#of constant tension and just barely holding back so much hatred and rage that it's unbearable just to listen to him speak

[themetalvirus]

(watches radio drama version of the AM hate monologue) ha ha eggy sonic

[nukyster-blog]

Changing Course Chapter 26) Burdens women bare

.-.-.

It wasn’t their holy day, it wasn’t Sunday. The bells gave that away. As the Giant dragged Ivar across the cobblestoned centre towards the chapel, the bells rang in a peal, echoing their melodic sounds through the castle de Haar. 

The chapel was already packed with the inhabitants, but instead of calm gracing through their most holy chamber, the room was buzzing with excited chatter. Children ran between rows, fighting each other for the closest spots near the altar underneath the high arched windows. 

Was it a special holy day? A possible celebration of spring? 

Ivar sat up and stared across the pompous room. Honestly he didn’t care what reason lay behind his smatter of freedom. It felt thrilling yet intimidating to be out of the shed and placed back into society. To be sitting on a wooden bench instead of laying in filth and hay. Ivar looked around so quickly his eyes nearly fell out; stained glass, the heavy iron bound door, elegant candle holders. The smell of wax and incense. The sounds of foreign chatter, contained coughs, giggling of children, and footsteps echoing between the old stonewalls; it was an overstimulation of Ivar’s dulled brain. The months of utter cold and nothingness, rocking back and forth to keep himself warm in either twilight or dark, had taken its toll on him. 

He did not realise he was physically cramping up and holding his breath until Piglet’s warm and calloused hand formed itself around his. 

Ivar glanced at her hand, with nails bitten and ripped, raw and so small compared to his. She gave him a gentle squeeze and an even softer smile as his eyes trailed back up to read her face. 

“Breath, hamar”, she told him as if she were talking to a small, dumb child. And in that moment Ivar felt like a small dumb child, inhaling a sharp deep breath as his body seemed to have forgotten to do that automatically. 

The bells kept ringing, those insufferable Christian words kept swirling around him like flies. It all came crashing in like  waves in the ocean; the voices, sounds, smells and bile rose in his throat. For a moment, Ivar feared he’d be drowning on land, like a fish. 

To lessen the external rollercoaster he closed his eyes, taking in deep breaths again, blowing out slowly. In order to keep the suffocating thoughts from spiraling out of control he chose a steady anchor to hold onto and held onto the hand of Piglet. Intertwining fingers, he knew his clutch around hers was hurting her. But he could not bring himself to ease his grip, not yet. 

For a solid moment alone, Ivar missed being locked inside the shed. The unsettling boredom, the shackles and chains. The smell of animal dung, mildew, and wet furs. That place was constant, dull, dark and safe. In there he’d been the Bloody Bear of Kattegat, for months, rocking back and forth to keep his mind from breaking and his body from freezing. 

It was impossible to shake that mental state off in a matter of minutes. So Ivar quietly rocked back and forth on the wooden bench, eyes firmly shut close and focussing on merely keeping his body from suffocating. 

“Hamar, breath”, Piglet murmured in his ear, her words tickling his skin, “you’re Viking, think of your Gods.” 

Ivar pressed his forehead against the backside of the wooden bench in front of him and while keeping his eyes shut whispered...“hail All-Father, wise warrior, one-eyed wanderer, come sit at my fire. Tell me your wisdom stories, the scenes your missing eyes sees. You who chooses the slain, look on my deed and when my time comes, to run the sky with you. Let me end be worthy of song. In the meantime, let me feel excitement and poetry and fury and joy. Let me understand sacrifice. Think long, remember well and journey far. Odin, witness this”.

Suddenly, a hush fell over the room  and Ivar reopened his eyes wide, shocked by the sudden lack of sounds and voices. Before he had time to recover from the first surprise he was struck with the next: the presence of the fair-maiden. The young woman stood in the doorway of the heavy iron door, arms hooked with a wealthy man Ivar hadn’t seen before. 

She was draped from head to toe in deep jewel tones, made of velvet, silk and satin. Although the poor thing did her absolute best to keep her face blank from emotion, she had the gait of someone who was about to walk into her own funeral. Every step seemed to take her forever as if she wished to master time and take an eternity to end her walk up to the altar. 

As the fair-maiden started her slow pace, everyone around Ivar rose up to their feet, even Piglet sheepishly participated, urgently tugging on Ivar’s hand to at least try to get up too. 

Ivar abruptly let go of her hand, grabbed the edge of the wooden bench in front of him and pulled himself upon his feet. Unsteady, he leaned heavily on the bench, his legs trembling and spasming underneath him. 

But by the Gods, he was going to keep on standing. And it was not because he obeyed the Christians. He desperately wanted to see the fair-maiden as long as he could and remaining seated meant all he could see were backs, elbows, and arses. 

The fair-maiden walked right by him and instinctively Ivar moved towards her, only to be spitefully elbowed between the ribs by Piglet, who did not condone any foolishness from his behalf. 

For a second time that day Ivar found himself breathless. Barely able to keep himself up on his feet, he gazed at Piglet in utter anger. Unfazed, she glared back at him, motioning her elbow slightly up to warn him she’d do it again if he dare do  anything so drastic and stupid. 

Oh, at times Ivar wished he had enough nails to nail the Giant and Piglet both. 

“Insufferable cunt”, Ivar breathed in her ear as he was forced to stare at the back of the fair-maiden. 

“Thick-head”, she responded with a whisper as all heads turned to the next entry. 

It was Ludolf, wearing a masculine version of the fair-maiden’s look; a three-quarter length tunic with wide sleeves and an open, round neckline. His lop-sided lip was formed into a satisfied smile as he bathed in all the attention. 

Piglet had her elbow already pinned into Ivar’s chest as a warning, while the young man strode along them. A good thing though, because the scars on Ivar’s back seemed to be set on fire the moment he lay eyes on the spineless creature that caused them. Whatever truth may lay in Piglet’s confession about his Djinn, Ivar could feel something inside of him rob his consciousness from his heart, stopping the natural process of guilt and shame and stirring on mere hatred alone. Whatever lurked inside of him, there was a part that fueled on wrath and rage alone. A hunger for destruction of flesh, bones and civilisation. 

“This is not the time”, Piglet expressed breathlessly, summoning back some awareness of their poor status and certain death, if Ivar dared to lunge forward. 

Calculated, Ivar realised he would not be able to make it to Ludolf, he wouldn’t even be able to yap at his ankles as he’d done last time. And Ivar did not need to remind himself what had happened to him after he’d marked the young ruler with his teeth. 

Lowering his head in defeat, Ivar listened as their priest opened his holy book and started speaking. 

A wedding ceremony… Ivar thoughtlessly shook his head, they’d all been prepped up to witness a marriage of convenience. A faithless arrangement between the father of the bride and the father of the groom. Devotion not by heart, but by responsibility and honour. The fair-maiden would be burdened to endure Ludolf until death, barring his children and turning the other cheek. Ivar didn’t understand why he dwelled on that prospect of her future. He’d known for a long time about the arranged marriage. 

But he never thought he’d be witness to her ceremonial doom. Although her path was paved with golden stones, they both shared the same form of dread; being absolutely powerless. Voiceless, nothing more than a piece of meat, auctioned off to the highest bidder. 

After a short welcome, all spectators were informed to sit down. The biblical nonsense took on forever, but the lack of voices and chattering was more than welcome and gave Ivar the time to unwind. 

He watched the fair-maiden from between shoulders and heads. Her emotions were not easily hidden on her innocent face. Her pain was so evident in the crease of her brow and the down-curve of her full lips. Her petite frame seemed so easy to break, shatter at the altar as the burden upon her shoulders became too much for her to carry. 

She was so different from Ivar, so fragile and innocent, although that part of her would soon be demolished. Ivar figured it would die during her wedding night, as the young ruler would claim what was rightfully his. 

“She won’t last long”, Piglet whispered bitterly. Yet her venom was not directed toward the fair-maiden, but to the despicable creature that was about to marry her. 

Ivar failed to respond and watched the exchange of rings. Her hands trembled as Ludolf slid the piece of gold around her finger. A wealthy form of chains and shackles, a symbol of the power he was about to hold over her. His wife. 

The audience was asked to stand, and Ivar did so as quickly as he could. Just in time to see them kiss. It was quick and lacked any sign of affection, but it was enough to simmer up Ivar’s anger. 

The tension that came with that anger was enough to send his right leg into a spasm, causing him to stumble and collapse onto the marble floor. Piglet and the rest of the people in his row glared at his clumsiness, while the rest of the room broke down in celebration. 

Clapping, excited chatter and cheers filled the air and everyone was drawn to the newlyweds. 

Now that he was down, Ivar figured he had nothing to lose. And so he crawled past filthy feet and dirty boots to peek around the rows of benches and stare at the fair-maiden from a different angle. 

The pair were still standing at the altar, holding their intertwined hands into the air to receive all of the applause and best wishes. The fair-maiden had managed to turn her lips into a smile and cautiously glanced at the rows of people. Strangers.

The pair started walking, Ludolf waved at his lessers and the fair-maiden followed him aside, her arm hooked with his and her gaze gracefully lowered to the tips of her toes. That was her future from this day, to obey and keep herself as small as possible. For in this world there was no place for women that spoke their minds with sharp tongues. 

As by faith, the fair-maiden suddenly glanced up and noticed Ivar down on the floor. Keeping himself up on his elbows staring could be their only form of communication. 

It was so evident that she needed something, anything, to hold onto during the darkest hour of her life. A sign that her future might not be painted so grim, the pain so legible in her begging, downturned gaze. 

Ivar drew a little cross on his forehead with his index finger and gave her a gentle nod to convince her to keep her faith. He could feel his own lips burn as the fair-maiden wetted hers and managed to lift them into a halfhearted smile. 

The pair passed Ivar, heading towards what would probably be the biggest celebratory meal of the year. Ivar watched the back of their heads, touching his upper lip while all exited, chattering turned into a buzz. 

Piglet stomped her cold toes harshly into his ribs and gave him a shove to start moving. Oh, if it wasn’t for the major amount of witnesses she’d be having a fit right now. But aside from a few more kicks she could not afford to lash out and quietly walked behind Ivar, who was boiling like a pot of tar, ready to overflow. 

The Giant split them apart. Ivar made a mental note to have the brute crawl through thorn bushes set on fire before slaughtering the man, as he was being dragged over the cobblestones. If it weren’t  for the potato bags, Ivar’s knees would be bruised and scraped back open.

A second miracle appeared today. Instead of being locked back up into the shed, Ivar was being dragged into the Castle’s kitchen. He highly doubted it was due to the Giant’s change of heart, no, the reason for this smatter of freedom was pragmatic; there was a feast coming up and the kitchen needed a few more hands.

So, Ivar was back at peeling and cutting onions, all while crying his eyes out. But it beat the absolute loneliness and boredom of the shed. It was a nice change of atmosphere; the chaos, heat, and mouth watering smells of brisket, soups, and baked potatoes. Little Cunt ruled her kitchen like a warrior, beating her cane against every head thick enough to make a mistake. The workers literally risked their heads and a possible concussion around the pots, pans, knives, and silver pitchers. 

Big Cunt was in charge of the service, every tray would be checked with her prying eyes. Every slip of greasy gravy, wine stained napkin or overcooked slice of meat would be punished with a foul snarl and a slap in the face. Tonight was the feast of the rich, there was no room for mistakes.

Ivar watched the chaotic beehive led by two queens patiently while squinting his eyes. The scent was poison to his eyes, blurring his vision and turning him into a snottering, sniveling mess. 

Piglet’s humble form emerged from the crowd, painfully rubbing the side of her head, an indication that Little Cunt wasn’t pleased with her efforts. Appearing a little lost, her eyes regained a humored glint when she noticed Ivar’s struggle with the mass of torturous vegetables. 

“Welcome back”, Piglet sniggered, collecting the cut onions in a large bowl. 

Ivar refused to respond, wiping vigorously through his eyes in an attempt to rid himself of tears. Once he blinked the blurriness from his vision, Piglet had vanished back into the mass, leaving him to his simpleton duty. 

.-.-.

It must have been well over midnight when the kitchen staff turned from serving to cleaning. Piglet and Ivar were in charge of the counters, which wasn’t in Ivar’s best interest; standing required him to use the support of both his arms. And since he could not magically grow a third arm, he had to balance his support with one arm and two very unwilling legs, all while productively scrubbing away grease. 

The task already took him down two times; the first time resulted in him banging his chin down onto the counter. The second time, he landed hard on his arse as Little Cunt grew tired of his clumsiness and unproductivity. The old hag wacked her cane mercilessly against Ivar’s chinbones.

He had to give it to her, for such an ancient bitch with a crooked back and arthritis, she had the fury and force of a proper shieldmaiden. 

This, however, did not change the fact that Little Cunt was now the third person on Ivar’s hitlist. He’d butcher her like a pig, using her own set of cherished kitchen knives. And then cook her up in the largest cauldron to serve her to the fat rulers of de Haar.

Ivar envisioned how the flesh would slowly loosen from her brittle bones, oh he’d use her own cane to stir her body around until she’d turned into a decent stew. Maybe ask Piglet to piss in it, too. 

As if the slave could read his mind, Piglet dropped the entire content of one of the serving trays. A fortune of silverware crashed down onto the floor, while red wine splattered the cabinets. 

It looked like a murder scene, and Little Cunt was about to commit the crime. The old woman let out a bloody warcry and chased after Piglet with her cane waving around like a flag. 

It was entertaining to watch Piglet wear the Little Cunt down, because the older woman was no match for the speed and swiftness of Piglet. Little Cunt eventually settled with beating the life out of the closest person in reach before letting out a shaky breath and faint from lack of air and probably old age. 

Big Cunt was on a rescue mission to save the dignity of her commander and unleashed her fury onto Piglet. It was a one-sided engagement of scratching, punching, and hair pulling which ended with Piglet on her knees, her face pressed into the mess she’d made. 

Of course there was laughter and ridicule, but it quickly evolved into concern about the well-being of Little Cunt. 

As most of the kitchen staff circled around their hated leader, while Big Cunt cried bloody murder, Ivar crawled out to Piglet to help her pick up the piece of silverware.

Three red gashes marked her face, a gift from Big Cunt, but Piglet’s face was lit with stubborn satisfaction.  

“You might have slayed the old dragon Piglet”, Ivar muttered as two members of the kitchen staff hoisted Little Cunt up onto her feet to drag her away. The old woman spat out some feisty mumbling, but lost the strength to bash heads in. 

“Did you plan this?”, Ivar continued.

Piglet glanced at him through her lashes and carefully touched one of the three fingernail scratches on her cheek. 

“Ivar the bloody, Ivar de Martelaar, Ivar the dog with muzzle,” she summoned up mockingly, “you have enough nicknames, no room for another; Ivar-bashed-up-knees”. Piglet pointed at the red wine stained floor and cabinet. “You clean that, I clean counter, you’re useless standing.” 

And so Ivar was given the task to clean up after Piglet until the early hours of morning. But with both his crippled legs intact. 

.-.-.

A/N: Yeah #teampiglet all the way. Ivar’s savage guardian angel. So this chapter was another interesting one to write. I felt the need to highlight the mental damage winter left behind. I just couldn’t let the fact slide that Ivar has been locked up for months, while fighting bitter cold, in twilight or dark, spending endless hours all alone. So yeah, to then be alright and function while being dragged into a overcrowded place...nop, that felt wrong. 

So I guess you could say he had a mild panic attack right before the ceremony. And then to watch the fair-maiden being married off to Ludolf, oh what a monstrosity I am as the writer. 

Also, I did a little bit of research about the wedding ceremony. During this era the wedding dress wasn’t white but blue, so there you go. This time Piglet took one for the team, I’m happy to end with a little humor for a change. I like how she’s able to get what she wants while being the weakest link in the room. Ivar and Piglet, two peas in a pod.

This was it for this week again, hope you’ve enjoyed this chapter and it would be lovely if you’ve let me know what your thoughts are. 

Xoxoxo Nukyster

The tagged ones:@youbloodymadgenius​ @xbellaxcarolinax @saldelys​ @shannygoatgruff@pieces-by-me@apenas-mais-uma-pessoa@readsalot73@lauraan182 @conaionaru@sarahh-jane@peachybonelessIf you’d liked to be tagged, please let me know:)

[stellarbit]

What Winter Brings

Hello there. It’s been awhile. I’ve stewed over this for years. It’s not the finale I promised. I feel I couldn’t end it with just one more. Thank you to anyone still reading. Sorry for all the pushed back promises of finishing! Enjoy and truly let me know what you think!

.

Marbled and frozen a foot below her, the black pool peered back at Sterren. Mocking her. She hadn’t seen a proper reflection of herself since the day she was drug from the pool’s summer waters. Now her contorted reflection watched her, head tilted, with almost pity.

An ungloved finger traced the wrinkles worn into her reflection’s brow. How many years, true years, had passed her by now? A crack in the ice curved across her cheek. A perfect match to the scar settled into her flesh.

A tight, angry little voice whispered to her. She leaned forward. It taunted her.

“Jon’s back.”

Sterren peeled away from the black pool. It wasn’t the voice she sought. It was Arya.

She tried long ago to preserve her few surviving nerves when Arya snuck up on her. Sterren stood and brushed the snow from her skirts. “If that’s the case, why aren’t you in the courtyard awaiting your brother.” 

The young wolf thinned her lips. “I will greet him and his queen on my own.”

Sterren turned her head in the direction of distant marching, softly sifting through the thin winter air. Jon would be arriving any moment and Sterren didn’t have time to lecture Arya on manners. “I need to find Sansa and Bran. Be mindful of standing together.” Sterren gripped her ward’s shoulder hard. “The pack, Arya.” Her hand smoothed over Arya’s cheek, a quick gesture, before leaving Arya alone with the godswood tree.

Snow piled over the grounds now. Drifts six feet tall pushed against the castle walls. Stood in the cleared out courtward, where their father had greeted a different royal a lifetime ago, were the remaining Stark children. Sterren took her place behind Sansa.

“It’ll be good to have Jon back.” Sterren hoped her words would sooth the Lady of Winterfell.

Sansa rolled her shoulders, a breath rattling from her. “I wonder if Father felt this way.

“If he was smart he did.”

Her redhead dipped, “He was.” Sansa reached a gloved hand back. As she’d grown, Sansa took to small gestures in place of words. Stand with me, please.

The older Stark sister didn’t ask where Arya was- another thing they’d both learned it was worthless to ask. Even if she wanted to, the main gates began scraping open before anymore could be exchanged.

Months passed, at a glacial pace, since they both last saw Jon. In a blistery instant, those months were gone as he strode through the front gates home. His eyes were wide and wild as he scanned his family. His family that, now, was more whole than when he left it.

Sterren faded away from the Stark children. This was a moment for them and them alone.

Instead she wandered around the crowd. So many new faces, some she’d seen before. One she was avoiding.

A nostalgic shadow smeared across her face as she set her eyes upon the Lannister Imp stepping out of a carriage. Shoulders back, Sterren dodged a few bystanders to find the small man.

“Lord Tyrion.”

His back was to her, talking to a bald headed man, and with a half glance Tyrion doubled back, looking the No-Born twice over.

“Lady Sterren.”

Sterren bowed her head slightly. In the past she would have made sure to curtsy in a proper fashion. But that was the past. “I believe we agreed that title was not appropriate.”

His look was all wrong. More tight, less sure. Confidence eroded by whatever the years had passed onto him. “Apologies. However, I believe my lordship is just as invalid now.” Tyrion raised his eyebrows, widely gesturing beside him. “This is the advisor to Queen Danarys and my traveling companion, Lord Varys.”

The plump man bowed deep, an arm slinking from his sleeves to take her hand for a kiss. It was possible their paths once crossed in King’s Landing. If that was so, time had hidden him behind her skirts. She conceded a half curtsy, before forgetting her manners.

“What other traveling companions have you returned with, my lords?” Her smile was as poorly made as her thin attempt of veiling her true intentions. Changed might he be, but Tyrion always filed away sensitive information.

Tyrion’s eyes flicked to Varys then elsewhere, Sterren following his gaze. As expected, dismounting from her mountainous horse clambered Brienne of Tarth. An ogre whose months of absence Sterren everyday prayed be made permanent.

Years she suffered with Brienne by the Stark sisters’ sides. Even Arya somehow looked up to the ugly beast. A sickening coil pooled in Sterren’s stomach, reminding her of what little she could do. Not a single item was left intact the night it dawned on Sterren that that creature won the trust of the Starks. By morning Sterren lay in feathers, broken candles, and what could only be guessed were shreds of scrolls. 

Sterren could do nothing now. Not with the Starks holding her in such reverence. She could do nothing but pray for the whitewalkers to-

“Sterren.”

The coil in her stomach retracted, its oily tendrils slinking away from her narrowed vision. She slowly returned her attention to the short man in front of her. 

His thinned lips tightened into a smile. “I’ve spoken with Podrick about his travels. About his meeting you.”

No trace of her feigned smile remained. What lay so softly in his voice was the twin of what the Starks saw in the ogress. Trust.

Tyrion’s stumpy fingers rubbed together. “ am sorry for what happened, truly I am. With the state of things now, I do think there might be-”

White hot, reactive hatred singed the skin of Sterren’s face. Disbelief blew the air from her. This man, well aware of the suffering she endured since their last meeting, meant to belittle her feelings.

Her words boiled out without stop.

“Your whore lover betrayed you.” Tyrion stopped, wide eyed at what he’d heard. “Would you like to hear excuses for why that pain is meaningless?”

Tyrion shook his head, palms splaying out before him. “If that’s what you think-”

Lord Varys stepped forward. “My lady, so much time has gone by.” Fat wrinkles formed between his brow. “And I do believe you suffered so greatly at the hand of Lady Brienne.”

His voice was so swaying. He spoke with empathy, concern. It didn’t make Sterren feel any better.

“However, what I believe our friend is trying to say, is that what you know to be the truth” Pity pulled his head to the side, “Is simply not.”

The leather of Sterren’s glove tightened over her knuckles. They may not have been standing in King’s Landing, but the twists and curves of his conversation sounded very much like they were. Her mouth opened, finally ready to unleash all she could not say to Arya or Sansa.

“Sandor Clegane is not dead.” Varys looked upon the No-Born with something. Relief for bearing good news yet something else. Perhaps compassion for her years spent dutifully standing ground that was now not even solid.

The world tilted for a moment. The tension built within her, paused, momentarily even releasing. A cold wind breathed between them, so light and yet it threatened to take her down. “You’re a liar.”

“It’s the truth.” Tyrion hesitated to meet her eyes. Dread heaved a sigh from him, not wanting to be the one to tell her. “Jon found him traveling with The Brotherhood. He’s been traveling with us since.”

Lies.

Truth.

Lies.

Truth.

Nausea kicked her in the gut. Surely, she should be elated. 

What did they have to gain from lying about this? Who would know to tell her this before? Surely she spoke no word of it to anyone. Only Arya ever once hinted at the idea of her love for The Hound.

Her throat swallowed itself whole. She couldn’t speak.

An instinct gripped her, the only one that had been whispering into her ear for years.. Sterren searched for Brienne. The large woman stood passing her horse off to a stable boy only 30 meters away. The pit Sterren spent years burrowing inside herself, filling it with rage and hate, devoured itself whole.

Then burst into flames. 

She couldn’t feel winter scraping her face nor could she feel her feet, barely touching the ground, as they carried her across the courtyard. No words could come out, no voice of reason coming to fight. Sterren passed a young soldier and, without him noticing, snatched a dagger from his hip. 

The knife turned forward, Sterren quickened her pace, Brienne couldn’t turn around. There was only this chance.

Only ten paces from her and Brienne was turning away from the stable boy. 

Sterren lurched forward- she only had this chance-

All those years of waiting. Years of suffering in silence. For the revenge she wished for. The revenge she’d sworn upon. Yet a stone’s throw away and Sterren’s feet filled with lead.

The dagger dropped to the ground. The sound of metal slipping into the snow, pricked Brienne’s interest. She managed a glance at the snow behind Sterren, the dagger’s hilt fashioned towards the sky. She stared at the dagger for sometime before fully turning towards Sterren.

No shock settled across Brienne’s features. The years Sterren spent waiting, so too had Brienne. Waiting for the day Sterren took her chance. Still, Brienne looked over the little scar she herself had drawn across Sterren’s face. Every day she saw it, Brienne was reminded of what Sterren felt for her and the vow she’d made against her life.

For the first time since that day on the mountain, Sterren was watching her with no rage. No contempt. Not even forgiveness. Nothing.

One could be forgiven for thinking winter itself had taken up residence in her eyes.

She must know.

A constant flurry of people moved around them. One brushing past Sterren barely brushed her and the No-Born lost her footing. “Sterren-” Brienne stepped to catch her but Sterren was lost.

Her eyes were trained on Brienne, wide now. She did feel something.

Two massive hands held up Sterren’s body. Brienne nodded her head, not to Sterren, and retreated off somewhere.

She stayed like that for a time. Slumped into the hold. Hoping the Starks sleeping beneath her would rise up and swallow her whole.

The two hands shirked her up, a bit roughly. They withdrew from under her, leaving a bitterly cold spot where their warmth had been. 

Still she did not move. Shoulders pinched together, she could barely force herself to breathe.

Years of sorrow. Despair drowning her month after month until she learned to breath under its icy waves. 

All for nothing.

Her shoulders slumped and she faced the man behind her.

The crowd split without thought for the pair. Most the hulking man and his patient steed.  A massive sword at his side to match his impressive height, he towered over all. His eyes didn’t waste energy on the people scurrying out of his way. Two hazel spots trained on her. The years that passed Sterren all but stole their memory from her. She hated the realization.

His beard was thick, wrapping over his face to meet his hair. Even with all that dark, oily hair, the deep, thick scarring burned into his face could not be hidden. Anyone with the gift of sight recognized who was making his way to her. It was The Hound.

It was Sandor Clegane. Very much alive.

[izaswritings]

Title: Faults of the Mind

Synopsis:  Having escaped the perils of the Dark Kingdom, Rapunzel finally returns home—but all is not well in the Kingdom of Corona, and the black rocks are quickly becoming the least of her troubles. Meanwhile, over a thousand miles away, Varian struggles with new powers and his own conscience.

The labyrinth has fallen into rubble. A great evil stirs in the world beyond. The Dark Kingdom may be behind them, but the true journey is just beginning—and neither Rapunzel nor Varian can survive it on their own.

Warnings for: some cursing (for once, actually, not from Varian), internal self-loathing/self-hatred (not constant, but occasionally vicious), references to past child abuse, references to past character death, past character injuries, detailed description of scars, PTSD symptoms and the lingering effects of trauma. If there’s anything you think I missed, please let me know and I’ll add it on here!

-

AO3 version is here.

Arc I: Labyrinths of the Heart can be found here!

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Chapter II: The Stranger

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One day, as the Sun slipped below the hills to rest, she saw a beautiful woman dancing on the seas.

Dark like a shadow, and eyes glowing bright, the woman danced alone to the raging waves. Entranced by the sight, the Sun drew closer, unable to look away. But it was more than beauty, more than curiosity that caught her so. For the woman on the seas was lovely, yes, but she danced to no music. Here, even the wind was silent, and it struck the Sun as unbearably lonely. She watched the woman twirl to nothing, and was reminded of herself.

And as the stranger danced to silence, the Sun opened her mouth and began to sing…

.

Rapunzel can’t sleep.

It is three hours after her disastrous homecoming, and Rapunzel is finally ready to admit defeat. She just—can’t. She can’t sleep. She’s been lying here for hours, she’s been trying with all her might, because she’ll never convince Cassandra and Eugene things are fine if she looks like the living dead—but despite the exhaustion weighing at her body, despite how heavy her eyes, Rapunzel is wide awake.

She turns her face into her pillow, smushing her nose, breathing deep to stave off another wave of tears. Oh, she hatesthis—being sad and being tired all at once. It just clings, the tangle of emotion dragging her down despite her best attempts to ignore it, to stay positive.

It’s not that Rapunzel hasn’t been let down before, hasn’t been hurt, hasn’t been betrayed. She has. Gothel, Varian, her father… No. It’s not the first time, as much as she hates to think that. But she knows how to laugh despite it—to force a smile, and laugh, and turn her back to the things that seek to cut her open. She knows, but something about this—something about being right, about having expected it, about it hurting anyway—digs in deeper than usual.

After that disastrous conversation with her parents, Rapunzel had fled. She had locked herself in her room and gone through the motions of preparing for sleep in a furious, half-distraught daze. Changed into her nightgown with a solemn grit to her teeth, even as her cheeks burned hot with fresh tears. Brushed her hair with stiff hands and got barely a quarter done before she had to stop. For those first few hours, Rapunzel had breathed and she had cried and she had paced, restless and alone. She had let herself feel, then. She was alone here, in this room, and that meant it was okay to cry.

It’s not that Eugene and Cassandra didn’t try to stay with her, of course. They did. They chased after her down the hall, and knocked quietly on the door when she locked it behind her. But in the end, they had listened when Rapunzel waved them away. They had left. Even Pascal, though still with her, is quiet in his support, nudging at her cheek and staying curled on her shoulder, but leaving her otherwise alone. In this moment, the distance is needed. Rapunzel doesn’t want to talk right now. She doesn’t want comfort. She wants to throw a tantrum behind closed doors, without worry of what others will think of her for it. She wants to be angry, she wants to scream, and she doesn’t want to be talked down from it—not yet. Soon, maybe… but not yet.

Even now, hours later—the very idea of soft words and useless placations makes her want to break something. Her face is hot from her crying fit, a headache pulsing behind her eyes from the pressure, but her tears have finally run dry. It is practically morning already, but Rapunzel still cannot sleep.

Lying piled under her bedcovers, Rapunzel turns her head into her pillow and sighs. The covers are heavy, pressing down like bricks, fabric tangled in her fingers and twisted around her legs like a web. When she moves, she can feel every weave, every knot, every thread, the silk rough and itchy against her skin. There’s a blood rush to her head, or maybe just heat, a pressure like she’s been holding her breath until she’s fit to burst, a painful ache building behind her gummy eyes, burning like a fever. It’s both too quiet, and too much all at once—Pascal, silent in rest, even the birds asleep; the wind, beating at her balcony windows, her own heartbeat roaring in her ears and rushing through her head.

She can’t stop thinking about it, is the thing. She’s so stupid. She knew it couldn’t end well. She knew it was coming, and it still hurts. She knew, and yet—she feels like she can’t breathe right, like the air has gone thin and Rapunzel is still adjusting, like her gut has been hollowed out and her heart’s been twisted in her chest, wrung dry, strangled quiet. The press of her thoughts, the weight of everything, leans unyielding on her shoulders. If she thinks about it for too long, or too closely, she can feel her breath catch, her eyes prickling with tears, less from pain and more from stress. God, it’s so much. It’s just so much. She doesn’t—she doesn’t want—

She is aware, distantly, of her breathing beginning to pick up speed, wheezing in her chest; when she opens her eyes, the world blurs, dark and shadowy and too close, labyrinthine, her tower all over again, the roof caving in on her.

Her panic sharpens to a needle point. She throws off her covers, a scream stifled in her throat, and hunches over her middle with a choked gasp. Her eyes are hot and swollen, and it hurts to cry. Her hair hangs heavy around her like a shroud, sticky with sweat. Her hands are screaming stiff, pins and needles stabbing into wooden fingers.

The roar of wind outside her window is like thunder. Everything roars, her ears blocked, her pulse hammering through her skull. She feels sick and dizzy, and the longer she stays under the covers the more she feels like she’s being swallowed up. Rapunzel squeezes her eyes shut against the prick of tears, and opens them with a sigh, hissed through her teeth.

...She can’t do this.

She rolls out of bed, slow and careful, pulling on a shawl. Every movement, every sound, every brush of her hand against the covers… it’s all too loud, too much. Getting out of bed feels like walking through the tide. Standing takes time and effort.

She finds her feet, and the world spirals. She makes her way for the balcony, and the fact she doesn’t fall over is something of a miracle. Her footsteps pound, and the balcony door squeals when it opens, the glass burning cold to the touch. As she pushes open the door, the wind picks up and nearly slams it closed again, whistling fit for a storm.

She steps out into the freezing air, and the stone is frigid against her bare toes. By this point, it must almost be the cusp of dawn: the sun still hangs low below the horizon, but the sky is slowly staining a mystical kind of blue, the clouds above gray and soft.

Rapunzel takes a moment to look at it, to breathe it in—tilts up her face to the cold air, her cheeks sticky from tears, her eyes sore—and lets it calm her. After the sleepless night she just had, hot from tears and restless turning, the winter touch is almost soothing.

Rapunzel steps up to the balcony, reaching out to brace herself against the metal railing. Even through the gloves, the chill strikes through.

Below her, all of Corona sprawls at her feet. She’s so high up she can see the whole city, all the way to the distant mountains and the shining sea, and while normally this sight would comfort her, tonight it makes something small and nasty curdle in her chest. Rapunzel, alone in her room. But who is she fooling? It’s gentler, perhaps, but it’s still the same: Rapunzel, alone in her tower.

...She’s not being fair, she thinks, finally. It’s different. She knows it is! She can leave, after all. She can leave whenever she wants, but in this moment, Rapunzel finds herself struggling to remember the differences. It’s still a tower. It’s still a cage, in its own way, and she’s already learned from painful experience that prison bars can be put on these windows too.

She stares blankly down at the city, her hair dragging like a train behind her, and her fingers flex on the metal in sudden thought. If she wanted to. If she really wanted to—she could leave, right now. Loop her hair around the balcony and slip down to the ground. She could. Who would know? Who could stop her?

For a moment Rapunzel stands there and really, truly considers it—and then steps away, releasing hold of the balcony and her breath. She backs up to the wall, away from the ledge. Her will falters and then firms. No. No, she’ll stay. Leaving now, after that conversation, after just returning, with the situation as it is… it would only make things worse, add a new layer of drama to the whole mess.

No. She’ll stay.

She’s staying.

Still—the possibility, the open chance, the fact she could—just this eases some of the tension building up in her chest. Rapunzel closes her eyes and slides down to sit against the balcony doors, tilting back her head to rest on the cold glass, her face turned up to the cloudy skies.

She breathes. One breath. Two breaths. Slowly, her claustrophobia fades, eased away by the soothing cold. Rapunzel wipes her cheeks dry and rubs at sore eyes, the silk gloves itchy against her skin. She makes a face at the feeling and pulls it away, holding out her hand to see it properly in the moonlight.

Her hands are gloved, now, and even after all this time, Rapunzel is still not quite used to it. The gloves are pretty and embroidered, white silk stitched with delicate flowers and lovely detail—Cassandra’s idea, Cassandra’s gift. She’d bought them so Rapunzel could hide, so that her healing hands wouldn’t be left bare and aching in the chill. And the gloves, they are beautiful, they are lovely… but in this moment, all Rapunzel can do is frown at them.

She tugs them off on impulse—just one, just her right hand. Her exposed skin aches in the searing cold, her fingers curling in away from the icy air, looking almost like claws.

Even in the dim morning light, the scars are unmistakable, pink and shiny and pitted on her skin.

Rapunzel stares are them for a long time, turning her hand to and fro. The scar cuts up her inner wrist, slicing neat across her palm and into the curl of her inner fingers. The cut is straight, precise—but the edges of the scars pucker and tear at her palm, little lightning lines across her hands. The consequences, the result, of Rapunzel using the hand too soon, stressing the injury before it even had the chance to heal. She curls her fingers into a fist—easier than straightening them, most days—and remembers the golem’s gruesome blade.

“I’ve survived worse,” Rapunzel reminds herself, looking at the scars. She tries to keep her voice bright, positive; in the cold, it shakes. “I— I made it! I made it through.” Her fingers flex and close again, grasping on the air. “And I can make it through this, too.”

The wind whistles in answer. Rapunzel looks to the clouded sky, and finally pushes herself back up to her feet. There is an itch in her fingertips, a restless sort of pacing in her soul. Not from injuries, or claustrophobia—no, this feeling is one she knows. This is inspiration.

She heads back inside, pulling off the other glove as she walks, and throws the silk to a side table as she makes for her desk. She gathers up an armful of her paints and brushes, the tools untouched for over half a year, and curls her fingers tight around the slick wood handle of her favorite paintbrush. Her hands are scarred, and shaky, and aching… but they are hers. Her hands. They may be a little less secure, but she can still work with this, and she can still make something beautiful.

She takes up her supplies, goes back to the balcony, and kneels down to paint anew. The icy stone presses hard against her knees; the moonlight is faint, but bright enough to work by. She settles the jars of paint by her side, and splashes color across the rocks.

She paints like a man possessed, her mind soothed and consumed by the idea. Colors and shapes take form for each worry on her mind. She thinks of the scars and how she got them, and splashes red across the stone. Remembers the labyrinth and paints swaths of darkened blue. Thinks of the Moon, of Varian and the Dark Kingdom, and black fills the corners of her makeshift canvas. Her parents—a bright spiral of amber-orange, murky and dim. The changes in Corona become tall silhouettes of buildings and gray paint dragging down her balcony floor. The memory of Cassandra, of Eugene, of Pascal—gold flecks of light, dancing across her stone canvas.

By the time the painting’s complete, her hands are screaming and her back is sore from the time spent bent over the balcony. Rapunzel sits up, and though she still can’t bring herself to smile, she no longer feels like she’s drowning. Something has settled, heavy but secure, in the hollow of her chest. Her breathing is soft and steady. There is paint in her hair, the rainbow flecking from her fingers—and finally, clarity.

Across the whole length of the balcony, a new artwork sprawls across the white-washed marble stone. She’s painted a dark silhouette of the Corona capital, turned shadowy and indistinct from the vivid red-orange sky burning behind it. High above, an eclipsed sun sits over the city, red light trailing down like faded ribbons to shatter the city into segments. At the edges of the piece, great shadows swirl and surround the city like a makeshift border, and the blank white space of unpainted stone looks like reaching hands, thin and sinister.

It is a gloomy, twisted piece—as complicated as her feelings. Yet… there is light, too, even in this darker artwork. Golden streams coiling up the roadways, dancing in the streets. Small little lanterns shining bright and strong in the shadow city, burning bold against the emptiness.

Rapunzel twirls her paintbrush one last time. Her hands ache. Her hair shrouds around her face like a veil. The sun is starting to rise, now, distant light turning the world blue and dreamlike, and in this new dawn the world seems a little bit brighter. Easier to breathe. Easier to face.

Rapunzel closes her eyes, and leans heavy against the balcony doors. And at long last—for the first time since that disastrous homecoming conversation—she finally manages a smile.

.

True to Adira’s word, they leave the merchant camp behind by sunset.

They leave it, also, in awkward silence. Varian packs his bags, and Adira leads the way—both of them seething, and neither willing to speak first. Adira is frowning slightly as they leave the camp behind them. Varian follows in her wake, glaring at the ground, and pets Ruddiger with more rigor than usual in an attempt for calm. He gets only an annoyed fwap to the face for his troubles, and Ruddiger’s usual scolding chitters.

Varian still doesn’t know where they're going—but after that fight, well, he’s no longer in the mood to ask.

So he doesn’t question it, when Adira leads them back through the city, past the main gate and through the streets once again, heading inland. He doesn’t question it, but he does wonder,for lack of anything better to think about. (He missesalchemy. The lack of distraction makes his fingers itch.)

It’s his second time walking through these streets, but in this later hour, Port Caul is like another place entirely. The crowds have thinned to barely a trickle, the doors latched shut, the streetlamps just beginning to burn. The docks of the port city are still bustling, but with the earlier conversation of the merchants in mind Varian keeps a sharper eye out. This time, he sees the empty ports where ships should be, the closed stalls and stiff smiles of the dock workers, their frequent glances to the water.

It’s… subtle. Hard to see on his own. But there’s something in the air, something he can finally identify. Something that reminds him, uncomfortably, of Old Corona. It’s the same feeling—a tension, almost, a building pressure, that feeling he got when the rocks first began growing in the village, closer and closer each day.

The comparison unsettles him, and he slows, eyes darting around for more clues. The shops, the amount of guards walking about… those lights in the distant ocean, more merchant ships or a patrol? “Something’s off,” he murmurs, to himself, half under his breath. Thinking aloud. He curls his hand into Ruddiger’s fur to keep grounded, his mind spinning circles.  “It’s all… wrong, but why…?”

“Finally noticed, have you?”

He almost trips, and it’s only Adira’s quick reflexes that save him from face-planting the road. She hauls him back to his feet, dangling him by his collar like a cat. He yelps, and she drops him. “The merchant groups have been talking about it for nearly a month,” she continues. Her tone is mild and blank. “It’s been a daily concern. Trade is, after all, the livelihood.”

He hefts the wrapped package up against his chest like a shield and backpedals out of her reach, staring hard at the ground. His face is hot, his cheeks red. He hadn’t known she’d been listening. He hadn’t known this was something he should have noticed sooner, and he’s not sure whether to feel ashamed he missed it or irritated that she had these stupid expectations in the first place. He’s an alchemist—or at least he used to be—not a spy. “Is thatwhy we came here?”

Adira eyes him, looking annoyed again, but shrugs and turns away without further comment, continuing on through the darkening streets. Varian has to scramble to keep up. “No,” she says, over her shoulder. “More of a bonus, really. But we did well to come here when we did. Any longer…”

She shakes her head, and doesn’t elaborate. Varian’s mood darkens further. Typical. That stupid fight, all for nothing—she’s still keeping secrets. Still saying nothing. He looks down at his feet, and by his side, his hands clench into white-knuckled fists.

A small paw bats his ear, and his focus shatters, his thoughts derailed. He turns, and Ruddiger baps at his face, cold nose nudging at his cheek. A bushy tail brushes by his other ear, restless sweeping. He looks at Ruddiger and sees worry in the raccoon’s eyes, and his heart drops to his knees.

He swallows hard, and slowly unclenches his fists again. Stares down, silent, at the streets, and this time follows Adira without complaint. Ruddiger croons in his ear, soft and forgiving, but the knot of tension remains.

By the time they leave the city behind, the sun is far below the horizon and the sky is darkening from red to a rich purple-black. Beyond the port town, the roads trail off from cobblestone to dirt, and long lush fields of green stretch on for miles. The flatlands are dotted with fence lines and lantern-lights, distant houses built low and wide, near invisible in the long grass. Faint specks of light float up from the waves of greenery, winter-light fireflies native to this region. In the distance, a great fog broils over the fading silhouette of Port Caul—a low, heavy sort of fog, as dense as a cloud, slowly but surely creeping in over the farmlands. It’s as lovely as it is freezing—an endless field, summer greenery in the winter cold, like a fairytale.

It’s beautiful, and unlike anything Varian has ever seen. Corona is all hills and forests, and any farms are village-bound and limited, the town reliant on outside trade from the capital city. He’s never seen farms like this: large-scale and endless, rolling fields of flatland tilled and maintained by human hands, enough food to feed a whole city. He can see for miles, all the way to the ocean, and the sheer stretch of distance dizzies him.

Still, despite the beauty, despite the shadowed land and ruby red skies like something from a picture book, Varian can’t help but feel uneasy. It goes on for miles, and miles, and miles. No walls, no hills, no natural landmarks—he could wander for days and remain utterly lost.

And it’s getting dark, now; evening trekking on into nighttime, and—and he can’t seeanything, can’t see where the road leads, where it ends. They’re heading out far, the city distant and dim behind them, and the houses here are few and far between. He sneaks a glimpse at Adira and worries at his lip. Are they going to be traveling all night?

He doesn’t feel comfortable asking her. She’ll just mock him, probably, and won’t give a straight answer anyway, and he’s too tired for that—so he focuses on his feet and on keeping steady. His oversized boots sink in the soft earth, the grass brushing at his knees. His breaths puff out in front of his face like a little fog cloud of his own. Ruddiger, sitting prim on his shoulder, leans up to bat at a few fireflies; he nearly falls off in the attempt, and Varian watches him play with a faint smile.

They keep going. The road gets harder and harder to see, and when Adira takes them off the main path, down a little side-trail that’s more footprints than actual paved walkway, it becomes near-impossible. He keeps his eyes on her retreating back, afraid to lose her. If he stops, if he stumbles and she doesn’t notice, could he be left behind in these fields, wandering lost until dawn?

Another hour passes. It’s pitch dark, now, the fields black with shadow and the only light coming from the moon high above. Varian tries his best not to look at it. His skin crawls under the blue glow, shivers wracking his frame. Every brush of the wind feels like icy fingers around his neck. For a moment, he swears he can almost hear a voice—soft laughter on the wind, vengeful whispers in his ears. Lost again, little boy?

He’s so distracted by this sensation, he doesn’t notice Adira has stopped until he runs right into her. He smacks into her back and reels back with a yelp, sitting hard in the dirt.

Adira looks down at him. Even in the darkness, he can see that raised eyebrow.

“Why—why did you—”

“We’re here.”

“—what?” He pushes back to his feet. “What do you…” The words trail off. The clouds move past the moon, and in the growing brightness, he realizes the wall of shadow in front of them is not the same dark fields but a house.A tiny cottage, nestled between countryside and pasture; a small, modest thing, barely two floors, with a heavy wooden door and a small porch. Even now, he can barely see it—the house is built low to the ground, dark and seamless with the black horizon, near invisible in the great expanse of the landscape.

His throat locks. Varian shrinks away, clutching the package to his chest. Ruddiger curls around his neck like a shield. The windows of the house are dark, the porch empty. There’s nothing here to be afraid of, but he’s unsettled by how hard it was to find.

Adira holds no such reservations—she seems amused by his fear, a ghost of a smile on her face as she steps up to the door. The cottage is too small for her; her head would brush the doorframe if she wasn’t careful. This quiet, muted place, hidden by the dark—it is strange to see her there, standing on the steps like she belongs. She doesn’t. She is too big, too noticeable, out of place with the picture, and it makes Varian shuffle on his feet, abruptly uncomfortable in a way he cannot name. Like the house itself, in its own way, rejects them for being here.

It is not the first time he has felt this—like the world itself is aware of him, and disproves of where he steps. He doesn’t look at the sky, but the moonlight burns against his neck regardless.

Adira knocks on the door, and the sound rings low and heavy, shattering the quiet night. For a long moment, nothing happens. The windows remain dark, the house silent, seemingly empty.

And then, behind the door—the soft thud of footsteps. A pale glow flickers through the window. An eyeglass on the door glints with a brief candlelight—and then the door swings open, flung gaping wide.

“Adira. I thought you were dead.”

Backlit by dim candlelight, the shadowy silhouette of a woman leans against the open doorway. She is older, at least Adira’s age, with dark skin, dark eyes, and dark hair streaked with gray. Her small mouth is pinched in a frown; her eyes, lined with crow’s feet, peer out into the night. Her short hair, cut to her nape, curls and coils about her head. Varian leans in for a better look—and freezes, caught, when the woman’s narrow gaze pins on him with startling intensity.

The stranger stares at him, and her eyes go wide. Her lip curls, face drawing tight with fury. “What,” she says, sudden danger in her voice, “is this?”

Varian’s heart drops. The woman, now illuminated by the candlelight, finally clicks into place. He almost drops the package right on his foot. Her face—her voice—the slight accent— Oh.

Oh,Varian thinks. Oh no.

“You!” he yelps.

“You,”says the woman.

“Who?” says Adira, and looks between them rapidly with a scowl.

“Rude boy from the docks!” says the woman—the woman, the woman from earlier today, the one who woke him on the docks and urged him to get moving before he got arrested for sleeping there. Her eyes are bright with recognition, and she glances between him and Adira with a swiftly darkening frown. “What is this!?”

Adira is frowning too, now, looking displeased. “You two… have met?”

“That is myquestion,” snaps the woman, irritably. She runs a hand through her hair, fingers bunching in the short curls. Her expression is frazzled, her foot beginning to tap. “Do not ask a question that I should be asking you, that is very rude, do not. I have—you—the amount of questions I have, goddamn you! It’s near midnight, you absolute… Who are you to come barging in here!? Why now, even, what are you doing here—”

“I’m not allowed to visit?” Adira asks.

The woman stomps her foot and crosses her arms, looking serenely unimpressed. “No,” she says. “No, you are not. Five months, damn you! No letters, no word, not even a whisper, and now you think you can come to my city and knock on my door and pretend you are visiting?” She glances between them again, her eyes lingering on Varian, and her scowl darkens into a glower. “No. Get out!”

“I brought a gift,” Adira counters, recovering, mild at the rejection. She pushes Varian forward, into the light. He stares at her, and at her pointed glance to the package, startles bolt upright and sticks out his arms, holding the package aloft. Right! Right. The book.

He keeps his mouth shut, though, even as he offers it to the stranger. Something about the situation unsettles him—and not just that the woman has recognized him. Thisis the friend Adira was talking about? And yet, this whole conversation… the tense line to Adira’s shoulders, the way they are talking—there is something off here, something he’s missing. It unnerves him.

The unease only deepens when the woman stares back at him. She eyes the book briefly and then glares right at Varian, her jaw tightening. She eyes him for so long he almost thinks she won’t take it—but then her hand snaps out and snatches it from his grip, so quick he almost misses it.

The woman has set the candle off to the side; she tears into the package with both hands, ripping off the wrapping paper with one sharp tug. In her hands, she hefts a large tome, almost as long as her entire forearm. The furrow between her brow deepens. She flips through the pages with quick and precise movement.

“A book,” she says, finally, sourly, snapping the tome shut. “A book? You think a book will buy you my favor? You have been gone so long your brains have addled, Adira, if you truly think—”

“You’re welcome,” Adira says, and the woman gives a truly impressive scowl.

“It is a very nice book,” she says, after a long moment of wrestling with herself, the words stiff. “But frankly? I do not care. Get out. I will not ask again.”

There’s a long pause. Adira’s amused expression fades, her smile near a grimace. She seems to come to some sort of decision, because her stance shifts, her head lowering. “…I need your help,” she says, finally, and the words are strained.

The woman barely bats an eye. “Hah! Tough.”

“I wouldn’t come if it weren’t serious.”

“So you visit me only when it suits you, is that it? No hellos, only business and bribes?” She crosses her arms. “And here I thought us friends. Well, no matter—I shall not do business with you. Too bad, so sad. Go away.”

Another pause. From the corner of his eye, Varian watches Adira take a deep breath. Her smile is gone entirely now. By her side, her hands clench into fists. Her expression, twisted with something almost like pain.

“Please,” Adira says.

Varian nearly jumps from the shock. He stares outright at her. He has never once heard Adira say that before. He can hardly wrap his mind around it. It must be just as surprising to the woman, because she goes quiet at this, pensive. She watches Adira like a hawk, and her lips press in a thin line. She says nothing.

The silence stretches. Adira exhales, shaky, and adds, “There’s something I need to tell you. You and Ella both.” Her mouth works. For a moment Varian almost think she will say—that word—again, but once is apparently all Adira can take, because she shakes her head and leaves it at that.

The woman’s face is blank. Her eyes, unreadable. Her lips press tight and thin, her brow furrowed, and then she turns and looks at Varian. He stills. Her face is blank, and yet—for a moment he feels pinned, judged, his worth weighed and discarded in a single moment. (The moon, high above them—his skin crawls.)  

“…Adira,” she says, at last. Her eyes stay fixed on Varian, cold and piercing. “Do you understand what you’ve done?”

Adira is looking at Varian too, now. Her voice is quiet. “Yes.”

“…I see.” The woman’s jaw clenches, and she closes her eyes. When she opens them again, her expression is resolved. “We will discuss this further inside. You will owe me.”

“We won’t be here long,” Adira promises. “Five days at most.”

“I am still debating on if I want you here tonight,” counters the woman, cold. “We will discuss it later. If you are lucky I won’t kick you out by dawn.” She doesn’t seem best pleased with the situation, but she steps back and gestures them inside regardless. A long hallway stretches behind her, shadowy and featureless, leading into the dark.

“Well, then,” the woman says, shortly, giving Varian the evil eye. “Come inside, unwanted guests. I am Yasmin. Please, do not bother to make yourselves at home—I, for one, cannot wait until you leave.”

.

For a moment, Varian is still. Frozen in place, staring up at the woman with wide eyes, thrown off-balance by her scowl and rude invitation. He doesn’t know her. He doesn’t likeher. The open door of her home feels like walking into a lion’s den.

But when the woman—Yasmin—steps back to welcome them into her house, however reluctantly, Adira smiles and walks in without faltering. Varian follows with much more hesitation. He steps over the threshold and looks into the darkness with a heavy feeling in his gut. Yasmin’s unfriendly expression, the house’s lonely placement, the memory of the merchants and the city’s unease—it feels like danger. It feels like a secret, waiting to break open into the world.

“Hurry up, would you, the cold air’s blowing right in,” Yasmin says, and Varian jumps in his skin and nearly trips in his haste to get inside.

The door closes heavy behind him. Yasmin picks up her candle and sweeps past him before he can even think to react, heading off down the hall. Varian scrambles to catch up, Ruddiger swinging heavy on his shoulders.

“You’re the one from the docks,” he says again, trying to place her mood. He slows at a trot by her heels, watching her carefully; Yasmin makes a face at the air when he speaks.

“And you are that stupid boy I kicked awake, yes, I recognize you.” She turns to scowl at him, and then her eyes fall on Ruddiger, still curled like a scarf around his neck. “What isthat?”

Ruddiger clamors into his arms, and Varian clutches him protectively to his chest. “He’s Ruddiger.”

“…That is a raccoon.”

“He’s Ruddiger,” says Varian, for lack of anything better, and Yasmin closes her eyes and pinches at her nose, turning away.

“Raccoons,” she mutters darkly, striding off. “Raccoons and liars, all in my house, should have moved to the artic, see if anyone can find me there…”

There’s a creak on the floorboards, somewhere behind him, and Varian turns. It’s probably Adira, he thinks—she’s vanished somewhere in the house—but when he looks behind him, it’s to find himself face-to-face with a stranger.

Another woman blinks down at him, standing high above on a dark stairwell. Like Yasmin, she seems Adira’s age: near ageless in appearance, but clearly older, laugh lines carved deep into her black skin. She’s dressed in a pale-yellow nightgown, a heavy shawl pulled up around her shoulders, dark hair dreaded down her back. An opal clasp necklace hangs low around her neck.

She stares down at Varian, her expression blank, and eyes slowly widening. “Oh,” the new woman says. “Oh! I—oh dear, Yasmin, do we have guests?”

Yasmin steps up behind him. “No,” she says, annoyance heavy in her voice. “It is nothing to worry about, Ella, go back to bed. I’ll be up soon enough.”

The second woman—Ella? —blinks again at this, pulling her gaze away from Varian. “I… Are you sure? I could hear voices from upstairs; you sounded upset. Has someone—” She cuts herself off, suddenly. She stares out over their shoulders, and exhales a shocked breath. Her hand rises to her mouth. “My god. Adira?”

“Damn it all,” Yasmin mutters.

Sure enough: Adira stands at the end of the hallway, exiting from the other room. She meets the new woman’s gaze and smiles. “What, no hello?”

The woman seems stunned silent. “Adira,” she repeats, disbelieving. “My god. Is that really you?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” Yasmin announces, sounding sour. “But she won’t be staying long. Ella, please, just ignore her, probably better to forget she came by at all—”

But it is quickly apparent that the newcomer, Ella, is no longer listening. She is already sweeping past Yasmin and Varian both, one hand over her mouth. “Adira!” Unlike Yasmin, she sounds delighted rather than upset. She stops, hands outstretched, like she wants to hug Adira but knows better than to try. “It’s been so long, we almost thought you were dead! How are you? How have you been?”

“Ella—” Yasmin starts, aggrieved.

“I’ve been fine,” Adira says, with a vague smile. “It’s good to see you again, Daffodil.”

“Must we go through this every time? Just call me Ella, please, you’ve known me long enough.” She is laughing, though, smiling ear to ear, and is still grinning when she turns back to Varian. “Ah, I understand the situation now. You’ve brought another with you—how unusual! And who is this?”

“This is Varian,” Adira says, before he can answer. Varian awkwardly returns her smile—and then freezes. Behind Ella, leaning against the wall, Yasmin stares right at him, expression unreadable. Her eyes are cold.

Varian’s breath catches in his throat, his smile stuttering. This is Varian, Adira had said, and that—that’s his name. His realname.

This morning, when he’d run into Yasmin for the first time, he’d told her his name was Vell.

It’s—it’s stupid, he’s being silly; who remembers the name of some random stranger they encountered on the street? And yet—he feels sick, his heart dropped to his knees. Doubt creeps in on him. The darkness in her eyes, the ice of her expression—there’s something frightening about the look on Yasmin’s face, and Varian shrinks back, even as his gut goes hot with anger. He… he hasn’t even doneanything. He hasn’t met her before today, so why, whyis she—

A hand sticks in front of his face, and the thought snaps off into nothing, broken apart by surprise. Varian jolts back to the present. The other woman, Ella, is standing before him now, smiling so warmly he finds himself wrong-footed. She leans down to his level, and the quiet warmth of her smile blocks out Yasmin’s distant glower. “Hello, Varian,” she says. “My name is Elmira.”

Her hand stretches out closer, and Varian finally remembers to take it. Her grip is dry and firm; her hands are soft. Her smile is small but bright, and something about her—something about the gentle way she speaks—

“Everyone calls me Ella, though,” she adds, sounding sly, and the whispers of Rapunzel fade away. Ella gives a sideways glare to Adira. “Mostdo, anyway.”

Adira shrugs, and Ella sighs, shaking her head. Her eyes turn back to him. “Well, regardless. It’s wonderful to meet you!”

“Nice… nice to meet you too,” Varian stutters out, and steps away as subtly as he can manage. Her smile makes old guilt stick in his throat. “Um, I—thanks for having us…?”

“Oh! Are you staying the night?” Ella turns. “Yasmin, you didn’t tell me were having guests.”

Yasmin shrugs, unmoving. Ella’s smile never wavers—she laughs, brightly, as if the other had told a joke instead, and puts a hand on Varian’s shoulder, turning him away, pushing them all down the hall. “Come along, then,” she says, guiding them forward. “You must have had a long journey—have some tea before you sleep. Adira, have you already put the kettle on? Ah, you read my mind. Please don’t tell me I’m thatpredictable, old friend…”

Varian lets himself be dragged, the soft conversation washing over him. The warm kitchen, the quiet candlelight—with Ella’s entrance the fear has broken, uncertainty chased away by the scented tea and the heat of the ceramic cups. Even Adira is as close as she gets to friendly, speaking in length of odd stories and happenings, indulging Ella’s every question.

And it’s almost enough—almost, almost, almost enough—for him to overlook the way Yasmin slips out of the room, the way Adira smiles and doesn’t drink the tea, and the way Ella very carefully doesn’t ask why theyare here, either.

Varian sips his tea, and he wonders.

.

It is four hours into his first day back in Corona, and Eugene is already sick of it.

It’s—the little things, maybe, the everything. All the dread that came with coming back, and then having all those worst fears proven true when he saw Rapunzel walk, shaking, out of that talk with her parents. Cassandra’s reassignment—god, the thought makes his blood boil. The stilted nature of the castle, the weird way people talk, whispering, as if afraid to be heard…

Eugene isn’t one to judge, really. In fact, for all his faults he likes to think he’s rather good at the whole “no-judging” thing. Going with the flow has always been more his style. But recently, his good opinion towards Corona has soured. It’s a lovely place, but it’s not home—home, to Eugene, is a little orphanage off in a different country, a place he’ll never see again. There’s no loyalty here, not to this kingdom, not to this castle. And with recent events, seeing how they’ve hurt Rapunzel, again, and now Cassandra, too…

Eugene’s starting to think it warrants a little bit of judgement, here. And, well, hey. He knowshe’s not exactly the brightest bulb in the box, especially when it comes to all these silly political debacles, but it’s not like he’s blind, either. This thing? This weird thing happening with Corona? He knows, if nothing else, that it’s not normal.

Sure, he doesn’t know what it means, to see the servants and maids whispering amongst themselves, only to stop when they hear footsteps. He doesn’t know how to interpret the way royal advisor Nigel looks pale and stressed, and treats every letter like its either precious gold or a live explosive. He doesn’t know what to think about the way he’s summoned to an audience with the King and Queen the very morning after their re-entry to Corona, except that maybe their voices are a little colder than they used to be, their tone a little cooler.

He doesn’t know what to make of it—but Eugene still notices.

It’s the dawn of his first morning back inside Corona’s walls, and as he strolls up the north tower staircase to Rapunzel’s room, Eugene keeps his ears open and his eyes peeled. It’s a beautiful day, all things considered. Sunlight streams bright and golden through the wide windows, the carpet soft and giving under his cleaned boots. The air is crisp and cool, the halls almost empty. The morning light brightens up even the dreariest of rooms.

It’s a beautiful day, and Eugene hates it almost on instinct. It’s all he can do to force a smile and hello to the castle staff as he goes, his spirits so low every grin feels like a grimace. He’s finally gotten a semi-decent bath after eight months of river water, but a headache pulses at the edge of his thoughts, the late night and his constant worry leaving dark circles under his eyes. He feels awful, and the day is sostupidly chipper. Didn’t anyone tell the world to knock it off?

But still—even with the headache, even in the midst of his annoyance—Eugene watches. Those off-duty guards, ducking into a side hall, their voices cut short by his approach…just frisking, or perhaps discontent? The kitchen potato peeler, normally upbeat and now silent and paranoid about every loud sound…just a bad week, or perhaps something more?

There’s something here, he thinks. There’s an answer for all their questions, if only he knew where to look.

It’s the reason he watches the shadows, and the reason he’s still smiling as he approaches Rapunzel’s door. The answer is here, somewhere. Maybe in the shadows, maybe in the halls. Maybe it’s in the whispers he doesn’t hear. Or maybe it’s here—in the weak greeting from Stan and Pete, standing guard by Rapunzel’s door… and beside them, standing small: another guard. A young, weedy boy with dark skin and a shaky smile, amber eyes wide behind his shiny helmet.

Elias, newly instated—Cassandra’s replacement and Rapunzel’s new permanent escort.

But there’s no hard feelings here! None at all, nope, and even if there were, Eugene isn’t petty enough to blame the boy for the king’s decisions. So he keeps smiling, keeps on grinning, wondering about secrets and plots even as the kid jolts at his arrival, grabbing at his halberd when Stan and Pete move to open the door.

“W-wait,” Elias says, eyes wide, darting back and forth between Eugene and the others. “Why are you—w-who is—” The halberd swings down to point at Eugene’s chest. “State your—your—your business with the Princess of Corona!”

Eugene backpedals out of range, throwing up in his hands in the universal symbol for please no stabbing. Stan and Pete have already lunged forward, dragging Elias back. “Woah, Eli!” Stan says, and his laugh is high and awkward. “It’s fine, it’s fine! He has a pass, he’s—”

“Eugene Fitzherbert,” Eugene supplies, flashing what he hopes is a charming grin. This situation is bringing back all sorts of bad memories. He keeps his eyes on the halberd. “I’m Rapunzel’s—”

“—intended!” says Pete. “Future intended!”

Way fancier term for it than what Eugene would have chosen—talk about aggressively committed and political, yikes—but who is he to complain? “Yes! Yes, sure, that, exactly.”

“O-oh.” The halberd drops, Elias’s cheeks flushing dark with mortification. “Oh, I—I—I—sorry, I didn’t—I’m—”

“It’s fine!”

“I’m new,” Elias says finally, miserably, and his eyes drop to the ground. Behind the boy, Stan and Pete wince.

Eugene lowers his hands, feeling a little more secure now that the threat of bodily injury has passed, and has to hold back a grimace himself. The look on the kid’s face is painful to witness. New to the job, stationed to guard the princess to his kingdom, and replacing Cassandra—the Captain’s daughter and an unparalleled fighter. It’s an absolute joke of a situation, and something about Elias’s expression tells Eugene that the kid knows it as well as he does.

Eugene softens a little at the sight, and he gives the poor kid an easy smile. “It’s fine,” he repeats, and this time almost means it. No hard feelings, he reminds himself, and it’s easier to remember when seeing Elias right there in front of him. “Nice, uh… guarding!”

If Elias had looked downtrodden before, now he looks near-despondent. He gives a very tiny nod, and his helmet makes a sad little creakas he moves.

Well, hell. “Great!” Eugene announces, bright and desperate, and escapes through the doors before he can dig himself into a deeper hole. Gods, it’s like with Varian all over again; he never says the right thing. Someone please save him from all these mopey teenagers.

(And if the thought of Varian pangs a bit—well. Eugene shakes it away with all the determination of a man with six months of practice.)

The door shut behind him, the terrible conversation escaped, he turns into the room. It’s clean in a way that seems anathema to Rapunzel—eight months of being kept neat by castle maids—and he’s not surprised to find her outside, sitting on the balcony.

Eugene heads out to join her, pausing briefly in the doorway. A new painting lies sprawled across the balcony floor, the image taking up almost the entire space, a mess of dark blues and grays. He tilts his head, seeing an image of Corona in the drooping gray buildings, a solar eclipse hanging over the city like a guillotine blade. The painting is violent, and twisted, but not without light—tiny specks of gold float around the dark space, turning a depressing image into something a little more complex.

Well, then.

“Nice new addition,” he remarks, careful to skirt around the edges of her artwork, keeping clear of the drying paint. He joins her on the balcony, leaning next to her against the railing. She doesn’t answer, and Eugene doesn’t press; looks away, instead, giving her time to compose herself.

He looks out over the railing, trailing his eyes across the kingdom. In the midday sun, Corona is awash with pale winter brightness. Snow piles haphazardly on the distant rooftops, the hills a mix of dark green pine and slushy white. The sea seems to glow in the sunlight.

“You know, of all the places I’ve been, Corona is one of the most portrait-worthy. I ever tell you that? I mean, look at this. What man could see this kind of view and not immediately want to buy an island? God damn.”

A quiet huff of laughter, a giggle bit back by a quickfire smile. Eugene grins broadly at the sky and checks her with his shoulder. “No?”

Rapunzel looks at him from the corner of her eye, still red-eyed but playing along. “I can’t say I’ve ever wanted an island,” she says, finally. The ghost of a smile lingers at her lips. “What would you do all day?”

“Well—” He stops, considering. “Swim, I guess?”

“…All day? Every day?” Ah, such a doubtful tone. She tries so hard not to judge, but he can almost see the raised eyebrow, even without looking.

Eugene closes his eyes to the sun and feels his smile broaden, laughter shaking in his chest. “Blondie, no one ever said it had to be a well-planned dream.”

She flounders, at that. “Well, no, but…”

He shrugs, snickering, and laughs aloud when she elbows him, coughing hard in his elbow to keep under control. They fall together in a comfortable silence. Eugene’s smile gentles into something a little softer, a little quieter; he tucks his hands under his armpits to keep warm, and finally looks over at her, bracing himself against the chill.

It’s better than he feared: Rapunzel looks worn, but instead of despairing she just seems tired. Her expression is distant and near-empty, but the calm seems hard-won: her eyes are troubled, and there are deep shadows lining her face, a hint of redness around the eyes, a flush to her cheeks. She’s been crying, and crying hard.

Eugene thins his lips. “…Any better?”

Rapunzel’s eyes flicker to him and then away. She leans against the railing with a gusty sigh, and the sound sinks her whole body, like a weight pressing on her shoulders. “Not really.”

He works his jaw. He knows, now, about the labyrinth, and what happened there—some of it, at any rate, the story pieced together in fits and bursts over the last few months. For Rapunzel, telling the story is like pulling teeth: something painful and unfortunately necessary, that aches even hours after the deed is done.

“You were supposed to have breakfast with them today, right?” he tries. “They take it okay?” She’s silent for a little bit too long, and Eugene winces at the look on her face. “…Ah.”

Rapunzel looks away again, rubs at her eyes. “I—I just, I couldn’t. Not today, not after… you know. And last night, they… they tried to make it easy on me, but—”

“Yeah.”

“And I—I mean, I can’t—obviously I left things out. I mean.”

The Problem of Varian. No, yeah, Eugene can already see how that went down. It’s all around terrible, because even without the secrecy, he’s not sure the King and Queen would react any better. It’d been a huge source of debate between the three of them during their journey home, and while silence on Varian’s fate is perhaps the better option… well. It doesn’t make it any easier.

Rapunzel freeing Varian was… Eugene isn’t sure what to think of it, and frankly, he doesn’t think he has the right to judge. But still. Even he can tell that those were not the actions of a princess, but rather the actions of Rapunzel herself. Justice not in the way of Kings and Queens, but rather, justice for the girl in the tower—for the person who knows, intimately and painfully, what it’s like to live behind bars.

A bitter pill for some to swallow? Yeah, sure, but they’ll have to accept it sooner or later. But for the King and Queen, who got their daughter back and thought she would be a princess in due time, as if one year of instruction could override eighteen years as a normal girl locked away…

Yeah, no. There’s no good way to say it, and there’s no way it ends well. Eugene doesn’t blame her one bit for trying to avoid the situation entirely. If it had been him… well. He’d be running for another country, flat out.

“It’ll die down,” Eugene says, for lack of anything better, and shrugs. “I mean—speaking as a former, ah, rogue here—outrage always does. The sooner you stick it out, the more they’ll just… uh… get used to it, I guess?” He hopes, anyway.

“You’re probably right.” Rapunzel rubs at her face. “I just… I hate this. I feel so—useless.”

The words hit harder than she probably intends, and Eugene has to struggle to keep his face blank. Bitterness is a lump in his throat. Useless. He knows what she means too well, now. Their journey to the Dark Kingdom had it put in perspective, in that way. Painful, ugly perspective. Rapunzel’s destiny is unavoidable, but just because it’s destiny doesn’t make it kind. He could lose her. He could lose them all. He could lose everything, and there would be nothing Eugene could do to fight that.

Useless is right, he thinks, and looks away before she can see his face twist. “…Yeah.” He clears his throat, voice rough. “Yeah. I know the feeling.” He reaches out, taking her hand in his. Her hands are bare, the gloves gone; he squeezes her palm very softly. “But… you’re not, okay? I know it feels that way, but Blondie—if there’s anyone that can change things around here, it’d be you.”

Her smile is dim and faint. “Because I’m the princess?”

He snorts. “Because you’re you, obviously.” Pauses. “Though, I suppose political leverage never hurt either.”

This time, when she smiles at him, the expression is real.

Eugene grins back. “Still, though.” His smile fades, and he casts a sour look back at the door. “I’ll admit, they trapped you pretty well this time, didn’t they?” He scowls at the memory. “And here I was, thinking your old man had finally learned his lesson, go figure—”

But Rapunzel is already shaking her head. “No, that’s… he has, I think?”

Eugene stops mid-complaint, frowning down at her. “Hm?”

“About keeping me safe. I mean—Elias—”

“Nervous kid.”

“—yes,” Rapunzel agrees. She rubs her hands together, lacing stiff fingers like a knot. “And—and I’m sure he’s great! I’m sure he’s very good, but I mean… if my dad really didn’t want me to go out…  there’s not a shortage of guards, y’know? He could have gotten anyone.”

Eugene searches her face. “Wait, wait. You think he chose Elias for a reason?”

“Maybe?” Rapunzel bites her lip. “I think… Elias is new. Young. Closer to my age, kind of—five years off, but compared to the other guards…” She shrugs. “And he’s nice. I’d feel bad about getting him into trouble, so I’m probably less likely to leave him behind, I think? So he’s an escort rather than a guard. And—” She cuts herself off, rubs at her hands. “I think—I can’t remember well, but Elias… probably hates Varian.”

Eugene straightens up at that. “What, really?” He has to admit, he finds it hard to imagine that fearful kid hating anyone.

“I can’t—I mean, I can’t be sure. But that’s the crucial issue, right? Varian’s escaped, and we aren’t talking. So…on the off-chance Varian comes back, if there’s anyone who will stop me, who can’t be convinced to listen…”

The logic tracks. “…It’ll be someone who already has a grudge.”

“Yeah.” She sighs, dropping her head down into her arms. “Oh, maybe I’m just paranoid. I don’t know.”

“No, no, I think…” Eugene hesitates. “No, that feels right. I mean…” He stops again, considering her. She’s been through so much, and he doesn’t want to put more on her shoulders. That’s the last thing he wants to do. But secrets and lies have never brought them anything but pain.

“Look,” Eugene says, starting slowly, deciding to chance it. “I… your parents are great, Blondie, okay? No complaints here! But listen—they’re royalty. And my experiences with royals have been…”

He trails off, unsure of how to word it nicely, and pulls a face. He lifts one hand and wavers it in the air in a see-saw motion, and leaves it at that. He’s “forgiven” the hanging incident, if only because holding a grudge seemed like useless and needless drama at the time, especially since all the charges against him had been cleared. But he still remembers, clear as day, the sight of that noose. He still remembers, always, in the back of his mind—the stories of King Frederick, kind and fair right up until you slipped.

The royal family of Corona had always hated thieves the most.

“People are on edge here,” Eugene says, finally, bluntly. “There’s so many plots going on I can’t go one step without stumbling into something sticky. Whispers, jumping at shadows… hell, you know that kitchen girl, Adeline?”

“Addy?”

“Yeah, her, the spunky one. Saw her as I was walking up, and she looked scared of her own damn shadow. There’s something—off. More than just rumors, or the problems with Varian, or the King’s temper. There’s something wrong.”

Rapunzel stares at him. Her eyes turn back to the railing. “They’re afraid,” she murmurs. She sounds—muted, maybe, and Eugene winces in understanding. What they’ve heard from Corona… it hadn’t been good, no, but it hadn’t been thisbad. Closing trade routes, more sea-faring attacks; harsher laws and punishments enacted, yes, maybe. In-fighting in the castle… mild, but enough to make note of. But if the people of the castle are afraid, if all of Corona is worried—

“I can’t tell you what it means,” Eugene says, at last. “But—while we were gone—we missed something. Okay? We missed something. Bigger than just the King’s… temper. And that something? It’s still there. It’s still happening.”

Rapunzel closes her eyes. “It’s still happening,” she echoes. Her lips twist, an expression almost pained. “And… and my parents aren’t going to tell me what it is, are they?”

It’s not really much of a question, not when they both already know the answer. They’ve gone through this song and dance before, after all. The King and Queen won’t share a thing with Rapunzel—not if they want her to stay here, not if they are angry with her… not if the King is worried once again that his daughter might disobey orders, might risk her life for the kingdom. They’ll try to keep her in the dark as long as possible.

Eugene’s heart pangs at the thought. He puts at arm around her shoulder and tries to rub some warmth back into her arms. She deserves better. She’s always deserved better, and it never fails to make him angry, the way the world always tries to throw her off her feet.

“It’s not all hopeless, Blondie. I mean, think of it this way! If there’s something wrong, still goingwrong, then that means there’s a chance to change it.” He hesitates, watching her, and carefully squeezes her against his side. “…Which, uh. I—I wanted to talk to you about something.”

She turns to him, immediate, and he almost smiles. “What is it?”

He takes a breath. “I… I’ve been thinking.”

She lifts an eyebrow. “…Okay.”

“Cassandra’s been sent to the dungeons, yeah?”

“Guard the dungeons,” Rapunzel corrects. Her smile falters. “But, um, yes…?”

“And you’re here.”

“Mm-hmm…” She’s watching him closely, now. “Eugene, what is it? What’s wrong?”

“It’s… ah…” It’s no use. All his stupid pick-up lines and charming grasp of language, and he’s fumbling tongue-tied like a teenager again. Best to just get it over with. “I think I need to go.”

There’s a long silence. Rapunzel’s face has gone blank.

“Not—notgo, go, I mean… not far. I’ll stick to the main city, stay in Corona if I can, and… damn it.” He rubs at his neck. “I’m saying this all wrong. It’s just—Rapunzel, I can’t do anything here.”

“You’re leaving?” Her voice is very quiet.

“I’m never far.” He takes her hand. “But I need to do this. Like you said—about being useless—I can’t help here.” He squeezes her hand. “But I can help elsewhere.” 

He doesn’t know how else to say it; how else he can explain. Because the Dark Kingdom had done what nothing else could: it had showed Eugene where he stood. It had showed him how, in this game of destiny and plots, Eugene was little more than a side thought. Pushed aside. Made helpless. Made to watch.

He almost lost her, there, in that labyrinth. He has never forgotten that. If Eugene keeps playing by the rules, he’s going to lose her again.

So he won’t play by the rules. He won’t play with destiny, or kingdoms, or powers he doesn’t understand. Doing this—going away, and playing to his strengths—this is Eugene’s answer. This is his stand. He needs to go. He needs to find Lance, and find the people that only Eugene Fitzherbert, former thief, can find.

This, he can do. Eugene may not know politics, but he knows people—knows the shadows, knows the lies, knows what hides beneath the pretty, polished surfaces. He can’t find answers in the castle… but perhaps he can find them somewhere else.

So he takes her hands in his, and kisses her cheek, soft in the way that has always come easy when it’s with her. “You can do this,” he whispers, in her ear. Soft, sure. “Sunshine, you can do absolutely anything. And if you ever need me—I’ll be there. Always.” He pulls back. “But please. I need—I needto do this. Trust me?”

She stares at him. Slowly, she clutches his hands back. “All right,” she says. Just as hushed. “Okay.” A careful squeeze at his fingers. “I trust you, Eugene. If you say you need to do this… then do it.” She takes a deep breath. “I’ll be okay. I willbe okay.”

He smiles at her, helplessly warm. The relief he feels is almost dizzying. “I know,” he says, and squeezes her hand one last time before pulling away. “And it’s not—for long, I promise, I’ll visit whenever I can. You won’t even know I’m gone!”

“I don’t know about that,” Rapunzel says, but she’s smiling now, and even if it’s a little pale, it’s still a smile. She shakes her head. “…Where are you going?”

“Snuggly Duckling, to start.” He grins a little, excitement building in his chest. “I mean, if Lance is still working there…”

“Oh, Lance!” Rapunzel brightens immediately, her face glowing. “That’s a wonderful idea. That way you won’t be working alone, either.”

“He’s the best,” Eugene agrees. He’s missed Lance like a missing limb these past eight months, and even in this whole rotten scenario, getting to see his brother again is like a balm. “I’ll bring him by too, make sure he says hello.”

Rapunzel smiles. “Please! Oh, it’ll be so nice to see everyone again…Tell him I say hello! And that I miss him.”

Eugene winks. “Of course.”

Rapunzel nods to herself. “And—when you go… do you mind giving Cass a message from me?”

He settles against the balcony railing to listen, noting her words to memory. It is only a day after their return—the shadows still cling heavy to their eyes, the exhaustion weighing on their shoulders. Cassandra’s been demoted and Eugene himself is on thin ice. Leaving Rapunzel alone here, in this situation—it should sit ill in his gut. But it is a new day, a bright day, a beautiful day… and as he looks over Rapunzel’s face, the determined tilt to her head and the steel in her spine, he knows she’ll be okay. She’s not alone, either.

It has been a long, tiring eight months. But they are back, now, and he knows: they are tired, but not beaten. Not Cassandra, who took the news with a tense jaw and a determined look. Not Rapunzel, who smiles and laughs despite her awful homecoming. And Eugene?

He’s going to fight too. The only way he can. The only way he knows. No more watching the bad things happen. No more waiting on the sidelines.

This time, when the fallout comes, Eugene is going to hit back.

.

Varian wakes up screaming.

There is ice in his veins, in his heart, in his lungs. Whispers clouding at his mind like cobwebs. His limbs locked stiff like the black stone, unmoving. He tries to move and can’t, tries to scream but his breath won’t respond—there’s a hand in his chest, in his heart, and a voice that hums cruel insults in his ears, rising, rising, rising.

Tick tock, child. Weren’t you going to prove me wrong?

His eyes fly open, breath seizing in his chest. His heart is pounding, drumbeat staccato in his bloodstream. The scream locks in his throat, cut off to a strangled gasp. He doesn’t know where he is. Behind his eyelids: black. The world around him: dark. He can’t see. He can’t see anything. He is—

His eyes catch on a faint sliver of light, a pale glow pooling through the open window. Moonlight. Light.

He’s not in the labyrinth. He’s not—

Varian holds himself still, breathing hard, trying to remember where he is. He is—inside, in a cot, blankets tight around his shoulder—Ruddiger by his side—a roof?

Memory returns to him in fragments. The house hidden in the countryside. The woman, Yasmin, and her wife. Drinking bitter tea at a warm kitchen table. Falling into his borrowed bed, even with all his paranoia, because something may be off here but he was so tired…

His breathing calms, his hammering heart slowly settling. He grits his teeth, squeezing shut fever-hot eyes. Exhaustion feels like a lead weight within him, dragging him down to the floorboards. He’s not angry. He’s not even upset. He’s just woken up, but even now, Varian feels so, so tired.

It’s still dark out: the sky black, the world silent, the only glow coming from the moon shining high up in the sky. He can see the room in vague black-and-white detail—the distant dark corners, Adira’s empty cot, the slim desk and dresser shoved off to the side. Books, their covers and colors obscured in the dark, pile high on shelves and create leaning towers against the walls. A study turned to temporary guest bedroom.

He stares up at the ceiling and tries to breathe, blinking fast so he doesn’t have to close his eyes. He feels hot in his skin, feverish and ill, his bones aching and his lungs small. His chest slowly compacting, like a weight on his ribs pressing down and in, smothering his every breath. He is hyperaware of every part of him—his eyes hot and achy, his fingers and toes tingling pins and needles. His breathing finally calms… but Varian still feels wide awake.

He won’t be getting any more sleep tonight.

After a moment of thought, Varian sits up, slowly levering himself out of bed. He sits off the side of his cot and tugs on his coat as quiet as he can. Straightens his socks on his feet. He sees Ruddiger snuffle, little eyes squinting open, and pets him gently until the raccoon’s eyes slide shut again.

He pads his way carefully across the room, almost shuffling. He pushes open the door gingerly, already making a face, hoping against hope the sound won’t rouse Ruddiger—but for once, he’s lucky. The door doesn’t squeak at all, the hinges silent as the grave. It opens with nary a sound. Home free.

Varian straightens his coat and casts one last look at the illuminated window, the moonlight pooling on the floor. He flips the distant moon the middle finger, flicking the rude gesture with all the feeling he can muster.

His chest feels cold, his veins tight like a chokehold. He rubs hard at his heart, chest and hand stinging alight with fresh pain as he slips out the door and softly makes his way downstairs. It’s nothing, Varian tells himself. Nothing at all. Just echoes, maybe, of the death that didn’t stick.

Still—he nearly flees from that room. The moonlight makes him feel ill.

He doesn’t really have a plan beyond get out get out get out, hopes for a break from this claustrophobic pressure of the house walls boring down on him. He slips down the stairs, hoping they’ve left the front door unlatched, and he is almost at the bottom step when he finally sees it.

There’s a light pooling beneath the closed kitchen door.

Varian pauses on the stair. He watches the light for a long moment. Its dim, small and contained, candlelight at best. The glow it casts under the door is very faint. He listens, carefully, and this time he catches it—the murmur of low voices just behind the door.

Varian stills on the steps. The room upstairs, set aside for both him and Adira. Adira’s empty cot. Stupid, stupid. He hadn’t even thought twice about it. She’s awake.

Later, Yasmin had said, when she’d let them in. To Adira: we will talk about this later. How had he forgotten?

Varian makes his way to the kitchen door, taking extra care to step softly. He keeps one hand on the wall for balance, inching his way closer, sliding his feet so the floorboards won’t creak. He’s learned something of stealth these past few months, and feels almost smug as he sits down against the wall, undetected. He’s right by the door, his ear pressed to the crack.

Even this close, though, it’s hard to hear them. They are quiet, and the walls mute them further. Varian can just barely hear the murmur of their voices above the silence. Adira’s voice, muffled and low, and another, responding. Sharper, tinged by a stranger accent… the scowling woman, he thinks. Yasmin.

“…kingdom died over twenty years ago, for Ella and I both,” Yasmin is saying, now. “Though it is clear to me that for you, the death is recent. For that I am sorry.”

“You talk like it doesn’t bother you.”

“Just because I helped you in your efforts doesn’t mean I believed in the same delusions, Adira. The Dark Kingdom…”

Their voices dip low again, out of his hearing. He closes his eyes and tries to focus.

“Do not play coy with me,” a voice snaps, suddenly, the loudest they have been thus far. Yasmin, again. “You said you had news, I have heard it, it was nothing I didn’t already know. I am in no mood for your games.”

“I’m not playing games.”

“Fuck you. Do you take me for an idiot? To bring that—him—here—”

“I hardly think an underfed teenager is any threat to you,” Adira retorts, talking over her. “You’re over-reacting. I get that you’re upset…”

Varian freezes, his breath catching as their voices trail off once more. Wait a moment. Are they—are they talking about him?

He’d thought it was odd, sure, that Yasmin had hated him so immediately—that she had looked at him all throughout that conversation, as if trying to banish him with glares alone. But for the first time it occurs to Varian that maybe the reason Yasmin was so upset—the reason she was so angry… the reason she nearly shut the door in their faces—

Had it been because hewas there?

But that doesn’t make sense, Varian thinks. He doesn’t even knowher. He’s never even been to Port Caul before today! And while maybe his first run-in with her wasn’t the best, it hadn’t been terrible, either. She’d been brusque; he’d been moody. But he’d left feeling unsettled, not like he’d made an enemy.

Yasmin’s voice rises again. Varian presses back against the door, eyes narrowing in the dark. Maybe, maybe if he can hear a little more, just get a clue of what’s going on here…

This time he barely has to strain his ears. Yasmin is no longer trying to be quiet. Her voice rings out clear and cold. “If you so insist on playing the fool, then I will treat you as one. Let me make this clear to you.”

“I understand perfectly—”

“In these last twenty years,” Yasmin snaps, cutting Adira off, “I have helped you. I have given you information, items, knowledge, secrets. I have guided you and I have tolerated you, despite your secrecy, your irritating arrogance, and your frankly insulting delusions of the Dark Kingdom being rebuilt.”

There is a sudden, icy silence. Yasmin snorts. “Didn’t like that, did you?” There is bite to her voice, her words unkind. “Well. Too bad. I am talking now, so listen. All this I have done for you, and I asked little else in return. But now. Now, after everything, you bring into my house—into my city—a threat?”

Another long silence. Varian lifts his hand and presses it flat against his mouth, trying to stifle his breathing. His heart is pounding in his chest. He feels cold, frozen still with budding anger. Who does she think she is? This stranger, this nobody, calling Varian—talking about him like he’s 

“Silence is no better than your jokes,” Yasmin is saying now, practically glacial. “Let me spell it out to you, Adira, what you have done this day. You have brought—to me! —a criminal wanted by one of the most powerful trade kingdoms in this continent. A criminal with five charges of attempted murder, assault, treason, regicide. You have brought this boy into my home, walked him undisguised through the town, led him right to me—and still, you ask me why I am angry? Anyone after him with be led straight to me!”

Varian is frozen. Locked in place, his fingers turned numb with pins and needles. The icy understanding flooding through him, because somehow—somehow, despite all the miles between him and Corona, despite all this time—

He remembers the way she looked at him, fury and disgust and icy rage, and his mouth goes dry.

She knows. Yasmin knows him. She knows who he is.

She knows what he’s done.

Adira’s voice has gone cold and flat. Dangerous. So low that Varian can barely hear her through the door. “What are you trying to say?”

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t throw you both to the wolves.”

“You—!”

The walls are closing in on him, the memory of the city pressing down on his head. This woman, this stranger—she knows him. She knows him, and he remembers walking through the city with a rising lump in his throat. All those people. All those eyes—

The midnight darkness seems oppressive, suddenly; the low ceiling and narrow walls of the hallway too small, too tight, too little. His breaths feel cut short, thin and useless. His skin crawls, icy fingers down his spine, and all he can think of is running, running, running through the labyrinth, the Moon’s golem at his heels and the Moon herself watching through every wall, every mirror, every dream—

He thinks: I didn’t even want to come here.

There’s no point in listening further, even if he could focus beyond the roaring in his ears. He stands and stumbles for the door, no longer trying to be quiet—hears the voices stop, the conversation cut short as his bare feet thud on the floor.

He doesn’t care. He refusesto care. He makes for the front door and throws the door open hard enough for it to bounce. Who gives a damn? He’s going to get thrown out anyway, so why bother being nice?

The air is—fresh, cool, a relief. He sucks in a deep breath, and feels like he can breathe again. The wind blows cold and crisp against his skin, a swift breeze drifting out over the empty plains of flat farmland. Beyond the house’s tiny garden and little porch, miles and miles of grassy lowland roll out to the distance, from his feet all the way to the distant horizon, far off in the sea.

It is still pitch dark out, but now Varian can see the edges of light beginning to build—the night sky blushing the pale blue of early dawn, gold gathering at the edges of the horizon, the small trees and houses turned to black silhouettes against the budding glow.

Still, though—high above, through the dark clouds, the moon shines bright and mocking. A waxing gibbous like a sideways smile.

His fingers curl into the wood of the doorway, and he slams the door hard behind him. The sound slams, echoes, dies off. Nothing follows it.

He breathes hard, and almost thinks to open the door just so he can slam it again—and realizes, abruptly, how silly that sounds. The anger withers in his chest. His mouth feels dry. He stares out and the empty landscape, and doesn’t recognize a single inch of it.

The sudden surge of emotion turns dead and leaden in his chest. Varian sits, defeated, on the porch, hiding his head in his hands. This was stupid. What was he going to do, run away?He doesn’t know this place. He doesn’t know this country. He doesn’t even know the currencyyet, if they even use the same coin as Corona. Adira might have told him when they crossed the border, but if so, he’d shut her out. He’s starting to regret that now.

“Good going,” he whispers to himself. “Great going, Varian, you absolute genius, make the already angry lady have more reason to think bad of you…”

He swallows hard, and presses his palm against the hollow of his eyes, breathing deeply. “Bet Dad’s real proud of me now. Bet he’s looking down and thinking, ah, that right there, there’s my stupid murderous s-son—”

He can’t finish the thought, feels gutted as soon as he starts it. His dad wouldn’t say that. He’d always been better than Varian in that way; he never said a mean thing about anyone, even if he thought it sometimes. Varian, in contrast, feels as if he never learned how to keep his mouth shut. He grits his teeth and lifts his head, and the moonlight glow is so soft and blue he wants to cry.

“This is yourfault,” Varian tells the moon, and his voice cracks, and he hates it. Nothing happens. The world is still silent. The house dark and empty. The air, cold and crisp. “This is—this is—”

It’s my fault.

His fault his dad is gone, dead to the amber. His fault he’s alone.

His throat feels very tight, suddenly. Varian squeezes his eyes shut against a sudden swell of tears. He’s—he’s—he’s so stupid, he’s so stupid. Missing Rapunzel and the others now, after all this time. Didn’t he choose to leave? Didn’t he choose to walk away?

And yet. He misses them, suddenly and fiercely. At least he knew them. At least he knew why they hated him, at least he could understand that. And even then… Rapunzel’s smile, Eugene’s constant posturing, Cassandra’s dry wit… he misses it. All the things he thought he hated about them, now the things he misses most of all.

He wonders if Adira is still angry at him. He wonders if he should be bothered by the thought she might be. Shouldn’t he care more? He’s traveled with her for—for a while, right? So why does it feel like he knows her less than he’s ever known anyone?

“You and your stupid tests,” he says, to the ground. His fingers tighten in his sleeves. “Stupid secrets, stupid lies, not giving any straight answers…”

He’s not sure if he’s talking about Adira or the Moon, now, or maybe even his dad, and goes quiet. Hides his head in his arms. Sits there. The moonlight burns against his skin; his right hand aches, bone-deep. His heart feels cold and empty.

And slowly, surely, under the light of the moon, Varian finally slips back to sleep.

.

His dreams are blurry and thin, vague and distant like a fog. The same old whispers, the same lost feeling, wandering an empty plain without direction. Varian walks and he walks and he walks, getting nowhere, and when he opens his eyes, he feels as if he hasn’t slept at all.

Sunlight glares into his eyes—he winces, rubbing hard at a crick in his neck. His shoulder feels sore and stretched from leaning against the porch frame, his back all twisted up in knots. It’s morning—latemorning, even. He wonders how he managed to keep snoozing even through the sunrise.  

“Finally awake now, are you? Tell me, boy, do you make a habit of sleeping in odd places?”

The voice is so sudden, Varian just about jumps out of his skin. He shoots bolt upright from his slouch, lurching forward in his fright—and smacks his head right into the porch pole.

“Ow!” He grips his head, reeling back—and then jolts, again, nearly screaming when he turns to see Yasmin standing right next to him. “Holy—!”

Yasmin doesn’t even blink. She’s standing above him on the porch, leaning against the open door; her arms cross over her chest, her eyebrows lifted up by her hairline. “You have a bed,” she remarks, tone unreadable. “A lovely cot that I set up for you and everything.”

Varian’s hand freezes in his hair, last night’s events rushing back to him. He looks away. He… he doesn’t know how to talk to her, now. He doesn’t know her, but she knows him—and if her words were any judge, her opinion is sour. And some part of him wants to fight that, still, wants to argue—if she knew whyhe did it, maybe if she knew his reasons…

But that’s a silly thought too. Should he fight it? Why should he explain himself to her, anyway? (And, secretly, in the back of his mind—does he even deserve to argue? Do his reasons matter, when his actions hurt others either way? He doesn’t know. He doesn’t…)

“I… I thought you didn’t want me here,” he says, at last, and leaves it at that.

Her eyes narrow further. “I do not,” Yasmin confirms, crisp and cold. “But luckily for you, Adira has a decent argument and a long-standing friendship. You are in my care, now. Three days.” Her chin lifts. “Which you would know if you had eavesdropped on the whole conversation, silly child. Nothing good comes from leaving in the middle of something.”

Varian’s train of thought smacks into his skull and goes flat. For a moment he is speechless. “Are—are you tellingme to eavesdrop on you?”

Yasmin gives him a disproving look. “I am telling you to eavesdrop better.”

Varian stares at her, blankly, waiting for the punchline. She doesn’t move. Her eyebrow raises. She gestures, once, as if to say: Well?

He doesn’t gether, he thinks, and instead of angry he just feels young, threadbare, worn to a string. He hides his head in his arms so he doesn’t have to look at her and so she won’t see his face twist.

“I don’t understand,” he says miserably, and hunches his shoulders, bracing himself against the tremor he can feel starting in his arms, shaking through his voice. “I—I don’t even know you, and you just…”

There is another pause, another silence. “Adira did not mention me?”

He almost laughs, and has to stifle the giggle in his elbow before he gets hit with the stupid urge to cry. “Are you kidding? Adira doesn’t tell me anything.”

“…Do you know why you’re here, boy?”

His fingers fist in his coat sleeve. He curls into himself, and even to his own ears, his voice sounds small. “No.”

Another silence.

Yasmin heaves a gusty sigh. There’s a thud as she throws herself down to sit beside him, sitting side-by-side on the porch steps. Varian jumps, reeling back in surprise, and beside him Yasmin laughs. Her smile is all edges, a bladed sort of amusement. “You are like a scalded cat,” she observes, and sounds weirdly delighted with the find.

“What—why—”

“You truly do not know?”

The whiplash from humor to solemnity makes his head spin. “What—I, I mean, no? She just said we were seeing an old friend of hers, I didn’t��”

Yasmin is frowning, now, but for the first time Varian gets the feeling it’s not directed at him. She turns her head towards the sunrise, and in the growing light her expression is cast in shadow. “…Interesting.”

Varian has no idea what to say to that. He’s never met an adult like this one—Yasmin is weird, serious and moody in equal measure. Not quite like his dad… but not as eccentric as Adira, either. There is something strangely ageless about her, and at the same time something strangely old.

Yasmin is still thinking; she tilts her head back, eyes moving to the dawn. “Hmph,” she says, muttering. “I get the feeling that I have been asking the right question to the wrong person this entire time. How utterly vexing. Well, never mind it.” She sighs, again, and turns back to him. “Well, here we are. I will yell at Adira for you, boy; I have more leverage and this whole situation strikes me as rather stupid, so this will be a free favor for you. No need to thank me. But in return, answer me this.”

Varian squints, suspicious. “…Answer you what?”

“Why are you here?”

He stares at her.

“It is a simple question,” Yasmin remarks, and it’d almost be casual if not for the weight of her gaze. “Why did you come here? Why did you follow Adira all this way? What are you looking for? What do you want?” She taps her finger against her knee with each question, counting them off one by one. “Why are youhere?”

Varian gapes at her. His mouth feels dry. His throat is painfully tight. He swallows hard and bites at the inside of his cheek, his mind spinning circles in his head. “I… um, I…”

The words trail off. Varian can’t finish. His throat has closed up, and he is struck with the sudden realization that—that he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. He doesn’t know where to go. He doesn’t know.

He snaps his mouth shut, his teeth clicking. Heat crawls up the back of his neck, humiliation hot in his gut. He—he can’t say it. He can’t.It feels shameful, almost, to have nothing. To have no answer, not even a reason. To have come all this way for nothing at all.

Varian looks away. His eyes prickle, and he hides his head in his arms, curling up tight on the steps. Maybe if he’s lucky, she’ll think he’s throwing a tantrum. Maybe this stranger will finally leave him alone.

There’s a long stretch of silence. In the distance, birdsong breaks through the morning air. Yasmin mutters a curse under her breath.

“I meant what I said earlier,” Yasmin says, at last, sounding a little awkward. Her voice isn’t kinder but it is, in some way, a little less hostile than before. “Sleeping in odd places. Is this a habit of yours?”

He doesn’t answer. Yasmin sighs again, much louder this time. “Fine, I will guess. Are you not sleeping well?”

He doesn’t move. He feels tired. “Maybe,” Varian mumbles, at last. “So what? There’s not much I can do about it.”

“Very defeatist talk, for a supposed alchemist.” She stands up, brushing the dust from her pants. Her footsteps thud dully on the porch, moving away. Varian looks up, caught off guard by the almost-insult. What—is that it? A snappy comment, and now she’s just leaving?

“What—why are you—” He doesn’t get her at all. “Did you come out here just to yell at me?”

“Of course not,” Yasmin scoffs. “I did not come out here justfor that, anyway.” She’s leaning in the front door, now, rustling around the entryway; she snatches something off a hook and throws it his way. Varian throws up his arms in meager defense, and a bag smacks him right in the face before falling with a thud in his open arms.

He nearly drops it anyway, he’s so surprised. “W-what—?”

“Carry that for me, would you?” Yasmin calls back, moving back to the door again. She leans inside and then leans back with his boots in one hand, shutting the front door behind her. She tosses him the boots, and this time, Varian lunges to catch them. He fumbles, nearly dropping them on his own feet before he gets a grip. He clutches the shoes and bag close to his chest, blinking rapid in shock.

“This is why it is best to eavesdrop on an entire conversation,” Yasmin is saying, donning her own winter coat. “Because then you would know what I am doing, yes? For these three days, I have agreed to help you; your wellbeing is now my responsibility, at least so long as you remain here.”

She locks the door behind her, testing the handle once before she goes. She thuds down the steps, starting on the road, long strides and brisk walk—stops, a few feet away, and frowns at Varian from over her shoulder.

“What are you just standing there for?” Yasmin asks, sounding genuinely curious, and gestures him forward. “Get your shoes on, boy. Did I not mention? You and I, we are going to the market.”

.

.

.

.

.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Her fingers drum on the wooden table in an uneven rhythm, and with every click of her nails the men wince. The walls rock with the swell of the sea, her ship pitching through darkened waters. The unsteady lurch, however, leaves her untouched—her feet settle firm on the floor, one hand braced against the table and the other tapping at the map: again, and again, and again.

“You’d better have a reason for coming back empty-handed.” Tap. Tap. Tap. “Or is this map all you have to offer?”

She pinches the weathered parchment between two fine, filed nails, and smiles with all her teeth. Before her, one of her men stands tall and uncertain, his eyes flickering to and fro. Her fingers thud on the desk. He flinches.

“I… the port towns, they, they’ve gotten wary. Less ships coming and going—we couldn’t—”

Tap.

“We… I… we ran. I’m sorry. But I—the map, I swear, it’s not just—look, look, see? It has the routes for the patrol ships, we can slip around, resupply…”

His voice withers, goes small. Her hand stills on the desk. The rest of her crew, clustered around the walls, watch the proceedings with wary eyes and mouths tightly shut, hardly daring to breathe.

She reaches out. She takes the map in her hands, and unfurls it in-full across the desk—traces the plotted patrol lines with her finger, the crisscross guard lines that have kept them barred to sea. She considers. The crew hold their breath.

“What did you say it was called, again?”

“P-Port Caul,” her man stutters, and clears his throat. “Nice little trading town. Lots of lazy guards.” His chin juts up, confidence slowly regaining ground. “Full of overconfident little townspeople, sleeping certain in their beds.”

Her smile grows, the edges curling, her teeth bared. This time, the men match her smile, nervous but hopeful. “No attacks at all? My, my. Like sitting ducks.” She smooths out the map with both hands, and circles the point of her nail around the icon of the town in question. “Well. Perhaps not so empty-handed after all.”

She hears the near muted sigh of relief, sees her crew relax. Her smile warps and grows, all teeth. She leans back from the table and pulls free her knife, and flips the blade deftly in the air, unimpeded by the rocking of the waves.

“Contact our ally in Vardaros, would you?” She flips the blade, catches it one-handed. “An opening just might be coming that way.” She throws the blade once more, and this time, catches it mid-flip to slam down on the table, pinning the map flat, Port Caul speared through by her sword.

“What do you say, boys?”

The knife glints in the wavering lanternlight. Her smile stretches gruesome like the gallows. In her eyes, there is the promise of gold—and in the back of her mind, a whisper, a voice that croons of possibility and power to come.

Lady Caine lifts her head.

“Let’s give that little town something to talk about.”

[thimbleswrites]

with the lights out, it’s less dangerous | the last time

Pairing: Frankie Dalton x Original Female Character

Genre: Angst / Drama

Word count: 4k

Warnings: love/hate relationship, implied smut, suicidal thoughts

AO3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3884773/chapters/8685547

Author’s note: I wrote this a long time ago but I’m posting all my fics on my writing blog. I explain more about the Blood Donors concept in the a/n on A03 if anyone’s interested, click the link above.

Summary:

Anita, a human that Edward has been harboring in his house for years, struggles with the isolation of living as a fugitive in a world full of vampires. With the threat of being reduced to nothing but a Blood Donor looming just outside the walls of Edward's house, she must decide whether it is time to end it all or find a way to deal with the desolation.

But is the dangerous game she finds herself playing with Frankie Dalton, Edward's human-hunting brother, the best solution to her loneliness?

Set pre-Daybreakers.

Next: honesty hour

"Goddamn it, Frankie, I have until sundown to get some sleep before a shit load of work tomorrow – I'm not having this conversation again; it's done!"

A beat of silence follows the words as the dismissal rings heavy in the air and a resounding snarl tears through the tension. Anita grimaces at the sound of footsteps up the stairs and tries to press herself back against the hinged door, into nonexistence – a thin hand clawing at the threshold as she waits with bated breath.

No matter how many arguments she heedfully witnesses, how many times Edward tells her that she is safe after Frankie blows in and out of their lives over and over again, how many times she manages to make it just one more day without being caught and forced as a Blood Donor: the dread that makes her stomach clench in an almost paralyzing sort of fear is a constant reminder that she is never safe.

The comfort of safety is not a luxury she can afford – not anymore.

The years spent hiding with a decreasing amount of fellow human who had refused vampirism had not been wasted with pointless dreams of a secure future. Those days were harsh, dirty, and cruel – but in each other there was at least a small repose of normalcy. Humans living (well surviving, because what they had been doing was not actually living) with other humans.

A human living with one (sometimes two, she remembers with a tingle up her spine) vampires, though.

She wants to laugh at the thought of such an illusion as safety for someone in her position, but seeing as it's the one thing standing between her and becoming a daily juice box, she refrains. That is if she could remember how to laugh; the muscles surrounding her mouth are usually only ever exercised into a frown and she imagines that the act of straining them upwards might be foreign and difficult.

Her attempt at becoming a chameleon is at once deemed futile under the fierce gaze of Frankie Dalton as he passes in the hall. He's only just gotten back from his most recent tour of duty and as per usual he is staying at Edward's during his break, unable to afford an apartment he would scarcely ever use.

The first few days of his return are always the worst; Edward almost never remembers the day of Frankie's arrival and the latter's mood turns sour the moment he comes home to see his welcome party consists of one: a somewhat interested (and punctual; she doesn't have much to look forward to these days and even his return on the calendar is something) Anita holding a propped open book in one hand and the world's tiniest banner reading Welcome home, asshole! in her other as she lounges comfortably on a sofa in the office room, ready to leap to her crawl space at a moment's notice.

Just as she thinks that maybe, just maybe this time he will continue to his seldom-occupied bedroom and ignore her, he stops walking and looks her down as if she is a lower species; a turkey attending the Thanksgiving dinner. There is distaste clear in his eyes, rage too, and something even darker that she recognizes somewhere in the back of her mind but does not want to dwell upon.

Anita glowers bitterly up at him, willing him to feel her disgust at him, too, for him to know that this isn't exactly the ideal living situation for her either. A small part of her feels ashamed for those sort of thoughts – the last thing she wants Edward to think she is is ungrateful. She owes him her life, however useless it may be now.

Once, a couple years back, when on a supply raid with her group she had been wounded by a lone poor, starving vampire who had found them and attacked. Her party had left her there, assuming her to be dead, so it was not abandonment – not really, she would have done the same.

Self-hatred burns her insides with the knowledge that this new world – one with the rule of vampires and the hunt of humans like livestock – has charred her soul black to the core, a sense of meaningless survival (what is the point to her life?) taking control on instinct so that she has to fight every day to remember what humanity truly means.

But with an abundance of luck and patience on Edward's part, he had found her bleeding out (thankfully not infected; she'd rather die) and managed to get them both back to his place to nurse her back to health. Her constant attempts at his life or escaping had slowed things down considerably, but she eventually healed and came to the hard realization that her pack was gone. She knew by then they would be cities away and that she was alone. It was with little hesitance that Anita had accepted Edward's offer of shelter and food. Protection, too, but that was taken lightly.

She's never been one to depend on others; she likes to pull her own weight, and her current title of hidden house guest makes her restless. When she had first began living with Edward, she had offered him her blood – not straight from her veins, obviously, but with the proper equipment she would have given him enough, regularly but not nearly as much as she'd have to if she became a Blood Donor, to cushion the blow of his blood-bill. But he had refused; said he didn't drink human, and it would have been a lie to say she was too disappointed. The same offer was never given to Frankie – probably because she knows now, and knew then, that he would not have refused.

"Well, if it isn't the root of the problem." Frankie grinds out, his jaw clenched as he takes a step towards her. "Tell me – do you think Ed sees your face on the humans at his company or just dollar signs?"

She blinks indifferently, keeping her silence. They've danced to this song before, and honestly, she's grown too phlegmatic to be baited so easily.

"Probably not the money." He adds, his voice hard. "He pities you humans too much for his own good. And you in particular, doesn't he?" He chuckles darkly and points at her with his index finger. "No, you're his favorite little stray kitten – here to stay."

At his sneering words she looks back at the small opening across the small office that leads to the crawl space she spends her time in when the sun falls and darkness resumes – a pathetic excuse for living quarters but she is none the wiser, having been in worse conditions while on the streets. At least she has the sleeping bag to herself now.

She is allowed out during the day or when Edward is home and does not have company, but rarely downstairs and always, always she must be quiet (so quiet it is like she is not even there) in case the neighbors can hear. He cooks her food mostly (something she wishes she could do for herself; Edward is an appallingly bad chef) and she is permitted to have a shower every few days even though she has to use his toiletries. She does not mind much, though – things like that have not been a problem for her in a good long while.

It is not that Edward wants to keep her on a short leash so much as he is very meticulous in ensuring that she remains hidden, for his sake and hers. Every single thing is planned and routine; if he is to buy too much extra food or household necessities or if his guest notice that he seems to be housing three occupants, it might raise unwanted suspicion that would be better to avoid entirely. Paranoid, maybe, but it works. And although she will never dare to complain, living in such circumstances is taking the wear and tear out of her.

While food comes easier now than what she has been used to (having been malnourished since she was barely a teen) she is still unhealthy; her skin too pale from the lack of sunlight and the natural growth of her body stinted by the crawl space, making her appear pinched, and so much smaller than she should, too emaciated and frail to the point where she wants to avoid mirrors at all cost on some days. The perpetual dark rims under her grey eyes from many sleepless nights give her the appearance of a ghost, and her hair is almost always in a wild tangle of mousy blonde strands, but sometimes on her more vain days, she manages to run her fingers through it enough to tame the mess. Throughout every thing that has been lost to the war of vampires against humans, vanity seems to trail behind her in a race to catch up; not quite there but never too far behind either.

She looks hollow, dead in the eyes, and it's only fitting, really – she feels the same way.

Anita wishes that she could take pride in her quiet strength – she yearns to think of herself as one of the heroines from the books she reads to assuage her boredom (Edward has books everywhere, scattered in piles in all the nooks and crannies of the house and then some), biding her time before she can join the Revolution with her fellow humans, but honestly, the fear and cowardice that is still present, hidden beneath the bitter sorrow and ferocious contempt, only makes her feel weak. Weak from the tears that wet her pillow at night when she is by herself in the crawl space, holding her arms around her middle as if it will help the sickness, left with nothing but thoughts of death and blood and the unfairness of life.

She misses her family more than she ever thought she would, and it's unbearable because it leaves a gaping, festering hole in her chest that makes her want to lie still until she just stops breathing. At those times, more than usual, it stumps her how anybody could want to live forever. It's a consuming, mindless sort of grief that leaves her breathless and exhausted, hating herself for dwelling on the past when her current standing in the food chain demands all the focus she has.

Anita hates weakness.

And Frankie makes her feel weak.

Especially when he is this close to her, his head tilted down so he can meet her wide eyes, and his body so near her that she can feel the coolness of him. She hates the terror it instills in her at the thought that he can infect her with a smile on his face and her flesh in his teeth if he so desires. And he does desire it – he's told her so, after the two brother's verbal throw down matches over Edward's aiding and abetting a human criminal in his own house, a house that Frankie inhabits ("By knowing and not saying anything it makes me an accomplice, Ed!"). Edward thinks his threats of turning them in are empty ("He won't say anything . . . he owes me." Ed told her once when she had voiced her concerns) and he hasn't yet, however, Anita wouldn't put it past him. She can't turn a corner in a house that Frankie's in without having a threat to turn her thrown in her face.

Even more than that, though, she absolutely despises the other feelings he sparks in her too. The ones that make her flush with heat in her veins and an ache between her thighs from the longing to be close to someone again. Anita despises him for being a selfish monster and she despises him even more when he's not. She despises the salacious want he infixes in her when he glances up with sharp, trained eyes from whatever he is doing to watch her walk back to the office after a shower when she is in only a towel. But more than anything, anything else she despises herself for having allowed him to toy with those feelings periodically over the last four months.

As Frankie stares at her, something akin to understanding glints in his eyes and he takes a quick step in her direction, making her fall back two. After a moment she has enough sense to worry he might have recognized the look in her eyes as more than offense at his words. There is a familiar sort of triumph in his voice as he sneers, "Something bothering you, pet?"

The sound of the taunting sobriquet he had long ago christened her coming from his lips is far too palatable for her to handle so she imagines what the screams of the humans he has hunted and forced into the Blood Revenue Agents hands would sound like instead, so loud and terrible that it can banish those bad, bad feelings that surround her off to another place where things that are wrong go to.

For the moment, it works.

"Yes – you are standing too close," Anita finally murmurs, and something frightening in her roars at the covetous flash in his eyes as they narrow at her, but she silences it by biting her tongue, unable to resist the opportunity to wipe the smirk off of his face. "And I can still smell the blood of my people marring your precious honor, sir."

The corners of his mouth twist down at her mockery and he raises his chin, trying to intimidate her with his authority, but the vampire soldier card no longer makes her shrink in fear as it once did. She has had quite a bit of time in the weeks of Frankie's absence to prepare herself for his overwhelming presence that has always had a different effect on her than Edward's. She will no longer permit herself to be a distraction for him to amuse himself with whenever he likes purely because he can. She is more than his filthy little secret, and certainly better than him.

Her lips thin and she brings herself to full height, which is only a wee few inches shorter than him, but still her neck cranes up slightly to meet his gaze. She has pushed off from the door and he moves backwards to avoid physical contact. The fact that he is the one who falls back weighs heavy on him and his frown deepens in anger.

His relentless harassment over the years has been all too entertaining for him because of the easy prey she has always presented him with. His ability to read her like an open book is almost congenital – Frankie knows Anita to her very core; her thoughts, her fears, her dreams, he knows exactly what to do to provoke her. He can send her into a furious rage with a few casual words or tear her apart by a single deliberate look. But now the game has changed. She has surprised him with this sign of defiance; this charge of offensive play, and he does not know how to react to it.

A small thrill shoots through her from his falter, and the courage it gives her comes out in the smooth words she spits into his face, "Something bothering you, Frankie?"

She can almost taste victory in her mouth when his ochroid eyes flash and he quickly leans into her, a smirk curling onto his face, making her stumble back away from him and warily glance at the protruding fangs that press into his pale lower lip. He smiles widely to show her his teeth more clearly; a wolf's grin, and watches her clenched jaw tremble beneath the unspoken threat, eyes dancing and alight with the prospect of a challenge.

"Careful now, pet, wouldn't want to cross lines you can't come back from, would you?" He cautions.

The air feels weighted with the tension, as if electricity is crackling against her skin, sending sparks through her nervous system but she holds her ground and straightens. The warning is obvious in his voice; he wants her to know that he is in control. She hates that.

He is so close she can feel his breath fanning her face, and although it makes hers come in faster than she would care to admit, Anita resists the urge to swivel her head to the side. "Fuck your lines."

The curse word feels strange on her tongue, although she is pleasantly surprised at the evenness of her tone, and she enjoys his confounded look at her having taken a page from his book – he frequently uses the crude terms, and at least one adolescent innocent tendency has always made her wince when he casually refers to them – but it had sounded sharp and primitive and she is impressed by herself. She instantly realizes that she likes how fierce it makes her feel.

"Ooh, such language, Nita. Wouldn't expect it from you." He grins at her, his tongue grazing briefly over one fang, so quickly that she barely notices it with a sweeping sensation sent straight to her toes, and continues, "And while I appreciate that imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, maybe you should mind your manners for now. After all, pets who misbehave must be . . . castigated."

Her knees quake, nearly giving out at his tone: almost a teasing threat, and that realization makes her stomach flutter in equal parts fright and excitement. She inhales deeply, pulling down the frayed sleeves of her sweater past her fingers.

Frankie's smile fades as his mouth contorts into a thoughtful expression and his eyes size her up. The hairs on the back of her neck stand up, but she is not sure if it is because of the dread in her stomach or the heat that flames in her cheeks and along her ears when he steps forward with his arms extended out on either side of her head, efficiently trapping her between the door and his body. He pushes a strand of hair from her darting eyes with a gentle motion; a mocked sign of affection, and lets the tip of his finger rest on her temple.

He is pushing her, stretching their interaction like a rubber band, testing to see how far he can go before she breaks. He doesn't have to push far this time – a simple movement; he bites gently and deliberately into his lower lip and his eyes drop to her mouth – and then she is shoving his arms away scathingly, hitting him with her fist as she turns to her crawl space.

Frankie catches her readily around her waist and flings her back against a wall, grabbing her wrists in his hands when she tries to struggle and pinning them above her head. His face is close enough to hers that she can clearly see the smile lines in his right cheek when the corner of his lip quirks up in that crooked grin that makes her loathe these moments with him as much as she secretly looks forward to them, although, she will never admit the hold he has on her; a strong fist around her rotting heart, forcing it to pulsate when the beats begin to degenerate.

Sometimes she wishes he would just let her die.

He thrusts a knee between her legs, pressing his body onto hers, and she can't breathe – she can't even muster the energy to ignore the way her body responds to the familiar feeling of him against her; the way her hips cant upwards into him, all but unwillingly.

And sometimes she wants nothing more than this.

"Fuck you." Anita seethes, because he looks so smug, like such a smug bastard that her blood practically boils and she feels alive.

"Hm, fuck me?" Frankie muses. "You're being rather straightforward today."

"Well, you know what they say." She returns with a sharp grin on her face that she saves just for him. "Bold is beautif – oh!"

He had ducked down into her neck, his mouth opened wide, and for only a moment she considers that he is finally making good on his threat to tear into her jugular vein, but it's not his teeth. It's his tongue, and she thinks that might be worse. He's kissing the base of her throat, ravaging the skin there (because Anita will shit a brick if she ever sees Frankie being tentative in his actions), and it almost hurts; she knows there will be a bruise there in a few hours.

There always is.

"Wait." She protests wearily, her heart beating a tattoo of his name onto her rib cage. "You said it was the last time. We agreed – we agreed the last time was it."

"I changed my mind." He says easily, his mouth trailing up to her jaw. "God, you're so fucking warm."

And the low, guttural sound of his voice makes her knees actually give out this time. He only tightens his fingers around her wrists, though, and his thigh between her legs keeps her upright, but oh – his thigh between her legs. She trembles.

Her eyes fall closed with a pleased, drawn out sigh and he lets out a breathy laugh.

"You want this just as much as I do, don't you, pet?" He taunts, scraping his fangs lightly over her skin.

Anita growls but before she can retort he presses his lips to hers and kisses her in a way that only he's ever done; hard, deep, angry. He releases her right hand and she presses her palm to the nape of his neck, holding him in place as she responds to his jabbing remark by nipping at his bottom lip. She makes a noise at the back of her throat when his tongue invades her mouth.

He's cold – all vampires are. But Anita doesn't see it like they do in the old YA novels about the then-mythical vampire, it is not just some side effect of being a dashing creature of the night like the young heroines think it is; it's one of the things she hates the most when she's with Frankie like this, because it reminds her that he is dead. He has no pulse, no heartbeat. Frankie is cold like a corpse, a walking disease.

This thought gives her resolve a burst of renewed strength and she tugs her other hand free from his grasp, holding tightly to his shirt as she pants, "We can't keep doing this." But even as the words leave her, she allows her hand to drift down towards his stomach, feeling the taut muscles of his abdomen beneath her exploring fingers.

Jesus, help me, Anita thinks desperately, he's my Kryptonite.

He's undeterred – his mouth hovering over hers, golden eyes watching her intently as his hands go to her hips and he hooks his thumbs into the waistband of her pants. "Why not?" He asks, softly, the words drifting over her lips.

She pauses, distracted by the way his fingers stroke circles onto her skin.

He smiles at her hesitancy, touching his lips lightly to hers.

The tenderness throws her into momentary surprise, but he suddenly grips the back of her thighs and lifts her up, propping her against the wall as her legs lock instinctively around his waist, and there's nothing tender about what's digging into the inside of her thigh. She gasps when his hands slide up her sweater, one at the small of her back and the other on her breast.

She kisses him fervidly, nearly slicing open her tongue on his fang, and cradles his jaw in her hands – he grins into her mouth, apparently satisfied by her response, and her body screams this is the last time, just once more.

"I'm not into necrophilia – you son of a bitch," Anita murmurs, short of breath, but even she hears the fond way the words are spoken.

"Shut up," Frankie groans as his mouth goes to her collarbone, his hand tugging one of her legs higher over his hip while his groin steadily rocks into the apex of her thighs as if to prove his next words, "D'you think I want to want this? I've taken playing with my food to an all new level."

And she doesn't even try to stop the morbid laugh that leaves her as he carries her to his bedroom.

It's the last time, after all.

-

[elusetta]

89 for jey/faith? :D

o my gosh thank u so much!! I did my best here, but as always, writing Faith is a struggle (since we really don’t see much of her actual personality in-game. Here’s hoping I didn’t butcher everything!

(I don’t want to bombard people with a bunch of words, so I put it below the break lol)

“I still can’t believe I bought a bow,” Jey mumbled, trying to move her hands into the correct position. Guns were simple. She should’ve stuck to her good old SBS, not bothered with this hunting crap.

Jess gave her a single quick look before letting out a groan. “Jesus Christ, Jey, how hard can it be to– oh, fuck’s sake, give it to me.”“No!” Jey protested, clutching the bow to her chest. “I may be bad at this, but I still want to give it a shot!”“Yeah, yeah, yeah. You’re not giving anything a shot with the way you’re holding that. You’re supposed to- just look at me.” Jess pulled an arrow back, years of practice evident in the deadly elegance of her form.

Attempting to copy her for the third time that afternoon, Jey slipped and fell flat on her back.

Jess sighed. When she offered her arm, it was obvious that she was beyond exasperated, but a hint of amusement glittered behind her eyes. “Come on, up you go.”

Jey whined, feeling a copious amount of mud stick to the back of her shirt as Jess pulled her back off the ground. “I hate this.”“Yeah, so do I.” Jess glanced at the bushes, adjusting her hold on the arrow. “That’s our dinner. You’re gonna have to figure it out yourself.”

Jey tried to shake off some of the mud, feeling like a wet dog. “Okay. Meet you back here at five?”“Got it.” Without another word, and hardly another sound, Jess disappeared into the wilderness. Crazy, how she could just do that. It was true, what people said about Jess being a master huntress, a predator even the wolves feared.

Jey turned back to the Henbane, which was, as always, flowing steadily along its path. In the distance, the hills rose high and forbidding. The best game was in the Whitetails, but Jey didn’t want to face Jacob again; he still had it out for her in his region, after all, and the second she stepped foot in the mountains, there would be five capture parties on her tail within minutes.

To be honest, she was too tired to actively hunt. These hunting trips were mostly for Jess’s benefit. It was nice to take a break, though. Jess bagged enough game for both of them, and usually extra, so Jey didn’t really have to do anything herself.

She sat down on the shore, watching the river flow. This always brought back fuzzy memories, full of pale green mist and whispered words, that stirred up a wild tumult of sadness, and anger, and grief. Vaguely, she knew that those moments were the place that she had met Faith.

Faith…

Jey ignored the sharp clench of her chest. The first few days after killing Faith had been like hell. Constant shame, constant pain, everyone around her congratulating her for something she wished she hadn’t done. But as time passed, so did those feelings. Virgil and Marshal Burke deserved justice.

Even if what Faith had done to them hadn’t been her choice.

Every time Jey’s mind went back to the world of the Bliss, she came back to reality less sure of Faith’s appearance, of the sound of her voice. At this point, weeks after Faith’s death, she could hardly recall what her face had looked like at all. Jey hadn’t exactly been conscious during those episodes, after all. She didn’t know why it bothered her. Again, Faith was her enemy, and a Herald. Jey should not have felt anything but hatred for her.

Was this what the people had meant when they had said that she poisoned people’s minds?

No. This wasn’t Jey’s mind.

For lack of better phrasing, Faith had poisoned Jey’s heart.

Damn, did that sound cheesy. But, honestly, process of elimination: she didn’t hate Faith, she didn’t want to forget what should have been a traumatic experience, what else could it be?Jey squinted at the other side of the river, trying to make out what appeared to be a woman on the other side. Not many people were here. So who would be? Probably a resistance soldier, maybe a member of the Whitetail Militia who’d strayed down. They were close enough to the border for that.

“Hey,” Jey called out, waving to the woman. “You lost?”She froze. Even from this distance, Jey could see a certain unnatural movement in the woman, sort of… shaky. Like she had sea legs.

Jey stood up, brow creasing. “Come here. It’s okay,” she reassured the woman, when she saw the tension in her only increasing.

When the woman made no movement, Jey waded into the water. Something wasn’t right here, and she’d be damned if she wouldn’t try to fix it. The woman stepped back as Jey neared her, looking dangerously close to turning tail and running into the woods, but ultimately continued to stay still- although she kept on shivering.

The water reached up to Jey’s chest, but she plowed on. A sense of urgency reached higher than the water did, whispering to her heart that she needed to keep going. Besides, being in this deep was a good thing. It’d wash the mud off.

Finally, she reached the shore, only to freeze in her tracks when she saw the woman up close.

Scared green eyes surrounded by dark circles. Those soft features, those trembling hands. The hair that wasn’t tinged with green, unkempt, golden, a touch more wavy than Jey remembers it. The details clarified themselves in her memory.

Total silence for two moments. The birds stop chirping. The wind pauses in its rush across the river. Or maybe it’s the sudden pounding in Jey’s ears that makes the world seem so quiet, a manifestation of the feelings that she’d thought were gone.

“Faith?” Her voice was barely above a whisper.

The woman took a single step forward. “Rachel,” she said, voice shaking just as much as her body was. “Rachel… Jessop.”

Jey wanted to cry, but whether it was in rage or grief or fear or hope or happiness, she didn’t know. Rachel Jessop. The name that was lost to Faith Seed.

A tear slipped down Faith’s cheek, and Jey could feel her own eyes welling up. What was this? She had seen Faith fall dead into that river. To have her back was… wrong, yes, but also so incredibly right.

Maybe her heart had made the right call.

“I didn’t think you would remember,” Faith murmured. Her voice broke in a sob. “I- I didn’t think you could. The Bliss-”

The Bliss. Of course. The shaking- it wasn’t fear, it was withdrawal. “Of course I remember,” Jey interrupted her, somewhere between laughing and breaking down into tears. “I could never forget you.” Without thinking- which was becoming the norm- Jey stepped closer, running a hand along Faith’s cheek- had she ever even touched her before? Was she normally this soft?

She looked into the other woman’s eyes, searching for any trace of hesitation.

She found none.

Letting out a breath, Jey glanced from Faith’s eyes to her lips. The desire was there, but so was everything else; so many questions, circling her head. Why are you here? Why are you alive? What are these emotions? What do I feel for you?

She looked into Faith’s eyes, and found the same answer that had always been.

Oh, Deputy. Have faith.

Except this time, it isn’t a warning. It isn’t a threat, or a means to an end. It’s just her.

It’s just Faith, in the flesh, facing Jey.

She must have waited too long, because in the space of a second, Faith surged forward and kissed her. It’s somewhere between innocent and seductive, just like the tightrope that the old Faith had walked so perilously. But it isn’t the old Faith. It isn’t the Siren.

They separated, and Jey felt some sense of confidence come back to her.

Fighting off the need to cry, she pulled Faith into a hug. And she’s real. And she’s solid, and this isn’t the Bliss, and she’s here.

“Welcome back, Faith,” Jey whispered. “Let’s go home.”

[dirtyblupjeans]

Kinktober Day 31. Any combination from previous prompts! (5. Sadism/Masochism, 22. Impact Play, 24. Shower/Bath, 27. Against a wall, 29. Massage) [Note/Warning: This fic explores what happens when a Domme lets her emotions get out of control and a submissive is too focused on pleasing his Domme to safeword out. It’s also about Barry and Lup being out of sync after their time apart. Things are resolved and everyone is satisfied by the end. The idea here is not ‘Lup is violent’ but that for this fic she tries to use S&M to work off a frustration and fails to pay attention to her submissive. Furthermore, Taako warning Barry was not because he thought Barry needed to be afraid of his girlfriend but because Taako wanted to give him a heads up that Lup had just seen her 100+ year quest for revenge blow up in her face and was in a really foul mood.] Lup stalked back and forth in Taako’s kitchen like a caged panther, ready to leap at any available target. “Lup…” Merle began. “Don’t. Just… don’t.” She slammed the mug of tea she’d been holding on the counter and the other three people winced at the sound. Taako picked it up and set it in the sink, flicking his fingers at the counter to clear away the liquid that had either sloshed up or leaked out of a crack from the rough treatment. He didn’t say anything to his twin. Magnus looked awkwardly between Merle, Lup, and Taako. Taako shook his head minutely. Merle opened his mouth to say something else and Taako widened his eyes at him forcefully. Luckily for once the cleric took the hint and kept his mouth shut. “I’m going home,” Lup said suddenly. Without another word she turned on her heel and stormed across the room to the front door. It slammed behind her with an enormous bang. “Shit,” Magnus began. “She’s really…” “Stop,” Taako interrupted. He had his Stone of Far Speech in his hand. “I need to warn Barry.”

___ Barry thanked Taako and slid the Stone back into his pocket just as Lup flung open their front door. It was lucky she’d been too pissed to think about summoning her scythe. If she’d come in sooner, she’d have been annoyed her brother had called to warn him. And maybe the short walk from Taako’s house had helped a little. He ran over ideas to help her burn off her irritation. Since she’d been back in a body, physical activities seemed the most effective. Well, with Lup there was one physical activity that helped her mood more than anything else. “You want to work off some off that frustration, Lup?” The loud clicking of her heels on the hardwood stopped. She looked at him, considering. “Babe, I’m in the mood to hit something.” Her voice had a note of warning. “Well,” he said, “if that helps…” Her eyes seemed to focus on a point beyond him. Every muscle in her body was tense. The resonating intensity of her stance spiked his pulse and turned him anxious. A shiver of worry slid up his spine. She was so much more keyed up than he’d expected from Taako’s warning. Barry wanted to know what had happened but from the bits of burnt money still clinging to her and the fury rippling off of her, it had been worse than he’d feared. But she was okay. The boys were okay. Anything else they could deal with. “Lup?” he asked. It came out in barely a whisper. Her eyes flashed and her jaw tensed hard. “Bedroom,” she told him, biting off the word. “Be ready.” She stalked down the hall and the bathroom door banged shut behind her. That worry surged through him louder this time. Maybe this wasn’t a good idea. Barry squashed the thought and walked quickly to the bedroom. He could do it. He could help her work through this. He stripped off everything but his boxers. Those gave him pause but he’d let her make that call. It wouldn’t slow her down very long. They’d assembled an impressive collection of toys in the few months since she’d gotten her body back. In that time they hadn’t used the flogger. Even in the years before Faerun it wasn’t something that they’d used often. Both of them had learned how to use it, studying it they way they did everything else. They’d picked one up here just to fill out the collection. Tonight he thought it might be what she needed. He put out a few other things he thought she might want. Then he waited, standing with his hands at his sides and head tilted down, focused on a spot on the floor in front of him. ___ Lup scraped her hair back hard with the hair brush. Once she’d worked all the dust and ash out of her hair, she pulled it all back in a severe ponytail bound high on her head. She frowned into the mirror. All these years, her simmering hatred towards Greg Grimaldis had been a constant focus she could fall back on. Even in that fucking staff she’d sometimes found herself clinging to it when thoughts of Taako and Barry were too much to dwell on. In those terrible, desperate times she’d considered all the ways she’d one day have her revenge. And now it was gone. Sure, she’d ruined Greg Fucking Grimaldis but she didn’t have her fucking fifteen dollars. Instead she had a new nemesis and this infuriating rage burning fruitlessly inside her. If the belts had lasted just a few more minutes she’d have found that little weasel Terry the Fucking Turkey Boy and made him regret the day he’d crossed paths with her. Rage and frustration boiled inside her as she stripped off her dress and threw it in the garbage. Ruined, just like everything else about this whole fucking day. Her hands tightened, fingernails digging into her palms. She needed to burn off this feeling, needed to burn down more than that fucking casino. If only there were an abandoned DMV she could destroy. But even blowing through magic wasn’t going to help her right now. Even seeing Barry patiently waiting for her didn’t lessen that hard coil of hate and fury roiling molten and heavy in her belly. She saw the flogger sitting on the bed and picked it up. She wished she could use it on Greg Grimaldis or Terry. Hell, line them both up and keep going until they bled. Unfortunately for him, Barry was the only one available. “Wall,” she told him. With a small nod of understanding he turned. There were handles affixed to the wall to suit both of them. He was a few inches shorter but his shoulders were wider. The grips stood out from the wall with braces holding them solid and rings on the sides to attach cuffs. It put him in a similar position to a Saint Andrew’s Cross when he blocked his feet apart. “Wait,” she told him. Barry relaxed. She’s realized this wasn’t a good idea, he thought. “Boxers off.” Without turning, he opened his mouth to say something. That trepidation was thrumming louder now. But no. No, he told himself firmly. It’s fine. He slid his boxers off and tossed them out of the way. Then he resumed his position. He was still trying to remind himself to relax his muscles and was unprepared for the first hit from the flogger’s falls. They struck his right shoulder and he bit down hard on his bottom lip. He didn’t have time to recover, try to drop his shoulders and relax before the flogger hit again. A hiss of pain broke loose and once more he tried to lower the tension in his muscles. Relaxed muscles would dissipate the strike and make it hurt less, make it less likely to bruise and hold the pain. As it went on, he just tried to hold still so she could properly land the strikes. She’d found her rhythm quickly. Barry held on. Each hit landed hard and sharp. He couldn’t seem to make himself let out the tense pull of his shoulders. Every time the falls struck he sucked in another shallow breath and instantly braced for the next. She worked the right shoulder more, sprinkling in hits on the other shoulder, on both sides of his ass, and down the backs of his thighs. It was too hard, too fast, too much. It hurt. He didn’t even realize his whole body was tense. Even his eyes were squeezed shut. She shifted her focus to his ass. Each strike landed with a wallop that nearly made him jump. His hands tightened on the grips until he was white knuckled, just trying to outlast the need he hoped she could work off. She started switching target areas too frequently. There was no time to acclimate at all. He held his silence as tightly as he did the grips above him. At some point he gave up on trying to think himself through it or remind himself to try, try relax his muscles, try to find some kind of mental space to get through it. He was just counting. He could hold on for one more. Then one more. And one more past that. Counting higher and higher, he endured. She showed no signs of slowing or slackening. And she was silent. If he’d been processing better he’d have realized that wasn’t normal for them at all. She was always checking in with him but this time there was nothing. Finally his head slumped forward to brace against the wall. The feel of the painted wood against his forehead made him realize he was dripping with sweat. “Lup,” he said, his voice ragged and pained. He panted out their safe word between harsh breaths. “Red, Lup. Red.” The flogger struck once more but much softer as his words broke through to her. “Oh, fuck,” she said. Her voice was soft and horrified. He sagged forward, leaning fully against the wall. He tried to release his hold on the grips but his fingers had been locked too long with his muscles straining. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” she said over and over in a whisper as she stepped forward. When she spoke to him her voice was gentle and concerned. “Let’s… Babe, let’s get you…” Her fingers moved to uncurl the deathgrip his left hand still held. She pulled his fingers to her mouth and kissed them gently. “Let me get the other side, bear,” she said. Her other hand went to his shoulder as she helped him step back so she could work his right hand loose. She walked him to the bed and helped him sit. His face pulled tight again as the comforter chafed against him and his weight made the skin on his ass and thighs impossible to ignore. “Get on your side, babe,” she told him. He eased over and she pulled the blanket over him. She knelt beside the bed so she was eye level with him. Rubbing his arm through the blanket she met his eyes. “I fucked up, babe. I’m sorry. I should have realized I wasn’t in the headspace for that. That was…” she hung her head. “I’m so sorry, Barry.” He shook his head. “It was my idea, Lup. You needed to…” “Shh,” she told him. “Are you okay for a few minutes?” He nodded. She eased his glasses off and folded them before sitting them on the nightstand. “I need to get some stuff. I’ll be right back.” He closed his eyes and tried to slow his breathing down to a steady rhythm. Carrying a tray, Lup returned to the bedroom. She sat it on the desk and brought over a mug of tea and a pot of ointment. A straw stuck out of the mug and she held it for him to drink. “Cool enough to drink and plenty sweet,” she promised. After he drank enough to satisfy her, she sat the mug on the nightstand beside his glasses. Lup kicked off the heels she realized she was still wearing. Then, holding the pot of ointment she moved around the bed to climb up behind him. The cream was made from arnica, marsh root, and lavender. It smelled like flowers and medicine but it would help with the damage she’d done and lessen the bruising he’d have later. She ran her hand through his hair and asked, “Can you lay on your stomach for me, babe?” “Sure, Lup,” he answered, instantly moving into position for her. His voice nearly broke her heart. His tone was the same calm, patient tone he always had for her but that gravel rough voice of his had a harsher quality than normal. Harsher because he’d stood there choking back silence trying to help her. Harsher because she’d fucked up. Harsher because she’d hurt him. Once he was settled she moved the blanket out of the way and settled closer to him. “I’ve got that cream. I’m gonna put it on the… on your skin, babe. I’m gonna try to be gentle but please… Babe, please let me know if I make it worse, okay?” He nodded into the pillow and she started working the ointment into his skin. The cream shouldn’t burn but the pain of even touching the tender skin was enough to cause quiet noises to erupt from him with almost every brush of her fingers. “Doing okay?” she asked, rubbing as lightly as she could. “Yeah, I’m okay,” he answered quietly. “So… I shouldn’t have tried this tonight. I definitely should have been paying attention to you. Should have stopped sooner. I fucked up, bear. I’m really sorry.” “It’s okay, Lup.” His response was negated when he winced as she hit a particularly sore place on his shoulder. He swallowed and turned his head to look at her. “I should have safe worded sooner.” She nodded slightly and brushed his cheek with her knuckles. “Yeah, but we know we’re both bad about that.” She smiled at him and continued rubbing his cheek as he turned his face into her touch. After a moment she moved her hand and wiggled her ointment covered fingers at him. “Don’t want to get this near your eyes.” Working more of the soothing ointment into his back, she continued, “We’re out of practice with this stuff.” She sighed. “With a lot of things. We’ve both tried acting like that time didn’t matter but… it did.” He frowned and his answer came out in a whisper even her elven hearing barely caught. “It did.” With his shoulders thoroughly covered she moved down to apply the stuff to his ass and thighs. She worked in long, soft strokes. The skin there wasn’t quite as bad as his shoulders. His right shoulder had definitely gotten the brunt of it. “I didn’t do so well without you,” he told her in that same quiet whisper. Lup swallowed and tried to focus on her task. Her eyes darted to his face but his eyes were shut, eyebrows pulled together. She realized that she’d known his expressions as well as Taako’s for years but right then she couldn’t have said if that crease between his eyes was from pain or sadness. She rubbed her hand on her leg, trying to clean the cream from her fingers so she could touch his face. Belatedly, she remembered there was a cantrip for that and whispered it. She screwed the lid on the little pot of medicine and laid down beside him. With one finger she traced over his eyebrow. “Me either, babe.” He opened his eyes and looked at her, so close he could see her even without his glasses. He turned on his side and lifted his arm. She snuggled up against him and he wrapped that arm around her. “We’re okay now, though, right?” he asked. The question, the worry and fear in his voice tugged at her painfully. “We are. Of course we are.” She nodded and blinked. When she realized there were tears in her eyelashes she continued, “Or we will be.” He kissed her forehead. “Yeah,” he agreed. “We will be.” His hand trailed over her back. She saw his face change as he felt something. He pulled at something stuck in the back of her bra and moved his hand for them both to see. It was the charred end of a fifteen dollar bill. They both laughed. “I should go get clean,” she said. “There’s probably ash in my hair, too. I tried to brush it out but…” Her face turned serious. “It wasn’t exactly a priority.” He dropped his hand to her hip. “Not just yet,” he said. This time his voice had a different quality and his tone gave her a very different reaction. She let her hand wander down to his hip as well. “No?” Barry shifted forward and brought his mouth to hers. Their lips crushed together, locking in a kiss that had a much better kind of desperation than what either of them had felt so far that evening. “How about you come take a shower with me?” she asked. Her face turned concerned. “Only if you’re up to it, though, babe.” He kissed her again, his tongue sliding over her bottom lip. When he pulled back he answered, “Yes. Definitely up for it.” Her hand slid from his hip to find his cock hard and erect. “Yeah, I’d say so.” They got up. He moved quickly off the bed but she didn’t miss the careful way he moved to avoid rubbing the areas she’d used the flogger on. She removed her bra and panties as they walked to the bathroom, dropping them to the floor. They were a problem for future Lup. Current Lup had other things on her mind. She turned the water on in the shower while Barry got towels from the cabinet. She studied his back, a new wave of guilt washing over her. “How bad is it, babe?” she asked quietly. He looked over his shoulder. “It’s okay, Lup, really. I mean… it’s tender but we’ve had worse.” “I’m sorry, babe.” “Lup, you’re forgiven. It’s really okay, I swear. I should have stopped it, too.” She took a deep breath and nodded. “You’re forgiven, too,” she told him smiling. She pulled the band out of her hair and let it loose. He hung up the towels and they got in the shower. “Let’s get the burnt fifteen dollar bills washed off you,” he said. She turned and let him shampoo her hair. “So am I going to hear how it ended up going so badly?” Lup groaned. “Tomorrow, I promise.” He scrubbed his fingers against her scalp, working the shampoo in and then down through her hair. When he finished, he turned her and let the water run the suds down her back. He repeated the process with conditioner. Lup closed her eyes and reveled in the sensation of his fingers rubbing her head and the warm water running over her chest. When he turned her again, she looked at him, a different warmth covering her body. She moved closer to him, pressing her body against his. She wrapped her arms around him, glad that she could safely put her arms around him without hitting any of the tender areas. Her face tilted and she let him close the distance between their mouths. His lips were hesitant at first. The tentative kiss reminded her of that moment outside the Legato Conservatory. He’d tugged her to a stop and asked her in slow, stammering words if he could kiss her. She’d smiled at him, nodded, and said, “Please.” That kiss, that long ago first kiss, had been careful and cautious. And by the end of that night they’d found a hundred more types of kisses to share. Kisses that were soft and reverent. Kisses that were hard and desperate. Kisses that were teasing or magnetic or impatient or clumsy or sweet or comforting or sleepy or reassuring or too quick or nearly endless or almost breathless. She wanted all of them. She wanted kisses they hadn’t invented yet. She wanted him. He pushed her back against the wall, her breasts crushed between them. The length of his cock was hard against her leg. Lup moved to hook that leg around his to pull him tighter. “Lup?” he asked, because he always asked. She nodded. Barry’s hand slid between them and positioned himself at her entrance. She shifted again, opening herself wider to him with that leg braced against him. “Is that okay?” she asked, realizing she was probably rubbing the back of his thigh with her calf. In answer he thrust forward, burying himself in her. She laughed, a happy rush of sound and breath, then caught his mouth with hers. Locking her arms around his neck, the kiss turned hungry, shifted again and then yet again to capture his lips or tongue in new ways. He pulled back then pushed back forward hard, rocking her back against the tiles. One of his hands slid along her side. Fingers struggled to grip her wet skin as he pushed in hard again, moving faster. The force of him, the feel of him was pulling everything taut inside her. “Barry,” she panted, “Barry, Barry, fuuuck, Barry.” Her hands went up to brace herself. One went in the corner of the shower and the other hit the shower head, knocking it at an angle. He kept pounding into her and, still looking for an anchor point, her hand tangled in his hair. The hand at her hip moved between them. His thumb teased above her clit for a moment before he pressed down. Her mouth hung open and her breath stuttered. Thumb swirling around and over her clit, he thrust in hard as her climax hit. The hand in his hair slid down to clutch at the back of his neck. He kept fucking her through her orgasm, his eyes pulled tightly closed. Then he came, too. His head fell forward to her shoulder as he spasmed inside her. Lup clutched him tightly to her. He hissed out a breath and she yanked her hand away, realizing she’d hit his right shoulder, his sorest point. “Oh fuck, sorry!” “It’s okay,” he told her, dragging a kiss along the top of her shoulder. Reluctantly he slid out of her. As he moved back he realized the shower head was spraying water out onto the floor. “Shit, we soaked the floor.” Lup laughed and cut off the water. “Eh, there’s a cantrip for that, right?” She cast the spell, clearing away the mess. With that dealt with she gathered up her hair and wrung the water out of it. They stepped out of the shower and she grabbed the towel from him. Carefully she blotted his back and down his ass and legs. Then, just as carefully, she trailed soft kisses over the marks on his shoulders. “Let’s get dried off and back to bed then I’ll kiss the rest better as well,” she teased. He took the towel back and toyed with it for a moment. When she turned to get the other towel from the hook he snapped it at her ass, popping her square in the left cheek. She whirled on him. “Oh, buddy, you are so lucky I owe you.” “Don’t worry, Lup, I’ll kiss it better too.”

~Dirty Blupjeans Kinktober 2018 Masterpost~

[soobadnoonecanstopher]

The Price of Privilege - Part 5 (A Kyungsoo Series)

Genre: Angst / Romance / Arranged Marriage / Royalty AU

Characters: Kyungsoo X You

Description: The time has come to marry the man your family has selected to take your hand. As royalty these important matters are arranged for you, but when you meet your soon to be husband, he is nothing like you expected.

The Price of Privilege [M]: - part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6, part 7, part 8 , part 9 , part 10 , part 11, part 12 , part 13 , part 14, part 15

The name written on that post it note had its own judging eyes. It looked up at you with contempt. You could feel the hatred scrawled out in that hand, the hard lines of the letters, the quick stabs at the paper that scratched at your skin with each pass your eyes took over the message.

“You–did this?” Your question felt weak and you hated the vulnerability in your own voice.

The death grip he had on the envelope had folded it in two and when he dropped his arms to his side you saw a few more pictures fall out, creased and ruined now in the struggle.

One image in particular, torn in half, showed a kiss. A kiss between two lovers that should never have been, yet looked real enough to somehow validate something in your mind.

He looked down at the mess on the floor at his feet and your stomach churned with such a force that would have expelled your breakfast had there been any to expel.

Your eyes burned with the fresh tears that escaped and the pinkness in his cheeks only served to accentuate his stubborn silence and inaction.

Of course he did this.

Do Kyungsoo

He had signed his name proudly on his work, throwing it so brazenly in your face that he had been the one to take her from you.

May. Your constant, your friend, your solid link to your home and the only person in the world who had been on your side.

May was gone. Stolen by this man who stood with his eyes cast down onto the floor, eyelids closed over black villainous eyes that had, so recently, tricked you into believing their tales.

But here was the truth. He had done this. He had set up this witch hunt for your friend in order to torture you and the bitter truth that flooded through your consciousness, hitting you so hard against the face you physically reacted with a stumble backward and a deep gasping breath that made those black eyes open.

He had warned you.

He warned you that he would chew you up and spit you out just like the rest of them would and you–

Stupid.

You had been so stupid, you–

You walked right into his lair, right into his bed, right into his warmth that felt so tempting and so good and now–

“I did this.” His low voice was speaking now and those eyes had nothing to lie about with the words he spoke yet something in those eyes had to be lying. Impossible. The lie you read in those eyes was regret. Impossible. How could he possibly dare to look at you like that right now. How dare he look guilty.

If he was going to steal something so precious from you he ought to have done with with a wicked smile and a flourish of his sword, not with a meek confession of his guilt and what looked like an excuse on the tip of his tongue.

Your thoughts were a jumbled mess and he dropped the contents of his clenched fist and he was moving.

Moving toward you, hands raised as he moved and you shook your head in contention as you took a step back.

“Will you just, listen–” His voice pleaded now and thankfully his feet stopped moving before you ran out of room behind you for your retreat.

What choice did you have? You were alone and the door was closed. May was gone and no other servants were posted at the door. Not that you had any trust left for anyone in this entire house now that your only familiar had been stolen.

“You did this to hurt me.” The truth was so obvious you felt like an idiot for even having to say it out loud and he swiped roughly at his face as he shook his head, ready to come up with some lie, some claim to innocence, you were sure.

“No– Yes, at first, yes. I admit that, but no–not now, no.” His words were scrambling and grasping and you wondered how much of this you could stand.

“The punishment for high treason is death, Kyungsoo.” The tears that fell down your face did so freely as you lost the will to try and fight them. The suffocating ache inside of your chest made you gasp and your hand covered over where your heart sat just inside your ribs, beating wildly, reminding you that you were still here and you saw him close his eyes and drop his face.

“Y-You’ve killed her,” You whispered through the pain and he flinched backwards hard as if your words had actually hit him in the chest. It was a strange reaction to your words and when he shook his head harder and covered his ears with both hands you felt your own surprise well up and pause your breathing.

He dropped suddenly, with ears still covered you saw him fall from where he stood down to crouch on his heels and a strangled sound left his chest.

As quickly as he had dropped he rose back to his feet and turned away from you, his breathing hard and labored you watched and waited for some response from him that could be understood. His hands left the sides of his head and trembled their way down to his sides where he clenched his fists hard there. The tension you saw in his back and shoulders vibrated and you heard a whispering sound from his direction.

It was rhythmic and you recognized the sound as counting.

He was counting backwards in a quiet whisper that sounded small and broken.

“No.” He spoke up again after what felt like ages with a new sound of defiance in his voice. The regret and guilt was long gone with this new sound and he spun fast on his heels to look you square into your eyes.

“No,” he repeated, “I admit that I sent the pictures to the queen but the treason, the call logs, the spying, and gathering of information for someone outside of this country, that was May. That wasn’t something that I did.”

You shook your head. This was a lie. May didn’t do any of those things. At the worst she was guilty of falling for a handsome, yet off limits prince, but treason? Spying? You lived with May. You saw her constantly and there was no way you would have missed something like this.

“That’s not true,” you said, ignoring the scratching sound in the back of your mind. The small speck of doubt that had been planted there was unwelcome. You wouldn’t believe it, not for a second. May wouldn’t do this. There was no way this was true.

“You’re lying. You tried to keep me from seeing the envelope–”

“So you wouldn’t hate me for being the one who caught her,” His voice broke through, interrupting your desperate attempt at finding any possible way to discredit him and you closed your eyes to shut out the intensity you saw in his eyes.

“When I sent this,” his hand opened toward the floor behind him, where the pile of photos mocked you for your own blindness, “I had no allegiance to you. I had no reason not to shove it in your face that your only friend in the world was a traitor. My fealty was to my country and to myself, but–”

Your only friend…a traitor.

Your mind was humming and you felt like the room’s oxygen had dropped significantly with the dizziness you felt with each new turn of your head.

You couldn’t do this anymore. You didn’t need to listen to his lies about May. Prince or not, you were royalty too and there was nothing that could possibly keep you here for such slanderous accusations against May.

“–but you don’t deserve to be hurt like this… by her, I’m sorry I had to be the one to find out the truth–”

The door to your room swung open quickly when you pulled hard against it and you were through the threshold, rushing away from the sounds of his words behind you, moving swiftly your bare feet gripped the plush carpet of the hallway but something gripped you hard from behind. Your swinging arm was caught behind you by a strong warm hand.

Who would dare lay a hand on a princess other than–

Kyungsoo pulled back on your arm and your forward progress stopped and when you turned only his face reached your eyes. Only his dark eyes full of concern, full of worry, and full of shit. The liar. You couldn’t fall for this. For May, you had to keep your head on straight.

“Release me,” you growled out your words in a voice reserved for the lowest servants. You shot your command out through your lips and he tightened his grip around your forearm.

“You can’t go to her now. She is a traitor. I cannot allow my future wife to choose a traitor over the prince.”

When the words were out of his mouth you heard him inhale a trembling breath. That same trembling was moving through his body in a wave and your felt it in his hands that gripped around your arm tightly. He was blinking quickly and he pulled his bottom lip inside his mouth and bit down the second you saw that trembling reach his mouth. He was trying to control it. He was trying to hide it and he was doing a shit job of it. Whether he was scared that you would really go to May, or spooked by his own declaration that you were his future wife, you weren’t sure, but something inside of him felt as shaky and unstable as a house of cards built on the floor of a moving vehicle.

“Allow?” The anger you were feeling inside of your body pulsed up fast and you felt consumed with rage at his audacity. You pulled hard at your arm, breaking the tight grip he held easily with the quickness at which you moved and he gasped in surprise and took a step forward, gripping you again.

“I’m sorry–” he scrambled and the surprise of his quick apology splashed a bit of cool water on the hot rage in your chest. The surprise made you pause for a moment. In that moment, he was doing something else that surprised you even more as his body moved and he spoke again.

“P-Please…” Your angry inhale of breath was taken by that single word.

“Please, you can’t go, you’ll be taken too.” He moved again, moving down as if gravity had a hold on him, you felt the pull he was taking down to the floor. His hands grasped at your arm, sliding down with his descent, then wrapped around your palm, gripping tightly around your fingers.

His knees hit the floor hard.

“Please–” he repeated from his knees.

The chill that ran over your head and down your body, brought a sense unease, as the prince knelt before you on his knees, he gripped your hand and begged and you felt an overwhelming sensation of wrongness of this.

Everything in your body and soul protested and screamed and this should not be, this person should not lower himself to you or to anyone other than his king and his queen and yet…his knees touched the floor, his plea on his lips and his eyes wide on yours, he begged.

“You can’t do this. You must get up.” You pulled against his hand and his eyes glazed over for a moment, not quite seeing his own actions. “Quickly, before someone sees–”

A voice broke through over yours.

A booming, echoing, terrifying voice.

“What is the meaning of this?” Her angry voice pierced through the space you both occupied and his eyes widened in instant recognition. A split second of realization flashed through his features and he was scrambling, pulling against you for leverage he lifted himself quickly back to his feet with his head bowed, eyes dropped and face bright red. You dropped your own face at the sounds of the approach of the queen and her entourage who followed closely behind.

“Do my eyes deceive me or did I just see a prince of my house on his knees?” Her voice grew closer and you tried not to flinch at the disgust you most definitely heard in those words.

“I am sorry Your Majesty, I merely lost my balance.” Kyungsoo’s voice was bold and concealed his nerves quite well, although you were sure you still heard traces of them. “It won’t happen again.”

“The day it does will be the day this house loses a prince and gains a new servant.” Her threat felt real enough to believe she was capable of such actions against him.

“Yes, Your Majesty.” You caught the dip of his head from the corner of your eye and noticed the nervous clench of his jaw as his eyes darted back and forth quickly below her eyeline. His breathing was fast and you pushed down the sudden urge to lay your hand on his arm, in some misguided desire to calm him. Surely his apology would suffice. Surely the queen would be appeased by his quick apology.

She moved slowly and you watched as she reached her hand out toward him. Her long fingers slinked along his face and he lifted his gaze slowly as small goosebumps erupted along the back of his neck the second he felt her touch.

“Kyungsoo,” she cooed suddenly in a much sweeter voice that did not at all fit with the situation at hand. You took a step back, longing for a bit of distance from the terrifyingly powerful woman.

“I am most vexed to hear the latest news from your household. When I agreed, so graciously, to find you a wife, you must have known that your actions, and that of your house would be required to meet a certain standard. And now we have a spy?” She clicked her tongue several times as her hand moved over his face to cup his cheek.

He swallowed and watched her eyes carefully as she spoke. His hands were balled into tight white knuckled fists at his sides.

“And right under your nose? How careless of you.” She arched an eyebrow at him and it strained to move against the tightness of her over-stretched forehead. The effect was good enough and sent the message well and your focus moved back to Kyungsoo.

“I reported it as soon as I found out Your Majesty.” His voice remained level despite the physical symptoms you saw in him. What a strong reaction he had to this woman. A thin sheen of sweat could now be seen on the back of his neck and she reached around his head to grip him tightly in place.

“Not soon enough I’m afraid. Who knows what information that rat was able to pull out of my Sehun before you finally noticed something was amiss in your own house.”

Her words struck you hard and you steadied your legs to keep from recoiling from the woman. Rat? May was no such thing. You were sure she was innocent and it was just a matter of finding the evidence to clear her name. And what about Prince Sehun? Did he play no part in this fiasco? Queen Hong was so quick to side with her son despite the fact that he was also very much involved in whatever it was that had happened with May.

“Your Majesty.” Kyungsoo spoke up as soon as the queen dropped her hand from his skin and her eye lazily looked away from his face as if she suddenly had no interest in continuing the conversation she had initiated.

“I don’t believe the evidence is completely conclusive, if you would permit me to–” Something in his voice changed and you recognized his tone now. He was back to bargaining, pleading with the woman who rarely gave him an ear to hear his requests.

You heard a small scoff that interrupted his question and he paused to inhale a breath.

“–investigate more. Something feels off, particularly with the phone records.”

Something felt off? Your mind was churning as you tried to make sense of his words, yet with the bits of information you had you could hardly keep up with the quick way he was speaking as he rushed to get his words out before he was shut down again.

“Nonsense. A traitor must be dealt with swiftly and effectively, and this girl is no exception.”

You could practically hear the judge’s gavel slam down hard against the wooden block as every bit of hope you had for May was tossed out of the court.

She spun. Clearly done with whatever it was she had come to say and unwilling to speak anymore about the topic you felt the breeze of her fancy gown as she moved on the spot, not once looking into your face during the turn.

“Perhaps if I could speak with my father–”

A second breeze caught you off guard as she spun back around and the sound of a loud crack made you jump. You caught the tail end of the hard slap across his face and you saw him fall backward and stumble to keep his balance.

His hand raised quickly to his cheek to cover the bright red of his skin and his hair moved out of place from the blow.

The shock you felt inside your chest made you sick and the small bit of blood at the corner of his lip grew.

The two were frozen. Her hand still outstretched and trembling with wides eyes on the prince you could see the unbridled rage coursing through her body as she clenched her jaw down hard and slowly pulled her hand back to her own body.

Kyungsoo’s trembling hand that covered his cheek moved to fix his hair and he took two steps back to his position, standing beside you. You noticed his body heat against your shoulder and you could have sworn he hadn’t been standing this close to you earlier.

“Don’t you dare forget the things I have done for you Do Kyungsoo.”

Her threat felt tangible. You felt pressure against your arm as he leaned against you and you felt the vibration of his chest as he spoke softly.

“Yes, Your Majesty. I won’t, Your Majesty.”

You didn’t dare look at him. The defeat in his voice felt so fractured you didn’t want to give a picture to this pain.

The queen spun and left, taking her rage and entourage with her until the silence of the deserted hallway filled your ears with only the steady sounds of his breathing next to you.

His warmth against your arm and his breathing brought along an annoyance at the part of your brain that paid attention to him.

Maybe he was right. Maybe you were too soft for this place.

Maybe your hand that slowly ran down the warmth of his arm and gripped around his hand tightly was yet another bit of evidence of how weak you were.

That stupid weakness you always felt around him taunted you and called you a damn fool, and his hand was soft and warm and his fingers wrapped around your hand and gripped you back.

When you finally gave in and looked at him, dark questioning eyes were on you.

His lips were hung open and the blood in the corner of that bottom lip had dried. His face had a red hand shaped welt that you knew would surely bruise soon, what with the force she had used to hit him.

His attention though, was on your face and he was staring at you in silence.

It was a stupid silence on a stupid face.

“Oh shut up, you jerk,” you said accidentally out loud and he closed his mouth as his eyes blinked once. A small tremble in his eyebrows warned you that he might just open his mouth back up to say something but the rough tug you gave his hand, as you quickly started walking in the direction of your room, put an end to any potential responses he might have in store for you.

You hated this. What was this feeling? Concern for his fucking well being? This man had just don’t something horrible to May and although it was very possible that she had been snooping into places she didn’t belong, you were positive that there had to be a perfectly reasonable, perfectly legal, explanation for it. He had even said himself, there was something fishy about the phone records.

Yet despite how angry you were, that stupid concern for him kept peeking its head up, blocking your view, making you do silly things like pushing him roughly through your home, barely pausing so he could try and slip some house shoes on and getting impatient as you just kicked them hard out of the way so he had to go barefoot.

The jerk didn’t deserve house shoes.

“Stupid jerk,” you mumbled as you shoved at his shoulder again. He grunted and sat down on the dining chair you steered him toward.

“Unbelievable asshole.” How many names had you called him by now? You were half aware of the fluidity at which they left your lips but more aware of his strange silence as you moved roughly around him, shooting him dirty glares and tossing a frozen bag of peas from the freezer of your kitchen as fast and as hard as you could, directly at his face.

He caught it too easily and placed it carefully in front of him on the table before he turned his body back around to face you as you moved around your home.

He was motionless as he watched you and you felt your frustrations mounting the longer his silence stretched on.

“Put the stupid thing on your stupid face Kyungsoo!” You reached for the bag of vegetables quickly, having closed the distance between where you had been searching through your cupboards for some medicine for his lip and deciding that you simply didn’t have any, you moved in on him fast. He was just sitting there watching you in silence anyway, obviously the man was too traumatized to take care of himself at this point.

Or perhaps he was too occupied with watching you spin around your home like an angry tornado spiral.

He hardly flinched when you plopped the cold bag over his red face and he didn’t even close his eyes when you moved in closer.

The bag of peas was cold. You felt it in your hand as you held it to his face and you held it there, withstanding the cold for as long as you could, before it became too much to bear on your hand. Surely it was too cold on his face too right?

You switched hands and held the bag with the other and he blinked his big eyes at you, looking over your face closely. He caught your eyes every time they reached out for his and held your gaze until you couldn’t stand it anymore and you were the first to look away.

You looked down at the cut on his lip that had a purple tint to the edges where the red had scabbed over now. You looked up at the short black hair that stood up, still messed from when his hands tried to smooth it in the hallway. You looked down at his hands that rested lightly over his thighs with rounded fingertips and too short fingernails inside dry, picked at cuticles.

The bag of vegetables grew too cold for your other hand and your conscience began to pick at you in that annoying way that usually kept you from going too far with your anger.

He was still silent as he kept everything inside and watched you from his punishment seat at your dining room table.

You sighed as you pulled the bag away from his face and lifted your free hand to feel the coolness in his cheek.

It was icy. Of course it was. You’d held it there for so long it was something incredible that he simply withstood it.

“Does it hurt?” You weren’t sure what you expected with this question. Denial? Would he act like a strong man who would take anything and deny ever feeling anything as weak and vulnerable as pain?

“Of course it hurts–” His silence had been so pervasive that the sound of his quiet voice against your ears felt startling for such a small statement in such a small voice, yet you reeled from its impact. “–but don’t I deserve this much?”

Did he deserve this pain?

Did he mean the slap from the queen, or your anger for May?

“–or more, put it back.” He lifted your hand that gripped the icy bag and put it back onto the cold skin of his cheek and held your hand steadily in place.

His eyes held yours tight, almost refusing to blink until the air in the room became too much, when he opened them again they locked in to yours again and you saw him bite down hard on his jaw and screw his eyebrows together once the cold became too much again. His steady breathing changed and he gasped in and out quietly and it was too much. It was too much for you to take, you wondered how in the world he had this sort of self control in him to take this pain. You pulled back, pushing his hand back hard he gave and let it fall, you pulled the bag from his face and quickly laid your warm hand over his skin. Wanting suddenly to give him your warmth.

How could the urge to protect this asshole be so strong? Why you?

“You’re a stupid jerk.” You said into his brown eyes and his face was warming up under your hand.

You felt him move as he nodded his head in agreement and you frowned your lips.

When he moved again, it was his hand, the one that held yours in place with the peas, he placed it over the hand you held to his face and you felt him grip lightly before he turned his face. Into your hand you felt his lips, their softness gave way and he placed a kiss into your palm.

You held your breath and he held your hand. How a tiny kiss could feel so significant you would never know, but that kiss into your palm lingered for hours and for days and why did you have to feel so dizzy from it?

You had your hand back. He had let go at some point and you closed your open hand, perhaps you could hold on to that kiss for a while longer.

“I’m sorry for May,” he said and you looked up from your tight fist and closed your gaping mouth before he could get a good look at your silly weak reaction to the tiny gesture.

“I should have told you about it first … before I went to the queen. I–” he inhaled a deep breath that he exhaled slowly before he went on, “I thought it would feel good to hurt you, but I don’t think I have the stomach for that. Not anymore.”

“Not anymore?”

He shook his head and watched your face closely.

“Something has changed,” he whispered in response and his neverending gaze finally broke. He closed his eyes tight before he turned his head and looked away.

“What do you mean? What’s changed?” Had your voice always sounded this desperate? Why did he have to sound so vague, yet so promising, when he spoke to you like this?

“Don’t worry about it,” he said and you didn’t even try to hide the loud groan of frustration. He didn’t even try and hide the tiny smile that touched the edges of his lips.

“I should go. Something about the phone records that I saw when they picked May up looked strange.” He was standing up from the seat, clearly deciding that he was no longer in need of your extensive medical attention or a bag of frozen peas wielded in anger.

“But what about the queen? She said–” Your words stuck when you watched his hand moved down to his pocket and he pulled out a cell phone that he looked down at, unlocked and began scrolling through the screen of. “What the hell is that?”

“This, my darling, is called a cell phone.” Your mouth hung open as you stared down at the phone in his hands and when he looked up into your face, you snapped your jaw shut the second he smiled at you. “I stole it from the old man in security. I’ve had it for a week and he hasn’t even noticed.”

Your expression must have been disapproving because you watched his smile slowly flatten as he looked into your face.

“Oh come on, it’s a work phone and he doesn’t even use it. He reads newspapers and yells at me about driving too fast down the driveway. I suppose he wants me to drive as slow as you do.”

His voice slowed down as he trailed off, focusing now on something he saw on the screen of his phone as he made his way to the door.

“Hey this–” he looked up from the front door, his phone forgotten momentarily, he pointed down, “–this is our secret okay? You can use it too if you need it, just come look for me.”

He bit down on his lip, wincing when he bit too close to the small cut at the corner and you looked up from his lips back into his eyes as his words lingered in your mind. Silly words that were meaningless. Words that he threw out thoughtlessly like my darling and my princess and…my future wife.

Mine.

In that moment, you wished you could take back the countless times you had begged May to show you his picture before you arrived. You wished you had spent less time trailing your finger along the lines of his face, over the curve of his plump lips, the strength of his eyebrows, the intensity of his eyes.

Perhaps with less dreaming of his face you would have been better prepared to resist him. Your heart would perhaps have been better guarded and your posture would be better equipped to stand against his gravity.

That damned unstoppable force-field that he had, that pulled you into him and even now, with the bitterness still on your tongue from his act of betrayal, you could still feel the pull.

Was it his eyes? Was it the way he watched you and refused to look away? It was probably his smell.

“Kyungsoo.” His name left your lips and you caught the way he pulled his eyes up into yours slowly. Where had his focus been?

“Y-You don’t really think May is a traitor do you?”

Saying the words with your own voice felt dirty and you fought the urge to shrivel up and hide from his knowing eyes as soon as you said it. Even more so, the shame you felt inside your chest at the mere thought of May actually being guilty of the crimes he had been so sure of before…before that tiny seed of doubt seemed to appear in his mind. Something about the call records. Maybe, just maybe there was something there.

“Thank you for the peas,” he said with a sad smile and you felt the warmth of his hands along the sides of your face.

And he left. The warmth of his hands lingered on your cheeks long after the sound of the door closing broke your trance and the smell of him lingered well after his warmth faded.

Your home was empty. May was gone. Kyungsoo too.

But May was gone.

How long had you stood there at your door? It couldn’t have been that long, but your stubborn feet didn’t want to make you move. You knew if you moved, you’d turn to see the loneliness and emptiness that was left for you.

How could you force yourself to move on and function? Had you ever even done much of anything without May by your side? Telling you what to do, how to do it, and warning you of the dangers around you that you never paid enough attention to. She kept you out of trouble as best she could. You’d always trusted May. She was the one solid constant in your life that you could always trust and now…

You knew a simple phone call would have a new maid at your door in an instant but no matter who came, it would never be May.

You could feel the mood taking over. It started in your chest and moved through you like a slow moving lava flow, slowly but surely consuming all of the wildlife and plants until everything was covered in blackness. You made your way to your bed, climbed under the covers and shivered at the chill you felt inside.

You were always too cold without May.

Between the tears and the fitful dreams you drifted in and out. When you heard the small knock on your front door you weren’t even sure you actually heard anything until it sounded out again, just as quietly as the first time. But someone had definitely knocked.

It was very late. The moonlight shone through the windows, covering everything in a soft blue and you walked through your home in the direction of the front door. As you moved through the dining room you saw the thawed package of peas still sitting in the spot where Kyungsoo had been hours before.

May would have scolded you for leaving the peas out to go bad, giving you grief about wasting food again.

You unlocked the door and pulled it open just a little, peeking around the edge of the door and you saw a man standing there. At this hour? He looked tall and young and as your eyes adjusted to the low light of the hallway you could feel some bit of recognition when you looked at his serious face.

“Your Highness.” His voice was a hushed whisper that conveyed just a bit of a nasal tone to his voice.

Your mind cleared the instant he spoke and you took in the expensive clothing he wore, even in casual wear, you could see the undeniable luxury. His black hair laid softly over his head, cut into a style that you knew had the touch of a well trained, expert hand and with the recognition, you felt your stomach drop down onto the floor.

This person. This Prince Sehun, was the person who, in your mind was the beginning of it. He was very clearly the middle. And most certainly the fucking end. He was the temptation that May just couldn’t resist. Well before she even met him, well before she got whatever moment to be alone with him, she had fixated on his instagram, his other social media accounts that he used to flaunt his money, his fame and his influence in the world. You could only imagine what lies he told her to get her into his bed. Someone with the background of a prince was an expert in lies. You knew better than anyone, the truth in this statement.

The recognition hit you like a sour taste and you hardened your face and began to close your door, before he had the chance to affect you with any of his lies.

The door stopped just before reaching its nesting place and you looked down to see the foot of his shoe stuck just inside the doorway.

“Please,” His voice was a little bolder now with his plea, “May sent me.”

“Please let me inside, if they see me out here–” You caught the nervous glance behind him, then a look in the other direction before his dark eyes looked back through the slit in the doorway.

Was this a set up? Would a team of guards come to drag you away to the royal prisons the second you let him inside?

“I won’t let you in.” You said through the door. It was a risk you weren’t willing to take and you had absolutely no reason to trust this man, let alone let him inside of your home while you were alone.

“Just let me in Dummy.” He whispered harshly through the door and you gasped in a tiny breath. “She said to call you ‘Dummy’ when you were being dumb and that you would do anything,” he added in a much softer tone.

It was May. This was May. She had no reason to tell him the name she called you when you were acting a damn fool and needed to be handled just a little more firmly than a delicate princess would be treated. You felt your hands release their firm grip on the door frame.

With your grip loosened, the door pushed open and you felt the brush of his clothing beside you as he slipped inside and softly closed the door. He exhaled a breath of what could only be described as relief and you looked up into his handsome face to see a look of worry.

“I’ve been to see her. I had to bribe the guards to keep it off of the CCTV recordings, but I talked to her and–” He stopped talking and you heard the trembling intake of breath he took as he suddenly broke the tiny bit of eye contact he held with you and looked away, blinking his eyes quickly, you heard him clear his throat.

“Is she okay?”

He turned back to look at your face with your question and you politely ignored the wetness you saw in his eyes.

“Umm–” He hesitated as he spoke and something about his hesitation left you feeling even more hopeless than you had felt before. What wasn’t he telling you about this whole situation? Your mind jumped wildly, making leaps straight to torture and isolation and horrible things they must be doing to her in there. Where was there? You didn’t even know where the prisoners of the royal family were kept.

“I’ve made some arrangements with the prison officials. There are very few that I can trust but I have made my expectations about her treatment very clear.”

Arrangements? Did he bribe them too? Perhaps he found out sensitive information about their families and is holding it over their heads like they do in the movies. Situations like that always ended badly. Maybe it was just his money he used.

“I have a note from May. I didn’t read it. She made me promise, and I swear on my life, I didn’t read it.” From the pocket of his slacks he removed a closed fist that he opened palm up in front of you. A very tiny ball of paper, rolled up tightly as could be, sat in the middle of his open hand and you reached for it carefully with your fingertips. What could she possibly have written on this tiny scrap of paper?

Perhaps a way to exonerate her? Would this be the clue you needed to get to the truth? Could you possibly bring May back with this?

“I’m sorry,” he said softly, his voice suddenly thick with emotion. You heard a small sniffle in his nose and you didn’t dare look up into his face.

“–for whatever role I played in this and that this is all I can do for her. I’m so sorry.”

You stared down at the ball of paper in your fingers and you heard the door open and close carefully as he left.

You locked the door behind him and rushed to your bathroom where you knew the light was the brightest in your home. You ignored the blinding sensation as you quickly flipped on every switch in the room and began to carefully unroll that tiny scrap of paper onto the bathroom counter. You could instantly recognize her handwriting, although microscopic, it was May for sure.

As you smoothed out the paper you felt your heartbeat increasing and breathing seemed to be growing more and more difficult as you read new word after new word uncovered on the note. Her writing was angry. It was all caps and it was as serious a warning as you had ever received in your entire life from anyone. And coming from May it counted double. May’s word in your life, had always been gospel. She had never once steered you astray, nor had she ever been wrong about any of her discoveries. The note had three sentences. Each more soul crushing than the last and your hands trembled as you looked down at the letters displayed before you on that note.

DON’T TRUST DO KYUNGSOO. HE IS A MURDERER. GET OUT NOW.

The Price of Privilege [M]: - part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6, part 7, part 8 , part 9 , part 10 , part 11, part 12 , part 13 , part 14, part 15

[acashgirl]

Untitled Marvel Project: Part 6

WOOOOOOO, totally not surprised Part 5 was the most successful part thus far, trust me if I was you I’d be the same way! Like Peter yes. So yeah hope you guys enjoy this part and the more to come! PS sorry about the varying lengths, while I’m writing them they seem longer and then I transfer them over and i’m like... damn. SO SORRY! Catch you on the flippity-flop!

(First) (Previous) (Next) (Index)

  You followed Tony and Peter into a different elevator than you had used before. Peter was beaming and speaking to Tony is an upbeat excited manner, every once and awhile asking you something, the only things you could mutter were single syllables or nods. The elevator dropped straight down which caused your stomach to flip making you feel more nervous than you already had. The door opened to a large underground arena that seemed more rectangular and narrow in shape, almost like a wide tunnel. It had platforms heading up towards the ceilings most likely for high target work or scaling up and down levels.

“Is this new Mr.Stark?” Tony and Peter stepped out of the elevator, you trailed a distance behind. “No it’s been here the whole time, just never had a reason to use it!” “What’s our reason? We used the one upstairs last time.” They both stopped and so did you. “She is.” Tony pointed toward you standing a couple feet away. “Y/N? B-but why?” “Once you see how this goes I think you’ll understand.” Tony walked off to a control panel and began swiping things around on the screen. Peter walked up to you looking equally confused as he was excited, “Y/N what is he talking about?” “Nothing I was going to share.” You mumbled. He stared at you now leaning towards concerned. “Y/N you're up!” You looked over at Tony and he pointed to a line 10 feet in front of you. You hesitantly walked up to the line and stood still, “What now?” “Don’t get hit.” A loud beep went off around you and a spherical floating thing came out of the floor. “What’s that?” You eyed the item cautiously. “That is a practice dummy. It is going to follow you around until you stop it.” Peter was now beside Tony watching you intensely “Tony… No.” “Only one way to stop it now sweetie, I already pressed play” As if it was on voice command the sphere launched at you and almost took off your head. “Hey!” It turned back around and came back at you just as fast as before, you having to dodge it quickly as it would've easily knocked you out. “C’mon Y/N you know what you have to do!” Tony exclaimed. “Tony I-,” You dodged the thing again, “I’ve never tried it on something moving!” “Than make it not move.” Peter was looking more worried every time it tried to hit you and your face was becoming more fearful. You didn't want to do this, this isn’t how you wanted to reveal yourself. It was pushing you too far and you no longer could swim. You were no longer focused. “Y/N!” Peter suddenly shouted. You look back and see the sphere hurdling closer than you could dodge but you weren’t ready. It struck you hard on the side of your face and plowed through your shoulder. “Mr.Stark!” “I can’t stop it Peter” You heard something from that direction, like feet shuffling but they wouldn't near. “You’re not going out there.” Tony scolded. Your head was throbbing but you didn’t feel much pain apart from it. You knew the thing would come back and just keep striking until you could no longer get up and right now you could. Everything seemed in slow motion and you pulled yourself up barely dodging its attack. You could see it begin turning back around as you stood. It neared you at an oddly slow pace and you focused in on its core. This isn’t what you wanted but it’s what needed to happen. The room went back to normal speed and inches away from your face the sphere froze. You could hear some weird sounds happening from underground, most likely from a strain on the mechanisms it was running on. “Y/N let it go you’ll break my machine.” “Tony if she lets it go its going to hit her-you said she had to stop it.” “That’s what you think, push it Y/N.” The pain in your spine was crippling, never had it felt this intense and expanding it would only be worsening. But it was either that or get hit in the face by a near 300 lb thing. Push it. The sphere imploded and the straining sounds disappeared but the pain consumed you. You let out a horrifying sound you didn't know you were capable of making and fell to your knees clenching onto your lower back. As you peered up to the particles they also fell into the floor, creating a large pile of dust. You weren’t able to pull yourself back together and the pain disappeared as the dust did. That was new.   Peter rushed over to you and helped you back up, Tony watching from the podium. “Well that was exciting wouldn’t you say Peter?” “Uhm- that was,” He looked down at you, “are you okay?” he whispered. “Y/N how do you feel?” You glared up at Tony, “I had said no.” “Well you found out something new hm?” You pushed away from Peters careful grip and began heading towards the man, “I was not ready for that! I don't want to expand myself, I just want it to go away! Why do you think I was avoiding everyone for days, did you even notice!? I don’t want whatever this is, I don’t want to be who I am. Why couldn’t you have just left it alone, left me alone? Why didn’t you just kill me when I came through the ceiling?” Your eyes had swelled now and your throat was beginning to close. “I know you can do the impossible.” “I don’t want to do anything! Actually that’s a lie you know what I want to do?” You glanced at Peter before looking back, “I just want to die. I don’t want to be around anymore. Around anyone. I can’t risk being here or out there. I can’t put anymore people in danger. Bruce is right, I could kill you all.” The tears began to stream out but you kept your voice as clear as you could. “Y/N you're just overwhelmed-” Tony tried to stay calm. “Of course I am! No thanks to you! I wasn’t ready for this, especially with him here,” you pointed towards Peter not letting go of Tonys eyes, “he was the only good thing I’ve had so far and now I’m just a psycho with the ability to turn you to dust.” “Y/N you’re not-” You looked towards Peter, “Please don’t say it. Just… just forget about me, forget about everything you just saw.” He reached out toward you “I don’t want to-” “Peter please. I’m not someone you want around.” “Y/N I think you're being a little rash.” “Tony!” The sunglasses he was wearing were ripped off his face. “D-did you do that?” He pointed in the direction they sprawled out. “No, it was just the wind.” You turned and marched toward the elevator which wouldn't open, “Friday!” “That doesn’t work down here” Tony exclaimed not leaving his perch. “Of course not.” You murmured. You honed in on the door and felt that pain you were becoming so familiar with as the door began to particlize. You had never tried walking through anything but there was a first try for everything. The eyes of the two you were about to leave behind burned into you as you reached through the fuzzy film that was a door. Everything seemed fine so you pushed yourself through. As you pivoted back around you saw Tony with wide eyes staring at what just happened while Peter was almost smiling to himself. You closed the discomfort and the door solidified instantly to which you pushed the up button in the elevator and zoomed up the building.   Neither one followed you as you hoped. This was not a moment to try and come at you with sense and compassion. All you could feel was a swelling rage. How could Tony be so stupid? What if you hadn't been able to control the dummy and it came through you causing you to get hurt? Did he even realize? And Peter was just there, just there, watching you. But he had tried to come to your rescue, right? Yeah he had tried to help you, he had tried to be a hero to you. No, you can't think that way none of this was right. The whole situation is fucked and shouldn't be happening here, you shouldn't be here. The elevator opened back to the unfamiliar hallway and as you stepped out you felt no one. You began to release your tension just a bit, no stressors no issues. You walked in the only direction where you knew your place and that was back to the large lounge. Stepping out into the area you began to feel a presence. Looking around you saw no one but the feeling crept over you and became consuming. This caused a panic to swell into your head and your eyes were dashing around trying to find what the reason for this was. And then you saw them, it was the Captain who made you feel wrong inside. He was out on the porch looking into the distance as you and Peter had awhile earlier. Yet this time you felt a whole other feeling, no longer holding joy or peace now harboring fear and disgust. Now wasn't a time you should approach him to ask about the constant sense of hatred you felt from him but now was also the moment you'd get the most out of it.   You made your way to the door and pushed through, his glance looking immediately toward the new sound. “Oh it's just you.” You didn't reply and just approached, slowing your march as you closed in. “May I help you?” He looked toward you and rested his arm on his knee. “Why do I feel like you hate me?” “Excuse me?” “The first impression I had of you was deemed by your worried face and the feeling of caution. And then that one time in the hallway you wouldn't even acknowledge that feeling of anxiety or awkwardness. Not to mention you were here the whole time I was when everyone else was gone and you didn't even look into my room or care to try to speak to me.” “Okay first off, I’m not exactly one for hospitality anymore. There have been a few incidents that have led me to be more standoffish. Secondly I wasn't even aware you were here during that time. You think Tony told any of us anything? The only things I heard were what Bruce let me in on, that you were different but didn't know you were. Now see that leads to some concerning thoughts because I've dealt with people like that and it's no cake walk it's a pain in the- anyways. So I'm sorry if it seems like I hate you or something, I just don't have anything to go on so far.” You leaned your weight onto one of your legs and looked into him, “You're talking about Bucky aren't you?” His face became puzzled, “How do you know about him?” “W-Wanda told me, well not really she just said that you two were friends and he had been nervous over what he would do.” He sighed, “I mean that's a basic sum up I suppose.” “Is he okay?” “Currently he's sleeping, for a long while.” “What do you mean?” “He asked to be frozen until we could figure out a way to get it out.” “It?” He turned back toward you, his face never showed much emotion “He had something in him that was out of his control. People put something in him. He realized that he was a threat until that could disappear so he did the noble thing and decided to wait it out.” “I wonder if I could do that.” You looked out into the trees. “Why would you want to do that?” “Because I'm a threat. I'm learning new things about me on the daily but none of them lead to me figuring out myself, like who I am as a person. I know I can turn things into dust but I can't even remember what my favorite color was or who I lived with or why I was in a fucking plane before I crashed into the earth.” “Well that does sound like a predicament, but that doesn't make you an imminent threat.” “That's not what Bruce thinks.” He let out a laugh which caught you off guard, “Bruce is a threat himself, only recently has he gotten the hang of his issue.” “He has an issue?” “I would consider turning into a large green giant whenever you get ticked off an issue.” You let out a gentle laugh yourself, “I can agree.” He looked at you, “Don't be afraid of what you can do, just do it. Learn about yourself, teach yourself new things. Once you get a handle on it you can fight the bad.” “It's scary.” “There are enough things in the world that will scare you, trust me. Don't let yourself be one of them.” With that he got up off the bench and headed towards the door. “My names Y/N by the way.” Raising your voice a bit. “Sorry I never asked, I'm Steve.” He exclaimed over his shoulder. You heard the door open and close behind him and you were once again alone.

[toccarathings]

Rebecca - 5

April, 1999 - Eugene, OR

Six years. Not even that. 

Despite the winning fight Rebecca put up the first time around, cancer seemed to want to make a home in her. Being vanquished in the first round only seemed to make it more angry and determined, and what started as a lack of energy soon developed into marked discomfort and a visit to the doctor. There were more tests and imaging and more doctors and in the end most of her organs were riddled with it. 

Cara raged against it, pacing the floor while Rebecca sat in stoic silence, occasionally wiping tears from her cheeks. “That’s one opinion, Bec. We can keep going, find another doctor, someone who specializes, like really specializes. Or or or new treatments, they’re coming up with stuff all the time, right? Wherever we need to go to find it, we’ll go there.” Rebecca let her go on, wanting to have that fire and that fight but unable to muster it. It wasn’t like the last time when her wolf carried her through and kept that spark of life inside her alive. Somehow she knew this fight would be futile. Cara was strong and more determined than anyone Rebecca knew; it was part of why she loved her so. But there was nothing for Cara to fight, nothing that would be cowed by her anger. 

“Cara, please sit down,” she asked, her voice a soft contract to Cara’s sharp anger. The wolf stopped her pacing and stared, rage boiling. “Please,” Rebecca pleaded, her voice a rasp. She felt the weight of Cara’s gaze, dark eyes blazing with hurt and anger and fear. Finally Cara submitted and sat next to her. Rebecca took her hand, felt the warmth radiating from her, the wolf inside a source of constant heat. She thought of the last time she had this fight how many nights Cara lay curled against her back chasing away the chills her body couldn’t battle on its own, ravaged as it was by chemicals. 

Cara sat like a petulant child, seething with anger and hatred. Rebecca knew it wasn’t directed at her but rather what was inside her, eating away at her. “You can’t give up,” Cara said through clenched teeth. “You can’t.” 

Rebecca traced a finger along the veins on the back of Cara’s hand. So much strength, so much tenderness in those fingers. She never tired of that touch. “I won’t do the treatments again, Cara,” she said softly, determinedly. “We can talk to other doctors, get a second or third opinion. But unless someone can tell me my odds would be significantly improved, I won’t do it.” She lifted her eyes to Cara, her vision blurring until she blinked and the tears spilled. “I would rather spend whatever time I have left enjoying every minute I can with you, not poisoning myself with radiation or chemo or whatever else.” 

The first cracks appeared as a tear fell along Cara’s flushed cheek. “I could change you,” she said, voice barely a whisper. “You would heal, and we could...”

Rebecca smiled and reached a hand to Cara’s cheek. “No, my love. Thank you, but no. That is your world, and you are mine.” She dropped her hand and leaned against Cara, head tipping to rest on the wolf’s shoulder.

“Why won’t you fight?” Cara asked, unable to keep the bitterness from her voice. She didn’t understand how Rebecca could just resign herself to this fate without even trying. 

Rebecca thought for a moment, fingers flexing between Cara’s. “I want to. I really do. But this is different somehow. I think I knew before the first time I went to the doctor, deep inside I think I knew it was back, and it was worse.” 

“I can’t...” Cara husked, the crack in her anger widening as pain and confusion seeped through. “I don’t now how to be without you.” They sat there like that, crying together, the weight of reality pinning them in place. 

Two additional specialists confirmed the original prognosis. They wouldn’t have years, or even months. It would be a matter of weeks. Cara asked about treatment options and they offered vague chances of extending Rebecca’s life, but not by enough, not nearly enough. Rebecca still refused them. She didn’t want to spend the time decimated more by the treatments than the disease. So instead she made a plan. Each day was filled with things to do and see, filled with Cara. They drove south to the Bay Area and visited the places they knew when they’d first met. They kept going south and were tourists in Hollywood, children at Disneyland, lazy sunbathers on a beach in Cabo San Lucas. They gambled in Las Vegas, and saw the natural wonders of the Grand Canyon, Arches park in Utah, and Old Faithful at Yellowstone. Cara could see Rebecca’s energy fading more each day of the trip, that her fight was to stay awake as long as she could every single day, to drink in every moment. A week after they returned to their home in Eugene, it was all Rebecca could do to get out of bed. A week later, she couldn’t even do that. 

Rebecca called her brother and father. Both arrived the next day, with her mother and sister in tow. Tensions rose the moment they came in the door. Cara was grateful for the men - for once - as they stood up to the Walker women and insisted Rebecca’s wishes to remain here, in her home, be respected. Somehow it was Cara’s fault that this was happening, that being with a wolf had angered the spirits and the magical universe that they’d revered, and this was the curse. Cara bore it all, knowing better, seething nonetheless. In her mind they had no business here, they were Rebecca’s blood but no longer her family. They didn’t know her, didn’t know what made her laugh, or what her favorite ice cream was, or what movies made her cry every time she watched them. They didn’t know her favorite flowers or where she got the scar just above her kneecap. Cara knew all of these things and more. 

After yet another muttered complaint asking why her sister wasn’t in a hospital, Cara snapped. “Because she doesn’t want to be!” she growled through clenched teeth. “Because there’s nothing they can do for her there that I can’t do here. If you can save her, be my guest. You’re the mighty Walker witches, right? Go on then, what are you waiting for? Cast your spells! Make your potions! Work your magic! Save. Her.” Sadie and her mother recoiled at the vehemence of Cara’s attack, for once withering under her dark gaze, knowing they could do nothing. “You witches,” she said with a bitter laugh. “You can make me what I am, but you can’t save her?” She pointed at Rebecca’s form on the bed, chest rising and falling with each shallow breath. “Your magic is useless bullshit,” she spat. 

“Cara...” Her name whispered, croaked, cutting through the rage. Sadie and her mother left the room. Cara sat on the edge of the bed and took Rebecca’s hand. 

“I’m sorry, Bec. They just...” Cara started. 

“Shh. Listen to me, Cara,” Rebecca cut her off. She swallowed, her throat clicking with dryness. She tried to squeeze Cara’s hand, managed only to curl her fingers. “Time wasn’t ever on our side, was it?” She managed a faint smile, wishing beyond everything that she could have more of it, more time with this woman, her wolf. 

“It’s not fair,” Cara whispered back. “All the shitty people in the world who get to be fucking assholes into their eighties and nineties and people like you have to go...” She couldn’t finish. 

“Believe me, I’d stay if I could. Just to keep you out of trouble.” A light laugh turned into a cough. Cara handed her some water and helped her drink it. She didn’t like the way the circles under her eyes seemed darker, her skin seemed paler. The light didn’t refract the way it should in her eyes. When Rebecca had the coughing in hand, she spoke a gain. “Do something for me?” she asked. 

“Anything, you know that, Bec. Name it,” Cara said eagerly, holding Rebecca’s cool hand in both of hers, bringing it to her lips. 

“Be happy again.”

“What?” 

“Find a good heart, one that matches yours. Your life will be too long and I can’t stand the thought of you going through it alone. Let yourself be happy again, yeah?” 

It had taken her nearly fifty years to find Rebecca. Cara didn’t think in that moment she could find anything, anyone like this again, no matter how long she lived. She still wasn’t sure she’d live through this, through losing Rebecca. A part of her soul was being torn out, ripped from her, leaving a gaping open wound. It didn’t matter how much healing power she had, it wouldn’t touch this. Tears sprung in her eyes and rolled down her cheeks. She didn’t want someone else, she didn’t want anyone but Rebecca. She could feel the strength, life itself, ebbing from her. She couldn’t fight, couldn’t say no. She reluctantly nodded. 

“Promise?” Rebecca asked weakly.

“Ah, fuck. Yeah, I promise goddamnit,” Cara answered. 

“Good. C’mere. Lay down with me.” 

Cara complied and stretched out next to Rebecca, helping to turn her so they were facing each other, foreheads together, Cara’s arm around Rebecca’s thin waist. No matter how close Cara got, Rebecca’s body refused her heat. 

“Thank you, my love,” Rebecca said weakly. 

“For what?” Cara asked, sniffling. 

“Everything...” 

Cara’s arm rose and fell, rose and fell, and did not rise again. She waited, eyes squeezed tightly shut, waited to feel another breath on her lips. It never came. She kissed Rebecca’s lips, the tip of her nose, the spot between her brows. “I love you,” she choked. “Iloveyouiloveyouiloveyou ohgods wait, Bec, come back,  I didn’t tell you I love you.” She didn’t know how long she lay there, whispering the words over and over. 

I know.

A voice in her mind, strong as they first day they met. It wasn’t from the form in her arms, but she knew it to be true just the same. It was what got her to rise from the bed, press one last kiss to the cool skin of Rebecca’s temple, and leave the room. She let Rebecca’s family know she was gone and left them to console one another. She couldn’t stay for that, couldn’t be consoled. She walked outside stripping her clothes with each step, taking the wolf at the edge of the yard and running running as fast as she could running away running until her muscles cried out and her lungs burned and she thought her heart might explode and would have welcomed it ripping through her chest because then the pain would be gone and running and wondering how far and how long she could go before she could see Rebecca again. 

Howls echoed through the valley long into the night as she waited, waited and pleaded for death to take her too, take her instead. The wolf raged and clawed and wailed and raged some more. Never, never again, despite the promise she’d made. Never again.