#never underestimate a coatrack

[thefanficmonster]

Death’s Tales

The Curator (The Dark Pictures Anthology) x Reader (Female)

Warnings: None (Maybe slight spoilers and slight mentions of death)

Genre: Dark Theme, slight Angst

Summary: This isn’t Y/N’s first visit to the Curator’s repository. She’s visited two times so far and deep down she knows she’ll keep coming back. Stories have a way of trapping you in the place where they live. But then again, it’s nice to have some good company for when you are introduced to those stories. Someone to laugh with during all the humorous parts. And also someone to offer you tissues when you are going through the thick of the lives written on the pages of the many books.

Requested by Anon! Hi there! Thank you so much for your request! Sorry it took so long to write, though I hope the fic makes up for the wait. I hope I captured what you had in mind. Please, enjoy. Love, Vy ❤❤❤

“Hello? You here?!“ Y/N calls out as she walks into familiar room. She immediately gets the feeling that she’s in the presence of a more intense power than she could explain - the power of all the timeless stories currently surrounding her. This is by no means her first tango with the deathless death turned into words written on thin, delicate pages for people to enjoy. She has always had an odd connection to each and every story she reads, so this place was the ultimate trap when she first wandered in, expectations low and head held high. She underestimated the repository, however, it didn’t take long for it to turn the tables on her with all it has to offer. In less than an hour, she had her nose buried in a book, her expectations exceeded by miles and her mind transported to a different place and time.

“Where else would I be?” The distinct voice she’s gotten so used to hearing replies from somewhere near by, “You know I rarely leave this place.”

 “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say that’s a sad way to be spending your time. But man, if I could stay here all my life I would.“ She struts into the room where the reply came from.

He is indeed there, standing by one of the many shelves, a candleholder with lit handles in one hand, browsing the shelf’s contents with the other. He chuckles at her statement, brushing it off completely, “I was waiting for you. Have a seat, I’ll pick a story for you.”

She gets comfortable, unwrapping her scarf and shrugging off her jacket. Sitting down in one of the leather chairs opposite his desk, she crosses her legs and waits expectantly.

“Ah, there we go. ‘House Of Ashes’, how does that sound to you?” He pulls out a book, holding it under the candlelight for Y/N to see the cover with the title engraved in the, what seems to be, leather surface.

She frowns, scrunching her nose, “You know what, no. I’m tired of these sad and scary stories laced with death. I can’t live knowing I gave those characters a bad fate. I know it’s redo-able, but I can’t help but feel shitty afterwards.” She shifts in her seat, “First all those people left stranded on that boat! Then I was tricked into sympathizing and emotionally investing into characters that were nothing more than the product of a broken mind!” She gives him a glare that’s looking through him more than at him, “I think I deserve a different story this time. Something lighter.”

The older man chuckles. “I was gonna have you choose between this one and this other oldie I have,” he points at the desk where another book is already sitting, “it’s a longer story, I might have mentioned it before.” Y/N reads the title ‘The Impatient’ engraved in the olive green cover of the large book, “But that’s not in any way lighter either. I would even say it’s among the more depressive ones.“ He pauses for a second, returning ‘House Of Ashes’ in its spot, “Perhaps I could find a story of a less melancholic premise.”

“Wait.“ She lifts her hand, putting his actions to a halt, “Why don’t we change it up for once? How about you tell me a story instead of reading me one?“

He’s very clearly taken aback by this. “I’m afraid an old man like myself doesn’t have a lot to share. Especially not when I’ve spent a rather big chunk of my life in this very place, doing this very thing.”

Y/N shakes her head, “Quite the contrary, mister Curator. I believe you have way more stories than all the people my age combined.” She smirks, “Don’t worry, I won’t tattle if you have some dirt on your name. What is it? Robbery? Fraud? Murder?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Y/N. I am not that interesting.“ He chuckles, settling in his chair. “But I believe I could tell you the story of the only time I helped someone directly rather than through the riddles you hate so much.“

She’s clearly pleased with the outcome of her protest. She gives him a smile, “I’m all ears.“

He can’t help but shake his head at her child-like enthusiasm for something so simple. He’s determined to make it worth her while, so he digs through the contents of his brain, looking for the most interesting memories he has stored there - the ones that would entertain her. Eventually, he comes up with one.

“Have I ever mentioned my dear friend Alan to you, by any chance?“

Y/N thinks for a moment before nodding, “Yeah, but as usual, you were very vague.”

He chuckles, “I know you hate not being given details, so I’m gonna make sure not to leave anything out.” He absentmindedly picks up the pen on his desk, twirling it between his fingers, “Well, a brief introduction to our character Alan: he’s a psychiatrist. A year or two younger than me. He’s from Calgary. I met him in my mid-thirties, when I was still what some would consider young.” He smiles at the pleasant memory.

Y/N fakes shock, placing a hand over her chest, “You mean to tell me there was time when you, the Curator, were young? You can’t be serious. I refuse to believe that.”

“I was. And I was quite handsome, mind you.“ He takes out his wallet, opening it and handing it to Y/N. On the right, covered by a thin layer of clear plastic is a black and white photo of two men in their early to mid forties.

“You’re the one on the left, right?” She asks, staring at the photo wide eyes, looking up at him for confirmation. He nods in response. “Wow, I honestly wouldn’t have recognized you.” 

“Understandably so. Time has really taken a toll on me.“ He actually looks saddened when he says that. She can tell that was less a joke and more the truth.

“I wouldn’t say so.“ She tells him sincerely, a small genuine smile on her lips.

He returns her smile, his eyes becoming a bit livelier. “Him and I are still friends till this day. He’s a walking book of stories, I’m sure you’d like him if you ever get the chance to meet him. You see, he has spoken to me about all his patients, never once naming one of them. Until this on young man had come into his office. He was struggling with issues medicine in and of itself couldn’t completely fix. His name was Joshua. The boy was having a really tough time dealing with the loss of his sisters.” He sighs at the memory, “Alan told me he tried everything. He tried all things his years of practice and work have taught him but the boy was slowly sinking further and further down into the void of his mind.“

His voice is way different from his usual narrator tone. You can hear the weight of the events he’s reciting in every syllable that leaves his lips. She is now an accomplice, exactly like if she were there when it all happened.

“It was troubling my friend to the brink of madness, I couldn’t just stand aside and watch that. Also that kind young man, Joshua, deserved a lot better than what life was giving him. Every branch that poor boy held onto snapped. Everything he ever tried to make of himself crumbled. I admired him for the fact that he kept trying and seeking a way to succeed. What he failed to see was the obvious need for help he had. He was longing for a helping hand but no one noticed, or they simply didn’t care. Except this one girl. Her name was Samantha. She saw right through his act. But he never allowed her helping hand to reach him. He never wanted to be a weight on her shoulders. Never wanted to be nor the bump in her road nor the baggage she carried while walking it. So, I stepped in. I taught him the importance of having someone by your side, and taught her the importance of never giving up on someone who means a lot to you. Luckily for themselves and for Alan and I, they listened.“

“Forget about Alan, I want to meet Joshua and Samantha. I want to meet them and give them a big hug.“ Y/N says, her mind wandering to the images she has compiled. A broken boy and a girl with the strength to carry both her and his world in her arms. She can quite see their face, but she can picture their auras, their energies. They feel so real to her, and all just from the Curator’s words alone.

Soon enough, her eyelids start giving out, her eyes fluttering closed. She’s fighting to the best of her ability to stay awake, see this story to its end, but the Curator’s storytelling and the dark, candlelit room aren’t helping her with the battle. Her mind is drifting further and further into the land where the story she’s being told will keep expanding with elements added by her imagination. She’s certain she’ll dream of this tale.

“Oh you’re already clocking out, huh?“ The Curator chuckles, pausing his story mid-sentence.

“Can’t help it.“ Y/N mumbles, already more than half asleep, “Just tell me how it ends, you’ll fill in the gaps when I wake up.“

“Well, it hasn’t ended yet. I can tell you where it’s at at the moment.“ She hums approvingly, “It’s been five years since I stepped in and now they are happily married. They have a little one on the way. A little girl, I believe.“

A lazy smile forms on her face. “That’s nice.” the words leave her lips in the form of a sleepy sigh moments before she has been dragged into the deepest crevasses of her mind and imagination.

The Curator calmly and quietly gets up, taking his jacket from the coatrack. He drapes it over the girl asleep in the armchair on the other side of his desk. Little does this college student know, he has seen both her past and future. He has met her in several different periods of her life. She’s been like her own personal guardian angel. In her past-lives too.

Guardian angel of death.

He was lucky to have met Alan before that curse was bestowed upon him - making the psychiatrist the only man he could interact with without bringing him a sooner than anticipated and inevitable demise. He wasn’t completely honest with Y/N about the time frame of meeting the other man, but that was not an important piece of information. She could do without it. He used the only hall-pass he had to do his old friend a favor - settle the storms that raged between Joshua and Samantha. And now, he’s locked away from the world, waiting for souls to come to him instead of the other way around.

Nowadays, he just stays hidden from people and only meets with those who wander into his repository. It’s always the same pattern: they come in, not really sure how they ended up there; He coaches them through a story they think they have some sort of impact on; and then they leave and never come back.

Color the man surprised when he saw her walk in the first time. It took him no time to connect the dots, he’d recognize her anywhere. She wasn’t clueless like the others, she actually seemed like she was looking for the place. He spent the next week or so feeling like he had failed the only purpose he had - to keep her safe. That was until she showed up again, even cheerier than the first time. That’s when he knew he shouldn’t fear for her, for she was a phenomenon beyond his understanding. A soul never in death’s reach.

“I hope you never get to see the same fate as everyone else who meets me.“ He whispers, looking down at her sleeping form.

He knows she’s special. After all, he never has never met anyone more than once.

[parvasilvi]

Old wounds, old friends

Endeavour Fanfic, Post S6E4 Degüello (spoilers ahead) 

The first thing Shirley did when she got home was kick off her shoes. They were elegant black shoes with a low heel; feminine but not impractical. That didn’t mean it wasn’t a relief to take them off. She set them neatly under the coatrack and hung her coat on the peg above them. The other pegs were empty, which meant her housemates were already out for the night; Tiffany had the late shift in the hospital this week, and Betty was out on her third not-a-date with Simon, so neither of them would be home any time soon. Not that Shirley minded. As much as she enjoyed having someone to come home to, it would be nice to have a quiet evening to herself.

She stooped to pick up the evening’s post off the mat and made her way to the kitchen. She sat down, put her stockinged feet on the table (only because Tiffany wasn’t there to yell at her) and thumbed through the post. It was mostly leaflets and pamphlets, but there was also a letter addressed to Betty and a large manilla envelope addressed to Shirley herself.

She smiled when she recognized the expansive handwriting. Dear old Georgina. As expected, the envelope yielded both a letter and a smaller envelope. She set the envelope aside and unfolded the sheets of paper. There were two of them, filled with Georgina’s large, messy writing. Despite being well into her seventies, Georgina refused to admit that her eyesight was going, and wouldn’t visit an optometrist, choosing to magnify her writing by hand instead. The subject matter was of the usual tenor; highlighting her own attentiveness for forwarding the letter, complaints about the dullness of getting old, and requests for Shirley to visit more often. Shirley smiled. Georgina had many faults, but you couldn’t accuse her of subtlety.

 Next, she turned her attention to the envelope that had been forwarded to her. Her good-natured mood snagged on seeing the return address; Oxford. It had been almost a year since she’d heard anything from her old team. She had thought that chapter of her life closed, a history erased behind her as even the station itself had ceased to exist. Yet here was irrefutable proof that the past wasn’t as far away as she’d made believe it was. She tore into the envelope.

The letter was short and to the point, neatly typed out on what must be left-over Cowley Station stationery.

Dear Trewlove,

I hope this letter finds you well. Much has changed in Oxford over the last year. I won’t bore you with the details.

The old Cowley team found Fancy’s murderer. It was a corrupt officer from Robbery, Alan Jago. He was shot while resisting arrest.

I thought you might want to know.

Yours always,

Morse

 Shirley put the letter down and stared unseeing at the kitchen cabinets in front of her. For a moment she was too surprised at the bluntness of the letter to properly feel something about it. The short, pointed sentences had tore into her like bullets, one after the other, ripping open an old wound, and now the pain was slowly seeping past the numbness. "I thought you might want to know," the letter had said. Did she? Was the knowledge worth dredging up old memories? Did she feel better now, knowing George’s death had been avenged? She found that very little had changed with that knowledge. The boy she had loved was still dead. She hadn't recognized the name of his killer.

She wiped at her eyes, sniffed noisily and picked up the letter again. Old wounds, old grief, but also old friends. The news itself meant little, she decided, she didn’t care for vengeance. But the fact that Morse had thought to reach out to her meant all the more. "I thought you might want to know. Yours always, Morse," followed by a phone number. She owed him the courtesy of reaching back. It'd be good to hear his voice.

 Part of Shirley expected him not to pick up. If she'd assessed Morse correctly, he'd have buried himself in work or drink. Yet on the fourth ring, there he was, terse as always “Morse.”

The memory was so visceral it took her breath away. She was a PC again, standing in the doorway of that dusty old station, Strange standing by the evidence board and pretending not to notice her, Morse hunched over at his desk angrily distracted by the phone.

“Hello?” His voice dragged her back to the present.

“Hello. Uh. Hi. It's -” she hesitated, unsure of the level of familiarity to use. To her relief, he filled in the blank for her.

“Trewlove?" A beat of silence. “I didn’t think you would call.”

“Honestly, I didn’t think you’d pick up.” There was a hesitation on the other end of the line and she grinned; she always loved getting him off-balance.

On the other end of the line, Morse got his thoughts back on track. “So you got my letter?”

“I did. Thank you for thinking of me.”

"How are you doing?"

Shirley considered for a moment. “All things? I'm all right,” she answered, and in saying it out loud she realised it was so. She was settling in well enough in London, and happier than she’d expected to be a year ago. “You?”

“Can’t complain,” Morse said.

“Can’t or won’t?” Shirley joked.

He huffed. “Shouldn’t, probably. The universe will hear and decide to give me something properly horrible to complain about.”

Shirley laughed, more out of politeness than for the quality joke. “It’s good to hear from you, Morse.”

“How’s the Yard treating you?”

“Pretty similarly to Cowley, honestly.”

“That bad?”

“It was never bad,” she tutted. Because it hadn’t been, not nearly as bad as it could have been.

“But they underestimate you?”

Shirley grinned. “And I let them. They’ll figure out just how sharp I am in due time.” They lapsed into silence for a moment. Shirley twirled the phone cord around her fingers. “So. How is… everyone?” She realized suddenly that she missed them. She hadn’t taken the time to think back - always focussed on carving a path forward - but it turned out the past was just a phone-call away. She thought of Bright’s kindness, Thursday’s protectiveness, Strange’s chivalry. She had never really fit in there, but at least they’d tried.

“Things were different, for a while, after.” The melancholy in Morse’s voice matched Shirley’s mood. There was some shuffling on the other end of the line, as Morse got up to start pacing. “We all dealt with it differently. Thursday stuck his head in the sand, the stubborn old man.” Shirley raised her eyebrows in surprise, to hear Morse speak so bitterly about his mentor. She had never cared much for Thursday’s old-fashioned ways, but Morse had seemed to respect him. “Strange really needed the closure. He’s a good man, Strange is.” There was something in the undertone of his voice there, an emotion Shirley couldn’t quite put her finger on; jealousy or wistfulness or regret, but she decided not to press, and Morse rambled on. “They buried Bright in Traffic for a while, but he managed to keep an eye on us anyway. He’s as unshakeable as always.”

Shirley smiled and nodded, before turning her attention back on Morse. “And how are you?”

“Oh, you know,” he said, and she could practically hear him draw away from her. “Same old.”

“Morse,” she said sternly. He should know better than to platitude at her.

He heaved a deep sigh. The pacing stopped, and she heard him take as seat while he formulated a more truthful answer. “I guess I’m… Functional?” He said, which at least sounded honest enough. “I bought a house.”

That caught her off guard. “A house?”

“More of a shack really.” Morse said, immediately down-playing his achievement. “I needed a project.”

“Still.” Shirley said. She hadn’t expected Morse to settle down. He didn’t seem like the type. Then again, a lot had changed in the past year, and she couldn’t begrudge him a need for some kind of stability. If she knew anything about Morse, it was that he didn’t do things by halves. Still, Morse owning a house… “I didn’t know you liked remodelling.”

“Me neither. It’s surprisingly fulfilling, scraping away at the old plaster until what was buried resurfaces.”

“Ever the poet. So when should I expect an invite to the house-warming?”

“Oh, not for a while yet. It needs a lot of work.”

“Don’t wait too long,” she said warmly. Morse hummed non-committally, but she hadn’t expected a clear answer anyway. “I should go.”

“Don’t let me keep you,” Morse said. “Yesteday’s leftovers are calling to me.”

“Likewise.”

“I’m glad you called, Trewlove.”

“Let’s talk again soon.”

[cali-holland]

Redemption- Loki One Shot (Sequel to YLMMC)

Pairing: Loki X Reader

Prompt: After several years, Thor seeks out you and Loki for help. Sequel to Your Love Makes Me Crazy

Word Count: 1300

RAGNAROK SPOILERS!!!

Requested by: @lady-loki-ren

~~~

For the past few years, everything had been simple. You and Loki escaped from Asgard and led a quiet life in rural Norway on Earth. Of course, it took some time to adjust to this realm’s customs. The first few months were unsteady as Loki developed a deep backstory on you two and as you prepared for Thor to arrive unexpectedly at any moment. When the heir to Asgard’s throne showed no sign of appearing, your guard fell and you focused on your new life. With your defences being down for years, you almost forgot about your treason.

“Darling, I’m home.” You said as you returned from the small town’s grocery store one night. You set the bag of goods on the table in the entryway and shrugged off your raincoat, placing it on the coatrack beside you. As you made your way into the kitchen, you spoke, “That storm just came out of nowhere.”

“I noticed.” Loki said with a serious tone as you heard metal clanking softly. You finally lifted your head and looked into the living where he was expected to be. You stood in shock upon seeing him sitting in the middle of the room with chains wrapped around him, beside him stood Thor.

“Lady Y/N, how nice it is to see you again.” Thor smiled at you deceivingly.

“How did you find us?” You asked defensively.

“Heimdall never lost you two.” There was a pause after he spoke as your eyes went from a partially guilty, partially smug Loki to a solemn Thor.

“Release him. We’re not on Asgard. You have no power here, Thor.” You stated, fully stepping into the room.

“Alright, fine.” Thor replied. He set his hammer down in Loki’s lap and then let go of the chains. “There, brother, you are free.”

“Thor-” You said warningly.

“My love, it’s no use.” Loki piped up, “He’s kept me captive since you left a hour ago.”

“I have not come to turn you in for your crimes.” Thor announced.

“Then why have you come?” You questioned. What would the son of Odin want with two traitors?

“I require your help.” He said, making you and Loki both look at him quizzically. “Hela, the Goddess of Death, has invaded Asgard- I am ultimately powerless if I fight her alone. I am building a team to fight her.”

“A team?” You asked.

“Brother, I hate to interrupt,” Loki said, “But Mjolnir is crushing my groin and it would be very appreciated if you were to get it off of me.”

“I know better than to trust you, even after all these years.” Thor stated. He picked up the hammer, but immediately grabbed the chains to bind his brother once more. Loki let out a sigh that mixed relief with disappointment- he was so close to being free of these chains. “Hela is too strong, but with the three of us, and others of course, we could defeat her.”

“Why would we help you? As I recall, I was imprisoned for life due to crimes against Asgard and both Y/N and I are now traitors to the realm.”

“Redemption. If you two help me defeat Hela and stop Ragnarok, then I will consider your crimes repaid and neither of you shall be imprisoned for your past crimes, including your current state of treason.”

“And if we don’t help?” You asked, searching for a path that allowed you to return to your state just this morning.

“My dear friend Tony, a Man of Iron, has a special place where he can hold gifted prisoners.” Thor replied. “So what do you two say? A fight for freedom or no fight and imprisonment instead?”

“Release Loki so we can speak alone.” You told Thor. He was about to object again and Loki added.

“Brother, dear, I request that I speak to my wife alone.” He sent a small smirk over to you as you blushed at the nickname. It may have been two years since the two of you married in a small Norwegian chapel, but the title was one that you loved. The blond looked between the two of you with raised eyebrows and a small smile formed on his face.

“Very well then, but, just remember, if you flee again, we will find you.” He said before dropping the chains and stepping out of the room. You helped Loki remove the chains and he let out a light chuckle.

“I think I quite love the idea of redemption.” He stated, “Chains have always bothered me.”

“Freedom is a more appealing outcome than imprisonment.” You agreed, “But what of Hela? We know nothing of her power- what if she is too much for us? There is no guarantee we will defeat her and win freedom.”

“As mad as my brother is at times, he is never one to underestimate others. If he says Hela is powerful, than she is; but, if he says that a team of us will do, then I believe it. You are a mighty warrior and I a masterful trickster. We together make an unstoppable team.”

“I just have my doubts is all. I do not want you to die in the name of an attempt at redemption.” You said in a sad voice. Loki placed his hands on your cheeks and lovingly looked into your eyes.

“Listen, my love, I fell from the Bifrost- I should have died out there, but I still made it back to you. Death cannot stop our love, all it can do is delay it for a little while. We shall not fear Hela, Hela shall fear us.” He spoke tenderly.

“So you two will join me?” Thor asked as he casually made his way back into the room. You and Loki looked at the other God before looking back at each other. You knowingly nodded and Loki let out a small smile.

“What are we waiting for?” He replied as his smile turned to a smirk. Using his magic, his Midgardian attire was replaced with his full on Asgard clothing and yours was also replaced. With his horned helmet on and your swords sharpened, you both joined Thor in his quest.

~~~ “We did it.” You sighed in content, dropping your weapons on the small table.

“Yes, we did.” Loki agreed, following you into your designated room on the spaceship, “Granted, every Asgardian is now a refugee and Asgard legitimately burned to pieces.”

“Hela was defeated. We upheld our part of the deal.” You stated.

“And look? We both came out alive. I told you death cannot stop us. We’re unstoppable.” He grinned, taking your left hand in his. He kissed the shiny ring on your finger. He went to then give you a proper kiss on the lips but was interrupted by someone clearing their throats.

“Hate to intrude, brother and Lady Y/N.” Thor said as he entered the room.

“What do you require of us now?” Loki asked, irritated by the interruption.

“As king, I feel that a celebration is in order.”

“For what? If you can’t tell, your people are all displaced and we are currently floating through space on a stolen ship, your highness.” He used the title sarcastically, not willing to fully look at his brother as a king.

“For the union of you two. You eloped together, we must celebrate your marriage in full. It would be a rather joyous celebration at a time like this.”

“We only eloped because we committed treason.” You said, making Loki laugh.

“But now, you are no longer traitors. It’s settled, we’re going to celebrate it, once we get to Midgard, of course.” Thor clapped his hands together as he smiled. He patted Loki on the back, “Congratulations, brother. I always thought I would be wed first.”

“Thank you?” Loki replied, but it came out as more of a question. He wasn’t quite sure if he should be offended by Thor’s comment or not.

“I must get going. I have new duties as King that I must take care of. I’ll see you two later.” He said, leaving just as quickly as he had came. You turned to Loki and let out a small laugh.

“I love you.”

“And I love you.” Loki said, finally giving you a sweet kiss on the lips.

[justanartsysideblog]

Ahhhhh! Faunalyn and Nithroel! T_T You love killing them off, don't you?

I’m assuming this is in response to my little drabble last night…Oh ye of little faith, anon! Give Faunalyn some credit, she IS ex-military after all. XD

Warnings for violence and death.

—

There are four men in the doorway; all human, all wearingnondescript, dark clothing. At least theythink they’re being discreet, Faunalyn thinks, as she keeps one hand onNithroel. It means they’re stupider thanthey look.

As if Faunalyn wouldn’t notice the Templar pins on their jackets.

At least it tells her that the Templars aren’t working withthe police today. No uniformed backup patrolling the streets to look the otherway when a mage child is dragged from their homes this time.

“Where is your son?” The leader asks, as he steps forward,filling the doorframe.

He has to look up to meet Faunalyn’s eyes, and shecan tell straight away that it puts him on edge. Not enough, though. Not asmuch as it should. But she’s going to let him underestimate her because she’san elf, and female, for as long as she can.

The more of them that underestimate her, the easier it’ll beto take them by surprise.

“I’m afraid he’s at school, messerre,” Nithroel answerscalmly, “May I ask what you want with him?”

“There have been reports of blood sacrifice in the area.”The leader states again, and pushes himself forward some more, until he’s fully inside. Faunalyn and Nithroel step back, Faunalyn’s hand steady on the small ofNithroel’s back.

Let them come inside.Close the door. Muffle the sound. Let them feel in control.

She takes three more steps back, and Nithroel follows.

“Our son is amage, but he hasn’t done anything,” Nithroel shakes his head, voice still calmand steady, smile never wavering.

“He’s unregistered.”

“He’s registered as a mage,” Nithroel supplies, browfurrowing, “He renewed his registration when he turned eighteen.”

“He’s an unregistered bloodmage,” The leader sneers. He’s fully inside now, as are his three thugs.Faunalyn continues to size them up, as Nithroel talks. They’re all carryingfirearms; pistols, by the look of the bulges in their jackets. At least twohave stun batons, and it’s likely they’re carrying warded blades.

She can smell the lyrium on their breath.

“Our son isn’t a blood mage,” Nithroel lies, and if Faunalyndidn’t know the truth, she’d probably believe it. His tone never changes, norhis mannerisms; no visible tells. She feels a warm swell of pride.

“We have reports that he has been using blood magic atschool, and he’s been active on several pro-blood mage websites.”

“It is not illegal, as of yet, to support the rights ofother mages,” Faunalyn drawls, “And you have no proof that he’s used any formof blood magic. This is pure speculation.”

“Look, knife-ear,” Another one of the Templars drawls, “Ifwe say we have proof, we have proof. Now tell us where he is.”

He shuts the door, and puts his hand on his gun.

Faunalyn shoves Nithroel back down the hall and draws herweapon.

The first Templar goes down with a bullet between his eyesbefore he can process that she’s moved. The second goes down the same, as thethird and fourth scramble for weapons.  

She shoots the third in the throat, and he crumples to hisknees, blood bubbling up past his lips as his gun clatters to the ground. Sloppy, that should have been a headshot. I’m out of practice.

The fourth sticks a stun baton between her ribs. 

Her bodyconvulses as 12M volts surges through her, and she lets out a choked cough.

Nithroel shouts something, as Faunalyn slumps forward, andpain lances up her arm as a fourth shot rings out–the Templar with the bulletthrough the throat, one hand pressed against his throat, slick with blood, theother curled around the trigger of his gun.

Shit. Faunalynthinks, as she hits the ground. Her body continues to twitch, as someone kicksher in the side hard enough that she’s certain her ribs are bruised. Steel-toed boots.

“Run,” She manages to gasp out, hoping Nithroel heeds her.

“Bitch,” Theleader growls, and she hears the telltale click of a gun cocking.

Aelynthi escaped, he’ssafe, Faunalyn thinks, as she closes her eyes and waits for the shot.

The shot doesn’t come. Instead there’s a loud crack followed by a groan. Faunalynrolls over, trying to push herself up as the lead Templar slumps overthe coffee table.

Nithroel stands behind him, brandishing the coatrack.

The Templar with the throat wound has stopped moving, but Faunalyncan hear the soft gurgle of desperate, final breaths. He won’t last muchlonger.

Good.

“I…” Nithroel swallows and places the coatrack down. “Is hedead?”

“Only unconscious,” Faunalyn gasps out, as Nithroel helpsher up. Her entire body aches. “I should kill him.” Nithroel makes a soundin the back of his throat and Faunalyn fixes with him a cool gaze, “Vhenan, hewanted to kill us and take our son. He would have killed you without a secondthought.”

Nithroel sighs, “…that does not make it right.”

“Right or wrong doesn’t exist anymore,” Faunalyn shakes herhead, and looks down at the wound on her arm. She needs to get the bullet outbut they don’t have the time. Someone will report the gunshots soon enough, andthere will be police and Templars swarming the place. “This world has gone toshit.”

Nithroel cups her face with his hands, and shakes his head, “Thatdoesn’t make it right, vhenan.”

Faunalyn doesn’t answer, as she moves away from him. She simply pulls out her army knifeand slits the unconscious man’s throat. Nithroel is silent, but she can feelhis disapproval. She wipes the blood off the knife and places it back in itssheath. “One less Templar means one less person going after our son.”

“We need to find Aelynthi.”

Faunalyn shakes her head again, “Not yet. He knows to go toone of the designated meeting points. We know where he’s headed, but we couldbe followed. We need to get anyone off out trail first, so we don’t lead themback to him.” She gives a rueful grin. “Our son can handle himself, Nith. He’sbeen his own person since he learned how to speak. He gets his stubbornnessfrom you.”

Nithroel sighs, and begins binding her arm with a torn piece of the curtains, “I suppose you’llbe needing the case from the closet.”

Faunalyn reaches up with her good arm to touch his shoulder,“I haven’t taken it out to play in a long time. It’s bound to get lonely.”

Nithroel snorts, “I still don’t know why you decided to namea sniper rifle Melarue.”

Faunalyn shrugs, and winces as pain shoots up her arm. “Idon’t know, it just felt right.”

———