#maybe i need to get into outlander again <- the voice of the devil in my heart

[philtstone]

u know it’s all cooked on ao3 when you go from being bummed out at only five comments to being really excited about one commenter to counting number of hits and smiling every time it goes up by 1

[one-of-many-journeys]

Day 22

Maker's End

I continued my climb up to the top floor of Faro’s tower, taller than any ruin in Devil’s Grief, and better preserved here in the ice. The early sun made the climb more treacherous, melting the ice coating the handholds. I had to keep stopping to rest my fingers—numb through and scratched raw. I wonder if I’m the first person to climb up here since the Old Ones fell. 

At the top, I found an open area with a huge round table and a broken-down machine full of corrupted data. Again, the machine recognised my connection to Elisabet, giving me the authority to repair the data. There were three hologram conversations between Ted and Elisabet and, contents aside, it was striking. Watching Elisabet move, listening to her speak at length...our connection was clear.

We’re the same height, we share the same jaw, mouth, and nose. Her body was thinner, free of scars that I could see—the Matriarchs’ stories always said the ‘faithless’ lived a life of luxury where their needs were taken care of by machines. Her voice was just like mine too. Maybe lower, more weathered by age, but the same. I haven’t had the opportunity to observe many mothers alongside their daughters, but even in them surely the resemblance isn’t so strong. 

With the recordings of Ted and Elisabet, the many datapoints I’d uncovered began to slot into place. When Faro lost control of his killer machines, he couldn't find a way to quell them. He called on Elisabet for help, even though the two hated each other, and the only solution she could find was so horrible that even Ted, the man whose endless, life-devouring machines threatened the entire world, couldn’t stomach it. She called it Zero Dawn. To find out more about it, I’ll need to follow in Elisabet’s ancient footsteps and go to US Robot Command, in a ruin to the east that the Oseram call the Grave Hoard.

The one to point me there was the mysterious stranger himself, who had the audacity to patronise me while hiding safely out of reach. He revealed himself in a Focus projection: Sylens, he calls himself, and though the details were hard to make out, I think he’s Banuk. He didn’t introduce himself as such, said he’d left his tribe behind long ago, but the styling of his belt and the blue cables threaded through his skin gave him away. I haven’t seen any Banuk outlanders so far with skin like that, but I remember Rost telling me stories. 

I was despondent at first. I couldn’t help it—I thought that whatever I found at Maker’s End would be the solution to everything, or at least point me the right way. My mother, the corruption, the door…and the man who killed Rost. No answers, just more questions. Despite Sylens’ condescending attitude, I have to admit he was right about one thing: the discoveries I made today were incredible. Even Sylens, who says he’s been delving and scouring ancient data for decades, was never able to confirm what really befell the Old Ones. This connection I have to Elisabet…it seems like a sort of key; the ancient machines remember her and so they know me too, and open the old places to me alone. 

The machines clinging to life in the tower recognised me once again and opened an old shaft, a much faster path down, cold air stinging all the way. It was early afternoon by that time. So much data to sift through.

I found a couple of corrupted Ravagers and a Bellowback seeding rot in the snow nearby. Took them out with one of the Ravager's canons and by blasting the Bellowback's fire sacks open. Then back to the small shelter where I encountered the first Eclipse lookouts. There were supplies inside, and some small protection from the bitter elements.

Exhausted after spending all of last night navigating the collapsing tower, I slept as long as I could in the cold. My Focus was there to warn me if things were getting too dangerous...or if more Eclipse were coming toward the ruin.

If Elisabet made some sort of weapon to stop Faro’s machines, and Hades wants to call them back from death, then maybe he's afraid I’ll do the same. Maybe I can, if I find out more about Zero Dawn. And this ruin…they sealed the door for the safety of the people inside. Did the same thing happen in All-Mother mountain? Are those people still there now? Maybe even Elisabet…Sylens said that the Old Ones had technology and advanced medicines that could extend their lives, maybe even make them immortal. It’s an enticing idea—especially since the Nora shun it so vehemently. To preserve oneself through faithless machinery, strive for more than All-Mother intended, learn as much as can be learned from the world and use it—it’s the opposite of blind faith in the whims of their invisible mountain spirit. 

I can’t stop thinking about what it would be like to meet one of the Old Ones and learn all they have to teach. 

[nemycchi]

Enter the Deep Golden Ocean

A Childe X Lumine Fanfiction

Secret Santa gift to Dandeleon from the Chilumi Nation Discord

Tags : Eye Communication, Maskless Delusion Childe

Childe’s eyes, at first glance, seems fittingly dead.

For someone of his profession, Lumine does not wonder why this is so. Perhaps, years of witnessing various immoral deeds have snuffed the life out of them. Really, she is not anymore surprised.

What she is very interested in though, is the fact that even without the sheen in them, his eyes seem to tell a story of a thousand words. If she would describe it in some way, Lumine thinks that the ocean is the best descriptive to use. Deep, dark and mysterious. Precisely—maybe a storm in the sea, with the swirl of his blue depths expressing what he truly feels.

Now, do not get her wrong. She does not make it a habit to go staring at people’s eyes for a long period of time, but for her, it was just too easy to use his as a predictor of his emotions.

���Ojou-chan!”

Ah, speak of the devil and he doth appear.

The outlander turns around and her gaze automatically locks on to his. The sea of turmoil seems absent today. He’s quite… happy.

“Childe, what are you doing here?”

They are currently in Cuijue Slope and it is not common to come across this man in this place—away from his station at Northland Bank.

Lumine takes note of the way the dark blues of his eyes swirl in mirth before it closed and crinkled on the sides.

“No reason in particular, I just want to tag along!” he says in a sing-song voice.

She sighs. There is no purpose to shoo him away— after all, traveling alone can be quite lonely and she must admit that right now, without Paimon—for the little pixie decided to ditch her in favor of Xiangling’s food-filled adventures, she can feel the dredges of melancholy swimming quietly in her body already. Perhaps, things might get a little interesting with Childe around—what with the man’s penchant of bringing some kind of trouble wherever he goes.

“What are you up to anyway?” he snaps her back to reality.

“Oh, I was just about to go fight the Pyro Regisvine. I need some Agnidus Agates.”

She watches as the colors shift again at the mention of fight and she sighs once more. This fightsexual man.

“Well, what are we waiting for then? Let’s go kick that plant, ojou-chan!”

 

--**--

 

“Say, do you like staring at people this much or am I just a special case?”

Lumine chokes on the half-eaten Jade Parcel in her mouth at his sudden remark.

Picking up her tea, she sips slowly first, patting her chest lightly to soothe the pain from earlier. Upon setting the cup down, her gaze moves up to stare back at his.

There is definitely mischief swimming in those depths, but there’s also a challenge there as he tilts his head to the side as if testing to see if she will lie about her ‘habit’.

Two can play at this game.

The traveler spies the myriad of blue shades pass in a split-second when she returns the look in his eyes with her golden ones as she rests her chin on her palm propped on the table.

“What do you think?”

He obviously tries to fight the smile from appearing on his face but his eyes are a dead giveaway of what he feels right then. Lumine cannot be more thankful that she has learned to read his mood in another way than just his general demeanor for it makes challenges, such as this, way easier to pick up on her end.

“Come on, ojou-chan. How about you just tell me in return since I’m paying for this dinner anyway.” he playfully replies.

You already know, don’t you? What’s the use?

She knows that he knows that it is exclusively a thing she does reserved for him and him alone. The way his eyes regard her in that moment tells her that much.

Again, she is not one to go look directly into other people’s eyes but somehow, in some way, the deep blue ocean of his seems to pull her right in—asking hers to read, to understand that which lies beyond the azure abyss.

And so that is what she does most of the times. Does she like him enough to extend this much effort into knowing him? It is quite hard to tell. Maybe, maybe not. She does not want to put a name to the feeling but watching the way various shades of blue shift in his blank-looking gaze fills her with warmth.

“How about you try to pick up food successfully with your chopsticks first?”

“Ojou-chan!”

 

--**--

 

Yaoguang Shoal has been known to be quite a refreshing place to be in for peace and quiet and so, it is quite a surprise to Lumine when she finds Childe there, lying on one of the jutting rocks on the beach, holding a starconch to the sky in his hand.

Noticing her arrival, he sits up and acknowledges her presence with glee.

But his eyes tell a different story. He’s… conflicted.

“Hey there, ojou-chan! What brings you here?” the turmoil in the blue depths betray the smile on his lips.

Seeing that he isn’t about to share whatever the cause of his distress is with the way he greets her, she decides to drop it and not pursue it at all. The shadow of gratefulness for her avoidance flickered in his gaze for a second.

“Just collecting some starconches.” she mumbles, walking towards the closest one to her.

“Oh? What for?” he stands up and walks to her direction.

“No reason. It’s a habit.”

She notes how he slowed to a stop a few feet away from her. Lumine turns around and frowns when he avoids her stare and he instead looks out into the ocean, the pretense of being happy a ghost on his lips.

“Mhm. That reminds me. Aren’t you supposed to be with Zhongli-sensei for the finishing touches to the rite of parting?”

A cold breeze washes across the shore and she closes her eyes, feeling the moment.

“He’s away for some business right now.”

“I see.” his voice sounded a lot closer.

The outlander opens her eyes and was almost taken aback, not by the considerably shorter distance between them, but by the intensity with which his blue gaze regards hers.

There lies a question left unsaid.

“I see, then.” he uncharacteristically reiterates in a quiet manner.

Her eyes of gold unabashedly search his for some kind of understanding and for a reason she cannot quite explain, she feels as if she heard his voice through their connection.

‘When the time comes, will you be able to stop me?’

Lumine does not know what to think of that. Perhaps, she is just trying so hard that her mind came up with the most random explanation for the look in his eyes.

Instead of dwelling on it, she just hums and picks up the almost forgotten shell in the sand.

 

--**--

 

The ground cracks beneath her and she falls down, down, down below.

There she is, in Golden House, facing Childe—no, facing Tartaglia, the Eleventh Fatui Harbinger, in a battle set to decide the fate of Liyue. She vaguely remembers seeing a flash of purple before the floor collapsed and as she falls, Lumine is oddly reminded of that day in Yaoguang Shoal.

Perhaps, that really was the question hidden beneath his ocean eyes. Will you be able to stop me?

Can she?

She grunts as she slams against the cold, hard ground of the mint.

“Lumine!!!” she hears her fairy companion shout from somewhere behind her as a looming figure clad in an armor of grays and violets lands in front of her.

She abruptly stands back on her feet, sword in hand, as she raises her gaze to meet her enemy. Right there and then, she realizes how much she hates this situation she found herself in—not because of the blood slowly trickling down her arm. Not because of the fatigue thrumming in her veins. Not because of the sorry state of the Golden House.

But because of the unfocused and unreadable look in his stormy ocean depths.

She grips the hilt of her sword tighter, anemo and geo energy bubbling back up in her system. She hates this. She hates this.

With resolve, she charges ahead—a sole answer to a perhaps forgotten question burning across her golden eyes.

‘Childe… I will stop you.’

[lake-arrius-caverns]

Nerevarine Rising

Chapter 12: Two’s Company

summary As the party grows from two to three, Fahjoth tries his best to smooth over tensions. 

content warnings strong warning for nausea/emetophobia about halfway down

read under the cut or on AO3, cheers 👍

:: First :: || << Previous << || >> Next >> || :: Masterpost ::

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The shock reverberated up Fahjoth’s shins as his feet found solid ground with a jolt. Gasping, he staggered back, desperately trying to regain his balance. Once his brain caught up with the messages his eyes were receiving, he realised that the three of them were back in Ald’ruhn; a nearby guard stared at them from behind his impassive helm, but otherwise he didn’t seem to care too much for three Dunmer suddenly materialising out of thin air. 

While Fahjoth remained on his feet, Ribyna was not so lucky, and she groaned from her landing position face-down on the dusty ground. “Ugh… what the fuck was that?!” she spat, rubbing smudges of dirt from her face as she dragged herself upright again. 

“Almsivi Intervention,” Julan answered, discomfort clear on his face. “It teleports you to the nearest Tribunal temple.” There was a pause before he continued, “I’m sorry, I— I don’t know what happened back there… You must think I’m such a coward. I swear I’m not. I swear I am a warrior, and I’ve never run from a fight, nor do I fear death.”

“Look, don’t be daft,” Fahjoth replied, raising his voice to speak over Ribyna’s loud scoffing as he tried to reassure Julan. “We don’t think you’re a coward—”

“Speak for yourself...” Ribyna muttered, but Fahjoth ignored her to reassure Julan. 

“I wasn’t exactly having a good time up there either,” he continued, trying to inject a bit of humour into the situation. Judging by Julan’s expression, it hadn’t worked.

“I’m not afraid of Red Mountain, or any of its monsters,” Julan said. “It’s... something else. It’s to do with these… weird dreams I’ve been having.” 

Fahjoth’s curiosity was piqued as he thought back to his own night terrors. He hadn’t experienced them for a while, and for that he was thankful, but recollections of fiery landscapes and dark figures with blazing red eyes still lingered in the back of his mind. “Oh yeah?”

Julan took a deep breath. “I dream that I’m climbing Red Mountain. It’s just like what we saw — it’s dark, the air is filled with ash that gets into my eyes and mouth, but the further I go up, the harder it is to keep going. And then there’s all these voices, whispering things to me.”

“What sort of things?”

“That’s the thing, I don’t even know. I can’t understand what they’re saying, it’s too hard to make out. But it sounds, uh… well, not good, y’know?” Julan looked between Fahjoth and Ribyna apprehensively. “You’ve heard of Dagoth Ur, right? I mean, I’m guessing you have, but...”

Their silence said more than enough; Ribyna’s face looked as blank as Fahjoth’s brain felt, and Julan was visibly stunned. 

“Oh come on, even outlanders must know about him! Dagoth Ur? The devil who lives beneath Red Mountain?”

“Sorry, mate.” Fahjoth shrugged. “I don’t—” Then he stopped, as a thought occurred to him. “Wait, does he have anything to do with the Sixth House Cult?” 

“Yeah…” Julan frowned, and Fahjoth began to feel as if he’d done something wrong. “What do you know about the Sixth House Cult?”

“Honestly, not much.” At least that was truthful. There was no point bringing up Cosades and his work, as Fahjoth knew very little about it himself. “I just heard there’s been attacks from sleeper agents. I saw one of them myself.” He couldn’t suppress a shudder at the memory, remembering the vacant expression on the Dunmer’s face and his iron grip as hot as ashes on his wrist. “He said something like… Dagoth Ur is risen, something something Sixth House glory… I don’t know.” 

Even Ribyna looked surprised by Fahjoth’s anecdote, while Julan’s tone became one of understanding instead. “Ah, I see. Yeah. Dagoth Ur is a powerful figure in our history and legends. Supposedly, he causes people to go insane by sending them dreams.”

Ribyna raised a brow at that. “What, so you reckon you’re going insane?”

“What— no!” Julan replied defensively. “I am not insane and I’m not planning to be, either! Lots of people dream about him. It’s nothing.”

For a moment, Fahjoth wondered if it was worth bringing up his own dreams. But if what Julan said was right, then perhaps it was more common than he had thought. He didn’t feel like he was going insane, and as long as it stayed that way, then he surely ought to be alright. 

On realising that he had tuned out of the conversation, Fahjoth jolted and made an effort to concentrate again. 

“Then why are you so bothered by them that you can’t even climb a mountain?” Ribyna was saying. 

“I’m not! I mean—” Julan blew out, his frustration evident. “Look, I know it doesn’t make any sense, okay? I just need time. Anyway…” He looked between the twins, vying for a change of subject. “Never mind that. How about getting on with some training? I could do with taking my mind off things.”

“Yeah, alright. Good idea,” Fahjoth agreed. He gestured between himself and Ribyna. “Me and Beebs are both used to working with short blades and light armour.” Then he gave a dry laugh. “I don’t think either of us will be able to help with your magic, though. We can’t cast spells for shit.”

“Hah! That’s alright.” Julan grinned. “I don’t need any help with archery, either, I’ve been practising since I was small. I prefer fighting with blades anyway, so I’m up for that.” 

“Right!” 

Fahjoth turned to face Ribyna, alarmed by the sight of her drawing her dagger. 

“Sparring match, then? Let’s see how we do,” she suggested. Fahjoth was nervous; Ribyna’s attitude so far hadn’t sat well with him at all, and neither was the look on her face as she eyed Julan. Such a sudden turnaround, going from being openly hostile to Julan to wanting to spar with him, didn’t exactly bode well. 

Whether Julan himself shared Fahjoth’s apprehension wasn’t apparent. On the contrary, he drew his own shortsword and nodded. 

“Alright. Let’s go.” 

“Are you sure?” Fahjoth asked. “With real weapons? Isn’t that a bit dangerous?”

“It’ll be fine, Fahji,” Ribyna said dismissively. 

“Don’t worry, we won’t go too hard,” Julan added. Fahjoth wasn’t at all optimistic about that, but he held his tongue and decided to lean against a nearby wall to observe. 

Ribyna brandished her dagger and stalked a circle around Julan, who stood ready with his chitin sword. Without warning she lunged, hard and fast. Julan brought his sword up to deflect the blow, the blades screeching on impact. A retaliation from Julan, deliberately slow and cautious, forced Ribyna back and kept her at arm’s length for the time being. Overall, it seemed to be going well, and Fahjoth began to relax. 

That was until one particularly close call from the tip of Julan’s blade threw Ribyna off her rhythm. Although the strike hit the tough leather of her armour, the force and angle still caused the dagger to get flung from her grip. With a grin, Julan pointed his sword up to her chest, puffing from the brief yet intense exercise. 

“Got you! Maybe don’t drop your weapon next time.”

Ribyna only scowled in response. Then with a flash of steel, she pivoted herself against Julan’s chest, a second dagger poised against his throat. 

“Maybe make sure your opponent is actually unarmed next time.” 

There was a moment of stiff silence; Ribyna glared at Julan, her face less than an inch from his own, while Julan stared back defiantly. Then the tension broke, and she backed up and resumed pacing, looking for the next opportunity to strike. 

The remainder of the sparring session continued much in the same manner, with Ribyna and Julan flitting around each other in a vicious dance, both trying to get the upper hand over the other. A short while and a few close calls later and they agreed to call it a day, having been reasonably evenly matched. It seemed that training together would be as beneficial for Fahjoth and Ribyna as it would be for Julan himself. 

“How about a drink?” Fahjoth suggested to his somewhat bruised companions. “I think we could all do with chilling out for a bit.” 

“Fine by me,” Ribyna said, while Julan looked awkward.

“Oh, I… don’t think I have enough to—” Julan started, but he stopped as Fahjoth waved a hand genially. 

“Don’t worry about it,” he chirped, offering Julan a friendly smile. “I’ll get them. I owe Ribyna a round, anyway.”

Julan’s unease melted away and was replaced with a grin, which Fahjoth found quite contagious. He purposefully ignored Ribyna’s dull glare in his periphery, focusing instead on Julan. 

“Well, I wouldn’t say no to a mazte, if you’re offering.”

“Sorted!” Fahjoth declared, ambling further into Ald’ruhn while Ribyna and Julan limped along with him. He was subjected to the uncomfortable feeling of someone staring at him, and he didn’t need to look around to know that it was coming from Ribyna. 

Once they reached the cool shade of the Ald Skar Inn, Fahjoth suggested that Julan find them a table while he went to retrieve the drinks, to which he happily obliged. However, Fahjoth was not all surprised when Ribyna offered to help him carry them over, despite knowing full well that he could handle them himself, and prepared himself for the ear bashing he knew was imminent.

“He’s taking the piss,” Ribyna hissed, once they were at the bar and out of earshot of Julan. “You know what’s gonna happen, don’t you?”

Fahjoth heaved a sigh as he leaned against the bar, deciding to just let her rant. “Go on then, enlighten me.” 

“He’s gonna mooch off you every chance he gets! He’s always gonna be all, ‘oh no, I don’t have any money’, and then you’ll have to pay for every-bloody-thing.” 

“I don’t mind. It’s not like I don’t have the gold for a few drinks here and there. I’d do the same for any friend!”

Ribyna’s mouth fell open. “Friend?” she spat, outraged. “You barely even know the bastard! Honestly Fahjoth, you see a pretty boy and I swear your whole fucking brain just shuts down!”

Trying to ignore the heat rising in his cheeks, Fahjoth was quick to see a lifeline and he clung to it like a drowning man. “Oh, so you think he’s pretty, do you?”

This time, it was Ribyna whose cheeks flushed a dull red. “I— no, I never— don’t put words in my mouth!” she retorted, fuming. “You know exactly what I’m saying, and you know I’m right!”

“Well, just do me a favour and keep it to yourself if you can,” Fahjoth requested flatly. “I don’t want Julan to feel uncomfortable. More than he already is...” 

Ribyna looked as though she was going to continue to argue, but a moment of respite came when the drinks arrived. Fahjoth hastily took them over to the table before Ribyna could say another word, leaving her to traipse after him clutching her own. Once he placed the drinks down on the table, Julan gratefully took his, shuffling his stool along to make plenty of room for the twins to join him. 

“So, whereabouts do you two live?” he asked. “It’s not here in Ald’ruhn, is it?” 

“Nah, we’re staying in Balmora.”

“Probably a good thing. It’s like the dusty armpit of Vvardenfell here. And so Redoran, it’s illegal to even joke about it!” Julan swigged his mazte, looking to Fahjoth curiously. “What’s Balmora like?”

“Bit bigger than Ald’ruhn. And less dusty. You’ll see it for yourself soon!” Fahjoth paused. “Well, that’s if you still want to come with us. I’ve got to go check in with my boss soon.” 

“Course I do. As long as we can still continue to train, then I don’t mind where we go.” 

Fahjoth grinned. “Don’t worry about that. If I’m not around, you’ll be able to spar with Ribyna again!” 

“Oh yeah, ‘cause it’s not like I’ve got a life outside you or anything,” Ribyna grumbled, staring at Julan with heavy mistrust — and even dislike. Julan seemed to notice as well, for his smile slipped somewhat and an awkward silence fell over the table. 

“Anyway…” Julan attempted a wary change of subject. “What is it that you do for a living? Apart from rescuing people from clannfears, of course.” 

“To be honest, mate…” Fahjoth shrugged. “I don’t really know. I know that sounds daft, but mostly I just run errands. Gather information. Sometimes nearly get myself killed in Dwemer ruins or haunted tombs. That sort of thing.”

“Sounds… interesting.” 

Both he and Julan both then turned to Ribyna, but she remained silent, glowering back at them while she sipped her drink. Fahjoth’s stomach sank. With Ribyna’s stubborn refusal to socialise, the relatively upbeat mood had been well and truly quashed. 

A heavy weight began to settle in Fahjoth's chest. Though he was looking forward to working with Julan, the excitement was spoiled by Ribyna's behaviour and incessant hostility towards him. He knew Ribyna was prickly at the best of times, but he hadn't anticipated this much resistance to gaining a new companion. If Julan was going to stay with them for the foreseeable, Fahjoth dreaded the idea of trying to persuade her to play nice. How much more grief were they going to get from her?

But more importantly, how far did Julan's tolerance extend? How long would he put up with her animosity and foul mood before deciding that he'd had enough?

                    ——————————————

“I’ve been meaning to ask. What’s up with your hair?”

Blinking, Fahjoth slowly turned to face Julan, trying to concentrate over the rough jerking of the silt strider’s teetering steps and the shrill grinding of its chitinous joints ringing in his ears. He wasn’t normally prone to motion sickness, but being so high above ground level coupled with the vigorous swaying of his seat was not a good combination, and Fahjoth had spent much of the journey from Ald’ruhn to Balmora trying to hold down the urge to vomit. After spending another day in and around Ald’ruhn for training and shopping, Fahjoth could no longer put off returning to Balmora and the silt strider was the fastest way to get there. Even if it did make him want to throw up. 

His first time riding one, and he dearly wished for it to be his last. 

Julan perhaps mistook his silence for offence, for he held up a hand apologetically. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to say it like that.”

“Eh? No, it’s fine. Sorry for being quiet, I’m just not feeling great,” Fahjoth explained, squinting as the low sun on the horizon shone into his eyes. At least the weather had been good for their trip. “Well, it used to be totally black. But a few years ago, it started to go white in the front here.” He held up a strand by means of demonstration. “I dunno why.”

“That really is weird.”

“I still reckon it was stress,” Ribyna added, looking over her shoulder with a smirk. With her arm hanging loosely over the silt strider’s side, she seemed to be having no issues with the bumpy ride. “Obviously not everyone is cut out for life in prison.” 

Julan did a double-take, looking from Ribyna to Fahjoth with shock. “You’ve been arrested?” 

Fahjoth turned to Ribyna, scowling. Ribyna simply smiled back at him with false pleasantry and turned away to gaze at their surroundings as the silt strider tottered along. With a sigh, he turned back to Julan, feeling somehow even more queasy at the thought of telling the truth and wondering how Julan would take it. 

Damn Ribyna and her big mouth!

“Yeah. Me and Ribyna both came here on a prison ship,” Fahjoth admitted. Instantly, Julan looked leery. 

“You’re both convicts? You’re not on the run, are you?”

“No! No, nothing like that. We were released.”

“Released? On Vvardenfell?” Julan scoffed. “That’s just typical of the Empire. As if they haven’t done us enough damage, now they’re offloading their unwanted criminals onto us!”

Admittedly, that comment stung. But before Fahjoth could answer, Ribyna had whipped around in her seat again, looking none too pleased with Julan’s remark herself. 

“Yeah, that’s no good, is it? It’s not like those unwanted criminals saved your sorry arse from getting eaten alive by clannfears or anything!”

Julan blanched, biting his lip as he realised what he had said. “Oh— gods, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it personally. Look, I didn’t mean— well…” As he took a deep breath, Fahjoth noted his hesitation to continue. “You do seem like a good person… people. Good people. Um... were you... y’know... guilty? Of... whatever it was you did to get arrested.”

Fahjoth, for a moment, was silent. He risked a glance over at Ribyna, feeling his stomach clench when he saw that she had turned her back to them again. She said nothing, but Fahjoth could see the tension in her shoulders, and he knew his twin well enough to know that if he spoke the truth, it would hurt her. So he looked back to Julan, thinking about his words carefully. 

“It’s... a bit of a long story, mate,” he said. “It was...” — he paused, waving his hands vaguely — “an accident.”

Julan stared at him with a mild frown, and Fahjoth felt himself break into a nervous sweat, not knowing what he was thinking. After a silence that was far too long for his liking, Julan spoke up at last. 

“I believe you,” he said simply. “I’m not sure why, but I do. Like I said, you seem like a good person, and either way, I’m willing to judge you on your actions here and now, rather than in the past. Whatever they were.” 

A wave of relief crashed over Fahjoth, but before he could respond, a particularly vigorous judder in the silt strider’s pace hit him like a punch to the gut. His stomach, already churning from nausea and anxiety, convulsed violently and a thick, wet sourness hit the back of his throat. Spinning around, he bolted up from his seat, leaning over the side and letting his head hang as he fought to swallow the sickness down again. 

Through watering eyes Fahjoth watched as the ground went rushing by with the strider’s uneven pace, stopping and starting with every bumpy step, the leaves on the trees and bushes below blurring into one as his eyes struggled to focus. How far up was he, anyway? Twenty-five feet? Thirty?

His knuckles whitened as he clenched his trembling hands, his skin becoming hot and clammy and damp with sweat while his heart fluttered an uncomfortable half-rhythm in his chest. After seconds which lasted a lifetime, during which the contents of his stomach barely managed to settle, Fahjoth hauled himself back into the relative safety of his seat. It was still as choppy as ever, but at least he didn’t have to look at the ground this way. When he was able to focus again, he found Julan’s perturbed face fixed rapt upon his own. 

“Fahjoth, are you alright?” 

“Yeah Fahji, you look pale as fuck,” Ribyna added, finally turning her gaze back around, brows furrowed with concern. “Here you are, have some of this.” 

She rummaged in her backpack and fished out a bottle of mazte, reaching back to offer it to Fahjoth. Fahjoth, however, shook his head with his mouth clamped tightly shut. If he opened it, there would likely be more than just words coming out. 

Julan reached over and patted Fahjoth’s shoulder, albeit seeming reluctant to get too close. “It’s okay, I think we’re nearly there. Just... hold onto your lunch a bit longer, alright?”

The silt strider finally drawing to a halt could not have been a bigger relief. Except now that they had reached Balmora, Fahjoth faced the prospect of having to disembark from the silt strider and onto that precarious platform awaiting them. It had been bad enough ascending the narrow ramp to board the strider, how on Nirn was he going to get back down again? 

Fortunately, Ribyna was on hand to lend him hers. Once she had clambered up out of the strider's hollowed-out carapace, she offered her hand to Fahjoth as he hesitantly followed suit. The simple boon of having something firm to grip onto while he stumbled out of the silt strider made all the difference, and without a word, Ribyna let Fahjoth continue holding her hand as they made their way down the slope, Fahjoth's pace hindered significantly by his shaking legs.

It took all his effort not to collapse to his knees the moment he stepped on solid ground at last. He doubled over, closing his eyes and taking deep breaths as he tried to encourage his stomach to settle, paying no heed to anything else going on around him. Once his nausea had subsided enough, he straightened back up again, preparing to face the mocking and jeering he predicted from his travelling companions. 

However, there was nothing of the sort. Both Ribyna and Julan were watching him, their faces showing nothing but concern and sympathy. 

“Not good with heights?” Julan asked, his tone one of pity. 

“I— I dunno,” Fahjoth admitted. “I never realised... but I suppose, yeah. Obviously…”

“Either that or the turbulence,” Julan suggested. He fell silent, turning his gaze away to survey Balmora instead. "So, this is Balmora? It’s so grand." There was clear hesitation in his voice as he continued, “Um... tell me honestly, do I look like a complete savage?”

Fahjoth blinked. “What?”

Julan chewed his lip, his eyes darting from left to right apprehensively, as if searching for anyone who would look at him with disdain. “I know how people view Ashlanders. They think we’re violent, uncivilised barbarians who live in filth and poverty. They don’t even try to understand us, or our culture, or why we choose to live as we do. But we’re proud of our culture. We don’t need these tacky displays of wealth to be happy — we have more valuable things of our own.”

Before Fahjoth could even open his mouth, Ribyna cut across him. “Oh, don’t worry. Me and Fahjoth grew up stinking savages ourselves.”

Unsurprisingly Julan bristled, glaring at Ribyna and quietly seething. Sensing an altercation brewing, Fahjoth hastily spoke up, cringing over Ribyna’s lack of sensitivity. “What she means is that... well, we grew up on the streets,” he explained. “People saw us as nothing more than dirty, uncivilised thieves, as well.”

Thankfully, Julan seemed to calm down. “Well. Then maybe you’ll understand. My people are viewed with suspicion here in the cities. Don’t get me wrong, I’m proud of my heritage, but I feel like I might be too conspicuous. I don’t want to go drawing any attention. What d’you think?”

Fahjoth shrugged. “I mean... you look fine to me, Julan. But if you like, we can look into getting you some new clothes.” 

“At least get him something that smells less of guar,” Ribyna interjected, and once again, Fahjoth wanted to throttle her. Fortunately, Julan didn’t take offence. 

“Maybe that would be a good idea, actually. But!” He jabbed Fahjoth in the chest with a finger. “If you make me look ridiculous, I swear I’ll never forgive you!”

Fahjoth held his hands up innocently, a grin curling at the corners of his lips. “I would never! I’ve got a good eye for fashion, me. Can’t you tell? Anyway…” He looked between Julan and Ribyna with an apologetic gaze. “Do you two wanna go get us a table in the South Wall Cornerclub? I need to go speak to Cosades, but I’ll join you straight after. He gets grumpy if I call on him too late in the day.”

Both Ribyna and Julan looked as apprehensive as Fahjoth felt to be sending off by themselves, but for the moment, it was unavoidable. 

“Alright, well... don’t be long!” Ribyna said with a frown. 

“I won’t!” Fahjoth called back as he began heading off, jogging away between the long shadows cast by the setting sun. 

                    ——————————————

Given the lateness of the hour, Fahjoth had assumed that Cosades would be home, perhaps settling down for the night with a few bottles of booze as he was wont to do. To his surprise, that was not the case. He lingered around for five minutes, just on the off-chance that Cosades would turn up, but he was reluctant to leave Julan and Ribyna alone for much longer. So he hurried on to the South Wall Cornerclub, hoping that the two had not bitten chunks out of each other in his absence.

However, he needn't have worried. When Fahjoth arrived and descended the steps into the bar, he spotted Ribyna and Julan sitting in complete stony silence at their usual corner table. Quite frankly, he had seen funerals looking more lively. 

His arrival seemed to come as a relief, as Julan glanced up and waved Fahjoth over. Fahjoth obliged, joining them at the table with haste as he accepted the bottle that Ribyna pushed towards him. He was both unsurprised and disappointed to see that Julan had nothing. 

“Sorry about this,” he murmured, casually pushing his own mazte over to Julan instead. 

“It's fine,” Julan replied. “Not like either of you are obligated to buy me a drink.” 

“Yeah, but it's polite, isn't it?” he said, directing this particular comment over to Ribyna, who curled her lip but said nothing on the matter. 

“So did you see Cosades?” she asked instead. “What's he got lined up for you this time?”

“He wasn't in,” Fahjoth answered. “I'll see him tomorrow, I'm sure.” He paused, before sliding a handful of coins over the table towards Ribyna. “Could you go get me a mazte? I still feel a bit dodgy.”

“I already got you a mazte.”

“Ribyna, come on,” Fahjoth groaned, desperate for one night of peace. “Please.”

A moment of irate silence later and Ribyna got to her feet, striding off towards the bar with a distinctly sour demeanour.

Fahjoth sighed, burying his face behind his hands with dismay. “I'm so sorry about her,” he apologised, lowering his hands and resting his chin on his fist. 

Julan shrugged. Fahjoth had to admire his fortitude. “Don't worry about it. It's hardly your fault. And I've dealt with much worse, believe me.” He peered over his shoulder, jerking his head in Ribyna's direction before turning back to Fahjoth. “I don't suppose you know what her problem is?”

“I wouldn't take it personally, mate,” Fahjoth said. “She's just... like that. To everyone, pretty much.” He ran his fingers through his hair, his mouth continuing to move as his frustrations began to seep out. “Has been for years, now. I knew she was... difficult, but I swear she's gotten so much worse since we got here. Like, I know you need gold to survive, that's obvious, but there's gotta be better ways of going about that than joining the Thieves Guild or the Morag bloody Tong—”

“Hold on,” Julan interrupted, cutting Fahjoth off mid-rant. “She's in the Morag Tong?!”

Fahjoth froze, realising his slip-up. 

“Uh…” he began, but he was spared the need to respond by Ribyna's return. 

“There's your bloody mazte,” she said grumpily, putting the drink down in front of Fahjoth with enough force that, for a moment, he thought the bottle might shatter. Before he could say anything, Julan was on the attack. 

“So you're in the Morag Tong.” He glared at Ribyna, his grip on his own bottle hard. “The Morag Tong! You'd better have a damn good reason for this!”

Ribyna paused, slowly turning her gaze to Fahjoth as she sat down again. Fahjoth could merely offer her an apologetic grimace, and with a loud huff, she rolled her eyes and turned back to Julan. 

“Come on then, I want to hear this!” Julan went on. “How can you possibly justify joining a murder cult?!”

“It's a job,” Ribyna said bluntly. “I get paid to do it. That's all. And keep your bloody voice down, will you?”

After glancing around to ensure that they hadn't drawn any undue attention already, Julan continued in a low hiss. “So that's all this is to you? Money? There's lots of ways to make gold that don't involve killing people you don't even know!”

“Listen, save the lectures. If someone's got to die, they're gonna get killed either way. At least this way, I can get paid for it!”

Julan sighed, eyeing Ribyna with distrust. “Yeah, well, that doesn't mean I have to like it. You're still walking up to a stranger and putting a dagger in their back. I don't know if I could live like that. And if you can, well…”

“Yeah? Well if you don't like it, you know where the door is,” Ribyna spat. “In fact, why don't you do us both a favour and piss off back to the Ashlands alread—”

“Alright, that's enough!” Fahjoth snapped, holding his hands up towards the bickering pair. “Both of you, pack it in! You're doing my head in. Let's all just calm down, okay? Thank you…”

Fahjoth hung his head after his outburst, going back to nursing his mazte in silence and deliberately avoiding both Ribyna and Julan's eyes. Already he felt guilty about losing his temper, but he was still feeling rough from the silt strider ride and the vicious squabble wasn’t helping. He was beginning to wonder if they would ever get along; the prospect of having to put up with their constant quarrelling was a grim one. Was this going to be his existence for the foreseeable future? Playing referee between his twin and his new friend? 

He despaired at the thought. But he could always live in hope, no matter how exhausting it was.

————————————————————————

tag list @boulderfall-cave , @padomaicocean (lmk if you’d like to be added!)

[yulon]

The Wrath of Sabellian (pt. 46)

Book Three: Trial of the Black King

Troubled dreams and visions seed doubts and fear as the rest of the new arrivals are welcomed at Blackrock Mountain, and a gathering not seen since the Cataclysm begins.

The world stretched before him: an unending swathe of plainlands, flat and featureless. The yellow-green grass swayed with a wind he didn’t feel but imagined he did. It was better to imagine it than to be standing in dead air, unmoving around him while he grass danced with it, impossibly.

Someone was watching him.

He felt it like he did not feel the air, and this he did not have to imagine. It lay as a heaviness on his shoulders.

Sabellian stood, unmoving, a rock among the impossibly-swelling grass.

“Sabellian,” sighed the grass, in a low, scratchy whisper.

“Azeroth?” he called out, frowning. This was far different than how they had spoken before. Each time had been from a place of great darkness, her presence shining forward like a lantern piercing mist. Here she felt present in a way his own breath might: a sort of omnipresence filling him and the air around him.

“Yes,” she said. “Thank you. Thank you. You’ve done so much.”

“I only did what you asked,” he said. “But you haven’t told us what we must now do. Everyday we grow more and more endangered -”

“They aren’t a danger to you,” she said. “Listen to them. Listen to what they want. What they desire. Learn their strengths, and make them your own.”

“But how -”

“Trust me.” Her voice swayed up to a higher boom, like a wave crashing on a shore before receding back into the tide. “You must.” The grass swayed with a sudden breeze. The tips of the blades began to shudder, flicker like the tails of lizards, each going into another direction.

And just as he’d known someone was watching him, he knew, at once, with a sureness in his belly, something was wrong.

“You aren’t Azeroth.”

The grass froze. The blades shot up as one, stilling their dance, and stood still. The plainlands became something like a sculpture, all still and cold. The presence of Azeroth - of whatever it was - grew heavier, a swelling storm upon his shoulders.

“Trust me,” she said again, but her voice was deeper, darker.

The grass trembled. It began to curl in on itself and droop, then died and blackened and shriveled with unnatural swiftness which only occurs in dreams or by terrible magicks. The stench of decay - flesh, not the sweeter, pulpier scent of dead plants - rose to suffocate the already-dead air, and the ground grew black and squishy with the hundreds of thousands of dead blades. Rot squeezed along his boots.

“Trust me.” The killing ground of grass groaned and squelched. Like something was clawing underneath it. Trying to burst through.

“Sabellian,” the voice chuckled. “My… loyal… companion…”

Chills tore up his spine. The voice was a low drawl, a voice of oil and rich earth.

“You shouldn’t be able to speak with me,” Sabellian said. His throat felt tight, hard; his words came out at great effort. The wet rot of the grass began to slip between his claws.

“I… can speak to you... more than anyone else... can,” the voice said. Only one voice. Not the laughing, maddened cackling voice of Yogg’saron, or the cool, hoarse whispers of C’thun - not even the broken-up fragments of Y’shaarj. He had grown up with them and more in his head, and he knew them all by name.

N’Zoth.

“We’ve spoken.... so many times... before,” They purred. “We are... so close...you and I. Where your mind is... mine… follows…”

“We are not close ,” Sabellian hissed, a for a flash, his fear gave way to anger. “No closer than a slave is to his slaver.”

They shouldn’t be able to speak to me. This is a nightmare.

“I know you... more than she … ever... will.”

Sabellian grew still; his breath caught in his throat.

A nightmare indeed. Ignore -

“I know... what you want. What you… desire. Who… you are -”

“You know nothing, slug .”

This is just madness. N’Zoth is far beneath the waves. Such a direct audience - such a direct link … the whispers of the Old Gods stretched over the world, but this… this… was…

A terrible, frozen feeling of panic washed over him. The pendant hadn’t stopped N’Zoth from squirming into his head and infesting his sleep with Their own conscious. His worst nightmare, his greatest enemy, swarmed and oozed around him in this dark, black place. The thing which had corrupted him, which had corrupted his children, made them into monsters, stole his life and theirs: right before him. A specter of It, maybe, but he knew - knew , somehow, knew in his gut, knew from the ten-thousand years of the regular whispers and voices this was something more - knew N’Zoth was watching him, that Their thousands of eyes and mouths and tentacles were fixed on him and the Mountain.

A laugh rippled along the plains. The wetness of rot rippled and grew still. “I … know… everything .”

“I need nothing from you, and you will get nothing from me,” Sabellian growled. He flexed his claws into the ground, and the dead grass squelched and bubbled underneath him. “Begone from my mind!”

“Your mind... is... my mind,” N’zoth purred. “Your blood... is... my blood. Your flesh... is... my flesh. There is... nowhere... to go... for me, if not... still inside... you.”

Disgust filled his body like a poison. Disgust and violation. His flesh crawled.

“I have denied your vileness since I escaped in Outland,” Sabellian said. “We are not one and the same. If you aim to sway me in some manner, then -”

“You... have only... denied... what you are,” N’zoth said. “You deny... the power… you once wielded. The respect. The ferocity…”

“I deny servitude -”

“We gave you... power ,” N’zoth went on. “Servitude? Ha-ha-ha… no… following your nature…”

“A nature instilled upon me by your corruption, monster!”

“Do you think… we chose your Father… for nothing?” N’zoth asked in Their great looming voice, like a pressure deep beneath the sea, only just managing to rise to the surface. “Corruption? No… We saw… his nature … and lit it… aflame…

“And it it still… in you .”

“ No !”

“You feel... the yearning... for power… in your heart. The rage. The thrill of the kill…”

Vivid images swam to his mind's eye: torturing Wrathion in the Kun’lai Cave. Striking blows upon Alexstrasza. Attacking the entirety of Lion’s Landing in one fell swoop of an elixir. Hearing Serinar shriek in agony. The sudden urges to snap his neck, or Seldarria’s, or even Furywing’s. The raw rush of pleasure which struck through him through all of such violence.

“No. No. That isn’t - I’ve controlled my anger -”

“But it is still… within you… and you... deny it…” A low sigh. The plainslands shook quietly. “You won’t… be able... to escape… what you are. No matter what... you try… no matter what... power... you turn to…” The sky began to grow dark, iridescent like oil, and the air muggy and hot. “We are… apart of her … like we are… apart of you… You wish to escape… but she cannot escape… and she cannot... help.”

Shapes flickered on the horizon: giant shapes of buildings, some jagged and some alien and some oblong, and from beneath them yearne tentacles which coiled around the structures. It was a distant, dreaming thing, a dream of a dream, but still there. Still undeniable.

“Then damn me, if you must!” Sabellian snarled. “But it is my children who deserve more than this!”

“Yes… your children…” The shapes disappeared in the distance -  though an after-image of gnashing teeth remained for half-a-heartbeat longer before it disappeared into the muck of sky.

“Pursued… by the same nature…”

“They are not as entrenched in it as I,” he growled. Anger boiled in his belly, and a sudden sharpness. “If you have come to try to turn me onto another path, then you have wasted your efforts.”

“I know… what you want. I can… help .”

Sabellian couldn’t help himself: he laughed. The transparency of Their words was as thin as a line of spider silk.

“If you think you can sway me with promises and sweet words, then your madness outweighs any cunning you might ever have.”

“I want… Ebyssian… and the boy.”

Something shifted underneath his paws. The air grew heavier - so heavy he felt as if he had begun to breathe water. He struggled to breathe. “Give them… to me… and I will free… your… children.”

Coldness caught against his chest. Coldness and a rush of shock.

He recovered, but the heaviness of the air, the darkening skies, the flashing after-images still ghosting on the horizon, N’zoth’s very presence, began to weigh in on him with its full intensity, strangling to his strength. “Yes, you must be a fool indeed if you think I would believe you would rather have two dragons over more than two dozen.”

“One life… is not equal… to another,” N’Zoth purred. “Your children… soldiers … but the ones I desire… entrenched in the mortal worlds. Their connections… invaluable… veins in a body… travelling in every direction…”

He could hear the hunger, the salivation, in Their words.

“You would never let my children go, wretch.”

“I alone… can do so…”

A grim smile rose on his maw. “So. You admit it is not their nature at all, but something they must be freed from!”

Laughter rushed over him, and he forced down a gag as the sweet smell of a thousand rotting bodies swept along with it.

“No… no… temper it… douse it… I lit Neltharion’s flame… but… I can… suffocate it.”

He bared his teeth. His children were not monsters. This - this thing proclaiming its innocence…

“You would never let them go ,” he snarled again. “I have lived with your trickery and lies all my life. You tricked my Father; you shall not trick me. I will not make a deal with a devil.”

“Do you think … the miserable little seedling… can save you? She cannot… save herself. Her heart… a crater… and we have filled it.” N’Zoth’s voice grew deeper, and in it, an even deeper anger simmered. An ancient anger, a loathing among nothing else he had ever heard or felt from another living thing. He staggered as it washed over him, but managed to stay on his feet.

The anger softened.

“I desire things… I desire things… as you desire things… Lieutenant. Lieutenant… a sacrifice of a hundred soldiers in battle…  for a foothold on enemy’s land… to acquire secrets… their weaknesses … their fears… a gateway… sacrifices… sacrifices... One hundred soldiers… for… a thousand ...

“Is this not… a fair trade?”

Sabellian grit his teeth.

“You would never let them go,” he said again, and would say again, and again, and again, if he must. “Do you take me for a fool? If I were to give you what you wanted, you would still keep your claws upon my children.”

“Mmm… distrust… yes… distrust in me… but this... is the only way.” A great, seething sigh, a rush of a wave beneath the ocean. “But you… your children… so many… deny me… deny their natures… confused… misled… They are already… lost … to me… to themselves…”

Sabellian swallowed thickly. He understood what N’zoth was saying: I have already lost control of most of them. What great loss would it be to lose unused things in exchange for a greater trade?

“I can… give you... what you desire,” the Old God said. “She cannot. I see… your doubts… in her. She… abandoned you… and now claims… salvation… without… explanation… desperate… she is so very…. desperate … a child among the black forest… promising anything… for forgiveness… for safety…” A low laugh, almost pitying. “She offers what… even she… cannot give herself… freedom…

“Freedom… from her own heart…”

“Tell me… what do you think… she can do… to free you?”

All of N’Zoth’s eyes were on him. He felt them. Felt them staring at him from thousands of miles away.

Sabellian felt frozen. More frozen than he had watching Gruul impale his children. More frozen than seeing his Father’s face and realizing he meant to abandon him on Draenor. The intensity pinpointed on him was beyond any comprehension. He felt as a bug might underneath a lens, seconds away from being roasted by the sun.

“She is a World Soul,” he said, voice quivering. “She’s stronger than you and yours will ever be; you want that power. It’s why you’re infesting her like worms.”

Amused maliciousness rose from the ground.

“ What... Can... She... Do? ”

“I - I don’t -”

“SHE CANNOT FREE HERSELF. AND SHE SAYS SHE WILL FREE YOU ? ”

The words were like an earthquake. Like every muscle in his body was smashed with a great force. He stumbled back, knees buckling, until his belly fell against the wet rot.

“Lies… lies…” The force of N’Zoth’s words fell away, and again Their tone was the low, pressurized bubbling. “But… her great generosity… bringing the rest of your kin here… so much of my blood in one place…” A low chuckle. “Do you see? Apart of us… apart of us… ”

Sabellian’s mouth grew dry. Still frozen to the ground, cowering among the rot, he could not move or speak.

The cursed will open the way.

Maybe so, for whatever cryptic idea the world soul had, but they had also opened the way for the Old Gods to worm their tentacles through.

Fool. We should have expected… Their blood was coagulated with the power of the Old Gods - it only made sense bringing them together would invite a further presence of the monsters. How many times in his ten-thousand years had he seen swathes of land grow ugly and tainted with warped Void magics after he had marched his army through it? The stench of corruption they’d left behind, if not visible in signs of maddened mortals and animals, in the lingering nightmares or places of bad energy which remained? The Twilight Highlands, he knew, was a product of such a thing. He thought of it like a jigsaw puzzle: you brought more pieces together, and the image grew more distinct, stronger.

I will not listen to Them .

But They are right , another part of him said. What can she do? Even still she hadn’t spoken to them. Left them in danger.

What if -

Stop it!

He felt as if he was about to vomit. Had it even been Azeroth he had spoken to? That all along, it had been a vision from an Old God, using such mysterious words and promises to lure the rest of the Black Dragonflight here, to assume power again, to awaken the corruption inside them, to again use their tainted flesh to have another foothold among the world of reality which They so desperately wished to consume? Or had it been Azeroth, and even she had not realized her thoughts were being swayed by those which infested her core? Had she thought she was coming up with a grand path to salvation, without knowing such plans were born from her corrupted heart?

Apart of us.

“I - there is - there is not way for me to give you what you want. I don’t control them.”

“Yes… your blood … your blood …” The hunger again. The deep hunger. “Your powerful blood… commanding…”

Sabellian shook his head, growing sicker with each word.

“But I see… still… you… distrust me. A test of faith… of our loyalty, then… yes… a test indeed… one, I shall free… one, and you will see.”

“No one… can help them… but me,” the voice said. “Give me… what I desire … and I will set… the rest… free .”

---

“Troubled dreams?”

Sabellian blinked away his exhaustion and glanced at Rexxar. The Beastmaster watched him from beneath his mask, the yellow of his eyes a rich ochre in the dark of his hood.

“Something of the sort,” Sabellian sighed. Dreams or nightmares . He rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand and smothered a yawn rising in his chest. He looked back down at the plains. The early morning pallow cast a pink pallow along the mountains and all its ruggedness. Even the ever-present smog had broken up this morning; shafts of pink light struck through like spotlights between the clouds.

Crossing one such sun-shaft was a large, dark shape. Sabellian shook his head.

It really is a proto-drake.

He’d had a difficult time believing the Blacktalon’s report a black proto-drake was making its way toward the Mountain - with an orc rider on its back.

Whispers of Dragonmaw went whisping around the mountain. Wrathion sent extra agents to investigate further.

No one else was with the rider. The road and airways were mostly deserted save for mortal workers and a handful of riders, but these were all Alliance.

A single Dragonmaw was no threat to them, but still an annoyance.

If it was a Dragonmaw at all.

“It was grey-skinned,” the Blacktalon had said. “And its drake was painted with their red markings.”

But why would one Dragonmaw be flying this way, in open sunlight, toward a mountain filled with dragons who were sure to kill it the moment it got too close?

“We should shoot the foul thing from the sky,” Ophelion said.

“We’ll wait to see what its business is,” Sabellian rumbled.

“It’s going to be another dragon,” Wrathion said.

The slick sureness in his voice made Sabellian raise an eyebrow.

“You seem too sure of this.”

He looked down at Wrathion. He’d had a difficult time looking at either him or Ebonhorn after last night’s… dream.

I want Ebyssian and the boy.

One, I will free .

He had, with some shame, studied his three children, but none seem different or looked suddenly unsure why they were ignoring him, or spending their time with unhappy company like Seldarria and Serinar.

Empty promises .

Of course. He’d expected nothing more.

The shame he had had of the little spark of hope or wonder ate at him throughout the early morning until now. Shame, and fear.

N’Zoth itself had taken his dreams. The pendant was still here, and his mind was still his own, and yet N’Zoth had still come.

N’Zoth was watching them.

He shook the thoughts away. He’d tried not to dwell on the visions. He had gotten good over the course of his life of packing away bad things and stuffing them deep underground.

So he did just that.

“We found a dragon in Grim Batol. Don’t you recall?”

Sabellian snorted softly. “You honestly think a dragon would come riding here on the back of a proto-drake?”

“If it was his disguise … certainly,” Wrathion said. “I think it’s far more likely than a rogue Dragonmaw headed this way. They’ve spent decades enslaving dragons; I think they’d know that was a stupid thing to do.”

Sabellian rumbled.

“I didn’t even know the Dragonmaw were in Grim Batol.”

“Oh, yes. A well-kept secret.” Wrathion smiled to himself. The proto-drake was still a couple of miles away, but thanks to the flatness of the landscape, they could watch it slowly makes its way to them. “Madam Goya told me where they were. Just in case I ever wanted to, ah, pay them a visit sometime.”

“Mm.” Something to keep in mind.

Aloutte poked her head up. The dragon had come down from her cave to speak to some of the Nether-drakes (she was apparently fascinated with them, and had somehow made swift friends with Azorka,) but when she’d seen they were off on a hunt, had decided to linger back when she heard the Dragonmaw rumors.

“What is that thing he’s riding?” she asked. She peered out over the ledge. “It’s so… ugly.” She’d been here for almost a week, and she still looked out of place with her vibrant, glowing clothing and dusk-blue skin. She was painted here by a different artist’s brush.

“Behold! Your ancestor!” Wrathion said with a flourish of his hand.

“You’re joking!”

“Were it not for the Titans’ intervention, we would all still look like that. Fascinating, isn’t it?”

“Praise the Titans, then,” Aloutte said.

Sabellian smiled a grim smile, at that.

“Foolishness,” Ophelion rumbled to himself.

The crowd grew a little larger as the proto-drake approached. Some had no doubt seen the proto-drake coming, and whether or not they had heard the Blacktalon’s report or the rumors afterward, a proto-drake was an ominous thing indeed.

The only dragon he expected to see wasn’t there: Serinar.

I wouldn’t wish to see my slavers again, either, Sabellian thought, and remembered his dream. He grimaced.

Rexxar glanced at him sidelong.

The proto-drake was at last close enough he could see the color of its eyes: red and water, grit clinging to the thick skin underneath its eyes. In its mouth dangled two goats, and on its back, the rider.

Dragonmaw indeed . The orc was massive, a jagged piece of muscle and grey skin. He wore only a single leather pauldron strapped in place by thick straps criss-crossing over his chest in an X.

The orc pulled back on the reins as he approached. The proto-drake lurched back and hovered a wing’s length from the throne room.

“A crowd just for me!” the orc yelled above the wing beats of his mount.

The scent hit him: spice and ash.

The others must have smelled it too. Murmurs rose up among them.

“Just for you,” Sabellian said. He tempered his disbelief, lest it appear like gawking on his face. “Seeing a black proto-drake flying Dragonmaw colors tends to draw a crowd.”

The orc laughed. He jerked his reins to the side and landed over at a free swathe of floor on the plateau.

“Yes, yes, but colors which offered me easy passage,” the orc - dragon - said. “Who would stop a Dragonmaw?” He laughed again. It was a cackle of a laugh, raw and bubbling in the throat.

“Why would a Black Dragon disguise himself as such filth?” Ophelion asked. He was the only one in dragon form, and looked down at the proto-drake with some amount of disgust, the only emotion Sabellian had seen on his face since he had seen Wrathion.

A dark air began to descend along the throne room. Though all could smell what he was, what he presented as lay as a blight between them.

This may get violent, and quickly.

The orc looked at him and grinned. One of his tusks brandished three black rings.

“Already had the disguise,” he said. “ Hur-yah, Char!” He struck the drake along the neck with the back of his hand. “Brought some tribute for you.”

The proto-drake tossed the goats down. They landed in clump of blood and flesh, narrowly missing Sabellian.

“And some extra,” the orc said, his twisted, grinning mouth tearing wider. He turned back in the saddle and undid the buckles along the straps there on the tarp sitting there, and gave it a jolly shove.

The tarp rolled from the drake’s back and landed next to the goats. The flap slipped, revealing the extra: two human bodies, necks broken at an efficient, brutal angle.

“Sometimes the farmers taste better than their livestock,” the “Dragonmaw” said.

Some of the others chuckled. Ebonhorn grew tense and still behind him.

“A decent tribute,” Sabellian said. He’d seen thousands of human bodies before, and eaten hundreds, even if it was in a different time, a different life. He’d have to be careful with this. “It would have been better in the prey pile on the balcony above.”

The orc laughed. He turned and slipped off the saddle, landing with practiced balance.

“Yes, maybe,” he said. He grabbed a crop from his belt: a long, rigin thing ended with barbs. With a crack, he struck the proto-drake on the flank and pointed with the crop to the meals.

The wretched creature didn’t wince. It gathered the goats and humans in silence, its mouth hinged open at an awkward, painful angle with the extra load. Its small red eyes darted over to the crop.

“You haven’t give your name, stranger,” Rexxar said. His voice was stiff, throaty, and where Sabellian had tried to temper his emotions from his face, Rexxar did no such thing: his eyes were wet with anger.

“Torque.”

“And why did you already have the disguise as a Dragonmaw?” Wrathion asked innocently.

“Been one since after the Cataclysm,” Torque said. “Had to hide somewhere.” At this, a grin. “Easiest place to hide! Hahaha! No one would look for a Black Dragon there!”

“A dragon masquerading as a Dragonmaw orc should be bringing fine tribute indeed,” Ophelion drawled. “To even show up in their colors and an enslaved beast borders on the greatest insult here so far.” For half-a-heartbeat, his eyes flickered to Wrathion.

Yes. We’ll have to be very careful with this one . He knew to expect one full of madness - there was always one whose mind was too peppered and warped - but a Dragonmaw disguise? The other dragons watched Torque with uneasiness or outright hostility, and Sabellian wondered if Wrathion wasn’t the only one who had to worry about assassination attempts.

Torque laughed again.

“Ha-ha! Yes, yes, maybe. The looks of fear on your faces as I descended!”

The air started to grow cold. Anyone looking at him with uneasiness now was beginning to glower.

“I hope,” Sabellian said, “your disguise was only just a disguise.”

Torque looked at him. “I did what I had to to fit in, as I’m sure all of this lot had to,” he said, and grinned his tearing grin. “But don’t worry, don’t worry! None on my own kind, not really. Just on these stupid beasts.” He slapped the proto-drake with the crop without looking, and the beast grunted softly, still standing still and blank with the flesh in its mouth. Sabellian caught sight of movement nearby, and watched Rexxar flexing his hands back and forth into fists, his dark eyes fixed on Torque with stewing rage.

“Not really?” Aloutte piped up. She of them all still had a wariness about her. Does she know the stories of the Dragonmaw, I wonder ?  “What do you mean?”

Torque waved his hand dismissively. “The thing is gone now. Escaped.” His eyes grazed over Samia and Vaxian. “Along with a couple of other new acquisitions. Warlord Zaela was furious! Ha-ha! A thrill to watch her beat the handlers who let them escape!”

“Your colleagues tried to enslave us, and broke my brother’s wing,” Samia hissed. Smoke began to curl from her nose. “How could you be apart of them -?” “Colleagues? Ha-ha! You sound like a blood elf!” Torque interrupted. “No, not colleagues at all: tools! I hid where I needed to hide, and in the most obvious spot where no one thinks to look! I did what I had to, yes, yes, of course, and no more.”

Something told him, looking at the distant, broken look of Torque, that he had done more than was asked. Though proto-drakes weren’t really dragons, not really, the Dragonmaw’s history alone could have dissuaded any fool to steer clear of them. Certainly his Father had used them to his advantage, but his Father was his Father , the Destroyer, and this wild thing was just that: a wild thing, looking for blood. There was the cleverness of hiding in plain sight, certainly, but he knew for a fact, knew looking at Torque’s bloodthirsty eyes, Torque had enjoyed the torture of beasts which were his ancestors, and carrying out the torture methods which had once tortured his own kind.

He knew it. And everyone else knew it. Torturing Reds would have been fine, in most of their eyes. Torturing Blues, or Greens, or Bronzes. Torturing mortals. All would have been shrugged off. But torturing with those which had tortured their own kind? Unforgivable.

Black Dragons were nothing if not proud of their legacy. And the Dragonmaw was one desecration upon it.

“Off, beast. Up.” Torque whipped his crop up to point at the balcony, and the proto-drake lumbered off before taking flight and whisking up onto the balcony above. With the beast gone, the person who’d been hiding behind it struck.

Serinar lunged out, knife raised, his eyes wide with hatred.

Wrathion grabbed Serinar by the scruff of the collar and yanked him back.

The cloth grew tight around the dragon’s throat. He gagged; stumbled back. The dagger raised in his hand fell. Clattered to the ground.

“Let go! Let go!” Serinar snarled, his eyes ablaze with anger. Wrathion drew his dagger and set it at the dragon’s neck, his other hand still clawed in the collar.

Torque turned. Serinar’s eyes fixed on him. His gaze filled with black, black rage. He twisted in Wrathion’s grip like an eel, even with the boy’s dagger at his throat. Left appeared at Wrathion’s side and grabbed the dragon with a headlock, arming him in place.

“You traitorous bastard!” Serinar spat. Again he writhed, and Left and Wrathion struggled to keep him in place. Even with the cursed collar on him, the dragon was strong, and anger fueled his ferocity. “Let go of me, mortals, or kill him yourself!”

“Not really,” Sabellian echoed, recalling what Torque had said. He glanced at Serinar, then at Torque, and his lips grew into a taut line. “Torque, you fool.”

Serinar bared his teeth, but did not look away from Torque. Torque, who stood smiling, head cocked to the side.

“Ashmaw,” Torque said, and suddenly his face lit up with recognition and delight. “I thought I would find you here after you escaped!”

Serinar roared. He lunged forward. Left’s grip slipped. Another Agent jumped into the fray and held the dragon by the cloak.

“My name is Serinar, slaver!” he snarled. “Traitor! Coward! I knew I smelled Black Dragon on you!”

Any hope they might yet see no infighting plunged and crashed.

And here I thought it would be because of the boy.

Torque laughed. And again he repeated the phrase: “We all had to do what we had to do to survive,” he said. “Nothing against you. Nothing personal.”

“You tortured me! Starved me! Beat me!”

“I tortured many things,” Torque said. “What was I going to do? Say I didn’t want to torture a Black Dragon? Ha! Yes! And make them suspicious!”

Serinar shot his eyes over to Sabellian. “Kill him, or I will.”

“I called him here. I’m not about to kill him.”

Wrathion raised his eyebrows.

He himself doubted the words as soon as they left him. Would it not be easier to kill this rabid dog and wipe their hands clean of the growing tension his arrival had caused? Easier indeed.

But what if we need him ? The thought was laughable. And yet, without Azeroth’s guidance, they didn’t know - and with two other dragons missing, everyone counted. He didn’t know why he knew that for sure, but he knew it.

And if Azeroth contacted them and said they only needed such-and-such a number… well, Torque would be an easy thing to get rid of.

“So we shall have two dragons with histories of violence against their own kind, here,” Ophelion said.

“What we all did in order to survive is not for me to judge,” Sabellian said. “After all of this is done, you can do to one another as you will. I don’t care. Go duel and die for all I care. But for now, stay your hands until our work is finished Try to meditate on some amount of self control. If the Black Prince can keep himself from killing you all, then surely you can, too.”

A handful of chuckles rose from the assembly. Wrathion glanced at him with a dour expression.

Serinar hissed.

“If you expect me to stand by this monstrous thing and -”

“I expect you,” Sabellian interrupted with a growl, “to do as I say.” He studied Serinar. “And if you disagree, you can go. No one is keeping you here.”

Serinar and he locked eyes. For a trembling moment, the other dragon had the look in his eyes which considered full dismissal.

Then, with a growl, Serinar turned away.

Warily, Wrathion let go and lowered his daggers. His Blacktalons soon did the same, Left last, unhooking her arm from his neck.

“I’ll stay,” Serinar growled. “But my patience runs thin. You had best hold our grand palaver soon, or my hand will kill more than this fool.”

The naked disrespect sent a flame bubbling in his throat: one he had a hard time swallowing.

But swallow it he did, because in the end, he understood Serniar’s anger. He’d felt it at Wrathion for so long, and even still, simmering forever in his belly.

“We’ll wait two days more for the two dragons we lack,” Sabellian said. “In two days, we speak, all as one. I trust even you can wait two days, Serinar.”

Serinar’s eyes flickered to Torque and back again.

“Fine,” he said. “Two days.”

Torque rolled his shoulders back and smiled.

“You won’t have to wait two days for one of them,” Torque said. “I flew past one only hours ago.”

Sabellian raised his eyebrows. “Where? From what direction?”

“We came from the north,” Torque said. “I followed her for most of the journey.” He flashed a grin. “Old habits and all that.”

Sabellian considered. He glanced at Wrathion. “Can you go intercept her?”

Wrathion cocked his head to the side. He sheathed his daggers.

“An easy enough thing to do,” he said, and though his tone boasted a sureness, he gave him a questioning look.

“Torque, I’m sure my friend Rexxar here will help you find lodging,” Sabellian continued in a crisp, cold voice, and ignored the incredulous look the Beasmaster gave him.

“Rexxar?” Torque’s eyebrows shot up. “Yes! Yes, I’m sure such a famous hero can do that for me! Ha-ha!”

Or he’ll be the only person here to shut you up.

“The rest of you: do what you will. But remember what I said.”

Slowly, slowly, the “crowd” dispersed. Sabellian had to smile at Rexxar’s coldness as Torque tried to speak to him. Maybe the half-orc would give the dog a quick punch to the gut, too.

“So,” Wrathion said, sidling up to him. “What are you thinking?”

“I’d rather we skip extra tension by waiting with bated breath for her to arrive,” Sabellian explained, “especially after this debacle. Just go and bring her quietly, if you can.”

“I was trained among rogues. I can do just that,” Wrathion said with a quick smirk. “I think I’ll bring her through the Lair’s entrance.” Sabellian grunted. How did he control armies of idiots like Torque, or Serinar, or Seldarria?

Through cold anger. They were scared to disrespect me. And I didn’t care about keeping as many alive as possible.

Lieutenant Sabellian would have killed Serinar and Torque already.

Yes, he remembered that.

He only hoped his reputation would continue to carry him through this. If they started to smell weakness…

He tried not to glance over at Samia and Vaxian, talking quietly near the entrance to the Descent.

Wrathion glanced over his shoulder, but Sabellian didn’t have to turn to know the boy was watching Torque. “Serinar isn’t going to listen to you, you know.”

“Then make sure he does,” Sabellian snapped. “You have your mortals for more than just pomp and appearances.”

Wrathion scoffed. “I think they’ve shown they’re more than just that.”

“I’ll try to dissuade some of the tension,” Sabellian said. “Go. Be quick. And let’s hope it isn’t another one like him.”

 ---

  Azeroth, I know things must be very difficult, and you are the soul of the entire world and must be very busy with other things, but it would be very nice of you to come back and tell us what to do before we all begin eating one another like of pack of starved rats.

That would be nice.

I’m only saying .

Wrathion doubted Azeroth could hear. It had taken a lot of willpower and preparation to speak to her before, and certainly his thoughts were not powerful enough to summon toward her…

Thinking them made him feel a little better. She still had a chance of hearing.

Maybe.

That would be nice.

He caught a warm updraft and tilted his wings up to ride it. It was a freeing thing, to fly, especially after so much time on and under the mountain. He liked the mountain well enough. He would like it more if it was not infested by remaining evil energies and memories of death. The growing supply of corrupted black dragons didn’t help, either.

“Why do you think she’s coming on horseback?”

Despite Sabellian’s questioning looks, Wrathion had decided to take Aloutte with him. Out of the pack, he still found her to be the most palatable… and taking her strengthened their sliver of companionship. If anyone wasn’t going to try to kill him, he hoped it was at least Aloutte. She seemed the most like him, at least, and unlike Ophelion, wasn’t outright ignoring his existence, or annoying him to tears like Jacob.

The dragon drew some beats behind him, and though she should have easily outpaced him, she lagged behind. If he’d had any doubt about her lack of flight experience, it’d vanished entirely when they’d set off. Where she had grace and agility elsewhere, she rose into the air like an unsure kite trying to catch a breeze, all wobbles and overcorrects. Even after half an hour of flight, she found the wrong current to catch or had trouble finding the beats of her wings.

“It’s a much more subtle way to travel,” Wrathion called back. “An even… quieter way then what our new friend did.”

He glanced back at her. Her brow creased in thought; she scanned the horizon, but her eyes were distant and inward.

“He’s very troubling, don’t you think?”

“Not used to such bloodlust in Suramar?”

“Maybe in the Withered ,” she said. Her face crinkled with derision. “But most things in the city are done with far more subtlety. Not to say I am unacquainted with violence,” she added smoothly. “It’s only… distasteful.”

What would she think of Nefarian’s experiments or Sabellian’s life of slaughter, I wonder? He thought. Or even my grim work?

If anyone had filled Aloutte in on his claim to infamy, she had given no indication of it. Which was good and bad. Good in that Aloutte still trusted him; bad in that she treated him like anyone else. Some part of him wanted a little spark of wariness in her look when she eyed him over, like the others gave him

It allowed him a little squirm of power and satisfaction.

A dull ringing sounded in his head.

We’ve located her, my Prince , came Left’s voice. Southwest of the eastern trench.

Wrathion smiled. They’d found the bloodgems had begun to work again - as long as they were off of the mountain. Whatever Samia had done, it was centralized at Blackrock.

Excellent! he replied. We’ll be right there.

The other dragon is with her.

Wrathion’s wings hiccuped, and he stopped into a hover, lest he pitch down in the air.

What other dragon?

The last one. The seventh, if we’re going to believe Ophelion his mate isn’t coming.

A tide of disbelief rose into his face.

Are you sure?

I wouldn’t have said anything if I wasn’t.

Three dragons? Three dragons in one day? What were those kind of chances! Had this rider and stranger travelled together? But why had Torque noted only her?

All the dragons they’d found - they’d all come!

Wrathion angled his wings and bolted toward the southwest. It was late morning now, and the heat warmed his back in a distant, diffused kind of way, a vague heat through the clouds of smog. He would have preferred the raw heat of, say, the Badlands, the raw, scorching heat, no clouds -

Oh, what was he thinking? Who cared about the heat!

“This way!” he chirped back to Aloutte, and quickened his pace. She gave a few labored breaths behind him and followed.

These were the two from Kul’tiras and the Storm Peaks, then: the last remaining. He darted through the air, faster and faster, until they crossed a rise and came to the trench Left had indicated.

He didn’t spot Left or his other Blacktalons, of course, but he did see horse-and-rider crossing along a bend to avoid falling into the trench to her left, where lava bubbled deep below.

He also saw the dragon walking next to her, pausing here and there to stop and wave one of his front paws around in animated, talkative sweeps as he spoke, words muffled in the distance.

It was the horse who spotted them first. Its black eyes were already white with fear, and began to roll in its skull when they fixed on them above the rise. The beast ground to a halt and whinnied.

Dragon and rider stopped and looked up.

Wrathion slowed his flight and approached.

“Oh! Two!” Aloutte said.

The rider pulled back on her reins and the horse pranced backward. Her eyes were fixed not on Aloutte, the biggest threat, but on him - eyes which peered out from a face encircled with a satin red and gold headwrap, framing her like a moon. The rest of her gear was sturdy travel sets, all worn leather and patchy cloth. He knew at once she knew who he was.

As for the other dragon, they could not be more different. Either he was young or small; whatever it was, he made up for his slighter frame with a wealth of jewels and gold. They clasped around his horns as gem-encrusted rings, or his ankles as bracelets, or his wings as piercings. Some of his wing-webbings were pierced.

Aloutte gave an impressed hum.

“Ho!” the jeweled dragon cried up to them. “Come ta’ greet us?”

He spoke with a sort of slurring, almost Dwarven accent, and flashed them a grin as they landed. Wrathion wasn’t surprised to see some of his teeth were gold.

“But of course,” Wrathion said, and shifted into his human form. The jeweled dragon’s brows shot up. “We’re all so pleased to see you alive.”

“By Helya,” the dragon said. “A whelp turning already? You must be that Prince I’ve heard so much about.”

“The one and only,” Wrathion said. “And this is my companion Aloutte. But you’re not here for me . Who are the two of you? ”

“Laharion!” the dragon said, and guffawed. “Ah! How sweet ta’ say the name once more!”

Wrathion smiled briefly. “Hiding with mortals, hm?”

“Aye,” Laharion said. “But beat hidin’ away in some cave somewhere.”

The rider frowned.

“I’m Ruby,” she said. Her voice was low, a kind of suspicious voice by nature. “And I’d rather just be called Ruby, thank you.”

“Laharion, Ruby, you have our thanks for coming,” Wrathion said. “Did you travel together?”

“No,” Ruby said. “This isn’t the one who’s been stalking me since the Wetlands.”

“Ambushed her, I’m afraid,” Laharion said with a bashful laugh. “Saw her an’ the horse an’ my hunger got the best of me. Glad I smelled her ‘fore I could swallow her up!”

“How awful,” Aloutte mumbled.

“I’m guessing the proto-drake rider arrived,” Ruby said. She’d only given Aloutte a passing glance; her eyes were otherwise fixed on Wrathion. Like her voice, her eyes had a natural, suspicious glint to them.

“Just earlier today,” he said. “He’s the one who gave us the lead on you.”

“And nothing else?”

“No. We did expect just you. This one’s a surprise,” Wrathion said, and nodded to Laharion.

“Aye, I always am.”

Ruby frowned thoughtfully, troubled. Laharion laughed.

“Woulda’ rather travelled with somebody,” he said. “Jus’ crossed in from the southern mountains this morning. I’dda been here far quicker, but got some bad luck near the Stranglethorn Cape.” He looked at Wrathion. His eyes were a vibrant, startling blue. “How long this going to take? Told my crew we’d be docked for the next month for major repairs. If it’s longer than that, ‘fraid I’ll need to borrow a proxy.”

“My, are you a sailor?” Aloutte asked.

“Something like that, dearie.”

“I’m guessing we’re the last to arrive,” Ruby said.

“Yes, you are,” Wrathion said. “We can go up to the Mountain together. We’ll be taking the Lair entrance from the ground.”

“Aye - let’s go to it, then,” Laharion said. “Been musing over this for too long. Hope it’ll be worth my time.” He shuffled his wings.

“How do I know you’re not leading us into some trap?” Ruby hadn’t moved. “I came all the way here for this and the last thing I want to do is get my head sheared off by a know assassin.”

“If I wanted to kill you, the rogues who’ve been watching you since before you arrived would have already done so for me,” Wrathion said, and Left merged into existence on the opposite side of the trench. Two more materialized at the east and west points. “If you don’t trust me, ask my good friend Aloutte where we’re taking you.”

Ruby glanced at the dragon warily.

“It’s true,” Aloutte said. “The rest of us are on the throne room, high in the Mountain. It’s quite a view. Dreadful decor, though. I really don’t know how I’m related to any of you.”

Ruby looked between them.

“Bah, come along, girl,” Laharion said. He raised his paw high as if to slap her on the back, seemed to realize his paw was bigger than she was and would crush her, and slowly set it down. The horse’s nostrils flared with foam. “You’ve already come this far, eh? Too late now.”

Ruby sighed.

“Too late now.”

Wrathion grinned, shark-like. “Excellent.”

He transformed into a whelp and whipped up into the air at a hover.

“It isn’t too far from here,” he said. “I’m sure one of my Blacktalons can take care of your mount, Ruby.”

“Right. And I’m sure they could. But I’ll be taking it to the mountain.”

“They won’t do anything to your horse . My agents are well-trained in -”

“No. I don’t care about the horse,” Ruby said. “Unless I ride on someone’s back, it’s the quickest way for me.”

Wrathion felt a jolt.

“You can’t fly.”

“Afraid not.” She stared at him with her suspicious eyes.

He didn’t pause. “Very well. I can lead you there by foot. Er - wing.” He gave a couple of wing beats to indicate, rising a couple of feet in the air, then dropped down again and hovered. “I’m much smaller, so I may just hold up our other companions, here.”

“I can see the Mountain from here. I really don’t need an escort.”

Wrathion grinned slyly. “The Lair is a labyrinth. You’ll need a guide to get to the top.”

It looks like we’d have to take the ground entrance, anyway… sneaking or not.

Ruby sighed quietly.

“I yield, then. Lead the way, Black Prince.”

“I’ll take the others,” Aloutte said. “If it please you, Laharion.”

“Please me it will,” he said.

On the far side of the trench, Left flicked her hand. A wyvern came bounding up behind her: Leokk, whom she’d borrowed for the scouting flight.

I can lead them through the Lair , her voice rebounded in his head. He sent a quick affirmative.

“Interesting jewelry,” Aloutte said as they took off and began toward Blackrock.

“My thanks, miss! Got an eye for the glint, ey?”

Their voice drifted into the smog, and Ruby and Wrathion watched them grow distant.

They glanced at one another.

“Shall we?” he asked.

She sighed and spurred the horse on. The poor animal had calmed, some, and trotted forward, glad to be on the move, if only to expel its pent-up energy. Wrathion flew after her.

“I’m surprised how quickly you made it here, considering,” Wrathion said. “And at the same time as two others.”

Ruby smiled a humorless smile. “I’ve gotten used to traveling quickly without fligit,” she said. It’s an non-issue for me, these days.”

Wrathion glanced at the horse. “And all the way from the Storm Peaks? Exciting.”

“Is it?” she said dryly. “Yes, though… all the way from the Storm Peaks. Against my better judgement.” She looked at him sidelong. Up close, he noticed the scars slicing between her lips and stopping just short of her nose. Her right eye had a slight murkiness to it like melting ice.

“I can understand the uncertainty,” he smoothed over. “What, with me here and -”

“It wasn’t you I was worried about,” she said. “I didn’t think you’d be here. And if you were, at least squirreled away for an attack.” She shifted her hold on the reins and led the horse around the last stretch of the bend. After rounding this, the road was more or less free of lava pits up to the mountain: an easy ride. “It was Sabellian.”

He blinked back in surprise. “Sabellian? Really ?”

“Yes,” she said. “He was notoriously power-hungry… though most were, back in those days.” She frowned and looked at him. “Do you know anything about what to expect up there? How long have you been here? You have a network of spies, it’s said. You must know.”

Wrathion flew in silence for a moment. He cocked his head to the side.

“Sabellian is a grouch … but whatever he was in the past is just that: in the past. I don’t think you should be worried about him - what, seizing control?” He laughed. “There isn’t much to control, Ruby.”

“No. But it’s still enough.” Despite her lingering suspicion, she relaxed. A little. “So, can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“Why is a notorious kin-killer here and not killing kin?”

She sounded less than accusatory; Wrathon couldn’t bring himself to be slighted by the bluntness of it.

“Even dragons change,” he said. “I’ve shifted my goals like the power-hungry Sabellian has. You’ll find my grand purpose is still with me. Just… expanded. Despite what all the rumors say, I found no enjoyment in killing my kind. So! If there’s some way to rebuild without the -” He stopped himself. Bringing up the corruption among the corrupted felt… not rude . Not inappropriate. Wrong? A lost cause? He didn’t know. “Without our dark nature urging us on.”

That’s good.

She chuckled a dark chuckle.

“So that really is his gambit? To rebuild?”

“Yes, it seems so.” Best to pretend I’m not apart of this, ah, ‘gambit.’ She might trust him a little more.

“And then what?”

“Well, I don’t know. We do what we must.”

Ruby eyed him.

“You know, if we do rebuild the Dragonflight, our ‘dark nature’ - as you put it - won’t go away.”

Her voice was flat, blunt, and obvious. He almost flinched.

She continued. “You do know what rebuilding it means, don’t you?”

“World domination?” he chirped with a smirk. “Mass carnage? The brainwashing of the masses?”

She frowned at him.

“Something like that. It’s all we do. What we’re here for.”

“We’ll see.”

Ruby smiled grimly. “So will I.”

They travelled in silence for a time. Finally, Wrathion asked something bothering him.

“You don’t seem remarkably pleased about the idea of a reborn Black Dragonflight.”

“I’m not,” she said. “There was a reason I hid in the Storm Peaks, in the last place a Black Dragon would want to live.” She looked up at Blackrock Mountain. It loomed before them, a black, churning shadow on the horizon. “Our time is done. What we tried to do, we failed to do. And I’m just another broken soldier.” Ruby shook her head and turned her attention to the path before them. “I only came because I felt like I didn’t have much of a choice. It’s hard to just… ignore an order like that. And if Sabellian knew where I was before, and I didn’t join him now, he’d try to hunt me down. He did say anyone who didn’t come would be an enemy.” Wrathion tilted his head.

“So you just came to save yourself,” he mused.

“I guess so.” A pause. “I hope I don’t get… what’s the word you used? Brainwashed , when I get there.”

A little chill went up him. “Oh?”

“Yeah.” Her hands tightened on the reins. “I exaggerate, maybe, but sometimes it felt like that when I got up in gatherings like this. I’d be more than happy to crawl into a hole and be alone for the rest of my life, but that feeling… it goes away when I start being with other dragons. I don’t know. It’s hard to describe.”

“What do you want, then?” he asked carefully, though he knew the answer.

“World domination,” she drolled. “Corruption of the masses.”

He looked at her. Out of all the dragons, she’d been the first to even mention the corruption in such a way.

“I’m sure you’ll be fine,” he said.

“Yes,” Ruby said, and looked back at him, her scars almost flickering in the morning light. “After all, it’s my mind either way, right?” And her eyes were knowing and still.

---

 The day was upon them at last.

Sabellian dipped his claws in the lava pools and closed his eyes as the heat rolled over them.

The early morning flight had done a little to settle his nerves. His body ached in a quiet, familiar kind of way, and his wings lay relaxed at his sides like untethered kites.

He opened his eyes and flexed his claws in the pool. He hadn’t had the time to enjoy the plentiful lava here; he’d missed it in Blade’s Edge, which only had little puddles of it in the eastern hills.

He could fully submerge himself in the basin, but he doubted he had the time to lounge and soak like he wanted to. And if he was to fight anyone today, soaking his claws would be enough.

Clean and sharp.

The last of the dragons had come at last, and Sabellian had moved their gathering to two days’ wait to one. What use was there to lounge around when everyone was here?

With a low groan, he rose to his feet and slipped his claws from the magma. It sloughed off of the wicked points and began to cool at the bank.

The others would be there already. He looked up. It could have been any other day, but a heaviness lay in his chest. They’d been with the newcomers for almost a week, but now - not was the real colors would show.

The Blacktalons had set up a perimeter around the Mountain, though most were focused on the higher outer levels. Wrathion had suggested they hold the meeting elsewhere, and though the throne could employ a level of symbolism if he sat before it again as he had before, in the end, he decided the boy was right.

“The throne’s an old symbol,” Wrathion had said dismissively. “We should really try to find a new one.”

At least doing so would keep him separate from his brother.

He raised his wings and took flight.

He angled his wings away from the sun and flew toward the Mountain. Smoke boiled from the vents peppering the surface, where underneath the lava flowed onward and onward. It cast a black shadow over the landscape: a vast, unbreakable shadow. As he approached, he spotted small dots milling on the edge of the throne room: Dragonkin cleaning up the place, preparing it.

He rose past the plateau, rising higher and higher. He dodged the smoke from the vents; his wings kicked it up from its normal crawling chugging and sent little whirlwinds spiralling away from him.

Higher, higher: past waterfalls of magma and chasms of flat obsidian and bones of prey long forgotten.

At last he reached the last level. He shot up into the open air on all sides. Before him stretched a long, rocky plateau: the very top of Blackrock Mountaian.

A small spire jut out from the northern edge, and on the eastern side some small rocks protruded to form a wall-like structure around the rim. The western and southern sides were barren and flat and open to the slope behind them, with nothing to stop someone from being pushed over the side.

Good thing he could fly.

The entire plateau had a gentle slant to it, with the crest at the spire. It was just enough to force those sitting down from the spire to look up at whoever sat at there.

He could say many things about the boy, but he couldn’t knock his sense of illusions of power.

The others were there, as he’d guessed: all of them. Even the nether-drakes were there, but sat at attention at the southern stretch, a little out of the circle the others had made as they had come to wait.

Sabellian hovered for a moment. His wings kicked up rocks and black dust. Then he landed with a boom in front of the spire.

“You’ve kept us waiting long enough,” Serinar said with a sneer. He stood before the rock wall, arms crossed, dwarfed before the others, all in their true form.

“Serinar,” he drawled. “I almost didn’t see you there.”

A couple of chuckles followed, but most of them watched him carefully, silently.

He took a seat before the spire and folded his wings loosely to his body, his fins held high and straight on his head.

Seeing him sit, the others who had still been standing followed suit. They completed the loose ring on the plateau, with him at the crest. Serinar was the only outlier, if he didn’t count the proto-drakes… ah. Serinar and Wrathion. The boy say in his whep form near the northern edge of the rock wall - closer to the spire.

Clever boy , he thought mildly.

“Let us begin, then,” he rumbled. He looked at them all. Samia, Vaxian, and Pyria were there, sitting with one another; Seldarria and Furywing; Aloutte and Jacob, Jacob for the first time in his dragon form, a gangly drake with purple accents; Ophelion, still and quiet; Torque, who proved to be a giant dragon as he was a giant orc; Ruby, a tanner sort of black, her left wing hanging at her side; Laharion.

“There hadn’t been a meeting like this since the Cataclysm,” he began. “Look around you: this is the last of the Black Dragonflight. After ten-thousand years, this is all which remains. We are the bones of a lost empire.”

A wave of displeasure rolled through them. That and something else. A grimness. The air grew electric and tense, but not in the way it had in his dream: this was a tension of a truth faced, and bitterly.

“What comes next,” he continued slowly, carefully, “will decide if these bones will fall into dust, or be the foundation for a new age.”

Some of their eyes lit up with hunger.

Ophelion watched him, unmoving, pendant black and heavy on his neck, his gaze as intense as the hawk’s he had sent.

He cast a quick glance at the three newcomers. He expected the reaction from certain dragons: Ophelion, nothing, but Seldarria, Serinar, and even Samia reacted with the hunger. He’d had time to study them - but not these new three. Laharion, yes - there was the hunger, but it looked earnest, open, yearning. Torque, of course, grinned his devil’s grin, and he might as well have begun salivating for all the yearning in his eyes reflected. Even as a dragon, the “Dragonmaw” was all mass and muscle, something like a bull; he even had the bull-like horns, sweeping up and out.

Ruby was one of those without such enthusiasm. Though Left had told him off the cuff about her lack of flight, seeing the extent of such injury startled him. Her left wing was a tangled wreck, hanging loose and limp at her side; the other missed a great chunk of red webbing. Scars raked across her back, so deep no scales had regrown there, leaving only dark skin. As lieutenant, he had seen many kinds of injuries, but these surprised him with their aggression.

“My Father led the Dragonflight to its destruction,” Sabellian said. Careful, here. Careful. “We cannot afford to repeat the mistakes he made.”

With nothing back from Azeroth, he hadn’t known what to say to these dragons he had called from all the corners of her surface. He had sat up late last night, watching the stars in hopes he might pick out the impossible surface of Outland.

“What are you going to do, tomorrow?” Wrathion had asked; he hadn’t been able to sleep, either.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. Had Nasandria made it home, he wondered? “Try and bring them together somehow.”

“Find the common want,” Wrathion echoed, as if to himself, recalling up Sabellian’s explanation for what he had said in his speech.

Sabellian rumbled. “And hope it is enough,” he said. “But if their want is to return to their old life - no, it cannot be so, boy. I have to sway them.”

Wrathion smiled slyly, ruefully. “Sway them to peace?”

“Not peace,” Sabellian said. “Something more than madness.” He shook his head. “But it won’t work. I will talk and talk, and even if I give the most logical argument, the corruption will not let them think otherwise.”

Wrathion hummed softly. “Maybe it will buy us time,” he mused. “The corruption has wakened up in some of them... but none of them have begun attacking us outright, though they should have far before. Except maybe the others from below, but they’re behaving, now. You and I both know the Old Gods want us dead.”

No. They don’t.

I want Ebyssian and the boy.

He shook the thoughts away.

But the boy wasn’t all wrong: N’Zoth would want them dead if They couldn’t have them. If they continued to deny Them, death would be the only option.

Then They’ll try to waken the corruption in the others, and it will be over.

The way’s already open, anyway. They are just… waiting.

“Maybe,” Sabellian rumbled. “Maybe.” Willpower was a strong thing. It could be that the others might brush away the corruption for even a day or two if they were thinking of lives without slaughter or torture or any other foolishness. Negative thoughts bred more negative thoughts, and would invite the Old Gods again, giving Them ample handholds. Something positive might make those handholds slippery with oil.

The fact was, the handholds would still be there.

A day or two, maybe.

Azeroth, help us.

He’d hoped she would reach out to them - any one of them - the next morning. When Wrathion and Ebonhorn had given him glum looks, he knew better.

Now, talking, Sabellian found his stride. “Yes, it was my Father who destroyed us. It’s true: he did lead us into an empire of power, and the world did tremble before us. But the world trembled, and then the world struck back. And now we are bones. Bones and memories of a lost time.”

“Meddling dragons and mortals destroyed us,” Torque rumbled. “Deathwing was our greatest leader!”

“Was it not Deathwing’s plans which forced them to meddle?” Sabellian said coldly. “Was it not Deathwing who underestimated them? If we are to return to our former glory - if we are to come out into the light of this new dawn - we must toss aside our old ways.”

“I know you are all here for different reasons,” he continued, unbothered by some of the confused expressions they shot him. This was not the talk they expected. “There are those of you who yearn for your old lives of bloodshed and power and slaughter. The fear you instilled in the hearts of all you crossed your path.” He looked at them all, one by one. “I am here to tell you that life is over.”

The air grew white with shock.

“What do you mean, over ?” Torque said.

“This is ridiculous,” Serinar added.

“But - such things made us great!” Laharion argued. “Why should we be changing anything? Or leave all of that behind?”

“Because such things destroyed us in the end,” Sabellian growled. “A poison berry tastes sweet until you begin spitting blood.” He waved a paw, silencing the others. “The world has moved on without us. We were defeated thoroughly. Terribly. Violently. No matter the cleverness of our plans or the ferocity we fought with, the world crushed us into this pathetic place. You may think there are other ways to consume this world. That there are other ways to usher in the Hour of Twilight, if you still put faith in that accursed thing. That there are other ways to gain power and not be overthrown. I am here to tell you no: there isn’t. There isn’t any great plan which could give you what you desire, if that is what you actually desire. Deathwing was empowered by the Titans and given further power from those below, and he failed. We are bones. Bones and dust. What do you think you can do better?”

Anger. Bitterness. Loss. Betrayal. The atmosphere in the ring was like a war, mingling and clashing with one another. Jacob began to look uneasy. So did Vaxian, which surprised him. At the end of the circle, the nether-drakes began to glow a bit brighter with alert.

“I told you I would be your savior, and this is why: to tell you the truth. What else would we be but rats on a wheel if we were to turn to our old lives? Bah! We would be slaughtered the moment we tried to mobilize! And mobilize what? LOOK AROUND!” He waved his claw at the circle. “We are not even a dozen, and there lives even less fully grown! Clutches only hatch so fast! If we strike once, it will be over. We will be hunted down again, but this time, for good! Do you think they would stop, this time? No! They would scour every corner of the earth and wipe every memory left of us.”

“So we shall hide in the dark,” Ophelion said. “Hide in the dark as we do now, but together? Foolishness.”

“You put words in my mouth, necromancer,” Sabellian said. Ebonhorn had told him about the nature of the pendant, and it had only made him more suspicious about the “shaman.”

A handful of the others gave Ophelion questioning looks. Ophelion himself did not flinch.

“There is nothing else, then,” he said evenly. “To come together and reveal ourselves is still certain death.”

“Wrathion has a hold on the mortal world, as does Ebyssian,” Sabellian pointed out. He’d decided to use his brother’s draconic name to help tie him into their world more, at least for the meeting. “The mortals trust them.” More or less. “If we were to present ourselves as a reborn Dragonflight -”

“Reborn?” Ruby asked. She watched him closely.

“What are we without - without what we are ?” Samia watched him as closely as Ruby did, but something in her face had a sense of confusion, unsureness.

One, I will free .

He shoved the thought aside. Empty, desperate promises. “In Outland, we just - we just lived so we could eat and sleep another day,” she continued. “We had no purpose.”

This is the shadow , he reminded himself, lest he grow angry, betrayed. This is the warped shadow.

“Our purpose,” he drawled, “was family. To protect and care for one another -”

A handful of dark chuckles rose up from the crowd. He growled at them. His eyes darted to Seldarria.

“Funny, is it? Funny to laugh about caring for one’s own kin? Tell me, broodmother: would you care if I went below and crushed your eggs?”

Her eyes blazed. She lurched to her feet. “You dare to even speak of such a thing!”

“Funny, yes. So wildly amusing.” He sniffed, satisfied his point was made. “Sit down, fool. I will not crush any eggs. I’ve seen enough of that for my lifetime.”

It took her a moment, but sit down she did. The poison hatred had not left her face.

“We must turn to other measures,” he continued smoothly. “I told you all when I summoned you: surviving is not living. And I do not intend to simply survive anymore. My children deserve a better life. A life of longevity. Earnesty. I do not intend to simply skulk in the dark - nor do I intend to dive headfirst into a war we have lost time and time again. We must become something different if we are to live again.”

Something about the mood changed. The anger and betrayal was still there, but so was something else.

Curiosity.

“What is ‘something different?’” Aloutte asked. She had been watching in interested silence. If she wasn’t lying to Wrathion - and he had no reason to think she was - she had been part of politics and court life in Suramar. She knew the game. “I confess, I have lived a very different life compared to much of you. I don’t know about this bloodshed or this idea of … domination ....”

“I’m sure you took out more of your fair share of enemies in Suramar, Aloutte,” Furwying said quietly. It was the first time she’d spoken since arriving on the throne room. It startled him. “Surely…”

Aloutte paused, then laughed her twinkling laugh. “Oh, only when necessary. But that’s irrelevant.”

He caught Wrathion glance at him sidelong. That’s how, it seemed to say. Aloutte was not pursued by bloodlust… but by what had pursued Onyxia. One of Furywing’s wings flicked, like she was shaking off an itch.

“Irrelevant indeed,” Sabellian hurried on. “Something different? Something different is something before Deathwing.”

Silence.

Laharion chuckled nervously. “What are ye’ talking about?”

“That is a lost time,” Ophelion said.

“There was something before Grandfather?” Jacob asked, looking up. He’d been as silent as - well, as silent as a Stormwind guard might be during a meeting. When they looked at him, he startled and went still and rigid.

“Yes, nephew,” Sabellian drawled. “There was.”

“The age of Earthwarders,” Ebonhorn rumbled.

Sabellian winced.

“EARTHWARDERS?” Torque roared. Then he laughed. And laughed. “BAHAHA! EARTHWARDERS!”

“No one is saying that’s what we will become,” Sabellian interrupted as disbelief began to soak up the air again. “We will not be some abused protectors -”

“Then wha t?” Serinar demanded. “You’re saying we should turn back to some weak, cursed age, when we were ill-informed and controlled, but we won’t be Earthwarders? What, we’ll be everything they were but in name? Pah! I knew the boy had gotten to you! Did he win you over with talk of saving the world and -”

“No,” Sabellian growled, and bared his teeth. The irony in Serinar’s words was almost comical, but he couldn’t linger on them now. “There are answers in the past. We failed as Earthwarders, and we failed as Earth-destroyers. But as Earthwarders, at least we were not snuffed out.”

“No. We learned better,” Seldarria said with a sniff.

“Did we! Learned how to kill, how to revel in power and blood, but learn how to die, too! Shall I repeat what I have said, time and time again? Such learnings doomed us!” He paused to temper his anger. “I care little for ‘saving the world,’ as Serinar put it. Some of us -” He glanced at Wrathion - “do. I don’t care what you think or believe.” He spoke to a wall; he knew to expect it. But the thought of making them doubt and wonder spurred him on. Buy them a couple of days. Buy them some willpower. Buy them some rational thought. It might make them all survive - maybe not just Wrathion, Ebonhorn, and him.

Before he could continue, Seldarria stood up again to interrupt.

“This is ludicrous,” Seldarria said. “You dare come back after you hid in Outland? When you cowered away when we needed you during the Cataclysm? Furywing told me you refused to return because you had grown soft! The only reason you came here was to get them and take them back to that broken place!” She jerked her head to his three children. “And now that they don’t want to come home, you’re desperate to make them follow you again!”

“I found more to want as I travelled this world,” he said coolly. “And my children are old enough to make their own choices. It is the choices they made which spurred me to call this meeting.”

Vaxian was looking at him strangely, distantly.

“I am here for them. Just as you are all here for something, too.” He shuffled his wings and strengthened out his back. He was the largest of them all, and even slight shifts of wings or neck or fins made him all the larger, the more looming. “Ebyssian is right in spirit if not with words. Yes. The time of the Earthwarders is where we must look to now. The lessons we learned… what my Father learned… must be forgotten.”

“I propose not to become Earthwarders, no - there will be no grand purpose to protect and serve, the purpose which shackled my Father and drove him to other masters - but to look to where out first source of power grew: the earth. The very strength of this world. Once, we made mountains, etched valleys, created rockslides. It is that power we must focus on again. We will not become Earthwarders,  but something different… something we will forge ourselves. No Titan or Masters below will tell us what or who to be. We were learn from such mistakes.”

He got some of them back with that.

But not all.

“You came with Wrathion and Ebonhorn,” Ophelion spoke up in his slow honey voice. “Seldarria and I have been speaking at length. It looks as if you have become… mortal-minded. Unsure. Your time in Outland has severed you from what you were. I expected more from what I’ve heard of you, lieutenant. And here, now, you speak of turning away from our very nature. What we have been for thousands of years. Our duty is to cleanse this world of filth, and now… now you ask us to shun our it, and our hearts? To become something entirely different? Strangers? Such talks instill thoughts as to wonder if you’re fit to lead this -”

Sabellian lunged forward and struck Ophelion across the jaw with all the force he could summon.

Ophelion lurched back. His head jerked to the end of his neck with a crack. Blood and spittle from from his mouth. He only managed to catch himself before he could fall.

“Yes, wretch!” Sabellian roared in Ophelion’s face. He pushed close to the dragon until his face was inches from the other dragon’s, and his body hovered close enough he felt the necromancer’s heat and anger rising from his scales. “Tell me what I lack! Tell me how weak I am! Tell me how I alone of Deathwing’s first clutch have survived! Tell me of the thousands I have slaughtered!” The bulk of his body shadowed the necromancer in shadow. “Tell me I have grown soft. Tell me how my quieted mind is the true sickness! TELL ME, COWARD!”

Ophelion’s head had not risen since he’d been struck - could not, for Sabellian was close enough to disallow him hardly any movement. A quiet growl bubbled up in his chest.

Sabellian bared his teeth and snapped them a breath’s width from Ophelion’s eyes.

“Say it. Say I am weak, or yield.”

Seconds dredged between them. The only noises were their heaving breaths.

“I yield,” Ophelion rumbled: loud enough for the others to hear.

Sabellian lingered for a moment longer before pulling away and sitting back at the spire.

Ophelion lifted his neck. His face was an unreadable mask. Blood dripped from his nose.

He dabbed it away with the back of his paw.

“Would anyone else like to challenge me? Come now. Get it over with.”

Silent, morose eyes fixed on him. Jacob gawked.

“Good.” He flicked his tail and relaxed, but his shoulders remained stiff. “It is true. I came with mortal-minded dragons, but who is the one who called you here? Wrathion started with me as a prisoner for crimes he committed against my children, not an ally, and only now has he won his freedom thanks to how he has changed.

“If a boy known for killing his kin can change his nature, the least you can do is think of how you might change your own.”

His outburst at Ophelion had tempered the atmosphere. Even Seldarria looked mellowed.

“I am not foolish enough to believe you will suddenly begin to agree with me and hop along to become something more than what we have ever been, as Earthwarders or otherwise. Some of you still want your old lives. Some of you still believe there is a chance to reclaim them.

“Very well. I will give you three days to summon a plan. Three days to think of how to get what you came here to rekindle. And if all plans fall short, and if you still deny what we now must do to live, to become the new Black Dragonflight - whatever the new Black Dragonflight will turn out to be - you will be killed.”

Wrathion stiffened.

“I warned you your kin would be your enemies if you denied me,” he rumbled. “You wish for a taste of your old life? Of what I was when I was lieutenant? You will have it.” He looked at the worst offenders: Torque, Ophelion, Seldarria, Serinar. Maybe even Samia. “As Deathwing’s son, I order three days for thought. For scheming. Three entire days for what we all do best!” He laughed a grim, deep laugh, a humorless laugh. “And I will not be unfair. I will listen. I will consider.” He looked at Seldarria. “I am interested in hearing how your children will play into your machinations, broodmother. How many you are willing to sacrifice to achieve power again! Or how many you have already sacrificed, infusing them with unstable energies because of maddened ideas!”

Seldarria snarled.

“If such plans put your children in danger, you will deny them,” Serinar rumbled in irritation. “It’s all about them to you. You don’t care about the Black Dragonflight.”

Sabellian looked at him, and Serinar shrank back. Whether it was being reminded of his strength with Ophelion or recalling the torture Sabellian had put him through, it mattered little, for he shrank back all the same.

“Then plan around that,” he drawled. “Think of how we can go back to our ways of killing and maiming and scheming without endangering ourselves and risking complete annihilation.” He smiled. He knew full well what he was asking was impossible.

So did they.

They wanted to “cleanse the world of filth,” as Ophelion put it. Wanted it badly. But they knew what he said was true: they had no numbers, no strength, no plans.

They would be snuffed within the year.

But they desired it all the same.

They’ll try to assassinate me, after this. They wouldn’t challenge him outright, seeing how he had struck down Ophelion, but they would still try to have him killed. If they were stupid, they would try poison; if they were smart, maybe a skilled mortal.

Or something worse.

Wrathion was staring at him. So was Ebonhorn.

They knew that, too.

Your nature. The rage. N’Zoth’s voice rumbled in his mind. But it was just the memory.

Maybe, he thought. Maybe I do have a penchant for rage. For power.

At least I’m using it for good.

For my children.

“How in the world do you begin to think we’ll agree to this?” Seldarria quipped in her whining, irritating voice. “Make up a plan, and if it doesn’t suit your needs , you’ll have us killed ?”

He snorted. “You forget: only death if you refuse to join the new Dragonflight, even after you had your chance for glory. There will be no place for you in the world otherwise. And it will be a favor: we’ll kill you before mortals do.”

Am I weak now, wretches?

She bristled.

“As if any one of us here would be apart of something like that ,” she continued, but a hint of paranoia began to creep into her face. She darted her eyes around the ring.

“I find the idea interesting,” Ruby said. Seldarria fixed her with an evil look.

“Aye! Interesting indeed,” Laharion said.

Jacob nodded vacantly. Aloutte cocked her head to the side.

“I really can’t say,” she said. “I hardly know what any of you are talking about.” She laughed, but something about it seemed forced and troubled. She knew saying anything more would put her on his side or Seldarria’s.

He almost couldn’t believe it. Almost half of the dragons were on his side.

The actual, reasonable side.

Azeroth ? He wondered, but no… he felt no energy but his own inside of him.

Maybe he had bought time. Maybe, like Outland had, little walls were growing in their minds. Little walls to keep the dark out.

But they were little walls, and the dark was a tide.

Some time, then.

All the same, he felt something like pride in his chest.

See, monster?

Not all of us are so easy to light aflame.

“I say so now, to all who hear: our Dragonflight will rise up. Will be rebuilt among the ash… but not as what we once or ever were: as something more. Passed senseless chaos, passed bloodshed, passed promises of power… even passed shackles of the earth’s protection. We will forge these bones into something new and glorious. Those of you who are desperate to return to the old ways, plan what you may. I don’t care. But if you fall short, only death will await you if you deny me.”

Half were pleased. Some were unsure.

Others exuded such hostility he knew at once N’Zoth was among them, present, and this time, not some specter.

He stood. “I hope we can keep our claws to one another, in the three days to come,” he drawled. “I should hate for someone to get hurt -”

There was a slump ing sound. He looked to the left.

Wrathion had collapsed off the wall into a heap of scales, his eyes wide and unseeing, his body trembling, mouth fixed open in an O of pain.

----

Rexxar had to carry him to the Lair.

More or less, at least. It felt like the Beastmaster was dragging him along, feet off the ground, but in some moments of clarity, Wrathion felt his feet find purchase or find a loose rock or find something to stub his toes on, and so he knew he had to be walking at some points. But such things were distant things; all which consumed him was the hammering of his head.

THUMP - pain - THUMP - pain - THUMP -

Each pound of his heart was like a hammer crushing his head, but something about the beat was wrong. He realized as Rexxar dragged him through the entrance to the Lair it was not actually to the thump-thump, thump-thump of his heart at all, but a longer thuuuuump-thump, thuuuuump-thump which felt far more ancient of a rhythm, despite the most little of differences.

He wasn’t even sure how Rexxar had gotten here. He wasn’t even sure when he’d shifted back into his human form. It had been such a blur: Sabellian speaking, and then - THUMP-THUMP! Pain so great he’d collapsed.

“Lay here,” Rexxar said. The half-orc’s grip began to relax, and Wrathion slipped from his hold and fell.

He landed hard on his side, but the fall hardly registered, save for a palpitation of the beats of pain. He held his head and moaned.

“- like an eel,” he heard Rexxar say, his voice coming from a distant, quickly forgotten place. Anything beyond the pain didn’t matter. Again from the distant place: someone raising his head, setting it on something soft.

“You dropped me on purpose,” Wrathion muttered, moaned. He knew the Beastmaster hadn’t, but it made him feel better to assign blame to someone , especially when this pain was from nowhere .

Rexxar’s voice came out as a mumble, this time, and he caught no words to cling to.

What’s happening to me?

He scrambled at his mind. Not a poison. More than a headache. He dug his nails into the cloth of his turban until their points popped through and bloodied his scalp.

Something fluttered in the whirlwind of his thoughts, and he snatched onto it.

The Vale.

He’d felt something like this when the Horde had destroyed it: when the Sha energies had come roiling over the mountains. When the buzzing infested his mind and set him to helplessness and pain and vomit.

A white fear choked at his throat.

No. The buzzing. There’s no buzzing.

The terror relaxed, if only a little, for the pain - of course the pain was still there. But the memory was not a random one. It was too similar to what he was experiencing now to be tossed aside as paranoia. Something about it was close enough to warrant its appearance -

Someone’s trying to get into my mind.

He dug his claws deeper into his scalp. It would be impossible for the Old Gods to manipulate him so easily - and the buzzing was from the mantid, far too far away.

It could only be one thing. He held his breath. His hot blood padded at his fingertips.

I had better not be wrong about this.

Cringing, he relaxed his mind. Set down his wards. His defenses. His sense of self-preservation. It all eased down like a porticulus, groaning and squeaking as the gears churned it over the river.

Energy rushed across so fast he gasped.

Frantic! Frantic, bursting energy, like a released dam or an animal escaping a trap. White light consumed him, ate at him, until he wasn’t in his own mind at all but flushed out and tossed into some other nameless chamber.

“Azeroth,” he said - or perhaps thoughts. He was in a nothing-place now, and it could have been either. “What is happening?”

His words were leaves in a twister’s path: they were thoughtlessly sucked away into the vortex of energy.

“What? What ?”

HERE.

The voice boomed against him, knocked him over. It was a voice of thunder and avalanches. He almost wished the pain was back, if only he did not have to quake under such a force again. He cringed and struggled to keep himself upright.

HUNGRY.

Colors thundered before his eyes: muddied colors, all bleeding in to one another, a frenzied, spinning kaleidoscope but without pattern, only chaos.

All at once, the colors came into focus with a twist.

The image of a pond lay before him. Weeds and reeds lounged along the bank, and rotting longs, some along the shore and some halfway submerged or floating in the water, were homes to quietly croaking frogs or insects.

The surface of the pond flickered, and he looked at it. It had an oiliness to it, a sort of iridescent scum. Not uncommon: he’d seen the Wetlands have such slickness on it, a kind of algae which feasted on decay and sunlight. An egret walked through it, and it broke apart at her slow, graceful footsteps.

A turtle glided into the pond. The scum clung to it for a moment before breaking off with its movements.

A toad jumped out and landed on the log in the middle of the lake.  The slickness remained sticking to its back. Some of the slime dripped off and plopped into the water, but made no sound.

A small fox emerged from the reeds and lapped at the water. The scum slimed her tongue, dripping off of it with great strands of goop, and the animal wretched and pulled back. The scum, a line of it connecting the fox’s maw to the surface of the lake, grew taut, like a rope.

It began pulling the fox toward the water. The fox struggled, but its most frenzied movements did not stop the scum. It dragged the animal underneath the water with all the certainty of a python strangling a rat, and the fox was gone.

The slickness on the surface of the pond had grown thicker now, ugly. It crept up, claiming the frog’s log, and then the frogs. The egret was next, caught and then gently devoured into the water. It claimed the rest of the pond and all around it until all that was left was the scum: a bubbling mass, a silent thing of death and wrongness among the reeds.

“I don’t understand,” Wrathion said. Nausea clutched at his throat, and he thought of the fox with the slime stuck in its mouth. He swallowed thickly. “The Old Gods? I know! We know! This is what we’re trying to avoid! Just tell us what we need to do before they consume us, too!” He grimaced; the nausea returned with a roar and clawed at his belly. “You spoke with Sabellian. You used words. Use them for me!” The vision shuddered and dissolved. It dripped into a rising urgency which swept over and around him.

Another vision spiraled to life. It was a dam along the river, made of logs and broken fence posts and fallen branches. But it wasn’t solidly built, and the river sprouted through holes on the other side: the other side which homed a handful of circling fish in a small but healthy pool.

A beaver came bumbling over with a large stick behind it. They added these to the weaker areas of the dam, and the water lessened, but still came through.

It took the beaver five trips to patch up his dam. At last, the remaining tickles of water dried up. The river groaned and rushed against it, shoved against it, with animal vigor. The dam didn’t budge.

He glanced at the fish on the other side, understanding and panic rising in his throat. With almost comical swiftness, the little pond dried up, and the fish began to shrivel in the air.

He understood. He understood at once, watching the water struggle against the dam, watching the fish die, watching the natural algae-scum along the river build up against the wood of the dam as its lifeforce the river struggled.

LOOK. REMEMBER.

The word was an explosion, a gunshot, an earthquake, crashing in his head, so shattering the vision broke into a thousand glass pieces.

They flew at him, one by one. They were flashes of images, bursting before his eyes before another did the same ,so quick and violent he could hardly make sense of what he was seeing. It was like trying to keep a panicking animal still in his arms.

Some images began to repeat. Others looked… familiar. He tried to grab at them.

Snow, a high white sun, a smudge of blue scales.

A dark cave, smoke tendrils, burned out candles.

Blood. Pulsing, thick, powerful blood, glowing in the dark.

Something snapped at the back of his head.

The fireworks of images stopped.

He crashed down into his body and the hard surface of the ground rose up to meet him. Reality swarmed him: smells, tastes, feeling. Iron, blood in his lips, a steady ache.

He struggled to his feet. His eyes felt like they were rolling in his skull. Rexxar was no longer here, but Left was, and she rushed forward to steady him.

“The meeting?” he slurred.

“Ended, quickly after you left,” Left said. She tightened her grip on his shoulder. “What happened -”

“Go fetch the others and tell them to meet me here,” Wrathion said. “I believe Azeroth has been barred from us.”

---

Sabellian caught the sun with his wings.

There was still no word from Wrathion. Troubling. More than troubling. All had claimed innocence at once, and he’d smelled no poison on the boy. It was impossible to get such a physical reaction without it, and so he wondered if it was something in the mind.

He would have preferred it to be poison. At least then, he could heal it.

He’d called the meeting short, and ordered the others to disperse into their caves. It was a command, and with his station, they went off growling and heated and grumbling.

Some did, anyway.

It felt good to order them around, just for the pettiness of it feeling good. But it bothered him: the only reason they listened was because of the blood running through his veins, the undeniable power his Father’s legacy etched upon him.

Your powerful blood… commanding…

He grit his teeth and smothered the thought.

The meeting had gone better than he’d hoped, but sides had been drawn. Soon, the attacks would come, whether by word or by sword. Three days. Three days was nothing… if they even got three days.

Azeroth, prove me wrong , he willed out. Don’t abandon me again.

He sighed and looked up at the sun. He was on one of the lower levels of the Mountain: really just a cliff jutting out into the air.

Footsteps scrabbled behind him. He closed his wings and looked back. Someone, perhaps, here to fill him in on Wrathion’s state.

It wasn’t a Blacktalon at all. It was Vaxian.

“What is it, boy?” he asked, and stopped. The dragon’s eyes were wide with confusion and fear.

Confusion, fear, and lucidity.

“Father,” he said, his deep voice warbled with terror. “Father, I’m sorry, my - my mind wasn’t my own! They had me! I - no one knows - I…  I am my own again, I don’t know how - forgive me, I was weak. I… Please… Forgive me…”

Sabellian’s blood grew cold.

One, I will free.

One, and you shall see.

[grumpyzutara]

Lord and Lady

This is inspired by a lot of things, other Scottish AUs, the show Outlander, etc. but doesn't have a specific time. It might be a little weird to have things set in period with non-realistic names, but that's just the setting. And no, I'm not going to write out the accents.

Katara loved the highlands. She was biased as the rolling hills of green had been her one and only home, but there was something fresh and warm about the mossy land. Granted, the cliffs at the edge were harsh and cold, but the hills – that was where she loved to be.

She spent most of her daytime riding her horse through the countryside, going to all her neighbors and checking in on them. Their area of the country didn't have a proper doctor and as the Laird's daughter, she had time on her hand as long as it was worthwhile. And Katara thought nothing was more worthwhile than helping people.

Which brings her to the wounded soldier at the bottom of a ravine. An occasional groan could be heard but otherwise he stayed silent. It was his scarlet red uniform that caught her eye, though it was covered in mud. He had obviously been hurt and then tumbled down the steep hill. A person in need was still a person in need, no matter who they fought for.

Cautious of her environment, looking around for any stray Red Coats and loose stones, she made her way down to the man.

Once she got closer she could see his trauma – a knife wound to the thigh. She'd have to get it clean and bandaged quickly. If it was deep, he'd bleed out to death or require his leg to be cut off. If it was shallow, it could still fester.

"Sir, are you awake?" Her voice was calm and firm, but not so loud as to move the birds roosting around them.

The man groaned and turned his head in her direction, eyes opening to slivers of white. She noticed the burn scar on the opposite side immediately, though just as quick figured out that it wasn't a new wound she'd need to heal.

"Will you let me help you?" The pride of some Read Coats has been their downfall. Granted, all it could take sometimes would be the wrong kind of word spoken to her and she'd walk away.

His eyes opened wider. They stared at each other for a minute, almost in a standoff, before he nodded gently.

She rushed the remaining few feet between them to his side. She scooped away the mixture of blood and mud off his thigh. A lesser woman could have fainted at the sight, but she pressed on. It was easier to focus on what was wrong. The cut was about half a finger deep and over a palm's width long, with bits of nature stuck inside. Her hands froze when she actually processed what happened – this cut couldn't have happened more than an hour ago.

"I need to know, who attacked you? Who did you attack? What was their plaid?" If the person had stayed nearby, they could be watching them right now. Katara was passable with her knife in close quarters, but not with a gun or sword.

"Deserters," came the man's weak voice. She looked at his head again. A bruise was forming on the upper side of his head, obviously there was force applied whether it was the blunt end of a musket or a rock when he fell down. That must be why he was so foggy with only a leg wound. "British deserters."

"Ok, let's hope you scared them off. We need to get you closer to the water, do you think you can help me? Just put your arm around my shoulders, no the other way, ok good, now I'm going to drag you with your back to the stream, bend your good knee and keep the other straight, just focus on getting your body off the ground. There we go, little farther, ok we're good. I'll just lay you down here." She positioned his body next to the water, cupping handfuls and cleaning the cut.

The soldier for his part was silent but cooperative, hardly a moan to be heard now.

"I'm going to take your jacket off, I need to get to the white undershirt for a bandage." After waiting for a response and getting nothing, she went ahead with her task. His red coat was filthy but thankfully the undershirt was as clean as expected. The shirt slipped over his head easily enough. "If you still can't walk after I get this wrapped up, I'll have to go and find my brother to help. You should –"

"Why are you doing this? Helping me. Healing me."

Katara gave him a look of confusion, "I never turn my back on someone I can help, unless they harm someone I love or refuse my care." Her gaze had turned stiff, defensive.

The man stared into her eyes, she felt like she couldn't blink. There was something he was trying to say in his eyes but she couldn't read the language.

"You've been caring for me like I'm not your enemy, I don't know too many who would act in that way. Thank you." He licked his lips, of course he would be thirsty but too proud to ask for help.

"Here, let me help you turn on your side and get some water."

Zuko figured she would help him turn and walk away, but she went a step further by cupping the cool spring water and bringing it to his lips. She had to be a wood nymph come to distract him. Or some other mythical creature, because it couldn't be possible that a Scottish woman was so kind and so beautiful and so not at all disgusted by his presence. His scar gave him notability, as did his title, women found it less distinguishing.

"I should be fine from here. Again, thank you," he said while pulling back from her outstretched hand. She had done more than tend to his wound. When he was laying in the mud, he thought it was the slow beginning of the end.  

Katara sat back on her heels, "I won't linger more than I'm wanted, but are you sure you're okay? You won't be able to put weight on that leg."

Zuko struggled but was able to sit up on his own, the fall must have bruised a few ribs too.  "I'll make do. Your family will be worried if you stay any longer."  

She nodded her head silently, wanting to give her name and ask for his, but that's not how things go for people on different sides. The path up the ravine was too steep to walk back up so she followed the stream away from the soldier. It took everything in her to not look back at him one more time.

As soon as the woman was out of sight, Zuko scooted to a nearby tree to assist him in standing. It was painful and difficult, but he managed. She was something else, that was for sure. Maybe this was all a dream.

Weeks later, the tension between the Scotts and the local militia had risen. A drunken soldier had been seen beating a boy for looking at him wrong.

"What the devil is he doing here?" Katara heard her brother shout while looking out the window. They had been picking through letters to give to their father. She walked to see what was happening.

A lone soldier in a red coat was riding in. No one else.

"Who is it? How do you know him? I can hardly see a feature."

Sokka scoffed, "How can you miss the scar on his face? That's Lord General Zuko of Millersburg. He's the idiot in charge the militia in this area."

Katara's eyes widen. How could she have not known this? She had saved the life of a Lord. That would be a good bargaining chip if they needed it. What was he doing here, and with no protection?

"Let's go down and greet him. Father is out of the castle still doing business that the Lord General can't know about." Katara was worried.

The siblings hurried down the stone stairway just in time to see the caretaker open the front door.

"Can you announce to the Laird that Lord General Zuko is here to speak with him."

"No need, I'm Sokka, the Laird's son. My father is out tending to some business with land owners. How can I help you?"

The man's head turned quickly to face Sokka, "I need to – you. What are you doing here?" It was clear that he was surprised to see Katara.

"What do you mean you? Have you met my sister before?" Sokka went from being a welcoming host to hostile in a second.

"Don't worry," Katara stepped up, motioning with her hands for him to calm down, "I would hardly say we met, I helped him after he..." She didn't want to say too much, hoping that the Lord General would fill them in. How could he be at that title and rank, he hardly looked the age for it.

"I caught myself on the bad end of a group of deserters. She found me wounded at the bottom of a ravine. Saved my life. I'm glad to be able to see her again and thank her once more." By this point he had taken off his hat, tucked it under his arm and given a short bow.

Now that he was cleaned up, talking and moving without issue, she could see that beyond his scar, the Lord General was a fine gentleman.

But Scottswomen don't go for fine British gentlemen, ladies of the house or not.

"I knew Laird Hakoda had son, but there wasn't much about his daughter. If could be introduced I would greatly appreciate it." He hoped that no one could see that his good cheek was blushing red.

Sokka moved in front of his sister, "It depends, what did you want to discuss with my father? Speak freely."

Zuko looked nervous, he wasn't good at hiding his emotions. "The boy. The boy from town that was beaten up last week. I came to apologize."

"Go on," Sokka encouraged.

"The soldier, his name was Zhao, and he was out of line and has been lashed for every time he touched the boy. It shouldn't have happened. I made sure the men know that this can't be habit." Zuko was ramrod stiff and serious.

"I'm glad that you've taken the necessary steps. But why address the issue now? The previous Lord General didn't care what the men did. What are you after?"

"Because the previous Lord Gereral was an ass, a poor leader and a poorer father. I took over only a few days after my accident. Since then I've been making it my mission to change how the camp is run. I would like to be on good relations with your family as well." Zuko's eyes danced over to where Katara stood.

Something was there in the air between them. But it was too soon for either to act upon it.

"You're off to a good start Lord General. Since Sokka hasn't kept up his side of the bargain, let me introduce myself. I'm Lady Katara, daughter of Laird Hakoda. Why don't you stay for some whisky? It's chilly out there." Her smile was small, polite, hiding that she was excited about the idea of talking with him more.

"Now sister," Sokka started.

"I'd love to stay. Thank you," Zuko finished before another word was spoken. Maybe his wood nymph was real after all.

You’ll see me next for the prompt Necklace (hopefully)

[betweensceneswriter]

Second Wife-Chapter 7 : Never Forgotten

Second Wife Table of Contents

Second Wife on AO3

Previously -  Chapter 6 : The Curse of Eve Lucky Jamie—he lives in a home with three women.

“I remember the first time I saw you, James Fraser, coming through the gates at Leoch. I was only seven years old, still a child. Ye didn’t notice back then how my heart leapt when you were near. You went away, all those years? I never forgot you” (The Reckoning, Outlander Season 102, Episode 1).

     Jamie had shooed her off to bathe, and now Laoghaire was clean and warm, cuddled in her long nightdress, wrapped in a knitted shawl, stockinged feet propped on the hearth.  This day had been especially hard for her.  Something about Marsali beginning her courses triggered a despondent cascade of memories.  She had been remembering and weeping all day long.  When she was Marsali’s age, becoming a woman had been exciting to her.  Here she was, living in Balriggan, with James Fraser as her husband.  Wasn’t that what she had dreamed of all those years ago?

☆☆☆☆☆

     She had been helping her grandmother in the kitchen when excited voices declared that the war chief’s party had returned to Leoch.  Mrs. Fitz had bustled out of the kitchen to greet them, pulling her cap more firmly on her head for her trip out into the rainy courtyard.

     “Dougal’s party is back?” Laoghaire attempted to ask the kitchen maids rushing by her.  “I had thought they weren’t to return until the Gathering.”  No one listened to her—they were hurrying to the windows to see which of the raiding party had returned, hoping that none of the men had been lost in the skirmishes, either with the Redcoats or the Watch.

     “Who is that braw fellow with the hair like flames?” asked one of the girls.  “Begorry, he’s a handsome devil, but he could do wi’ a wash.”

     “I’ll help him wash, gladly!” jested one of the lassies of marriageable age, which elicited a bunch of knowing giggles from the other girls.

     “I do believe that’s Jamie Fraser,” said one of the older women, the ones who had been working in the kitchen much longer, and therefore felt that they had a right to order the younger ones, such as Laoghaire, to do the things they felt beneath him.  “I also see his godfather Murtagh in the party.  I wouldna expected to see that lad here again.  There’s a price on his head, ya ken.”

     At the name, Laoghaire’s heart had dropped into her feet, and she worked even harder to press her way to the front of the group jostling for a view at the window.  Jamie Fraser.  When the lad had been about fourteen he had spent a year fostering with his uncle Dougal, and as a seven year old, she had been smitten with him immediately.  He was tall, and muscular, big for his age even back then.  He was a fierce combatant with the sword and dirk, and she would loiter at the edges of the practice field to see if she could catch a glimpse of him.

     Not that he really noticed her, though one afternoon he had pulled her thick blonde braid in passing, and another time he remarked to the other lads he was with, “Aye, watch out for this one.  When she grows up, she’ll be the bonniest lass at Leoch.”

     Pressing to the window, Laoghaire could see him in the courtyard.  Many of the other men had left their mounts immediately, but James Fraser was taking the time to care for his, gently removing his gear with some slight hesitation, his attention split between his horse and Mrs. Fitz, who had greeted most of the men and was now standing and talking to a bedraggled woman who appeared to be wearing a dirty torn shift that may have once been white.

     Jamie was moving awkwardly and slowly, and when Laoghaire peered more closely, she could see that his right hand was bound to his chest with a belt, and what appeared to be a bandage was tied from his shoulder to his ribcage.  There was blood on his face, as well, and his hair hung in wet clumps.

     Laoghaire was pushed out of the way, and when she got back to the window, her grandmother, Jamie, and the woman in white were all gone.  Her heart was pounding, and she raised her hands to her cheeks.  She could feel herself flushing.  Eight years ago, it had been.  And at that time, a fourteen-year-old had little in common with a seven-year-old, especially when the fourteen-year-old was a boy and the seven-year-old was a girl.  But at twenty-two and fifteen it was different; people often married who had more of an age spread than that.

     Her grandmother’s cheery, loud voice preceded Mrs. Fitz’s return to the kitchen.

     “I need some comfrey, some witch hazel, and some willow bark tea,” she announced.  Laoghaire was quick to rush to her grandmother’s side.

     “Willow bark tea?  Is someone hurt?”  Laoghaire asked.

     “Young Jamie took a bullet to the shoulder, and the Sassenach woman, Mistress Beauchamp, is going to clean and dress it.”

     “But you’re the healer here at Leoch, Gran,” Laoghaire responded in confusion.

     “Well, I mayna need to continue, if Mistress Beauchamp has as much trainin’ as she seems to.”

     Saffron MacKenzie had pulled together the requested items on a tray. 

     “May I take the things to the room where she’s tendin’ Jamie?” Laoghaire asked.  She could nearly hear her heart pounding in her ears at the thought of seeing Jamie again.

     “Thank you lass, but I can do it,” said Mrs. Fitz.  “Yer Da is expectin’ ye home soon, anyway.  He’ll need you to tend the animals and help wi’ the younger children.  We do have dinner in the great hall tonight, so ye willna need to cook, unless ye are low on bannocks for breakfast.”

     Laoghaire felt desperate to stay, but she also knew that if she wasn’t home right on time, Da would be angry.  He didn’t trust her, now that she filled out her corset and that many eyes, those of boys and men alike, stared at her as she walked past.  She’d never felt so conspicuous and she didn’t always like it, but she could tolerate the unwanted attention if it meant that Jamie Fraser would notice the ways she had matured as well.

     Laoghaire wrapped her cloak around herself and strode off across the courtyard to the stable to retrieve Branaugh.  At least she didn't have to walk to the village in this weather.  She would have been soaked and had mud all over her skirts if she had to walk.  It wouldn't even be worth it to go home. 

     She wished her Da would just let her live at the castle.  He always insisted that she needed to be at home in her bed every night.  All the other kitchen girls got to stay in small rooms in the servants’ wings, and they could be up until late in the hall, not having to rush home before the evening was done.

     When Laoghaire reached the village, she dismounted.  Branaugh didn't like walking on the cobblestones, so she needed to lead him through the walkways.  Somehow he seemed calmer if she was in front of him instead of riding on his back.

     She was nearly at her house when a dark, shadowy form leapt out from between the buildings and grabbed her about the waist, causing her to drop Branaugh’s lead.  

     "Hugh!" She exclaimed in irritation.  "Why are you always trying to startle me?"  

     "Because ye flush when ye're frightened, and ye look so bonny when yer cheeks are pink!"

     Laoghaire looked over at the fallen lead, but didn't pick it up.  Branaugh was such a gentle mount that he would just stand until she was ready to go. 

     Hugh MacKenzie was 19.  He had been trying to get Laoghaire to promise to marry him for the last year, but she just couldn't agree to it.  He seemed a nice enough lad, but he was fat.  Well, not fat, exactly, but very beefy and soft around the middle.  He had taken ill with the chicken pox when he was a wee lad, and though he recovered from the illness, he was quite pockmarked with scars from the infection.  So between his body, his greasy hair, and his scars, Laoghaire just wasn't ready to commit to him.

     However, she wasn't rude enough to deny him every comfort.  She looked up at him and took a step back into the shadows.  He mirrored her with a step forward, then pressed his body gently against hers until her back hit the wall and she could go no further.  He bent his face to hers and kissed her on the lips.  It was nice, kissing.  For a moment, she pretended she was kissing Jamie Fraser.

     “O Ghiall, Laoghaire!"  Hugh exclaimed, as he removed his lips from hers for a moment, then he bent to his work for a few more seconds.  "Have you changed yer mind about getting’ marrit?  I dinna ken what's gotten into you!"

     If he would just stop talking it would work better, Laoghaire thought.  She felt a sudden urge to allow more to happen, and Hugh must have felt the same thing at the same time, because he drew his hand upward and let his fingers rest on her bosom, right above the fabric of her shift.

     Oh, it felt good.  Laoghaire felt her breath catch in her throat.  She closed her eyes, imagining it was the big red-haired Scotsman with one hand entwined in the curls at the back of her neck and the other enthusiastically trying to worm its way down into her tight corset.  "Oh, Jamie," she felt herself whisper.

     "Jamie?" Hugh exclaimed in disgust.  "Ye ken it's Hugh!  Who is Jamie?"

     "Laoghaire?"  another exclamation followed instantly afterward, in a gruff, masculine voice.  "Ye wanton wee whore!"  Hugh looked at her with terror in his eyes and dashed down the alleyway as quickly as he could.

      She didn't get to eat dinner at Leoch that night.  Instead Laoghaire was sequestered to her attic room, and her father made it very clear that he was taking her to the Hall the next day.  He had warned her about her behavior with the lads before, and he was at his wit’s end with her.  Maybe if The MacKenzie ordered a beating for her, she might finally stop making so free with every young lad who made eyes at her or paid her a compliment.

     Laoghaire was terrified.  It wasn't the beating itself that worried her—her father had beaten her with a belt before, so she knew how it would feel.  The pain would pass.  What she was terrified of was the utter humiliation of being beaten in the hall. Before all the men and the women, the Laird, the War Chief, even Letitia.  And her Gran?  Worst of all was the thought of Jamie Fraser watching.  It didn't matter how buxom she had grown, how beautiful her flaxen hair, or pink her cheeks.  If every time he looked at her he imagined her screaming out in pain while being held and beaten, humiliated in front of the crowd, he would never think of her in that way. 

     But as she awaited her punishment, she couldn't help but think back to the braw red-haired young man, pairing that attractive vision with the memory of Hugh's enthusiastic if inexpert caresses.  She felt heavy with desire, and burdened with fear.

      She didn’t remember everything from the Hall the next day.  She couldn’t remember her father’s exact words, just that he accused her of every horrible thing he could think of—being a whore, carrying on with the young lads of the town repeatedly, and disrespecting his orders when he had demanded that she stop.  He wanted her to be punished for disrespect and disobedience. 

     Laoghaire could not look at the crowd, sure she’d catch the eye of a friend, or Hugh, or Jamie.  She did hear the two clear raps on the arm of the chair, and the MacKenzie giving his ruling.  Then she heard the slow, terrifyingly deliberate sound of her Da unbuckling his belt.  Two guards grabbed her by the arms, turning her so she faced the crowd, away from Colum and her Da.  She had kept herself calm up to this point, but couldn’t keep the tears from beginning to flow.  It was over.  Every hope she’d entertained since she became a young woman was crumbling into dust.  She pulled back against the rough hands that held her, setting her jaw stubbornly.

     A husky voice called out in Gaelic, but Laoghaire was gritting her teeth, preparing herself for the stinging blow that must be only seconds away, and she didn’t truly hear it.  She only noticed a stirring murmur in the crowd, the sound of feet moving and dresses rustling, and boots tramping across the floor toward her.

     When Laoghaire finally got up the nerve to open her eyes, she thought she must have fainted, for surely she was imagining things.  There, just feet away from her, facing Colum and her father, in a clean shirt and kilt, with curling copper hair and a smile on his face, was Jamie Fraser.

     He was so handsome, so broad and tall, standing confidently in front of the crowd, speaking boldly in a way that somehow made the people laugh.  Laoghaire looked back and forth between Jamie, Colum, and Dougal.  She was confused, still not quite understanding what was happening.

     Released by the guards after the brief negotiations between Colum and Jamie, Laoghaire stood there dumbly for a few seconds, and then realizing how lucky she was, she disappeared into the crowd, quickly finding the friendly face of her Gran, and collapsing into her arms, as Jamie announced to Colum that he chose fists, rather than the strap.

      Laoghaire had watched the beating from the far corner of the Hall, held tightly by Mrs. Fitz.  She couldn’t watch it all, as with each blow she winced as if she was the one who had been struck.  Jamie Fraser was taking her punishment.  Why would he do that?  They hadn’t even spoken, let alone seen each other face to face since Jamie had returned.  When Jamie had fallen to the ground, Laoghaire started sobbing.  The guards pulled him to his feet, and he had mustered enough strength to smile and thank Rupert and Colum, and then he left the hall as well.

     Though Colum was Laird of Leoch, Mrs. Fitz was the only omniscient one in the castle.  She had quickly found out where Mrs. Beauchamp was caring for Jamie’s wounds, and bustled around the kitchen pulling together a tray with a bowl of leeches, a cup of willow bark tea with orris root and some St. John’s wort soaked in vinegar. 

     Laoghaire followed her at a distance, afraid to see Jamie, and yet needing to know he was well, that he wasn’t hurt too badly.  When her grandmother left the room, she hung back at the entrance, longing to say something to Jamie, to see him, to thank him.

     This was the first time she’d gotten a look at this English woman, “Mistress Beauchamp,” who had arrived with the raiding party.  She was lovely, but a bit older than Jamie, with dark hair that appeared to be curly, but pinned up.  The sassenach bent over Jamie as he sat on a chair, holding his face gently in her hands and turning it from side to side, peering closely at the bruises around his eye and the cut on his lip.

     Jamie and the woman were speaking quietly to each other, which made Laoghaire wonder what was being said in the murmured conversation between the two, and then Mistress Beauchamp had noticed her outside the door, and nodded in her direction.

     When Laoghaire and Jamie were alone, she could barely meet his eyes.

     “Ye shouldna done that, James Fraser,” she said.  “But thank ye.”

     “Ah, lass,” said Jamie.  One of his eyes was obviously going to be bruised the next day, but it looked like the leeches had gotten rid of the swelling.  “I ken what it’s like to be young.  Once when I was yer age, I was beaten at one of the Hall gatherings.  I remembered how embarrassed I was then, and I didna want you to be shamed in front of everyone that knows ye.”

     “But ye might have been truly hurt,” Laoghaire said, reaching gently up with her hand to touch the bruise on his cheek.  His skin was warm, and his scruffy beard scratched her palm.  She lowered her eyes as she gently drew her hand away.  “I dinna ken if I can ever thank ye enough,” she said, tears glistening on her eyelashes.

     “Dinna fash, lass,” murmured Jamie, reaching to pull her to him.  She melted into the embrace, feeling his solid warmth against her.  She could have stood like that forever, but felt him release her.  Turning away, she quickly left the chamber so he wouldn’t see her cry.

☆☆☆☆☆

     A commotion at the entrance of the house brought Laoghaire back from her reverie.  Marsali was smiling up at Jamie as they came inside, their hands linked.  He drew her into an embrace and the two stood there for a moment, the red haired giant clasping the petite blonde in his arms.

     "Where have you been?" Laoghaire asked them.

     "A wee walk," Jamie responded.

     “Well, close the door,” Laoghaire snapped irritably.  “Ye’re letting the cold in.”

On to Chapter 8 : The Gentleman of Leisure Fergus has always been like a son to Jamie.

[zalrb]

Better Late Than Never? Pt. 2 {TVD 8x14 Review}

Sorry this took so long guys! You know the drill, I write everything in real time so if I make a mistake at the beginning it probably will be rectified by the end but I already know what happens this epi, so, lol. This will contain anti-Damon, anti-Delena, anti-Bamon, anti-Steroline, anti-Bonenzo sentiments. There will most likely be mentions of other shows and of the misogynoir and anti-blackness and racism in this narrative. If you do not like it, do not read. OK, ready? Let’s go!

1. “If you want my forgiveness, you’re going to bring Elena Gilbert back to life” that line still makes me laugh because who the fuck cares about your hand-me-down forgiveness, Damon. Also Elena isn’t dead. So back to life my ass, it’s just waking her up.

2. I think it’s funny that Cade is talking about how Damon is in limbo, “the space between spaces” because my guy, that is JUST the Other Side.

3. No, see, the entire plot line with Cade and the Salvatores irritates me because it’s so conveniently linked to Damon and Stefan. He is the devil or the devil’s right hand man (since Katherine is the Queen of Hell for some reason, right?) I don’t understand why he can’t just find the weapon himself or get someone else to do it for him, there’s no reason that it has to be Damon and it’s the problem when a villain keeps making threats “Or I’ll drag you back to hell”, so then do it. At least with Supernatural when Zachariah wanted Dean to do something and Dean was like nah, Zachariah was like OK so what if I give Sam stage 4 stomach cancer? Or hey, how about if I take away his lungs? And we see him inflict these tortures on Sam while Dean watches. Or Dean starts off the season coming out of hell and we get flashbacks to what hell was like for him and we find out how much it fucked him up so when Uriel and Castiel threaten to throw him back into hell, it’s an actual real threat because we’ve seen the effects and why he would be scared. This whole thing with Damon is like ... every time Cade says he’ll send Damon to hell I’m like motherfucker, no you’re not or you would’ve DONE did it by now, stop.

4. Kat and Paul look gorgeous together, like I just ... seriously, they’re really beautiful people.

5. Bonnie being able to see Enzo is like Jeremy being able to see Bonnie and Elena hallucinating Damon. I’m bored.

6. Lol I’m sorry, that picture of Caroline and Stefan, their smiles are so tight.

7. I find it interesting that nearly every time Stefan is going to leave town or stays in town it’s because of Elena. He comes back to MF to meet Elena. In 1x09 he says he’s going to leave town to protect her but he stays because in 1x10 she says she loves him and because Logan Fell had just become a vampire. In 3x21 he tells Damon that if Elena chooses Damon he’ll leave town, he stays because Elena became a vampire and because she chose him. In 4x23 he’s going to leave town because Elena chose Damon. And now in 8x14 he’s going to leave town but Elena is in trouble so he stays. In 5x09 Katherine even made it a point to tell Stefan that he stays in MF for Elena.

8. Caroline, isn’t it a bit premature to tell your toddler children that you might not marry Stefan?

9. LOL I do find it a bit weird that Kai would be singing at karaoke but it’s made up for the fact that I could listen to Chris’ voice for hours and Paul’s facial expression as Stefan watches Kai sing is HILARIOUS. OMG.

10. I like seeing Paul and Chris interact, they work really well and really easily together although I don’t feel like I’m watching Stefan and Kai, I feel like I’m watching a visual representation of a Chris/Paul tweet conversation but it’s entertaining.

11. Hmm, the show is doing some pretty tight close ups on Kai and Stefan, they almost shoot them the way they shoot Klefan, I wonder if Klaus would be jealous.

12. I was literally like “why the fuck isn’t Damon coming to save his human brother from being stabbed” and then Stefan says, “What took you so long? and Damon says he went to put in a song. I get that’s supposed to be funny but seriously it just once again shows how fucking thoughtless Damon is, like you went to put in a song when your human brother was going to head to head with a psychopath heretic from hell? Fuck you, Damon.

13. Stefan didn’t actually say that he wants to figure out if he wants to be with Caroline, though, he legit said I need to figure out who I am and I need to do it alone. Like whatever, Caroline.

14. Also where are the twins if neither she nor Alaric are watching them in this scene? Like if they’re setting shit on fire because of temper tantrums and are literally prone to blowing each other up now, I would be around them all the time.

15. I do like how Kai is like hey, hey! Maybe you should stop talking about your love life and wonder wtf is happening with your kids? I mean I could help.

16. BE is basically DE.

17. I like how Stefan has, like, an actual plan to kill Cade but if you’re going to kill him, will you not slash his arm and punch him and make witty remarks, can you just stab him?

18. Because you see what happens, Alaric’s cell phone rings and he stops ringing the all important bell.

19. Really? Did they really make Stefan go, “DIE” as he’s trying to kill Cade? I wonder if Paul was like, do I really have to say this though? Can’t you give a line like that to Ian?

20. Oh so Damon killed himself to save Stefan and Elena. I mean I guess. He comes back to life anyway.

21. They’re making Kai really petty, like really, he’s this obsessed with killing two toddlers?

22. What does being psychic have to do with knowing Damon can hear him.

23. I can’t believe there’s a literal fight for Damon’s soul. OMG.

24. *SPOILERS FOR OUTLANDER* So there’s this show/book called Outlander about many things but at the centre of it, there’s a love story between Jamie and Claire and throughout the series, Jamie makes these declarations of love to Claire and says he’ll do anything for her, that he’ll be her shield, he’ll die for her etc. and there’s this villain called Jack Randall who is a sexual sadist and he has a particular interest in Jamie who he nearly flogged to death years earlier, basically Randall gets a hold of Claire and is going to kill her in front of Jamie so Jamie offers up his body to Randall in exchange for Claire’s safety and in that scene Randall nails Jamie’s hand to a table and kisses him while Claire has to watch and then Claire is forced to leave Randall and Jamie alone and in the next part we basically see the rape and torture that Randall inflicts on Jamie over and over. A lot of people had issues with that and asked the author why she felt the need to show the brutal rape of Jamie and her response was this:

“So, OK.  Throughout the book, we’ve seen that love has a real cost.  Jamie and Claire have built a relationship through honest struggle, a relationship that’s _worth_ what it’s cost them.  This is the final challenge, and Jamie’s willing to pay what will apparently be the ultimate cost.

   Why would I throw that away?  To have him escape rape and torture (he–and we–_know_ what’s coming) by the skin of his teeth would be to undercut his sacrifice, to make it of little moment.  (It would be like someone turning up in Gethsemane and telling Christ, “Hey, buddy, you don’t _really_ have to do this.  Come with me, I got a secret way outta here…”)”

And this is what TVD fails to do with DE. It’s one thing for Damon to be willing to go to hell for both Stefan and Elena but Bonnie shows up and actually saves him from having to undergo that threat and it undercuts his sacrifice because he didn’t actually have to sacrifice anything, he just had to be willing and it’s not impactful. So I’m not even a little moved by what Damon did because he didn’t do anything first of all, second of all after everything he’s done throughout 8 seasons why wouldn’t he choose himself, I mean, it’s the least he can do.

25. “Bonnie, wake up”, Stefan can you check her pulse?

26. “That little psychic blast must’ve blew me into my body” that literally makes no sense.

27. Damon and Stefan sitting on Damon’s car, drinking is basically just Sam and Dean. Stop it.

28. So Alaric wants to open a poor man’s Hogwarts/Charmed “Magic School” omg that is so lame and unoriginal. I also realize how lazy it was for Charmed to call that academy “Magic School”.

29. “Someone who can create a safe, supportive and loving space for kids ... someone like you” is that Caroline, though? I’m sorry but she doesn’t seem like any of those  things to Josie and Lizzie, she’s shrill and just tells them to stop doing things, like I don’t know why she didn’t actually ask Josie and Lizzie how they felt when their magic was going haywire, like we don’t actually see her BE with them, she just scolds.

30. So I actually like the proposal scene with Steroline, I think what Stefan says to Caroline is sweet ... I just don’t believe it. I just don’t believe that everything he wants is there with her, I just don’t believe that he loves her that deeply and Stefan doesn’t get here on his own and he never gets to the romantic speeches with Caroline on his own and it’s like ... how do I explain this ... when Stefan and Elena were going through their separations, even if they were both doing something else, I always got the impression that they were on each other’s minds, that there was a struggle to stay away from each other but they were doing so because they thought it was the right thing to do at the time. I never get that with Steroline when they’re apart, it just feels like their lives break off and there isn’t a residual connection there, it feels like they’re perfectly fine being separated and their lives are easily untethered so when Stefan comes back like MARRY ME, it doesn’t feel like he’s stopped fighting what he wants and it doesn’t feel like he’s wanted to do this all along and he’s finally just acting on it, it feels like Damon said, “life isn’t going to get any better than you marrying Caroline so marry her” and Stefan went “true.”

31. Also, every time Candice and Paul kiss it really feels like they’re trying to use as little lip as possible, like this was supposed to be a passionate, deep kiss, like it was supposed to be this:

also people underestimate how sweet Mattoline could be, like I frankly never see Caroline look at Stefan like this:

but anyway, their kisses always look like they want to do the least possible and not open their mouths:

anyway.

32. The Bonkai reunion was meh but someone told me the Grahamwood chemistry is gone and like, where? When Kai said “This is kinda hot” I believe he meant it.

and the personal satisfaction Bonnie gets from this:

she looks cheeky not like she has this vicious vengeance, like nah, the Grahamwood energy stays on point.

33. Finally, what anons kept asking me about, Katherine Pierce being the Queen of hell. I am going to admit something, I think the show and the characters gas Katherine way too much, she isn’t the baddest bitch of all, I don’t think the characters are toast because she’s running hell, I don’t even think she deserves to run Hell, she’s petty, it’s not like she has master plans that completely destroy lives, she just makes things inconvenient for the core group like *ugh* I mean I guess I gotta go fix Elena because she has venom in her system, like what were the major consequences of what she did in 5x15 to Elena? Elena didn’t see Damon for an entire episode and couldn’t sleep with him immediately. Getting Jenna to stab herself was rude but the major consequence of that is Stefan and Elena breaking up. She outted the Klaroline sex and it just fractured an already fractured relationship with Tyler. The worst thing she did was cause Jeremy’s death and that wasn’t even intentional, it was just like oh well ... yeah, my bad, bye. Like she’s a mean girl on steroids, that’s kind of it, she isn’t like this Badass Villain that no one can top and OMG SHE RUNS HELL. I mean Rebekah caused just as much damage as Katherine did because they’re both petty.

Overall this episode was ... one of the least offensive episodes of the season, I guess. No real strong feelings about it. Sorry it took so long to review, I hope it was worth the wait :)