#like he had a giant eyebrow piercing from certain angles

[andypantsx3]

statistically significant | 7 | bakugou/reader

length: 23,490 words | 7 chapters

summary: You’re the scientist who developed a neural net to model the value of assists. Now that your work is feeding into the hero rankings, pro hero Ground Zero has a bone to pick with your results.

tags: romance, enemies to lovers, sexual tension, reader-insert

warnings: aged up characters, eventual smut, m/f threats of violence, problematic behavior

One month later

The Hero Awards certainly did not disappoint the second time around.

Though you’d spent the last few months in the company of some of these heroes, you couldn’t help but linger on the sidelines as they stalked their way down the walkway, staring in awe. As before, they were decked out in their absolute best, glimmering in jewel toned dresses with daring cutouts, or carving dashing profiles in well-fitted suits. Reporters and fans swarmed the sides of the red carpet, roiling like a pot reaching an agitated boil.

Their excitement was so palpable it hung heavy in the air, absolutely contagious. Maybe it was the fact that you knew some of the heroes up for awards tonight personally, but the potential of the evening simmered under your skin, a soft but constant hum of frenetic energy.

Or maybe some of that was due to the fact that this year, you’d been able to convince your boss to shell out the extra cash for the full dinner option. No longer would you need to smuggle snacks into your dress--this evening, you were a solid professional.

Which was a good thing, really, as the dress in question was not altogether any more secure or supportive than your dress from last year. You’d tried to angle for a thicker fabric and a little more of a conservative design, but several people had aired opinions on your choices over the course of the last few weeks, and you’d ended up in a thin swathe of delicate fabric that was really quite pretty, if you did say so yourself, but would support a grand total of maybe two popcorn kernels.

“You’re looking awfully forlorn over here,” someone chirped by your ear.

You startled, whirling to find Mina behind you, looking rosy and radiant in a form-fitting dress only a few shades lighter than her skin tone. Tiny pearls and clusters of glittering pink diamonds were stitched carefully into the fabric, winking at you as she moved, as bright as the conspiratorial grin she wore. She looked absolutely fabulous--she was one of the people who’d bullied you into the snackless gown, and you could begrudgingly admit that the girl had taste.

“Is it because a certain hotheaded blonde isn’t here yet?” she asked, a pink eyebrow going up.

You flushed. “Mina--oh my god, no. Not everything is about him, you know.”

She idly inspected a nail, looking supremely unconvinced. “Someone should tell him that, then.”

You huffed a laugh. The last time you’d been at the Awards, you’d said as much to him yourself. But a year later, the message was still not exactly being received.

“I’m actually thinking about dinner. I’m literally starving,” you complained, trying to divert the subject.

Mina nodded sympathetically. “I have a six pack and I still had to suck in to fit into this shit.”

As if on cue, your stomach growled sympathetically. You weren’t proud of what it was going to be like when you were finally unleashed on that multi-course dinner, but god it was gonna be worth it.

Several shrieks went up in the crowd of fans behind you, and you looked over your shoulder in alarm. Your pulse relaxed slightly when you realized it was just another pro sauntering down the walkway, but then the lights flickered off ashy blonde locks, and your pulse jumped violently. You jerked in surprise.

Mina didn’t even try to suppress her snort as you turned around fully, eyes pulled like a magnet to Bakugou as he stalked down the red carpet. Even looking like he would rather be anywhere else, and moving briskly over the carpet like he was going in for a kill, he still looked better than he had any right to. The charcoal of his suit--stitched with deep ruby flowers so dark they were almost black--brought out the piercing scarlet of his eyes, and your heart leapt into your mouth when those eyes cut over to meet yours.

His expression didn’t change, and he kept moving, but you flushed all the way from your head to your toes at the intensity behind his look.

Mina made a disgusted noise. “You’re both like a dog with a bone.”

You glared at her accusingly. “We literally just looked at each other.”

She clicked her tongue. “Please, he all but just pissed on you to mark his territory.”

Before you could reply, she called out, catching sight of Kirishima, and seized you to drag you over to say hello.

You let Mina drag you around for the next half hour, making polite conversation with her high school friends, a couple of friends from other agencies, and one fashion journalist who Mina had converted into a weekly drinking buddy. Mina kept the conversation light and easy, and you enjoyed yourself for the most part, though you almost passed out when a very distinct head of green curls materialized over her shoulder and then Midoriya Izuku--better known as the number one hero Deku--was smiling at you eagerly.

Things got even weirder when he appeared to not only already know who you were, but knew a great deal about your work, enough to ask some very detailed questions about your training model software that was going into production a couple months from now. Mina had the gall to cut into the conversation to call you both huge nerds, though she’d directly benefited from the model herself.

The conversation was unfortunately cut short when a calloused hand flung itself in front of your face and a rough voice sounded from over your shoulder. “Stop sticking your nose in my fucking business, Deku.”

You whipped around to find Bakugou glaring over your head at his former classmate. His hand closed around your shoulder and dragged you closer to him.

“I was just asking about her model, Kacchan,” Midoriya said patiently. “It’ll be great to be able to compare my movements directly with some of the other heroes in almost real time! Ojirou’s been trying out some new fighting forms and I was thinking I should try to adapt them to work into my shoot style--”

“Just because you couch it in nerd shit doesn’t mean you’re not trying to spy on me, fuckstick,” Bakugou said. “Stop poking your nose into my relationship like the town fucking gossip.”

Midoriya flushed a little, looking slightly chastened when you turned back to him in question. He gave you an embarrassed little smile. “I did want to meet you for reasons other than your model. Kacchan’s been my friend since I was little, and I wondered what kind of person could interest him so much he wanted my perspective on your work--”

“Shut the fuck up,” Bakugou demanded, but he wasn’t fast enough.

You perked up in interest. “He asked you what?”

Bakugou bristled like a cat being dangled over a bath, but Midoriya was paying him no mind. “Right after the last Hero Awards, he’d done all this research and he asked me about whether your model results lined up with some of the personal analysis that I was doing--”

“Deku,” Bakugou’s fingers tightened on your arm, growing alarmingly warm. “If you don’t shut the fuck up right now I’m going to punch all of your teeth straight down your throat and into your stomach.”

“Kacchan,” Midoriya protested, but he was interrupted by a call on the overhead for everyone to start taking their places in the theater interior for the awards to begin.

Bakugou used the distraction to pry you away from Midoriya. In the blink of an eye, he’d gotten you across the theater and was corralling you towards the Miruko agency tables, looking like he’d sucked on a lemon. You stifled a laugh. You’d wondered a couple months ago exactly how and when he’d figured out you were quirkless, and he’d once asked if you thought you were the only one who’d done their research.

If things were anything like you were starting to suspect, your demands that he do better at the Hero Awards had apparently aroused his interest in more ways than one.

You and Bakugou hadn’t exactly settled on formal terms for your relationship yet, and he still more often than not answered any of your interest with the assertion that you were the one with the crush on him. But this was more evidence--beyond the mysterious coffees that showed up at your workstation almost every morning--that your interest was more intensely reciprocated than he was willing to own up to.

By the time you’d settled at a table and been flanked by a grinning Mina and Kaminari, the awards were getting underway. They were thrilling to watch, something you’d had to miss out on last year when you needed to sneak out with a giant hole in the front of your dress. The heroes you’d worked with this year raked in an insane number of awards, and their elation was palpable, so thick you could almost taste it in the air. The pair of men with satyr horns were named the Best Rookie Duo, Miruko was awarded Takedown of the Year, and Kaminari clocked the Fastest Fight Win for a battle last month in which he’d rendered a villain with an aluminum quirk insensate only seconds into the fight.

A very unfortunate match up, you thought.

Mina nabbed an award for Fan Favorite, and in almost no time, it was the moment that you’d been nervously awaiting since nominations had gone out. You’d cheated, doing your own calculations behind everyone’s backs just to get a clearer picture of what his chances were, and you rather liked his odds, but there was always a chance it wouldn’t go how you thought. But this was the moment that Bakugou was up for Most Valuable Hero.

You barely heard any of the words the host was saying as he trotted out the names of the nominees, detailing some of their key accomplishments. He covered Bakugou's latest slew of assists and rescues, stats that made you feel kind of weirdly warm and proud, and then your ears strained for the syllables you’d hoped to hear.

And then:

“The winner is...our explosive number six, Ground Zero!”

It took everything in you not to leap out of your seat in joy, though something like a strangled squeal managed to escape you. Bakugou gave you an evaluating look as he got to his feet, stalking up on stage with his usual intensity.

As soon as he was up there, it struck you that allowing him time for an acceptance speech was maybe not a great idea. Graciousness was not exactly a strength of his.

“Obviously I’m the most valuable,” he growled into the mic. The stage lights glinted off his hair and teeth, making him look slightly more predatory than usual. “I didn’t need you fucks to tell me.”

A choking noise could be heard from Kirishima’s seat a couple tables over, and Mina put her head in her hands.

“What’s important is that I’m number six now and it only took me a month,” Bakugou’s head swiveled in the direction of Midoriya and you suppressed a groan. “Don’t get fucking comfortable. I’m gonna wipe the floor with every one of the top five, and next awards you’ll all be kissing my ass.”

He didn’t seem like he had much more he wanted to say, which was an incredible relief as both the host and nearby security looked about ready to wrestle him offstage.

He leapt neatly down from the stage, and when he made it back to the table, he didn’t take his seat again. Instead, he grabbed your arm, hauling you out of your seat, and then he was pulling you down the aisle and through the door to the reception area.

He pulled you past the snack table and you thought he was steering you towards the stairwell again, but at the last second he took a sudden turn, shoving you through a door into the women’s powder room. You didn’t even have enough time to formulate a question before he had you backed up against the wall, your shoulders hitting the cool stone at the same time his mouth hit yours.

His kiss was hot and demanding as always, and you lost yourself in it easily. He trailed a line of burning kisses down your neck and over your shoulder, making you shudder and shake when he lingered too long over any particular spot.

It was hard to think past the press of his body on yours, but you tried your best to formulate words.

“Katsuki--it’s--we’re in the women’s room,” you panted, embarrassed by the fact that even as you spoke, you were clutching him closer. “This is--what are you--? S-someone’s gonna come in.”

Bakugou broke apart from you just long enough to level a searching glance around the room and--spotting what he’d been looking for--hefting the trashcan in front of the door with a forceful kick to stop it shut.

“There, nerd. Now stop fucking complaining,” he rasped, immediately attaching his mouth back under your jaw. You shuddered.

“What the fuck has gotten into you,” you demanded, seizing a fistful of his blonde hair to pull him back from where he was leaving what felt like a very deep bruise over your collarbone.

He leveled you with a burning, red-eyed stare. “Like you don’t fucking know.”

You looked at him in question. “...I actually don’t.”

He tried to lean in again but you gripped his hair harder. “What? You can’t just keep throwing me up against walls, especially here. What is it with you and shoving me into weird places at the Hero Awards?”

Bakugou growled. “If you don’t shut the fuck up and let me do what I want, I’m gonna burn throught this dress too.”

You froze up, then glared at him accusingly. “I literally write the code that processes your rank. If you ever wanna come within sniffing distance of the top three, you won’t touch a single thread of this dress.”

The hands on you grew hot, but not hot enough to burn. Bakugou slid a calloused hand over the curve of your waist, thumb brushing the underside of your breast.

“God, the fuckin’ attitude on you,” he said, almost reverently.

You felt your face warm under his scrutiny as he leaned closer. “You wanna know what's gotten into me? I wanted to melt that entire fucking thing off you last year. You were so fucking mouthy, such a little brat to me. Wanted to rip your dress off and fuck you right in the stairwell until you forgot you’d ever even heard of numbers.”

You shivered. Bakugou smirked, eyes darkening, leaning back in to bite under your jaw. You realized you’d lost your grip on him and willed your fingers to cooperate again.

“I fucking won that stupid award because I let you boss me around. I've waited an entire year. Now you’re gonna let me do whatever I want with you.”

Your legs went out from beneath you but Bakugou was already there, catching you under your thighs and hauling you up onto the countertop between the sinks. Your back brushed the mirror, glass cold under your shoulder blades.

“Y--you know, if you actually want to be number one, you can’t make speeches like you did,” you babbled nervously as he filled the space between your thighs. “Your public approval rating is part of your ranking, right? It’s weighted right below rescues…”

Bakugou paid you no mind, fingers already searching over your back to find the zipper to your dress. He yanked it down with little ceremony, seizing the front of your bodice to pull it off of you.

“I don’t need to be fucking nice if I’m the one saving the day,” he announced imperiously, leaning down to capture a nipple with his mouth.

Your hips jerked, and he pressed a hand to your thigh, holding you back down against the counter. Dimly, you registered that the words were familiar. “N--not--ah!--not this again.”

Bakugou didn’t deign to respond, instead doing something absolutely mind-bending with his tongue. You swore loudly, catching a fistful of his jacket. “Fuck, Katsuki!”

A hot palm slid up your thigh, gathering up the soft material of your skirt until he could slip a hand underneath. Calloused fingers trailed over your core with obvious intention. You inhaled sharply when he pressed them into you, leaning up to cover your mouth with his again.

Bakugou had you squirming wildly against him in barely a minute, snorting when you tried to get a hand on his zipper.

“Want me that bad, nerd?” he asked, pressing forehead to yours in an oddly tender move.

“If you don’t hurry the fuck up I’m gonna finish things myself,” you threatened, though Bakugou did not look at all as if he believed you.

He helped you get his zipper down, taking himself in hand, but he stopped just as he brushed your entrance, leaning forward to bite another kiss into your mouth.

“Now it’s time for you to make good on your end of the bet,” he growled, a smirk growing over his features. “You’ll tell me I’m the best and I was right all along.”

You stilled underneath him, disbelieving. “Are you--are you fucking serious.”

Bakugou pressed forward, just enough for you to feel the pressure of him on your clit. You fought down a noise like a whimper. Damn him.

“I jumped two ranks,” he said. “You’ll tell me I’m the best if you want me, nerd.”

“I am not gonna beg for you like this,” you announced, though it sounded a little more like a question than you had wanted it to.

Bakugou brushed his thumb over your clit again and little sparks danced over the corner of your vision. “Mmm, you’re gonna scream.”

You felt something like a tension snap inside you. Fuck it. He was so annoying but holy shit if he wasn’t the hottest thing you’d ever encountered. If he needed his ego stroked, well it wasn’t nearly as much as you needed your own stroking.

You grit your teeth. “Ugh, fine--just--you’re the best, and you were right all along. Now will you please--”

You didn’t even get to finish before he was sinking into you, narrow hips fitting flush with your thighs. You swore at the feeling of fullness, and then he was moving, picking up into a frantic pace. He leaned forward, sealing his mouth over yours to swallow all the little noises you were making. It was mere minutes before you were shivering underneath him again, moving your hips to meet his, desperate for more, Katsuki, more.

“Ah fuck--so fucking good for me,” he grunted against your mouth, giving a particularly hard thrust, and that was all it took to unravel you.

You stifled a scream in the thick fabric of his jacket, arching up into him. He cursed and followed after you with a few more short thrusts, crushing you against the counter when he let his weight go slack.

You panted underneath him, catching your breath while your fingers slowly unclenched themselves from the hem of his suit jacket. Bakugou rubbed his face in the hollow of your shoulder, radiating smug satisfaction.

“That wasn’t so bad, was it, nerd?” he rasped, biting down lightly where he’d left the hickey earlier.

You pulled back, looking into his face again. He looked far too pleased with himself, but he was so handsome like this, all messy hair and a kiss darkened mouth. Your irritation with him fizzled out a little.

He flashed you a predatory grin. “You said it yourself--I'm the fucking best.”

You rolled your eyes, though you couldn’t stop your hand from coming up and tangling in his hair. “Shut the fuck up.”

Bakugou, predictably, did not look as if he was going to shut the fuck up at all. So you took matters into your own hands, and leaned in and kissed him again.

[miss-kittys-magical-library]

You Are My Sunshine

From the MoonBrella Academy

Warnings: some angst and fluff A/N: Honey and Leon are left with the aftermath of Klaus's decision to tear apart another timeline by rescuing his infant self from the same childhood he endured at the hand's of The Monocle. Selina, though, couldn't be any more delighted.

Part 1 Sweet Child O Mine

Honey stood full of bewilderment in the middle of the living room. The flash of blue light temporarily blinded her making the 27 year old lose her bearings. She stumbled, caught herself and clutched the bundle to her chest out of instinct. It began to cry.

The young mother remembered herself then. In her daze, she had proffered a pinky finger to the infant. He accepted and sucked on it hungrily for only a few moments.

Honey knew in her very soul that the man from the portal, the man from outside the abortion clinic in 1968 and the man in the FBI posters from 1963 were one and the same. That he and this baby she cradled and Leon were identical but not. His name was Klaus. Nicklaus. Sunny. Their Sunny. He came from her. From Leon. WAS Leon. She saw that in his eyes. His cheeks. That all too brief gummy smile when Klaus had reluctantly handed the baby over.

Annoyed with only a finger to suck on, the baby started to wail. Not cry. A bone rattling scream that Honey never once heard from Selina. She stared at the little boy who had freed an arm to tug on his ear. He moved into a full-bodied tremble while his lip quivered.

“Shhh,” Honey cooed. She swayed back and forth to soothe the screaming child. “You know when Leon gets upset, his lip does that too?” She used her index finger to wiggle Sunny’s as a distraction.

He inhaled with a violent shudder. Wild green eyes locked with Honey’s before he cried at the top of his lungs once more. His eyes never leave hers except occasionally to gaze downwards over her chest. She knew Sunny was starving as the tears spilled down her own face. There weren't any bottles or formula or anything for him available. Selina never used one anyway. She went from the tit to the sippy cup.

Now he curled his little fingers around the muslin of Honey’s shirt. She cocked an eyebrow as he tugged trying to free her breast from its covering.

“Cheeky little pervert! You must be Leon?” she giggled and separated Sunny’s fingers from her shirt. The little boy screamed again this time louder. He yanked at her and wailed like a banshee. Honey covered her ear with one hand, “Jesus! You'll wake the dead!!”

Almost on cue, Sunny's tiny fist balled tight around Honey’s shirt began to glow. It shined a brilliant blue that matched the portal Klaus had stepped through. Because she wasn't offering her breast to him, the little one shoved his free hand into his mouth. It shone with the same light.

“What in Saint Jude?” Honey used her fingertip to spread his little fist open. She traced her nail along his now opened palm, fascinated. “This is beautiful..”

“Hey Gracie.”

There was a voice behind Honey. One she knew but hadn't heard. That thick Brooklyn accent. The scent of whiskey and cigarettes. The tears threatened to spill down her cheeks as she turned to look. To see her Uncle Lenny that she missed every day. That she longed to talk to about her life. But Sunny went back to his screaming, and Honey knew Lenny was gone.

“I CAN'T FEED YOU! I WASN'T PREGNANT WITH YOU SO I'M NOT EQUIPPED. PLEASE STOP CRYING! I'M SORRY HE TOOK YOU AWAY FROM A VERSION OF ME WHO COULD PROVIDE FOR YOU!”

Honey began to weep now. She felt helpless. Disconnected from the infant she rocked gently without thought. As if a tiny part of her brain that beat her down and told her she failed Selina. There was a reason the little girl preferred Leon to her. That Honey just wasn't good enough.

Now here she was unable to do the simplest thing, calm a crying infant. Her big fat tears poured onto Sunny’s face, and his crying ceased immediately. He blinked those indescribable eyes a few times before inhaling as deep as his little lungs could manage. She braced herself for another brain piercing howl. Instead he exhaled a coo wrapped up in a smile while staring directly in his new mother’s own eyes.

And there it started, a tether from Honey’s heart to the little boy’s. He tangled his fingers around her hair that brushed over his cheeks as she started to laugh. It trickled down to Sunny and through him. He responded with giggles that lit a fire in Honey’s chest. Quite literally.

Her breast and nipple felt like they were ablaze. She winced and gasped at the pain before taking one in her hand and held it tightly. The searing took her breath away before it spilled out on to her grip in the form of liquid. Honey's breast started leaking.

Without thought or hesitation she freed herself, finally, from her top. Sunny’s eyes became a bright green the moment he saw her offered breast and latched on. He sucked hungrily, little eyes rolling back in his head as he tightened his grip on Honey's hair. The baby opened and closed his fist as he ate. Honey hummed.

“You are my sunshine, my only sunshine. You make me happy when skies are gray,” she sang and swayed as if she were dancing with the baby. “You'll never know, dear, how much I love you. Please don't take my sunshine away.” Honey bent to kiss Sunny’s forehead. He heaved one more great sigh and fell asleep.

The clock on their mantle struck 3pm, and Honey panicked. Selina’s dance class.

-------

Honey slipped past the other parents to the empty seat Leon had saved between himself and Tom and Ella. Her giant suede purse slung around her body more like a satchel. She sat down rather gingerly, greeted the Kidmans and let her long hair fall loose from under her beret. She smiled at her husband, all flushed cheeks and bright brown eyes.

From Leon’s angle as he kissed her hello it looked like a babydoll sticking out of her bag. Instead, to his shock, Honey carefully pulled a human baby from inside bundled up to its large eyes. Familiar ones that held Leon's gaze as she unzipped the little winter jacket that had been Selina’s.

Honey removed the tiny tossle cap. Underneath it was a baby boy (as beautiful as Selina) who released a satisfying coo. Then the little one turned to reach for Leon; to Honey’s dismay, he recoiled. She sniffed her displeasure while Sunny dove face first into her chest. Not for a breast, but simply a snuggle.

“The least you could do is hold him,” Honey’s tone was icy as she faced forward.

She caught her daughter’s eye from across the room and they waved at each other with enthusiasm. Selina pointed with sheer delight at the bundle in her mommy’s lap. Honey nodded and made the baby wave at his sister who bounced around in her tutu before the teacher took her hand and gently guided Selina back in line. Honey mouthed she was sorry.

"I'm just trying to figure out why my missus has got a baby that she wasn't pregnant with a few hours ago? Care to explain, love?”

Leon’s eyes were filled with worry as he looked at Honey. The tone of his voice was more tender than accusatory as he took one of her hands and squeezed it. Honey melted as she often did when it came to Leon's touch.

"A magical door opened up in our living room and that fake American cousin of yours, you know the one from the abortion,” she whispered this, “clinic?” Honey took a breath before continuing, “And I'm pretty sure he is our son from the future. He was in those FBI posters too. Back when we turned ourselves in. Anyways, he said his name was Klaus? Nicklaus. Nicklaus, Leon. He said well, this is ALSO our kid,” she presented the baby to Leon again, “from the future."

“I think you need to stop taking that blooming fertility concoction my mum and aunts made for you in Greece last summer. It's doing your head in because you sound like a bleeding nutter.”

"Leon, he’s our Sunny. Just like you predicted. You believed me then. I promise. Just hold him. Believe me again, please?” Honey pleaded with her husband.

“I quit drugs cold, and you've gone barmy. Then nicked some poor punter’s baby.” Anyone could tell Leon didn't even swallow one word spoken just now.

"First off, that concoction is cinnamon, honey, nettles and primrose oil. Nothing with drug properties. You're the one on maca, tribulus fruit and asparagus. Suck your own cock and see how it tastes." Honey stuck her chin out in defiance.

Tom choked on the cigar he was smoking. Meanwhile a knowing smile crossed Ella’s face. Her eyebrow raised in amusement at the direction this was headed. The Kostas couple were incredibly sexy when they argued. Honestly, they felt the same about each other.

"That's because you're not supposed to give me head, I'm supposed to put it in you. Remember that's how babies are made? Bloody hell.” Leon sighed and gave into his wife. He rolled his eyes and pursed his lips. Then he held out his arms, “Fine, just give him to me for cuddle”

Honey handed Sunny over to Leon who held him aloft. The baby had his fingers in his mouth. They glowed the softest hint of blue to the elder’s fascination. Then he let his little lips drop open to reveal mostly nothing but one lone tooth poking from the bottom gum. That tiny hand shot out to clench a fistful of Leon's goatee with an excited squeal.

Honey bit her bottom lip until she was certain it was going to bleed. A giant lump in her throat made it hard to swallow as she choked back tears willing Leon to get it. To see Nicklaus. Or Klaus. Or Sunny was theirs. She tightened her grip around forearm that she didn't realize had been in her grasp.

She wasn't a woman who prayed, not usually. To a Saint here and there, but quietly now she did. She wanted to convey to her husband that her body just couldn't get pregnant again naturally for whatever reason. Honey had started to bleed heavily before she left the apartment. Another miscarriage as the baby from the future sat wrapped up in Selina’s pink snowsuit. He was a gift just like Sugar no matter where he came from.

Leon studied this little boy. His nose, oddly curved like Leon's even though that was done much later in life. Those big, color changing eyes that moved in all shades of blues and greens in a matter of moments were also Leon's. It was like he held himself in his hands.

“Lovely little muppet.” Leon’s head swam. Sunny kicked his legs a bunch of times and contorted himself so he could suck on Leon's wrist. He let out a ragged breath just as the baby had done with Honey. “γεια, η μικρή μου ηλι��φάνεια,” Leon whispered. Hello my little sunshine.

There wasn't any part of Honey in Nicklaus, not the way there was in Selina. Her mummy’s attitude and defiance and brown eyes that took in the world and sought how to knock it down and start again. Leon shut down the part of his brain screaming REPLICA!

“That sadistic Monopoly man from the FBI or CIA did this, didn't he. Reginald Hargreeves.” Leon wasn't asking Honey, he was telling. He suddenly held Sunny close to his chest. His chin rested on the little boy’s head protectively. Leon kissed his curls as he had done a million times with Sugar and his wife.

She nodded because even her bones sang with revelation. They couldn't speak further because just then Selina burst into view along with the other little girls. She sprung into the air and onto Tom's lap, not her papa’s. He grunted then smiled in his Kidman way which was unnerving to the untrained eye. The little girl patted his cheek then kissed it. Ever one to tame the savage beast.

“Mommy baked me a baby!” she cried.

“She sure did, dollface.” He wouldn’t question a thing for the rest of his life.

Now she forsook Kidman to crawl across her mummy to gawk at the baby nestled into Leon's chest. “Hello, poppet. Papa calls me that.”

Sugar wedged her finger in Sunny's grip. They considered one another with fascination. Then Sunny screamed and giggled happily before putting her finger in his mouth.

Now Selina squealed with excitement and yanked it back. They played a game of offering and sucking for a few moments before the little girl declared that Sunny belonged to her. She stuck up her chin with a look of pride and contentment with herself. With the situation.

“He's my baby. Ok?” Neither Honey nor Leon would ever argue with that.

----

Winter of 1973

Honey sat cross-legged on the floor beside the Christmas tree. Her impossibly long hair hung over her shoulder and wrapped around Sunny who sat in her lap. He absently sucked on a thumb while his free hand flexed and twisted around his mother’s thick mane. Little hands flickered their occasional blue while Honey hummed a carol under her breath.

Leon was stationed in a large comfy chair, his one foot slung over the side. His foot wobbled anxiously. A handful of old journals and papers spread out over his lap. Books that had showed up one day without a messenger. Papers Tom had smuggled out of the CIA from insiders. All leading back to the nefarious billionaire with a monocle that studied the husband and wife and claimed if they paid him in return, they would get off scot free. Even keep the cash.

Selina danced around the tree. The lights reflected off of the dress Honey had fashioned, at Leon's insistance, from the gift she made just six years ago. It matched the tiny vest Sunny now wore as he bounced and wiggled rhythmically so desperate to dance with Sugar.

“Mummy?” Selina spun in a circle and tossed garland at the tree haphazardly.

“Yes?”

“Sunny’s coming.”

“What? Coming where? He can toddle about like a drunken sailor.”

“Mummy! Not my baby brother. Big Sunny. He's coming for a visit. He looks so much like Papa, but sad.”

Honey and Leon exchanged frantic glances. The traveler, from the future. But how did Selina know? Her papa asked as much.

“Silly! Sometimes he sees us through the windows. He likes to watch you be Mummy and Papa to Sunny. That you are good to him. I saw him and he talked to me. He very much likes Mummy in a.. Daddy way? But also in a me and Sunny way. I told him be here for Christmas. Is he my Theíos? His name is Mouse. Mummy is that..”

“Topolino. His name is Klaus. Nicklaus like Sunny and Pappou. You are too little to understand, Sugar.”

Honey scooped her up too and cradled both of her children in her lap, kissing their foreheads. She looked at Leon who knitv his eyebrows in thought. Mouth agape with just the slight bit of perturbed on his lips. But a shock of wind and blue and magnetism outside the windows on the fire escape startled the Kostas parents into attention.

“HE'S HERE! TOPO IS HERE!” Selina bolted to the window which Klaus tentatively tapped on. Without permission from her parents, she let him in. She held his hand tight and dragged him to the center of the living room.

Klaus stood uncomfortably in front of Leon and Honey. His hair was as long as Honey’s and his beard to boot. He wore giant rose tinted sunglasses and a starfish necklace dangled against his bare chest. His clothes were blue and white, pants striped with it, and very.. ritualistic. Religious almost. Honey told herself he looked like Jesus had fucked George Harrison in Elton John’s closet.

“Happy Christmas?!” He held up a bottle of wine. “I came bearing a gift!”

“Ain't you a little early in The Savior’s journey to be looking like that?” Leon quipped.

“What? Oh this? I had to.. disperse an alternative lifestyle community.”

“A cult?” Honey questioned.

“A commune,” Klaus and Leon said simultaneously.

Honey shivered. “Either way,” she crossed her arms, “we've been expecting you. For two years.”

Tag: @neuroticpuppy @magic-multicolored-miracle @bisexualnathanyoung @forenschik @nightmonsters @vonkimmeren @maerenee930 @elliethesuperfruitlover @070188 @firstpersonnarrator @rob-private @messengeronthemoon @emelieislasheehan @super-unpredictable98 @frogs--are--bitches @duck-noises @the-freckled-luba @a-ghoulish-tale

[roman-writing]

you search the mountain (1/4)

Fandom: World of Warcraft

Pairing: Jaina Proudmore / Sylvanas Windrunner

Rating: M

Wordcount: 11,570

Summary: The borders of Kul Tiras are closed to all outsiders. Sylvanas, Banshee Queen, hopes to use the impending civil war in Boralus to her advantage, and thereby lure Kul Tiras to the side of the Horde. A Drust AU

Content Advisory: horror, blood, gore, typical Drustvar spooky deer shit

read it below the cut, or you can read it here on AO3

“Thorns on my breasts, rain in my mouth, loam on my bare feet, rough bark grazing my back, I moaned for them all. You stood, waist deep, in a stream, pulling me in, so I swam. You were the water, the wind in the branches wringing their hands, the heavy, wet perfume of soil. I am there now, lost in the forest, dwarfed by the giant trees. Find me.”

— Carol Ann Duffy, from Forest; Rapture, 2005

--

To the surprise of no one, it was raining in Boralus. An icy sleet rushed down from the mountains, pelting civilians in an inescapable barrage. It coated the rooftops. It clung to the eaves. It made treacherous the cobblestone streets. And though it was mid-morning, the watery sunlight could not pierce the heavy bank of cloud that washed over the harbour, so that it felt like dusk. Any rational people would have sequestered themselves inside for warmth, but it seemed that Kul Tirans were utterly immune to the cold wet misery of their capital city. Or perhaps they had merely forgotten what it meant to be dry.

A crowd was gathered on the westernmost docks, sheltered by the inlet. Red banners bearing a crest of scales slapped wetly against their pillars. Dockworkers had halted their usual bustle of activity. Casks and crates and other break bulk hung suspended in the air by creaking ropes. A shark had been strung from a hook and gutted on the quay. The fisherman still held a bloodied knife in his hands, but his attention was turned upon the massive ship tethered to the pier.

The ship was a hulking mass of timbers. She was broad and lavishly decorated. Her sails were tightly furled lengths of new white canvas. Her mainmast bore two flags, which snapped in the wind. The longer pennant was red and streaming and far more prominent than its foul-anchored counterpart. She was the pride of the Ashvane merchant fleet, and she was -- to be frank -- quite horrid to behold. Ugly, even.

Not that Sylvanas would ever say that aloud. Certainly not when she was surrounded on all sides by Kul Tiran sailors and stevedores, all of whom were nudging each other and murmuring their appreciation of such a saucy vessel. Whatever that meant.

What shelter there was to be found on the docks was next to useless. The wind slanted the rain at an angle that slashed beneath any eaves, no matter how deep. Sylvanas’ long ears twitched, flicking off a few drops of rain to very little effect. She reached up to tug the hood of her cloak more firmly in place. The Kul Tirans on the dock gave her a wide berth, or otherwise pretended that she did not exist.

Beside her, Nathanos leaned forward to mutter. “With all due respect, my Queen: remind me why we are here?”

Sylvanas did not take her eyes off the ship. Wordlessly, she nodded towards just above the hideously gilded stern windows. Officers stood atop the poop deck, glittering in all their finery. Three figures stood at the very fore of the ship’s congregation, clearly identifiable even from this distance. Lord Stormsong clutched his staff, tall and dark and glowering in his mitre of office. Lady Ashvane held a possessive hand on the ship’s rail, her fingers glittering with a glut of gem-studded rings. And between them both stood the Lord Admiral Katherine Proudmoore. She was straight-backed and grey, as though carved from pale iron. Her militant greatcoat cut a sleek dagger-like figure through the curtain of rain.

"Is this really worth it?" Nathanos asked in a low tone. "We already have the Zandalari Navy."

Sylvanas waved him away. "We are still negotiating that treaty, I'll remind you."

"And if it fails, I shall eat crow."

"Don't say such tempting things, Nathanos. I might sabotage the treaty for fun."

He sniffed, clearly unimpressed by her threats. "You are dodging the question."

Sylvanas watched the quayside. Her eyes glowed a dull dangerous red, seeking any hint of Alliance representatives or spies. She found none. Nathanos and her rangers would have alerted her of any such Alliance presence in Boralus at once. Still, she scowled. "The Alliance is circling over this place like a well-fed vulture. Foiling them is its own reward. And besides," Sylvanas added dryly. "One always needs more friends."

“With friends like these you’re more likely to end up with a knife in your back.”

Sylvanas hummed a thoughtful note. “Situation normal, then.”

Indeed, Lord Stormsong and Lady Ashvane watched their Lord Admiral with openly hawkish expressions. Katherine hid her limp well -- an old war wound from some wayward grapeshot, or so Sylvanas was told -- but there could be no doubt that she appeared wan. Her shoulders were hoisted straight back and proud, but her gloved hands trembled somewhat.

Nathanos did not sound amused when he said, “From what I understand, the previous Lord Admiral had his youngest son tried and hung for treason.”

At that, Sylvanas arched an eyebrow and cast a curious look over her shoulder. “What manner of treason?”

“A certain band of orcs were shipwrecked on the coast of Kul Tiras on their way to Kalimdor. The boy dared to offer them aid, and kept it secret from his father.”

“Not very well, apparently.” She turned back to studying the ship ceremony. There was whiskey being poured into tankards now. “And the Lord Admiral in question?”

“Sailed west after the orcs who killed his eldest son. He was eventually slain by Thrall and Rexxar, and subsequently succeeded by his wife and only remaining Heir.” Nathanos inclined his head towards Katherine Proudmoore aboard the merchant ship.

“Hmm,” said Sylvanas.

Katherine Proudmoore was lifting the tankard of whiskey into the air. She drank deeply from the cup, before passing it first to Lord Stormsong, and then to Lady Ashvane. When the tankard was back in her hands, she poured what remained onto the deck of the ship, while Lord Stormsong chanted some nonsense about the Tides. The sailors and stevedores on the docks began to cheer, voicing their approval of a newly blessed ship.

“Does our esteemed host currently have an Heir?” Sylvanas mused aloud, lifting her voice just enough to be heard over the din.

Nathanos shook his head. “None that has been announced to the Great Houses. They would need to be confirmed by a majority vote before they could succeed the Admiralty.”

Sylvanas had her arms crossed. She tapped the fingers of her clawed gauntlet against her opposite arm. They clicked against links of chainmail. She could not feel the chill through the veil of undeath that hung over her, but weather like this always reminded her of other places; Northrend was too close to the lingering cold. Finally, Sylvanas said, “Find me one. A lesser cousin, perhaps. Anyone with the name ‘Proudmoore’ attached to their lineage, even peripherally.”

For a moment, Nathanos made no reply. When he spoke, it was in a low hiss. “I had hoped to dissuade you from this course, my Queen. This place is on the brink of civil war.”

“Excellent. I always did love a good challenge.” Sylvanas said dryly. The crowd was beginning to break up now that the ceremonial ship launching was for all intents and purposes complete. The three Great House leaders had stepped down to the quarterdeck, out of sight from the quay. Sylvanas herself turned and began to stride back towards the city centre. “Now, please tell me you’ve found someplace for us to stay in this miserable backwater that isn’t thoroughly damp.”

Nathanos did not say anything. He did not need to. The look on his face was answer enough.

Sylvanas twisted her mouth to one side as though she had bitten into a sour lemon, and she growled, “Fantastic. The weather shall drive me away before the god-awful people do.”

“Then I shall pray for a rainy season.”

“Don’t you know?” Sylvanas tsked. “It’s always a rainy season in Kul Tiras.”

--

Three days later, Sylvanas was being escorted by a steward into Proudmoore Keep out of the downpour. The guards flanking the great doors of the Keep were dressed in heavy oilskin jackets beneath their livery. Their kettle hats, which Sylvanas had previously thought were purely for show rather than utility, kept the rain off their faces.

She had arrived at the Keep alone, much to the annoyance of Nathanos and her rangers. She had told them they could circle the Keep if it made them feel better about it. There was no doubt in her mind that they were probably prowling the grounds before she even set foot inside without them. But the invitation from the Lord Admiral had specifically been for the Warchief of the Horde, and not for sundry others. Sylvanas was not about to jeopardise this mission before she could even get a chance to speak with the military leader of Kul Tiras.

The moment the great doors shut behind them, the steward held out his arm. "Your cloak, my Lady?"

Sylvanas considered him coolly before she pushed the hood away from her face and unclasped the cloak from her pauldrons. The fabric dripped into his arms when he took it and handed it over to another servant, who whisked it away into an unseen cloakroom behind a set of doors.

The steward seemed not to mind the wet at all. He did not even deign to wick it from his tailored suit. "If you would follow me, please."

It was a long walk through the vast warren of corridors. Proudmoore Keep was designed to withstand an invasion, should the harbour be overrun. As Sylvanas discreetly studied the various hallways branching off in different directions, she roughly calculated how many souls could be housed here during a siege, and for how long.

Not that that information would be relevant. Not so soon, anyway.

Eventually, the steward led her to a nondescript doorway, which bore an iron anchor in its wood grain. He knocked, and from within came the sharp order, "Come in!"

Before opening the door however, the steward passed a critical eye over Sylvanas' appearance. She had left her bow and quiver behind, but there remained tucked into her boot a wickedly curved silver skinning knife. A gift from another life. His lips thinned at the sight of the hilt peeking out from her calf.

Sylvanas glared at him, and her eyes burned crimson. "Do not even think of it," she said coldly.

Despite their difference in size -- Sylvanas was tall by her people's standards, but Kul Tirans seemed a cut above the usual humans she had encountered in the past -- he silently came to the conclusion that one knife was not worth the effort, for he sniffed in disdain. Still, he turned and opened the door for her, even going so far as to bow at the waist as she passed.

An attempt had been made to soften the omnipresent grey stone by the addition of thick rugs. It did very little to make the room more cosy. A dull fire snapped in a black-scorched fireplace, and a wrought-iron candelabra dripped wax from the ceiling. Sylvanas had been in dungeons as accommodating as Proudmoore Keep. The Kul Tiran sense of interior design was cut from the same cloth as their choice in homeland, it seemed.

The Lord Admiral was seated in a high-backed armchair before the fireplace. Beside her was an identical chair, and between them a low table, which carried a tray with a tea set. A thin tendril of steam wound its way from the teapot's spout. The rain-lashed windows were dark, their corners beset with a light mist. Katherine's greatcoat was gone, revealing her shirtsleeves and waistcoat. A warm woolen blanket had been draped across her knees.

Katherine glanced up from a book she was reading. Her half moon spectacles gleamed in the dancing firelight. "Ah. It's you." She marked her place in the book with a length of ribbon, setting it on the table beside the tea set.

When Sylvanas tucked her hands behind her back and inclined her head respectfully, the Lord Admiral gestured sharply towards the other chair. "None of that bullshit. Sit. Please."

The last sounded tacked on and half-remembered, as though they hadn’t the time for such pleasantries. A woman for whom wasted words were a sin, then.

Crossing the room, Sylvanas sat. For a long tense moment, the two studied one another in a quiet broken only by the crackle of the fire as a log slipped across the embers. Then, Sylvanas said, “I would comment on the delights of your fair city, but I have yet to find them. The weather is atrocious, and the people inhospitable.”

If anything, Katherine seemed amused by this observation. “Quite right. Tea?” she asked. Her hand hovered over the handle of the porcelain teapot. “Or are you even able to consume food and drink in your…” She fished for the right word. “... unique condition?”

Rather than answer, Sylvanas nudged a cup and saucer closer to the teapot. “No milk.”

Katherine poured two cups accordingly. She hid the slight tremor in her forearms as she lifted the heavy teapot, but Sylvanas noticed regardless. Sylvanas said nothing. Instead, she took the opportunity to silently note the heavy lines etched into the Lord Admiral’s face, her narrow shoulders, her general pallor. When Katherine handed over a saucer and cup without milk, Sylvanas took it with a simple murmur of thanks.

“So, tell me,” Katherine began, and though her body appeared frail, her eyes and voice were sharp enough to cut. “Why are you here? Did you hope to convince me of something in person in a way your envoys could not?”

“That was the plan, yes,” Sylvanas said dryly.

Stirring milk into her own cup, Katherine tapped the little silver spoon against the porcelain rim. “I hardly think sailing a warship into my waters will convince me to open the borders to the Horde.”

“A single frigate is hardly a threat to the might of the Kul Tiran fleet.” Sylvanas sipped at her tea. It tasted muddy, like everything else. “Unless, of course, your storied Navy is far less powerful than I have been led to believe.”

Katherine grunted a wordless note into her own cup. It sounded like the midway point between a snort and a laugh. She lowered the cup to its saucer, and held them close to her chest in both hands. “Go on, then, Warchief. What message do you have for me that your emissaries did not have the balls to deliver themselves?”

Sylvanas’ eyebrows rose. There was a gentle clink of porcelain against the wooden table as she slowly set down her tea. “Very well,” she murmured. Then, leaning forward in her seat she met the Lord Admiral’s unflinching gaze. “You are a widow with no remaining children. Your peers already plot against you. Your good health is quickly fading. You are in need of a powerful ally to steady the ship, so to speak, and I am a very patient woman with all the time in the world thanks to my ‘unique condition’.”

Despite her best efforts, Sylvanas could not keep the slight sneer at bay when she said those words. The longer Sylvanas spoke, the more stony Katherine’s face became. Her jaw clenched, and her blue eyes narrowed. When Sylvanas had finished, Katherine tongued the inside of her cheek and then took a long sip of her tea. “When I encouraged you to be blunt, I did not mean that blunt.”

Sylvanas shrugged, an unapologetic lift of one shoulder. “Then you should not have asked.”

Katherine pursed her lips into a thin line. Another sip of tea, as though to calm herself before she spoke again. “I respect your honesty, even if I do not appreciate its implications. The truth is never easy to bear. But you cannot deny that your people and mine, we have a history. Even were I to accept your offer of ‘stability’ and whatever that entails, there would be severe internal resistance to an alliance with the Horde.”  

“Small steps first, Lord Admiral,” said Sylvanas. She leaned her elbow upon the armrest, but eased off slightly when she felt her armour begin to scrape the supple leather. “We can talk open borders now, and formal ties later.”

“My people will not see the difference. Not quickly enough for me to be of any political use ‘later’, as it were. As you’ve already said, my position is -” Katherine held up her teacup as though drinking to good health, “- precarious at best. I cannot risk seeming weak now, of all times.”

Trying to seem blithe, Sylvanas said, “Then you leave me little choice but to seek out alternative arrangements with your peers.”

Sylvanas’ ears tilted back in surprise, when Katherine let out a bark of laughter. She was still laughing when she went to pour herself another cup of tea.

“By all means.” Katherine poured a dollop of milk into her cup before drinking from it. She smiled at Sylvanas over the rim, but her gaze was humourless. “You may think me a stubborn old crone -- and you wouldn’t be half wrong -- but I know Lord Alfred and Lady Priscilla very well. They would be even less inclined to hear your petition than I am. Though if you do end up asking them, be sure to do it before I die. I so rarely get a laugh these days.”

With that, Katherine added another hearty little chuckle. Sylvanas had to school her features and stop her ears from pinning straight back in irritation. Her clawed gauntlets dug into the armrest. This time she did nothing to stop them from piercing the material. “Last I heard, there are four Great Houses of Kul Tiras, not just three.”

“And so there are.” Beneath the blanket, Katherine’s foot began to bob in time with the tapping of her finger against her teacup. Abruptly, both stopped. “You’ll find Lucille Waycrest a paltry ally, I’m afraid. The culmination of the Drust incursion has left her region to the mercy of the other Houses. She does the best she can, poor girl, but she inherited a fractured House.”

Sylvanas bared her teeth in a fierce smile. “In my experience, desperation can lead to surprising ends.”

Katherine brushed aside the implication of that statement with a shake of her head. “I cannot stop you from personally speaking with anyone, but your ships are still not welcome in Kul Tiran waters. There will be no open borders to either the Horde or Alliance while I draw breath.”

“Then I suppose our conversation is finished.” In a clink of armour, Sylvanas rose to her feet.

Katherine did not follow suit. She remained seated, cradling her cup of tea. Peering thoughtfully up at Sylvanas over her half moon spectacles, she cocked her head to one side. “To say it has been a pleasure would be a lie. Nevertheless, I am glad to have met you, Warchief.” Then she waved Sylvanas away. “Now, be a dear, won’t you, and have the steward bring an old woman another blanket.”

When Sylvanas swept from the room without another word, the steward was waiting for her outside. She stormed right past him down the halls back the way they had come. He had to trot to keep up with her, despite his own long-legged stride. Sylvanas did not speak until they had reached the cloakroom, where the steward disappeared inside to retrieve her cloak. She tapped her foot against the stone tiled entryway.

The steward reappeared and she snatched her cloak from his hands. As she was fitting it back into place, she snapped, "Take your Lord Admiral another blanket."

The steward blinked in confusion, but immediately rushed off towards Katherine's study to do as he was bidden. Sylvanas tugged the hood of her cloak over her head and snapped her fingers at one of the guardsmen to open the doors for her. The pair of guards did so, heaving at the heavy iron-bound doors until they groaned open just enough for her to slip through.

Outside, it was only twilight, but it looked to be nearing dense night. It was still pissing down with rain. Sylvanas glowered out at the icy downpour, but did not slow her steps as she descended the sweeping staircase from Proudmoore Keep.

Before she could reach the second set of stairs, Nathanos and two of her dark rangers appeared at her side. The rangers dropped a few paces behind, shadowing their footsteps with watchful eyes, coal-bright.

Nathanos' coat did not have a hood. Somewhere he had procured one of the kettle hats and livery sets worn by the Proudmoore guards. "How did it go?"

Sylvanas glanced sidelong at him. "You look ridiculous."

"I gladly suffer for the sake of your safety," said Nathanos dryly. "Now, how did it go?"

Her brows drew sharply down. "She is a stubborn old crone," Sylvanas growled. Her frustration was exacerbated by the squelch of water in her boots. "I quite like her. It is a shame she will not last the next five years. Otherwise, we might have reached an understanding. And what do you have for me?"

In answer, Nathanos lifted two fingers. "Lord Aldrius Norwington. One of Daelin Proudmoore's second cousins, and by all accounts a rich old toff with little interest in politics. But he and his wife are beloved by the Navy. She was a Captain of Marines and he served as a Rear Admiral for a number of years before retiring."

"I assume there's a catch?" Sylvanas asked.

"He is old. Older than the Lord Admiral. And his son died at sea not long ago. He and his wife, Elena, have been in mourning ever since."

"Hmm." They strode towards Unity Square, swiftly making their way towards the inn that Nathanos had secured for them earlier that week. Sylvanas could see sheets of rain in every pool of light from the flickering poles that lined the streets. "And what is the second option?"

Nathanos glanced over his shoulder and lowered his voice before answering. "A daughter."

At that, Sylvanas stopped in her tracks. She stared at him incredulously. "A daughter?" she repeated. "I thought the Lord Admiral had no other children."

"She had three. The youngest was a girl by the name of Jaina. From what I understand, the girl was somewhat magically gifted. Katherine and Daelin had an altercation regarding how she ought to be trained. In the end, Katherine smuggled her off to a Drust Thornspeaker by the name of Ulfar.”

“And her current whereabouts?”

Nathanos shook his head, and his kettle hat sent droplets of rain scattering about. “Unknown and presumed dead. Killed during the Drust incursion a few years back. Though her body was never recovered.”

For a long moment, Sylvanas did not reply. The drum of the rain drowned out other noises, so that the sounds of the harbour could only just be heard from the nearby dock districts. Light spilled from the windows of houses, restaurants, and taverns, along with the sounds of merriment from within. Only a few others wandered the streets in this part of town. Mostly Proudmoore guards, the occasional lieutenant on foot, or even a nobleman's carriage bearing some lesser House's coat of arms.

Finally, Sylvanas turned away from the inn which they had been heading towards, and instead strode off in the direction of the docks. "Nathanos, see that our rooms are cancelled for the evening. Anya, arrange for the first ferry to Drustvar. I want us there by daybreak."

Whereas Anya inclined her head and then seemed to melt into the shadows, Nathanos sighed. He made no movement. "The likelihood of finding her is very slim. And even if we do manage to miraculously stumble across her corpse, it will be too far gone for her people to accept her back into proper society."

"You misunderstand me. I mean to find her alive. And failing that, we will procure someone suitable to serve as a nephew to this Norwington fellow. Now," she swung her gaze towards him, her eyes burning through the late afternoon gloom. "I believe I gave you an order, Blightcaller."

Removing his kettle hat, he swept it to his decrepit heart and bowed. "I live to serve the Dark Lady."

Sylvanas watched him with a scowl. When he straightened and departed to do as she commanded, she called after him. “And get rid of that outfit before we leave!”

--

The only good thing Sylvanas could say about Arom's Stand was that at least it wasn't raining. Instead, it was snowing. The hills were surrounded by steep mountains, which already bore their white winter coats. Sylvanas could just make out their ridges in the distance through the scattering of snowfall.

The town itself wasn't much in and of itself. An open stable and rink, where a few horses huddled together for warmth. A mere handful of ramshackle buildings precariously perched together so that they seem to lean towards one another -- not unlike the horses. It was mid morning, but already the lanterns hung over each doorpost were lit, shedding pools of warm yellowish light through the drifts.

It had taken them the morning to get from the little docks where the ferry had unceremoniously dumped them. At least they hadn't been forced to hike the whole way. Sylvanas was willing to suffer few indignities these days. Walking through miles of snow was not one of them. She had scarcely waited until the ferryman was out of sight before she summoned skeletal horses from the earth. The bones had leapt from the ground with an eagerness that had momentarily shocked her. As though the land of Drustvar were hungry for life beyond the grave.

Now at Arom's Strand, the supposed heart of the noble witch-hunting Order of Embers, she saw only one person walking about. And that was a man who staggered out of what appeared to be a shabby little tavern to piss into the snowbank.

"Charming place," Sylvanas muttered. Her skeletal horse stamped a bony hoof as if in agreement.

“Seems like work is slow,” Nathanos noted.

The haughty timbre Anya’s voice was unmistakable as one of the rangers behind them replied, “They must have run out of witches to burn.”

For all that, Sylvanas spied a few tokens strung over the doorways. Bits of bone carved with scrimshaw and bound in leather strips. Kul Tirans were sailors, through and through. And sailors were a superstitious lot.

The man out the front of the tavern was fumbling with the drawstrings of his breeches once more, tying them firmly in place. He had not seemed to have noticed their presence, for he stumbled back into the tavern without any hesitation. The door slammed shut behind him.

“And apparently they’ve run out of wits as well,” Anya added.

“But not drink,” said Nathanos.

That earned a brief titter of shadowy laughter from both Anya and the other ranger, Velonara.

Slipping her feet from the stirrups, Sylvanas dismounted. The moment she stepped away from the horse, its form collapsed in a rush of dry bone and dust, which marked the pale snow. She ignored the antics of Nathanos and her rangers, as well as their sudden sharp attention upon her when she started wading her way through the snow towards the tavern.

"We should gather any intel before you go in alone, my Queen," Velonara said.

Sylvanas did not stop. Nor did she turn around to glance at them. The snow came up to just below her knees. She grunted as she all but kicked a path for her calves. "If I want to be coddled, I will tell you," she said. "Otherwise, you are to wait for me outside."

Behind her, Nathanos made a disgruntled noise, which was not parroted by the rangers, though Sylvanas did not need to look around to know that their expressions would be blankly unimpressed. They did not question her further, however. And by the time she reached the steps leading to the tavern, they had vanished.

Sylvanas took a moment to knock her armoured ankles against the topmost step to loosen any remaining snow before approaching the door. Unlike the inns and taverns at Boralus, this establishment lacked the sound of lively laughter and conversation, of feet stamping along to the rhythm of a fiddle while patrons drunkenly sang along to the chorus of their favourite sea shanties. Here, the windows were blackened with soot, barely leaking through the firelight from within.

When she opened the door and stepped inside, every patron turned to regard her with a steady gaze. There were not many of them. A mere five, and that included the barkeep. More witch's tokens were strung up along the rafters alongside the cobwebs. Bits of bone and thorn wound together. Even a little wicker effigy had been affixed over the fireplace beneath the sun-bleached skull of a deer. Steps wound up the opposite side of the room, leading to what she assumed were the barkeep's accommodations. The barkeep himself had his feet propped atop a cask of ale behind the counter. His apron bore a series of stains all along the once white linen. He tilted his hat back to get a better look at her.

The other four all wore dark-washed tabards with a flame-like symbol woven into the fabric with copper thread. Three of them nursed chipped tankards of ale. The fourth was a red-haired slip of a girl who held a knife in her hands, its point digging into the wooden benchtop. After a long moment, they all turned away from her. They returned to their own closed circle of conversation, taking up every last seat at the bar. Their voices were hushed murmurs and rumbles.

Sylvanas strode straight up to the end of the bar and leaned her elbow against it. Her voice cut through their soft-spoken phrases like a claw through hide. "I am looking for members of the Order of Embers. That's you, isn't it?"

One of the men, a tall burly human with bushy black sideburns, set down his drink. "We might be."

At that, Sylvanas gave their tabards a pointed glance. His colleague, a great hulking woman with shoulders like a shipwreck and a scar running down her left cheek, rolled her eyes.

"Enough of that, Sterntide." She jerked her head towards Sylvanas. "Joan Cleardawn. Marshal of the Order.” She gestured towards the others in turn. “This is Sterntide. Notley. And Mace. Not many strangers come 'round these parts nowadays. Have you gotten lost?"

"No," said Sylvanas.

Sterntide, for all his gruff demeanor, motioned towards the barkeep for another drink. When the barkeep pulled out an extra tankard for their guest, Sylvanas shook her head curtly. "Nothing for me."

She drummed her clawed gauntlet against the wooden bartop. Beside her, the slight red-haired woman named Mace fiddled restlessly with the knife in her hands. She scraped little carvings into the scarred wood. From this angle, Sylvanas could just make out the beginnings of an animal skull, though which kind was yet to be determined. Certainly, there were some very sharp teeth involved.

Sylvanas looked away from the carvings. "I was told your Order still keeps in regular contact with the Drust," she continued. "I am looking for one of their kind. A Thornspeaker."

The other man, Notley, slight of build but still fiendishly tall -- a trait of all Kul Tirans, it seemed -- leaned over his drink to get a better look at her. Sylvanas did not move in the slightest, despite how close he drew. He smelled of ale and woodsmoke. There were twin falcon's feathers affixed to the edges of his cloak. Finally, realisation crossed his features. He leaned back in his seat.

"Undead," he remarked. "Don't know why your kind bother. No Thornspeaker can help you, you know."

Sylvanas frowned at him. "Nevertheless, I would speak with one."

"Why?" he asked.

None of their expressions seemed overtly hostile upon learning what she was. Wary, to be sure. But not hostile. Not even remotely surprised. As though the dead frequently walked into their frozen hamlet, which barely warranted a mark on a map.

Briefly, Sylvanas considered her chances of getting away with a lie. This crowd did not seem easily deterred, however. "I am looking for someone," she finally admitted. "One of the Thornspeakers everyone thinks died in your Drust incursion some time ago."

Sterntide grunted into his cup. Lowering it, he wiped foam from his moustache with the back of his hand. "You one of those, aren't you?"

Sylvanas' eyes narrowed dangerously, and her ears lowered just a fraction. "I do not follow."

"Had a group of hunters out here last fortnight, wanting to go trawling through the Crimson Forest." Sterntide gestured emphatically with his tankard, sloshing a bit of ale onto the bartop. "I told them, I said, 'Don't do it. That forest is protected. Eat you alive, it will.' They didn't listen." He waved his free hand dismissively, then raised his tankard of ale back to his lips. "Haven't seen them since, poor bastards."

Cleardawn joined in as well. There was a dark furrow in her brow, and the scar on her cheek creased when she spoke. "Some bloody idiots heard there was an ancient Thornspeaker born of the Wild God, Athair, living in these parts. And off they trotted to the mountains, hoping to bring it down with silver arrows. Got themselves ripped to bloody shreds by the Drust ghosts at Gol Osigr." She snorted, shaking her head.

Mace stabbed her knife into the bartop so that it stuck in place, its hilt quivering. "You know, I saw a hunter selling broken arrows down in Corlain last month? Claimed they'd been pulled from that Thornspeaker's bloody hide, and that they could fell any beast, living or dead. Sold them for their weight in gold to some sad sack of shit from Boralus, too."

Sylvanas had not come here for tall tales, but it seemed she would be subjected to them regardless. She almost wished she had taken up their offer on a drink. And that alcohol still had any effect on her whatsoever.

"I am not looking to sell pieces of the Thornspeaker off for gold," Sylvanas said. She stopped rapping her fingers against the bartop, her palm splaying out across the gridwork of carvings all across the wood grain. "I only wish to talk."

The wary expressions returned.

"What for?" Notley pressed. His free hand stroked along the fletching of a quiver at his hip, though his bow was nowhere in sight.

"Yeah, and why not?" Sterntide added.

Sylvanas had to stamp down the urge to roll her eyes. "Do you know, or don't you?"

Silence. And then -

"Gol Inath," Mace whispered. She had taken up the knife once again, and was nervously digging a sprawling array of antlers from the skull carving. "The High Thornspeaker lives at Gol Inath."

The moment the name of that place was spoken, a wind buffeted down the chimney, and the fire flickered and snapped. Sterntide spat over his left shoulder. Notley fidgeted with his arrows. Even the unshakeable mountain of a woman, Cleardawn, cast a nervous glance towards the hearth.

For her part, Sylvanas lifted an eyebrow. "And how do I find Gol Inath?"

"You don't," Cleardawn said darkly. "It finds you."

"How very unhelpful," drawled Sylvanas.

"Watch your tone," the barkeep growled. It was the first thing he had said since her arrival. His doughy face was ghostly pale, his expression hard as wrought iron. "You don't know what you're talking about. You don't know shit."

Straightening somewhat, Sylvanas grudgingly kept her tone neutral when she said, "Can you at least give me a hint? A general vicinity, perhaps?"

She tried to catch the eye of the members of the Order of Embers, but they were all looking towards Cleardawn, as if waiting for her answer, or perhaps for her permission before they spoke out of turn. For that matter, Cleardawn was watching Sylvanas with serious eyes. "I don't like sending strangers off to their death," she explained. "It's not very host-like, see?"

"I think you'll find it's all far too late for that." Sylvanas gestured to herself with a humourless smile.

Even so, Cleardawn shook her head. The smile disappeared, and Sylvanas could feel the ire growing in her chest like a living thing. Before she could open her mouth however, Cleardawn sighed.

“Follow the old silver mines west down the cliffs." She pointed towards the western-most wall, which bore a brace of gutted hares that were tied up by their feet. "From here, you can see the great tree at the centre of the Crimson Forest. That's where you're headed. Mark me, stranger." Cleardawn leaned her bulk against the bartop as she fixed Sylvanas with a hard look. "The way may seem easy. But it isn't. Tides preserve you."

Inclining her head, Sylvanas murmured, "I shall not keep you from your cups any further."

When she turned to walk away, they did not immediately strike up their conversation again. She could feel their eyes upon her, and she distinctly heard Sterntide mutter under his breath, "Poor sod."

Sylvanas stopped in the doorway, her fingers upon the handle. She was craning her neck to study a tangle of briar thorns that had been placed over the entryway, strung with other smaller tokens. “I thought your Order was founded to combat witchcraft,” she mused aloud. She reached up to gently turn one of the tokens between her fingers. It was the yellowish fang of some indeterminate animal. A large cat endemic to the area, perhaps.  

“Aye,” said Cleardawn from the bar. “But the best way to fight witchcraft is with witchcraft. Take one with you, stranger. May it protect you, where your arrows can’t.”

Running her thumb along the blunt edge of the tooth, Sylvanas stood silently for a moment. She did not know what compelled her to do it, but she tugged the token free. The bit of twine that tethered it in place snapped. It was heavy in her palm, like a lodestone. Closing her fingers around the token, Sylvanas pushed open the door and stepped outside.

“Cheerful lot, aren’t they?” murmured Anya’s voice.

Sylvanas glanced over to see three pairs of eyes glinting at her from the shadows of the tavern’s eaves. She worried her thumb against the tooth’s blunted point, thoughtful. “I want to see the map again.”

Those eyes blinked owlishly. Then, Nathanos stepped forward. He pulled a folded scrap of parchment from the breast pocket of his coat, and handed it over. As Sylvanas unfolded it, she gestured for the other two to gather round. Together, they stood out of the way of the first story window of the tavern.

“We will divide Drustvar into scouting regions. Gather information. Find me this lost heir to the Proudmoore line.” Using the tip of the tooth, Sylvanas pointed to eastern coast of Drustvar. “Anya, you will take everything from Carver’s Harbour to Fletcher’s Hollow. Nathanos, you have the mountains all the way to Gol Koval. Velonara, take Waycrest Manor to Corlain. Which leaves…”

The fang hovered over the southwest peninsula of Drustvar. The map there had no markings titling it apart from a small town named Falconhurst at the inlet south of the Crimson Forest. The forest itself was a blank mass of branches. And at its very centre a massive tree. The locals who had penned this map had not dared to put the tree’s name to paper. As the fang circled round the tree, it seemed to push away from the location as if magnetically repelled.

“I for one do not like this plan,” said Nathanos. His statement was met with grave nods from both Anya and Velonara. “It’s too risky. We are stronger together.”

Folding the map back up, Sylvanas carefully traced the creases in the parchment between her pinched fingers. “We are also slower together,” she said. “And we have a great deal of ground to cover.”

She was fixed by three nearly identical glowers of disapproval.

Sylvanas glared right back. "Oh, I'm sorry," she growled. "Did this become a democracy when I wasn't looking?"

Anya huffed. Velonara rolled her eyes. Nathanos, for his part, held out his hand for the map. Sylvanas slapped the piece of paper into his palm.

"You have your orders," she said. "Now, follow them. We will meet back here in a week. Do try to refrain from any notions of rebellion in my absence."

"I for one make no promises," Velonara said.

Meanwhile, Anya added, "I distinctly remember your original platform being founded on the idea of rebellion, in fact."

"Spare me the sass, you two," sighed Sylvanas. "I thought death was supposed to be peaceful."

Jerking his thumb towards the other two, Nathanos said, "And you still kept these jackals around?" He tsked and shook his head in a reprimanding fashion.

Velonara made a rude gesture with her fingers, while Anya jostled Nathanos with her very bony elbow. He bore the injustice with a grunt of discomfort.

"Just as well you three aren't left alone together," Sylvanas muttered, not bothering to keep her voice down. "I'd come back to find the rest of Drustvar in flames."

Anya tried for a look of wide-eyed innocence, but on her impish face it only made her appear more devious. "And let Ashvane and Stormsong have all the fun?"

Sighing, Sylvanas tucked the fang into a leather pouch at her waist. "No inciting a civil war until we're well and truly ready to profit from one. Now," she waved at them as if trying to swat a swarm of flies in the air. "Go."

They went, but not without mocking little bows in her direction, each accompanied by a murmured, "For the Dark Lady."

With a shake of her head, Sylvanas waited until they had set off before making her own way around the outside of the tavern. Behind it was a stone walkway that traced the edge of the sheer cliffs that Cleardawn had spoken of earlier. A falcon was perched atop an outcropping. Its head was tucked beneath its wing, but it rustled its feathers and peered blearily at her when she stopped nearby. It chirped at her. A length of dyed leather was bound to one of its legs, and a scattering of rodent bones lay beneath its perch.

Sylvanas ignored the falcon in favour of looking over the cliffside. The snowfall had lessened. Only a few small white clumps drifted through the air now. Somehow it felt warmer up here than in the miserable rain of Boralus; the blanket of new snow and cloud acted as a layer of insulation. Even if Sylvanas had not been Undead, she would not have needed the luxury of a heavy cloak.

Dug into the slope were the abandoned silvermines, their rail carts barely visible from beneath the cliff's dramatic overhang. The lengths of steel seemed to shunt to nowhere, and with a crane of her neck she could just make out that segments of the rail line had been shorn off and carted away, cannibalised by the locals for alternative use. The snow sank slowly downwards, far below, and from this altitude Sylvanas could see the point at which the air grew too warm and turned it to rain. A mist clung to the tops of trees that seemed caught in a stasis of autumn.

Even from here, the enormous tree could be seen. It loomed through the mist, a sprawling colossus of nature. Its twisted limbs were bare and skeletal through the fog, like a mythological being that had been petrified in place, struck down by some rival god in the very midst of battle. A path cut its way from the silver mines down to the forest's edge, but there it stopped dead in its tracks, overgrown with wild underbrush and tangles of briary roses that had long since lost their blooms.

Something rapped against her wrist. Sylvanas' head swung round sharply, only to find that the falcon had hopped down from its perch and ambled towards her along the stone railing where her hands had clenched themselves into fists. The bird was toying at a tarnished buckle of her vambrace.

"Plucky little thing," Sylvanas muttered. Then she waved it away, and turned aside to begin her descent.

The cliffs were broken only by a single steep slope at the edge of Arom's Stand. It was clearly marked as the road to Corlain by a lonely lantern that shed its dim light onto a signpost beneath it, scrawled in a blackletter script that had faded with age. It took longer than she would have liked to traverse the switchbacks through the silver mines. Her only blessing was that the further down she went, the more the snow receded, until she could stride unencumbered across the path.

The ground here was marked with the grooves of merchant's carts that had traveled for years across these roads, heavy-laden with goods from Corlain. Mud congealed along the tracks, and puddles gathered in the ruts. The melted snows were a fine drizzle that misted the air, obscuring vision so that the mountains faded behind her into haze-riddled shapes.

When Sylvanas reached the treeline, she paused. The road curved well around the Crimson Forest, giving the woods a wide berth. She lingered between the two. Her eyes scanned the canopy, where a raven watched her in turn with a steady gaze. After a moment it took flight, its strident cry sending a flurry of smaller birds scattering in its wake. She squinted, but even her heightened senses could not pierce the veil of shadow that clung to the underbrush. The woods were thickly-woven, their branches a loom that threaded together, offering no clear path forward. A hunting knife would do little in the way of hacking through that dense thicket. The broadest axe would struggle.

The cries of the raven were fading into the distance. When Sylvanas took her first step past the trees, the weight of the fang in her pouch seemed heavier, tugging at her belt with every footfall. She ignored it and ducked beneath a branch, pressing onwards. Overhead, the dense canopy began to weave together as she ventured further into the woods, until what meagre sunlight Kul Tiras had to offer could not be found in any trace.

Steadily, her eyes adjusted. Her ears pricked at any wayward sound, alert and on guard, though she kept her bow strung over her shoulder rather than firmly in her grasp. Sylvanas had spent many years of her former life traversing deep woods, and often she would dwell upon those memories still, memories of better times, some of the best in her life. If asked, she would consider herself an expert, but this was like no forest she had encountered in the past, alive or dead.

A forest was alive. It breathed. It teemed with all manner of creatures. It had a rhythm. This place had none of those qualities. It was absolutely still. Neither breath of wind nor life. Mist clung to her ankles when she walked, disturbed by her movements, only to settle back into inaction in her wake. She was a disturbance. An unwelcome guest at a funerary rite.

Where at the entrance to the forest, the enormous tree at its heart had towered above the others, now Sylvanas could see nothing of it. Any vantage point, any reference had vanished like smoke. She carried no compass; she had dead reckoning and had never found the need for one in the past. Something told her that even if she had thought to bring one however, it would be of little use here. Cocking her head, she continued southwest.

The forest offered very little in the way of landmarks. The landscape here had a repetitious quality. Same colours. Same sounds. Same patterns. Once Sylvanas could have sworn she heard the rustle of something in the distance, but it was beyond her vision.

Eventually she came across a distinct clearing. It was presided over by a black and twisted ash tree -- the victim of an old fire, no doubt. Even its roots still appeared scorched. While the other trees had regrown over time, this little glade remained untouched. As she drew near, Sylvanas paused. In the centre of the clearing a wicker man had been erected. It was a larger copy of the one Sylvanas had seen at the tavern in Arom's Stand. A group of superstitious hunters must have put it here to guard them while they slept.

Sylvanas took note of the surrounding area before pressing onwards. With near silent footfalls, she stalked the woods. The most she came across in terms of living creatures were a few unwary hares with grey coats, and the sporadic raven that croaked balefully at her from the trees. Nothing larger let itself be known however. Normally, she would have expected to stumble across the path of deer, or wild boars, or even predators that had little fear of humans in such untouched areas. But not here.

Hours passed as she walked. The space between the trees were beginning to darken as evening approached. Sylvanas glanced around, then froze.

The old flame-blackened ash tree stood, stark as a pillar, not a stone's throw ahead of her. Slowly, Sylvanas approached it once more. A wary hand strayed to the bow slung across her shoulders, but she did not draw the weapon yet. She stopped at the edge of the clearing, her fingers just grazing the handle of her bow, waiting.

The wicker man was slumped against the stick that held it upright, utterly unchanged from when she had first been here. Instead of hands, it had bear claws bound to its wrists with coils of thick flaxen rope, the kind one might use on a ship's deck. Its head had the length and shape of a wolf's skull, but for the set of antlers coronating it like a crown. The skull was tilted down and to one side, as though its maker had pushed its face away.

Had it looked aside like that before? Sylvanas cast her mind back, but could not be completely sure. Perhaps this was a series of camps, created by hunters or whoever else dared traversed these woods.

Sylvanas lowered her hand from the bow. She drew the silver hunting knife from her boot, and scored the withered bark of the tree. Then, sheathing the knife, she continued on her way.

Night was swiftly upon her. In the darkness, the woods grew vast and deep. No starlight could reach her here. Not even rain. The patter of gentle rainfall had long since vanished during her wandering, but the mist remained. In life, her night vision could never have rivaled those of her cousins across the sea in Kalimdor. In death however, Sylvanas needed very little by way of light to see. Even so, there was nothing to be done about the dense vegetation that obstructed her at every turn. In some areas, the woods grew so thickly together that she had to squeeze her way through narrow gaps between trunks, and the sharp branches would snag upon her clothing, as if attempting to drag her back.

A few more hours. She was sure she was gaining ground on her final destination, when she saw it.

The ash tree. Black as basalt. The mark Sylvanas had left in the bark was bleeding like a wound with a substance too dark to be sap. And in its bare spiny branches, a dark shape lurked with arms outstretched.

In a single fluid motion, Sylvanas drew her bow. The fletching of an arrow was brushing her cheek, ready to be fired, but she paused. She relaxed the bowstring, lowering the weapon just slightly. A wary step forward. Then another.

The shape was unmoving. It dripped onto the ground. Quickly, Sylvanas put away her bow and arrow, and pulled flint from her pocket. A moment later she was lifting a torch towards the tree.

A wolf had been flayed and perched in its branches, as though stored there by a shrike. Its ribs were cracked open, its belly slit, its head was missing, and its entrails spilled onto the forest floor. All but its heart, which had been staked onto the chest of the wicker man in the clearing.

With a soft grunt, Sylvanas studied the wolf a moment longer. She removed the glove from her spare hand with her teeth, and reached out to touch it. The blood of its offal was still warm. A fresh kill.

Scowling, Sylvanas wiped her fingers clean, put her glove back on, and strode into the clearing. The wicker man was looking straight ahead now, a watchful guardian of the empty grove. For a fleeting instant, she considered setting it alight with the tip of her torch, but some whispered misgiving stayed her hand. The urge to at least turn its head aside once more was too great however, and she nudged the skull with the toe of her boot so that it would not watch her while she made camp.

When she had a small fire going, she pulled out a piece of parchment and retraced her steps. A few strokes here and there with a bit of charcoal from the fire, and Sylvanas had a makeshift map of where she had gone through the Crimson Forest so far. Or at least, where she thought she had gone. Everything in her body, every last scrap of experience told her that she had been travelling southwest the entire time. There were very little hills. The hills were flat for the most part, broken only by gentle slopes here and there. From memory she charted the gullies, and came to the conclusion that she must have gotten turned around at one end, so that she continued back down her path towards the ash tree on multiple occasions.

The magic of this place would be muddying her sense of direction. That was evident. Her first course of action from here would be to find a river or stream. If it were fresh, it would be fed from the glaciers to the east. She could follow the water away from its source, and in the direction of Gol Inath.

The fire was burning low, simmering to its bed of coals. For the first time in Kul Tiras, Sylvanas' clothes were at last starting to feel dry. She counted her luck on that front, at least. Unless there was a truly torrential downpour, she would be spared wet clothes for a while yet.

In the dead of night, the noises of the woods were hushed but present. The ravens had faded in the wake of owls and the chirp of nocturnal insects. A few moths danced dangerously close to the flames, and the whine of some bold mosquitos ventured near, only to find her a poor meal indeed.

Slowly, her hands grew heavy. Her wrist slumped, and the bit of charcoal dragged a ragged path against the parchment in her grasp. Sylvanas blinked against it, straightening her posture. But a few moments later, and her shoulders sinking down once more. The fire flickered limply against the weight of the night air, until even the stray sparks were pushed down into the flames.

Sleep should not have been possible -- Sylvanas could fuzzily recall the last time she had experienced it nearly a generation ago -- but she closed her eyes, and it claimed her regardless.

She was standing at the summit of Icecrown Citadel. The wind whipped her long cloak into a frenzy around her ankles. The balls of her feet were balanced at the very edge of the frozen fortification, and when she looked down, nothing but darkness awaited her below. Her foot lifted. She stepped forward and off the ledge. And when she fell -- down, down -- she was not met with the slam of ice and rock, but with the feeling of something catching tight around her neck and yanking, so that she dangled from the Lich King's lair like a trophy for all to see.

Sylvanas wrenched awake with a gasp. Her chest heaved, lungs working for breath that she no longer needed. She started to reach up to touch her neck, but something crumpled in her fists. She looked down. The parchment she had been using for a map was now a mass of black -- smeared from every edge and ragged corner -- and in her other hand the charcoal had been worn down to a nub. She threw the parchment and charcoal aside. The fingers of her gloves were grimy with dark ash.

At her feet, the fire had burned down to a bed of pink and white coals. They shed a feeble scarlet light onto her surroundings. And across from the coals, the wicker man cast a looming shadow against the trees. Its skull was turned directly towards her, and the hollow sockets of its eyes gleamed in the dying light.

Scrambling upright, Sylvanas kicked dirt over the coals until they were smothered. Then, she snatched up the quiver and bow from the ground where she had left them within arm's reach. Fastening them across her shoulders once more, she glowered at the woods. They stood impassively. She aimed a last glare at the wicker man, which seemed to stare back at her.

Sylvanas bared her sharp teeth and hissed softly, “Stay out of my head.” Then she kicked the skull back to the side to stop it from looking at her, and strode from the clearing.

Dawn was not far off. An hour or two of brisk walking, and the trees seemed to lighten in colour somewhat, so that the low-slung mist that pervaded the forest brightened. She stalked through it viciously, her eyes burning as tendrils of fog swirled around her feet.

She headed dead south. A completely new direction today. At least if she went too far and somehow passed by Gol Inath, she would wind up in Falconhurst. From there she could gather more intel from the local farmers and trappers, before heading back into the forest.

The gullies in this direction grew steep. More than once, Sylvanas had to gingerly pick her way down the slopes, or risk making enough noise to alert every predator of her presence from here to Corlain. She knew now that there were wolves in these parts. Even if the only one she had seen so far had been killed by unknown hands.

Nearly the whole day she walked. Never pausing. Never relenting. She sought a water source -- there must be one; there must -- but even the most meagre of streams eluded her. Eventually she abandoned caution. She pressed through the trees with a recklessness that would have gotten her scolded by her mother as a child learning to hunt for the first time.

Whereas the day before the woods had treated her with a cold indifference, today they seemed guarded. As though she were being observed by a massive crowd of people who muttered in disapproval about her presence. Once or twice, Sylvanas could have sworn she saw something moving at the corner of her vision -- an enormous shape slouching between the trees. Her ears would cock forward in search of any noise, and her head would whip around, only to find nothing. But always the unpleasant feeling lingered. Of being watched. Of a hand reaching through the dark to grasp her shoulder and wrench her round.

After hours and hours of trekking, Sylvanas clambered up a steep incline, then went stock still.

That damn ash tree. Again. The wolf was still there. Its entrails were gone. Bloody smears were dragged along the ground from the base of the tree. Something must have come along and eaten the offal. And of course, the fucking wicker man was there, too.

Swearing -- not bothering to keep her voice down -- Sylvanas  scowled up at the tree. It was growing dark again. A whole day. Wasted.

She fumed. She paced the clearing. She pulled the fang from her pouch and rubbed it between the fingers of one hand. Then, she dropped down on her haunches in front of the wicker man to glare at it, close enough that her nose was but a finger-breadth away.

"I am growing rather tired of this game," Syvlanas growled.

The wicker man of course made no reply.

That night she dreamt of Frostmourne. The blade plunged beneath her ribcage while she knelt in a field of golden flowers. And when she slumped to the ground, she was drowning in a sea of petals. They got into her mouth, into her throat. They filled her lungs until she choked on golden blooms.  

She awoke panting for air, and her initial bout of panic seethed into fury. Coils of her banshee form curled from her body like black smoke. The fire she had built a few hours ago spluttered when she rose to her feet, shadows gathering close around her. The wicker man watched in stolid silence.

Sylvanas snarled something wordless, the noise echoing. Her hands were clenched into trembling fists. The fang dug into her palm until it began to pierce the glove of her clawed gauntlet. Without thinking, she hurled the little witch’s token at the wicker man in a fit of anger.

The fang never reached its intended destination. No sooner had it left her hand, than it fell back at her feet, as though it had bounced against an invisible wall, or been buffeted back by an unseen wind.

Sylvanas blinked. Slowly the anger boiled low in her stomach until it was just a metallic taste on the back of her tongue instead of the wild thing that gripped her jaws. She reached down, hesitated a moment, then picked up the fang from the ground. Turning it over thoughtfully between her fingers, she looked between the fang and the wicker man. Then, she tore a thin strip of cloth from her cloak. She used her knife to bore a hole through the thickest section of bone, and looped the fabric through until the fang hung from a knot.

When she held it up to the wicker man, the fang pushed away at the end of the length of cloth like a pendulum.  

“Well, well…” Sylvanas murmured. She pulled her hand back so that the witch’s token hung normally from her grasp. “It seems I have a compass after all.”

If Sylvanas had thought the Crimson Forest an untraversable warren before, her mind was not changed now. In one hand she held the makeshift compass aloft like a lantern. It would swing wildly about with every step, always pushing away from the heart of the woods. The further she ventured, the more the fang strained at the end of its strip of cloth, as if trying to drag her back to safety. And with every step she ignored its warnings, pushing ever inwards.

Her ears pricked at the first sound of trickling water, and not long after she came across a stream. It was small enough for her to step across, but she felt triumphant nonetheless. Any change in scenery was welcome. Especially if it meant she didn’t have to cross paths with that wicker man again.

The next time she did, she would stuff it full of arrows.

As time went on, the sensation of being watched only intensified. The ravens ruffling their feathers upon high branches were eerily quiet. Something rustled through the underbrush, the sounds animal-like at first, only to prove itself a breeze when Sylvanas inspected the source more closely.

And then the fang began to spin in circles, like a needle skipping over a track. Sylvanas glanced down at the slope beneath her feet, looking around to get her bearings. Another little hillock protruded from the ground not far off. And another beyond that. It was then that she realised they were not hills at all, but roots that had been grown over with earth.

Stuffing the fang back into its pouch, she continued to climb. The roots levelled out, and gradually the trees began to thin. She could see patches of sky riddled with a scarlet haze from the light of the setting sun slanting through the atmosphere. The fog slithered along the ground here, flowing past Sylvanas in slow ripples. The sound of rushing water grew louder and steadier. She hastened her step, her hand straying to the bow, drawing it from her shoulders.

In the epicentre of the forest, Gol Inath sprawled. Waterfalls flowed beside it, feeding pools of water that shed the mist that pervaded the woods. The colossal tree’s bulging twisted limbs were bare and grey. So broad was its trunk, a hundred men could not hope to encircle it. And at its very base, a pointed stone arch had been built, fragments of stone staggered along the path leading to it like a series of broken tombstones to a monument.

The air here was heavy. The taste of it lingered on the back of her tongue like the tang of copper. Cautiously, her eyes scanning the clearing for any hint of movement, Sylvanas stepped forward. The path to the enormous tree was clear, but every instinct urged her that this was a lie. With every step closer, she waited for an attack to come, until she stood directly before Gol Inath, peering into its hollow trunk.

The space beneath the archway was a black beyond black. She could just make out stairs leading down into the ground beneath the tree. In the stones above the entryway, runes had been chiselled. They glowed with a spectral blue light that pulsed with a slow steady rhythm, as though they were breathing.

Sylvanas lifted her foot to take that first step inside, when a voice echoed around the clearing, “I wouldn’t, if I were you.”

In a blur of motion, Sylvanas whirled about, nocked an arrow and pulled it back, ready to fire. She aimed down the shaft of the arrow, but nobody stood behind her. The clearing was empty. The only other noise was the series of waterfalls, which splashed against rocks and gnarled roots.

“I see you are no different from the other hunters, then,” said the voice again. Its owner sounded weary, feminine, and slightly bored.

Sylvanas shifted her grip upon the bow. Then, warily, she slackened her bowstring. She lowered the weapon, but did not put it away, her fingers holding the arrow steady. “I am looking for someone. I was told you trained her. Assuming you are the High Thornspeaker, of course.”

Silence. When the voice spoke again, it seemed to come from a different angle, and Sylvanas’ head snapped around to follow it. “It’s rare I receive new pupils, though not completely unheard of.”

“Not recently, no. You would have trained her years ago.”

This time, the silence seemed contemplative. Curious, even. A breath of wind stirred behind her, and when Sylvanas turned around once more, a tall figure stood beneath the stone archway of Gol Inath. A sickle-shaped staff was clutched in one clawed hand that appeared to be made of the same wood as the staff. The woman’s face was obscured by an antlered skull with teeth far sharper than a deer ought to have. Her broad shoulders bore a fine mantle of woven feathers and leaves, dark as the forest itself.

“Strange,” said Ulfar, her voice a wine-black murmur beneath the mask. “You are not a member of the Order of Embers, yet you bear one of my tokens."

The fang was a steady weight in Sylvanas’ pouch. “One of the Order gave it to me as a parting gift.” Sylvanas lowered her bow fully, then placed it and the arrow over her shoulder. She studied the glowing runes carved into the skull’s antlers, similar to those carved into the archway. A multitude of tokens and charms wrought from stones and thorns and animal bones were clustered at Ulfar’s belt, or hidden among the folds of her clothing. Sylvanas nodded towards them. "They told me you were the High Thornspeaker, but they failed to inform me you were also a witch."

Ulfar’s hand tightened around her staff, and the skull swung round. The fathomless sockets of its eyes stared at her in a menacing way. "I am not a witch," came the hissed reply.

Raising her hands, palm up, Sylvanas said, “Peace, Ulfar. I meant no disrespect.”

Ulfar cocked her head to one side in a curious tilt. “Your information is outdated, stranger. I am not Ulfar. He is no longer with us. I am his successor.”

Sylvanas frowned. “Then what should I call you?”

“Jaina.”

--

title from:

“In my body you search the mountain for the sun buried in its forest. In your body I search for the boat adrift in the middle of the night.”

— Octavio Paz, from Counterparts (tr. by Eliot Weinberger)

[eponymiad]

Queen’s Thief Appreciation Day Four: An AU (this is a country western AU. Drag me for it, if you must. I deserve it. But it has been a JOY to write). 

Irene's friends drag her out to a country western bar. She's less than thrilled to be there. Helen's obnoxious cousin, on the other hand, is thrilled.

*

Irene can’t believe her friends tricked her into a night out at this godforsaken country western bar again. She’s leaning against a wall in the darkest, emptiest corner of the bar and she’s— well, she’s painfully aware of what a TV stereotype she looks like, brooding in a corner, sipping her double whiskey and glowering at the crowded dance floor. She’s not going to pretend otherwise.

She’s still annoyed when her brooding is interrupted.

“Those are really cool earrings.”

She jumps at the sudden voice in her ear, close and loud enough to be heard over the music. Irene turns to look at the guy, who looks pleased to have gotten a reaction. How the hell hadn’t she seen him walk up?

Irene knows him, but can’t seem to place him. He’s got warm, brown skin; dark, curly hair, and... Oh. He only has one hand.

Helen’s cousin.

Irene can’t remember his name— something old-school, maybe a family name? Or religious?— even though they’ve met a few times, at bars and parties. He’s much younger, and from what she can remember, immature and desperate for attention.

Clearly that hasn’t changed. He’s managed to take the western theme entirely too seriously. He’s in a Nudie suit — dear gods, did he own this already? — embroidered with erupting volcanoes, some men sword-fighting, and what looks, inexplicably, like elephants. His brown leather cowboy boots have matching gold accents, and his double ear piercing includes a thin gold hoop and what looks like a carved sapphire stud. The entire outfit is ridiculously over the top.

Much to Irene’s irritation, it actually works.

“What?” she says. She’s distracted.

“Your earrings — they’re really cool,” he repeats.

Her hand flies up to the golden bees dangling from her ears. They’re her favorite earrings, inherited from her mother. She wouldn’t have worn them tonight if she had known she’d be coming here. “Thank you.”

He smiles at her, warm and friendly, if a little awkward. “Gen, by the way,” he says loudly, talking over the noise. “I know we’ve met but, well.” He gestures at the loud, drunken space around them as if that explains why he expected her to have forgotten him.

It probably does.

“Irene.”

“I remember,” he says with another warm smile. It tugs at something in her chest.  

“But really, what’re you doing wearing those earrings here? Those are the nicest things this bar has ever seen,” he says.

She gives his Nudie suit a once over.

“Well,” Eugenides says, with a thoughtful head tilt. “Maybe tied for the nicest thing.”

“Mmm,” she says, and half-turns back to look at the dance floor, worrying one of her earrings between her thumb and forefinger. “I thought we were going to dinner.”

From the corner of her eye, Irene can see he brightens, though she can’t imagine why.

“Well, you’d have to ask me out first, but I’d say your chances are pretty good.”

Her single raised eyebrow belies the hitch in her breath she manages to hide. That was obnoxiously smooth.

“I’m going to dance,” he says, left hand — only hand — palm up, tilted slightly toward her in offering. “Join me?”

She looks at him. “No.”

He shrugs. “Suit yourself. It was nice talking to you, Irene,” he says, and waltzes off to the dance floor. Within seconds, he’s found someone else to dance with.

*

Irene is leaning against the bar, a fresh drink in her hand, when the music shifts to something upbeat and familiar. Oh — apparently they’ve moved on to the line dancing part of the night.

She’s watching the drunken crowd dance to “Cotton-Eye Joe” when she spots Gen. He’s front and center, dancing in a group, and somehow, inexplicably…he’s good.

A line dance to “Cotton-Eyed Joe” isn’t supposed to be something anyone is good at — it’s a dance they teach five-year-olds in PE. It doesn’t involve any actual skill.

Except apparently it does. Gen is moving with a practiced grace that shouldn’t be allowed at a country western bar. He’s dancing in time with Helen and five or six other people who look as though they could be relatives . Irene wonders if they’re one of those families — it happens sometimes, a group shows up who is so good it blows everyone else in the room out of the water.

Irene can’t stop watching them.

Eugenides looks over at the bar and catches her eye. She still can’t bring herself to look away. He gives her a giant, toothy grin and, without ever looking at his dance partners, slips his right arm over one man’s shoulder, his left arm around a woman’s waist, and together they lift two women off the ground for a spin.

*

“Red wine, please. And a cup of water?”

Gen has appeared at her side again, fresh off the dance floor, face sweaty and hair a little wild.  

The bartender looks back at him funny. Gen tilts his head, feigning ignorance. Irene snorts. Gen doesn’t turn, but she sees a tiny upward tilt at the corner of his mouth.

The bartender rolls his eyes and pours the wine without any more fuss. Gen’s smile is victorious when the other man looks away.

Drinks in hand, Gen turns toward her. “Having fun?”

“Definitely,” she says, sarcastically. “Nothing more fun than fending off drunk assholes at a bar.”

Eugenides wrinkles his nose. “Well, I’m not that drunk. But point taken,” he says, with a nod, and starts to leave.

Ah, shit.

“No,” she says, with a quick hand on his elbow. He freezes. “I meant— Not you.”

“Ah,” is all he says, and takes a sip of his wine. “Why’re you here, then? Aside from admiring my dance moves.”

She gestures at the throng of people. “Got dragged out by friends. If I leave, they’ll just make me go out next weekend. If I stand here and drink my whiskey while they dance with drunk strangers, it buys me another two months.” She shrugs.  

Gen smiles. “Do you want to get some air?” he says, and gestures at the exit with his right arm.

Irene debates. She doesn’t want to give him the wrong impression — she knows what men are like. One yes and suddenly they think they’re entitled to positive answers the rest of the night. Alternatively, he seems marginally less drunk than everyone else who has approached her, and it’ll get her away from the guy who’s been leering at her across the bar for 20 minutes now.

“Sure,” she says, and heads toward the door without waiting to see if he follows.

*

Of course he follows.

Outside, where the din from the club is distant, they have a real conversation. He lives up in the mountains, and hates horses, and asks for the story behind her earrings. She tells him about the vintage jewelry collection her mom left behind, and about running her dad’s company.

“What do you do? Or are you still in school or...?”

Eugenides laughs.”I’m a computer hacker, basically. But an ethical one,” he assures her.

“What does that even mean?”

“Companies pay me to break into their systems and expose security threats. It’s fun,” he says, and waggles his eyebrows a little. Irene laughs despite herself.

They chat some more, but eventually there’s a lull in the conversation that neither of them seem to know how to fill. She’s swirling the ice in her glass idly, fighting her desperation to be home with a reluctance to end the conversation.

“Do you want another drink?” Gen says tentatively, like maybe he thought she was angling for him to buy her one.

“No, I think I’m going to head home,” she says, because the...everything is getting to her, the concentration of stimulus and emotions making her skin itch,

“Oh, okay,” he says, and he definitely sounds disappointed. Which, again, is the problem with ever telling men yes.

“I need to close out my tab though,” she says. He nods, and makes his way toward the door.

*

The dancing looks fun. It always looks fun. It’s the actual act of dancing that’s less than enjoyable. Crowded dance floors, strangers trying to touch you, people watching…

Irene wishes — though she’ll rarely even admit it to herself — that she could dance with the carefree abandon she’s seen people like Eugenides relish in her entire life. Unfortunately, she wasn’t afforded that luxury.

Irene is eying people on the dance floor while she waits for the bartender to finish up with someone else. She sees Eugenides watching her in her periphery. She looks at him. Gone is the shy kid from two minutes ago. The sly smile is back. It’s like he can see through her; it’s unnerving.

“Irene...do you want to dance?”

She hesitates, but just for a second. Fuck it.

Gen looks delighted.

He leads her out to the dance floor. The song switches just as they find an empty spot, and Irene freezes. She’s not going to do a fucking square dance, and she’s certainly not going to do it with him. Gen might have a modified choreography with his relatives, but that doesn’t mean he can manage to dance one-handed with a woman who barely knows the steps. She’s awful at following dances she doesn’t already know. She’s going to fuck this up and embarass them both.  

Somehow, Gen picks up on her exact freakout. He shakes his head. “Don’t worry,” he says. “I’ve got you. Just reach for me like you’re expecting my right hand, but I only use my left.”  

And he does.

Irene is fairly certain she wouldn’t be able to explain, even in an hour, how the hell Gen does it, but she makes it through the entire dance without messing up a single time. It’s entirely thanks to him.

It’s also...very fun.

She’s not sure how long they’ve been dancing, but Gen is spinning her every few seconds to something carefree and upbeat, her hair slipping out of her bun, when a very large man puts an arm on Eugenides’s shoulder to get his attention. Irene recognizes him from earlier — she’s fairly certain he’s one of the cousins.

“Gen,” says the man, with an accent so heavy she can hear it from the first word. “We have to go.”

Gen looks at his cousin sharply. “Why?”

“Boagus,” the man says with a heavy eye roll. “Got into a fight outside.”

Gen narrows his eyes up at the man, but eventually shakes his head in resignation.

The tall man looks from Irene to Eugenides. “I’ll meet you outside,” he says over the music, and walks off.

Eugenides turns to her. “What luck you have,” he says, and his smile is back to shy. He hesitates for a second.

Irene wants to say something — though she has no idea what — and she’s probably being ridiculous — when Gen leans forward just enough for her to realize what he’s going to do. He pauses, and gives her time to pull away. Instead, she can feel herself swaying toward him just enough that he takes it as invitation to close the gap.

He has his hand on her jaw, angling her face down toward his just a little. The kiss is far too soft and sweet for the middle of a sweaty dance floor, surrounded by drunken fools and loud, pounding music.

It’s a really nice kiss.

When he pulls away, he grins at her, a full-faced thing that makes his eyes twinkle.

“Bye,” he says, with a quick wave, and he’s gone.  

What the fuck was that?

*

Irene kicks off her kitten heels and dumps her purse on her silver entryway table the second she’s through the door.

This was a weird night, and she’s so relieved to be home she could cry. Her skin is still prickling from the kiss-and-dash, and all she wants to do is scrub the night off of her with a hot shower.

She gets the water running, and doubles back for her phone while it heats up. Maybe she’ll put on some music — ABBA or Beirut or literally anything but country music.

She flips open her crossbody bag, and sees a folded napkin she definitely didn’t put in there. Opening it, she recognizes the horse and lilies from the bar’s logo. Scribbled in terrible handwriting just below it is a name and number—

Gen

471-288-6547

*

Find it on AO3 here! 

My ETERNAL, undying love to @helvetica-upstart for the life-changing betas. 

[lyfrassirrrrrrrr]

Trying Times

Chapter 5: Totally Fucked

Here it is ladies and gentlemen, may I present to you chapter 5! We’re getting to the juice bits now folks!

Part one

...

“All hands on deck!” Martha shouts. It’s crazy how just a minute ago he and James were just talking, now look at this. John drew closer to the screen, which showed the camera feed being cut.

“Don’t the pro heroes have it covered?” James questioned as he took out his suit.

“For the most part, but it’s taking all of them to make sure Chaos doesn't do anything.. We need to evacuate the citizens” Martha said sternly, getting ‘the bus’ ready. The bus was their vehicle that they used when they went on trips. It was pretty decked out, and each kid had their own seat.

John walked up to martha, giving her a glance, he looked quite nervous as he tried to find the right words. “Martha? Am I allowed to come? George seemed… pretty pissed” he gave a nervous shrug.

The woman just gave a fond smile and reassured him that he could come. They loaded onto the bus, ready to take on the world. But nothing would be able to prepare them for what they would see.

…

The blocked off area was chaotic to say the least. Pros were everywhere trying to minimize the damage Chaos was doing, and most of them were injured. That wasn't the worst part. General George Washington was laying on the side of the road, bleeding out.

He was bloodied and bruised from almost every angle, he wouldn't respond to any of the worried shouts the children gave. Martha ordered them to go and help the civilians while her hands glew a soft green and she began to heal George. Martha had said they were here to help evacuate, but John couldn’t stand there and just let this happen. The General- the strongest hero in the world had fallen. Who’s to say the pros won’t either? Who’s to say he can beat him?

In his mind, it didn't matter. He couldn't just stand there and do anything.

…

“John what are you doing?”

John came to a screeching halt as he groaned and slowly turned to face Eliza. Now, Eliza wasn’t a junior hero to take lightly, literally. She was, well, an angel. At a young age, Eliza had been in a villain attack, having been born powerless, she was helpless and sustained heavy injuries. During surgery she had died for almost an hour. When she had come back it was a miracle. Shortly after she began to discover powers of light, and sprouted angel wings. It was across headlines everywhere. By the age of 12, she had joined the Junior heroes as ‘Miracle’

“Why does it matter, Miracle? You’ve got people to evacuate.” John said, shrugging off her concern.

“It matters because you are also supposed to be evacuating.”

“Do you see how this is going? The pro’s are getting the shit beaten out of them!” John shouted, his whole body going tense.

“John-”

“And how do you suppose we defeat them, darling?” A new voice- Thomas- drawled out. Thomas Jefferson was born from a rich family, had everything going for him. Though soon in life his father had passed and left his mother, Jane Jefferson, to provide for him. Thomas was born with a full set of hair that seemed to have a mind of his own, and he quickly earned the nickname ‘Curls’ which was now his hero name.

“Curls-” Eliza started, only to be interrupted by him once more.

“I’m not wrong, Miracle.” He’d crossed his arms and gave a glance at John, who’s eyes were glued at his feet. “We aren’t as advanced, we just gotta let them handle-”

“We have to do something, we can’t just sit here and watch our home be destroyed! Pros out there are dying- while we are doing nothing! So for God’s sake Thomas, get that stick out of your ass and help us, or there won’t be a home for these citizens to come back to!” John shouted, tears slowly welling up in his eyes as he stared down at the two.

Eliza gave a resigned sigh as she went closer to John, resting her hand on his shoulder. “Promise me, the moment it becomes too much, you’ll back out.”

John’s eyes lit up as he gave a slow but certain nod.

“Then we’ll come with you. Right, Curls?” She gave a glance at Curls, who gave a reluctant and frustrated groan.

“We get in trouble, and I blame it on you two.” He said, which Eliza only gave a laugh and nodded.

“Then let’s go.”

…

“-rge! ….George you have to wake up!” Someone.. No.. Martha? Martha had been shouting. Why? He was fine. He planned to say as much, but the moment he opened his eyes the light burned into his retinas and he had no other choice than to clamp his eyes shut. A weak groan escaped his lips as he turned over.

“M’rtha..?” He rasped out

“Yeah.. Yeah honey, it’s me.” She said, tears dripping down her cheeks as she gave a hug to her husband.

“Where..?”

“A Medic tent, you were badly injured when we found you.” She explained as she took George’s vitals.

“Oh Georgie, why are you even trying to get him back?” Chaos said, adding another kick to his ribs as he knocked George into a building. Chaos gave a psychotic look as he launched himself from the rooftop into George, who caught Chaos right before he crashed into him.

“Oh.” He hummed out, still out of his own mind due to the drugs to dull the pain. “‘’Lex…?”

“Because he’s my son, and he’s still in there!” George yelled out as he pinned Chaos to the building. He started to crystalize Chaos’ arms to the building but as he did so, Chaos only laughed

Martha’s heart wanted to shatter in two. She knew how much Alexander meant to George, and him knowing he was still out there, causing pain, it hurt so much.

“No.. we haven’t gotten him yet..”

“What’s so funny?” George spat out as he gripped Chaos tighter, causing Chaos to look right into his eyes and laugh.

“Alexander was never real, Georgie. He was just an act, don't you get it?”

George gave a frown, humming out a noise of acknowledgement. Martha could only hope he was too out of his head to really think about Alex right now, god knows how much the two of them have been feeling since he was crystalized, George more than her.

“What are you talking about..?” He flinched back, giving Chaos the opportunity to break free and grab him.

“Alexander was just an act to get close to you, and boy did it work. I never knew it would tear you up on the inside like this! Funny, isn’t it?”

Before Washington could respond Chaos threw him to the ground at full force, laughing maniacally.

“Don’t worry, we’ll get him back. Okay?” She soothingly told him, hoping to calm him down.

“Mmhm..” He drawled out, unconsciousness closing in on him.

…

Alexander sat atop a roof as he stared down at all the carnage he had created, giving a big grin as he watched the Junior heroes try to evacuate the people. Though, 3 seemed to be missing. It was only a matter of time, he supposed.

“Chaos!”

Ah, there they were! He turned around to face the owner of the voice, John Laurens, and his allies. He gave a smug grin as he raised an eyebrow.

“Stop this, come with us or we’ll use force” John said, trying his best to sound confident.

This got his full undivided attention as he slowly rose up, gripping his blade. The junior heroes stood back, knowing fully well that Chaos was dangerous.

“Funny how you think you can win when I took down your leader. Though I'm fine with the entertainment. Amuse me, will you?”

Thomas gave a growl as his hair grew into 2 hands as he tried to restrain Chaos, who simply dodged and shot a beam of green energy at him. Eliza flew up and threw balls of light around Chaos, which soon exploded onto Chaos. The smoke cleared up, his green eyes piercing through it as he ran at Eliza, quickly restraining her.

He turned his attention to John, who held his grappling hook tight. He aimed it at Chaos, his hand shaking as the demon drew closer and closer until-

“NOW!” he shouted

Alex turned around quickly, suprise painting his face as Eliza jumped up, flying with Thomas. Thomas’s hair formed into a giant fly swatter and quickly crashed down onto Alex, who shouted in suprise. John shot his grappling hook around Alex, tying him up quickly and efficiently.

“Eliza! Call Martha before-” John started before he was interrupted by a fit of laughter.

Chaos laughed harder and harder, until he just stopped, leaving the rooftop in eerie silence.

“Did we kill- WOAH-” John shouted as his hands were crystalized to the floor. He stared at his hands in confusion.. Washington..? Was he here? No. He was badly injured- then how?

Before he realized it, Chaos had thrown Eliza to the floor, breaking her left wing. Both Thomas and John yelled out in concern for Eliza, but Thomas was quickly grabbed and the tips of his hair were crystalized. Thomas managed to land a punch on the other, creating time to move Eliza to a safer spot and telling her to go get help.

Chaos launched himself into Thomas, grabbing his arm and swinging him round and round before throwing him into the side of a building.

That just left John, now. He gave a gulp as he glared down Alex, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing him terrified.

“Poor thing, powerless and alone.” Chaos said as he cupped John’s cheeks, giving a soft smile that just felt wrong. “I like you, I think I’ll keep you, yeah?”

“Wha-” John blinked in surprise as everything around him was surrounded in light. “W-Wait!” He called out, panic growing in his chest.

But it was too late.

…

Once they realized Chaos had left the police force and ambulances had come, taking control of the situation. Martha was gathering up the junior heroes when Eliza had ran over, holding an unconscious Thomas. Her eyes looked panicked, her eyes pleading with Martha.

“What happened?” She questioned frantically as she took Thomas and began to heal the boy.

“They took John..”

[salutmonmec]

EVEN THE DEAD DESERVE A SONG

an Elu Hunger Games AU

ao3 link

Lucas has been in love with the same boy since he was five years old. 

Now, he will be forced to fight him to the death.

What a fucking nightmare.

CHAPTER 3: SAY GOODBYE TO ANOTHER NIGHT

I think I’m hallucinating.

Shadows of trees whizzing by his bedroom window throw shapes across the dark grey ceiling. Twisting. Morphing. Disappearing. His mother’s tumbling blonde hair. Yann’s broad shoulders. Blue-grey eyes, pulled up into half moons.

Lucas groans, scratching at his leg, itchy in the linen pajamas that had been folded carefully on the chair next to the door. He flips himself on his side, bed squeaking with the movement. He’s thankful for the massive window covering the side of the room, the familiar light of the moon giving him some comfort. At least that hasn’t changed. He glances over at the clock. It’s nearly midnight.

Daphné had slipped a small pink note under his door a little earlier. Breakfast at 8. Arrive in the Capitol at 9. Leave your clothes on the chair by the door, they will be cleaned for you. I hope tomorrow will be a better day for you Lucas. Signed, Daphné. Perfectly formed cursive, dark magenta ink. Unfolding the note pushed a waft of rose perfume into his face, making him sneeze. He had never liked floral scents much. Lucas felt a smile creep onto his lips while reading the last line. He felt a small twinge of guilt at his bottle-throwing tirade, but the image of Eliott’s shaking laughter… no, he doesn’t regret it… not completely anyway.

Lucas closes his eyes tightly, a terrible attempt at sleep. His body is exhausted, but his mind has other plans, buzzing with the thought of what’s to come over the next week. His chest feels heavy with fear, almost sick with it, and he notes that he will probably feel that way for the rest of his life. However long that may be. I hate this.

A muffled knock on the door makes him jump, eyes flying open. He waits, turning over to look. A shadow shifts in the light underneath, followed by the sound of the door opening across the hall. Daphné’s room. He hears the beginnings of a conversation, words unintelligible at Lucas’ distance from the door. He rolls quickly, vaulting himself off the side of the bed, tripping over his shoes. He stuffs a hand in his mouth to muffle a pained curse as he creeps towards the door.

“... shouldn’t be a problem. As soon as we get into the city, I’ll have them bring it to our apartment. You and Lucas have a pretty busy day, but once the Tribute Parade is over, you will have the night to yourself.”

“Thanks Daphné, I appreciate it.”

Eliott. Lucas could hear the smile in his voice, almost see the crinkles around his eyes. I wonder what…

He hears Daphné’s door shut, but before he can push himself off the door, a loud knock in front of his face sends him stumbling backward, arms wheeling trying to catch himself. Once it’s clear he isn’t going to topple over, he straightens. Running a quick hand through his hair, he walks slowly to the door, making sure it seems like he had to walk the entire way from his bed. He pulls it open gently, restraining himself from appearing too eager.

Shit.

Eliott is standing a little awkwardly, shifting from one foot to the other. He had been staring at a white bundle in his hands, head whipping up when Lucas opened the door. He is wearing the same pajama set, although, much to Lucas’ amusement, the staff obviously guessed his size wrong. Shirt a little too snug, clinging to his shoulders, pants slightly too short. His tawny hair is sticking up haphazardly, and every cell in Lucas’ body aches at the sight. He keeps his hands glued to his sides. He doesn’t even know you. Get it together.

Eliott’s eyebrows loosen from where they hung furrowed, eyes bright despite the dark circles under his eyes. He gives Lucas a once over, a small smile on his face. Lucas tugs at the hem of his rumpled shirt, suddenly self-conscious. He looks up, meeting Eliott’s eyes.

“Hey.”

Eliott’s smile widens a fraction. “Hi.”

A pause. Eliott just keeps looking at him, and his cheeks warm of their own accord. Lucas tilts his head slightly, a tiny smirk forming on his lips, embarrassed and endeared all at once. He shoots a pointed look down at the bundle in Eliott’s hands. Eliott looks down at it quickly, shaking himself out of whatever reverie he was in.

“Oh, right… I, uh, know you haven’t eaten much today,” he starts to unfold the cloth, “and George in the kitchen managed to get his hand on a loaf of District 12 rye for me…” Lucas watched as he revealed the dark brown bread, a hint of the earthy smell reaching his nose. “Do you want to share it?”

Right on cue, Lucas’ stomach makes an awful grumbling sound. His eyes widen as he slaps a hand over his midsection, face burning. Great. Eliott lets out a soft chuckle, tilting his head down and gazing at Lucas through his eyelashes. Lucas huffs out a breath.

“You sure?”

Eliott throws him his signature grin, shrugging his shoulders casually.

“I hate eating alone.”

----

Lucas sits squished against the train window, knees drawn up on his side of the booth, cheek pressed lazily to the cold glass as he shovels another giant piece of rye into his mouth. Across from him is Eliott, sitting sideways, long legs stretched out over the grey leather, socked feet hanging off the edge. His head leans back against the window, eyes closed, arm lifting to drop some bread into his open mouth. Lucas watches as he chews, chiseled jaw stretching. His long, curling lashes cast spidery shadows down his cheeks in the low light, beautifully delicate. He normally looks so boyish, all messy hair and thick brows, tall and lean, shoulders hunched slightly, like he grew too fast and was still getting used to it. Here, in the soft grey light of the moon, he was all angles. The jutting angle of his brow bone, the raised slope of his nose, the soft curves of his lips, the sharp dip of his jaw. His eyes are still closed, and Lucas lets himself stare. God, he is beautiful.

A comfortable silence had fallen over them once they sat down, both too preoccupied with filling their bellies to care. Now, loaf almost gone, the silence thickens, compelling Lucas to burst whatever bubble had formed around them.

He almost whispers, his normal volume feeling too aggressive. “Have you ever been?”

Eliott turns his head towards him, eyes half-lidded, one brow raised quizzically.

“T-to the Capitol, I mean.”

Eliott’s face softens, an easy smile gracing his lips. “Once. I was pretty young, though.” He shifts slightly, turning a bit more towards Lucas’ side of the booth, his voice low and slightly raspy. “My aunt lives there, and me and my Mom took the train over. I was maybe six? I know my Mom was pregnant at the time.” He laughs lightly, a wistfulness to his expression, like it was a memory he was fond of. He looks down at his hands where they rest in his lap. Lucas hugs his legs a little tighter, gazing at him. “All I remember is that my six-year-old brain thought everyone looked like aliens, and that everything was sparkly.”

Lucas snorts before he can catch himself. Eliott’s head snaps up to look at him, a wicked grin splitting his face. He turns his eyes back out the window, the warmth of Eliott’s smile a bit too overwhelming. He watches the trees fly by, smirking as he raises one eyebrow.

“Well, now you’ve raised my expectations. If I don’t see any sparkles, I’ll be extremely disappointed.”

Eliott lets out a laugh, high and bright. “That makes both of us then.”

Lucas starts to grin, but it’s interrupted by a wide, stretching yawn. Eliott chuckles again, starting to gather up what’s left of the bread. “We should probably try and get some sleep, huh? Daphné says we have a busy day tomorrow.”

For a minute, he had almost forgotten where they were. Traveling towards certain death. The Hunger Games a few days away. For a minute, his night had almost felt normal.

He scoots his way out of the booth, gesturing for Eliott to lead the way. He follows the taller boy closely as they weave through the furniture, back to the car where the bedrooms where. They reach Lucas’ door first, and he opens it, stepping inside. Lucas turns, leaning against the door frame, playing with his own fingers. He doesn’t want to go back to reality, not yet.

“Thanks for the, uh, bread.” He throws his hand out in a lazy gesture, not quite meeting Eliott’s eyes.

Eliott shrugs as he smiles softly. “We’re in this together, right?”

The phrasing was casual, Lucas knows that. Yet he stills anyway, mind reeling. His eyes flick up to meet Eliott’s, dark in the low light, and his chest tightens. Are we?

Eliott looks at him, smile slowly disappearing. His blue eyes grow serious like he can somehow read his thoughts, the weight behind them. He leans his left shoulder on the wall next to the door. A heavy exhale leaves his lips, eyes flicking down to where his hands pull at the bread cloth. Lucas instinctually leans in, a wave of sadness crashing through him. He looks down at their feet, inches apart, turned towards each other. When Eliott speaks, his voice is soft.

“Look… I know it’s impossible to make friends in this,” He shifts, looking down at Lucas’ head where its turned toward the ground. “Pretty fucking pointless, actually. I know that.” Lucas moves his eyes up to Eliott’s again, chest tight. Eliott runs his hands through his hair, letting out a deep sigh. His eyes pierce Lucas’, making him shiver slightly.

“But I… I just don’t think I have the energy... “ He clears his throat. “To pretend like I don’t give a shit about you. I know you don’t know me that well, just like I don’t know you. But it’s true anyway.”

Lucas feels like his insides are about to burst. He leans his head on the doorframe, trying to gain some composure. Eliott sways forward absently, pushing himself more into Lucas’ space. His next words come out in a rush.

“I think that, maybe, we were put together in this for a reason.” He straightens and Lucas blinks, snapping out of his haze. Eliott bites his lip, moving to stand directly in Luca’s line of vision. “I don’t exactly know what it is yet, but... “ He swallows. “I don’t think it’s so we spend whatever time we have left thinking of ways to kill each other.” He leans down again, eyes bright and searching. Lucas lets out a shuddering breath. “So… from now on, if you want, we can have each other’s backs.” He throws Lucas a sad smile, the edges not touching his eyes. “It’s up to you.”

Everything in Lucas screams with relief, and his knees would have buckled if his weight wasn’t being supported by the doorframe. Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes. He follows the line of Eliott’s left arm down to his wrist, where Camille’s blue braided bracelet rests gently. Eliott’s right thumb is lightly rubbing along it, and Lucas makes the decision then and there.

Nothing is going to happen to you. Not fucking ever. Not while I’m alive.

He moves his gaze back up to Eliott’s, a slow, small smile breaking across his face. He nods, and Eliott’s responding grin could give the sun a run for its money. Lucas’ face heats up as Eliott turns to head down the hallway to his room.

“Eliott?”

He turns back to him, hands stuffed in his pockets, head tilted like some kind of puppy. Fuck.

Lucas swallows his nervousness, meeting Eliott’s stare head-on.

“In this for a reason, huh?”

Eliott smirks, shrugging slightly, before his mouth splits into a wide smile.

When the door to Eliott’s room finally closes, Lucas is still standing in his doorway, feeling like he is about to vibrate out of his own skin.

God… I’m so fucked.

[ladyseaheart1668]

Endless Summer Fan Novel (Book 2, Chapter 1)

Notes: I actually found a way to work the “Previously On” segment into the novel that I thought worked pretty well…

Light. White and blinding, it surrounds me, bathes me. A voice speaks to me, seeming to come from every angle.

“You can feel them, can’t you, the echoes of all that’s come before?”

“I…I remember everything,” I whisper.

“Of course you do. All one ever has is memory.”

My friends are in pieces before me. There is no blood, no sign of violence. They are simply scattered. Like puzzle pieces or broken dolls, rearranged like features on a Picasso. And my task is to reassemble them. Remember their names. Their faces. Who they are to me. I reach out, and begin to gather the pieces together.

Quinn Erin Kelly takes shape before me. Delphinus, the Dolphin. A pale, waifish beauty with bright blue eyes and long copper hair falling gently to her waist. A wide-eyed nymph, sweet, generous, and a bit lusty, she gives out kisses like candy, at least to me. She smiles at me from her seat on a small plane.

“One magical week in paradise, here we come!”

The plane is rocking violently, battered by wind and flashes of orange ball lightning. I put together the pilot, a ruggedly handsome man with shaggy brown hair, crystal blue eyes, and an action-hero beard, wearing military dog tags. Jacob Lucas McKenzie. Lupus, the Wolf. Jake. We spent last night in bed together, a rough, wild tumble that culminated in tender kisses. He shared his secret with me. But now he struggles to keep control of his plane.

“It happens, okay? This is totally normal!”

An Iranian girl with an eyebrow piercing and hair in a purple streaked undercut reforms in front of me. Zahra Yasmin Namazi. Corvus, the Crow. Sarcastic, self-interested…I would have expected her to turn on me when it suited her. But she stayed with me. With all of us. She stares at the lightning outside the plane.

“Yeah…sure. That looks normal.”

A woman with doe-brown skin and dark hair trimmed close to her neck smiles brightly at me. She wears a yellow polo shirt emblazoned with the emblem of Rourke International on the breast. Lila, our tour guide. We have arrived at The Celestial resort on the island of La Huerta. Jewel of the Caribbean. But no one is there.

A mocha-skinned Adonis of a man, towering at 6'7”, broad-shouldered and breath-takingly beautiful. Aquila. The Eagle. Sean Marcus Gayle, star quarterback at Hartfeld University. I kissed him once, but never did so again. He looks around the empty resort. “Where the hell is everyone?”

I reassemble another of my friends in front of me. Even as I do it, I can feel the pain returning, nipping at the edges of my consciousness. Canis. The Dog. A slim, ruddy-skinned young man with a handsome, boyish face. Diego. Diego Ricardo Ortiz Soto. My best friend. My brother in everything but name and blood. He smiles charmingly, with the warmth and complete trust reserved only for me.

“Come on, Allie. We promised we’d make the most of this trip.”

And then Jake is there, taking me in his arms, pulling me into his comforting embrace. He bends to kiss me…

A sabertooth tiger prowls in the jungle. It raises a massive paw, claws unsheathed. My flesh tears, my cries of pain drowned out by an explosion as Jake’s plane bursts into flames.

I am burning. Every fiber of my being screams in pain, but there are more to be reassembled yet. Draco, the Dragon. Estela Montoya, a striking, dark-haired beauty, tall and muscular, with a scar over one brown eye. She faces off against a crab three times her size, armed only with a spear.

We were told that ten students from our college had won this trip. Estela makes eleven.

Now Cygnus. The Swan is a beautiful woman with chocolate-brown skin and curly black hair. She is short and plumb, with a sweet, earnest face, and eyes that shine behind her wire-framed glasses. Grace Tamara Hall stands in the central chamber of Mount Atropo.

Then Iris. A blue holographic woman projected from a small drone. We found her at the observatory. She speaks with a voice that is not her own, playing back recordings from a future where the volcano has erupted.

“There’s some kind of energy discharge…and it’s spreading so fast…burning everything…”

Centaurus…where is the centaur? A massive, gentle giant of Indian descent, with a round belly, soft black curls and a warm, ready smile. Raj Aditya Bhandarkar. Kind, brilliant, all heart, with a penchant for pot-smoking, and a supreme talent for cooking.

“I’m worried about our group, Alodia. If we don’t stop this feud, we’re never gonna get off this island.”

Our path is blocked by a massive serpentine creature in the sea, with lightning in its teeth and dark horns where eyes ought to be. Jake and Sean face off against the creature, determined to reach a safe haven and bring back help.

Grace stands on her tiptoes to kiss the cheek of a lithe and lanky young man with pale hair and paler skin. Serpens. The Snake. Everett Aleister Rourke the Second. Aleister. A cold and bitter exterior hides a vulnerable core. He is the real Eleventh Winner. Grace is his weakness. The Swan can devenom the Snake.

Aleister looks at me achingly. “Everett Rourke…the man who built this place, the man who brought all of you here…is my father.”

“…What we do know is that they’ve been watching us a long time,” Jake says. But he is not speaking of Everett Rourke.

Tall, muscular figures in ornate masks with skin that glows impossible shades of green and blue, armed with weapons of amber.

“Whoever these…Watchers are, they’re coming for us.” The voice belongs to Ursa. The Bear. Kuan-yu Craig Hsiao, a beefy Asian kid in a Hartfeld letterman jacket. Sean’s best friend, on and off the football field. Not book-smart perhaps, but undyingly loyal. It was he who threw the rock that unmasked the leader of the Watchers.

The last of my friends waits to be put back together. I gather my strength and assemble the beautiful Vietnamese woman with the dyed blonde hair and the thick, colorful showgirl makeup applied with such impressive artistry. Pavo. The peacock. Michelle Thuy Nguyen. Smart, ambitious, capable. I thought she hated me, but she had my back when I needed it.

In my hand is a sleek gun. A time travel gun, built to send its target forward in time. Michelle protests my will to use it. “We’ve got no idea where that thing will send us! Or when!”

But there is no choice. Jake tilts my head towards him and gives me a lingering kiss.

“All right, I can die happy now.”

I squeeze the trigger. We’re all swallowed by the void. All but one.

“Diego! Don’t let go!”

He and I are suspended in midair, clutching each other’s wrists, the rope in a tug-of-war between the portal and the Watchers. And the Watchers are winning.

“They’re too strong! They’ll just take you, too!”

That terrible moment…realizing what he means to do.

“No, Diego…please…don’t do it…”

“…Goodbye, Allie. I love you…”

There is another pile of pieces in front of me. But they are not my friends.

“Who are you, Andromeda?” the voice in the void taunts me. “Can you put yourself together, too?”

I can. I must. Pale skin. Blue-green eyes. An angular chin and a small button nose. Layers of honey-blonde hair falling past my shoulders. All set atop the short, lithe body of a dancer and gymnast.

“There I am. That’s me.”

“Is this how you see yourself? Are you ready to face your fate?”

“I’m ready!”

“And what name shall you be known by?”

…My name…what is my name…Andromeda…? …No… Jake calls me Princess…Diego calls me Allie…what do the others call me…?

…Alodia. …Alodia Rose Chandler.

“My name is Alodia…”

“Are you certain?”

“Alodia! I am Alodia!”

The light around me brightens impossibly. I throw my arms up to shield my eyes. The voice is fading into the infinite void…

“We will meet again soon, Alodia. All that ever was, is, and shall be depends on your choices…”

My hand comes down on the glass desk in Everett Rourke’s office, passing through the holographic computer interface projected there.  My other hand flies to my throbbing head. I gasp, attempting to steady myself against the sudden wave of dizziness. The vision came on me quickly, the things I saw as I passed through the time portal and emerged on the other side. Neither Aleister, Estela, nor Iris seem to notice my sudden unsteadiness, though. Not that I can blame them, with the sight before them.

Everett Rourke, suspended in a tube of glowing green fluid, concealed inside a hollow marble pillar that rose up and revealed him when we worked out the password to his computer and ran the only program on it.

“…Father…” Aleister whispers.

“Facial match confirmed,” Iris chimes. “That is Everett Rourke.”

I straighten as the floor settles beneath me, looking at the man in the tube. “What on earth is he doing here? Has he been here all along?”

Estela grits her teeth. “You’re telling me the whole time we were walking around this office, the man responsible for all of this was just floating here?”

Aleister stares into his father’s slumbering face, his eyes ice-cold. “You can’t hide from me now, Father. Now you have to face me.”

“Yeah, the rest of us might have some questions for him, too,” I mutter. “Now how do we get him outta–”

Estela is already hitting buttons on the computer. The green fluid in the tube begins to drain out, bubbling and glugging like a water cooler. The various tubes leave Rourke suspended in air.

“I advise against waking him suddenly,” Iris says. “Long periods of suspended animation could prove–”

The glass tube retracts into the ceiling. Rourke slumps out, naked, as the last of the green fluid spills out at his feet. He staggers, collapsing into Aleister’s arms. His eyes flutter weakly.

“Y…you…”

Aleister’s face quivers, somewhere between a sneer and a sob. “Yes. It’s me.”

Rourke feebly pushes himself up, staggering to his feet. He stumbles to the windows and slumps against the glass.

“The…Endless…is…” he slurrs under his breath.

“'The Endless’?” I repeat. “What is that? What are you talking about?”

Rourke turns towards me. Anything he might have said, though, is cut off when Estela throws her fist squarely into his face.

“Estela!” Aleister cries.

Rourke topples backward, falling over his desk chair, and sprawling onto the marble floor. Estela leaps after him.

“Estela, I advise restraint–”

Iris’ hologram flickers into Estela’s path, but she passes through the projection. I dart in front of Estela, holding up my hands.

“Estela, wait! What are you doing?”

“He’s responsible for all of this, Alodia! It’s time he answers for it! Stand aside!”

Behind me, Rourke’s crumpled form is still moaning nonsense. I wonder if he even realizes that he was just punched in the face.

“I’m not going anywhere, Estela.”

She snarls at me drawing herself up to her full height to loom over me. I only  just come up to her shoulder. “Don’t make me go through you as easily as I went through Iris!”

Estela could snap me in half if she had a mind to, but I meet her angry gaze steadily. “You won’t do that,” I say firmly. “I won’t let you sink to his level. You’re better than that. Rourke will answer for whatever crimes he’s committed. But first we need answers. And we won’t get them if you kill him now.”

After a long moment, Estela stands down, crossing her arms and glaring daggers at me. I lower my hands, satisfied.

“Okay. We should get him downstairs to recover. We’re not getting any answers until he’s lucid.”

Aleister looks gratefully at me, mouthing his thanks behind Estela’s back.

The three of us hoist Rourke’s body between us. His eyes flutter slightly.

“I’m…sorry…Olivia…” he whispers deliriously. Then his eyes close again as he slips back into unconsciousness.

* * *

Dawn is breaking, its cool light barely visible through the glass roof above the Celestial’s grand atrium. My friends and I gather around the slumbering form of Everett Rourke, tucked under a blanket on a sofa.

“So, that’s the guy,” Zahra mutters.

“Mhm,” Aleister grunts.

“Dude, your dad is shredded!” Craig exclaims. “Isn’t he in his fifties?”

“I think I see where you get your abs,” Grace says coquettishly, grabbing lightly at his abdomen. Aleister pulls away, laughing, then quickly composes himself.

“Grace, please. You know how ticklish I am.”

“The hope is he can get us outta here when he wakes up,” I say softly. “Maybe he knows what’s going on, maybe he’s got a helicopter or something. And more importantly…he might know something about Diego.”

There’s a general murmur of agreement. After a moment, everyone starts to drift off in different directions. There’s not much to be done before he wakes up, and the toll of last night’s ordeal is weighing heavily on all of us. Well…it was last night for us. For the rest of the world, it has been two-hundred and four days since the battle with the Watchers.

Six months have passed since I fired that time gun. Six months since I lost Diego. But I’m still bruised and aching from the stress and strain of the battle. …There is also a particular soreness between my legs from what took place beforehand. The smell of sex is still lingering on me, though thankfully, its masked by the overwhelming odor of sweat coming from everyone, including me. It seems most people chose to sleep these last few hours rather than shower, which I can hardly blame them for. And it seems those few hours rest have not done very much to restore them.

I slump down on a couch beside Sean and put my feet up on the coffee table. He looks over at me.

“Everyone’s looking pretty rough, Alodia. Maybe we should get some rest?”

“…I don’t think I’m gonna sleep very well until we find out what happened to Diego…” I murmur. Fresh tears spring to my eyes. Sean covers my hand with his.

“I know I won’t. Maybe we oughta rally the troops and come up with a battle plan.”

“I guess I could make the rounds and–” A strange choking noise catches my attention. I look up, and leap to my feet with a cry. “Oh my god! Quinn!”

Quinn has suddenly dropped to her knees and doubled over on the floor. Her hands, pressed to her mouth and nose, are smeared with blood. Blood has stained her shirt, her jean shorts, her bare knees, and the tiles beneath her. I drop to my knees beside her, putting a hand on her shoulder. She looks up at me, and I see that the blood is flowing from her nose in bright red gushing rivers.

The others are clustering around us. Michelle kneels on her other side, pressing a wad of tissues to her nose.

“Keep your head forward,” she says firmly. “Try not to swallow any blood. Alodia, help me get her to a couch.”

I brace Quinn against me and help her upright. Together, Michelle and I guide her over to a sofa.

“Everyone else get back,” Michelle orders. “Sean, get some more tissues.”

Sean hurries off to do as she says. Michelle keeps the tissues positioned over Quinn’s nose, pinching her nostrils closed.

“Okay, just sit up straight and lean forward a little. Breathe through your mouth. That’s it…you’re okay…”

I sit silently on Quinn’s other side, rubbing her back. I cannot help but appreciate Michelle’s beside manor. She’s definitely going to be a good doctor someday.

It takes about fifteen minutes for the flow of blood to dry up. Sean has brought us a damp washcloth. I take it and gently wipe the blood from Quinn’s face and hands.

“You can lean back a little, Quinn,” Michelle says. “But don’t lie flat yet. Keep your head above your heart for at least the next hour.”

“Oh, I’ve never been good at that,” she quips with a feeble smile.

“Here, Quinn. Lean against me.” I position myself with my legs around her on the couch and let her lean back against my chest. I look up at Michelle. “…What happened?”

“What do you mean what happened?” Quinn asks. “It was just a little bloody nose. No big deal.”

“It was a bad one,” Michelle says. “But I think we’re okay now.” Still, the concern in her eyes doesn’t escape me.

“…Is she really okay, Michelle?”

Michelle purses her lips. “Well…”

Iris, hovering nearby, projects at Michelle’s shoulder. “Quinn’s blood pressure: sub-normal. Weight loss detected. White blood cell count–”

“Guys, come on!” Quinn protests. “I’m fine!”

Michelle sighs. “…I think going through the portal just had a bigger effect on her than it did the rest of us. Lemme just take a look at–”

Quinn recoils, pushing Michelle’s hand away.

“I said I’m fine!” she snaps, startling both of us.

“Quinn,” I say gently. “Listen to her. Please.”

Quinn hesitates for a moment, then exhales slowly and settles into me.

“…Okay, Alodia. For you.”

Michelle rolls her eyes. “Won’t do it for me, no,” she mutters. “Gotta be for Alodia.”

She does a quick examination, looking in Quinn’s eyes, nose, and mouth, checking her pulse and her temperature. I keep my arms cinched loosely around Quinn’s waist until Michelle sits back.

“All right. I think you’re fine for now. But I’ve gotta keep an eye on you. Are you gonna let me do that?”

Quinn covers one of my hands with hers and squeezes it lightly. “Yes. I will.”

I stay where I am for a moment, but as it registers that the immediate danger has passed, my mind is once more filled with another purpose.

“…I think we need to get moving on a plan to save Diego,” I say after a minute. “Think you guys are ready?”

Michelle purses her lips, regarding Quinn tentatively.

“I think we can handle it,” she says slowly. “But let Quinn get a little rest first.”

“Much as I don’t want to delay, I’m not going to suggest we go charging out immediately as we are with no plan at all,” I say grimly. “I want Diego back alive. …Anyway, I’m gonna go check in with everyone else. See what they’re thinking.”

I ease out from behind Quinn, piling pillows behind her in my place. Michelle drapes a blanket over her legs.

I wander over to where Grace and Aleister are sitting, watching over his sleeping father. Aleister’s expression is stoic. Grace rests her hand on his knee.

“How’re you holding up, Aleister?”

Aleister doesn’t answer immediately.

“He’s…okay,” Grace says uncertainly.

“Knowing my father’s alive is…” He swallows. “…Part of me wished he were dead. At least then, he’d have the excuse to never see me.”

“Aleister, I know how you feel. My mom is more similar to him than you’d think. But I know how much I’d miss her if I lost her. And how much I miss her now.”

Aleister hums noncommitally.

I sigh. “Aleister, you told us that you came here to face your father. To show him the kind of man you are. Right now, you have that opportunity.”

Aleister finally looks up and meets my eyes. For the first time, it seems he is letting me see the hurt, scared, and lonely little boy behind the bitter mask.

“How, Alodia?” he asks softly. “How do I show him the person I’ve become?”

I meet his gaze steadily, returning the favor. I let him see my own hurt. My own fear. “…By helping me save Diego.”

He takes my hand and stands up.

“…That should suffice. Also, I suppose it is the moral choice.”

“That’s my Aleister,” Grace says with a grin.

Aleister smiles back at her. Then he looks at me again.

“…Diego…he is…important to you.”

I am quiet a moment. “…I don’t have a father,” I confess softly. “Or a mother. …Diego is the only family I’ve got.”

To their credit, neither of them press me for details. Then Grace says, “…I think you have more family than you realize yet.”

“…Take a wild guess who is leading this pack,” Aleister adds. “Half the people here would throw themselves to the wolves for you.”

“…I don’t want anyone to throw themselves to the wolves,” I say softly. “I just want Diego back.”

Laughter from across the atrium catches my attention. Raj, Zahra, and Craig stand around the marble statue fountain at the center of the atrium, giggling wildly.

“Oh my god, you’re right! It is!” Zahra squeals

“It so is!”

“Who’s what now?” I ask, wandering over.

Raj grasps my shoulders. “Alodia. Alodia…Alodia, this is ridiculous! You’re gonna love it. Look!”

He points to the fountain. A marble statue stands on a pedestal in the center, depicting a man in a toga wearing a crown of laurels. Engraved in the bottom of the pool is a circle of Roman numerals.

“…What am I looking at?”

“The statue, bro!” Craig laughs. “In the toga! Can you tell who it’s suppose to be?”

I look again. My jaw drops as the face registers.

“It’s…Rourke!”

My reaction is apparently hilarious. They burst into fresh peals of laughter, nearly falling over each other, half-delirious with exhaustion.

“I can’t believe I didn’t notice before!” Zahra howls. “The guy put a statue of himself in a toga in the middle of his own hotel! I’m cocky as hell, but I’m not even in this guy’s league!”

I can’t help smiling. “Doesn’t this guy know how the Roman Empire ended? With the Sack of Rome!”

“Oh my God, Alodia just said ‘sack’!” Craig gasps. “I’m dying! I can’t breathe!”

Raj scoops me up and hugs me against his soft, round belly. “I don’t know if what you said was funny. I’m probably just crazy right now. But you’re the best and I love you.”

Zahra throws an arm over my shoulders. “Let’s get real for a second. I know things are sucky right now, especially for you. But sometimes people gotta laugh to stay alive.” She ruffles my hair affectionately and wanders off.

I drift off myself, over to where Jake and Sean are talking intently with Lila.

“What’s happening over here?”

“Just trying to figure out who could’ve been here this whole time,” Sean replies

“Who are you talking about?” Lila asks.

“We’ve been gone six months, Lila. And somebody’s been spending a lot of time here.”

“Iris says she didn’t detect anyone coming to the hotel after the Watchers left, though,” Jake says.

“Just because she didn’t notice them doesn’t mean they weren’t here. Stuff’s been moved all over the hotel.”

“How can you tell?”

“Photographic memory. It’s how I’m able to read defenses. Point is, it’s like someone’s been living here. Looking for something.”

“Princess did find that crazy note of instructions ranting about the Hadean Zodiac.”

“Those notes led us to Rourke,” I say thoughtfully. “Maybe they came looking for him.”

“I’m just thinking…did people come to rescue us? Did we miss our window while jumping through time?”

“Trust me, Q.B., if anyone came to this island looking for us, it’s to silence us. Permanently.”

“Is that your idea of a silver lining? That we missed getting killed?”

“Pretty much, yeah.”

“I don’t understand what you’re asking me, though,” Lila says.

“Schedules, timetables, shipments…anything you know about arrivals to La Huerta long term. We’ve only been thinking short-term up till now, but it’s been half a year.”

Lila looks at Sean like a deer in headlights. “I…Lila doesn’t know these things off the top of my head! Lila’s a tour guide!”

“Woah, easy there, Dimples. He’s just bouncing ideas around.”

“What if it’s Diego? I mean, if I escaped, I would have come here.”

Jake sighs. “Honestly, anything is possible.”

“It wasn’t him,” I say flatly. “I wish it were, but it’s not. That note wasn’t his handwriting. Besides…I know him. If he’d escaped, the first thing he’d do would have been to leave me a sign. Something I couldn’t mistake. …We can’t waste any more time. We have to get him back.”

“Of course!” Lila says cheerfully. “No man left behind. That’s my tour guide motto.”

“I should friggin’ hope so,” Jake mutters. “Well, let’s go rally the troops then.”

We gather everyone together in a circle of sofas and armchairs. Sean nods at me to take the lead. I take a deep breath.

“Thanks to the portal, we’ve left Diego out there with the Watchers for six months now. We need to get him back. Now.”

“Easier said than done,” Zahra says, not unfairly. “How are we supposed to pull off a rescue like that?”

“We hunt down some Watcher ass and make them regret the day they ever messed with us!” Craig answers. From his place on Craig’s lap, Murphy trills in agreement.

“We don’t even know where they are, Rambo,” Zahra counters flatly.

“I vote for an expedition,” Sean says. “Something to get a read on our new situation and pick up the trail.”

“Any trail will be six months old,” Jake says grimly. “Ice-cold.”

“Then what do you think, Jake?”

“…I think he’s dead.”

My heart drops into my stomach. For an instant, hurt and anger boil up in me like magma. How can he say that to me now? When only hours ago, he was holding me while I wept and vomited on the rooftop? When he was guiding me to lie in his lap so I would get an hour’s rest? When he seemed to care so much before, how could he now be so heartless? But my rage quickly cools when I rememebr the secret he told me last night when we were entwinded in bed together. Mike, his wingmate, his best friend, his brother. The two of them framed for treason and ambushed in the sky. Jake ejected in time. Mike did not. Jake knows. He knows the depth of love I have for Diego. …He knows the pain of separation. And every day, he lives the nightmare of knowing that separation will never end. …He is trying to protect me from unnecessary pain, not by filling me with false hope, but by making sure I am not blindsided if the worst happens. It’s misguided. I wish he wouldn’t say it. …But I appreciate his intentions. But Sean doesn’t know what I know.

“Shut up, Jake,” he growls.

“It’s a possibility,” Jake snaps. “At this point, it’s a likely one.”

“Clearly it’s easy for you to quit on people. How long before you decide we’re as good as dead, too?”

Jake glares at Sean. “Honestly, man, that happened as soon as we walked into this damn building.”

Sean opens his mouth to reply, but I catch his eye and shake my head. He shuts his mouth.

“We will be as good as dead if we go out there without a plan or a destination,” Estela points out.

“That is a fair point.” I look over at Quinn, still propped up on pillows, a blanket draped over her legs. “Quinn? Any thoughts.”

“I’ll follow your lead, Alodia. …But…I am worried about losing more of us.”

At those words, I cannot help but be struck at how pale she looks. I know she’s Irish, but usually she has that sweet flush in her cheeks and nose. But…maybe I’m worrying too much. I nod.

“Okay, then. I think the best thing to do is try to find answers here, first. Something that will tell us where the Watchers took Diego.”

Sean gets up. “Okay, people. I know it’s been a long, long day, but Diego’s counting on us now. Freshen up a little, but then we gotta search this place up and down.”

“What about him?” Zahra asks, jerking her head at Rourke.

“…Don’t think he’s going anywhere.”

We all rise and split up. I head towards the elevator to go up to my room. Sean follows me in. When we’re alone, he turns to me.

“Hey…Alodia…about what Jake said…don’t take it to heart. I’m sure Diego’s okay out there.”

“No, you’re not,” I say gently. “Neither am I. We can’t be sure. Jake’s right. It’s possible he’s dead.”

“We can’t give up on him.”

“I will never give up on him,” I say more sharply than I mean to. “Not until I know he’s dead. …But it is possible.”

Sean sighs. “…Doesn’t mean he should have said it.”

“He wasn’t being malicious.”

“Just cold-hearted.”

“No. Not that, either,” I say gently. “Don’t be too hard on him, Sean. …If you knew what I knew, you’d understand why he said it.”

“What do you mean?”

“…I can’t go around blabbing things he told me in confidence.” I am silent for a moment. Then I say, “He wanted me to be prepared. In case the worst happens. He doesn’t want me blindsided.”

“…I wish I understood him like you do,” Sean mutters. I can’t tell if he’s being bitter, sarcastic, or sincere.

“I don’t understand him,” I reply in a clipped tone. “I hardly know him. But I do know he wasn’t being cruel or coldhearted.”

“…All right. If you say so.”

Sean steps off the elevator at his floor. I continue up to the penthouse floor, to the rainforest-themed suite where I have lived for the last four days. I open the door, and I am hit by a cool breeze and the smell of saltwater. The room is still trashed, some of it from my wild night with Jake, some of it from the Watchers searching through my belongings. One of the windows is shattered from where the Watcher leader rappelled through.

“Oh, right,” I mutter aloud. “That happened.”

A few leaves have managed to blow in over the last six months. A seagull is perched comfortably on the window sill. It squawks at me. I wave it away.

“Go on, get outta here! Shoo!”

The gull flaps off over the sea. I walk into the bathroom, turn on the sink, and throw several handfuls of ice-cold water over my face. I raise my eyes to the mirror and freeze.

…Diego is there. He’s smiling over my shoulder.

“Man, Allie! And here I thought I looked like hell!”

I gasp, whipping around to face an empty space behind me. My chest goes tight with the threat of fresh tears. Guilt hallucinations. Not a great sign. I turn back to the mirror. …Hallucination!Diego was right, though. I do look like hell. Smell like it too. Maybe it wouldn’t be a bad idea to freshen up a bit.  At the least, a hot shower would help me clear my head.

I strip off and wash my mountain climbing outfit in the sink, scrubbing it with shampoo and hanging it to dry. I climb into the shower, where I let the next wave of tears fall freely as I scrub off the sweat and soil of the last twelve hours. The hot stream soothes my aching muscles, though it does little for the tenderness at my pubis. Under normal circumstances, I love the slightly bruised feeling after a night of wild, just-slightly-rough sex. And I suppose I am not unhappy about spending last night with Jake. …No…I am far from unhappy about it. …But the scattered glass on the carpet reminds me that the night almost ended with Jake dead in my arms, until I grabbed the blue stone around the Watcher’s neck.

God, I have to get out of this place…get out of this room…

I brush my teeth and go to hunt down some clean clothes. The Watchers dumped out my duffle, but they left my clothes in a single pile at least. I pull on some socks and underclothes and a pair of old jeans. A pale green T-shirt on the top of the pile catches my attention. I pick it up and unfold it. Kenna&Dom&Val&Raydan, it reads. I feel my breath catch in my throat again.

The Crown and the Flame. Diego and I are superfans. We read all the books together, played all the games. When the current season is airing, Sunday nights are set aside for viewing. We order sushi and sake and green tea ice cream from Sakura’s and curl up under a blanket on his bed to watch. We are both convinced that Kenna and Dom are endgame. Soul mates. It’s true love. Maybe Val will be Kenna’s mistress though. Or maybe she’ll finally hook up with Raydan.

Diego got me this shirt for my last birthday. Our favorite ships in the right order, and no other explaination. If people got it, he said, we’d know other fans right away.

I pull it on. Like Queen Adriana’s signet ring, I’ll wear this shirt as a reminder of what I’m fighting for. Maybe there’s no romance between us, but Diego is still the Dom to my Kenna. My oldest friend. My partner in crime. I run a brush through my hair and venture back out, heading down to the atrium.

…I’m not sure where to start looking for answers. But there’s someone else I want to find, too. And I’m pretty sure I know where to look.

I have to search a few different bars, but in the country-themed bar on the eighth floor, the lights are on. I don’t see anyone right away, but a country ballad plays on the jukebox.

“…Jake?” I call out.

The sound of a hard smack and shattering glass behind the bar answer me.

“Ow!” Jake grunts. “Damn, that hurt…”

“…You okay back there?”

Jake stands up, wincing and running a hand through his hair.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “Just about gave myself a concussion bumping my head, but I’m great.”

“That’s what happens when you get a big head about everything.”

“What can I say, Princess? My ego is a gift and a curse.” His eyes fall on my T-shirt and he grins. “Crown and the Flame, huh? You more of a Kenna or a Dom?”

“Me? I’m totally Kenna.”

“Pfft. Figures.”

“…Jake, what are you doing behind the bar, anywhere. We’re supposed to be looking for clues about where the Watchers took Diego.”

“Yeeeah…I think they left their address at the bottom of one of these bottles. Only one way to find out which one.” He smirks at me, but there’s a helpless fear in his eyes that I can’t mistake. I know what he’s thinking. I know what memories this is bringing back for him. I touch his hand.

“…Jake…”

He shudders, recoiling from my touch just a little. “Ya know, did somebody steal some of this booze? Used to be a bottle of Raleigh DeWitt Gold whiskey sittin’ here. Been sayin’ I was savin’ it for when things really went down the crapper–”

“Jake–”

“–and well, I think it’s about time. But look! Somebody guzzled the whole thing! It’s empty–”

“Jake!” He shuts up, staring at the floor. I take a deep breath. “…I know you’re worried about him. Whatever you pretend, I know you’re worried. …But you can’t do this to me right now. I need you to get your act together if we’re going to save him.”

He sighs. “You’re right. Like always. Look at me. I’m pathetic!” I startle as he suddenly picks up the empty whiskey bottle and hurls it into the wall. It shatters in a rain of glass. …Like the window in my room last night…

I shiver. When Jake drops out of sight behind the bar, I rush to walk around the corner and find him. He’s sitting on the floor, his head buried in his hands. I scoot in beside him, sitting close. …I need to feel him beside me. I need to know that he’s here. I almost lost him, too…

“…Did you really drink that whole bottle just now?”

“…Nah. There was only about a quarter left. Been nipping away at it since my plane blew up.” He draws in a shuddering breath. “Thing is, I ain’t given a damn about people in a long time, Princess. Then you came along and pretty much blew that whole plan straight to hell. Now thanks to you, I’m all torn up inside over your gang of Little Rascals. And it’s all your fault.”

“My fault?” I echo wryly. “How do you figure that?”

Jake snorts a laugh and looks at me, our faces close. Strands of his sandy hair fall across his bright blue eyes, shimmering with unshed tears.

“Not sure if you noticed last night, but you kinda blew my mind.”

I can’t hold back a smile. “…I definitely noticed.”

His face is so close now that I can see the light catching on his damp eyelashes. As if drawn in by a magnet, I lean in and let my lips brush softly against his. I feel him lip me back. We pull apart, just an inch, our eyes meeting. Then we collapse into one another in the same frenzied, needful passion that consumed us the night before. Jake picks me up as if I weigh no more than a feather, sitting me down on the edge of the bar. I yank off his green bomber jacket. He pulls my shirt from the waistband of my jeans and lets his hands roam underneath. He breaks the kiss for a moment.

“Does this mean we’re–”

“Yeah,” I reply quickly, recapturing his lips with mine.

“And it’s not like–”

“No.”

“Cool.”

He pulls my shirt off over my head and kisses down my neck to my chest, pausing at the hollow between my breasts.

“Hey!” Zahra’s voice, echoing from somewhere outside, makes us both jump. “You guys are gonna wanna see this!”

We pause, pulling apart reluctantly. I struggle to put the breaks on my racing heart. Jake groans.

“Zahra must hate me. She must really, really hate me.”

“I’m sure she does,” I agree wryly, pulling my shirt back on. “Come on. We should see what’s up.”  

Outside the bar, we look down into the atrium and find Zahra waving at us from the first floor.

“Get down here! You guys aren’t gonna believe this!”

We head down, catching up to her just about the same time as the others do. She leads us down a hall to a massive set of ornately carved wooden doors. …Which would not be unusual in The Celestial. …Except that between us we had searched the entire resort top to bottom while we were searching for entrances to barricade before the attack. And I can tell looking around at my friends’ faces that none of them recognize these doors.

“…Uh…was this always here?”

“…What in heavens?” Aleister breathes.

“Definitely never seen those before,” Sean confirms.

Quinn kneels to examine the edges. “Look here. See how the wall is chipped where it meets the doors? And there’s some plaster stuck to the carvings.”

“…These doors were hidden,” I conclude. “Like they were drywalled over.”

“Seconded,” Jake says. “Done some construction in my day, and I can pretty much guarantee it.”

Michelle rolls her eyes. “Is there anything you haven’t done?”

“Not really.”

“If these doors were hidden, who found them?” Sean asks. “How’d they even know they were here?”

“Somehow, I doubt it was Diego,” Estela says flatly.

“There are some words engraved here,” Aleister remarks, squinting. “My Latin is rusty, but I see the Roman numerals for 79 A.D.”

“Have you guys looked at these carvings in the door?” Zahra asks, eyeing them with distaste. “They’re kinda messed up.”

“It does not appear messed up to me,” Iris chirps. “It’s a clear depiction of humans turning to ash in a volcanic eruption. The craftwork is in excellent condition.”  

“Pompeii. It’s a carving of Pompeii. Mount Vesuvius erupted in 79 A.D. and wiped out the cities of Pompeii and Herculaneum. Pliny the Elder was killed when he attempted to rescue his family in Stabiae.” Seeing the others staring at me, I shrug. “What? I’m a history major. I know things like this.”

“Alodia is correct,” Aleister says. “Mount Vesuvius did erupt in 79 A.D. The depiction fits the date on the engraving.”

“It’s still pretty creepy,” Zahra mutters.

“Enough stalling,” Craig says. “You gonna open 'em or what?”

“I’m not scared!” Zahra snaps.

“Didn’t say you were.”

“You thought it,” she says accusingly.

Craig grins. “Yeah, I did.”

Zahra pushes on the massive doors. They swing slowly open, revealing a sprawling, majestic library that puts the one in Beauty and the Beast to shame. Worn, leather-bound books fill the rows upon rows of shelves towering over us. Tapestries adorn the bare spaces on the walls. Cherubim and Seraphim with serene, beautiful faces are painted on the ceiling in soft, heavenly shades.

“Okay, this is my new room!” Grace declares.

“This is one hell of a library, that’s for sure,” Sean agrees. “But don’t forget why we’re here.”

“Cap’s right,” Jake says. “If our mystery guest came here sometime in the last six months searching for this place, maybe it’s got some answers for us.”

We split up and start searching.

“There’s gotta be a million books in here,” Michelle moans. “What are we even looking for?”

“Just gotta hope we know it when we see it,” I reply.

Our footsteps echo on the marble floor as we wander the library. Morning light seeps through stained-glass windows in the upper arches, colorfully illuminating the frescoes painted on the ceiling.

“Analyzing…” Iris’ voice echoes. “This mechanized celestial globe dates to 1594, one of the first produced. A first-edition text by Athanasius Kircher, circa 1662.”

“Everett Rourke’s entire personal collection!” Lila breathes. “I’d always wondered what had happened to it.”

“But why would he stick this in a damn beach resort of all places? And then why seal up the entrance?”

“He had a lot to hide,” Aleister says flatly.

“Like father, like son,” Estela mutters.

Aleister ignores her, but I see his jaw tighten. Just past him, I notice Murphy, curled up beneath a book display. His tail is curled tightly around his body, and frost clings to the wall behind him, shedding from the tips of his blue fur. I go to kneel beside him.

“Hey there, fella. Why are you trembling? What’re you scared of?”

Murphy whines at me, his eyes fixed on something on the wall. I follow his gaze to where a strange scepter is mounted within. I go over to examine it. Two hissing snakes twine in a double-helix around a third snake with wings framing its head.

“What the hell is that monstrosity?” Jake asks.

“Three snakes,” I say. Then, seeing where they join at the bottom, I correct myself. “No…a hydra. In the shape of a…”

“A caduceus,” Iris finishes. “The symbol of medicine used worldwide, originally the icon of Mercury, the gods’ messenger.”

“So the scepter’s as Roman as Pompeii,” I remark.

“Analyzing…origin undetermined. This is the only article in the library I cannot identify.” Iris’s voice seems to hold real confusion.

“Did you see the inscription on the frame?” Michelle asks. I look to where she’s pointing.

'Oh Mercury! Herald of that

shining hour when glory’s

house stands open…’

Homeric Odes, Chapter XII

“The Homeric Odes!” Grace exclaims. “I saw a volume of those on the shelves!” She rushes off and returns a few minutes later with the well-worn volume. I take it from her and flip open to the twelfth chapter.

“…'His staff aloft o’re glimmering waters, the herald-god marked the height of the day. And lo, the path to the depths yawned open. To conquer the heavens, a man must journey below’.”

“That passage must be important somehow,” Quinn remarks. “I for one am past believing in coincidences on this island.”

“I agree, but what could it mean?”

“Well,” Jake says thoughtfully, “the staff of the herald-god, that’s gotta be this thing, right? The ca…cader…cudel…”

“Caduceus,” I finish.

“Right. That thing.”

“Sounds like this caduceus is supposed to open a path below something,” Estela remarks.

“Right. When the scepter is 'held aloft o'er glimmering waters’.”

“Hmm…where could we find water?”

“Sweet Jesus, Craig,” Michelle groans. “We’re on an island.”

Quinn giggles. “Okay, but more specific maybe. Where have we seen someone standing over glimmering water?”

I snap my fingers. “The atrium!”

“Right! The statue of Rourke over the fountain’s 'glimmering waters’!” Sean agrees.

“ 'Marking the height of the day’,” Zahra murmurs. Then her dark eyes widen. “It’s a freakin’ sundial! We give the staff to the herald, the fountain becomes a sundial!”

“And the sundial opens the path!” Quinn finishes.

“Do we know what time it opens?” Michelle asks.

“Considering everything we know, my guess is noon,” I reply. “ 'The height of the day’, remember?”

“My watch says it’s almost noon now,” Lila says. “We can make it if we hurry!”

“Quick!” Raj says. “Alodia, grab the Twizzler!”

I grab the caduceus and follow my friends as we race the clock back to the atrium, sprinting out of the library and down the long hallway. The statue in the lobby gradually grows larger as we approach, the sunlight glinting off one pale marble arm, held aloft in front of him.

“There! We have to get the scepter into the statue’s hand!”

“How?!” Michelle cries.

“Not much time to figue it out! It’s 11:58!”

“I got it!” Sean says. “Pass it over, Alodia.”

I hand him the scepter. He takes a running start, and then launches himself from the rim of the fountain. With a gravity defying leap, he grabs the arm of the statue, pulls himself up with one arm, and slams the scepter into the statue’s grip. He swings and vaults off the sundial, landing on his feet on the other side of the fountain.

“Like a boss!” Craig crows.

“Impressive,” Jake admits with a smirk.

“You sure you never did gymnastics?” I ask. “Learn to flip, you’d kill on vault.”

“Show-off,” Michelle mutters.

“Time, Lila?”

“Eleven fifty-nine and twenty-two seconds. We made it!”

We huddle around Lila, counting down the last seconds. At precisely twelve on the dot, the sun shines through the glass roof, the staff casting a slow-moving shadow on the fountain’s numerals.

Clunk! We all start as the floor vibrates under our feet.

“Watch out!”

The tiles behind the fountain drop into the floor, falling one after the other into place, each about four inches lower than the next.

“It’s a staircase!”

“Okay, that’s actually pretty dope,” Zahra admits.

“All right, folks,” Jake says, “guess we’re going down into whatever sex dungeon Rourke has set up.”

Aleister shudders. “Was that mental image really necessary?”

“You know, Malfoy? I immediately regretted it. Sorry.”

We head down the narrow staircase, going single-file into the darkness. Jake finds my hand and laces his fingers with mine.

“You’re not actually nervous about going down here, are you, tough guy?”

“Nah. Just wanted an excuse to hold your hand.”

In the darkness, I feel the smooth floor even out. We stand together in silence, seeing nothing, hearing only the sounds of each other breathing. I am suddenly very grateful for Jake’s hand in mind. I squeeze it tightly, gathering my courage to take another step forward.

With a metallic clunking sound, a floor tile depresses beneath my foot like a button. The lights flicker on around us. For a moment, we all shield our eyes. Then, as the spots clear, I find myself in a room painted totally white. Dozens of illuminated pedestals and wall displays house bizzare trinkets from every era, shining under thick glass domes.

“Dude!” Craig cries. “It’s not a sex dungeon! Rourke’s got a man-cave! …No TV’s though. Gotta hook up those flatscreens.”

“…What the hell is this place?” Michelle murmurs.

“I think it’s some sort of museum,” Quinn says.

“Or a trophy room,” Estela suggests.

Jake runs his fingertip over a shelf. “A little dusty. Don’t think anybody’s been here in awhile.”

Michelle is lingering by one of the pedestals, admiring the trinket gleaming within. I walk over to look at it. Under the dome stands a figurine that looks like some sort of idol, several inches tall. It depicts a nude woman with arms outstretched, a flowing length of cloth maintaining her modesty. She appears to wear a headdress of peacock feathers.

“Wow…”

“Isn’t this gorgeous,” Michelle murmurs appreciatively. “What is it made of? Gold?”

“I think it’s…amber, actually.”

Experimentally, I press a green button on the side of the pedestal. The glass dome divides and retracts into the base. Michelle picks up the idol.

“It’s so…beautiful…” she murmurs, almost dreamily. She offers it to me. I take it in my hands.

The moment my fingers graze it, my world flashes white, only for an instant.

I am standing in an immaculately tidy, artfully decorated bedroom. A red Hartfeld Knights banner and a tapestry with Greek letters hang on the wall amongst posters and framed pictures. A mild spring breeze drifts through the open window. There is new growth on the trees outside.

…Michelle sits on the edge of the bed, gripping one of the wooden posters.

“What are you talking about?” she whispers. “I didn’t–”

Sean, standing in front of her with arms folded, glares down at her. “Yes, Michelle. You did. Your closest friends told me. You cheated. It’s over.”

He turns away, towards the door. Michelle stands, stretching a hand towards him.

“Don’t say that! You can’t leave me! …Please…”

Sean stops, but he doesn’t look back at her. “We built something for two years, and it meant nothing to you. Of course it’s over. …How could I ever trust you again? Once you break that trust, there’s no putting it back together.”

He storms out, slamming the door behind him. Michelle sinks down on the bed again, tears forming on her eyelashes. After a moment, someone knocks.

“Aww, Meech? You okay in there? Can we get you some chamomile?”

“…I just need a minute,” Michelle calls back. “Thanks, Anna…”

I count three pairs of footsteps leaving. Michelle sits in silence. The tears in her eyes don’t fall. Then, giggles drift up through the open window.

“Sean totally bought it! Oh my god, I can’t believe it worked!”

“You know, she probably did cheat on him at some time or another. That total skank. She thinks she’s so smart. So much better than us.”

“How does she not get that the whole sorority totally hates her?”

I watch Michelle’s face. I know she can hear what they’re saying, but she doesn’t shout. She doesn’t cry. Her eyes go cold.

I’m suddenly yanked forward, pulled as if by my very heart. I’m on a stormswept beach. Rain batters Michelle as she climbs into a rusted sailboat.

“Michelle, stop!” Quinn cries.

“You’re going to get yourself killed, you idiot!” Zahra yells.

“No!” Michelle screams. “I’m going! None of you want me here! You never did! You think it’s my fault Craig and Aleister are dead!”

Jake graps the prow of the boat. “No! We don’t! Of course we don’t. Just get out of the boat! We’re your friends!”

Michelle shoves him off with surprising strength, tears mixing with the rain pelting her face. Jake stumbles, falling into the shallow water.

“No!” Michelle snaps. “You’re not.”

She pushes off. The wind and rough water quickly carry her into deeper water. Jake scrambles to his feet and rushes after her, but he can’t move fast enough.

“Michelle! That thing’s still out there!”

As her boat shrinks in the distance, I can make out a massive shadow slithering beneath the waves.

“Michelle!” Quinn screams. “Micheeeeeeeelle!”

There is another white flash, and then I am back in the museum. Michelle is right next to me, her hands still on the idol. I look up at her. “…How long was I standing here?”

“What are you talking about?” Michelle asks. “I just handed you this thing. Do you not want it?”

I look at the peacock-headed figure. She gazes blankly back at me.

“Yo, Alodia!” Craig calls. “Check this thing out!”

I shake my head to clear it of the troubling vision and make my way over to Craig at the back of the room, still holding the idol. He points to a strange crimson glove within a glass dome, ending at the elbow. Something about it gives me deja-vu.

“What do you think this thing is?” Craig asks.

“I don’t know. It looks futuristic somehow. But it also seems really old.”

He grins at me. “Wanna check it out?”

I press the button to open it, but it buzzes and flashes red. I frown.

“It’s not working.”

“We could always smash it.”

“Yeah…I guess we could…”

“Hell yeah!” Craig winds up a punch and shatters the dome, sending glass sprinkling over the floor.

“Oh, my God, Craig!” I yelp. “With your hand?! Really?!”

“The hell’s the matter with you, you maniac?” Zahra shrieks.

Craig points to me. “Alodia told me to!”

“…Yeeeah, this one’s kinda on me,” I admit. “I didn’t mean for him to use his hand though. …Thanks, though, Craig.”

I pick up the glove. It looks a little patched together.

“It’s so cool-looking! Does it do anything? Try it on!”

It’s a crazy suggestion to take, but I slip the glove onto my arm. “…Do you see this at the bottom, around the elbow? It’s all torn up and kinda scalded. …I think this person’s arm was cut off!”

Craig doubles over with laughter. “And you put your hand in there! Nasty!”

I hastily pull off the glove, which only makes him laugh harder. Across the museum, Jake picks up a small black device.

“Hey, Craigslist! I think I found the remote to those TVs you were looking for,” he says, pressing a few button. “Think the batteries might be dead or–”

With a mechanical hiss, the wall behind Jake splits in two, making everyone jump. Two panels slide apart, revealing an enormous floor-to-ceiling screen.

“Aww, yeah, baby!” Craig crows. “That’s what ya boy is talking about!”

The screen flickers to life, revealing a map. No…not a map, strictly speaking.

“Satellite imagery!” Jake exclaims. “That’s La Huerta!”

Crosshairs flash on the screen, pinpointing a location in a small bay on the western side of the island. A label appears beside the crosshairs.

“'Hostiles’ Stronghold’?” Sean reads.

“'The Hostiles’,” I murmur thoughtfully. “That’s what Rourke called the Watchers in that recording at the Observatory!”

“I think we just found where the Blue Man Group took Diego.”

I swallow hard, raising a hand to touch the map. My fingertips graze the spot marked by the crosshairs. He’s there. That’s where Diego is. Diego…hold on. I’m coming for you. I turn back to the others.

“Listen…I know you’ve all been through a lot, so I understand if some of you want to stay here…”

Zahra holds up a hand, cutting me off. “Give it a rest, Alodia.”

“What?” I blink, looking around at my friends. Sean has his arms folded defiantly. Michelle is tying back her hair. Jake picks up an ancient hatchet. Despite their exhaustion, despite everything they’ve been through, they all look at me with their jaws set, eyes afire with resolve.

Zahra meets my eyes. “You already know we’re coming with you.”

Craig cracks his knuckles. “Let’s go save our friend.”

For a moment, I can’t speak, overcome as I am with grateful tears. Then the sound of footsteps and slow clapping behind us makes us all turn. Everett Rourke, now dressed in an elegant brown suit, stands in the doorway, smirking.

“Well done, friends. You found my toys, I see.”

Jake drifts closer to me, not taking his eyes off Rourke. “Figures you’d be the kinda guy who slow claps.”

“Jacob, Jacob, Jacob…to be fair, I understand your hostility. But you’re going to appreciate very quickly that we are on the same side here.” Rourke adjusts his jacket and cracks his neck. He turns to me, locking eyes and holding my gaze. I gaze back steadily.

“…You’re awake,” I finally say.

“And you exist. Splendid on both counts. The pleasure, for once, is all mine.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Estela growls.

Rourke ignores her, having finally spotted his son, stewing quietly beside me, glaring.

“Aleister. My boy. …It’s been a long time.”

[specterpeach]

Tag Time

tagged by @meimagino and @kymbawee! thank you, babes! ♡

Rules: Answer these 92 statements and tag 20 people.

LAST…

Drink: soda

Phone call: my mom (we found someone’s pet turtle! he was returned safely)

Text message: my bro

Song you listened to: Immigrant Song

Time you cried: watching Moana;;;

HAVE YOU…

Dated someone twice: oh yeah...

Kissed someone and regretted it: not really

Been cheated on: yes

Lost someone special: yes

Been depressed: yes, quite a bit

Gotten drunk and thrown up: lmao oh yeah

Made new friends: yes

Fallen out of love: yes 

Laughed until you cried: yes

Found out someone was talking about you: yes, though i think this is common?? people talk shit, it’s what they do

Met someone who changed you: mmhm

Found out who your friends are: yes...turns out there aren’t many irl

Kissed someone from your Facebook list: yep

Kissed a stranger: on occasion ;)  

Drank hard liquor: yes, vodka and soju are faves tho i prefer them in mixed drinks

Lost glasses/contact lenses: nope

Turned someone down: yes

Sex on the first date: once

Broken someone’s heart: i guess

Had your heart broken: yes

Been arrested: yep

Cried when someone died: yes

Fallen for a friend: mmhm

Kissed on the first date: yes

GENERAL

List 3 favorite colors: blue, dark red, mint green 

How many Facebook friends do you know in real life: idk, enough? i know a lot of them but don’t hang out

Do you have any pets: no :( tho i’m thinking about trying to adopt a hypoallergenic cat! 

Do you want to change your name: no, i like my name! it’s unique (tho i know exactly what name i’d change it to if i did)

What time did you wake up: 10 am-ish

What were you watching at midnight last night: the Void (creepy Canadian independent horror film)

Name something you can’t wait for: a measure of financial stability and at least one irl friend...

When was the last time you saw your mom: today (we went swimming with the bean)

What is one thing you wish you could change in your life: one thing? lol there’s a lot of things... 

What are you listening to right now: NIN amazon station

Have you ever talked to a person named Tom: yes

Something that is getting on your nerves right now: surprisingly, nothing

Most visited website: tumblr and ao3

Mole/s: a few

Mark/s: i’ve got some scars

Childhood dream: to become a comic book artist lmao

Do you have a crush on someone: mmhm

What do you like about yourself: my kindness, empathy, and creativity 

Piercings: i’ve had my eyebrow, nose, tongue, and lip pierced in 2 places, but took all those out (now there are scars;;;) but i still have 5 in my ears

Blood type: O 

Nickname: Ghost

Relationship status: single pringle 

Zodiac: gemini

Pronouns: she/her

Favorite TV show: American Gods

Tattoos: i have a bunch and most are Asian. an “Arashi” symbol on my arm with cherry blossoms around it, a Sanskrit mantra between my shoulder blades (upper back), a Roman numeral 13 on my left wrist, a lotus flower middle lower back with a giant koi fish above it, finger waves around them, and black “lava rocks” that covered up a previous tattoo. i’m planning on getting a Vegvisir soon and a matching Buddhist symbol with my mom (i have studied and practiced Buddhism at some points in my life) 

Right or left hand: left!

Surgery: a laparoscopy  

Hair dyed in different color: ever since i was 15. i’ve had so many colours lol i was fond of reds, any shade. my fave was when i had an angled bob of purple hair with bubble gum pink bangs (and if you get the character i was imitating i’ll give you a cookie)

Sport: i’m not big into sports but i liked basketball and have a mean kick

Vacation: realistically? the keys or up north to see friends in fall :) i haven’t seen a proper fall in too long

Pair of trainers: cheap champion kind that i’ve had forever

Current and all-time best friend name: my best friend from childhood lives in Cali and i’ve missed her dearly for a loooong time now

Eye color: hazel

Favorite movie: Frida (also Day of the Dead, Hero -Chinese movie-, and Only Lover’s Left Alive)

WHICH IS BETTER?

Hugs or kisses: kisses

Lips or eyes: eyes

Shorter or taller: both are nice

Nice arms or stomach: ??? um...arms???

Sensitive or loud: sensitive

Hook up or relationship: relationship

Troublemaker or hesitant: hesitant *whispers* but trust me, i will do the stupid impulsive shit eventually...

DO YOU BELIEVE IN…

Yourself: not really...sometimes

Miracles: i want to say yes...in certain cases

Love at first sight: yes, because it’s happened to me

Santa Claus: when i was little lol

tagging: @severeminx @theinsanefox @kanekkis @francowitch @jorjibearblue @blownwish-blog @penciltrash @onotherflights @yours-julie @ehsocietypretendstoomuch @fairychemist @nanamo @phaytesworld @zeldaismyhomegirl @ice-tiger-kitten @jubesy @jotnann @computergecko @neveraines @puppybek