flash of a quick smile she flashed.

“I know you have a mate.” She stroked his chest, coaxing his shirt’s buttons apart. His arms were full of inflexible lead to stop her. His mind seemed to seep into an abyss of murkiness no stroke or kick could save. “And that she does not want you. But I do.”

All the dates Elide had accepted. All the males that had pawed at her. All the stares lusting after her. The flowers and smiles endowed towards her. The invisible blood on his hands—is that what she saw? What his history to full of gruesome atrocities that she would not consider the future?

Lorcan’s body laid rigid and paralyzed as the other female’s nails raked across his hardened skin, each strike a burning sensation. He didn’t know if it was because his wolf side was rejecting her touch or because his body was still coping with his mate’s loss.

He wanted Elide Lochan. He wanted her without her cold eyes that chipped him away slowly, with her inviting ones that made him feel worth more than destruction. He wanted her with warm smiles that drove away the darkness, without her frowns that made him fall to his knees. He wanted her with open arms, without her closed walls.

He did not want this woman in his room and her unwarranted advances. Eons later from when they had first met within the forest, and he still did not want her. The one female he wanted and needed, desired to cherish and protect, hold and soothe—did not want him. The path in waging wars had kept him forbid him from entertaining any facet of the elation life had to offer. Yet when he had laid eyes upon Elide, even through the dark night as she had raced through the trees, expertly wielded the car, saw the fierce determination of hope and compassion in those reflections, Lorcan had known that Elide Lochan was the most beautiful, untouched piece of art his eyes had ever laid upon. There would be expensive, lavish masterpieces, but there would not be the kind-hearted, impossible Elide Lochan, a beacon to him.

His mate.

So he managed to stare at the doe-eyed female with coldness centuries had crafted, a glance full of censure.

“You forget that I do not want you.” He struggled to keep his eyes open, the phantom hand of sleep lulling him into another realm.

“So you’ve said,” the royal female said. Lorcan could make out the form of a goblet in her hand, her lips pressed against the edge. “And I respect that.”

“Do you now?” He did not have the energy to raise a brow or move an arm to break her neck.

A sharp, curt nod. “So I propose one last toast. To what we had. To what past we shared. To us.”

Lorcan warily eyed the goblet, and then the princess Lycan that had pursued him for an eternity. He could have said that they had nothing, their past worthless, that there was no ‘us’. But his tongue was ash in his mouth and his bones were tired. Of fighting physically and sparring verbally.

“Is that all?” he managed to scrape out.

The princess twirled a strand of her hair, and sat on his lap. “Yes.”

They had toasted often, during galas and balls and masquerades. She had always plucked flutes of champagne for him, saying he needed to work on his image. The royal had always clinked her glass against his in a possessive way, Lorcan always brushing her off.

Drinking was nothing new. But the glint in her eyes—that was something new.

“Do you swear to cease your advancements towards me and my mate? To allow us to find peace between us? To raise no harm against Elide Lochan?”

The she-wolf raised a dainty brow, and pressed the ruby-studded goblet into his clammy hand. “I, Essar, in the name of the Bright Lady, swear to fulfill the promise.”

The princess Lycan held her back straight and watched as Lorcan gripped the base of the goblet. Essar slowly brought his hand to his lips as his arm remained unwilling, his wolf snarling in protest.

Before he could leash in his feral side or question his wolf’s sudden thrashing, Essar tipped the goblet into his slightly parted mouth, shoving the steaming liquid down his throat. Lorcan gagged, and felt the marks of where she had scratched him respond with searing pain. His body convulsed as the princess Lycan shoved a hand around his throat, forcing every drop down.

His wolf quieted, and his body flared with pain for several seconds until a blurred daze fell across him. He could consciously hear purring, and feel a warm body pressed against his. There was an itching at the back of his mind, something holding him back. An irking of sorts scratched at him, but nonsensical thoughts like cotton clogged his brain.

There was something wrong, something forcing him still and compliant. His mind struggled to cut down every barrier, but there was a hint of dark magic that had his will recoil.

Something tepid pressed against his lips, a hand fingering the hair at the nape of his neck. There was a sound of creaking, and then a scent appeared that had the cotton in his head blowing away.

His eyes snapped open. He turned his head towards the door.

Lorcan knew then by the figure in his lap and the figure at the door he had irrevocably fucked up.

And that by the flash of betrayal and hurt contorting across his mate’s face, he had broken the maiden. And that by the whisper of her scent that fled from the room and the familiar sound of bones cracking and howling, he had sculpted the maiden into a monster.

And from there, the poison of Yellowleg’s Death, bewitched with dark magic and control remained stagnant within his veins, swirling through every notch and crevice, an invasion of his mind and will and muscle.

[beeswritinghive]

What We Are

 Tsuzhu. That was her name. She used to run across the hills laughing, chased by the boys when chores were light. Mother went too and from the river, day in and day out. She gutted and cleaned and cooked. Tsuzhu wanted to be just like her mother, dependable, a provider. Father worked on one of the larger farms of the Orchards in Nectarbreeze, collecting the honey and nurturing the soil. She wanted to be just like her father, careful and fearless despite all the gross bugs and muck. She was a countrypaw if ever there was one. She rolled in the dirt and wrestled with the other children. They would explore the far banks of the river, they tested the bees and got stung and reprimanded in equal measure. Most days were the same, chores in the morning and free roaming in the afternoon. Evenings brought help with cooking and cleaning. Once a week there was a feast for all, to ease tensions and ensure community.

It wasn’t a glorious, opulent lifestyle, but Countrypaws were simple folk. Tsuzhu never thought much on grand adventures, or wonders from outside the mists.

One day though, the mists fell, and so much happened in such a short time. When the fires started, she was with her mother. They sunk into the river and drifted south with the current. Though the sickly sweet aroma of burning blossoms carried on the breeze, it was a terrible reminder of what they had narrowly escaped. The Jinyu passed them on the way north, and with small luck, they managed to find refuge from the oncoming storm of war. Though stories drifted, and strange faces drifted passed over time, they returned to rebuild the orchard with the other families. Tales of heroics and terror, of harsh whips and tight chains. But they were safe now, heroes from beyond the shores had come and saved the day. The entire continent rippled with the after aftershocks of full scale war, but the distant farms and orchards like Nectarbreeze skated by the concentrated brutality.

Tsuzhu saw the after effects, but the scope of carnage was something she had prayed to never see in person. How could she hope to stand where adults had fallen, what could a child do against cracking whips and blades of steel? All she wanted was to fish from the river, or tend the trees that gave her family life.

The years passed and her body grew, though her mind less so. To return to a simple life was a hard thing, every shadow loomed all the darker. Every bark or cry sent cold shivers down her spine. Nothing came, though, for a long time, and it was not perfect but life seemed normal a second time.

A last time.

Unlike when the Mogu tried to rise, and enslave her kin anew, the spark was not as silent and methodical. It was not a cunning trap that marched in on key sides, with nets and rope. It did not come during the day, though she couldn’t even tell the sun was just rising at the time.

Vicious rumbling shook their hut, Tsuzhu thrown from her bed while her mother gripped tightly at the wall for support. Somewhere outside, a great flare rose up, fragments of earth and scorched stone ricocheting through their home. Tsuzhu tried to drop to the ground, covering her head and her eyes. Stinging pain and dribbling hurt oozed from her arms, her back, and her legs.

���Run, Tsu!” Her mother cried, hands already pulling the child from the dust and shoving her to the door. Tsuzhu stumbled, coughing as tears washed down her cheeks. Some odd sound croaked out of her throat as she wheeled about, vision blurry and mind fogged. Cries were beginning to fill the orchard. Alarmed cries, pained cries, and something much worse, like the yowling of a dying beast that only grew more and more intense. Tremors erupted again, sickly green light began flooding in on all sides, smashes burst from all directions as huts snapped into sprays of splinters and twigs. The home in front of her was one such, crumpling before popping in a spray of smoldering fragments and throwing the child back across the ground.

This can’t be real.

She thought, she prayed, she cried. Tsuzhu stumbled forward, she threw a hand up and called with a hoarse bark as smoke fumed up from the hole that was once her home. Some massive, sulfurous stone lay where her mother might have been. She couldn’t even tell if there was blood from the impact or if the fire engulfing the rock had eaten it away already. Then the stone began to rise, rolling and stretching as it did so to reveal some horrific mockery of a face, carved into the construct as if by a child and forever locked as if screaming.

Someone’s hands at her shoulders pulled her away, rapidly giving her instructions and warnings, urging her to run but mostly pulling her along as she sputtered and scrambled behind. Waves of flame roiled up from one side as they ran, so they quickly skirted that road and turned another way. More crushed homes gradually greeted them, and worse. Cackling fiends crawled over the trees, wreathed in flames and throwing the pungent fire carelessly. Baying hounds from eldritch nightmares trampled down the road both over and into prey. With every turn and cut off road, they picked up more survivors. Then lost more. With twice as many casualties sprawled across the dirt or left to burn in the homes they died in. Every turn she retched anew, every bloody scream she winced.

Until she came across one of the other children.

The refugees were swift to scramble away despite her stop. A few of the adults tried to reach back and stop her, but she was a step beyond them, and terror was a powerful motivator. Tsuzhu fumbled and loped down from the path, between ruined shacks, staring intently despite stinging eyes at a pair of scaled beasts that ripped and snarled between gore filled chomps. Ripped open at the middle, eyes staring up in misty release, one of the younger boys. Had he stumbled out, like her, into the chaos? Was no one there to grab him, or were more bodies nearby that had failed to escape?

Mother and Father had joked, when she was younger, that if she kept trying to heft so much soil, if she kept carrying the ladders and the fish, they’d never need for a boy to round out the family. Whether or not that held deeper meaning was not for a child to guess at, but if they had ever had a son, he wouldn’t have been much older than the lifeless mess before her. Lifeless like her family, like her friends may very well be now. Like her father had become, during the Mogu raid. When she could do nothing but run.

She was still young, yet. If she ran, she might still live a long and peaceful life. Everyone else’s instinct, young and old, had been to run after all, why should she be any different? She just needed to make the orchard’s edge, into the distant fields she would know better than these... These... Things. She could weave and sneak down, down to Paw’don, where the militia would protect everyone.

So why would her feet not turn her away?

The hounds turned, finally, looking up as amidst the brimstone and smoke they caught whiff of her scent. Blood dripped from their teeth and seeped over their maws as they advanced and growled at the Pandaren. Her fists clenched, shoulders hunching as she leaned forward. To their surprise, she roared, throwing herself at them with abandon and fury. She fell into them and it became a whirl of gnashing teeth and slamming fists.

Their undersides.

Her mind snapped, and all her decisions automated into instinct. If they were like any regular beast, their weak sides would be beneath, near the joints and the gut. Her claws were not the sharpest, her arms were not the biggest, she was not the fastest child when she would race against the others. But she was the one here, now, rolling through blood and worse in the mud grappling monsters. With vicious tearing, she jammed her claws under the neck of one, raking as she held it with her other arm. It jumped and tossed, keeping her away from the second in it’s frenzy.

Rip and tear... Rip and tear... RIP AND TEAR!

Her claws grew slick, that’s how she felt it was working. More, and more, and more. Until she gripped the jaw and wrenched with all the might she had. It popped and twisted sickeningly,she released and slammed her elbow into the skull before throwing it off into the burning rubble of a nearby hut. It cried, but she didn’t have time to think, only act. The second hound pounced, but she was ready. She gripped in like the first, one arm wrapped over the neck, letting it tire itself with flailing and rolling. Her other arm pulled back, and she slammed her fist into the monster’s head. Over, and over, and over. Slamming and crunching. Sometimes she slipped and smashed it’s jaw, or it’s shoulder, but she never relented. So thorough was she, that she wasn’t actually sure when the beast had finally died. She did remember roughly when she heard each crack of bone as the skull caved, and the jaw shattered, and teeth spilled over the ground, but she didn’t care to mark it or pause.

When her shoulder finally cried in agony from the exertion she crumpled, sobbing and rasping and still trying to gurgle vicious shouts and enraged howls. Her good hand patted about, gripping the first object she could reach. She’d need a tool, any kind of tool, if she was going to get up and continue the bloodshed. The tooth of her first kill seemed a reasonable choice. Perhaps even poetic for the circumstances, but her mind had no room for such trivial distractions. After just long enough to gather her stamina, she pushed her aching body up, sleek tooth shank gripped tightly in her left hand as she lumbered toward the road.

Vengeance was all that she cared for.

She swayed and looped around the orchard and the village, pouncing from behind smoke and leaping from rubble to cross large gaps. Tsuzhu fell upon imps and hounds alike, viciously stabbing with her new weapon and then skittering to the next kill with each adrenaline filled breath. None were nearly as difficult and drawn as her first two, though she was far from clean. The bodies she left behind were half dead, in most cases, or blinded in others, all bloody at the least. At first, from the sheer numbers, she questioned if she was the only one left, the only one who had fought back.

Then, she found her.

Another Pandaren, standing in the road. Layered in wide plates, a single armored pad over her right shoulder. She wasn’t quite so tall as her mother, but she was much thicker and she stood with a certain stoic posture despite the crawling fiends and hounds that circled and snapped at her. Some kind of warrior, a fighter with both hands to her blade. One demon suddenly leaped, but barely did it cross the distance before falling apart in a flash. The Pandaren had moved, sliced through the air in a surge of jade, yet though she awaited in another stance Tsuzhu couldn’t understand what had just happened. What she did know is that the warrior had killed a demon, and her eyes went wide as this happened a second time.

She called out to the warrior, though if her voice shaped words she couldn’t recognize from the sounds and the haze in her head. The Warrior though snapped to stare at her, and the pinning focus swept a cold chill down her spine. Her posture, her presence, her focus, the Warrior was a tried and true killer. The cold kind, she could feel it. Not like herself, or the monsters that clawed and feasted on the chaos.

Another fiend leaped, and another almost immediately following. The Warrior spun and caught the first mid air, again, but the second wreathed in flame crashed into her. Her hair seemed to singe, only briefly, before her massive arm gripped the demon and crushed it’s neck, throwing it aside like refuse before squaring her stance and preparing.

“Run!” The Warrior commanded. Tsuzhu assumed it was directed to her, but even the demons seemed hesitant at the call. As a child, even deranged and blood covered as she was, she could only watch in awe.

A warrior. A real one. Cutting swaths, like in stories... She thought as the demons all began to rush in now, like a swarm. Look how she kills, how strong... I need to be that strong. I need to know how to kill, like she does.

Petals and embers from the breeze began to drift in from all directions as the warrior danced between bounding cretins and howling stalkers. Each swing was followed by a flare of bright, green energy. Not the sickly sort that the flames of the demons gave off, but a pure essence, like jade. The bodies crumpled and seeped as they fell around the Warrior, sliced open, into pieces. More began to surge from the edges of the orchard, maybe even from the hills passed. How many had there been? Had the others managed to run away?

A terrifying roar went up from nearby, soon after a similar joined it. The ground trembled around Tsuzhu, and she stumbled before thumping onto her rear. With crashing steps, the rocks from the sky now in humanoid shape, they marched and rushed toward the Warrior on the road, followed by swarms of imps and packs of hounds. The child was ignored as the demons surged, but that was not why her jaw clicked open and hung wide. The Warrior stood, near surrounded with a wave of monsters bearing down upon her. Then sheathed her blade at her hip.

Though she couldn’t hear, Tsuzhu stared, and saw the Warrior’s lips press tightly, corners pulled back and teeth gritted. The jade glow returned around the blade, softly at first before growing intense and engulfing the sheathe. In the air, the dancing petals and singing embers began to vibrate and pull inward, all swirling toward the Warrior on a breeze even she could feel from so far away. The demons did not slow, nor sway, but the urgency did not rush the Warrior a single bit. Unmoved, undeterred, she stretched her stance wide, one hand holding her sheathe steady as the other gripped her blade’s hilt tightly. The Warrior took in a slow, calm breath, chest swelling, arms flexing, Tsuzhu saw it all. Then there was a war cry like no other, booming and firm that echoed into the hills. The blade ripped free faster than the child could perceive, but what she did follow was the eruption of jade as it carried the petals and embers in all directions. They sliced, the embers burst, bodies in all directions ripped and punctured, sliced and fell. Even the infernals were pushed back, stony limbs cracking as the empowered embers and jade fire burst and wedged through their shells.

Many demons died as the whirlwind washed over, but not all, the wounded and the remaining stumbled and roared their return before attacking anew. But the Warrior had already advanced. Both hands on her sword, she crashed like the waves over rock, slamming fiends with her body and slicing through flesh like stone parting the river. No matter the numbers, despite the cracks in her defenses and the blood trickling from scrapes and punctures along her arms and sides, the Warrior did not relent.

It was some time, but soon Tsuzhu was standing, surrounded on all sides by bodies. Not just Pandaren, her family and village, but demons. So many demons. Her home was ruined, but the aggressors, the monsters... They had paid.

Thanks to Her...

She stumbled, ambling to her newfound hero. Standing before the Warrior as she panted, both of them clutching their sides and heaving in breaths. The much, much older woman sized Tsuzhu up. That gaze, the cold and distant bore as she saw much, much more than the child could even guess. Tsuzhu wasted no time.

“What are you?”

The Warrior thought for but a moment, before exhaling slowly, in measured pace. “A Warrior.”

“Are you a monk? A hero? Some kind of master?” Tsuzhu pressed, taking a step forward with a dangerous glaze in her eyes.

The Warrior grunted, shaking her head twice before pausing. Her unarmored shoulder rolled, back stretching to a rigid posture, straight and controlled. “I am a Blademaster, perhaps. So I would call myself, at least.”

“Who are you?” The child continued.

“Suyo, of the Blade.” The elder responded. “Who are you, child?”

Tsuzhu blinked, for a moment, going blank as her mind tried to think. Everything felt like a lifetime passed. Her head was still hazy, memories awash in a filter of blood and screaming.

“Run, Tsu!”

The words echoed through her mind, and her lips peeled back into a brief scowl as she choked a sort of grunt. “Tsu.”

“Just Tsu?” The Warrior queried. Her tone remained very clipped. Little emotion seeped into the words, though there was a ghost of some... Concern, perhaps? Or maybe Tsu was just imagining it.

“Just Tsu.”

Suyo hummed a moment, brow furrowing. Then she turned, without another word, and set to cleaning the blood from her blade. Tsu just watched, intently, twitching faintly, fingers tightening and rapping over the wicked bone shank. The Warrior peeled her armor just enough to glance at the wounds dotting her flesh, rumbling under her breath softly before wiping herself down with a rag from her belt. Then with a toss the cloth slapped into Tsu’s shoulder, and without thinking she began dabbing at the blood on her own body.

“You should seek the ones who ran south, child. I know at least several small groups managed to flee while I held the road, others may have escaped into the wilderness but I would not suggest that route, the demons may already have fanned out. They do not oft stick to their assault points.” Suyo waved one hand down the road before sliding her blade over her shoulder and into the sheath at her back. For a moment she stared south before turning back to the child, brow arching as she noted the young one had taken another step toward her.

“... I’m not going south.”

“You can not stay here, I am afraid. Seek shelter, child, and one day you can-”

“I AM NOT A CHILD!” Tsu snapped, fists clenching as she thrust herself forward on one foot and growled up at the older woman.

Suyo tensed, briefly, though her posture did not change. She frowned, deeply, brow furrowed as she considered. “What are you if not a child?”

Tsu didn’t pause. “I am a monster.” The words seemed to shake her. Her small body trembled and tears began to drip down her cheeks anew, over the dark fur that painted her face in a similar pattern.

“... Young one, you can not possibly know that.”

“I stand here covered in blood... The blood of beasts I killed, and the blood of my people. My family! What am I if not a monster!” Tsu heaved and choked between every breath, but her legs refused to give and her back stretched up in mimicking the Warrior’s posture. “I’m not some young girl anymore!”

Suyo stared for a few moments, peering intently at the child. “... You are not a monster, Tsu. I have slain many monsters. You are right, however... You are no longer a child.” Leaning forward, the Warrior lowered just enough to level her eyes with Tsu’s. “However, you must still choose what you wish to become.”

“I want to learn, I need to know how to kill, like you do.” There was no hesitation, Tsu set her gaze and stared with as much cold focus and steel she could muster. Just like how she saw the Warrior appraise her enemies. “My life is gone... My family is gone... There’s nothing left in me but this need... This burning desire... I will become strong, and I will kill all these... Things... I will grow to destroy everything that threatens my people, ever. I will sate this pain and anger in my heart!”

Suyo did not flinch. She could not let the child see any such sign of weakness. But those words, and the ferocity with which this child roared them, and the anchor in her stance despite the wobbling of her knees. There was no lie, and no question. This was a young girl burned deeply by the world. It had left embers, and those embers would be dangerous. Left untouched, they could consume her from within.

But molded and fanned, fed the right fuel...

Suyo crushed those thoughts in her mind. A child was no suitable subject to be thrust such a burden onto. To take up the blade, like she had in her own youth.

Yet...

The fire would remain, and the child would ache, no matter what path the Blademaster might leave her to. If there was no lie in the young one’s voice, she had no family to seek or return to, and in her state with that frothing tenacity, she would possibly even hunt down the demons she hated so much. The young one had so much life left in her, yet her future was tainted forever more by flame. Suyo was aging, and her life was slowly coming to it’s weakest years, with no story or glorious death to show. This could be a contingency... But it was no call to make without surety, and it would not be without great sacrifice and commitment on both sides.

They both had to be sure.

Tsu could see it in the older woman’s eyes, and her youthful drive urged her to speak first. “I will endure whatever the cost. I’ll accept whatever the terms. I must learn that power. I will become strong, no matter what. Take me, teach me, shape me! Give me a chance to make something out of this!” The child threw an arm back, gesturing to the remains and the destruction. “Please!”

Suyo eased back up, standing in the gentle breeze and soft, sickly glow of unnatural flames. She remained, for a time, silent and contemplative. Eventually, the Blademaster had to respond, and she gave little more than a quiet nod. That was all Tsu needed, though. The child fervently nodded in return, and the pair weakly marched from the ruined fields. For now, there was an agreement. Later, though, was when they would formally confirm Tsu’s apprenticeship.