#praying for the twin’s safety fr

[candythemew]

They drew him SO well in the newest comic my word.

[spiteweaver]

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The group Dreamweaver had gathered in their den appeared ragtag at a glance, but Jorah knew that each had been carefully selected. If what he had just revealed to them was true, then a crisis was almost surely brewing. What had been said could not leave this room, not until they had some semblance of a plan.

As always, Banrai stood at his mate’s side, the twins squirming in his arms. They were excited to see so many beloved and familiar faces in one place. Morpheus reached out for Rue, who they had become fascinated with in recent weeks, while Phobetor held staunchly to Phantasos’ pinky finger.

Solaire and Hollyhock loitered by the mantle. It was rare for Hollyhock to be called away from his duties, but he was Solaire’s mate, and, therefore, equally responsible for leading the clan should tragedy befall its founders or their heir. Still, he looked out of place among grim and hardened veterans, doe-eyed and soft-spoken as he was.

Crucis and Betelgeuse had been summoned for their expertise in magic. Betelgeuse was the clan’s head witch, and although the Arcane arts were not his forte, his unusual connection to the stars granted him a strange wisdom. More importantly, he could keep a secret better than any of them--and ensure that Crucis followed suit.

As a practitioner of the medical sciences, Isaiah felt he did not belong. Then again, he rarely did, and would have much rather been left to his work at the hospital. When Jorah told of Junior’s affliction, however, he sobered considerably. At the very least, Junior’s head would need stitching.

Abaddon’s presence required no explanation.

Predictably, Dreamweaver was the first to speak. “You’re certain?” they asked.

“Yes,” Jorah replied. “He said I was Light-aligned. Da knows I have no alignment--or, if I do, no one’s figured it out.”

“Could be a type of fugue state,” Isaiah suggested. “It would explain the erratic behavior, the aimless wandering, and especially the lapses in memory.”

“Then why did he remember so much else?”

“That...” Isaiah pinched his chin between his thumb and knuckle. “I don’t know,” he conceded. “Magic’s beyond me, but it sounds like a fugue state. I suppose the magical equivalent would be a trance.”

“Or a possession,” Betelgeuse added darkly.

“Exactly,” Jorah said. “It didn’t feel like da talking to me.”

“I do not mean to cause alarm,” Betelgeuse went on, “but possessions are most commonly inflicted by necromancers.”

“Atsushi’s master is gone,” Phantasos reminded, “and with it any motivation he would have to harm the clan. He paid for his crimes in blood and sweat; dede saw to that. Let’s not accuse the poor guy because it’s convenient, especially when he’s not even here to defend himself.”

“I’m not accusing,” Betelgeuse assured, “merely stating what is known.”

“Betelgeuse has a point,” Crucis said. “Do we know of any other necromancers in the territories?”

“It may not be the work of a necromancer,” Rue pointed out.

“No,” Betelgeuse agreed, “it is merely likely. There are other explanations, though I shudder to entertain them. Junior is powerful. What he lacks in emotional fortitude, he makes up for in resilience and raw magical talent. To posses him, it would take either a very skilled necromancer, perhaps even a lich, or...”

“Or?” Phantasos pressed.

Betelgeuse shifted uneasily under the group’s scrutiny. Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, he concluded, “A divine being.”

“Which of the Eleven would betray dragonkind so heinously?!” Solaire exclaimed. “The Arcanist and the Lightweaver have never been on the best of terms, but this--this would be a declaration of war, and against the Lightweaver’s most devout no less!”

“You’re right,” Crucis said, “it’s not something He’d do.”

“Jorah...” Dreamweaver leaned forward in their seat, and took Jorah’s hands in theirs. He hadn’t realized he’d been trembling. “What did you feel?” they asked. “You are not close to him, but you do know Atsushi; did you sense his magic, catch his scent? Were there any signs of him on Junior?”

“No,” Jorah said confidently. “I don’t think Atsushi had anything to do with this.”

Dreamweaver nodded, their expression impassive. In the corner of the room, Abaddon grit his teeth. “The Arcanist,” he growled, “I’ll tear His precious Observatory apart piece by piece.”

“Let’s not be hasty,” Hollyhock said, “let’s all take a moment to collect our thoughts. The last thing we need is a rash decision gone awry.”

“My son is out there,” Abaddon spat, the venom in his tone making Hollyhock shy away behind his mate, “stumbling around in the wilderness, dying, and it’s the work of the same son of a bitch who took Fragment and Sliver from me. I’m going to find him, and then I’m going to rip the Arcanist limb from limb for daring to lay a single spindly finger on him.”

“No one is going anywhere,” Dreamweaver said, “until we know what we’re up against.”

“Junior is my son,” Abaddon reiterated. “You and Banrai both nearly threw yourselves into an active colony of Seat-corrupted pink celestine for yours.”

“And you stopped us from doing so.”

“I should have stayed with him,” Jorah mumbled. “It’s my fault, aba.”

Abaddon’s fierce expression softened. He moved swiftly to his grandson’s side, and pulled him into a crushing embrace. The assembly heaved a collective sigh; thank the gods for a grandfather’s tender heart. “It isn’t your fault,” Abaddon said. “You did the right thing, coming to Dreamweaver. There was nothing you could have done for him.”

“I could have made him come back.”

“Doubtful,” Crucis said. “He’s not himself, Jorah. He would have killed you if you’d pushed him hard enough--or, rather, whoever’s inhabiting him would have used him to kill you.”

“But he’s alone,” Jorah persisted, “and hurt.”

“We’ll find him,” Abaddon said, “and we’ll make sure he’s taken care of. If he’s being possessed, then it’s for a reason. He can’t carry out his mission if he’s dead.” He could not muster a smile, but he tilted Jorah’s chin up to catch his gaze regardless. “I’m sorry I overreacted,” he murmured. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

“It’s ok,” Jorah said, “you’re just worried.”

“We all are,” said Hollyhock.

“I know.” Abaddon rubbed at the crook between his neck and shoulders, exhaling a slow, weary breath. “I’m sorry I snapped at you, Hollyhock. I think I’m finally starting to feel my age. I know you care as much as I do.”

“Of course,” Hollyhock said. “There isn’t a dragon in Feldspar who wouldn’t move mountains for you and your family, Abaddon. You’re not alone in this.”

“Junior’s faced worse,” Solaire asserted. “The lad’s a stauncher drake than I, and that’s saying quite a--”

They each felt the magic before its effects, a wave of raw Arcane energy emanating from the city center. Dreamweaver leapt to their feet just as Solaire and Crucis collapsed. “Take the twins,” they said to Banrai, “take them upstairs.”

“What about you?” Banrai asked.

“I’ll take care of them, da,” Phantasos said.

“No,” said Dreamweaver, “I need you to find your brothers. Tell them to get to safety, then fly to Aphaster as fast as your wings will carry you. That was Arcane magic. It can only be connected to Junior.”

“But--”

“Do as your progenitor says,” Crucis said. He was sagged against Dreamweaver’s now vacant seat, his eyes squeezed shut and his hands clutching his head. “I pray to the Eleven they were unaffected. Lutia is bonded to the Seat, and--agh! They need to be warned!”

“I’ll go with him,” Rue offered. “Mother may have some insight.”

“Quickly,” Dreamweaver urged, and, sharing a solemn glance, the two were off, shedding their glamours with sparks of golden magic. The sounds of their wingbeats were joined quickly by Ozymandias’. “Betelgeuse,” Dreamweaver continued, “gather the clan’s witches. Abaddon, Isaiah, Jorah, Hollyhock, you’re with me. We must tend to Solaire and Crucis.”

“No,” Crucis gasped. “Get away. Get away from us.”

“Solaire...” Hollyhock knelt beside his mate, who had begun to beat on the sides of his head. “Solaire, please,” he whispered, “get up. I--I must have something in my garden that will help you.”

“Hollyhock,” Crucis cried, “get away from--!”

Solaire stilled. His knuckles were bloody where he had beaten gashes into his scalp, and bruised from the force of his strikes. Hollyhock took the nearest in his own hands, running his thumbs gingerly across the cuts. He was too distracted, too distraught, to catch the quiet sound of his husband’s free hand moving downward to draw the dagger from its sheath at his hip. It withdrew with a hiss...

...and Solaire buried it to the hilt in Hollyhock’s stomach.

@sophiellum-fr @serthis-archivist @airris-fr @reanimatedfr @jollyroger-fr @megane-pigeon