#in the chamber of shiny darkness or ominous light

[mxbitters]

about to buy led strip lights (thing i never thought id say) and the best part is it’s definitely not for what people usually buy led strip lights for but yknow whatever

[winters8child]

It´s been a long, long time

Chapter 82

The Siberian snow crunched beneath our feet as we approached the facility where the other Winter Soldiers were held. The snow fell heavily, and the wind whipped through our hair, the cold biting at my skin. The doors were wide open—he had already been here.

"He can't have been here more than a few hours," Steve said, gripping his shield tightly at his side.

"Long enough to wake them up," Bucky replied, his assault rifle at the ready. I pulled out my handgun, and together we cautiously stepped inside.

We took the elevator that descended deep into the facility, the sound of its groaning echoing ominously through the walls. I stood between Bucky and Steve, staring straight ahead, the confined space making me feel hot despite the cold. I tried not to think about the fact that both of their hands were brushing against mine. They both gave me small smiles, but it felt awkward, their expressions not reaching their eyes.

When the door finally slid open, I exhaled in relief, though it was short-lived given what awaited us. We all carried the super-soldier serum, but so did the others—and who knew how many of them we'd be facing.

We cautiously stepped out, scanning the perimeter for any danger, our footsteps echoing off the cold, concrete walls. As I peeked around a corner, the door behind us suddenly slammed shut with a loud clang, making me jump. Instinctively, we all spun around, weapons raised, with Steve ducking behind his shield.

"You ready?" Steve asked quietly, and Bucky and I answered in unison, "Yes."

The double doors in front of us slid open slowly, revealing Tony's shiny red suit.

"You seem a little defensive," Tony remarked as he approached, his tone light but his gaze sharp. Steve lowered his shield slightly, though Bucky and I kept our weapons trained on Tony.

"It's been a long day," Steve replied, giving a small nod, his shield still partially raised.

Tony glanced at Bucky and me, his eyebrows lifting. "So now you've got two guard dogs? Calm down, you two, or no treats for you," he added with a playful finger lift.

"Why are you here?" Steve asked, still suspicious, his tone firm.

"Could be your story's not so crazy. Maybe. Ross has no idea I'm here. I'd like to keep it that way. Otherwise, I gotta arrest myself.", Tony replied calmly.

"Well, that sounds like a lot of paperwork," Steve said as he finally lowered his shield. "It's good to see you, Tony," he added with a solemn smile.

I wasn’t so easily convinced. Tony had been sure of himself at the airport, and now we were supposed to act like everything was fine. Bucky clearly felt the same—his glare never left Tony as he kept his gun trained on him.

"You too, Cap," Tony replied before glancing at Bucky and me. "Calm down, you two. I won’t bite if you don’t bite first," he said with his usual snark.

"Enough with the dog jokes, Stark," I shot back, still refusing to lower my weapon.

Steve gestured for us to stand down with a motion of his hand. Reluctantly, I lowered my gun, though the unease in my gut hadn’t faded.

We moved cautiously through the facility, all four of us on edge, anticipating one of the Winter Soldiers to lunge at us from every shadowed corner. The place was dark and eerie, with old desks and scattered files abandoned by their long-gone owners.

"I’ve got heat signatures," Tony warned, his hand raised, ready to strike.

"How many?" Steve asked, his shoulders tensing.

"Uh... one," Tony replied, his voice tinged with concern and confusion. Bucky had told us there were many more Winter Soldiers. Why only one?

We stepped into a large, dimly lit hall surrounded by chambers. In the center sat a chair—eerily familiar. It looked like the one Pierce had strapped Bucky into when they wiped his memories. A cold shiver ran through me at the memory of his screams.

I glanced at Bucky, wondering if he was reliving the same nightmare. He must be haunted, but his expression remained composed, his eyes hard as he took in the scene.

Suddenly, the lights flickered on, illuminating each chamber, and a voice echoed from the speakers.

"If it’s any comfort, they died in their sleep," the voice said, cold and detached.

I looked closer. The Winter Soldiers were still inside the chambers—but dead. We had expected them to be unleashed against us, but now it was clear something more sinister was at play.

"Did you really think I wanted more of you?" the voice taunted, clearly directed at Bucky.

"What the hell?" Bucky murmured, growing more tense with each second.

"I'm grateful to them, though," the voice continued. "They brought you here."

Suddenly, a light flickered on, revealing Zemo hiding behind a reinforced glass window. Without hesitation, Steve hurled his shield at the glass, but it bounced back harmlessly, the window unscathed.

"Please, Captain. The Soviets built this chamber to withstand the launch blast of UR-100 rockets," Zemo said, his sneer audible in his voice.

"I'm betting I could beat that," Tony replied confidently, his voice carrying a calm assurance that I couldn’t help but admire.

"Oh, I'm sure you could, Mr. Stark," Zemo said, unfazed. "Given time. But then you'd never know why you came."

His tone was condescending as if he were toying with us, completely secure in his fortress of glass. It made my blood boil.

Steve stepped closer to the chamber, his gaze locked on him. "You killed innocent people in Vienna just to bring us here?"

Zemo smirked, his eyes cold as they met Steve’s. "I thought about nothing else for over a year. I studied you. I followed you. But now that you're standing here, I just realized... there's a bit of green in the blue of your eyes. How nice to find a flaw."

Steve’s jaw clenched. "You're Sokovian. Is that what this is about?"

"Sokovia was a failed state long before you blew it to hell. No," Zemo said, his voice laced with bitterness. "I'm here because I made a promise."

"You lost someone?" Steve asked, a hint of empathy in his voice as he nodded slightly, almost as if he felt pity for him.

At that, Zemo’s expression shifted—his eyes darkened, filled with something raw and deeply personal. "I lost everyone. And so will you," he said, his gaze cutting between Steve, Bucky, and me.

Suddenly, a screen beside Steve flickered to life. Black-and-white footage appeared on the monitor, the date reading 1991. Confusion washed over me as I stepped closer, trying to make sense of what we were seeing.

"An empire toppled by its enemies can rise again. But one that crumbles from within? That's dead... forever," Zemo continued, his voice dripping with malice. But my focus was entirely on the footage playing on the screen.

I sensed Tony step closer, his voice low but demanding. "I know that road. What is this?"

What I saw made my blood run cold—grainy black-and-white footage showing Tony’s parents... their terrified screams... and then The Winter Soldier mercilessly killing them. My chest tightened, and I instinctively took a step back, my hand hovering over my gun as my mind raced.

I glanced between Steve and Bucky. The tension was palpable; they knew what was coming. And so did I.

I glanced over at Tony, watching as his eyes widened, his body trembling with the shock of witnessing the horrific truth—the murder of his parents. His gaze flicked to Bucky, filled with disbelief and raw pain, before turning back to the screen. This wasn’t going to end well.

As the footage came to an end, Tony stepped toward Bucky, fury building behind his eyes. Steve quickly grabbed his arm to hold him back, but I moved in front of Bucky, pulling my gun, keeping it at my side, ready for what was coming.

Tony turned sharply toward Steve, his voice barely a whisper. "Did you know?"

Steve’s grip tightened on Tony’s arm, his face unreadable. "I didn’t know it was him," Steve said, his tone steady but unsure.

"Don’t bullshit me, Rogers!" Tony roared, pulling back. "Did you know?" His voice cracked with anger and betrayal.

Steve hesitated, and at that moment, everything seemed to freeze. "Yes," he finally admitted, his voice heavy with the weight of his confession.

My jaw dropped, and the silence that followed was deafening. I understood why Steve hadn’t told Tony—because it would’ve led to chaos, to exactly what was happening now. Disaster was inevitable.

As Tony lunged toward Bucky, blasting him with his repulsor, the rush hit me like a freight train. My chest tightened, my heart pounded in my ears, and the world zeroed in on one thing: protecting Steve and Bucky. The second Tony’s blast struck Bucky’s shoulder, something primal took over. My body moved on its own, the adrenaline pumping through me like fire in my veins.

Without hesitation, I pulled out my pistol, firing off rounds aimed at Tony’s suit. The bullets ricocheted harmlessly off his armor, but I didn’t care. I just needed to slow him down and keep him away from them. Tony barely flinched, turning his fury back toward Steve.

I dropped the pistol and whipped out my knife, flipping it into a reverse grip as I darted toward Tony. The rush inside me had fully taken over, and every move I made was driven by the singular, all-consuming need to protect them, even if I had to sacrifice myself. I slashed at Tony’s exposed joints, aiming for the weak points in his suit. The knife found purchase between the metal plates of his armor, sparks flying as I struck.

Tony roared in frustration, swinging his arm to blast Steve, but I was faster. I threw myself in front of the blast, the force sending me skidding across the floor. The pain barely registered; it was irrelevant compared to the need to keep Steve and Bucky safe. My knife slipped from my grip, clattering to the ground, but I didn’t stop.

"Get out of the way!" Tony shouted, raising his arm to fire at Bucky again. My body reacted before my mind could catch up, diving in front of Bucky as I picked up my pistol again. I aimed at Tony's visor, firing multiple shots, hoping to disorient him. It worked, if only for a second. Tony staggered, but he recovered too quickly.

I felt Steve's hand on my arm, pulling me back. “Stop!” he yelled, but I couldn't. Not while Tony was still coming for them. The adrenaline in my system wouldn’t let me stop, not when they were in danger.

Tony swung again, this time aiming for Steve. I rushed forward, slamming into Tony with all the strength I had, the knife back in my hand as I jammed it into a gap near his shoulder joint. He grunted, sparks flying as I twisted the blade, but it still wasn’t enough. Tony threw me off with a powerful swing, sending me crashing into the wall.

Steve’s voice broke through the haze, calling my name, but the adrenaline coursing through me drowned out everything except the need to protect. I stumbled back to my feet, pistol at the ready, and fired again, aiming for Tony’s chest plate. The bullets bounced off, but I didn’t stop firing.

Tony’s repulsor was aimed directly at Steve now, and time seemed to slow. Without thinking, I threw myself between them, pistol still in hand, as Tony’s blast hit me full-force. I crumpled to the ground, pain searing through my body, but I forced myself to stand again, the rush still pushing me forward.

I had to save them, no matter the cost.

Next Chapter

[ancient-debris]

Within my dark chambers there lies a collection of crystalline orbs imbued with a variety of shadowy and mysterious energies: THE ABYSSAL ORB An ominous sphere that glows with an alien, dark black yet rainbow-esque light. It is said to be filled with the dark magic of the abyss, and those who gaze upon it can be enveloped in its sinister power, and might even seem to disappear from reality entirely. THE ASHEN ORB A glowing grey sphere that seems to contain within it an endless storm of volcanic ash flecked occasionally with deep red embers. It emanates an intense aura, and it is said that those who try to touch it will be consumed by the madness of a "flame that burns within". THE BLOOD ORB A grotesque object, nearly egg-like, that appears to be made of raw, bleeding flesh. It is said to contain the essence of evil, and it is said that those who witness it might feel a deep sense of dread and despair, yet be able to bend themselves into their own perfection. THE HELLFIRE ORB A rough, sharp-edged orb with curved angles covering it all over. Within, a violent torrent of orange flame swirls that gives off a fierce, blazing feeling of heat. It contains one of the many powers of hell, and it is said that those who possess it may come to be able to control it to their benefit. THE ICHOR ORB A glittering, yellow-amber nodule that pulses with an odd, pulsating dull glow. It is said to contain the essence of some unknown, forgotten god. Those who hold it will be grasped by it's inhuman power and be able to reason and understand things on an alien, uncanny level, instantly making decisions that seem to make no sense until much later on. THE INFERNAL ORB A sparkling, shiny ball that appears to be made of diamond-esque crystal, with an ever-burning fiery ball of greenish-blue flame within. It is said to contain the essence of the underworld, and it is said that those who possess it will have power over life and death itself. THE WHIRLPOOL ORB A dark, swirling-blue sphere that continually spins with a violent force. It contains the power of the deepest ocean depths, and those who possess it will have control over all bodies of water, both flowing and still, even being able to control all beings with blood to an extent. THE CORRUPTION ORB A oily-purple orb that emanates a toxic, suffocating aura. It is said to contain the essence of corruption itself. Those who even come near it might become consumed by its toxic influence, choking and becoming disorientated, afflicted with wild mood swings and changes in personality.

[ikesenhell]

Heatwave

You can find all other IkeSen works of mine on my page under the Masterlist. NOTES: Thank you so much to the wonderful folks who came out and hung out with me as I wrote my first Ikesen piece since ‘American Dream’ in ages. I’d been batting around this idea at the lovely @a-shout-to-the-void and finally buckled down and did it. TW: torture, abuse mentions and descriptions, blood, painful injuries. A lot of descriptions and references to Ieyasu’s childhood with the Imagawa Don’t worry, no one dies. It also somehow has a good ending? Idk man. Also, hello to my first piece with Yoshimoto in it whatupppppp

----

It was three months after the second disappearance of the Takeda, and the main hall was deathly quiet. All were assembled--Nobunaga lording on his dias, his allies gathered close--and no one spoke. 

Ieyasu wished someone would. 

“He wasn’t difficult to bring in at all,” Mitsuhide commented, as if it were the weather. Clouds from the shoreline--perhaps it will rain. 

(Funny, they could use some of that. The summer was stifling and showed no signs of abating, even as the seasons turned. The crops weren’t going as well as expected, and Azuchi was a cooker. They’d slitted the screens open, but even then, Ieyasu could see sweat beading on Hideyoshi’s forehead. Even Mitsuhide, usually pristine and inhuman, sported small pools of darkened silk in the underlayers that peeked through.)

Masamune almost smiled. “Do you really think he was stupid enough to come here on purpose? He’s got guts.”

Nobunaga’s perceptive red eyes flickered in Ieyasu’s direction. 

“Perhaps.” Mitsuhide allowed a smile. 

“Probably to try his hand at Nobunaga.” But even Hideyoshi seemed unconvinced. “Maybe the last ditch effort of the Takeda before we destroy them.” 

Ieyasu hated that he glanced at Mitsunari, looking for something in the way of understanding, anything he hadn’t guessed at already. Even if that stupid puzzled expression was there, it was something. No luck. Mitsunari had the hard, calculating stare of a man who already knew the score. 

Damn it all to hell. 

“He no doubt knows where Shingen and his ilk have scattered to. Until we have found them, they remain a threat.” With a subtle nod of an imperious head (the fine sheen of sweat glittered on his neck), he motioned to Mitsuhide. “Do what you must.”

“With all due respect, my lord,” the other man noted, “I believe there is someone else here who might be better suited to… gathering the information you require from our latest guest.”

His hands were cold. His hands were cold and they were all looking at him. Ieyasu balled his fingers into fists and willed them to stop trembling. 

(Was he angry? Furious. Incensed. They needed rain in Mikawa and the crops were a concern and in the vacuum that the Takeda left there were a thousand bureaucratic things to consider and he was never not angry, only three steps away from it where he could look at it from what he liked to think was a cool remove when it was really like a fiery tornado. They’d taken so much from him and here he was again, to take more with a smile, and he couldn’t do a damn thing without destroying it anyway.)

Nobunaga just stared at him. “Well?”

And he was the best man for the job. 

Ieyasu nodded, his face as porcelain-still as he could force. “Of course.”

---

The first time he met Imagawa Yoshimoto, he only said one word. 

Ieyasu was only a child, still in the hands of his enemies. He had bruised banding around his legs from switches and cut knees, hair that went every which way and eyes that still welled traitorously with tears when struck. Illusions of fair treatment were gone. All he had was will and a directive: this is what you can do for Mikawa. If being beaten saved Mikawa, that was his responsibility. 

Wasn’t it?

There was a banquet and the Imagawa wanted to show him off like a prize pet. Ieyasu was quiet, not stupid.He smiled politely and remembered all of the tiny details of court manners, the little things that would help him (Mikawa) survive. They’d put him into a finer haori than the one they usually allowed and seated him where all the other nobles could spy on the little waif from a nothing place. 

Yoshimoto, he later learned, was the beanpole teen sitting perfectly only a few spaces away from him. Dark hair, a charming smile, pretty eyes. Ieyasu hated them all on reflex. Whoever he was--that didn't matter. Ieyasu smiled with thanks to one of his benefactors and imagined stabbing him between the eyes. 

How would he do it first? Who would go? It made sense to start with the Imagawa head--of course, that was only the correct order of things--but he could also trap them all in the hall and set it ablaze, let them scrabble over each other like rats. He could pick off their families one by one. He could--

Someone set a sake cup heavily in front of him, only half-poured. Ieyasu blinked rapid-fire up at the teen smiling down at him. 

“Smile,” he instructed, fluttering a fan entirely-too-close to both of them. And then he rushed away.

Ieyasu glanced down at the cup on his table and realized two things: one, he’d allowed his polite facade to slip. He could feel the stormcloud in the grit of his teeth. Two, the Imagawa teenager had blocked him from view with the fan--and probably spared him a beating. 

Only later did he learn his name. 

---

The dungeon stairs were slick. Every once in a while, someone came and cleaned the mold and mildew from the flagstones, but that was a lost cause. It seemed like the only moisture in Azuchi had escaped to its basements. Wet-blanket heat settled foul in the belly of Mitsuhide’s workspace, the little light lancing from narrow windows illuminating hazy curls of breath-sucking humidity. Ieyasu disguised his disgust at the foul smells the way he knew best--frowning. 

Their prisoner was moved to the very last cell, the ‘interrogation room’. Mitsuhide’s gentle words didn't disguise its purpose. It was an execution chamber and torture cell. Ieyasu never went in to discover its secrets. What he did was in the open, precisely where everyone could see it. 

(Because if you were going to hurt someone, you did it openly, he’d decided. Cowards hid abuse. If you raised the sword, you showed the sunlight its deadly glint and let heaven know your intent. Violence couldn’t be wrapped in a silken kimono and paraded before leering eyes--)

The door was shut. Ieyasu didn't waste the time to reflect on it. No interior monologue did him good here. Shunting thoughts and the heavy latch to the side, he stepped in. 

Their prisoner was kneeling. Mitsuhide prepped well. His knees were tied to those uneven slats the other man so preferred, jagged, uneven boards guaranteed to end with shattered shin bones if left long enough. He’d been stripped of his fine armor and things, reduced to a (still beautiful, dark grey and blue silk) final layer of kimono. Unkempt, shiny dark hair spilled loose on his shoulders. As Ieyasu stepped inside, those gold eyes met his. 

Yoshimoto had the audacity to smile. 

“Tokugawa Ieyasu,” he said, light as a feather, his voice already hoarse. Like commenting on the weather. Awfully hot, isn’t it? It should have rained by now. “I didn't expect to see you here.”

All the anger he kept so tightly coiled unfurled, the head of it raring like a threatened snake, and Ieyasu bared his fangs, too. “You should have. Why did you come?”

It was a stupid question. They both knew that. Yoshimoto just smiled that serene, sad, painter’s smile. Maybe, Ieyasu thought, if he had half of Yoshimoto’s artistic eye (the way he’d never had Mitsunari’s reflex genius or Masamune’s slick tongue or Nobunaga’s command or--), he could take the scene before him and transform it into a painting. The light cast over his prisoner’s back in sharp relief, all of the folds of silk and linen and hair akin to one of those Portuguese paintings they tried so hard to pawn off on them. 

“Are you going to answer?” Ieyasu demanded. Cold, cold, cold. His hands were cold. 

Yoshimoto dipped his head silently. “You know why I came, and you know why I won’t leave.”

Ieyasu sucked in his breath--like that would crush the flames of anger twisting, tornadoing in him. It burned in his throat. First, he’d get Yoshimoto off those planks. Those would come later. 

---

When he emerged several hours later--without anything to show for his efforts, just blazing fury and frustration renewed and a respect that clawed at his spine--Ieyasu blinked in surprise at the Chatelaine standing just outside the stairwell. He almost missed her. The sun was gone by now, the moon rising in its inconstant arc over Azuchi’s peaks, long lines of moonlight as gentle as the flickering torch light below was ominous. 

Of course she was there. Of course.

“How is he?” She asked, and Ieyasu wanted to scream.

“How do you think?” He snapped. “Go inside.” 

She didn't move. Instead, she produced a cold cup for him, shoving it into his hands. 

“What’s this for?”

“It was hot today. You must be thirsty.”

He stared at the cup in his hands, the silvery liquid inside glowing like moonbeams. “How long have you been here?”

“A while.”

What did that mean? How long had she waited here in the fading dusk, listening to the muffled sounds below, with a cup for him? Was it even for him? How could she give him this when only moments before, he’d washed away the blood of her--her--

Gods, he still couldn’t say it to himself. 

“Who told you?” He finally asked, his voice sharp. 

She folded her hands over her skirts instead of answering. “Is he alive?”

Of course this was about Yoshimoto. Of course this was. Even the cup was in the interest of getting information. Icy, crawling hatred slithered down the small of his back like sweat. Unceremoniously, Ieyasu dumped the contents of the cup on the ground. 

“Ieyasu--!”

He contemplated breaking it. But that wasn’t fair to her. None of this was. None of this was fair to her, just like none of it was fair to him. So instead he shoved the little mug back into her hands and stalked inside, as if moving fast enough would leave all of that behind. 

---

For the rest of his captivity, Yoshimoto was less a person and more a concept. Ieyasu saw him sometimes, fleeting glimpses of a young man blooming handsome. What kind of a life did he lead, Ieyasu wondered? It must be the opposite of his plight. No doubt he had enough to eat. No doubt he had clothes that fit, people that cared whether he lived or died, someone to spare a smile at him. No doubt he could sleep at night without a burning hate clawing up his throat and threatening to choke him. 

It was hot that summer--sweltering, relentless. Ieyasu’s room had no screens to the courtyard and so he tossed and turned fitfully at night, too uncomfortable to sleep. Sometimes he dreamed of Mikawa and home, home with the people who relied on him to be strong, people who allowed him to step down from his endless responsibility of strength for a day and be a young man again. 

They exchanged words only briefly once more, before Ieyasu went home and returned again and razed them, burned their houses the way he’d always dreamed, released all the untamed hatred raring in his heart and finally did for Mikawa what his endless abuse at the Imagawa had never done. They passed in the hallways and Yoshimoto stopped him, a small retinue at his side. 

“Tokugawa Ieyasu,” he said lightly. Yoshimoto said his name like a name, not a curse, not a burden on a household already determined to hate him. “How are you today?”

What could he say? A thousand callous things spiraled through his mind, each one more vile than the other, until he couldn’t think of a single nice word. He simply shut his mouth and nodded slowly, safely, feeling thick and stupid. “It has been quite hot lately.”

Those gold eyes stared right through him. And at long last, Yoshimoto nodded. “It certainly has. I hope it rains soon. May you have an excellent day.”

When he returned to his room that night, there was a small, beautiful fan sitting in a neat package before his door. Ieyasu let the slow, languid sound of its fluttering lull him to sleep, its cool breeze the first reprieve in months. 

---

He didn't think about Imagawa Yoshimoto for a long while after, not even when he served as Imagawa's puppet ruler. That chapter of his life was behind him. Ieyasu had exacted his revenge on Imagawa. That was over. 

It was, at least, until the Chatelaine. 

---

“Why are you here?” He demanded. 

She was waiting for him again in front of the dungeon steps, a small package wrapped in her hands. Her kimono was a soft blue with little white details, modest and cute and practical and perfect. She worked so hard. Everyone knew that. He knew that. 

“You didn't have anything to eat this morning,” she answered. The sun wasn’t yet at its peak, but already he could see the waves of heat rolling across the fields behind her, the bronzed backs of villagers in its orange glow. “You almost never miss breakfast.”

“Almost,” he pushed, as if that word made all the difference. Damnit. Damn it all to hell. This was why he had to hate people like her and Mitsunari (and Yoshimoto). The second you saw anything different in them, they pried you open like oystermen searching for pearls and only recoiled in disappointment when they discovered nothing but sand and salt. “You know that this won’t bribe me, right?”

Her cheeks flared white-hot. Good. Hate me. Hate me like I have to hate everyone else who wronged me. 

“You do know I like you, right?” She snapped. “I’m your friend. I’m not doing anything to bribe you.”

“Yeah?” Ieyasu sneered, too angry and confused and bitter to stop himself, “Just like you like Imagawa Yoshimoto? Should I expect a love letter--”

She flung the package into his hands (he caught it, barely) and marched away, her shoulders knit tight together. 

It still smelled of bean paste when he arrived in the last room of the dungeon, Yoshimoto already prepared and silent for the day. He looked well, for a man who now sported a bruised eye, crusted lip, and a slightly jagged shoulder. 

“Good morning, Tokugawa Ieyasu,” he announced, hoarse but polite. 

Ieyasu unwrapped the breakfast and examined its contents. There was a little more than usual. 

“Your woman,” he announced, (and why was it so hard to sound angry and impassive, why did he want to sound sad?) “Apparently gave me extra food under the impression I might give you some.”

No doubt the prisoner was starving. He’d barely had enough to eat to sustain himself, let alone under the pressure of the torture. But Yoshimoto straightened.

“Is she well?”

No mention of the food. No weakness. Just that endless reservoir of hope that Ieyasu resented, resented because he couldn’t find it anywhere inside himself. Didn't he deserve that kind of serenity? 

Silence. Ieyasu considered his words. Yoshimoto, no doubt, was wondering what had become of her, if Nobunaga had exacted on her the same fate that awaited him. The uncertainty was doubtless crushing. A thousand lies presented themselves.  

“Yes,” he finally allowed. “She’s fine.”

Yoshimoto smiled. Even through the bloodstained teeth and greasy hair and bruising and marks running roughshod over his arms where everyone could see, he still glowed. “Good.”

---

Ieyasu still dreamed about being with the Imagawa. 

Usually it was just the shape of things. The oppressive hot of his bedroom, the rolling waves of contracting pain in his muscles, the crushing emptiness of a room with no sunlight. 

Sometimes Ieyasu considered them a mercy. It wasn’t the same as the real thing. He didn't have dreams about how the men decided to test how far his stone expression went, applying hotter and hotter blades to his skin to see if he’d cry. They finally applied a white-hot wakizashi to the tender flesh of his thigh and he screamed so loud he couldn’t talk clearly for a week. 

Where was Yoshimoto during all this, he wondered now? There was no way he couldn’t have known. He had a reputation as a lush, but Ieyasu also knew from first-hand battle experience that more lay beneath that pretty exterior. He was like his Takeda cousin: he knew how to play a good game. Had he known just the hint of Ieyasu’s abuse, or had he understood the full spectrum of it? Surely the men of court talked. No doubt they made it a game. 

Yoshimoto had to know. 

She was surprised when he confronted her in the courtyard. She was hanging up some silks she’d washed, their bright colors like cavalry banners. Her stone-face was good, too, but not as good as his. He could see the thin lines of worry and sleepless nights stretched in the fine skin under her eyes. 

“Why him?” Ieyasu demanded. 

The chatelaine blinked at him, registering his question. No immediate answer. That was wise. “Why do you want to know?”

“Do you know what the Imagawa are like?” He hissed. “Do you know what they did? Do you have any idea?”

(It was hot out, so hot that he could see the wet silks drying already. No breeze lifted them. They hung like corpses strung out as an example. The remains of the burns on his thighs and arms, even now, stung superheated. The prickle of sweat against them was agonizing and he’d learned to live with it.)

Slowly, she dipped a hand into the cold water of her wash bucket and took his fingers in hers. Sweet relief! Ieyasu tried not to unbend under her gentle touch, the kindness, tried to convince himself that this was for someone else’s benefit and not his. History said otherwise. Long before she’d met Yoshimoto, she’d been like this. 

“No,” she said at last. “I don’t know much about who they were to you, just the vague details you’ve shared.”

“Then why him?” Ieyasu groped for his real question. It was that simple, wasn’t it? Yoshimoto wasn’t just on the wrong side. He was on the worst side. Even Uesugi Kenshin was better than an Imagawa. 

“Well…” She dipped her hand back in the bucket, splashed more water on his arms. It clung to the silk of his sleeves and cooled the worst of his burns. “There’s a lot to like about him.”

Of course there was. Yoshimoto was intelligent and clever. He had excellent taste and was handsome and diplomatic, even if he had a reputation as a useless leader and a lush. He’d never been anything but kind, and Ieyasu hated that. 

---

Yoshimoto hit the floor with a thud and a yelp, but an unsatisfying one. Ieyasu prowled around him. 

“You know what Nobunaga wants.” The sun shot unrelenting into their chamber, superheating everything. Ieyasu was sweating like a madman and refused to cede even a single article of clothing. He would not reveal the testament of his failures hidden underneath. “Just give me where Shingen went.”

The other man laughed miserably and rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling. Ieyasu kicked him back over. 

“He would have told you,” Ieyasu snarled. “That was your plan. Your plan was to come here, get her, go back into hiding with her and the rest of the Takeda. Wasn’t it?”

For once, Yoshimoto sighed and shut his eyes. “Why would I do that?”

“Giving us his whereabouts--”

“Ieyasu,” Yoshimoto interrupted wearily (and he still said his name like a name, goddamnit, not a curse or a burden or an evil thing, even after all of this), “She hates war. Why would I bring her straight into one?”

Outside, heat thunder rolled. No break in the heat yet. Its siren song drove the farmers and townspeople mad with hope. Hideyoshi had looked out sagely that morning and declared that it wouldn’t rain--not today--but it might later that week. They usually trusted him with that kind of thing. Right now, Ieyasu wished that it would come pouring down and drown them both. 

“That has no relevance to where Takeda Shingen is,” Ieyasu finally responded. 

“I don’t know where Shingen is.” Yoshimoto laid his head on the cool flagstones, eyes still shut, blood flecked over his hair and the filthy silk of the kimono he’d worn the first day. “He wouldn’t have told me.”

Cold, cold, cold hands. “So you’ve said. You’ve said that at least a dozen times.”

A pause. Yoshimoto’s chest heaved a slow, jagged tempo. “He wouldn’t tell me because of her. Because of us.”

Ieyasu wanted to scream again. He could feel it bubbling in his throat, like the ghost of that white-hot blade pressed to his skin. 

They were too nice too nice too nice, they both knew what he was doing to him and still she washed his hand and still he said his name like a friend and still there was no damn rain and still she didn't hate him he didn't hate him why couldn’t they just hate him

“Why?” He finally managed, his voice a twisted blade that tore at him the whole way out. “Don’t you hate me?”

Yoshimoto opened his eyes, still gold and pale against the gray walls, still handsome and bright and sharp. 

“You’re doing what you have to do,” he managed at last. “And I’m certain you hate me. I probably deserve it.”

Burning burning burning cold hands. The sweat seared him. “Did you know? Did you know the whole time I was there, and did you ignore it?”

At last, they were down to the crux of the whole thing. Yoshimoto wriggled like he meant to sit up (as if they were peers in this moment, just sitting and listening to a friend share their worries) and when his body failed him, he slumped over as best he could, eyes locked and gaze unwavering. 

“Tokugawa Ieyasu,” he said, “You do know I was thirteen?”

That wasn’t an answer. 

“I knew there was something wrong,” he answered at last. All the words sounded labored. “The details, I never knew. Just the hot room and that you looked ready to kill half of us if given the chance from time to time. I never would’ve known anything specific unless it came from you.”

(He was angry. So, so, so angry. A free-wheeling, blistering summer, crop-killing, volcanic kind of anger that threatened to overflow and kill everything in its wake.)

Ieyasu curled his fingers so tight that his knuckles creaked. Yoshimoto slumped his head back to the floor, shut his eyes and took another labored breath. All of his bruises were out in the open, where everyone could see them. There were no hidden marks, nothing easily covered in the painted facade of a silk--like desecrating a pretty vase, Ieyasu thought. 

“Did you know that your uncle--I think it was your uncle--burned me?” He announced. “My arms, my legs. He held a knife over a fire and waited until it glowed, then tried to see if I would scream. He only stopped when I finally did. I’ve still got the scars.”

Yoshimoto’s eyes were open again. There was no stone face--just a well of confusion and relentless sorrow. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, and Ieyasu instantly wanted him to take it back. “That should never have happened.”

Outside, the thunder rumbled again. They’d both been kids, once. Kids who barely knew each other, who lived in the same place and entirely different worlds and never once knew what lay beyond their circle. There was a faint scar just above Yoshimoto’s collarbone. Ieyasu wondered what it was from.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Ieyasu said. “You couldn’t have stopped it anyway.”

---

No one was completely sure when she and Yoshimoto met, though Ieyasu suspected that the Takeda had spies in Azuchi for a long time before the battle. It was likely in their own marketplace. They had fine fabrics and he knew that Yoshimoto, otherwise an unremarkable daimyo, wouldn’t have stood out. He’d noticed her disappearing off to the stalls for supplies more frequently, but her business was also thriving. Everyone wanted her wares. 

Mitsuhide found the letters first. 

The only thing that saved her from Nobunaga was that she’d revealed nothing treasonous. It was love, plain and simple. His fine calligraphy lay neatly on thin mulberry paper (an artistic touch and beautiful in its own right), every character reserved entirely to her wellbeing and their budding affections. No mention of armies or war. No hatred, no grandstanding. Just love--love, plain and simple and innocent and complicated and all-encompassing and blinding. 

But all that meant was she was safe. 

And the match made sense, as much as Ieyasu couldn’t stand to admit it. They were both art lovers, convinced of its importance as much as warfare, certain that without it, what kind of a world existed to fight for at all? They used entire leaves of paper discussing dyeing techniques and exchanging book recommendations and talking about their homelands. 

(And honestly, Ieyasu hadn’t needed the letters to cement what he already knew. She’d spied Yoshimoto on the battlefield and he saw her whole body light up, eyes blazing with the kind of need he’d never seen in her before. He already knew then. He’d just hoped he was wrong.)

Nobunaga wouldn’t let some traitor daimyo run off with his lucky charm. Not in a thousand years. 

Ieyasu rapped on her door late that night, and she opened the screen, bleary eyed from fatigue. She’d barely slept in a week. The red rim of her eyes betrayed every tear she couldn’t shed in front of them. 

“Come on.” He took her hand and pulled. 

“Where are we going?”

“Shut up.”

The silly woman somehow still trusted him. Ieyasu dragged her quietly down the stairs, past the main hall, through the courtyard and out the front door. She wasn’t dressed to be in public and still didn't question him. Without ceremony, he reached the dungeon door and yanked it open, its hinges silvery in the moonlight and depths impenetrable. 

She stared at him. “What are we--”

“I said shut up.”

One step at a time, he lead her into the darkness. The stairs were almost dry, the unnatural heatwave baking it clean. Still he was cautious. They reached the bottom and he fetched a lit torch, motioning at the guard on duty to leave without a word, and fetched the key ring. “Lift your skirts and follow me.”

Yoshimoto was back in his holding cell. He was still holding his left shoulder slightly jagged, his breathing shallow but even, his split lip now clear and the grime of his face washed clean. Apparently he’d used his drinking water to do that. He peered intently around the corner at Ieyasu. “Tokugawa--”

Then he saw her, and he fell completely silent. 

“Here.” Ieyasu fumbled with the keys (he’d never had to unlock the cell doors) and finally found the right one. “You don’t have long.”

Yoshimoto struggled to rise and failed to get up. He didn't need to. The second Ieyasu cracked the door, she flung herself inside and her arms around him, their bodies bound so tight together that he wondered if they’d ever been separate at all. Her voice cracked, slurred something in her native tongue, the beginnings of a sob rolling through her back. 

“Shh.” He lifted his arms with effort, wound his fingers in her hair, kissed her forehead, her head, her eyes, clutched her to him. “Hush, darling. Hush. It’s okay.”

It isn’t, Ieyasu thought. It really isn’t. But they just sat there in silence together, her tears muffled into his chest and his body emanating love like sunlight. And he wondered (as he’d wondered a million things about Imagawa Yoshimoto lately) how a man who’d barely been able to get up this afternoon could summon the strength to smile and hold her so tight. 

---

“He doesn’t know anything.”

Nobunaga and Hideyoshi cocked the opposite brow at the same time, which might’ve been comical were it not so deadly serious. 

“Is that so?” Nobunaga remarked. It was the tone of voice that let him know this was not a question. 

“Shingen didn't divulge where he was going to Imagawa expressly because he knew about the attachment to the chatelaine.” Ieyasu inhaled. “So when he left, he was effectively spurring Imagawa to leave the fight too.”

Mitsunari frowned. “That is a valuable ally to excise for sentimental reasons.”

Mitsuhide smiled. “Practically cutthroat of you, Mitsunari. Color me surprised. As it so happens, I’ve obtained similar intelligence.”

Hideyoshi’s surprise translated loud and clear. “Really?”

“So it would seem. The thorn in our side still has a few petals remaining.”

Nobunaga’s gaze fell back down on Ieyasu, searching him. He’d grown used to most of those inscrutable expressions: contemplative, frustrated, puzzled. Now it was just the brotherly stare he got after some of his worst days on the battlefield. 

“How is our prisoner?” He asked. 

“Yes indeed,” Mitsuhide purred. “Is he still alive?”

“He’s alive.” Ieyasu paused. “He’s… relatively okay.”

The Devil King’s eyes never wavered. “And what would you recommend we do with him?”

---

Yoshimoto was allowed medical attention and to rest for one week, the meagre possessions he came with restored to him. Even with the fresh scar on his lip and a slight catch in his shoulder (Ieyasu was relatively certain it would smooth out over time), he was still regal and handsome. The cold grey of dawn greeted them with a blinding lightning bolt and a torrential downpour. It soaked through the cracked earth and ran muddy and wild over the fields. 

Ieyasu affixed the last of Yoshimoto’s things to the saddlebag himself. “That’s everything.”

Imagawa Yoshimoto smiled at him, despite everything. “I appreciate that.”

The chatelaine lingered in the stable. She’d snuck out to see him off, despite all of Nobunaga and Hideyoshi’s disapproval. Her eyes were puffy with new, unshed tears. “You’re just going to put him out in the rainstorm?”

He glanced out the stable door. It came down in thick, obscuring sheets. “Yep.”

“Come now.” Yoshimoto gathered her into his arms, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “I’ll be just fine, love--”

Ieyasu snorted. “Of course you two will.”

The lovebirds started. He relished the look of surprise. 

“What does that mean?” She said. 

“You idiot, the rain will keep anyone from seeing that you’re gone for at least twenty minutes.” Ieyasu checked it again. “No one on lookout will be able to tell the difference between one rider and two. If you time it right, you can clear the Azuchi fields by the time it lifts. Yes, you’ll get soaked--”

“--It’s perfect cover.” Yoshimoto finished, breathless. 

“Ieyasu.” She dashed to his side, catching his hands in hers. They were so warm that it melted through her fingertips and into his--a comfortable, gentle heat. “Ieyasu.”

“Go.” He pointed at the saddlebags. “I smuggled in some of your things. Your weird bag, sewing stuff, some goods. Mitsunari helped me grab extras. No one questions if he takes things. Now get out of here before anyone realizes you’re gone.”

The chatelaine smiled at him--a blazing, beautiful smile--and leaned in and kissed his cheek hard. “Thank you.”

He was going to miss her.

“Go,” he repeated instead. “Go now.”

Yoshimoto and him helped her into the saddle first. Afterwards, Yoshimoto mounted up behind her, wrapping his cloak and body around her as best he could. “Thank you, Tokugawa.”

“If you don’t do right by her,” Ieyasu warned, “I’ll definitely kill you next time.”

“I take that under advisement. Thank you.”

A jerk of the reins and a kick, and they bolted out of the stables and into the pouring rain. Within seconds their figures swam into a vague blur, melding together in the shifting faraway. Only moments later--gone. 

Ieyasu stood there alone in the silence, his hands warm, his thoughts swirling like lazy koi in a fishbowl, aimless and unbothered. Without thinking, he stepped outside and stretched out his arms, letting the cold droplets run down his sleeves and cling to his skin. 

[crowtongued]

Despite Gyr’s towering size and Protem’s own considerable height, both stepped lightly through the gardenesque corridors, past the enormous crow-statue, into the back room. At first, only a waft of scent hit them, and then a wall of steam, smelling mildly of salt and more strongly of medicinal herbs carried by warm water vapor.

Dressed in all-white against a backdrop of white stone, his hair the color of fresh snow and his skin only marginally less pale, Protem moved like an ethereal phantom. Despite his unseeing eyes, he stopped before the steps, extending a hand for Gyr to guide him. The larger Reachman took it delicately, and paced himself with Protem’s steps, leading him like some sort of regal king of highest importance.

When they reached the bottom, they came to the medical area just beneath the stairs, where Skucheetsa’ster kept her supplies and ingredients and a soft, fur bed for her patients. Presently that bed was occupied; Alekt, their birth-Clan’s heir, and his branch-clan’s Eye--his second-in-command--Reno.

Ster greeted them warmly, the Khajiit’s emerald eyes standing out in sharp contrast against her pitch-black fur, set into delicate features partially hidden by long, lynx-like fur.

A few brief words are exchanged before Ster steps aside to make way for Gyr. He makes a face, most of it amusement, at the redhead curled up close to Alekt’s side, and Alekt himself having perhaps curled in closer in his unconscious state.

Awake and healthy he would seldom be caught so vulnerable, much less anything that anyone would dare call cuddly, but here--right now--in this Sanctuary, weak and exhausted and away from judging eyes, a small lapse in the untouchable front the young leader-to-be constantly upheld.

Carefully peeling Reno off of him without waking the redhead was no easy matter--but with enough patience, Gyr managed to get Alekt away from him, picking him up bridal-style and awkwardly shimmying out from under the stairs before standing to his full height so he wouldn’t bump his head.

His young Chief was still breathing, if shallowly, and his wounds had been treated the night before and were properly dressed now, but there was no such thing as Too-Careful.

Any protests and whines from the unconscious Eye were shushed as Protem brushed a few fingers through red locks, murmuring in a soft whisper, “We’ll return him to you soon.”

The white-clad Seer likewise moved from the healing hut under the stairs, and the two of them departed. As they headed for the portal at the entrance of the Sanctuary, two mighty wolves--void-black with violet eyes--flanked on either side of Protem and Gyr, and stepped through the portal with them.

Their path took them first through the Evergloam, the trees creaking and birds crackling at them, ominously loud in the dark forest of no wind. Wisps occasionally danced in their path, before vanishing or floating away. Other dark wolves and wraiths watched them from the shadows, bare-chested Shrike women crouching on the rocks to look below here or there, but nothing stood in their way or bared its fangs.

Of the many dilapidated, half-crumbling ruins that dotted the thick forests in lonely vigil, one looked to be some cathedral or temple in startlingly good repair. Its windows were all in-tact, fine stain glass murals, and standing protected within its interior was a statue.

Though in the likeness of a bird, this was no standard crow. The great figure appeared to be crafted out of ebony or some other shiny black stone, its elongated neck bristled in hundreds--maybe thousands--of small, sharp feathers intricately carved. Its brows were raised and crested upward, and from its tail extended long, intricately flowing feathers, more ribbon-like than any bird seen in Tamriel. Veins of glittering red gemstone ran down the center of each feathers’ stem and ended in patterned eyelets. A masterpiece that would drive any treasure-hunter mad with greed to have it.

Yet the statue was not unguarded. Inside the temple were two towering Crow-Wraiths, standing atop beast-like feet with menacing talons, their horrifying skeleton forms dressed in dark grey-blue rags and cowel hoods, the wings from their backs exaggerating their size further and scythes held in their hands. Their eyes, while hollow pits, held an undeniable, unquenchable hunger to them, no matter what they gazed upon, and there were more who patrolled the outside grounds on guard.

Though as Gyr and Protem stepped forward, none of these Daedra tried to stop them or cut them down, and a portal stood waiting to let them through, from one plane into another.

Into a place made up of darkness and dim glowing plants and long, extensive caves.

Their entrance is far from subtle. Here, this place is inhabited by people and crows and wolves, and they notice Gyr and Protem’s arrival immediately. The youngest of faces all crowd each other in a herd to see, before older members follow, and there is a chorus of quiet, curious, concerned clicks and croaks among each other. A most notable word that commonly passes their lips is Vergen--the Guardian.

Gyr and Protem ignore them all and keep moving down the corridor, and anyone in their path immediately skitters out of the way, only to join the crowd of onlookers that hovers at their heels to follow.

As they grow near to Protem’s quarters, an older member of the Clan wisely steps in the way of all the looky-loos to bar them, shooing them away. It doesn’t get rid of all the curious youth, but it keeps them from continuing to dog Gyr and Protem’s steps the whole way there.

For as important a role as Protem holds as the Clan’s Seer, his living space is quite modest. A small chamber, lit by glowing flora, housing a small garden of herbs, a table of ceremonial items and dwemer mechanisms--and in one corner--a table for eating and a bed.

There is already a stone bench, intricately carved along the sides and cushioned by furs, where Gyr sets Alekt down carefully and steps back.

A young fawn approaches them to sniff at Alekt briefly, then to Protem to nose his hand. He rewards the creature with a few pets and a stroke of its ears. While the animal is clearly a young deer, its colors are unusual--dark black with lavender spots and stripes that seem to dimly glow, not unlike some of the fungi clinging to the walls of Protem’s cave.

He lowers himself down to his knees and continues stroking the creature with his hands, and after a moment it lays down in front of him, closing its eyes and resting its head in his palms. He continues to give it affection until its calm, its head lowering with his hands into a willing doze onto the grass.

When Gyr takes an axe to the Vale fawn’s slim neck, it feels no pain. Protem begins to speak in a low murmur, his fingers gliding over the speckled back of the beheaded deer with magic alighting across his fingers.

“Namira, Lady of Decay, Queen of the Spirits and the Dead; I beseech you as a humble mortal and a Child of the Reach. Take this innocent life into your embrace, and let its blood and its flesh feed the unseen creatures of your sphere that wiggle and writhe in the places disregarded as lesser by Men and Mer. Let my words reach you in reverence, that our bodies are yours for the taking at the End Of All Things, and bow my head in respect to you and your agents who work quietly in the deepest dark.”

He stands to move towards Alekt, his fingers still glowing, and brushes them over his wounded side where his healing shadows no longer reach, ever since his battle against the Dark Storm and the wound inflicted by the Gray Host.

“I ask of you; take the life I offer, so that these proud wings don’t return to the earth too soon, on the promise that they will be yours one day--but not this one. That these claws and beak will make you and your servants many more offerings, and do your bidding faithfully, as we have always done, and as we always will.”

The magic remains at his fingertips a while more as he traces them around the wound, and then eventually the light fades as his pact is completed.

Gyr quietly moves the corpse of the deer, picking it up from the ground with care and respect, and resting it gingerly among the plants of Protem’s garden, head and all, for the worms and the maggots to feast upon as promised.

[spookyspaghettisundae]

The House that Guilt Built

What is it when something is neither dream nor reality? Sometimes, you dream something so vivid that you cannot distinguish it from reality. Other times, reality is so strange that it makes you wonder if you aren’t dreaming.

Then there’s that space in between.

A space more narrow than most would have you believe. A space encapsulated in a singular place, connecting to our world through several innocuous junctions, with the space in between bleeding through and infecting our world. Or with ours infecting it. Truly, that place was powerful enough to blur any lines.

Such was the nature of the House.

When Kevin stepped inside, everything that made sense decided to cease doing so. His injuries stopped hurting. The alabaster statuette in his hand now fell apart. In disbelief, he watched its shape—resembling a Franciscan monk, kneeling, praying—slip through his fingers. The shape turned to chunks, the chunks to dust, trickling and raining down onto the hard wooden floor in gentle, painfully slow flurries of dust.

There was something oddly familiar about the floor but he could not yet place it. Or his mind kept pushing it back into the recesses of his mind before he could grasp it.

A man sat on a simple stool at the end of the room. In his sixties, bald, with silver stubble on his face, dressed in jeans and a verdant green sweater. Stoic, unmoving. Staring at Kevin from the opposite end of the chamber.

It took him a dozen or a thousand steps to traverse the windowless room, from one door to the next. The man sitting there next to the next door stared at him the whole time, awaiting his arrival with eerie patience.

But that man was no mere man. He was either an agent of the House. Or a demon.

There was nothing in between that.

The door slammed shut behind Kevin, but he did not bother to look. The door he exited from and the door he entered into this Otherworld were not the same, although the statuette had helped bridge the veil between them. A shame about the Artifact, but he had to stop Michael before Michael could unravel reality completely. And to stop Michael, he had to defeat him somehow—just killing him would not do the trick. And to defeat him, Kevin had to find Kim.

Kim screwed up something on her most recent ritual and it had landed her here somehow. Trapped in the House where your world was turned upside down. Where the walls challenged all your beliefs, and the doors opened to the darkest abysses in one’s own soul. And when—if—this House did deign to spit you back out, you would be changed.

Sometimes for the worse. Sometimes broken. A vegetable, trapped in a loop within your own mind. A psyche shattered by the House.

Those dozen steps that it took to cross through this room indeed felt like one thousand instead. The room seemed less like a room, and more like a corridor, stretching infinitely to unsettle any visitors. Or maybe it only did so for Kevin. His footsteps tapped loudly against the wooden floor, echoes that pierced an otherwise deafening silence. Each of them a little knife, plunged into the back of his head, piercing and painful and trying to get him to remember something. Something he refused to remember.

Kevin finally arrived by the man on the stool. That mysterious man never budged. Never blinked. Just stared at Kevin approaching him all the while.

“You will need these,” said the man on the stool in a silky and soft voice. Kevin had expected something gravelly or burly.

The man on the stool did nothing to follow up on that. He sat there, motionlessly. As if waiting for Kevin to act first. Kevin shifted his weight uncomfortably, waiting for the man to do something else. Anything.

“What will I need?” he asked the man on the stool.

He was holding out something to him. When Kevin looked down to inspect it, he realized that it was he who was presenting the something to the man on the stool, rather than the other way around. Thus was the House.

In his hand, Kevin offered a colorless pair of latex gloves, much like the ones a surgeon would wear in a hospital. They felt strange in between his fingers. Smooth, rubbery, silky—like the voice.

“No, I think you should keep them,” said the man on the stool.

Or had Kevin said it to him?

Kevin slipped the gloves on, letting the rubber-banded ends snap into place once the material snugly hugged his fingers and hands. He splayed and wiggled his fingers, getting used to the gloves within the blink of an eye. Still, the man on the stool never blinked. Just peered into Kevin’s soul. What darkness might he see there?

“They are not enough,” said the man. “You will also need a hammer and coins.”

Kevin’s nostrils flared as he focused. He realized he had to concentrate and not fall victim to the maddening void that permeated this place.

“Where can I find a hammer and coins?”

“Ask your grandfather,” said the man. He smiled widely and laughed, displaying a set of rotten teeth. The stench of his breath hit Kevin from several steps away. But the smile never reached his eyes. The laughter rang with a sinister echo.

Kevin’s grandfather was long dead. When he used to play in his band, The Lost Number—before he met Michael, before he learned how to work real magick—Kevin used to steal things and money from the old geezer to fund his drug addiction. All old history, but all things that came back to haunt him, every now and then.

And even after this strange man’s laughter ceased, and his face fell into a stoic, expressionless mask once more, the hairs still stood up straight on the back of Kevin’s neck. He knew what the House could do. Whatever haunted him in the real world could take shape here. It could draw from the writhing bodies of those lost inside of it, and make those inner demons assume a fleshly form.

The memory of those gnarled, spindly fingers—digging into his shoulder or leaving a stinging red mark on his face—flared up. He pushed it right back down, but something fell and landed—something audible—in the distance. A loud thud, like something landed in the house. Something weighty. Maybe dangerous.

Kevin shrugged it off, shrugged on the outside, and replied, “I need one thing, and one thing only.”

The man on the stool continued to stare at him but something about the intensity in his gaze shifted. Made the blood curdle in Kevin’s veins.

“That thing is not here. The curtains are made of the torn fabric of children’s laughter. You cannot have that thing,” said the doorman.

Contrary to the stinging sensation his words left behind in Kevin’s mind, the voice of the man on the stool remained calm and pleasant. He then pointed to the door behind him. As if he was inviting Kevin to enter.

Kevin kept his eyes trained on the doorman and the man on the stool stared back at him. He then turned to grab the doorknob on the red doors. Brass, smooth, cold; even through the thin layer of the latex gloves.

As he stepped into the next chamber, he saw from the corner of his eye that someone else sat on the stool now. A taller figure, not sitting at all. Ominous, leering. Familiar and threatening at the same time. Looming right behind him. Creeping closer. Carrying a stench like sweet rotten fruit. Gnarled, wrinkly fingers. Bright white dentures, peeking out from behind a hungry grin.

Then separated as Kevin slammed the door shut behind himself, shunting that awful presence back into the waiting room.

This second room in the House resembled the entry hall of a large mansion. Four sets of curved stairs, all blanketed in stunningly vibrant red carpets, swept their way up to a balcony overlooking the ground floor. Dozens, no—hundreds—of doors lined the walls of this room on every level. Whispers spilled from the cracks between the frames and the doors proper. Screams, too, carried through them, muffled by distance and layers of brass and wood and bruised skin turned to stone.

Throughout the room, in front of every support beam and every pillar, stood pearly-white statues, all beautiful and artistic like those fashioned by ancient Greek artists, yet as flawless and shiny as if they had been sculpted just a single day ago. Some winged, some horned, some both. Some held weapons, others fruit. One even carried a large trout in its hands.

A constant, reverberating electric buzz hummed in the air. The huge hall thrummed with history and uncertainty blending together.

The hub of the House.

Beyond all these doors, lost souls wandered without hope of egress. Strange things always hiding from sight dwelt here, feeding on human hope, dreams, sadness, anger, madness, and fear. Eyes, unblinking, watched. Whispers promised change—demanded it—and only minds of the strongest resolve could even dare to resist.

While Kevin pondered the nature of this dangerous abode, struggling to ignore the droning hypnotic hum of electricity all around, straining to focus on sensing which door to choose, one of the portals opened on its own.

Light flooded from it, obscuring sight of whatever chamber was beyond it.

And Kim ran from that door. Burst through. Her sneakers slapped against the cold hard marble floors. Full sprint, like her worst nightmare was following her right at her heels. Nothing actually followed, at least nothing that Kevin could see.

Her gaze swept over him but she saw through him, like he was made of thin air. She shot a glance behind herself but continued running like a bat out of hell.

Kevin raised a hand and called out to her. But she did not respond and he did not expect her to. At least not yet.

She ripped open a different door and charged through. That door slammed shut behind her within seconds, without a human hand present to close it. Then the door she had entered the hall by followed suit. Both slams still echoed in Kevin’s ears. He decided against trying either of those doors—too dangerous. Both of them bore strange symbols; one a spiral shape crudely carved into the wood at eye level, the other covered in alien-looking runes that did not belong on Earth, scorched into the wood, always blurring when he tried to focus his sights on them.

This was going to be tough. A sharp pain surged through his jaw and his stomach rumbled.

How long had he been here, anyway? It could have been minutes. Or it could have been years already. It reminded him of the old folk tales of the fairy world. He dismissed that thought, though. He had to because there was no way he would accept losing years in here. Losing himself in here.

As soon as he got a good feeling about another door, he hesitated. He had used that door before—it was just like a door in his grandfather’s house. Pencil marks and numbers on the frame indicated how the old man used to measure the height of Kevin’s mother. Sounds of agony—not even screams—echoed in Kevin’s mind. Groaning. Wet, slapping. Skin on skin.

Gritted teeth. Bleeding gums.

He turned from the door, dispelled those half-shaped memories. The more he allowed them to take shape, the more menacing they would become.

Scratching came from another door. At first, soft, from down low, like a kitten scratching at the wood. Then higher, and more fierce. Like claws of a beast. Or fingernails of a grown man. An old man. A man being strangled to death, struggling to call for help, barely managing to grab the doorknob, never quite reaching it.

Getting what he deserved.

Kevin stroked his own neck and had trouble swallowing.

He had to find Kim quickly. The perils of the House only grew in time. He could feel its hunger swelling at the same rate as the dark memories bubbling up onto the surface of his thoughts.

Almost passing by a door, dismissing it as one hiding danger, he swiveled. Doubled back and studied it. Elaborate carvings adorned its surface, depicting a stylized hammer. Something that would fit right in with some fantasy movie schlock.

But he couldn’t argue with the possibility.

Kevin quickly entered and found himself elsewhere.

Night, some parking garage. Subterranean. Parked cars, concrete pillars. The smell of gasoline, and burnt plastic. Flickering neon lights. Footsteps. Behind him.

Looking over his shoulder, a figure in black approached. Cloaked in a long coat, smiling. Passing through shadows, leaving everything but a wide toothy grin to the imagination, an imagination he dared not let wander freely.

Kevin ran, and the man in black followed.

Familiar—all too familiar—this was the nightmare that he had tried to entomb Michael in. But the man in black—the House taking Michael’s form—now followed him through this infinitely looping nightmare. And the House had taken him right there.

Kevin hammered his fist against the button to an elevator. The man in black indeed looked like Michael. And Michael would want to get back at him, real or not. Already put him through a nightmare he couldn’t wake up from before he tried to repay the favor in kind.

But this wasn’t Michael, though. He had to hold onto that thought and remind himself of it. Kevin could taste it. Taste the evil. See it when he strode on, walking underneath a cone of bright light, illuminating his features and revealing little details that were all just off. The skin on Michael’s face looked too rubbery, too fake. Like it was about to slough off, or wrinkle unnaturally. Or like latex; like latex gloves.

Only fifteen steps away now. Kevin hammered the elevator buttons some more, staring at the House’s agent with growing dread.

DING.

The elevator doors opened and he fled inside without looking where he ran. But as he turned to see where he stumbled into, there was no elevator. Only darkness.

A door slammed shut behind him.

Spinning around only revealed more darkness. No parking garage, no fake version of Michael. Just an empty void.

All but a pile of coins on the floor. A wooden floor, much like the one in his grandfather’s old farm house. The coins resembling the chump change he once stole from him to buy a pack of cigarettes from the gas station. And somewhere in the darkness, barely visible, on the edge of his perception, Kevin saw himself, high on heroin, slumped against a wall, lost in a trip that allowed him to escape from the horrors of reality, curled up in a corner and drooling. He looked like hell. One of the worst phases in his life.

Kevin screamed.

The void answered.

“I’m gonna teach you a lesson you ain’t never gonna forget, boy,” said his grandfather. The drunken haze made his speech slur. The reek of rot and booze hung in the air, wafting through the pitch black void that closed in on Kevin.

Suffocating him.

The gnarled hands gripped him, grabbing him by his neck from behind.

“Gonna teach you t'stop dressin’ like a girl, ya freak,” said his grandfather.

Kevin tried to fight back. Clawed at the hands closing in around his neck and strangling him. But the latex gloves rendered his attempts futile. His fingers slipped inside the gloves somehow, his fingers never found proper purchase.

The figure behind him felt like his grandfather, but also like he was three heads taller than he should have been. Ten times stronger than he ever was—because when he was eighteen, he paid that old bastard back in kind, finding that the old man wasn’t as strong as he used to be from working the fields.

But there was nobody there to save Kevin this time. Not his mother, no friends, and surely not himself.

“You wanna know what it’s really like t'be a girl?” asked grandfather, right into his ear. Foul, warm breath hitting his skin. “I can show you a—”

Hoarse croaking sounds escaped Kevin’s choked throat. He struggled even harder. This was the House. Making the memories even worse than reality ever was for him. Amplifying the terror and the pain, rendering everything inevitable.

The tearing wet sound released the iron vice around his neck. The texture of skin and muscle splitting as the knife went in and the blood came out. And then another stab, right into his grandfather’s chest. And then another. All the sounds behind him, the gnarled fingers releasing his neck as the strength drained from them instantly. Followed by the metal snapping as the knife’s blade got snagged on bone and lodged somewhere and breaking from the sheer force.

And then continuing to stab, using that broken blade, over and over again. The latex gloves came in handy.

The vase came next, bashing his skull in until the ceramics and the nose bone shattered. Then the old metal lamp, bashing and crashing until his grandfather’s face was unrecognizable and the bones and blood turned into a soupy mush.

Kevin ran, tears blurring his vision, putting distance between himself and the sounds of him killing the old monster. The shapes of that decrepit farmhouse melted with the darkness, molted into something else. He charged through a door frame and stopped.

A sunflower. On the ground, not growing from anywhere. Clipped cleanly at the end, not in a vase or anything. No dirt nearby. Just hardwood floor.

He picked it up and, in disbelief, watched it shed its seeds and petals—slipping through his fingers. The sunflower wilted as he watched, naked from things that made it recognizable, its vestiges of life now raining down onto the hard wooden floor in gentle, painfully slow flurries of fluttering petals and tumbling seeds.

A man sat on a simple stool at the end of the room. In his sixties, bald, with silver stubble on his face, dressed in jeans and a verdant green sweater. Stoic, unmoving. Staring at Kevin from the opposite end of the chamber. It took a dozen or a thousand steps for Kevin to traverse the windowless room, from one door to the next. The man stared at him the whole time, awaiting his arrival with eerie patience.

But that man was no mere man. He was either an agent of the House. Or a demon.

There was nothing in between that.

Kim jolted up in bed. Had she not deliberately entered this state of magicked consciousness, she could have confused it with a dream.

The sheets coiled and roiled as they moved in accordance to her own contorting limbs, tangled up in them.

Disoriented, she looked around in the motel room. The smell of Tibetan incense burning on her nightstand grounded her in this reality again.

Kevin’s spell had failed spectacularly, though she knew where to look for him now.

She would have to go that House. That damned House.

—Submitted by Wratts

[serpent-craft]

Secrets

 A ribbon of smoke wound its way through the holes of an antique Quel’dorei incense burner. Sandalwood and citrus cleansed the old house of its musty smell that lingered from years of neglect. A month in, and the process of refurbishing the Goldenheart estate was slowly coming together like pieces of a puzzle; riddled with memories of sordid and pleasant experiences coiled into one. Rhythmic music filled the small gaps of silence that the pair of Sin’dorei had between them as they continued to bring the house back to life . It wasn’t an artist that the two recognized, but the record player proved to be an interesting find at the festival in the Jade Forest.

Aendonys reclined into a pile of ornate pillows and blankets, more goods acquired from the markets to serve as a makeshift bed. He caught a few last rays of sun before it fell below the horizon, reflecting off the polished tiles on the balcony. It was a domestic deed he did himself, taking a cloth and solvent to the grime until the surfaces felt smooth to the touch. The demon hunter was quite proud of himself for this, and for that he decided to take a break while Micael finished unboxing the decorations and momentos.

“Hm...retiring early?” A golden light neared close, speaking in a baritone voice. The details of Micael’s face were visible in the demon hunter’s vision, like a sketch or a watercolor painting that grew in detail the more he focused. He was a broad shouldered, muscular framed Sin’dorei with soft androgynous facial features that suited him well. Even compared to Aendonys, Micael easily showed far more physical strength. “Well, I suppose you did a decent job.”

“I did a damn good job.” Aendonys quipped, running his claws over the pristine grout and tile. The paladin gave a throaty laugh, the light in his chest grew like a tiny sun.

“You did well above my expectations, Aendonys.”

The two exchanged prideful smirks, intertwining fingers as the hanging crystals projected dancing lights from the sunset. In the distance the spires of Silvermoon created a black backdrop against the purple and orange sky. It was a welcome sight as the world withdrew into an hour of peace. For however long it would last--one could not discern, but for this moment the defeat of an old god and the pause of war could serve as a brief respite. It was a good time for them to settle into a relaxed life, or at least make a nest to come back to when they were off on another adventure.

The paladin’s hand gently slipped away as Aendonys heard the clatter of Micael’s armor being slipped off the manikin. A subtle expression of concern was painted upon the demon hunter’s face, he reached over to remove the needle from the record.

“I’ll get my glaives.”

Micael cut him off before the other sat up. Placing a metal hand firmly upon Aendony’s shoulder. He was becoming accustomed to the prosthetic.

“I am just preparing for the night watch. I’d rather you stay here to keep the place guarded.” There was a sense of assurance in the tone of his voice, a stubborn self-reliance that Aendonys grew fond of in this man. He huffed in a mildly annoyed retort, sticking his tongue out far enough that the gold piercing glinted in the light.

“Suit yourself, Goldilocks.”

-------

The galloping hooves of holy knights took off into the night, clearing whatever undead still lurked in Tranquillien. To this day, the Ghostlands still remain a threat, but the undead have thinned out in numbers. The borders of Eversong grew as patches of verdant grass returned, and the wildlife no longer feared the remnants of the Dead Scar. Perhaps one day it would only serve as a memory and nothing more. The Goldenheart estate was a starting point, at least.

Aendonys drifted into a brief sleep--a couple hour nap that the night owl had before midnight. He had yet to light the sconces as the burning embers of incense glowed inside copper chambers. He wouldn’t need light to see anyways, but it was courteous to Micael for when he came home. They still had so much unbuilt furniture and decor strewn about the room like booby traps in the dark--and speaking of, Aendonys’ ears twitched at the sound of footsteps in the house. A hard clacking like that of an armored foot...was he back already? The demon hunter blinked sleepily, a pair of violet glowing eyes piercing the darkness.

“Micael? Is that yo-”

A hand clasped over the demon hunter’s mouth, claws digging into his skin as slender fingers wrapped around his neck. He failed to react in time as a paralysis took over his body.

“Hmm. just like old times, Aendy.” The sinister voice of a woman filled his mind. It was harrowingly familiar. He saw her silhouette clear as day, the curvaceous demoness with her upright horns and outstretched wings that seemingly dripped with shadow magic.

“I’d bite you if you weren’t into that, Bryketh.” He snapped a muffled reply. The succubus removed the hand over his mouth to dig her stiletto claws into Aendony’s shoulder as she straddled him.

“Oh, we know each other so...so well.” She hummed. “It’s sad to see you so...hm--domesticated. That’s what paladin’s do after all, they take our gifts from the void and stomp on them with their big, obnoxiously shiny boots.”

Aendonys sneered, struggling against her magic to reach for the dagger he buried into his pillow. The hilt brushed against his fingertips.

“Heh…maybe I’m into that. Not like you’d know since you're a heartless bitch.” He paid the price for that quip, feeling her claws dig through his demonic skin. Blood was certainly being drawn, but her spell was slipping.

“Did you tell him what you did to me, Aendonys? How you made me love you for your own gain?” She whispered in an aggressive trill. “Does he know what kind of treachery you are capable of--my dearest demon-hearted bastard?”

He reached for the blade, he fingers wrapped around the hilt. He waited for Bryketh to slip up enough that he would slit her throat--but suddenly he felt a pressure on his hand. The succubus disappeared in a plume of smoke as Aendony’s eyes snapped open with a burst of violet flames.

“It’s just me.” The voice was similar to Micael’s but in a monotone drone. Aendonys saw a man with outstretched feathered wings and long stark white hair. His foot was over the dagger that he reached for. Red curtains ominously flowed over the open balcony that he entered through as a cool breeze entered the room.

“Gabe?” The leaves outside rustled as the twin brother’s wing’s disintegrated from sight revealing the full moon behind him. He could feel the gaze of the other’s spectral sight piercing him. Gabriel was best described as an icy dagger compared to Micael’s warmth. 

“I wanted to see if it was true. That you and my brother are going to live here now.”

Aendonys was quiet for a moment. He still hadn’t recovered from that nightmare, but this was certainly reality now. He ran a hand across his shoulder as if expecting to feel blood there, but it was dry.

“Yeah. We’re going to at least try.”

It wasn’t uncommon for a moment of silence to linger between them. Aendonys knew Gabriel far longer than he had known Micael. They both witnessed each other’s sacrifices and betrayals as Illidari, in a way he always saw him as a brother like Asmodan. A cold and distant--soon to be step-brother--who cared far more than he ever wanted anyone to see. Even his spectral vision worked differently than others. He would see the emotions Aendonys was feeling like they were painted on his face in clear view. The discomfort and fear he always masked.

“He proposed the idea, didn’t he?” Gabriel spoke.

Aendonys smiled a bit more genuinely than he usually did. “He did. It’s because we are getting marr--”

“I know.”

Gabriel strode over to the closest sconce on the wall and lit it, illuminating the two in a arcand light. He sensed where each one was by memory. This was once his home too.

“Goldilocks can’t keep his mouth shut, huh?” Aendonys kicked the covers off and rolled onto a cross-legged sit. He chuckled a bit at that before his smile faded, watching the white-haired man select and open a book from a nearby shelf. It wasn’t as if he could read it but the texture of the pages was pleasing, perhaps. This suddenly didn’t feel right. “So...which one of these rooms was yours?”

The white haired illidari pointed to the ground where Aendonys was sleeping.

“This one.”

Aendonys pursed his lips awkwardly. Straightening up a pillow like it didn’t even belong to him now. He wasn’t entirely sure why he was acting like this. “Oh, I see. Well it’s now your guest room for whenever you stay here. Unless you wanna move in with us.”

“I don’t.” He replied in an eerily calm manner. Shutting the book he inspected.

Aendonys sighed and adjusted his posture having nothing to say to that. He might have understood why Micael didn’t speak with his brother about this, but it wasn’t done so out of ill will.

Gabriel wandered into the other rooms for a moment, reminiscing quietly as he somberly lit the hallway for Micael’s return. Aendonys quietly followed after as if expecting the brother to speak about his past here like Micael did. He did not.

“Have you told him about Bryketh?” Gabriel suddenly questioned. Aendonys slapped a hand over his face in a disgruntled display.

“For fels sake, Gabe. Not you too.”

The white haired Sin’dorei suddenly snapped his gaze towards the other interrogatively.

Aendony’s waved his hands dismissively with a sigh. “--nevermind that. No. I have not. Why should I? I wouldn’t ever treat Mike like that anyways so it doesn’t matter. I know I’ve done some people dirty in the past to survive, but I’m especially not going to sit in a confessional booth over betraying a demon.”

Gabriel turned himself to face Aendonys. His bangs fell over the wraps that covered his eyes but a dim white glow shone through. “I told him my secret. Now you tell Micael yours. It doesn’t matter that you wouldn’t do the same to him. He should still know for your sake.”

Aendonys scratched at the stubble that began to grow in on the sides of his scalp. He would ask Micael to shave it for him soon, maybe that would be a good time to talk about his both figurative and literal demon. It wouldn’t be like his fiance would turn the blade on him in that moment...or at least he hoped not. Gabriel did have a point however, keeping this from Micael would only give whatever was left of Bryketh ammunition to torment him. It took him a while to fully admit that, but somehow Gabriel’s bluntness was something he needed at this moment.

“Alright. Bet.” He replied. “...but also I wanted to say that we didn't a day for the ceremony yet. When we do though, you should come. Micael really wants to see more of you, ya know?”

Another moment of silence lingered between them. Gabriel didn’t answer that as the sound of hooves thundered close. He instead walked back to the balcony and rematerialized feathers. The moment another cool breeze passed by, the estranged brother beat his wings. Ribbons of smoke danced and the parchment rattled as he took off like a shadow in the night. Aendonys didn’t even bother to offer a farewell, he knew Gabriel well enough.

The front door opened as Aendonys spied Micael’s golden light. The paladin’s helm gently clinked onto the floor as he sauntered in; the image of pomp and glory himself had arrived with his job done.

“Oho, you’re certainly feeling better lately.” The demon hunter leaned against the hallway with a sultry grin.

“.--and you’re awake early for your late evening nap. A shame...I wanted to surprise you.” Micael passed by Aendonys, swiping his armored fingertips across his chest. He hung his sword upon the wall.

“Yeah, well maybe I couldn’t wait for you to get back?” Aendonys followed after as the paladin unfastened his armor piece by piece.

“Hoh? Do you care about me that much? How endearing.” For a man who wielded holy power Miceal sported a devilish grin. The other Sin’dorei took a seat next to him, he couldn’t witness his partner undressing with his lack of eyesight but he could hear the armor falling unceremoniously to the floor. The spring air brought another brisk breeze through the room as Aendonys ruminated on the dream and Gabriel showing up. He could sense Miceal’s attention being drawn to the corner of the room with the bookshelf. The curtains swaying as they did earlier.

“Aendonys, one of the books is gone from the shelf. The one Gabriel always liked to read.”

The demon hunter turned towards the paladin, he took in a deep breath.

“Micael. I have something to tell you.”

[michaelmalloryfanfic-blog]

fic update: o thou, destroyer named - chapter v

they are like two wounded animals, circling one another, waiting to see who will strike first

. millory au .

post links:

chapter i // chapter ii // chapter iii // chapter iv // chapter v // chapter vi // chapter vii // chapter viii // chapter ix //

ao3 links:

chapter i // chapter ii // chapter iii // chapter iv // chapter v // chapter vi // chapter vii // chapter viii // chapter ix //

chapter summary:

Time to call Zaddy Zatan! Also I know I said Mead would be in this chapter but it was taking too long to get through this part. Next time. It's short but I promise, it felt like fucking dying trying to write this part.

a/n:

guess which bitch knows how to use google translate! fun times. anyway latin is fucked. this ain't beta'd and super short but I had to finish grad school apps. I'll get around to beta-ing this chapter eventually. Aaaaaaallllsooooooooo. So I know that in the show, Michael calls his zaddy on the phone like...right after his interview with Mallory but just pretend that its happening now. You know I’m a dumbass who can’t remember shit right? You think I give a fuck????Also. I’ve finally got an end to this fic and lemme tell you, I can’t wait to emotionally ruin someone’s day.

With a soft tug of the hand he has in his grasp, Mallory rises to her feet. Even in her black, sensible heels she barely reaches his shoulders when standing. Her hand in his own is completely encompassed. She is such a tiny thing. He tucks her hand into the crook of his arm with a careful tenderness that she thought him incapable of. It is as though he was handling a porcelain doll.

Michael had always been fascinated with dolls. Once, when he was still small and able to be manhandled, Constance had taken him to a toy store and he had instantly gravitated towards the brightly colored figures. Their tiny smiling faces matched with their impassive, lifeless eyes, they felt somehow familiar. But it was their smallness that had enraptured him, how easily they fit in his hand. He wanted to touch every part of them, run his fingers over their smooth, blushed cheeks, feel the sleekness of their artificial hair. Something that would hold still and let him pour over it, let him devour it.

But Constance would have none of that. She had shaken the precious thing from his greedy hands. When he resisted she had delivered a swift, teeth-clattering slap to his face. It had shocked him so thoroughly that he did not even cry out. Constance espoused something about him being “goddamned queer” then she had yanked him out of the store.

They enter the darkness of Outpost 3 and Michael takes the lead. The ink blackness of the hallways are an ocean and Michael is a shark. He moves without hesitation, Mallory tries to keep up. Once or twice, she trips over her feet. Ever the part-time gentleman, Michael pauses whens he stumbles and waits patiently for her to gather herself. Everytime, she glances up at his apologetically but he never returns her glance. He is focused on the journey forward.

It takes them five more minutes of walking before a faint glow comes into view illuminating the end of the hall where it turns both left and right. The light comes from the right and when they turn the corner a door comes into view. The door they come to is like many of the doors in Outpost 3, tall, pitch black, with shiny golden door knobs. On both sides, a candle with in a simple glass fixture around it had been lit. Mallory has passed doors like these many times in the past year without much notice but this door, she is certain she’s never seen this particular door for above it there are words, carved ominously into the stone wall and painted in black.

Homo homini lupus

Mallory reads over the words over and over. The Boundary in her head burns and grows brittle at the sight so she turns away from the words above the door. It is Michael who disentangles their arms. He takes her hand in his own, again so gentle it turns her stomach and places it at her side. Then he opens the door.

The first thing that Mallory notices when they enter the room is the heat. The door leads into a short, narrow anteroom and from there it opens into a blazing circular chamber. The room is crowded with candles. They line the walls, are placed here and there on the floor along the perimeter. Besides that, the room was empty. It is so bright and warm beyond the door that it is almost unbearable at first. Mallory has only known darkness and cold for over a year now and all this heat and light makes her feel feverish. Her skin crawls and she hesitates to enter. Langdon enters at once with ease. He has no fear of the light. Michael glances back only once to smile that secret smile at her.

“So skittish of the light, Mallory darling,” he says over his shoulder. “Come here, you fickle creature. Come to me.”

And she goes to him. Not just because he calls her a creature or darling but also because she is suddenly aware of how cold she is. She feels so utterly cold and not just now or during the year she’s spent in Outpost 3. She’s been cold her entire life. Mallory isn’t stupid she knows that there is something missing in her. She thinks that something must have been taken from her and left her a Mallory is like a wind-up toy that was built missing a sprocket and though she can still walk around, sing her tune, the bulbs all light up but something just doesn’t click.

Harmatia, whispers the thing in her mind and Mallory pushes it down.

She passes through the doorway, the Latin words passing overhead. She makes quick work of the antechamber and to her surprise, she finds Langdon undressing. He stands in the center of the room with his back to her. First is his long, black coat. As he works the fine dark buttons, he speaks.

“Did you know that years before the initial bombfall, this place used to be a boy’s boarding school,” he says still facing away from her.

He observes the room as he finishes with his buttons. The chamber is about ten feet in diameter and it has a ceiling so high that it is lost in darkness even with all the light down below.

“The rooms you’ve been sleeping in, the kitchen, the lounges, they all used to be part of the school.”

“Is it normal to have a school underground?” Mallory drones, years of working for the young, rich, and vapid has made her adept at meaningless small-talk.

“Don’t ask stupid questions. You know it isn’t.”

He shrugs off his coat and it falls to the floor.

“What kind of school was it?” she replies, unperturbed by his admonishment.

She stares at his coat on the floor, crumpled and dejected. Years working as a personal assistant to wealthy socialites has given her a discerning eye. It’s obviously an expensive piece, well-made, expensive cotton but he tosses it off as though it is nothing. Mallory considers picking it up, folding it neatly over her arm and waiting patiently aside for him to continue. It’s a compulsion. Coco had been a thoughtless, messy individual but she also hated mess. She’d undress in a hurry, tossing designer and couture pieces about only to turn around and vehemently ask Mallory why her John Galliano gown was on the floor. However, Langdon gives no indication that he expects to pick up his coat or anything else.

“A finishing school of sorts,” he says as he starts on his shirt, the cuffs, which is as fine and dark as his coat. “It was very exclusive, clandestine .”

“A big, black cylinder sticking out of the ground in bumbfuck California reads as clandestine to you?”

That causes him pause and he twists his upper body just a bit to look at her fully. His mouth is a pressed, straight line and he arches one eyebrow. For a second, she thinks he’s going to admonish her again maybe even hit her. Towards the end, the Purples had become less squeamish about physical displays of displeasure. She had seen, more than once, a Grey laid out on the floor by a Purple. End of the world will do that to people. But, he is impassive only for a second then a wicked grin splits his mouth and he laughs.

“It isn’t exactly subtle is it?” he says once he done laughing at her. “But then again, I wasn’t consulted when they were drawing up the blueprints.”

Mallory is a little taken aback. For some reason, laughing just didn’t seem to be something he was even capable of doing. Her surprise must show on her face because he laughs a little harder after seeing her. He seems younger than the gruesome figure who had first arrived in Outpost 3 a few days ago. When he had first arrived, he had been singular. A grim emissary, Death riding in on his horse. But now she is watching as his eyes crinkle at the edges as he smiles at her. He looks like a boy. How old is he really? Early twenties, maybe mid. They could be the same age.

“Do you know what this particular room was used for?” He doesn’t wait for her answer. “Disciplinary action.”

He shoulders his left sleeve off and then the right. This too is dropped to the floor besides the coat.

“You saw the plaque above the door? Do you know what it means? I don’t imagine they offer high school level Latin in Nowhere. Homo homini lupus, Man is a wolf to man.”

From his pocket, he produces a knife. It fits perfectly in his hand and he opens it slowly. The blade is strange, rounded and black. Its finish is matte, like charcoal in the candlelight.

“Man is a wolf to man,” he repeats and turns to face her, knife in his right hand.

This is the point that anyone with an ounce of self preservation should know to make a run for it.

“A fancy way to say, ‘dog eat dog’.”

He’s still smiling when he plunges the knife into his left wrist and Mallory’s jaw drops. He drags the blade up until a red line splits his arm all the way up his bicep. Then the blood begins the pour from the gash. It’s so red and bright against his golden skin. It falls like water, so quickly that she thinks that this cannot be real, this cannot be right. He hardly seems to notice and gives the other arm the same treatment.

This fucked up. Mallory knows this. This. Is. Fucked. And she should be horrified. She should scream or run, do something other than gape at the sight of him, arm bathed almost entirely in red and dripping, his eyes like alight with a kind of frantic energy. And yet, she doesn’t feel or do any of these things. Her breathing is labored and her heart rate has picked up and yet, she feels somewhat at east. Something about all that blood, she’s drowning in it. She’s not anywhere near afraid. No, she's fascinated.

He begins to speak.

“O pater foedus impius, Et meas, quas fudi sanguinem meum, in gloriam.”

The air thickens as he falls to his knees.

“Corpus iacentis ad pedes.”

Spreading his arms out wide, palms to the floor, he begins to bow. His head dipping low.

“Mea est anima tua.”

With that, he is completely folded in on himself. His arms are stretched out in front of him, bloody palms laying flat against the stone floor. Though not especially muscular, Langdon is certainly on the taller side. His shoulders are wide. He cuts an imposing figure but now he is laid out before her. It is strange to see such a large man made to seem so small and humbled.

Silence falls and Mallory is vaguely aware that perhaps Langdon may be in trouble. His body is still, blood still seeping out of him. It drips onto the floor. The human body can only lose so much blood before it’s K.O. She knows she should do something. Pressure on the wound. Elevate the limbs. But then, something rumbles through the room, not a sound, not even a physical feeling. It is something in the soul and growls. Her stomach drops. He begins to speak again but this time is different. His voice is harsh, nearly cracking. He is impassioned.

“Audi me, Pater. Audi fili tuorum fidelium. Quaerite me sapientia tua et ductu peregit opus in hac hora mea. Invoco te. Invoco te.”

The air seems to go still. What was once a room crackling with energy, is suddenly drained.

“Invoco te,” he demands.

As soon as the words leave his mouth, all the flames of the candles flare. They climb up to nearly a foot tall then roll back down. His head snaps up, eyes completely dark. She gasps. His mouth drops open as if he is stunned as well. He is seeing something beyond her.

“Father?” he says like a child.

The flames flare once more, higher than before and Mallory shields her face from the heat. A gust of wind rushes past her and then she is floating in darkness.

“Langdon?”

Nothing. Every candle has been extinguished and she had been plunged into pitch darkness. Her first instinct is to turn back towards the antechamber. If she can make it to the door, there should still be light outside. She turns and reaches out, trying to find a wall, the door, anything but her hands find nothing. She steps forward and slips. She hits the floor hard and cries out. A warm, metallic taste blooms in her mouth. Her tongue teeth ache. The floor is wet, sticky beneath her hand. She knows what it is. The smell hits her and the taste is in her mouth. Mallory closes her eyes and tries to concentrate. She remembers the candles on the wall, the candles on the floor. In her mind, she reaches out.

Please. Please.

Invoco te, whispers the thing in her head and she feels warmth seep into her.

Not from the blood. The blood has gone cold at this point, congealing beneath her hands and knees. It’s something else. Like the sun, like a fire. It is blooming in her chest like someone has breathed hotly between her breasts.

“Invoco te,” she whispers and opens her eyes to light.

Not blazing and bright like before, only a few candles have been lit but it’s enough to see the outline of the door in front of her. It is enough to see the blood on the floor. She crawls forward a little ways, she’s halfway through the antechamber when she looks back.

She could leave him. He is laid out on his side, facing away from her, completely still. There’s not much hope left for him. He’s close to being, if not already, bled out. He’s a lost cause. There’s no point.

Leave him. Let him die. Homo homini lupus.

But Mallory is no wolf. She is thinking of his eyes and how they crinkle at the sides. She is thinking of his mouth and how it smiles crooked. Of his laugh. Of his perfect face that is so boyish when unburdened by whatever grand role he is playing. She thinks of the way he said father.

Mallory slips and stumbles to her knees. She tries to stand but she quickly Her hands are covered in dark blood. Her knees and shins are even worse but she crawls forward.

“Langdon,” she hisses at him. “You have to get up.”

From where she’s standing, Mallory can’t tell if he’s still breathing.

“Michael?”

Her arms and legs wobble as she crawls forward. The potential that he’s dead is becoming more and more likely. The floor is slick beneath her but she continues forward. He’s less than a foot in front and she can see him clearly even in the dim light. His chest rises and falls and Mallory’s breath catches in her throat. Then it happens again and she bursts forward.

“Michael, can you hear me,” she takes his shoulders in her hand and after some effort turns him over into her lap. “We have to put pressu-”

The wounds are gone. There’s no trace of the long gashes he’d inflicted on himself other than the blood. The blood, it’s everywhere. On her dress, across his chest. His head is in her lap, somehow his hair, even coated in blood, is beautiful. The gold in it still shines true. They are a dark red pieta.

“Did you see?” he whispers.

Mallory is still dumbfounded that she missed his question. His hand on her arm is what shakes her out of her stupor. He is gazing up at her now. His eyes are back to their normal blue, so clear. He lifts his hand from her arm to ghost his fingers over her face streaking her red. Mallory balks. The bitter smell of blood fills her nose and turns her stomach.

“Did you see him, Mallory? My father?”

He sounds like a fevered child and even more so when he laughs at the sight of her face.

“It looks like you’re crying, tears of blood,” he murmurs as his eyes begin to flutter. “Don’t cry, Mallory.”

He sighs and his eyes roll back into his head.

“Help,” she whispers though her voice barely carries.

“Someone please help us.”

Aaaaaaand. yarp. It's fanfic writing month! so I'm gonna try to bust out as many chapters as possible for you guys. My goal is an update a week (not including this chapter). So drop me a line. I know I seem glib but honestly, your comments are the only thing keeping me going so lemme know yall are out there, yeah?

Next time:

Mead gets her say.

[zachbarranceunit04narrative]

Finishing my Level

As I am now on the last week of my project, I need to get the visual narrative element of my game finished so that I can achieve my minimum viable product before hand-in.

As I now have a nice rounded out set of mechanics for my game, I am able to fully focus on using the assets I have sourced to fully flesh out my level with a detailed environment for the player to explore. Once done, I hope to achieve an environment that will explain what has happened to the player without the need for words, (though for cinematic purposes I might add a sentence of dialogue at the end of the game like “he’s gone” etc before the game ends)

Beginning with where the player spawns, I wanted to make the environment have old damaged machinery suspended above the player, with boxes and pipes travelling around and into the entrance to the players vault, to show that there is some kind of hydraulics system holding the door shut that has been broken.

After adding the main asset to the room which is a big turbine looking piece of machinery, it really brought the level to life.

After then positioning it into the level, adding an assortment of old wires hanging from it, and some pipes attaching to it, I ended up with the beginning of something very promising, as I repositioned the red light to take advantage of the shiny metal of the material.

I also at this point had added vent covers on the wall and boxes to the level for added detail, as well as other pipes travelling around the room and some lighting that will come into play later when I polish the visuals in the level.

After adding the dead body to the floor covered up by a sheet, I then moved on to the main attraction, the containment vault.

As I am going to have a large chamber that the prisoner would have broken out of in the center of the room, I grabbed the asset I had sourced of a broken glass containment chamber, and placed it in the center of the room.

After adding the pipes above it, I took inspiration from ‘The Smiler’, a horror themed rollercoaster ride in Alton Towers, and added a freaky set of cables all coming into the center of the room and attaching to the containment chamber that the prisoner would have been put in.

This is the image I had in mind when I added the freaky set of cables to my level. I just took the inspiration from this image and made it way creepier for my level.

I did this by using the wire asset and the box assets, positioned around another one of the metal pieces of machinery that I had used to join up with the containment chamber at the bottom. I then set the ceiling to a material that was similar to that of the other assets, and after which lit it all up cinematically with 4 iterations of an actor blueprint with a flickering point light so that when the player looks up they will see the freaky magle of cables and machinery with flickering lights.

Keep in mind that each wire placed in this level I placed and positioned myself, as well as all the boxes on the ceiling that the wires are going into etc.

I added more coils of wires, broken machinery and equipment to the room which you can see in the image below, and then worked for quite a while on getting the lighting perfect in the containment chamber, as well as changing how some of the lights flicker for an added atmospheric effect.

What I was left with was more than I could have ever hoped at creating by the end of this project, as I never would have thought I’d find so many assets that were so close and perfect to what I orignally had in mind, and combined with my custom modelled containment chamber, this is the closest project ever to what I originally set out to make in my original concept.

Utilizing all of the parts of this asset pack I obtained from the Unreal Marketplace like Lego, I had repurposed them and created something completely original and very eerie. The room is dark and dimly lit, creating an ominous foreboding atmosphere, and showing the player how awful and inhumane this facility they are in is.

Looking up they will see the broken fried wires joined to the containment vault that is abandoned with shattered glass and a broken bent frame. This will indicate to the player that the area has been badly damaged, and that whatever was contained here has broken out and is on the loose, hence the alarm and the dim red lights in some places, as the facility is in lockdown.

Overall, this addition to my level is probably the most important addition in my whole project, as now that the level is detailed and interesting to explore as well as informative to the player of the situation, it creates the full visual narrative for the game that I intended to have, which is what I originally set out for in this project, and what I based it on.

Now I just need to work on the atmospherics for the level, so my next plan is to work on the lighting outside of the containment vault, as well as add some exponential height fog to the level to improve the visuals and brighten the level up a bit.

[thedovahcat]

Lucidity

What were they exactly?

Dreams that made his head pound for one… Odd dreams. Ones full of whispers and dark shadows and the feeling of eyes. The feeling of something watching…

Rev stirred but held his eyes shut. He was still half asleep. He knew better than that. Whatever these were, they were just nightmares shuffling through his head yet again. They happened every so often, when the shadows dared come close during the evening hours. He couldn’t quite explain it, but there was always a sort of evil crawling under the earth. One he could feel. One he knew many others could as well. The taint of the Old Ones.

At first he’d felt parchment in his hands. And while Rev could not see any words much less the actual parchment itself, he knew what they read.

“It begins with a sign.”

His head sailed and it suddenly felt cold. The smell of oil hit his nose and he felt electricity in the air. Another familiar place he had a hard time remembering. But it was somewhere to the far north. Very few places had a chill as bitter as this.

A rusted creaking noise sounded in the distance, like gears turning…

“A thousand years imprisoned. Surely, it weighs on the mind…”

The air was now foul. Sickly, dark, evil. And while there was no other sound, Rev felt himself being stared at again, this time by something far larger than himself, and most things. Something staring at him, something staring right THROUGH him.

He felt his body turn and immediately he was assaulted by a gigantic yellow-slitted eyeball. It blinked once, causing him to recoil, before it shimmered out of sight, the lights falling like jewels being dumped onto the floor.

“Deeper than deep, awaits your seat,”

The gems rolled down into a hole he hadn’t seen prior, and Rev couldn’t help but kneel to see where they’d gone. Into the earth he went, far below the surface in a flash… and even lower still. Into dark tunnels with burrowing life forms, more soft glowing gems… Another fissure in the ground.

The background twirled and was sucked into the darkness, leaving him in a small cavern with a singular chair and a skull resting upon it.

Just the sight of it unnerved him, but he approached, stretching out his hand to touch it. He felt compelled to.

“Where the shaded delegate may appear…”

Again the already dark cavern twisted and tore into fragments, reassembling itself into a place of machinery. Cold metal floors and walls, the whirring of engines and the hissing of steam.

Machines with levers stood in front of him. Rev tilted his head, cringing slightly. What kind of dream was this? He’d never been to a place like this before.

He stood still for a moment, before hesitantly approaching the levers. They had numbers on them, and he couldn’t understand what they were for.

“…One, two, two… What is this?” There was no making sense of it. Then his head pounded again, this time harder than before.

“Games and toys are left behind,”

“What are- what’s going on- What are you talking about- who ARE you?”

“When you awaken screaming.”

His feet suddenly felt as though they had no ground to stand on, and he plummeted into the abyss, only to be spat out in a house. A ruined house with red veins and corrupt seeping into the wooden floors… Quickly he stood up and kept away from the dripping walls.

A pulsating tumor caught his attention on the other side of the room. It was swollen and wet and all sorts of disgusting, but as soon as his eye laid on the eye? it also had, the flesh twisted and pulled itself free, spinning in the air and indeed, it did have an eye of its own.

“What the fuck-”

The demon, or was it a demon really? danced around him before lines upon lines appeared beside it like a sticky, tangled up web. Orbs were attached to each string, all crisscrossing each other in various ways.

What was he supposed to do, touch it?

They almost beckoned him to. So he did.

“Is this real, or an illusion? You are going mad.”

Rev snorted. “You’re telling me.”

Once untangled, the red beams began to glow a soft blue, very much like he would whenever he would…change. And he heard the dark voice whisper again in his ears.

“What you seek is buried within…”

Cold air returned, but it smelled different this time. It smelled like pines… like fresh mountain air, even the slightest hints of tea leaves. Scents he was very familiar with. But that all went away, and a hollow ringing filled his ears as the smells turned musty and dank, like moss, and a place that hadn’t been walked in in a very long time.

In his hands he felt something.

It was a pouch. He could see it. He could see his own hands, and he was most certainly holding onto it. As he squeezed it with his fingers however, he could hardly tell what it was, so he pulled it open. Dust scattered into the air and was blown ahead of him. No, not dust. Ashes.

The particles scattered, eventually forming a hallway, and then a large chamber in which he now stood. Everything refused to move after that, and he was left alone, standing there in the midst of purple torch light.

Only then did he feel absolutely alone. Abandoned almost.

With a single step forward, Rev turned his head. One of the passages was blocked with stones. Two other entryways loomed ahead and to the side of himself…

“Which way?” He asked aloud, practically expecting an answer. But none came.

The longer he waited, the more dread he started to feel. He wasn’t REALLY here was he? No, he couldn’t be. He was just lucid-dreaming again. …Or lucid-nightmaring he liked to call it.

“Well I’m sure I’ll wake up eventually…” He wandered forward, choosing to go straight, and as he passed through the archway, smoke enveloped everything briefly before fading away.

His brows furrowed as he essentially walked out into the exact same hallway with absolutely no differences.

“…So, it’s going to be one of those nights isn’t it…”

He knew better than to start freaking out. He had no idea how long he was going to be there, but he knew it wouldn’t be forever. Still, there was always that tiny possibility that it just MIGHT…

Rather than dwell on it any further, he only focused on one thing. If he didn’t get out of here, who the hell was going to feed that dopey troll-husband of his? Exactly. Nobody else would. Well, nobody else would do it RIGHT anyway…

Clenching his fists, he proceeded towards whatever direction he felt was best, for quite some time.

Just as he was beginning to get frustrated, green light caught his attention as he entered another copy-cat hallway. The torches in here glowed green instead… How odd.

The firelight flickered ominously, before wafting into the air and over towards him, becoming round and soft looking. Rev reached out and grabbed a hold of it. He could touch it. It wasn’t hot, in fact it was almost soothing.

Slowly he brought it over to his chest, looking around again for anything else. There was nothing. So he kept walking.

Eventually he found other strangely colored fires, though he found he could only really have one at a time.

A maze…that’s what it was. This was a puzzle. How his mind was THIS capable of forming such a place was beyond him. Maybe it wasn’t his doing at all, he didn’t know. But it didn’t matter. He had to get out somehow.

As he continued along he ran into similarly colored runes. And on the off chance he had the same colored torchlight with him, he was able to dispel them rather easily.

He went on a while longer. It felt like hours, but it could have very well been only minutes. No light came into these tunnels, so there was no way to tell.

Along the way he tried to keep track of what he’d done and where he’d gone.

Green, red, yellow, purple… he held a blue light with him now. There weren’t any MORE colors were there? Like pink and orange? He hoped not.

Despite having an excellent memory in terms of remembering images and visual details, he couldn’t figure out this place. Not in the slightest.

A long time passed and his feet ached as though he really HAD been walking into endless, samey hallways. All dark and purple. Upon reaching the altar again, he sat on it and tried to catch his breath.

“Too old for this…” At least it was HIM stuck in there and not the troll. That would have been absolutely chaotic and he’d have probably keeled over by now from a heart attack or frustration alone.

Once he felt he’d caught his breath, he started again. And it was another long time before he finally stumbled upon the blue glowing rune etched onto the altar.

Quickly he dispelled it and waited for something to happen. Nothing did. How odd…

“…So, do I get to wake up now?”

No answer. Maybe he could simply walk outside. It was worth a try.

As he stepped into the black shroud again, this time he emerged elsewhere. Crows cawed noisily above him and he tilted his head back to look at the gray sky, and the massive tower before him.

“…Karazhan? Odd choice…”

“The way is now open. To the greatest secret never told.”

“Yeah over my dead body.”

Nearby he heard a metal gate being pulled open. “Might as well see this through I guess…” He listened and began to follow the noise against his better judgement. What he stumbled upon was a crypt leading down into the darkness once again. Unsurprisingly.

So down he went. His boots sloshed muddy and murky water around as he ventured deeper and deeper into the tomb, taking note of all the skeletal remains lying around and about. He wasn’t frightened though. It was just an empty series of rooms, nothing more.

Only when he reached the end, along with a massive pile of human bones, did he notice the world around him start to fade. Was he finally waking up?

“Hm?”

A box rested at the top of the bone pile. Shiny and tempting.

“…Geez…”

It was hard to get a foothold on a pile of rattling bones, especially since they kept sliding out from under him. But he managed to scurry up to the top and towards the sealed chest. A dark rune swirled around on the top of it until he had touched it. He pulled the lid off and looked inside- “A fitting end to your journey.”

“It’s a-” ________

Rev’s eyes shot open to the darkness. Rain was once again tapping the window directly across from him, and a flash of lightning illuminated the bedroom briefly.

He was back in their room in Hearthglen. There was the fireplace, and over there, the end table with the snuffed out candle and a book, and on the other side, a regular table with two chairs, the curtains draped in front of the window, clothes discarded on the floor… Everything was as it always was.

Even Hassour snored next to him, asleep (which in and of itself was a rarity usually.)

Carefully he laid back, staring upwards towards the ceiling, listening.

He heard no strange voices, saw no strange eyes or other shining, shimmering things. There was nothing here. And the sense of dread he had was gone.

The only thing that really bothered him was that he never DID get to see what was in the box.

What rotten luck, after all that trouble too…

Disappointed, he rolled over onto his side and faced the troll, scooting closer to him and shutting his eyes again.

Outside he heard a horse neighing rather loudly. Not terribly unusual, but they weren’t typically awake at this hour either. Maybe the lightning scared them.

With a sigh he let himself relax. Maybe NOW he could actually get some sleep.