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derinwrites · 7 months ago

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How can I make money writing fiction?

I'm gonna be straight with you. There is no guarantee that you'll make enough as an independent writer to make it worth your time. You very well might -- I make a liveable wage as an independent writer -- but many don't. Most writers I know also have a job. And luck plays a big part in it.

If you're interested in going forward in spite of this, you have two main options for monetisation open to you, and you are going to have to pick one. I call them the sales model and the sponsorship model, and you are going to have to pick one.

The sales model involves writing stories and selling them to readers. You can put books up on Amazon or Smashwords, sell them direct from your own website, enlist the help of a traditional publisher to handle that for you and let them decide where to sell, whatever -- the point is that your money is made from the sale of books to readers. If you go with a traditional publisher, you're using this model (though they will give you some of the money ahead of time in the form of an advance). Most indie authors also use this model, publishing through draft2digital, Ingram Spark, direct through Amazon, whatever. I've never relied on the sales model and can't give you any advice on how to do this, but Tumblr is full of indie authors who probably can.

The sponsorship model involves soliciting small amounts of money from various readers over time. This is ideal for web serials, and it's what I use. I use Patreon, which is designed specifically for this purpose, but you can use other sites such as ko-fi. This model involves providing regular content for free, with bonuses for those who support you.

"Can't I do both? Sell books and have a Patreon?" You absolutely can! I know several indie authors with a Patreon. I sell my completed books as ebooks and will eventually sell them as paperbacks. But your time and attention is limited, and so is your audience's, and you're going to have to half-arse one of these in order to have enough arse to whole-arse the other. You're going to make a lo of decisions that benefit either the sponsorship model or the sales model, not both. So pick your primary income source early and commit.

I can only advise on writing web serials and using the sponsorship model, so I'll go ahead with that assumption. If you want to make a liveable wage doing this, not only will you need luck, you'll also need patience. This is not a fast way to build a career. at the end of my first year of doing this, I had one single patron, and they were a real-life friend of mine. When I reached an income of $100/month, I threw a little party for myself, I was so happy. It had taken such a long time and was so much work. I reached enough to cover rent/mortgage after I'd been doing this for more than four years. It's a long term sort of career.

Here are some general tips for succeeding in this industry, given by me, someone with no formal training in any of this who only vaguely knows what they're talking about:

Have a consistent update schedule and STICK TO IT

The #1 indicator for stable success in this industry (aside from luck, which we're discounting because you can't do much about that) is having a consistent update schedule. Your readers need to know when the next chapter is coming out, and it should be coming out regularly. Ideally, you should have no breaks or hiatuses -- if you're in a bus crash or something, that might be unavoidable, and your readers will understand if you tell them, but if you're stopping and starting a lot for trivial reasons, they WILL abandon you. You can't get away with that shit if you're not Andrew Hussie, and I'm pretty sure Andrew Hussie doesn't message me for career advice on Tumblr. If you find you need a lot of hiatuses to write fast enough then you're updating too often; change your schedule. A regular schedule is more important than a fast one (ideally it should be both, but if you have to pick between the two, pick regular).

2. Pay attention to your readership, listen to what they want from you

Your income is based on a pretty complicated support structure when you're using the sponsorship model. this model relies on people finding your story, liking your story, and continuing to find it valuable enough to keep paying you month after month. This means that your rewards for your sponsors should be things that they value and will continue to pay for ('knowing I'm supporting an artist whose work I enjoy' counts as a thing that they value, to my great surprise; there's a lot of people giving me money just for the sake of giving me money, so I can pay my mortgage and keep writing for them without needing a second job), but it also means supporting the entire network that attracts readers and keeps them having the best time they can with your story -- being part of a rewarding community. Because this is advice on making money, I'm going to roughly divide your readership into groups based on how they affect your bottom line:

sponsors. People giving you money directly. The importance of keeping this group happy should be obvious.

administration and community helpers -- discord moderators, IT people, guys who set up fan wikis, whoever's handling your mailing list if you have a mailing list. You can do this stuff yourself, or you can hire someone to do it, but if you're incredibly lucky and people enjoy being a part of your reader community, people will sometimes volunteer to do the work for free. If you are lucky enough to get such people, respect them. They are doing you a massive favour, and they're not doing it for you, but to maintain a place that they value, and you have to respect both of those things. My discord has just shy of 1,300 members and is moderated by volunteers. I'd peel my own face off if I had to moderate a community that large. If you've got people stepping up to do work for you, you need to respect them and you need to make sure that they continue to find that rewarding by doing what you can to make sure that the community they're maintaining is rewarding. Sometimes this means taking actions and sometimes this means staying the fuck out of the way. Depending on the circumstances.

fan artists. Once you have people drawing your characters, writing fanfic of your stories, whatever, treat these like fucking gold. Give them a space to do this, and more importantly, give them a space to do this without you in it. Fanworks are a symptom of engagement with your work, which is massively important. They are also a component of a healthy community, an avenue for readers to talk to each other and express themselves creatively to each other. Third, fanworks act as a bridge for new readers. When readers share their art on, say, Tumblr, it can intrigue new people and get them into the story. Your job in all of this is to give them the space to work, encourage them as required or invited (I reblog most TTOU fanart that I'm tagged in on Tumblr, for instance), and other than that, stay the fuck out of their way. These people are vital to the liveblood of your community, the continued engagement of your audience, and the interest of your sponsors. Some of the fan artists will be sponsors themselves; some won't be. Those who aren't sponsors are still massively valuable for their art.

speculators, conversers, theorists, livebloggers, and That Guy Who's Just Really Jazzed For The Next Chapter. Some people don't make art but just like to chat about your story. These people are a bedrock of the community that's supporting your sponsors and increasing your readership, and therefore are critical to your income stream. Give them a place to talk. Be nice to them when they talk to you. Sometimes, they'll ask you questions about the story, which you can choose to answer or not, however you feel is appropriate. They'll also want to chat about non-story-related stuff with each other, so make sure they have a place to do that, too.

that guy who never talks to you or comments on anything but linked your story to ten guys in his office who all read it now. Some of your supporters are completely invisible to you. You can't do anything for these people except continue to release the story and have a forum they can silently lurk on if they want to. But, y'know, they exist.

If you want to focus on income then these are, roughly, the groups of people that you will need to listen to and accommodate for. You can generally just make sure they have space to do their thing, and if they want anything else, they'll tell you (yes, guys, paperbacks will be coming eventually). Many people will fit into multiple groups -- I have some sponsors that are in every single one of these groups except the last. Some will only be in one group. A healthy income rests on a healthy community which rests on accommodating these needs.

3. If you can manage it, try to make your story good.

It's also helpful for your story to be good. Economically, this is far less important than you'd think -- there are some people out there writing utter garbage and making a living doing it. Garbage by what standards? By whatever your standards are. Just think of the absolute laziest, emptiest, hackiest waste-of-bandwidth story you can imagine -- some guy is half-arsing that exact story and making three times what you'll ever make on Patreon doing it. And honestly? Good for him. If he's making that much then his readers are enjoying it, and that's what matters. Still, one critical component of making money as a writer is writing something that people actually want to read. And you can't trick them with web serials, because they don't pay in advance -- if they're bored, they'll just stop. So you have to make it worth their time, money and attention, and the simplest way to do that is to write a good story.

This hardly seems mentioning, since you were presumably planning to do that anyway. It's basic respect for your audience to give them something worth their time. Besides, if we're not interested in improving our craft and striving for our best, what are we even writing for? I'm sure I don't need to tell you to try to write a good story. The reason I list this is in fact the opposite -- don't let "I'm not a good enough writer" paralyse you. The world is full of someday-writers who endlessly fuss over and revise a single story because it's not good enough, it's not perfect, they're not Terry Pratchett yet. Neither was Terry Pratchett when his first books were published. If you're waiting to be good enough, you won't start. I didn't think Curse Words was good enough when I started releasing it -- I still don't. I started putting it out because I knew it was the only way I'd get myself to actually finish something. I don't think it's all that great, but you know what? An awful lot of people read it and really enjoyed it. And if I hadn't released it, I'd have been doing those people a disservice.

Also, it taught me a lot, and based on what I learned, Time to Orbit: Unknown is much better. If I'd never released Curse Words, if I hadn't seen how people read it and reacted to it and seen what worked and what didn't, then Time to Orbit: Unknown wouldn't be very good. And it certainly wouldn't be making me a living wage, because it was the years writing Curse Words that started building the momentum I have today.

And Time to Orbit: Unknown as it is today has some serious problems. Problems that I'm learning from. And the next book will be a lot better.

So that's basically my advice for making money in this industry. Be patient, be lucky, be consistent. Value your community; it's your lifeline, even the parts of it that don't directly pay you. And try to make your story as good as you can, but make that an activity you do, not a barrier to prevent you from starting.

Good luck.

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yourlocalasexuwhale288 · 2 months ago

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Okay, so this is the third time I have attempted to make this post, so here it goes again.

I have had exactly one request for my favorite Hannigram fanfics, thank you @why-do-i-still-care, for allowing me to put this up.

So, in no particular order, my favorite fanfics. All except one are complete, and all are really good.

First, we have an FBI academy Will who is interviewing the infamous Hannibal the Cannibal as a project for Professor Crawford's class. Includes Sassy Will and Smitten Hannibal.

Next, we have college aged Will, a bartender who has a regular, Doctor Hannibal Lector. Despite losing his job, Hannibal follows his favorite bartender to each new job. Eventually, Will and Hannibal are dating. At the same time, the Chesapeake Ripper is courting someone, a love letter with a corpse, and now Will has a secret admirer, signing with the initials C.R.

Next, very similar to the last one, Will has failed to join the FBI, so he falls back on his second degree, Journalism. When he profiles the Minnesota Shrike while writing an advice column, he attracts a lot of attention, including the FBI, and the Chesapeake Ripper. Now the Ripper is dropping bodies with clues left to Will in order to find them, some alive, some not. Another courtship of bodies and blood.

In this one, Will tips himself and Hannibal off the cliff, and instead of hitting the water, he wakes up in Wolf Trap, before meeting Hannibal. This time, he's determined to meet Hannibal under different circumstances and woo his cannibal.

This is based on that one post. You know the one. The odds of a serial killer picking up a serial killing hitchhiker are low, but never zero.

I'm gonna cut this off here and make another post because tumblr is having issues with the length of this one.

#hannigram #will graham #murder husbands #hannibal lecter #hannibal nbc #hannibal #hannibal fanfiction #fanfic recs #fic recs #ao3 fanfic #ao3 #ao3 recs

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brf-rumortrackinganon · 3 months ago

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I need some book recommendations

I want to get back into reading but I’m finding it hard since my dyspraxia and ADD diagnoses

I want to read more fiction as I usually read non fiction

So first, I read a lot of thriller books. Adventure thriller, murder thriller, legal thriller. I'm not really into women's fiction as much as I used to be, but I do read them from time to time. (I hope some people will jump in the comments with recommendations for that genre since I'm not very current.) I do like a good historical fiction or a dystopian/alternative reality book.

I'll do series first, in case that's your speed, and then individual recommendations.

Series/Authors

Dan Brown, Lee Child, James Patterson - I'm specifically suggesting these because they have short chapters. A friend of mine with ADHD (which I know is different from ADD) swears by authors with short chapters or short stories because it's easier to find a natural stopping point when her ADHD acts up and she can't stay focused. (I also like them too; Dan Brown more than the others. Digital Fortress and Deception Point are my favorites; the Robert Langston series is ok but I've never picked up those books again. I reread Digital Fortress and Deception Point almost every year.)

Marcia Clark has two series, one about a prosecutor and one about a defense attorney. Both are enjoyable, and one of them (I can't remember the title but it's part of the prosecutor series) is essentially a retelling of the OJ case. (Marcia is one of the prosecutors from the OJ trial.)

Stacey Abrams is a compelling legal fiction writer (she doesn't get into politics in her fiction books) and I like her Avery Keene series (I can't vouch for the books she wrote under her pen name).

Meg Cabot for more lighthearted reads. She has two series that are my go-tos whenever I need something light and quick.

Heather Wells. Heather is a former pop star (think Britney) who is a dorm advisor in NYC and her landlord is a private investigator that she has the hots for...who also happens to be the older brother of her ex-boyfriend, who is also a pop star. It's rom com + mystery.

The Boy series - these are epistolary novels, where everything is happening in emails, text messages, voicemails, newspaper articles.

Recently I've been reading Alex Michaelides and Eric La Salle. Both are thrillers/adventure-type books. I will warn you now; Eric's series deals with the Catholic Church abuse scandal, which I know is touchy for a lot of people for many different reasons. (Though that said, there is a twist in Eric's Laws of Depravity that I did not see coming at all, and usually I can suss these out.)

Always a good read is the Maggie Hope series, by Susan Elia MacNeal. She's a WW2 spy and gets into shenanigans. There are some dark parts of the series but overall, it's fun.

Individual Books

Thirteen by Steve Cavanaugh blew my mind. A serial killer sits on a jury, and that's all I'm going to tell you.

Gameboard of the Gods by Richelle Mead. I've recommended it a few times here on tumblr. It's about a utopian society that regulates religion. It's part of an incomplete trilogy (the publisher cancelled the series for poor sales). The first book (this one) is better than the second.

Murdle. It's like Wordle or Quordle but with mysteries. It's a puzzle book but each puzzle is like a short story.

The Rose Code by Kate Quinn. WW2 spy novel that takes place at Bletchley Park. Kate's grandmother makes an appearance. :)

Several People are Typing by Calvin Kasulke. An epistolary novel that takes place over IM/DM. It's a little weird but a bit silly. A very light and easy read.

The Paradox Hotel by Rob Hart. Part sci-fi, part crime thriller. The Paradox Hotel sits at the "end of earth" next to a port for time travel. January is an employee at the hotel who must make sure that the time travellers don't bring anything back they're not supposed to. It's like The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel + the Loki series + Doctor Who.

The Company of the Dead by David Kowalsky. Time travelers save the Titanic and the ripple effect through history. It's some heady shit, but it's a really interesting theory about what today would be like if the Titanic (and its shipload of rich people - that's important to remember) never sank.

If anyone else wants to add to these book recommendations, please do! Submit in the comments or asks. I'll use the tag #reading list for all of these.

#reading list

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winchestergirl2 · 1 year ago

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August Reading Recs

To show some love and appreciation to all the amazing writers here on tumblr, here are all the fantastic fics I've read this month. 💖

Many of these fics and blogs are 18+ only, and NSFW please heed the author's individual fic warnings and requests regarding no minors. I am not responsible for your media consumption.

2023 Reading Rec List

The Boys

Soldier Boy

Break Me Down Part 17 | The Epilogue @zepskies

Authors Summary: You’re a private investigator by trade, but now you happily sit at a desk — leading a surveillance team at Supe Affairs. After managing to end Homelander in New York, Soldier Boy escapes custody. You are recruited for the manhunt, joining Butcher’s team.

Truly, you joined the S.A. for the right reasons. But after you become his accidental hostage, Soldier Boy will break down every single one of them…

Love Actually Part 1 @zepskies

Authors Summary: Ben gets in late on Christmas Eve with a Grinch-like attitude, but you’re determined to force some holiday cheer into his system.

Love Actually Part 2 | Part 3 @zepskies

Authors Summary: You and Ben steel yourselves in order to meet your crazy family for Christmas dinner.

Supernatural

Dean Winchester

The Widow @pink-sparkly-witch

Authors Summary: Sam and Y/N are happily married, but everything changes after a fatal car accident leaves her a widow. The Winchester motto: “Family Don’t End with Blood,” takes on a whole new meaning for Y/N as she navigates her new normal with the help of her brother-in-law, Dean. But what no one can tell her is what happens when she falls in love again.

Escape Chapter 58 | Chapter 60 @soaringeag1e

Authors Summary: A serial killer is reeking havoc around Lawrence, Kansas, and Detective Dean Winchester is getting really sick of finding more and more bodies. But one day, he gets a call about another victim. But instead of the location of another body, he gets news that this one escaped the hell of this mans actions.

The Fallout @justagirlinafandomworld

Authors Summary: When Sam meets his true Omega, you fear your time with the Winchesters is fated to end. Before they can hurt you, you decide to distance yourself. But Dean isn’t willing to let you get away so easy.

Welcome to Being a Girl @negans-lucille-tblr

Authors Summary: When a spell puts you in Dean’s body and Dean in yours, there’s more than one problem that arises.

What A Girl Wants @writercole

Reckless and Raging @dean-winchester-is-a-warrior

Authors Summary: Y/N knows she made a mistake, but Dean’s fury at her isn’t making it easy to admit to. But why is he so completely furious?

Hold On, I'm Coming @ravengirl94

Authors Summary: When a freak accident lands you in some trouble, the local fire department and a particularly handsome firefighter come to your rescue. Dean Winchester catches your eye immediately with his charm and kindness, but being Chief Singer’s daughter could cause some serious problems. You and Dean have a choice to make: defy your father’s wishes and face the consequences, or go your separate ways...

Stood Up @justkending

Authors Summary: You haven’t had a date night in a while, and an old hunting companion calls you up for drinks. Sneaking out from Dean and Sam questioning you, you make it to the bar only to realize you’ve been stood up. Coming home you feel defeated and worthless. Lucky for you, you have someone who thinks you deserve better.

Sam Winchester

Untitled Sam drabble @girl-next-door-writes

Tell Me @thinkinghardhardlythinking

Authors Summary: Sam wants to know what the reader wants him to do to her in bed

This Is Crazy, Isn't It? @katelyn--renee

Authors Summary: The trio enjoy a night out in Las Vegas. Things don’t go quite as expected.

Untitled Sam drabble @supernaturalfreewill

Sam and Dean Winchester (no pairing)

Bar Fight @impala-dreamer

Smallville

Jason Teague

Kiss Me First @mind-empty-just-fictional-people

Authors summary: you keep a student after class to work on their late english homework, but coach teague wants his star quarterback at practice

#winchestergirl2 reads #winchestergirl2 recs #fic recs #soldier boy fic #soldier boy x reader #dean winchester fic #dean winchester x reader #sam winchester x reader #sam winchester fic #jason teague x reader #jason teague fic

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othernicknameisgaslighter · 1 month ago

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The Wisp pt. 9

(Cross posted on tumblr and AO3)

__________⁅⁆⁅⁆__________⁅⁆⁅⁆__________⁅⁆⁅⁆__________⁅⁆⁅⁆__________

Prev - Next Chapter

"So when is it supposed to happen?" Luther asked. "This... apocalypse."

"I can't give you the exact hour but, from what I could gather we have four days left." "Why didn't you say something sooner?"

Y/N drummed her hands on her thigh, a dreadful feeling clenched her heart tighter. It hurt to know that in the apocalypse, she and Five fell in love. She turned to look at him and smiled, she wouldn’t mind falling for him a second time… It also hurt her to know she saw her face.

She gritted her teeth, was she more ugly in the apocalypse? Was she prettier now? There was a reason why she needed to wear one…

Yeah, no. No more thoughts about that!

"But still," Luther said. "With the weight of the world on our shoulders we could have banded together, tried to help you stop this thing."

"For the record you already tried." Five said.

"What do you mean?" Luther asked.

"In the original timeline, the one we're trying to change, the one with the apocalypse, you all die together. At the Academy. Fighting, as Five says." Y/N explained.

"We die?" Luther asked.

"Everyone dies, Luther." Y/N said. "It's the apocalypse. No one survives."

"But he did." He pointed at Five.

"He missed the moment when it all happened. He got there after everyone died. Maybe," Y/N shrugged. "An hour earlier and he'd be dead too."

“But you survived.” Luther pointed.

“I must’ve created one of the shields I made… The one where…” Y/N’s voice trailed off and Luther got the hint, nodding with her. "Must have ripped it out of their head before you went down."

"Who's head?" Luther asked, looking up from the eye.

"Whoever started the apocalypse." Five said. "We don't know who."

"Well there's a serial number on the back." Luther noticed.

"Five had this thing for over thirty years. You think he wouldn't have tried to figure it out? We tried to find the owner." Y/N told him. "But the business was corrupt and half the stuff they sold was off the books. Just before we could find out who it belonged to on this special list the place was torched down. Yesterday morning."

"Oh," Luther handed it back. Y/N took it and gave it to Five. At that moment Diego kicked open the door and made Y/N flinch.

She held up her hand as he stormed down the steps. "Hey, hey, hey," She said, wincing at the sound. "What happened?"

"Piece of shit."

Luther stood and turned to face him. Diego stormed towards the two on the cot. "Do you have any idea what you just did?!" Luther grabbed him before he could reach them.

Y/N leaned in and whispered in Five's ear. "Do you remember anything last night?"

"Nothing besides throwing up and holding your hand." Five whispered back and Y/N tried not to flush red and the thought. After a moment of yelling at Luther, Diego calmed down and Luther put him down.

"What happened, Diego?" Y/N asked.

"Our brother and you have been pretty busy since they got back." Diego said, glaring at us, "They were in the middle of the shootout at Griddy's, and then, at Gimble Brothers, after the guys in the masks attacked the Academy, looking for them." He pointed at them accusingly.

"None of which is your concern." Five said calmly.

"It is now. They just killed my friend."

"They killed Eudora?" Y/N asked, concerned. Y/N knew how much Eudora meant to Diego, especially since they broke up.

"They're assassins, Diego." Five said. "It's what they do."

"And that makes it okay!?" He yelled.

"Who killed her?" Y/N asked.

"Five should know." Diego accused Five angrily.

"Who are they, Five?" Luther asked. Five looked down and swallowed.

"They work for my former employer. A woman called The Handler. She sent them... To stop me. And probably Y/N as well now. Then as soon as Diego's friend got in their way, well, fair game."

"And now they're my fair game. And I'm gonna see to it they pay." Diego turned and headed for the door. Y/N got up to go after them before Five grabbed her arm.

"Where're you going?" Five asked.

"He'll die if he goes after them." Y/N said. "I'm not losing another brother, Five." Y/N said, pulling her arm away from his and going after Diego.

_____________________________________________________

"What are you doing here?" Diego hissed at Y/N. She rolled her eyes, her hair had been tied back with a ponytail and sighed.

"You're trying to find those people right? Hazel and Cha-Cha?" She asked.

"Uh, correction: found 'em," Diego corrected her with a smug smirk. "Now we just gotta kill 'em."

"You know..." Klaus took a long sip from the bottle in his hand. "This isn't going to make you feel any better."

Diego shrugged. "Yeah, but when it's done, I'm gonna sleep like a baby."

"Right, but..." Y/N’s voice trailed off as she looked at Klaus, "Are you okay?"

"Mentally or physically?" Klaus asked, drinking his bottle.

"You're hurt. I think after this-"

"It'll be fine, Y/N. Just sit back and relax." Klaus smiled. Y/N frowned before shaking her head.

"We'll talk about this later..."

"You have to be careful," Diego said, pointing at Y/N with a pointed look. "I'm not having Five on my ass because you got hurt."

"Don't worry, I'll be fine, Diego." Y/N smiled reassuringly. They all watched as the man, Hazel, exited the room, an ice bucket in his hand.

"Stay here," Diego said, reaching for the door.

"Are you kidding me? This guy tortured me," Klaus countered and Y/N looked at Klaus with a shocked and concerned look.

"They, what?!" Y/N exclaimed, suddenly fuming with anger, “I’m gonna kill the other one, Diego.”

"Relax, I've got a plan," he replied, moving out of the car.

"Klaus, are you actually okay?" Y/N asked, placing her hand on his arm as he was about to take a drink. Klaus looked at Y/N and sighed.

"We'll talk about it later, Y/N." Klaus smiled. Y/N shook her head with a sigh. A few moments of silence had passed before Klaus opened his mouth again, "We're going, right?"

"Yeah."

The both of them got out of the car and quietly followed where he went. When they reached the top of the stairs behind Diego, Klaus opened his mouth, "So what's the plan, Macho Man?"

"I told you to wait!"

"You also told me licking a nine-volt battery would give me pubes."

"Oh..." Y/N grimaced, “Yeah that was never a good idea…”

"We were eight," Diego hissed. Klaus shrugged and proceeded to pass Diego until the latter grabbed him and pulled him back, dragging him down the stairs.

"Y/N, you too."

"I'll be fine."

"Yeah, she'll be fine. She'll just mind-control them until they go insane. Or blow their heads. Like when we-" Klaus was interrupted by Diego.

"For once, will the two of you listen to me?" He led the both of them down to the base of the stairs. "Look, both of you, go wait in the car. If I'm not back in two minutes, I'm probably dead."

"And what're we gonna do if that happens?" Y/N asked, crossing her arms in disbelief.

"Don't you know how to drive?"

"I'm not losing another brother, Diego." Y/N sighed.

Diego thought a bit before ruffling up her hair. "Don't worry, Y/N. Just go get help."

"Alright, but if you die, I'm killing them." Y/N said as she glared at him. The two of them lingered at the base of the stairs before Diego pointed to the car like a scolding father would.

"Ugh." He started forward a few paces and stopped. "Let's go." He grabbed Y/N’s hand and quietly pulled her back to the stairs, but stopping under them.

A car turned the corner, and Cha-Cha was leaning out, pink dog mask and all, shooting at Diego. The hand holding Y/N’s was suddenly gone, and she heard Klaus racing up the stairs before his arm shot out and yanked Diego back as a bullet grazed his arm.

"See?" Klaus looked pointedly at Diego. "You used to think I was an idiot."

"I still think you're an idiot," he shoved Klaus off. "We're gonna lose 'em."

"Uh- you're welcome," Klaus said sassily as the two of them ran behind him. When they reached the car, the three of them deflated when they saw the tires were deflated from various bullets.

"Shit," Diego hissed before smiling, "New plan."

Y/N jumped onto the hood of the dark green car, and then leaped onto the top of the truck in front of it. "There's only room for two people," Klaus said. "You can't seriously ride on top."

"Who said I was riding on top?" Y/N asked. Klaus snorted and Y/N thought before shaking her head with a slight chuckle. "Okay, walked right into that one. But still, I'll just sit in the middle."

"How-"

"Like this." Y/N sat in the middle, criss-crossing her legs and holding onto the back of the front seats. "Let's go."

_____________________________________________________

"Are you positive they're up this way?" Diego asked Y/N.

"I'm sure." Y/N answered. "I can see their car, punch it Klaus!" She felt the vehicle lurch as Klaus floored the gas, the surrounding scenery zipping by. Her stomach twisted at the sight of Five and Luther on the other side of the road, facing them. This'll be tough to explain, she thought, grimacing.

As Klaus honked the horn, waving at them, Ci rce flashed a smile as Five rolled his eyes. "Go faster!" Diego yelled.

"It's a set-up!" Cha-Cha shouted. The two of them began firing at the truck, and the side of it knocked into both of them, sending them back a ways.

Suddenly, the world stopped. It felt weird, like her reality came crashing down on her. Was it just her or did everything look… Brighter?

“Well, is this the lucky girl?” A woman wearing a coat of leather and red lipstick smiled. Five turned to Y/N with a look of confusion. “I assure you Five, I used this trick on everything here. But it seems as though… She’s… Not affected. It’s nice to see you again, Y/N.”

Y/N groaned and stood up, brushing her pants off before walking over to the two, “Who the hell are you?” She asked, looking up and down at the fashionably dressed woman. “I met you in another timeline, the aftermath of the apocalypse which is happening in four days.” The woman smiled, “You were quite the assassin… Almost gave Five here a run for his money.”

“You’re not touching her.” Five said. The Handler’s smile twitched as she shrugged. Y/N stepped beside Five and crossed her arms.

“Congratulations on the age regression by the way. Very clever.” The Handler smiled, “Threw us all off the scent.”

“Ah, well, I wish I could take credit. I just miscalculated the time dilation projections, and… Well, you know, here I am.” Five gestured to everything that was happening around the three of them.

“You realize your efforts are futile.” The Handler said, “So why don’t you tell me what you really want.”

“I want you to put a stop to it. We both do.” Five put his arm around Y/N with a smile. The Handler’s eye twitched slightly.

“You realize what you’re asking is near to impossible, even for me. What’s meant to be, is meant to be.” The Handler chuckled, “That’s our raison d'être.”

Five blinked twice and Y/N and she nodded before he pulled out his gun, pointing it at the woman. “Yeah? Well how about survival as a raison?” He smiled, rolling the r. “As you can tell, my friend here isn’t normal.”

“I’ll just be replaced. I’m but a… Small cog in a machine.” The Handler smiled, “This fantasy you’ve been nurturing about summoning your family to stop the apocalypse… It's just that. A fantasy.”

Five’s eyes were deep in thought, conflicted about what the Handler was saying. “I must say though, we’re all quite impressed with your intuition. You’re… stick-to-itiveness, really quite… Really quite something.” The Handler smirked.

Something about that smirk made Y/N sick to her stomach and she frowned. “And you.” The Handler turned to Y/N, “Well, you’re just a diamond in the rough. Powerful and quite beautiful. Just like me.” The Handler smiled, stepping closer, “Which is why we want to offer both of you positions at the commission, in management.”

Five chuckled slightly, “Sorry, what’s that now?”

“You want… Both of us?” Y/N frowned, still suspicious of the Handler’s intentions.

“Come back to work with us again. You know it’s where you belong.” The Handler said, a slight tone of… Desperation in her voice. “And you, I just know this is your calling Y/N. In every timeline.”

“I never told you my name.” Y/N frowned. The Handler merely smiled.

“Five talked about you a lot when he was around in the commission.” The Handler smirked, “He was right, you’re a gem. A rare find.”

“Well, it didn’t work too well the last time.” Five said, getting back to the matter at hand.

“But you wouldn’t be in the correction division any longer. I’m talking about… The home office. You’d have the best health and pension, and an end to this ceaseless travel. You’re the most distinguished professional in…” The Handler looked down at his uniform, “School boy shorts.”

The Handler stepped uncomfortably close to Y/N and Five as they still looked at her with slight hesitation. “We have the technology to reverse it. I mean… You can’t be happy about this.” The Handler slowly pushed Five’s gun down.

“I’m not looking for happy.” Five said. The Handler stroked his face and Y/N suppressed a gag.

“We’re all looking for happy.” The Handler cooed, “We can make that happen. That’s why she’s here, isn’t it? We can make the both of you, yourself again.”

Y/N pursed her lip, “What about them? What about our family?”

“What about them?” The Handler asked.

“We want them to survive.” Five glared at the older woman.

The Handler looked to Luthur and looked at the ice cream truck before turning to Five and Y/N once again. “All of them?”

“Yes, all of them.” Five said. The Handler flipped open her sunglasses and slid them on her face.

“Well, I’ll see what I can do.” She smiled, “Do we have a deal?”

Five looked at her hand before shaking his head, “One thing.” Five said before walking away to fix a couple of things.

“So, Y/N-”

“Just… How much did he talk about me?” Y/N asked before adding, “And my family?”

“That’s a secret.” The Handler smiled as Five came back to the two of them. He held Y/N’s hand before shaking The Handlers and the three of them teleported away.

_____________________________________________________

As the three of them made their way through the front yard, drawing many stares. Obviously because they were with The Handler, but also because of Number Five, famous names amongst the Commission.

Though Y/N didn’t understand why people were also staring at her. The Handler was giving a speech about how well Five worked and the big picture and successors and all that, something Y/N was hardly listening to and Five didn't look too interested either.

"I'd like to discuss the logistics of my family's safety at your earliest convenience." Five said as we started up the stairs.

"And these body replacements." Y/N added, eager to get her… Actual body, one she’d actually fit in better. She hadn’t seen her normal face since the accident. "At your earliest convenience of course."

“You never said you wanted to turn 30 again.” Five frowned.

“I’ve never seen adult me.” Y/N shrugged and Five remembered. She never physically aged.

"Such chutzpah." The Handler said. "It's refreshing, I'll admit. Slow down kids, all in good time. In fact, now that you've agreed to work with us, we've got all the time in the world."

They had reached the top of the stairs and The Handler started leading them through the halls. She led them through the halls, giving them the welcome speech and tour, something Y/N barely paid attention to.

Five asked about who was watching him in the apocalypse, which led to them meeting Dot. She finished with a not so subtle hint that they were amazing and probably going places with the Commission.

She walked over to an empty desk, it was the only one with two seats. One each side facing each other. The Handler pulled out each chair and gestured for the two to sit. "I suspect you two like a challenge. Which is why I've given you a particularly complex first case." She handed us the file and Five took it.

He opened it and we both skimmed over it. "Too bad Joseph Späh decided against sabotaging the fuel tank. It would’ve been so much easier." The Handler laughed. "Anyhoo, if you have any questions, I'll be right behind you."

She walked out and we sat down, watching her leave before properly reading the file. The duo spent a while brainstorming a way to sabotage the aircraft Hindenburg.

“What did she mean by me being a diamond in the rough, Five?” Y/N asked once it was quiet. Five shrugged.

“I’m not sure, and I’m pretty sure I’ve only talked about you and the family once or twice.” Five frowned. “Of course, we were in the Commission together so she know’s you but… Never mind.”

Y/N was unsure of what that meant, she was getting an uneasy feeling from The Handler, whatever it was. When they both figured it out we got up and left, heading for the Tube Room, as it was uncreatively called. Five opened one of the many tubes and Y/N handed him the case.

"I'm afraid that's not procedure."

The duo both jumped and looked. It was The Handler as she had bent down and stuck her face between them, talking directly in their ears.

Five took the container out and we turned to face The Handler. We followed her gaze to an older woman with brown curly hair and glasses sat in an office at the end of the long room.

Spotting us, the woman stood and walked over to us. "Five, Y/N, meet Gloria. Gloria is perhaps the single most vital cog in our machine. Gloria, this is Number Five and Y/N."

Gloria laughed. "Look at you, deadly little things. So happy we decided to close the contract on your lives."

"I'm afraid your reputation precedes you. And it looks like you're building on it here." She held out her hand and Five handed her the container. She opened it and unrolled the note inside. "Oh, Karl Weber? Now tell me, why unfortunate Karl?"

"Karl Weber is the butcher at the shop where Captin Ernst A. Lehmann acquires his weekly roast. So if Karl dies his butcher shop is passed on to his son, Otto." Five explained.

"Charming guy really," Y/N took over. "However he has an unfortunate habit of never washing his hands. I know right, disgusting."

"So he's the one who gives the captain his roast." The Handler said.

"And that gives him food poisoning." Five said.

"Which makes him late for work. Which delays the takeoff." The Handler followed.

"And to make up for lost time, the Hindenburg flies through a weather front of high electrical charge and humidity." Five said.

"It doesn't mix well with crappy 30's machinery." Y/N shrugged. "Stray sparks from the engine and the rest of it mixes with the static and," At the same time Y/N and Five mimicked the sound of an explosion.

They got another speech, then everyone cleared off for lunch. Y/N and Five watched them and the girl sighed, pushing her glasses up.

Wordlessly, Five stood and started going through Dots files. He slid one under his jumper and Y/N sat up, smirking. “Bathroom?”

"Bathroom."

Y/N nodded and followed the crowd. She tried sitting alone, but a group of people started following her around.

“Are you Y/N Hargreeves?”

“You’re Number Five’s lover right? What’s it like?”

“You’re like an Angel of Death!”

“What was it like dying twice?”

“You idiot, this is an alternate version of Y/N!”

“Oh, right!”

Y/N sat down and they all surrounded her, introducing themselves, asking her questions about what she didn’t even know she did. She died twice?! When the living fuck did she have time for this?!

Y/N saw Five standing in the doorway to the cafeteria and sat up. Five nodded at her to follow him and she shot up, practically running to him. Five laughed. "Miss me that much?"

"People here buy too many rumors." Y/N said before realizing The Handler was in front of them. She gave Five a confused look.

"She invited us to lunch in her office." He explained.

"Sounds like hell.” Y/N sighed.

The first thing that made Y/N feel like she was growing gray hairs was listening to The Handler talk about her favorite stories and tales from the Commission. Something about archdukes and Phil.

She set aside her empty cup, apparently she was on a liquid diet, and gestured to the sweets on her desk. "Care for dessert?"

"No, thanks. I'm full." Y/N lied. There was no way she was eating something from a shady woman that could potentially drug her.

"I had a bad Twinky in the apocalypse once," Five said, reminiscing on the moment with a slight smile. Y/N dared Five to eat it and he blindly did so. The things you do for the people you love... "It kind of put me off desserts."

“Was that why you made the twinkie shelf life joke earlier?” Y/N asked and Five chuckled slightly.

"Please," The Handler said, interrupting their laughter. "Indulge me."

Reluctantly, Y/N and Five took a sweet each. They ate as The Handler lit her cigarette and smoked as she watched the duo. She leaned back in her chair.

"What does that taste like to you?" It was like nothing Y/N had ever tasted and scrunched her face in confusion. Of course, Five got it first.

"The 1950's."

"Oh… That’s why it tastes like that.” Y/N frowned, “Not my favorite decade.”

"Our clever metaphysics division concocted a way to perfectly distill an entire decade into a single candy." She picked up a sweet. "This one's modeled after the Fudge Mutt, America's favorite in 1955."

"Impressive." Y/N said.

"You'll be happy to know it's the very division that's building your new bodies. Oh, that reminds me, I have something for you." She pressed a button on her intercom. "Carla?"

"Yes?" Carla replied.

"Would you bring the box in please?" The Handler looked at them with a smirk.

"Certainly." Y/N heard footsteps approaching and folded her arms. She looked at The Handler.

"So tell me," Y/N said. "Are our bodies or the sweets important to the metaphysics?"

The Handler laughed and stood, walking around the table. Carla came in and put two boxes down in front of them. Y/N and Five stood and The Handler sat on the edge of the table. "Go ahead." She said, "Open it."

Five and Y/N both took the lid off and inside were a pair of clothes. "Clothes make a person." The Handler said as they grabbed their own bag and opened it, revealing a suit inside each. "Won't they be nice when you can actually wear it?

Y/N looked at the box and The Handler placed her hand on the girl's shoulder, “Now, my dearest, I assume that you’re a girl who knows style.” The Handler smiled, “So I’ve gotten a pair of clothes similar to mine as of course, I have a sense of style.”

The box had a double-breasted black coat. The coat has a tailored fit with a strong silhouette and sharp lapels, a midi-length dress with a geometric print, possibly a diamond or checkerboard pattern, and black, leather knee-high boots. Y/N hated to admit it but The Handler did have a good sense of style.

"Thank you." Five said to The Handler, "From both of us."

"Yes, I'm sure I could get used to it." Y/N said, suppressing a smile.

Five turned and pointed to the collection of weapons on The Handlers wall. "Is that a Chinese flamethrower?"

"And a 1920's machine gun?" Y/N added, also turning.

"Good eye you two." The Handler said. Y/N and Five walked up to her collection and examined the things we had pointed out. "War." The Handler said behind them. "Such a fascinating subject. A temporary salve for a permanent human flaw. Course it's a bit easier to see from 30,000 feet." The Handler said as she walked up beside Five.

The Handler continued. "These are just some of the things I've collected from my travels. M26 grenades from the Vietnam War. And this, my most noteworthy perhaps, My Walther pistol. The very one Hitler used to kill himself."

“Vietnam war, huh?” Y/N turned to Five and he blinked twice at her once again, she blinked twice back before turning to look at the weapons.

“I suppose you have a thing for weapons, Y/N?” The Handler asked. Y/N gritted her teeth and forced a smile as best as she could.

“Unfortunately, no. I don’t have an affinity for weapons, but I do enjoy learning about history and its mistakes.”

“I believe you and I will be getting along well, Y/N.” The Handler smiled as she still had Hitlers pistol in her hand, pointing it up. “Feel how perfectly balanced this is.”

Five took the gun, observing it as he turned and started to speak. “Me and Y/N had some thoughts we wanted to run you by. Some suggestions to improve commission protocol.”

“Mm! Shaking things up already.” The Handler smiled, taking a smoke from her pipe and taking the gun from Five’s hand, placing it on the weapons table. “I admire that.” She stroked his face once again. Y/N coughed.

“Go on.” The Handler walked away to her desk, “Do tell!”

“She’s flirting with you.” Y/N whispered to Five. He gritted his teeth and nodded, acknowledging the fact that she was, in fact, flirting with him.

“Gloria.” Five said, placing both of his hands on the chair as Y/N sat down in one of them. “The tube operator.”

“Wouldn’t it be simpler if case managers were to send their own messages?” Y/N asked.

“I appreciate the thought, I really do. But everyone loves Gloria, I-I would never hear the end of it.” The Handler smiled. Y/N and Five looked at each other with the same thought.

She was changing the subject and lying.

“She’s been with the commission for years and this close to making a pension.” The Handler smiled. And now she was rambling and over explaining the situation.

A knock on the door interrupted the three’s conversation as Dot walked in with a red file in hand. “Sorry to interrupt, may I have a moment alone?” The woman asked.

“Of course.” The Handler smiled, “Duty calls.”

#the umbrella academy #umbrella academy x reader #tua #five hargreaves x reader #five hargreeves #five hargreeves x reader #five x reader #luther hargreeves #diego hargreeves #allison hargreeves #klaus hargreeves #viktor hargreeves #ben hargreeves #umbrella academy

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etherati · 10 months ago

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Taproot - (1/25)

To celebrate finally finishing this monster of a fic after 4 goddamned years, I'm going to be posting the full chapters here on Tumblr, serialized like in the olden days, to make it easier to digest a bit at a time. Expect an installment once a week. This is a sequel to Wellspring, and is a post-S2 AU with, at this point, established Trephacard--plus some historical flashbacks, family drama, bloody showdowns, and a lot of secrets waiting in the wings. And feels. All the feels. If you like those things--or, for reasons I cannot disclose at this time, dear old Leon Belmont--consider giving this one a spin.

Summary from Ao3:

Taproot (n): The oldest, most central root; that from which all else arises.

Every family has its roots, diving down into the shadowy, secretive earth--and there's no such thing as a bloodless inheritance.

🎵 Music pairing: The Old Ways - Loreena McKennitt

Next -- >

Sunrise over the Black Sea—golden light spilling into the water like its own sort of glowing, glittering liquid, diffusing through the brine and illuminating it in hues of orange and amber and violet-pink—is one of the most beautiful sights the natural world has to offer. There are other striking sunrises to be had, and other bodies of water prone to making a person feel overwhelmingly small, but nowhere else do the two combine into such a spectacle, delighting the eyes even as it harrows the soul.

At least, nowhere else that Sypha has been, and she has been a lot of places.

She twists the end of her walking stick into the damp sand and gravel. This means that she’s close; she can tell by the particular mineral-laden smell of the salt and the angle of the light that she’s still a bit north of Enisala, but not by very far. There’s no shame in having arrived at the sea slightly off from her target. The only truly accurate navigation is by the stars—and the lingering presence of the night creatures and the winter’s bitter chill have had her travelling mostly with the sun.

Overhead, the keening cries of shorebirds as they dip and weave, coming in low to gather at the waterline, to pick over the tide pools and sandbars. The breakers beat the rocky shore, relentless. There’s a stark beauty to the place, to the way life struggles forward despite its days being filled only with further struggle. Tenacity. Tenacity, she understands, and all the spoils it brings.

This would be a lovely place to bring Adrian and Trevor to, she thinks; let them see this dawn, let the three of them roughhouse in the waves and drink sweet fruit wine in the sun and make love in the cool, damp sand once twilight settles in, all softness and blue-black shadows and the murmur of the tide. When the weather is warmer. When the sea is greener than it is grey, and the wind coming off of it doesn’t threaten to peel the skin from her face and hands. When they feel safe, leaving the castle unguarded for a while.

That time is, with certainty, not yet now. But she’s working on it. She’s still not gotten used to travelling alone, honestly hopes she won’t ever have to, but sometimes needs must. And that’s the entire point of this, of having to be away from them for so long.

She misses them—misses her family, too, but that’s an old ache that she’s grown accustomed to. Missing Adrian and Trevor is a different kind of hurt, sharp and fresh, made worse by knowing how badly they’re missing her in return. When she was growing up, travelling constantly on journeys measured in seasons, a month had felt like nothing. Now, it feels like an eternity.

There’s no snow and ice out here, this close to the water; there never is, in her experience, until you get to the deep, deep north. The sand is wet and the coarse stone crushed into it grinds under her staff. It’s blunt and thick, as writing implements go, and there’s no way to get any detail—and anyway, she’s no artist.

She still leaves a chunky, lopsided heart in the sand, as if marking the spot to return to later—as if the waves won’t wash it away mere hours after she’s left this place.

The sun is high overhead by the time the crumbling stone fortress of Enisala comes into view on the horizon. It feels wonderful, even if winter sun never warms one through the same way summer sun does; she drops her hood to bask in it, shifting her pack on her shoulders.

The ruins themselves are all beige-grey rock, the sky even more devoid of color, stormy and brooding. As she gets closer, though, she can see little pops of color all around the perimeter of the old fortress—blanket-draped caravans, colorful paper lanterns, artifacts of every culture the trains have come into contact with over the past year. Anything to make the space lively.

This place has always felt oddly significant to her—with its ruins that no one will claim ownership over, that seem to belong only to themselves, like slumbering giants from the birth of the world. Really, anywhere on the eastern edge of a landmass would do, for the Speakers’ winter solstice celebrations. But this is where her family group has always come, and so she knows she will find them here. For a week on either side of the solstice, many trains gather here in the sprawl of the mysterious ruins, and they eat and dance and share stories, all the stories of the year before, and Sypha knows she has a few that will make even the elders jealous.

She smiles to herself, framing the narrative in her head as she sets off down the narrow, meandering path to the gathering below.

“Sypha!” a familiar voice calls out, along with the clatter of scattered and dropped firewood; she’s barely made the edge of camp, is still lost in thought, but that voice would snap her out of just about anything.

“Kiri,” she oofs out, as the woman barrels into her, catching her up in a crushing embrace that’s more robes than anything else—layers and layers of them, to keep out the damp chill. Sypha hugs back just as hard; she’d been expecting her family and the others, the ones she’d watched leave Greşit all those months ago and then had to say farewell to again late in the spring. She hadn’t been expecting Kiri, Kiri who knows all her secrets and remembers what she looked like when she was young enough to go about with her hair unshorn, who she spent more time with growing up than she did her own family—throwing rocks into rivers and climbing trees and playing rough games with the boys. Testing every limit, challenging every rule, pushing for every wild dream.

Kiri, who’d been away from their clan for at least three years now, off studying the healing arts with the Ottoman scholars in the east when their own collective knowledge had proved insufficient for her. Three years that now feel like nothing—and isn’t it odd, how the friends of childhood are so often forgotten when the demands of adult life catch up, but the body never forgets what it’s like to hold them?

“I’m so glad you made it,” Kiri says, her face buried in Sypha’s hair. “My first Solstice back with our people and you weren’t here! I was getting worried.”

“What, did you think I would miss it?” Sypha asks, faux indignation through her own laughter. “Never.”

“Well, I’ve been told that you have your hunter, now,” Kiri says, pulling away, a sudden swell of distance blooming between them. No wonder—too often, Speakers who marry outside the tribe never quite find their way back. She and Trevor hadn’t been that to each other the last time she’d seen her family, had just been circling ever closer without quite making contact, but fair assumptions could be, and often were, made. “And your sleeping soldier?”

“Mm, yes,” Sypha says; it’s been a long time since she’s thought of Adrian that way, though he’s never stopped fighting for them. “But this is important, being here. And seeing everyone again! How have your studies been?”

Kiri’s eyes flash with excitement, bright against the wind-bitten redness of her cheeks; her skittishness evaporates in an instant. “It is incredible, Sypha! The things they know, in the south—the things they’ve kept track of, that others have forgotten. There is a book one man there has written on how to repair a person as if they were a torn garment or a broken wagon. It’s remarkable.” Adrian probably has a copy of that, somewhere in his mother’s medical library—if not, she’ll have to remember to track one down. “I understand why we do not record our stories, but after three years there, I wonder if we are foolish to not record knowledge itself? Raw knowledge I mean, the kind that is hard to frame in the context of a story.”

My people are idiots, she remembers saying, during that

interminable stay in the Belmont hold; she’s usually more inclined to be generous, but there’d been an infectious kind of frustration and cynicism they’d all been fighting, after a certain point.

“I’ve wondered that, too,” she says now, far more diplomatic; the journey has done her outlook a lot of good. “About an entirely different body of knowledge! Not something that would be as useful as the medicine you’re learning, but yes—if having something written down can save a life, how can that be wrong?”

“Don’t let the elders hear you say that!” Kiri admonishes, laughing.

Sypha blows a dismissive breath through her nose. “I am sure they already think I’m a terrible member of our tribe, just for raising a hand against the enemies of humanity. I cannot imagine their opinion of me can get much worse.”

Kiri throws an arm over her shoulder, pulls her in. “It’s not that bad,” she says, trying to be encouraging, but there's a tension there. “Our Sypha, the warrior of Wallachia. But I always knew you were destined for something special.”

Sypha frowns in thought, takes a few steps in silence. Did you? She wants to ask, and she wants to ask, Why?

Destined. Destiny is too large an idea, is the sort of thing that hovers around other people, people with remarkable families, with mysterious pasts. Sypha is a magician like any other Speaker magician; her father was the same, and his mother before him, and there is nothing unusual about any of it. These things run in families, and magic users are common, and sure, she'd gotten herself sucked up into an epic story because of it, but it could as easily have been another.

Couldn't it have?

Would another scholar of magic have done just as good a job? Would another magician have melded into the team as well as she did, have communicated in battle so effortlessly, have picked up the slack the other two dropped and protected them when they needed it? Could just any magician have snatched Dracula’s castle out of the aether like it was a feather on the breeze?

Would another Speaker have tossed aside the principles of a lifetime to stand up and fight, or is there really something dark and burning in her that sets her aside?

If there is, is that a good thing or a bad thing? Is that even the question to be asking?

“...how does it feel, to fulfill a prophecy?” Kiri asks, as they start to make their way toward the rest of the camp. It’s clear from the suddenly uncomfortable undercurrent in her voice that she’s not talking about the whole killing Dracula part; that story, her family has already heard, and it’s surely made the rounds. No—she’s talking about the rest of the prophecy. The part that’d had Sypha so uneasy clambering down into the catacombs and so defensive when she awoke there in the face of a hunter; the part that she’d like to believe any random magician would not have been able to fulfill.

“Strangely?” Sypha says, pitching her voice low. “Like I did have a choice in the matter.”

“Truly? You did not feel fate’s hand pushing the issue?” A pause, a few scuffing steps in the snow. Then, carefully: “Or another hand entirely?”

And oh, Sypha understands why her old friend is concerned, understands all too well given the way the world has sometimes treated their people. How non-Speaker men have often regarded them—worldly and experienced and incapable of ever saying no, as if rejection of the church’s self-loathing, oppressive morality somehow made them into succubi. But the implication is so absurd in context that she still laughs, conspiratorial. “No. My God. I had to push them. I thought I was going to go crazy.”

A smile then, more genuine. The tension drains out of the arm across Sypha’s shoulders. “What kind of heroic warriors are they, if they’re not fighting for the hand of maiden fair?”

“In what world, I wonder, would I be considered a fair maiden?” Sypha asks, smiling despite herself. Her robes are ragged with wear, her hair recently chopped short again, her feet swathed in cloth bandages beneath her sandals to keep out the cold. Fair indeed. But she knows that society outside of their caravans frames the world in certain ways. “And they were fighting with me, not for me.”

“Still. Most would expect some sort of reward for saving the world—even if only from fate.”

Sypha shakes her head, remembering that sunrise through the castle doors, the way they’d all started drifting apart before she’d pulled them back together. Those first few hours of having no idea what to even do with themselves, in this tomorrow that they hadn’t expected to see. “We were all shocked to still be alive, in the end. I imagine that would be reward enough for anyone.”

Kiri looks to her feet, swallows. They walk in silence for a moment. It had, perhaps, been unfair to go into such dark territory—to invoke how close they’d all come to dying that night. But these are the stakes Sypha has gotten used to, the way she’s become accustomed to thinking of the world. Speakers don’t fight; they are always in danger from those who don’t understand them, but that is a danger that brings itself to one’s door. The memory of choosing to walk across an enemy’s threshold, certain she would not ever cross it again, is uniquely hers.

“If you met them,” she says, gently bringing the topic back around, “you would understand. They honestly are good men. They understand what trust and respect are.” And they have enough baggage to fill an entire wagon, between them both, but that’s not for her to say. She’s not so dense as to think that they’d been dragging their feet just to frustrate her. “They do respect me, and I had to do nothing extraordinary to earn it—only what I’m truly capable of. We are equals.”

“Enough so that they trusted you to make this journey alone,” says a voice from her other side, mild and gentle, and Sypha turns without thinking, throwing herself into her grandfather’s arms.

“My angel,” he says, stroking her hair, and as it always does, the endearment makes her heart clench up a little around something—something hard and painful, like a rock in her chest, that she has never understood.

She huffs a laugh against his robes, pushes through it. “It was more a matter of whether I trusted them to survive a month without me.” Kiri laughs then, and her grandfather does too, and it warms her to know, with this kind of certainty, just how lucky she really is.

“…and it was in this way that the houses were joined, the scorched land of one family and the usurped fortress of their oldest enemy, and from the ashes of tragedy and loss and centuries of discord arose the hope of an unexpected and brilliant future.”

A long silence, broken up by the crackle of logs in the fire, by the quiet rustle of voices from elsewhere in the camp. There’s no need to pronounce the end of a story here, not if one is half decent at telling it; Sypha knows that they are just letting it sink in.

“A remarkable story, more so even than the first telling, which we have all heard,” one of the elders says, one she isn’t familiar with. In front of the old woman’s feet, a pair of young children are still staring raptly at Sypha. The elder’s voice is warm, pleased. “It will be quite a thing to add to our memory stores. And quite a thing to know that one of our own played a role, in such a difficult time for our country.”

“One of ours, one of Dracula’s, and one of their own that they threw out,” says a young man a few places to Sypha’s left; his voice carries the twist of a smile. “I wonder how the church must feel, in the face of such irony.”

And oh, that’s a thought that has given Sypha much satisfaction over the last year—to be a fly on the wall when the heads of the church met to discuss what had happened!—but the old woman frowns. “I imagine they feel as though they nearly caused the extinction of all human life in Wallachia,” she says, a touch sharp. “Perhaps that is enough?”

One of the children at her feet giggles, a Look who’s in trouble kind of sound, and the man ducks his head. But he’s not in trouble. That isn’t how they do things. “Pardon me, Elder,” he says, “but I disagree. That they made a horrible mistake is knowledge that can fade or be downplayed over time. That they were saved by the very people they ostracized and cast out—that carries weight that cannot so easily be shrugged off. Even if we cannot share this with the rest of the people of Wallachia, that lesson should at least be preserved.”

Because it is about hubris as much as it is about blame, she can remember saying, after that first meeting they’d had with Acasă’s strange new church. Blame can be washed away with a convincing enough apology, and hubris will make the same mistakes over and over again. Both must be undermined if any progress is to be made.

It had been a hard sell. Adrian tends to want to place blame if only to have something to aim all of his anger and sadness at, now that he’s allowed himself to start navigating them; Trevor only wants the world to feel more just than it is. But in the end she’d brought them around: more needs to be done than to just rub the church’s nose in the mess it’d made.

Which is why they’d agreed, in the end, for her to finally tell the story in its entirety—nothing masked or obfuscated, no details left aside. Only for her people’s ears; a closed telling, a rarely invoked practice used when the full story needs preserving but would put the participants in danger, should it get out into the general populace. The people of Acasă are just now starting to truly accept Trevor for who he is; tolerating a witch and a vampire is a bit much to expect of them, just yet.

“For whatever it’s worth,” she says now, “as a participant in the story? I agree. How this was ended, and by who, is just as important as who started it in the first place. There are lessons in both of those things."

The elder regards her for a long moment, thoughtful. Then nods, just a tiny dip of her face into the firelight. “Very well. This story will sit alongside the previous version. The nature of Wallachia’s saviors is to be preserved, as a means of emphasizing the church’s shortsightedness and the need for it to not repeat that mistake.”

Sypha nods deeply, a long and slow dip of her head nearly to her knees. “My thanks, Elder. May your tribe live happily and well, in the coming year.”

“And yours.”

The crowd disperses, some going to hear or tell other stories, some retiring to their caravans for the evening meal. One figure stays nearby, hunched over a nearby fire, close enough to have heard her telling but not actually part of the group receiving it. In the fading light, the shape is just that: a shape, a silhouette, blue-black against the blue-white of the snow, limned in the cold violet light of sunset. They have a branch in their hands, are stripping it of its side-shoots methodically, tossing them one by one into the fire.

It’s a silhouette Sypha would know anywhere.

“What stories have you to tell,” Sypha asks, settling down alongside her, the ritualistic question feeling strange in her mouth, “since this time last year?”

Kiri huffs a laugh. “None as exciting as yours. You’re a hard act to follow, Sypha.”

“You seemed excited about all the knowledge you’d gained, earlier.”

Twist, pull, snap. “That’s nothing, compared to having a grand destiny.”

“I still say that destiny is too strong a word. We basically fell down a hole.”

“Directly into the vault of Greşit’s sleeping soldier. At precisely the time the three of you were most needed. That sounds like kismet to me.”

Sypha can’t help but laugh, remembering. “It felt more like incredible clumsiness, from where I was standing.”

“Falling.”

“From where I was falling, yes.”

A stretch of quiet, then, broken only by the crackling of the fire.

“So,” Kiri says after a while, tossing an entire handful of twigs into the flames. There’s a smile on her face but the firelight has turned it bitter, all shadows and edges. “Your soldier is a vampire.”

“Dhampir, really,” Sypha corrects, kneejerk. For so long, it’d been Trevor she was correcting, then after a while, Adrian himself; she’s used to being quick on the draw with it, because either of them saying vampire had generally been a sign of badness brewing.

Kiri breaks another few twigs free from the branch, twists them in her fingers. “I don’t know what that means.”

Right. Of course she doesn’t. “It means his mother was human.”

“Oh,” Kiri says, seemingly still not sure what to do with this information. “I knew that, I guess. From the story itself. I didn’t realize the distinction mattered.”

“Yes, it… it matters. A great deal. I do not think a true vampire would have ever sided with humanity.”

"Still. I wonder if I would have been able to guess, had we met in the summer instead of the winter."

Sypha plucks at the scarf around her neck, the wool scratchy but warm, dyed in a hundred vibrant colors. It’d come from the market in Acasă, knitted by an old blind woman, and had been a gift—gratitude for the work they’d done securing the town against the demon attacks. They had saved her son’s entire family, and gone home that night and celebrated it, a battle with no casualties save the demons themselves. She’s wearing it because of the cold, but she knows what Kiri is asking. "Perhaps."

A huff of breath. “So much for your gentle warriors.”

“You would probably be surprised,” Sypha says with a shrug, not even bothering to take offense on Adrian’s behalf, because she can tell this isn’t what Kiri’s actually upset about. Some people compare words to weapons, and it’s truer than they know; you can dodge and feint and mislead with them as well as you can with steel. “But that isn’t—Kiri. What’s going on?”

For a long moment, no reply. The fire cracks and pops, splitting the wood apart in a spattering of sparks. Kiri throws the whole branch into it like a spear, a hard burst of frustration.

“Taerna married, this summer,” she finally says, the words quiet.

That stops Sypha cold, her fingers poised in mid-reach for a branch of her own. She curls them back up around the empty air, feels the nails bite into her palm. “She always said she would wait for you.”

“Why should she have bothered? We were only friends.”

“You were more than that.”

“She married,” Kiri repeats, short, face tightening as if to hold something inside. “Like all of my friends and sisters did. Marriage and children and… it’s all anyone does. We had plans. We were going to, to travel, and she was going to hunt our food and I was going to heal people and we were going to see the world together. But this is the only life anyone seems to care about.”

And even you’re going down that path, Sypha can hear, unsaid. You and your prophecy, your exiled hunter and your inhuman soldier.

Sypha closes her eyes, takes a breath. “She cares about you.”

“She also cares about her hound.”

“She loves you,” Sypha says, insistent.

Kiri laughs, bitter, tears threatening. It’s like watching an old dam crumble, flawless limestone threading through with cracks and stress fractures, and then: an outrushing of things held back for far too long. “Not enough,” she says, curling forward over herself, arms tight around her belly. “Not more than she loved the idea of having a child. Not enough to be with me.”

“Oh, Kiri. I’m sorry,” Sypha says, threading an arm over her shoulders, pulling her in. “I’m sorry.”

“Do yours love you?” Kiri asks after a moment, muffled by the layers of robes. “Enough to change the world, to defy everything for you?”

Sypha thinks about Trevor punching Dracula in a ridiculous, suicidal attempt to keep him away from her, thinks about Adrian in her garden, enduring the sun to make her happy—about a castle and a watchtower and the ending of the story she’d told, and her grasp on her friend tightens. “They do. And each other.”

A laugh into her shoulder, rough and wet. “I’ve always thought it would be terrible, to be involved in a prophecy,” she says, barely audible. “I never thought I’d be so jealous.”

There’s a stream that runs past the ruins, a narrow but swift-moving current that cuts through the ground here like a knife. It leads into the tough, gnarled pines and firs that grow this close to the sea, into these dark and uninviting woods that are nevertheless filled with a thousand secret places.

Sypha follows it, as she always has, year after year.

Things are different, this year.

She finds them by the water, bundled up and talking quietly. There’s a fire burning, but it’s been banked and allowed to subside down to embers, giving off heat but very little light. In the heavily filtered winter moonlight, they look like faery folk—Arn with his delicate, dignified features, Lily with the luminescent white bone beads threaded into hair the color of pitch, both of them beautiful and earnest.

They look up when she steps closer, their faces dark, shadowed. Painfully anxious.

She sits down on the ground, near to them, facing them. She is just as filled with anxiety. She has never done this, has no idea how to approach it—she knows they are not being blindsided like Kiri was, knows they have had time to adjust to the idea of this, but all she can see is her old friend’s face, broken up in grief over a friend-love she—and everyone else—had thought was something more. For once in her life, Sypha cannot find the words.

Then Lily smiles, the brilliant, passionate smile Sypha remembers, and holds out her hands, and Sypha lets herself fall into the woman’s arms, nearabout crushing her in the embrace.

“It’s all right,” she whispers, against Sypha’s ear. “You’ve found your loves. It was always bound to happen to one of us.”

Sypha nods against her, feeling the tears welling up. Turns to embrace Arn, the familiarity of his touch painful in this context, in knowing what she has to do.

“Are you set to marry?” Arn asks, quiet, solemn.

Sypha shakes her head. “I haven’t brought up the subject yet. There are a lot of complications—no human establishment would ever welcome us. But...”

“But you would like to.”

“Yes.”

“Will you come back to us then, for the ceremony?” Lily asks, and her voice sounds like the fear of paths diverging, not knowing if they will ever converge again. “Or even just to visit? You know there are none here who wouldn’t welcome all of you—or if there are…”

“Lily will convince them to change their minds,” Arn finishes for her, a small smile at the corner of his mouth.

Sypha closes her eyes, takes Lily’s hand. “Of course. I could not stay away for long. And you can always visit us—we’ll have a lot of space, once we rebuild.”

Visiting, seeing old friends: it’s not the same, won’t ever be the same. And sometimes things change, and people change and what they are to each other changes. But these two were always dear friends first and foremost, and that will never—can never—be any different. She gathers them both into her arms, and it’s a sweet, comfortable place to be.

“Please tell me,” Arn whispers into her hair after another long moment, “that Belmont at least bathes regularly, now?”

And like that, the seriousness of the night vanishes, goes up like a twist of smoke into the black. Sypha laughs, and keeps laughing, until it turns to tears again and she can’t sort out which she’s feeling more of.

“Yes,” she says, with a little hiccup of sob-laughter. “He does. He fights the darkness and protects the innocent—like he was born for. And washes the monster blood off, after.”

“Good,” Arn says, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “We could tell from the beginning, that he was capable of being more than he was pretending to be.”

A long measure of silence, only the water rushing past, too swift to freeze even in the heart of winter.

“Will you let us give you a proper farewell?” Lily asks, hesitant. “Do they know—”

“They know,” Sypha says, biting her lip. “I talked with them about it before I left. They don’t mind.” As long as it’s a farewell, she hears Trevor saying, laughter in his voice even as he’d tried to be serious about this. And not a ‘till next time’.

Adrian had just been quiet, and had smiled softly in that way that is always disarming to her, and had simply said that traditions, and closure, are important. For everyone involved.

“Do you want this from us?” Lily asks. “Whether they mind is not the only question.”

It’s secluded in the little copse of trees, even the starlight blocked by the arching branches thick with green needles, and warm from the banked fire. Sypha nods, and reaches out with both hands, palms up in invitation. They each press a kiss to her open hands, and they hold her and she holds them, all of them swathed in the shadows of this secret place. She lets them say goodbye to this part of their collective lives, lets them put their hands and their mouths on her and push her to giddy exhaustion—one last gift from her youth, and one that will have to hold her over through the winter chill until these two weeks are out and she can begin to make her way home.

When they wander back to camp late that night, appetites sated and tension shaken away, things are different between them, always will be different, now—but that’s all right, in the end. Change, like liquor in a wound, can sting, but it is sometimes the only thing that makes the blood run truly clean.

The next day passes quickly and well. She gives her grandfather the gifts that Adrian and Trevor had sent along with her; scouring the castle library, Adrian had found a rare volume of supposedly true stories from the far east that he thought the tribe would appreciate having to add to their memory stores, and Trevor, feeling some cabin fever in all of the early season snow they’ve gotten, has taken up carving—which is to say, he isn’t very good at it yet, may never really be. But the two simplistic figures he’s sent are easily recognizable as rough caricatures of priests, one missing a finger and one missing an eye. In memory of the day we all met! he’d said, performative, trying to disguise the sentimentality as tactless humor.

Her grandfather laughs to himself as he holds the figures up, and she can tell he’s trying hard to mask how entertained he is; violence is so anathema to their people and yet, somehow, this particular act of violence never seems to have unsettled him. Context, she supposes; Trevor had been acting specifically to save his life, and he could have done far worse.

She wanders the camp, looks at all of the lovely exotic decorations, and plays with the children, an odd pang in her heart as she watches their innocent games. She helps prepare lunch, lighting the fires for the ones doing the cooking, chopping vegetables and kneading dough for flatbread, and she goes into the woods with Kiri to gather more firewood—they will need a lot of it, tonight.

They don’t talk, while they gather. It’s not awkward, just an understanding that the space between them needs some quiet, needs time to breathe.

She visits with the others in her family, with the surrogate aunts and uncles that are not actually related to her by blood, with the childhood playmates and the mentors, and with Taerna and her husband, a man from another tribe who’d chosen to join hers

instead of the other way around, had chosen to take her name. He seems sweet enough, and Taerna seems happy, if a little haunted around the edges of her eyes. Everyone she asks says that yes, of course they will be there, tonight.

Last night had been for stories, and tomorrow will be as well. But tonight is for celebration. All things in equal measure.

Hours in, Sypha drops onto one of the logs around the edges of the clearing; she slumps forward with a happy groan, reaching to rub the knots and strings out of her calves. Her walking muscles are conditioned like no others, but dancing muscles are a different story. It’s a good ache, though, like that burn in the cheeks that comes from too much smiling, too much laughter. She feels overheated from the exertion and the fire, no matter the chill in the air, and she unwinds the scarf, loosens the top layer of her robes to let the air move through.

Between where she sits and where the fire burns, silhouettes move, a chaotic display of human joy and beauty. They have no structured dances, really, though longtime partners often grow into each other’s steps. She can smell warm food nearby, bread and stew and hot mead, sees all of her family and friends and the strangers that come here as well, all her people, all dressed as she is, and wonders again: could any of them, the ones with magic at least, have done what she did?

She stares into the fire, remembers the feel of the castle’s engine between her fingers, the way she’d felt reality bending and brittle fracturing around her, so much more power at her disposal in that moment than she’d ever brought to bear conjuring fire or ice—and she thinks that no, maybe not. She’s met other magicians; she’s not sure any of them have ever trapped an eldritch monstrosity or blown apart an Enochian ward or—or done the things she’s come here to learn how to do. The things her father and her grandmother could do.

Later. Later, when the Nasaii tribe arrives. They should be here by morning. She will learn what she needs to, and she will go home, and she will be able to protect that home more thoroughly than she ever has before.

In the meantime, she watches the dancers, contemplates getting some stew, contemplates whether her legs will fall off if she tries—watches Arn and Lily together on the far side of the clearing, twisting in a tight curl that makes Lily’s hair lift, the fire lighting up her bone beads and glinting in Arn’s eyes. Watches the children imitating the adults, the youngest pairing off with their siblings, stumbling all over each other. Watches strong, tough Taerna with her husband, insisting on leading him, as much as anyone can lead in this sort of dance.

Watches the elder she’d told her story to last night, sitting across the fire from her, watching Sypha right back with a gentle smile that says Don’t worry, that says You will be with them soon.

And there’s nothing inherently romantic about these dances on the solstice—friends dance with friends, parents with children, and many dance alone—but she remembers being young and everything being about those early, tentative relationships, remembers that there was a thrill in getting the chance to dance with those people she called heart-mates, or to be asked to dance by someone she wished to be that close to.

So she can’t help but smile when she sees Taerna whisper something to her husband and break away from him, sidling hesitantly up to where Kiri sits. She’s poking at the dirt with a crooked, bare stick, and her sandals haven’t touched the dance ring—are clean of the dust and soot that coats the ground here, the

remains of a hundred years of bonfires.

Taerna holds out a hand, uncertain.

It won’t solve all of the problems, won’t make Kiri’s love hurt less or magically mend things between them. But there’s something of healing in Kiri’s eyes as she reaches up to take that hand, leaves the stick behind in the dirt, lets herself be pulled up and into the ring of dancers, the two of them falling into each other’s space with an ease that says We belong here, that says Even if we must change, there is still us, that says You will never be a stranger in these arms.

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