#sacrificed everything for nothing. still breathing given a ‘second chance at life’ yet still just as dead as adam

[zer0point5ive]

thinking about lawrence. about how he held adam. crawled over to him to cup his face and promise. thinking about “we’re gonna be ok?” “i wouldn’t lie to you.” about how lawrence couldn’t keep his promise, no matter how badly he wanted to and “i myself, whenever i close my eyes, i see adams corpse.” thinking about. ‘eventually something you love is going to be taken away. and then you will fall to the floor crying. and then, however much later, it is finally happening to you: you’re falling to the floor crying thinking, “i am falling to the floor crying," but there's an element of the ridiculous to it - you knew it would happen and, even worse, while you're on the floor crying you look at the place where the wall meets the floor and you realize you didn't paint it very well.’

[elysiaheaven]

𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐑𝐃 𝐄𝐘𝐄-𝐒U𝐍𝐃𝐀𝐘 𝐗 𝐅.𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑--𝐌𝐨𝐜𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐬-𝟎𝟐

Genre:Angstly?

Syponosis:

𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗲𝘅𝗽𝗿𝗲𝘀𝘀 𝗶𝘀 𝗵𝗶𝗱𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘀𝗼𝗺𝗲𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴, 𝗦𝘂𝗻𝗱𝗮𝘆 𝘄𝗮𝗻𝘁𝘀 𝘁𝗼 𝗳𝗶𝗻𝗱 𝗶𝘁. 𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝘀𝘄𝗮𝗻 𝗶𝘀 𝘀𝗶𝗻𝗴𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝗶𝘁 𝘁𝗼 𝗯𝗲 𝗳𝗿𝗲𝗲. 𝗙𝗿𝗲𝗲 𝗶𝘁 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗯𝗲 𝘁𝗿𝗮𝗽𝗽𝗲𝗱 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵 𝘆𝗼𝘂. 𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗘𝘅𝗽𝗿𝗲𝘀𝘀 𝘄𝗮𝘀 𝘄𝗿𝗼𝗻𝗴 𝘁𝗼𝗼….

𝗔𝘀𝘁𝗿𝗮𝗹 𝗘𝘅𝗽𝗲𝘀𝘀 𝗦𝘂𝗻𝗱𝗮𝘆 𝘅 𝗳.𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗿

TW: Mentions of nightmares, disturbing descriptions, (corpse etc)

Sunday jolted awake, shouting, “Robin!” His heart raced as he looked around, trying to catch his breath. But Robin wasn’t there—he wasn’t home anymore. Slowly, his surroundings came into focus, and he realized he was in a room that wasn’t his own. The walls were bare, the furniture plain, and the entire space felt unfinished, as if it had been waiting for someone to make it their own. The Astral Express crew had mentioned this room once belonged to someone else, but it was now his.

The room was dull, imperfect, like the shattered pieces of his life. Yet, he couldn’t bring himself to complain. I have to live… because Robin gave me this chance. She… begged for me to be free. The thought weighed heavily on him, a constant reminder of what she had sacrificed. Something she had sworn she would never do, and yet, she did it for him.

He sat on the edge of the bed, catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror. Sweat clung to his silver hair, now a tangled mess. His clothes were rumpled, his skin pale, and his eyes—those golden irises with navy pupils—looked hollow, as though they hadn’t known rest in days. Unperfect, he thought, running a hand through his hair, which fell messily across his forehead, unkempt and wild. The gold halo behind his head, adorned with eye-like details, seemed to mock him. It was supposed to represent his Halovian heritage, a sign of power, of strength. But all he saw was a symbol of failure.

Something itched at his skin, and he realized he needed to wash away the remnants of the nightmare. Just breathe. Just live, he told himself, though the words felt empty.

Dragging himself to the bathroom, he stepped into the shower, the cold water shocking his senses as it poured down his back. He closed his eyes, letting the water cascade over him, trying to wash away the memories, the guilt, the fear. But the nightmare clung to him like a second skin, the echo of the boy’s voice still ringing in his ears: Why did you let her suffer? Why did you put Robin through that?

Sunday clenched his fists under the stream of water, but then loosened them. He had to control it. Seal it, he thought, repeating the mantra that had become his only means of survival. Lock it all away.

After a while, he stepped out and grabbed a towel, running it over his damp silver hair, before brushing his teeth. The bathroom was quiet, save for the sound of the bristles against his teeth. As he placed the brush down, he noticed the disarray. The toiletries were scattered—nothing was in order. It felt chaotic, unsettling.

Not perfect. He instinctively straightened everything, aligning the brushes, the towels, making the space orderly once more. It looked strange, almost unnatural, the bathroom too perfect for the raw emotions he was carrying inside. But it was who he was—a broken boy in a perfectly arranged world.

He stared at the reflection in the mirror again. His tired eyes stared back at him, dark circles etched beneath them, proof of sleepless nights. How many times have I woken up like this? he wondered, though he couldn’t remember. Every night had begun to blur together, the nightmares blurring the line between waking and sleeping.

He dressed in the simple clothes that Dan Heng and Mr. Welt had given him—normal, unremarkable clothes that felt foreign on his skin. A stark contrast to the robes of his Halovian past. But it was better this way. Here, on the Astral Express, he was just… Sunday. A man trying to survive. A man trying to piece together the shattered remnants of his existence.

Stepping outside his room, Sunday made his way to the common area, walking through the quiet corridors of the Astral Express. It felt peaceful, the soft hum of the ship’s engines the only sound. But inside his mind, the storm raged on.

He was here because of Robin. Because she had given up so much. And yet, all he could think about was how he wasn’t enough. He had failed her, failed to protect her. And now, he had to live with the guilt, the weight of her sacrifice hanging over him like a shroud.

As he walked through the halls, he passed by others—people who smiled, people who were at peace. But he remained silent, his golden eyes downcast, his body moving on autopilot. He wasn’t part of their world. He was still locked in the cage, the bars invisible but ever-present, surrounding him, trapping him.

Just live. He reminded himself once again. For her.

But with every step, it felt harder and harder to breathe.

Sunday stepped into the main room of the Astral Express, feeling the weight of everyone's eyes immediately on him. The chatter that had filled the space moments ago suddenly died, replaced by an uncomfortable silence that pressed in on him from all sides.

March, Dan Heng, and Welt Yang stood around the table, their conversations halting as their gazes shifted to Sunday, staring at him as though he were an alien, an anomaly that didn’t quite fit. He could feel their unspoken judgments, the awkwardness in their stares. It made him feel even more withdrawn, as though his presence disrupted something fragile, something he couldn't fix.

He looked around the room, his golden irises scanning every inch for something to occupy his hands, something to make him feel useful. That’s when he noticed Stelle’s coffee station—a mess of spilled sugar, half-empty cups, and scattered stirrers. His fingers twitched, an unconscious need to set everything back in order. Without thinking, he walked over to clean it up, hoping that maybe, just maybe, doing something would make the uncomfortable feeling in the room go away.

But before he could touch anything, Stelle looked up from her drink, watching him with a bemused expression. “What are you doing?” she asked, her voice laced with confusion, as if his very presence was strange enough, let alone his sudden need to clean.

He froze, feeling her eyes on him, and tried to withdraw. “You should clean this,” he said quietly, hoping to avoid confrontation. His voice sounded too cold, too formal—he hated it, but it was all he could manage right now.

Stelle raised an eyebrow and let out a mocking hiss, clearly trying to make light of the situation. “No way, day,” she joked, though there was an edge to her voice. But as she glanced at him, her lighthearted tone shifted when she saw his expression. His eyes were hollow, his face serious, as if the chaos of the room was suffocating him. “Ew,” she muttered, rolling her eyes. “Don’t be so scary about it.” Reluctantly, she cleaned the area herself, grumbling all the while.

Sunday stood there, feeling like a stranger in his own skin. He knew he had made the mood worse, knew he wasn’t wanted in the space. He could feel their collective discomfort like a storm cloud hanging over him, and all he wanted was to disappear.

He turned to leave when Himeko entered, her usual calm smile in place. She greeted him warmly, as though nothing was out of the ordinary. “Morning, Sunday,” she said, handing him a steaming cup of coffee. Her voice was soft, a kind gesture in a sea of silent stares.

He nodded briefly, the simple act of holding the cup feeling heavier than it should. “Why are you up so early?” Himeko asked, watching him carefully.

“It’s the normal time I wake up,” he answered flatly, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. But to everyone else in the room, his reply felt out of place.

March, who had been sipping her drink across the room, spit it out in surprise, her eyes widening. “We only woke up early because Miss Black Swan wanted us to!” she said, incredulous. “We're planning a small vacation, Sunday, just a break to decide the next destination. No need to be all serious!” Her laughter filled the room, but Sunday barely heard it.

Miss Black Swan, sitting elegantly by the window, greeted him with a small wave, her presence like a shadow in the corner of the room. He barely acknowledged her, only offering a nod before retreating into himself once more. The walls of the Astral Express felt closer than ever, the air too thick to breathe.

Without another word, he picked up his breakfast and turned to leave, wanting nothing more than to be alone again, to escape the eyes that felt like they were stripping him down piece by piece.

As he made his way to the door, Himeko called after him, her voice filled with gentle concern. “Sunday, if you ever need anything, you can come to me anytime, okay? You don’t have to carry everything on your own.”

He paused in the doorway, her words like a small crack in the wall he had built around himself. But he couldn’t muster a proper response. Instead, he nodded, his face a mask of emptiness, the expression so broken it made Himeko’s heart ache just to see it.

And then, without another word, he left, retreating to the silence of his unfinished room, where the weight of his guilt and his memories could drown him in peace.

Inside, the world outside could slip away, and he could lock himself up again, just like always.

"Also! Let me know when you will speak to Robin again.."

He sat there, the older version of himself, staring into the reflective surface of the bars, and for a fleeting moment, he saw not just a boy—but a version of himself encased in darkness, chained by grief.

Locked up. Locked up. Locked up.

The thought echoed in his mind, a relentless chant that mirrored the pounding of his heart. He was a Halovian, a guardian meant to protect. Yet here he was, imprisoned by his own fears and sorrows.

Suddenly, the room grew darker, shadows coiling like tendrils around him. A raven flew in through the window, its feathers glossy and black, eyes glinting with mischief. It perched on the edge of his cage, tilting its head as if assessing him.

“Look at you,” the raven cawed, its voice mocking. “A bird locked in a cage, yet it’s you who should be free! What a joke. Shouldn’t a Halovian be soaring, not cowering in this pathetic prison?”

Sunday felt a jolt of anger surge within him, but he swallowed it down, locking it away. “Leave me alone,” he muttered, but the raven only cackled louder, a chorus of similar voices joining in from the shadows.

“Disappointment!” they croaked in unison, their words slashing through the silence like daggers. “A Halovian who can’t even fulfill his father’s wishes! Why do you even exist if you’re this weak?”

“Control it,” a small voice whispered in his mind, the remnants of his innocence urging him to remain stoic. “Control your feelings. Don’t let them see how pathetic you are!”

But the raven continued its cruel dance, flapping its wings, sending a flurry of feathers swirling through the air. “Pathetic! Pathetic! How could you let your mother down? How could you let Robin down? You’re nothing but a broken boy, hiding behind a mask!”

Sunday pressed his hands against the cool metal of the cage, his heart racing. The raven's words echoed in his mind, resonating with the darkness he fought to suppress. “I’m not weak!” he shouted, but it felt like a feeble protest against an overwhelming tide.

“Are you sure?” the raven taunted, circling above him like a predator. “You hide from the truth, but it’s still there. You can’t escape what you are. You’re weak, and one day, they’ll see it too. They’ll realize you’re just a child playing at being strong.”

The small version of himself, locked in that cage, screamed back at him, a reflection of his deepest fears. “Control it! CONTROL YOURSELF! Don’t let them see you cry! Don’t let them see how weak you truly are!”

Sunday squeezed his eyes shut, the weight of his conflicting emotions threatening to consume him. “No… I can’t let this happen. I won’t break,” he whispered fiercely, trying to summon the courage he had buried deep within.

The raven, now circling more aggressively, transformed in front of Sunday’s eyes, feathers turning as black as ink. Its beak, sharp as a blade, seemed to cut through the air as it landed just inches from him.

Suddenly, the raven's shape twisted, and before him stood a figure cloaked in darkness—Gopher Wood's raven-self, a looming silhouette with eyes that glinted with a mix of fury and disappointment. The sight sent a chill down Sunday’s spine.

“You failed me,” Gopher Wood’s voice rasped, dripping with disdain. “You’ve always failed. Weak, fragile, just like your mother. You’re no Halovian, not even worthy of the Oak Family’s name.”

Sunday felt his chest tighten, the words slicing deep into old wounds that hadn’t fully healed. He recoiled, wanting to scream, wanting to defend himself, but the guilt held him hostage. “I… I didn’t fail!” His voice trembled, but even he didn’t believe his own words.

The raven figure stepped closer, towering over him now, its wings spreading wide as shadows curled at its feet. “You couldn’t protect her. You can’t protect Robin. Every step you take is a step toward their ruin. And why? Because you’re weak.”

Sunday clenched his fists, his entire body shaking as the weight of those words pressed down on him, threatening to crush him under their truth. “Go away!” he cried out, his voice thick with emotion. “I didn’t fail! I’m still here!”

But the raven's cruel laugh filled the air again, shrill and merciless. “You think you have a choice? You let your father’s wishes slip away, you let your family down, and now you live in the shadows of your mistakes. You’ll never be free. Not from me.”

Suddenly, the atmosphere shifted, the overwhelming darkness stilled as a voice—steady, calm, and commanding—cut through the haze.

“Stop,” the voice echoed in Sunday’s mind, soft yet powerful, ringing with authority. “Don’t let the corruption consume you.”

Sunday froze. The voice seemed to pierce through the shadows that had been suffocating him, a flicker of light within the gloom. He glanced around, his heart pounding in his chest. Ena’s angels?—it was something he had heard of, whispers from old teachings. But here, now, in the depths of his despair, the voice resonated with clarity, breaking through the fear and self-loathing.

The raven-figure snarled, its form flickering like smoke, trying to regain control. “Don’t listen to it, boy. You’re mine. You’ll always be mine.”

“It’s just a corrupted voice,” the soothing voice urged. “You’re stronger than this.”

Sunday felt an odd warmth growing within him, something unfamiliar but steady—like a hand reaching out to him from the void. The grip of the shadows seemed to loosen, and before he could fully comprehend it, he felt a presence—a light.

And then, out of the dark, a figure descended before him. An angel, radiant and otherworldly, appeared. Its four wings fluttered gently, feathers shining with an ethereal glow. Its eyes—h/c and filled with a wisdom that both comforted and awed—looked directly at Sunday.

The angel extended a hand toward him, eyes filled with compassion. “You must free yourself.” Its voice was soft, yet carried an undeniable weight, as though it could pierce through the thickest walls of doubt and fear. “This cage is of your own making. But you can still escape.”

For the first time in what felt like ages, Sunday felt something stir within him, something different from fear. Hope.

He reached out tentatively, but just as his fingertips grazed the angel’s, he awoke—gasping for air, his body drenched in cold sweat. His heart hammered in his chest as he blinked rapidly, trying to shake off the remnants of the dream that clung to him like mist.

His eyes adjusted to the darkness of his room, he glanced toward the mirror on the far wall. And there, staring back at him, was not just his reflection—but the version of himself that had long haunted him: the former head of the Oak Family. The weight of that legacy, the burden of that title, suffocated him all over again.

His hands trembled as he looked away, the ghost of his past self still lingering in the edges of his vision. He tried to shake it off, but the fear, the doubt—they clung to him like chains, dragging him back down. He couldn't listen to the angel’s words. Not now. Not yet.

Stumbling out of bed, Sunday moved away from the mirror, as far as he could, but the image of his former self remained in his mind.

Sunday stood frozen before the mirror, his breath coming in shallow gasps. He tried to look away, but his reflection held him captive. His hands trembled as he gripped the edges of the dresser, his knuckles white with strain. Gopher Wood’s voice, that low, haunting rasp, curled around him like a noose tightening with each word.

"You failed again," the voice hissed, venom dripping from every syllable. "Why do you think you’ll ever be anything more than this? You couldn’t protect your mother. You won’t protect Robin. You’ll only drag them down."

The pressure in his chest built to a point where he thought he might collapse under its weight. His vision blurred, but through the haze, he saw another figure in the mirror—Robin. She stood there, staring at him, her reflection asking a question that pierced straight through to his core.

“Why did you make me sacrifice Penacony for you?” Robin’s voice trembled with sadness, her innocent eyes filled with hurt.

Sunday’s body locked in place. He closed his eyes, his heart pounding in his ears. This is a nightmare, he whispered to himself, holding his head in his hands, desperately trying to block out the voices, the haunting accusations. His body shook as he tried to resist the flood of emotion threatening to consume him.

"It’s just a nightmare. It’s not real." But it felt real. Too real.

Robin’s voice echoed again. “Why did we have to switch roles, Sunday? It was your job to protect me. Not mine. Why did you fail?” Her words lanced through his soul, the guilt crashing over him in waves.

His eyes snapped open, and he saw her in the mirror again. Robin—her face twisted in confusion and pain, as if every word tore at her heart. She stood there, expecting an answer. His throat tightened as the weight of her words pressed down on him.

"Stop!" Sunday screamed, slamming his hands against the glass, his voice breaking with desperation. His breath came in sharp, ragged bursts. "Stop it! Please, stop!" His cries dissolved into sobs as he slumped against the mirror, tears running down his cheeks uncontrollably. He gritted his teeth, his hands shaking uncontrollably as he raised them to his face.

In a moment of sheer madness, he slapped himself, again and again, forcing himself to stop. "Stop it, stop it, stop it!" The sharp sting of his own hand against his face barely cut through the pain in his heart. But he did it, again and again, desperate to regain control, to force the nightmare to end. "Please... just stop..."

But the nightmare only grew darker.

From the shadows, Robin’s silhouette faded. A twisted shadow emerged, her soft laughter mutating into something cruel and mocking. Then, from the darkness, his mother’s voice rang out, soft but agonizingly pained.

“Why didn’t you save me?” she whispered, her form appearing in the reflection—melting, her body distorting in agony. “Why, Sunday? Why didn’t you save me?”

He screamed, stumbling back from the mirror, his legs nearly giving way as his mother’s accusing eyes bore into him. I tried... I tried! his mind screamed, but the words wouldn’t come out. His throat felt like it was being squeezed shut. The guilt, the regret—it crushed him, suffocated him. I couldn’t save you...

Suddenly, a figure with striking red slash marks across his face and black-and-white materialized before him—Aventurine, a man whose presence brought nothing but a looming sense of dread. His eyes narrowed, filled with contempt. “Why did you drag me into your mess!? Why did you make me remember this painful past? What’s the point, Sunday? What are you doing?”

A blue-haired boy and a brown man joined..

Sunday couldn’t answer. The walls of the room seemed to close in on him, the faces of people he knew—figures from the Astral Express—appeared around him, watching him with disdain, disappointment etched into their expressions.

They were all laughing now. Laughing at his weakness, at his failure.

“Why do you even exist?” they asked in unison, their voices melding into a chorus of ridicule. “What’s the point of you? You’re nothing but a failure. Nothing but a weak boy hiding behind wings that don’t even work.”

He stumbled backward, his gaze fell to Gopher Wood’s dead body—twisted and broken, surrounded by ravens, their lifeless eyes staring at him, silent and cold. Dozens of dead ravens littered the ground, their bodies grotesque reminders of what he had once been. Their deaths echoed in the silence of the room, and yet... the laughter continued.

Sunday ran, heart pounding in his chest, desperate to escape. This isn’t real. It’s not real, he repeated to himself, but no matter how hard he tried to shake off the nightmare, it clung to him. The laughter, the accusations—relentless, unending.

His legs carried him further into the shadows, and suddenly, his wings——began to tremble behind him. He stretched them out, hoping to take flight, to escape this cruel nightmare, to rise above the voices that told him he was nothing.

But when he flapped his wings, nothing happened.

They were clipped. Torn. Broken.

He couldn’t fly. His wings—his symbol of freedom, were always useless from childhood... A sob tore from his throat, raw and full of anguish as he collapsed onto the ground, the weight of his shattered wings pressing him into the cold place!?

You’ll never fly. You’ll never escape. You’re trapped. The voices whispered again. What’s the point of you? Why do you even exist?

And there, surrounded by the twisted reflections of his past, the mocking laughter of everyone he had failed, Sunday realized with cold horror that he couldn’t answer them.

He didn’t know why he existed anymore.

As Sunday lay broken, wings clipped, and the mocking voices tearing at the very fibers of his sanity, a shadow moved in the distance. It was different from the other figures that haunted him. It was darker, more dangerous, and yet, strangely familiar.

The figure, cloaked in an abyssal black, seemed to glide across the ground as if it was one with the shadows. Its movements were fluid, unnervingly graceful. As it neared, Sunday’s chest tightened, his body frozen in terror. He knew this presence—he had felt it before.

It was the one that had protected him. The one that had shielded him from breaking down completely. But now… something was different. Its aura was no longer gentle or safe. This time, it was filled with rage.

The figure came closer, stopping just in front of Sunday’s crumpled form. He dared not lift his head, but the dark figure bent down, its shadowy hand gripping his chin tightly and forcing him to look up.

“Stop.” The figure’s voice was sharp, each word cutting into Sunday’s soul like a blade. “Stop this. You’re wallowing again.”

Sunday gasped, his breath hitching as he tried to pull away, but the figure’s grip tightened. Its eyes, once cold, now burned with something far more dangerous—something that spoke of frustration, of anger.

“You overthink,” it hissed, its voice rising. “Always trapped in your mind, always suffocating in your weakness. When will you learn?”

Sunday’s vision blurred with tears as he shook his head, trying to push the voice away. He wanted it to stop. Just stop.

But the figure only grew angrier. "You can’t even fight back anymore, can you? You’ve let these memories, these shadows, consume you. You’ve let them win!"

And then, without warning, the figure’s hand released his chin and shot toward his chest, a sudden sharp pain cutting through Sunday as if a sword had pierced his heart. His eyes went wide with shock, his body convulsing as he gasped for air.

The figure had stabbed him.

Sunday’s mind reeled in agony. The searing pain was all-encompassing. His breath came in ragged, shallow gulps, and for a moment, the world tilted around him.

The figure’s face twisted into a sneer. “Maybe this is what you need. Maybe you need to die before you can ever wake up.”

Sunday’s vision swam, black spots clouding his view as his pulse raced, his heartbeat thundering in his ears. The agony was unbearable, every breath burning his lungs, and he wanted nothing more than for it to stop. His thoughts spiraled as he struggled to stay conscious, the figure’s voice rising like a roaring tempest in his ears.

“Wake up!” it shouted, a haunting echo that reverberated through the nightmare. The words seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once, shaking the very ground beneath him. "Wake up from the Order you’ve imprisoned yourself in! Wake up!"

Sunday’s eyes shot open, his body jolting upright as he gasped for air. His chest heaved, sweat pouring down his face as his hands scrambled to find something—anything—that would ground him in the chaos. He touched the wound at his chest, expecting to feel blood, but there was nothing.

It was a dream. Another dream.

He sucked in another shaky breath, his mind spinning with confusion. But was it really just a dream? It felt too real. The pain, the voices, the figure—they were too vivid to simply be an illusion.

His heart hammered in his chest as he tried to gather himself, his eyes scanning the room wildly. The mirror. The shadows. The figure. Everything flickered in and out, but the terror remained. The weight of those words, that shout—wake up from the Order—it echoed endlessly in his mind.

Suddenly, the shadows twisted again, and the laughter from before—the cruel, mocking laughter of the ravens, the dead figures—it returned. They had never left.

Realization struck him like lightning.

"This… this is still a dream," he whispered, his voice trembling. His breath quickened as panic set in. No escape. There was no escape.

He clutched his head, trying to shake the disorientation, the layers of nightmares that seemed to be folding in on themselves. "No, no, no…" His voice rose, hoarse from the strain. "Stop it. Stop it, stop it!"

But the darkness only deepened. The figures of his mother, of Robin, of Gopher Wood and Aventurine—they all returned, laughing, accusing, taunting him with his failures. Trapped in this endless loop of despair.

Sunday screamed, his voice hoarse and breaking under the weight of it all, but the voices didn’t stop. They only got louder.

Suddenly, he felt it again—that stab of pain in his chest. He looked down, expecting the wound to reopen, to bleed—but instead, he saw chains. Chains wrapping around him, tightening with every sob, every cry for help.

The shadowy figure reappeared once more, watching him with cold, emotionless eyes. “Do you see it now, Sunday?” it whispered, voice dripping with menace. "You’ll never wake up. You’ll stay in this cage forever. You’re too weak to leave it."

The chains grew tighter.

His wings twitched, desperate to take flight, but they remained clipped, useless. He tried to break free, to run, to escape the mockery, but the laughter grew louder, the figures closing in on him. His breath grew shallower, and the chains tightened further around his chest.

Sunday’s voice cracked as he shouted again, “No! This has to be a dream! It has to be!”

The shadow leaned closer, its breath cold against his skin. "Is it?"

And with that final, cruel question, the nightmare swallowed him whole.

Sunday woke up drenched in cold sweat, his heart still racing from the nightmare that clung to his mind like a vice. He shot up from his bed, breathing heavily as if he had just escaped drowning. The dream—no, the nightmare—still echoed in his thoughts, the weight of those mocking voices pressing down on him.

His fingers clenched into fists, and he could still feel the chains from the dream wrapped around his chest. The laughter. The accusations. They were gone, but the guilt they left behind lingered like a scar. He couldn’t stay here, not in his room, not with the suffocating silence.

Without thinking, Sunday bolted out of his quarters and made his way to the main hall of the Astral Express. His footsteps were quick, urgent, as if he was trying to outrun something. The halls blurred around him, and all he could focus on was reaching somewhere, anywhere, where the dark thoughts couldn’t follow.

When he reached the main hall, he stopped abruptly, his eyes scanning the room. It was late, and most of the crew had turned in for the night. But not Himeko. She was there, sitting by one of the wide windows, drinking her coffee as always, her gaze distant as if she was lost in thought. The stars of the cosmos twinkled behind her, the endless expanse of space stretching out in all directions.

Sunday's breath hitched as he caught sight of her, and for a moment, he considered turning back. His hands were still trembling, and his thoughts were scattered like broken glass. But before he could retreat into the shadows, Himeko looked up, her eyes softening when she noticed him standing there, disheveled and clearly shaken.

“Sunday?” she asked, her voice gentle but tinged with concern. “Are you okay?”

Sunday stiffened under her gaze, the darkness still clinging to his features. His eyes, normally bright with determination, were shadowed and distant, haunted by the nightmare he couldn’t shake. He forced himself to smile, but it felt more like a grimace. “It’s nothing,” he mumbled, trying to brush it off, though his voice betrayed him. He sounded hollow.

Himeko raised an eyebrow, not convinced for a second. She didn’t press him, but her eyes told him she saw more than he was willing to admit. “You’ve been overworking yourself, Sunday,” she said softly, setting her coffee down. “I know you’ve been through a lot… but you need to take care of yourself. We want you to enjoy your freedom, not be weighed down by it.”

Freedom.

The word stung him. What did freedom even mean anymore? He wanted to walk away, to bury himself in his duties and pretend everything was fine. But instead, he found himself taking a hesitant step forward, and then another, until he stood in front of Himeko.

The words slipped out of him before he could stop them. “Himeko… can I… can I sleep in your lap?” His voice was small, almost childlike, and he hated how weak it made him feel. But he didn’t know where else to turn. The burden of his nightmares was too heavy to carry alone anymore.

Himeko blinked in surprise, her usually composed expression faltering for a moment. She quickly composed herself, though, and took a sip of her coffee before placing the cup down with a soft clink. “Why?” she asked, her voice gentle, but she could see how distant his eyes had become. His body was here, but his mind… his heart… they were still trapped somewhere dark.

Sunday hesitated, swallowing hard. His voice cracked when he finally spoke. “I just… I just want my mother to forgive me.”

There it was. The confession, the guilt that had been gnawing at him for so long, finally spilled out. He couldn’t even look at Himeko as he said it. He didn’t want to see the pity in her eyes, didn’t want to feel like a child again, lost and broken.

Himeko’s expression softened even more. She understood, even without him saying much. She could see how much he was struggling beneath the surface, how much he was holding back. Without another word, she shifted in her seat, gently patting her lap in silent invitation.

Sunday hesitated for a moment, but then, like a wounded child seeking comfort, he slowly lowered himself onto the floor and rested his head on her lap. The moment his head touched her, the tension in his body seemed to release all at once. He let out a shaky breath, his eyes closing as he sank into the comforting warmth of her presence.

Himeko’s hand softly rested on his hair, gently brushing through the strands like a mother soothing her child. She didn’t say anything for a while, letting the silence fill the space between them.

Sunday’s voice came out in a whisper, more to himself than to her. “What’s it like… to be free?” His question hung in the air, fragile and uncertain.

Himeko looked out into the stars, her eyes thoughtful. “Freedom,” she said softly, “is the ability to chart your own path. To move forward, despite the past, despite the burdens. It’s about choosing your direction.” She glanced down at him, her hand still stroking his hair. “It’s not always easy. Sometimes it feels like an open sky, full of possibilities. Other times… it feels like wandering through the dark.”

Sunday’s throat tightened. Freedom. It was something he couldn’t grasp, not with everything that weighed him down. “A freedom I’ll never understand,” he muttered under his breath, bitterness creeping into his voice.

Himeko heard him, but didn’t respond right away. She just continued to stroke his hair, offering the silent comfort he so desperately needed. She knew there were no easy answers, no magic words that would heal the wounds he carried. But for now, in this quiet moment, she could offer him the only thing that mattered—comfort.

Sunday lay there, his eyes still heavy with the darkness of his nightmares, he tried to push the guilt away. But the images of his mother, of Robin, of Gopher Wood—they still flickered in his mind. Forgiveness. He wasn’t sure if he could ever forgive himself, let alone expect his mother’s forgiveness.

Sunday drifted into a restless sleep once again, despite the comforting presence of Himeko. His mind pulled him back into the world of dreams—a world he couldn’t control. The darkness that had haunted him returned, but this time, it was different. It was quieter, softer.

He found himself standing in a vast, endless space. There was no sound, no laughter, no mocking voices, just silence. But the stillness only made his heart race faster, knowing that something—or someone—was watching him.

And then, from the depths of the silence, the angel appeared again.

She descended slowly, her four wings spread wide, glowing faintly in the soft light that surrounded her. Her hair (h/c) flowed gracefully, and her (e/c) eyes met his with a calm intensity. She radiated an otherworldly presence, as if she existed on a plane far beyond his comprehension.

Sunday wanted to turn away, but he couldn’t. Something about her presence held him still, captivated and fearful at the same time. His pulse quickened as she approached, her footsteps barely making a sound.

When she reached him, she did something unexpected. Instead of speaking or demanding anything, she gently patted his head, her touch surprisingly tender. Sunday flinched at first, not used to such gentleness in his dreams. But the angel’s hand was soothing, almost maternal in the way she comforted him.

Then, with her free hand, she produced a strange set of scales. It shimmered like stardust, ethereal and weightless, yet filled with a power he couldn’t understand. She held it over his head, and Sunday felt a strange sensation wash over him, like his mind was being weighed, measured.

Her (e/c) eyes focused on him, studying him carefully as the scales tipped slightly, glowing with a faint, warm light. “It’s trauma,” she said, her voice soft yet echoing with a resonance that reached deep into his soul. “And… a fragment of an Aeon’s essence.”

Sunday blinked, confused. “An Aeon’s essence?” His voice was shaky. He had no idea what she meant, but the way she said it made it sound like something important. “What… what does that mean?”

The angel didn’t answer directly. Instead, she tilted her head, her expression calm but unreadable. “You’ve been touched by forces beyond your understanding. The Aeons… their influence lingers in you. It clouds your thoughts, chains you to your nightmares.”

He looked down, feeling the weight of her words settle in his chest. Was that why he was plagued by these dreams? Was that why he couldn’t escape his guilt, his memories?

“Who are you?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper. “Why are you in my dreams?” There was a mixture of desperation and anger in his voice now. He didn’t want to feel weak again, but he couldn’t shake the sense that this angel, whoever she was, had answers he desperately needed.

The angel’s expression softened as she met his gaze, her eyes filled with a quiet, knowing sadness. “That is something you must discover for yourself. Only when you understand the truth will I reveal myself fully to you.”

Sunday swallowed hard, his throat dry. “And… how am I supposed to find that truth?”

Her wings fluttered slightly as she stepped back, her figure starting to blur, as if she was fading away. “When you’re ready, I will come to you again.”

Before he could ask anything more, the dream dissolved, and Sunday was ripped back into reality.

He jolted awake, his heart pounding in his chest. His eyes darted around, disoriented by the sudden shift. But he wasn’t alone. Standing in front of him were March and Stelle, both looking down at him with curious expressions.

He flinched at their presence, still shaken from the dream. “W-What are you two doing here?” he stammered, sitting up quickly, his head spinning from the abrupt wake-up.

March held a finger to her lips, grinning. “Shh, don’t worry! You just looked so peaceful… we didn’t want to wake you.”

Stelle, standing beside her, gave him a smirk. “Yeah, and we might’ve taken a picture. You know, for… memories.”

Sunday’s eyes widened in horror. “You what?!” He looked down and realized that Himeko had fallen asleep in the chair beside him, her hand still resting gently on his shoulder. His face flushed in embarrassment as he scrambled to sit up properly. “Stop it! Don’t… don’t send that to anyone!”

March giggled mischievously, holding up her phone. “Too late! Already sent it to Robin. She’s gonna love this.”

Sunday groaned, running his hands over his face in frustration. He couldn’t deal with this right now. His mind was still reeling from the dream, from the angel’s cryptic words. “I’m going back to my room,” he muttered, standing up quickly and brushing past them.

“Aw, come on, Sunday! Don’t be like that!” March called after him, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t stop. He needed space—time to think.

Once he was alone in his room, he closed the door behind him, leaning against it for a moment as he tried to steady his breathing. His reflection caught his eye—the mirror, still taunting him with his own image.

He stared at himself, seeing the dark circles under his eyes, the weariness that seemed etched into his skin. The weight of his guilt, his past, still hung over him like a dark cloud. The angel’s words echoed in his mind.

"A fragment of an Aeon’s essence… trauma… chains you to your nightmares."

Sunday’s hands trembled as he turned away from the mirror, his thoughts racing. The angel had said he needed to find the truth—but how? Where was he supposed to start? What if he never figured it out?

And what if, deep down, he wasn’t ready to face that truth at all?

[thenightmareofyourdrems]

                   ˜”*°•.       She  trusted  him .  Perhaps  she  didn’t  trust the  military,  their  promises,  yet  she  trusted  him .  He  was  a  man  of  critical  thinking,  of  deep  knowledge  and  skill .  He  was  exactly  what  they  needed  in  this  current  situation  -  a  situation  abounded  with  unnecessary  emotion  that  blinded  every  clear  thought .  ❝ He  is  a  man  of  word .  I  trust  him . ❞  He  wouldn’t  be  lying  to  them ,  not  when  she  knew  that  their  endgoals  were  the  same .  He  was  a  serious  scientist ,  and  Marisa,  be  a  scientist  herself,  should  have  realized  the  importance  of  such  cooperation .  And   yet,  she  decided  to  attack  again ,  to  burst  out .  And  all  of  this ,  for  what ?  Because she’d  decided  to  work  with  someone  else  ?  Because  there  was  a  new  person  added  ?  It  was  the  survival  of  the  human  race  that  should  be  their  primary  priority.  Nothing  else.  ❝ It  doesn’t  have  to  be  toxic .  They  have  scientists  that  did  research,  that  saw  results .  You  can  see  the  data  yourself . ❞  These  people  had  shown  willingness  to  offer  answers  to  her  every  question  -  did  Marisa  really  think  she  hadn’t  been  suspicious  too ?  That  she   had  believed  every  single  word  so  simply  ?   But  the  data  didn’t  lie,  and  all  the  information  available  so  far  perfectly  aligned  with  theirs .

It  was  her  next  words  that  left  her  standing  there  in  silence.  She  couldn’t  be  serious .  She  couldn’t  be  seriously  accusing  her  of  turning  her  back  on  them .  Not  when  she  was  doing  it  for  them,  not  when  she’d  sacrificed  everything  for  them,  for  this  train,  for  her .  Her  whole  life  had  been  revolving  around  this  train  even  before the  freeze,  even  when   instead,  she  could  have  spent  time  with  her  daughter.  So,  this  accusation ?   She  had  NO  right  to  make  it.  ❝ I  am  doing  this  for  the  people  on  this  train.  So,  don’t  try  to  act  like  I  am  just  fleeing.  Not  when  I’ve  given  EVERYTHING  to  this . ❞  It  was  the  worst  that  she could  have  said,  the  worst  argument .  And  maybe  it’d  cut  deep  because  a  very  small  part  of  her  was  aching  for  way  out .  For  a  few  days of  breathing,  of  having  the  chance  to  clear  her  head,  of  making  distance .  That  very  same  small  part  that’d  grabbed  the  knife  from  her  days  ago  without  a  second  thought.  But  that  small  part  was  nothing  compared  to  the  wish  to  see  Earth  come  back  to  life  .  To  walk  outside  the  train ,  to  have  a  chance  to  live normally  again .

They  wouldn’t  reach  at  an  agreement,  this  was  an  undeniable  truth .  Not  when  Marisa  was  determined  to  ignore  scientific  truths  just  because  it  was  HIM  that’d  provided  them .   Cold  War.  Was  she  really  going  to  attack  her  with  this ?  ❝ This  was  different . ❞  But  was  it ?  It’d  been  a  ludicrous  risk  to  take  Snowpiercer  over  a  bridge  unlike  to  hold  its  weight .  It’d  been  a  ludicrous  risk  to  go  to  an  unknown  land  HOPING  that  it’d  have  unfrozen  while  every  other  point  on  the  map  had  turned  out  hopeless .  So ,  yes.  She’d  risked  a  war  back  then .  However,  there  was  a  difference  between   risking  for  the  hopeful  unknown  and  following real  data.   They  HAD  results  now.  They  had  numbers,  they  had  equipment,  they  had  everything .  It  was  not  walking  in  the  dark  anymore,  counting  on  ifs  and  hopes.  ❝ We  still  have  time  till  departure.  You  could  talk  to  them  about  your  concerns,  have  them  show  their  research .   I  don’t  want  to  fight  with  you . ❞ 

naïve.  it  was  nearly  inconceivable  to  consider  melanie  —  the  one  person  who  always  had  her  head  screwed  on  right  —  possibly  being  this  naïve.   ❝  so  we  also  considered  the  idea  of  stirring  ourselves  to  our  deaths  so  we  could  protect  them,  ❞   the  reminder  came  just  as  abrupt.  ❝  how  can  the  word  of  a  single  individual  lead  you  to  believe  it’s  prudent  to  allow  them  near  new  eden?  or  that  they  will  honor  their  commitments?  ❞  even  then,  marisa  found  herself  questioning  whether  she  had  merely  succumbed  to  paranoia  or  if  melanie  had  abruptly  forsaken  all  critical  thinking.  three  months...  so  much  could  transpire  during  that  period.  or  so  little.  ❝  &  you  can  cut  that  nonsense  because  we  both  know  another  unpredictable  fault  or  event  can  arise  at  any  moment,  but,  this  time,  neither  of  us  would  be  able  to  do  anything  about  it.  ❞   a  risk  she  couldn’t  afford  to  take.  even  if  melanie  persisted  in  minimizing  her  role  in  their  survival,  there  were  still  measures  she  would  be  obligated  to  undertake  to  mitigate  that  peril.  like  finding  him.  after  all  that  time,  the  idea  was  frantic,  to  say  the  least,  &  a  decision  she  felt  she  had  no  choice  but  to  make  on  her  own  once  more.  promises  made  the  other  night  had  once  again  proven  to  be  nothing  but  vacuous  assurances.  ❝  sure.  putting  all  our  eggs  in  one  basket  is  undoubtedly  a  brilliant  strategy.  ❞  sarcasm  permeated  each  word.  ❝  is  it  truly  your  decision?  to  risk  our  lives  on  a  blend  that  could  potentially  be  toxic?  or  is  it  dr.  rousseau's?  ❞

a  scoff.  that  was  her  response  to  the  cold  words  the  other  had  offered.  a  scoff  that  perhaps  functioned  merely  as  a  diversion  from  the  reality  that  she,  in  fact,  had  feelings  &  that  concealing  the  hurt  those  words  caused  had  become...  challenging.  &  they  pierced  deeply.  but  it  wasn't  just  them  —  whatever  they  attempted  to  be  in  recent  months  —  that  had  shattered  into  thousand  of  tiny  pieces...  pieces  that  even  if  attempted  to  be  picked,  however  toilsomely,  might  never  regain  their  original  form  —,  so  was  everything  else.  ❝  well,  that's  no  answer.  ❞  turning  back  to  the  train  appeared  expedient…  but  it  was  rare  that  she  admitted  such  things  openly,  &  to  allow  melanie  to  shove  it  away  was  something  she  was  not  willing  to  do right now.  to  let  the  pain  &  anger  obscure  everything  beneath.  all  that  was  just  as  inconvenient  to  look  at...  ❝  it’s  not  something  you  can  simply  walk  away  from.  leaving  me,  this  train  ——  it  won't  make  it  go  away.  ❞  work  had  always  been  a  convenient  tool  —  like  a  switch  to  shut  off  the  feelings,  the  consciousness.  the  humanity.  ❝  &  the  train  might  have  me— though  not  for  long,  no.  even  if  i won’t  turn  my  back  on  her  by  choice.  not  like  you.  ❞   there  were  plenty  of  hurts  they  had  inflicted  on  each  other  during  this  single  revolution,  hurts  she  hadn’t  wished  to  cause,  but  this?  this  she  hoped  would  sting  just  as  much...  this  she  hoped  would  remain  a  haunting  presence  once  snowpiercer  &  her  people  would  once  more  disappear  in  white  with  its  creator  left  behind.

confusion  prevailed,  her  frown  deepening  further.  did  she  not  listen?  didn’t  she  know  her  well  enough  to  trust  her  words,  even  if  trust  just  that:  that  she  cared  for  alex,  missed  her  every  day,  thought  &  fretted  over  her  more  than  she  would  ever  acknowledge  aloud.  loved... did  she  wish  to  see  her  again?  reunite  with  them?  what  sort  of  question  was  that?  any  words  that  had  been  poised  to  escape  her  lips  dissolved  from  her  mind  as  she  looked  at  melanie  again  in  shock.  the  accusation  seemed  nothing  but  ludicrous.  she  had  long  since  come  to  terms  with  the  fact  that  dreams  of  seeing  the  world  alive  again  might  be  mere  fantasies,  that  such  changes  could  not  occur  over  a  decade  or  perhaps  even  their  lifetime.  the  prospect  of  maintaining  the  train’s  operation  for  that  duration  was  no  more  than  wishful  thinking,  yet  it  was  a  fight  they  had  refused  to  stand  down  from.  this  was  no  different...  ❝  you’re  clearly  delusional,  ❞  she  whispered  after  a  moment  of  deafening  silence,  one  that  seemed  to  stretch  into  eternity ;  nothing  but  these  words  ringing  in  her  ears.   ❝  so...  when  it  was  you  who  risked  an  open  war,  when  it  was  you  willing  to  make  a  deal  with  wilford  —  it  was  just  about  thinking  of  everyone's  best  interest,  yes?  because  there  was  no  saying  what  lay  ahead.  &  yet  when  i  express  how  much  remains  unknown,  how  significant  the  risks  are,  it's  just  me  being  scared  of  a  life  outside?  me  being  selfish?  ❞   could  she  discern  how  absurd  it  sounded?  or  could  she  perceive  how  deeply  her  accusation  had  wounded?

[noaltbruh]

I hope this follows the rules! But is it okay if I request a scenario where Giorno has a nightmare of turning into Diavolo and S/O comforts him when he wakes up?

My first request in so long, what an honor!

You're surely a fan of this scenario, I've seen you requesting it quite a lot of times.

Either way, let's get into it!

Esci dalla mia testa

06/04/2004

Midnight had just struck, it had already been three years.

Three years since Giovanna had become the new Don of Passione, and since the former had been punished for his actions.

But in reality, time had lost meaning to the young boy years ago. Everything he did, it felt so...Mechanic, so frivolous, simply keeping track of the days in order not to forget an important reunion.

He buried himself under thousands of piles of work, which only seemed to grow bigger and bigger with every day that passed. This was supposed to be his dream, his greatest goal, and he had reached it at such a young age.

But then...Why did he feel so empty?

He was supposed to be happy, after all the sacrifices that had been made to arrive so far, he had to be grateful for everything that's been given to him.

But he couldn't be, because those sacrifices were not his own, because innocent lives had been taken away, because he had come.

He truly was no different than the man whom he had condemned to suffer for all eternity. But he had to clinch his teeth, and keep on going with his head high, for the few people that were still by his side. Most importantly, for his partner.

As everyone around him had found a significant other, pressured by his best friend, he had decided to reluctantly indulge in this so called 'romance'.

And when you two finally met, he felt like a tiny fickle of faith had risen inside of his heart again.

You listened to him, to his struggles, to his doubts, to each one of his complaints like the were the only worries in the world. He failed to express how much you meant to him, after those...'Accidents', he had become even more close-up about his feelings.

You were very well aware of his workaholic tendencies, as most nights, you were the one to ask him to put down all the documents and get some rest

And this...Was one of those.

As you rapidly fell into a deep sleep, exhausted from your own day, you felt a soft hand gently caressing your forehead. You were so warm and comforting, like a puppy, the only one able to give him hope in this twisted world.

But sadly, your presence could not magically make all his guilt and insecurities go away, and he had accepted that.

After contemplating your dreaming figure for a minute, he slowly closed his eyes, wishing to escape, just for a short while, from all those crushing responsibilities and expectations.

His consciousness started to slip away, he felt ready to conclude another day. Until, he heard whispering. Weak, confused, peculiar sounds, he could not understand a word of what those voices were trying to tell him, they were too far from the boy.

But they wouldn't stop. Delicate, constant and unbearable like the sound of a drip of water falling into a sink. They were playing with the Don's patience, a sleeping lion that should not disturbed, unless you wanted to be torn to pieces.

His mind immediately connected the situation to a possible Stand attack, nothing out of his normality, per se, but he was not concerned for himself. You were still peacefully resting, clinging to your sheets, it was a quite cold night. He wouldn't have let a single soul cause any harm to his darling, she was his only true happiness, his sunshine.

In the moment he stepped outside of the bedroom, what he was faced with sent a frozen shiver down his spine, as he brought his hand to his chest, to control his heartbeat.

There were four doors, floating in absolute darkness. A weak stream of light, that seemed to be originated from nothingness, illuminated each one of them singularly.

The whispering got louder and louder, faint giggles could occasionally be heard. The young one turned around to look at the entrance of this cursed place, the one he had just walked through.

But there was nothing there.

And so, like a captured prey that had nothing left to lose, he ventured himself into the first door, only to be met with a monochromatic version of Fugo. He was breathing heavily, desperately sobbing and all curled up on himself, on the shore of the same place where the rest of the gang had decided to betray Passione.

Giorno was standing on top of the water, unable to move a single inch of his body.

"Look at what you did"

A deep voice murmured in his ear. One he hadn't heard in a long time, one he wished he could have erased from his memories, that infected his mind and was more deadly than the sobbing boy's stand.

Diavolo.

"Me? Fugo chose not to leave, it was his own fault if-"

"If he was abandoned by everyone he loved? Do you have any idea of how selfish it sounds?"

The boy hesitated for a brief moment, staring at those warm tears falling into the canal.

"It was just...A temporary matter, he rejoined Passione, he's doing better now"

"My, it must have surely been fun to prove your loyalty to someone who caused the death of half of the people you cared about, after refusing to participate in his little suicide mission"

The blond's legs started to tremble, mantainig his composure was starting to look impossible.

"They...They didn't die because of me, they sacrificed themselves for a noble cause, for making Italy a better place, they wished it as much as I did"

The man contained his laughter, then he continued.

"Is that so? Why don't say that in their faces then?"

The image of the lonely boy disappeared, together with everything in the room. Giorno was back to that black space, but the door was now missing.

And the next one...Had nothing better reserved for him.

He found himself in the island of Sardegna, the only sound that could be heard were the small waves that met with the coast.

He knew perfectly why he was here. He took a closer look at the seaside, there were some footsteps printed on it. He felt a knot in his stomach at the thought of where they would have brought him.

Abbacchio's lifeless body was laying on top of a rock, surrounded by dead flowers. His entire torso had been torn apart, and yet... His corpse was smiling. A tiny, melancholic smile on his purple lips.

"Do you still have the courage to repeat what you said?"

Diavolo began, in a mocking tone.

"When he became part of the Organization, he was at his lowest, he had nowhere else to go, every path he took brought him nothing but sorrow and disappointment. The only thing that gave him comfort was following Bucciarati...And so, with that excuse, I transformed him in one of minions"

The thought of calling out Gold Experience hit Giorno's mind, but he knew that there was no point of lying to himself. The albino was gone, his soul had left his body long ago.

"I don't need you to tell me just how disgusting you are"

He said, his voice was filled with a suffocated rage, as he knelt over to look closer at his former companion.

"Abbacchio couldn't have cared less about killing me, he came with you because Bucciarati did, because he so desperately wanted to follow him, he felt like scum at the thought of no longer having him in his life"

The boy with emerald eyes felt an hand touching him on his shoulder, but there was no one there, except for himself.

"You exploited his dependence from the man, and used at your advantage, just as I did"

He stopped for a brief moment, enjoying the desperation in the other's eyes.

"But at least, he didn't die under my guidance

And with that, the second room disappeared as well. The boy contemplated whether to remain in that hellish void or to move forward, the image of what was waiting on the other side hurt way too much, his juvenile soul was starting to crush.

But he couldn't remain there, it would have meant giving up to Diavolo's twisted games, seeing him break down was exactly what he was waiting for.

He turned the doorknob, when he felt something humid staining his clothes: there was fresh blood streaming from his lady bug pins. The trail that it formed on the ground invited him to follow its path. He knew he couldn't decline, none of what he wanted seemed to matter in this place.

A metallic railing stood in front of him, his entire pins bled so much to the point of consuming themselves. An horrific scream coming from nowhere and everywhere at the same time echoed through the room, as he directed his gaze to the top of the grey construction.

"What a shame...Oh well, he was the most disposable member of the team anyway"

Narancia's corpse was resting among dozens of spikes, his faded orange bandage slipped from his dark hair, landing right next to Giorno's feet.

"Oh Narancia...So young, so naive, just another victim of this unfair world. That's what you're thinking, isn't that right, Giovanna?"

"This is why people like him should not be involved in this business..."

"Mh? And why is that? Childish minds are the easiest to manipulate"

Ignoring his last statement, the other leaned down to pick up the bandage, but his hand went through it. His body was starting to feel dizzy, like it belonged to somebody else.

"Not answering won't make me go away, the damage has already been done, after all"

"Narancia should have NEVER joined Passione in the first place. He could have gone to school...Have a normal life, but-"

"But he died for your cause before he could. What he said before I activated King Crimson melted my heart a little, how cute...He really trusted you that much to the point of thinking that he would have come out of it alive"

The railing emanated a cracking sound. For a second, he was afraid it would have fallen off, causing him to get impaled as well.

"I took away his chance of living an happy, standard life when he decided to work for me, and you did the same, allowing him to come along with the rest of your team"

The small boy suddenly faded away, together with the rest.

"But at least, he didn't die under my guidance"

At last, there it was: only one room left. Despite how deeply he cared about each one of his former team members, the premonition of what would have come next was more painful than everything he's seen so far altogether.

He sat down, staring at the door from a distance, his eyes emptier than the ones of his old allies. They say that eyes are the window of the soul, and nothing else could have been used to describe his inner turmoil. Nothing but a faded, dull green, testimony of all his battle scars and the survivor guilt that he tried so much to repress.

Perhaps his eternal punishment had arrived: having the chance to confront his inner demons, to move on, to show how fearless he was.

...But never truly grasping the idea of freedom, never facing and accepting what really happened, he was never given the time to. So much had oppressed him all at once, he couldn't keep up with it.

He was a child, a child that had to grow too fast.

But then, someone came out of the door. A bittersweet figment of his imagination, that made his heart stop beating for a second.

The one he hadn't seen in years, the one he had tried to subdue the most, the one that showed him for the first time in his life what love was, stood in front of him. There was no hole in his chest, no sign of blood or wounds, a reassuring smile accompanied his face, as he held out his hand to the grieving kid.

"What are you doing all alone in here? The others are worried for you. Let's not make them wait any longer, shall we?"

Giorno ignored his help, his gaze was stuck on that endless floor. He didn't have the courage to look at the other, his presence alone felt like a sadistic joke.

He didn't look sad, depressed, miserable... He was just...Tired.

He wanted to cry those tears that he had denied in the last three years, he wanted to yell at that illusion to leave him alone, that wasn't the real Bruno, it couldn't be.

But, as he impeded any of this from coming out, something he didn't think he would have felt in a thousand of years struck him.

Bucciarati hugged him.

A tight, comforting hug like one of a mother, that he was waiting for his child to reciprocate. The latter's breathing became heavier and heavier with every moment that passed, as weak laments rapidly turned into audible sobs.

"There's no reason to be sad now, I'm real, you can feel it, can't you?"

"Y-You...You're here...But h-how is it p-possible?"

The brunette chuckled, the sound of his laughter was more comforting than an angel's voice.

"It isn't"

Giovanna's stand penetrated the man's torso, but its arm...It was not Gold Experience's. It had a checkered red and white pattern that extended in its entirety, and it possessed an amount of physical strength which was out of any possible expectations for the creature able to give life.

"Foolish child, I thought you were better than this, I'd lie if I said I wasn't a bit disappointed"

The sound of Bruno's corpse falling to the ground resonated through that empty space, as the last door vanished. A puddle of blood originated from his horrible injury, it was big enough for the boy to see his reflection in.

"You are no better than me under any point of view. We took advantage of his kindness, we used him as a simple pawn for our own gain. The only difference between us, is that I was not manipulating enough to convince him to join my side voluntarily. He was a tool to the both of us, but you were the one who caused his demise"

The mirror that had been created showed two people, but the transparent figure of Diavolo immediately ceased to be visible. The only one left was Giorno, though his reflection seemed to mutate with every second that passed.

His blond curls started to change shape, turning into a fuchsia mess, with dirty green stains on it. His eyes had a killer, maniacal look inside of them, his pupils got smaller in horror. His entire body structure was different. He looked older, more muscular, his clothes, too, were no longer his own.

"Mista loved him, and you killed him"

"Fugo loved him, and you killed him"

"Trish loved him, and you killed him"

"Narancia loved him, and you killed him"

"Abbacchio loved him, and you killed him"

"You loved him, and you killed him"

...

"Giorno? Giorno please, wake up!"

You screamed, your sleep was interrupted by the sound of your boyfriend hyperventilating, as he desperately held you to himself, still trapped in that horrible dream.

You sighed in relief when he abruptly opened his eyes, so swollen and red from all the tears he's shed.

"Another nightmare, uh?"

You asked, gently caressing his back to try and calm him down, he was as vulnerable as a baby that runs to his parents after having a bad dream. Waking up in the middle of the night to comfort him is something you had grown accustomed to, but you had never seen him this shaken up.

He slightly nodded in response, grabbing the top of your pajamas. You put an hand behind his head, making him rest on your chest, and kissed him softly on his forehead.

You could hear him murmuring something, you couldn't tell wherever he was talking to you, or to himself.

"I-I'm sorry...I'm sorry...I'm s-so sorry..."

He repeated like a broken record, you could barely make out what he was trying to say.

"Tesoro, you've done nothing wrong, there's no one you owe your apologizes to"

The boy raised his head slightly, intertwining your fingers with his, he needed to feel sure that this was not another tremendous trick of his mind.

"See? I'm here, you don't have to be afraid. I know that you feel unworthy of my feelings, but there is no one out there that deserves love more than you do. Nobody is perfect, Giorno, you did everything that was in your power to help them"

"But I...I was the one w-who put them in danger in the first place"

"No, you were not. You all shared the same ideals, you saved them from the oppression they were put in"

As you swept those remaining drops away from his face, you could still feel his entire body shaking like a dried leaf in a windy day of autumn.

"N-None of this would have happened if I didn't come along..."

"Exactly, none of them would have known what it meant to be free. I...Understand that the sacrifices that were made are not easy to forget, but blaming yourself like this...Do you really think that's what they would have wanted?"

Not receiving an answer, you laid down once again, still holding him in your arms. You forced a tiny smile, kissing him delicately on his lips, and whispered in his ear that everything would have been okay.

But, in reality...You felt you were trying to reassure yourself as well. This was not something you could have solely resolved through staying by his side, healing from this would have taken a lot of time, but...At least, you could offer some temporary safety, and it seemed to be enough for the time being.

In fact, after some minutes, everything seemed to cease. The boy fell asleep once again, this time with the knowledge that you were there to protect him.

You sighed, praying for your darling to finally find some peace.

[xbunnybunz]

Chocolate Confession [Link x Reader]

Summary: You decide to repay the Legendary Hero of Hyrule with a box of chocolates, and he repays you with something else entirely.

Genre: Fluff

Date: June 19, 2014

-----

If you had learned one thing about Link after all these years of traveling with him, it was that he had an gargantuan sweet tooth.

You had paid close attention to the young man as you both strolled through Castle Town. (And it definitely was not because you liked him!) You would watch as his gaze restlessly touched over everything in sight, examining all of the wares for sale with tireless curiosity. Even though he so-eagerly drank in his surroundings, he never stopped to admire anything up close. It was almost as if nothing meant enough for the busy hero to stop him in his tracks... Well, except for one thing.

Whenever you passed by a candy shop or a vendor selling sweets, Link's cerulean eyes would sparkle like aquamarine jewels, glistening with both awe and lust for the treat. Like a child, his facial expressions would shift to convey his desires. For a split second that others would never notice, Link's breath would catch in his throat, his feet failing to move for a minuscule of time.

Although any other normal person wouldn't have been able to pick up these subtle clues, you noticed the blond's small hints and knew what Link's body language meant.

He was infatuated with sugary snacks.

However, there was a small problem with his sweet tooth; the problem being that he was a traveling hero- which meant he didn't have the time to settle down and get a job. That wasn't the only issue here. The blond hero also had to take care of you, his loyal sidekick, as well as his horse, Epona. With these two factors in mind, it was quite obvious that there were never extra rupees to spare.

In the past few months, however, you managed to snag a job at the renowned Lon Lon Ranch. You had gotten the idea to work at the ranch after you heard the townspeople of Castle Town speak about it. Epona had long run out of carrots and Link had decided that it was time to restock on his beloved horse's treats. Both of you had gone shopping in the marketplace, seeking out carrots for Epona when you overheard two men discussing how much they yearned for a bottle of fresh, ice-cold Lon Lon milk.

While Link was busy paying for the carrots, you rushed over to the men and asked them what "Lon Lon Milk" was.

They had initially laughed at you for not knowing what the famous Lon Lon milk was, but once they realized you were serious, they pulled you aside and explained to you in thorough detail about what the delicious drink was, disbelief in their eyes.

”I can’t believe you’ve never heard of Lon Lon Milk before!” One said, blinking back tears. “What a poor child!”

The other man slapped the back of his friend’s head, but looked close to crying himself. ”Aw, be quiet you idiot! You’re attracting attention!”

Apparently, the milk was a product of Lon Lon Ranch- which was famous for it's scrumptious milk and creamy butter.

Intrigued, you asked about the job opportunities there. The men simply pat you on the back and told you that if you asked Malon, the ranch-owner's friendly daughter, you would be guaranteed a job there.

The following night, while Link and Epona slept, you sneaked away to Lon Lon Ranch, using the directions the men in Castle Town had given you. Luckily for you, you had arrived right before Lon Lon Ranch closed for the night. A girl about the same age as you was huffing and puffing, working on pushing the gates closed, but once she saw you, she gave you a warm smile and asked you how she could be of assistance.

The girl, you assumed, was Malon. You were determined to get the money to repay your friend.

'Link deserves something special for everything he's done for me.' You argued in your mind, still hesitant to take the job. It would require you to sneak away from Link each night and work at the ranch, sacrificing your resting time- which was something you valued more than gold. You shook off those thoughts with a scowl. 'He's always taken care of me and helped me in all ways possible- sometimes even saving me from monsters! He deserves this, at least.'

In the most polite manner possible, you asked her if you could work here for a while. “I need certain amount of money to buy a gift for a friend.” You explained, twiddling your fingers. “I want to buy the perfect present for one of my dearest friends- one that was always there for me. That’s why I need this job, so please, could I work here?”

With that reason, Malon immediately gave you the job.

"I think that you're a wonderful friend." She praised, taking you inside the ranch. "I'm sure your friend will love the present she gets!"

"’She?’ Oh, my friend isn't a girl." You clarified, chuckling quietly.

There was a moment of brief silence after that.

Malon had slowed her footsteps and turned her head slightly, sending you a knowing, yet mischievous look over her shoulder.

"Oh? Is that so?"

You stared at her, dumbfounded, before you finally realized what she was implying. A thin layer of pink dusted your cheeks as you quickly tried to rebut her assumptions.

"W-what?" You stuttered, "Like I said, we're only friends..."

It was Malon’s turn to chuckle as she wached you falter over your words and turn a fiery scarlet color. The auburn-haired girl turned away from you, humming when the cow stables came into view.

"Ah, this is where you'll be working!" She smiled, gesturing to the sleeping cows. "Don't worry, it's not a hard job. All you have to do is milk them enough to get three buckets of milk a night- and you're done!"

You thanked her and accepted the bucket happily, glad that your job didn't require you to lift heavy boxes or shovel horse poo.

And thus, for a month and a half, you managed to creep away from the sleeping hero and his chestnut-colored horse, spending two to three hours in the ranch before returning to sleep for a couple of hours. Finally, after all your hard labor, you had saved enough money to buy Link what he yearned for this whole time- chocolates.

This morning, you were ecstatic to hear that the Hero of Time wanted to head to the marketplace to pick up his repaired shield. You had just enough money to buy the chocolates that he craved.

As he groomed Epona with gentle hands, he addressed you. "I'll be visiting Castle Town sometime in the afternoon," he said, turning to face you. "The repairmen should be done fixing my shield; I'll pick it up today. You can come with me, if you want?"

Soft blue eyes turned to take in the sight of your kneeling form, rolling up your sleeping mat with utmost care.

Your reaction was nothing short of excitement. Your head snapped up, startling the blue-eyed boy in front of you. "Yes!" You shrieked immediately, your eyes wide with delight.

A moment of silence passed between the two of you before you realized what you did, and you blushed, embarrassed.

Link sent you a questioning glance, and you felt your cheeks turn pink. "Er, I mean-" You quickly added, trying to redeem yourself, "-I mean, I'd love to go! I've been wanting to buy something there for a while now."

Link smiled at you, lips turning up into a playful grin. "That sounds great! It's always a lot more interesting when you come to Castle Town with me."

You hastily turned around and pretended to fold up your sleeping mat, hiding your reddened cheeks. "S-sure..." You stammered, feeling a bit foolish for the effects that the blond-haired, sapphire-eyed boy had on you.

It was true that you had developed a tiny amount of feelings for Link, but you tried your best to suppress them. Of course, he would never like you. You knew that in the competition for the hero's heart, you were already beat. Princess Zelda- possibly the most beautiful and talented girl you've ever encountered, had you down in the long run. What madman would pick girl like you over a princess?

You sighed quietly under your breath, folding your sleeping mat in half and strapping it onto Epona. The horse huffed out of it's nose lightly, as if it knew what you were thinking. (She was probably just protesting against carrying the extra weight, but it was a comforting thought anyway.) You pet her white muzzle, running your fingers gingerly over her mane. "Friends." You muttered under your breath, watching as the graceful horse pressed it's nose into your hands. You take a deep breath, eyes darting over to the teenage boy that stood a little ways from you. "Just friends..."

Soon after you and Link had finished strapping your sleeping gear onto Epona, you both took off to the marketplace. As both you and Link walked, there was a comfortable silence between the two of you. You chuckled, remembering how awkward you were around the hero the first time you traveled with him. Blue eyes met yours, and you offered a lopsided smile. "What were you laughing about?" Link asked, sending you a curious look. You looked up at the sky, tilting your head slightly to catch a breeze. "Nothing, just some old memories." He didn't get a chance to ask what they were about, because you had already arrived at the drawbridge to Castle Town.

Soldiers greeted the both of you as you walked in, you nodded at them before closing your eyes, soaking in the sounds of civilization and life. Traveling with Link often meant being secluded from other folk, and although you loved his company, it got lonely quite quickly.

You were snapped out of your thoughts when Link began to speak to you. "We'll meet up in Central Plaza after we've both found what we want, alright? If you need anything, I'll be in the Gear Shop right next to the Hyrule bakery." You nodded, your eyes already glued to the fancy store across from the Gear Shop. Even from where you were standing, you could already see the sweets inside of the store, beckoning you to go in.

As soon as Link departed, you hightailed to the shop, admiring the treats through the window first. The shop put it's best chocolate on display. A variety of chocolates laid in front of your shining eyes, tempting you to hurry up and buy them. The display of dark chocolate swirls, caramel drops and pure white chocolate made your mouth water- you were standing there for so long that people were beginning to give you funny looks, so you decided to walk inside the shop.

No words could describe the smells that had wafted over your olfactory senses as you stepped into the store. For a second, you felt as if you had gone to heaven and back; because it seemed humanely impossible for smells so wondrous to be on Earth.

"Hello?" You heard a voice call, and suddenly, you noticed that there was a hand waving in front of your eyes. "Darling, are you quite alright?" You looked to see the owner of the arm, a woman that was dressed affluently and twice your age stood in front of you, looking worried.

"O-oh no! I'm fine!" You reassured the lady, peering at the boxes of chocolates that lined the shelves. "I'm just amazed at all the chocolate here, that's all."

The woman laughed heartily, placing a hand on your shoulder. "Oh dearie, chocolate seems to be a gift from the gods above, doesn't it? Everything about it seems perfect!" She gestured to the merchandise around her, adding in a hushed voice, "Sometimes I think I love this place more than my husband- don't tell him that, though! Ohoho!"

You diverted your eyes and peered behind the counter, seeing a burly man twirling his mustache, analyzing the boxes of chocolate across from him- that, you concluded, was probably this woman's husband.

"Anyway, dear, was there anything you needed?" The woman asked. You scratched the back of your neck, offering a nervous smile. "Yes, I came to buy this specific box of chocolates. I've had my eyes on it for quite a while now, and I'd really appreciate it if I could buy those."

You still remembered the box that Link had eyed a couple of times while you passed by this shop, it used to be in the window display, but now, alarmingly, it was gone. The top of the box was transparent and allowed you to see the contents lining the inside. You remembered the features of all the alluring chocolates, there were even carvings on the chocolate! Each tiny swirl and flower engraved in the thick, creamy treat looked as if a professional carver had worked their magic on it.

"Oh, that would be no problem! Pray tell, how did the box look like?" The woman asked, clapping her hands once in enthusiasm.

"The cover of the box was transparent, and the chocolates inside looked like they were created by a woodcarver." You recalled, placing a finger on your chin. "There were also multiple colors- it was very pretty."

The woman seemed to be in deep thought for a second, thinking about the description you had given her. You heard her mutter a couple words under her breath before she suddenly sprung into a frenzy. "Oh no!" She cried, hands flying to her face dramatically, "I do, indeed, think we sold that box of chocolates last week!" Your eyebrows furrowed, and you felt a twinge in your heart. Link really seemed to like those chocolates... And you had worked so hard to get them, too.

Suddenly, a gruff voice is heard from the counter. "Millie, I think we have one of 'em boxes left in the back."

Both you and the woman look up at the man behind the counter, still twirling his mustache. He jabbed a thumb in the direction of the storage room, and your face filled with surprise; the woman's full of glee.

"Oh, sweetie! I knew that I was right to marry you! You're even sweeter than one-hundred chocolates combined! I knew I could rely on you to be organized with the merchandise!" As the woman bounced her way to the storage room, she leaned over and pecked the mustached man on the cheek, and look of satisfaction washed over his features, chuckling. "Right back at ya Millie."

In moments, the box of chocolate you had seen Link admire so many times was placed in front of you on the counter. The man told you the price, and as you were basically emptying out all your life savings onto the table, he gave you a sly look and questioned "Would the person you're giving this to like this wrapped?"

You were about to answer when Millie interrupted you, a shocked expression on her face. "These expensive chocolates are for someone else?" She began fanning herself, as if it were the most incredulous thing she's ever heard. "Tell me it is not so! Look at you, all your rupees have gone into this box of chocolates- and it is not even for you? Give me the joy to hear that it is your most precious receiving this gift!"

Your face reddens, and you can only look down at the shining marble floors, unable to find words to speak. For your "most precious?" Well... You wouldn't go that far, right?

The man behind the counter sighed, "Ay, Millie, it must be. Look at her face!" He turned to you, and small smile on his lips. "Tell you what, I'll wrap this for you for free- just to make up for all the drama we put you through."

You nodded meekly, your face still burning red.

It didn't take long for the man to finish wrapping the box. When you saw the material they had used to enclose the box, you almost cried.

"This is silk!" You said in awe, feeling the expensive fabric under your fingertips. You traced the golden-hued ribbon with wonder. "...I cannot thank you enough!"

The couple only smiled at you and thanked you for your purchase, urging you to run along and give your present to your lucky "friend."

You carefully placed the beautifully wrapped present in your bag and decided that you'd give the chocolates to Link sometime later, since he would probably be busy checking out his shield after you met up with him.

You spotted the golden-haired boy immediately after leaving the chocolate shop. Calling his name and waving to get his attention, you both reunited and made your way back to Epona, who was waiting for you both in the middle of Hyrule Field.

You stopped walking as soon as Epona came into sight, coughing lightly to get Link's attention. His cerulean eyes turned to you, a pinch of concern shining through. "Is there something wrong, ______?"

You diverted your eyes and slowly pulled out the present, holding it out to him.

"T-this is a thank-you-present for looking after me all the time..."

You watched his reactions out of the corner of your eyes, seeing his face go through an array of emotions. First, he seemed stunned, then puzzled, then finally, grateful.

You turned your head toward Link, lips trembling slightly from the oddness of the situation. His eyes locked with yours, something you've never seen before brewing in his blue orbs. "_-_______... You shouldn't have..." Link muttered, pressing the package closer to his chest. "Where did you get the rupees to afford this?"

You bit back a shiver upon seeing his expression, a blush threatening to spill crimson all over your face. "Well, it doesn't matter as long as you like it!" You choked out, quite rattled at the situation. The words came out a bit sharper than you had intended, but Link didn't seem to take them to heart.

The Hero of Time gave you a gracious smile before carefully pulling at the golden ribbon, admiring the silk fabric.

“Wow…” He whispered in awe, eyes darting up to your ever-reddening face. “This is amazing.” You gulped, trying to steady your heartbeat.

Once he had finally unwrapped the gift, a soft look of surprise touched upon his handsome features, his eyebrows arching up in disbelief and the corners of his mouth pulling northward. You watched as he blinked several times, just to make sure he was not being deceived. His eyes took in every elaborate detail on the chocolates through the clear texture on the front of the box in amazement.

Once you decided that he liked the chocolates, you looked away, your face feeling like it was lit aflame.

"_______... How did you...?" Link spoke your name like it was a sacred prayer. You could feel his eyes back on you, however, you refused to meet his gaze.

"I saw you admiring them in Castle Town," you tried to explain, the temperature on your cheeks increasing steadily. "...And I thought that maybe you'd like them."

You decided to sneak a glance at Link; and you regretted doing so immediately. His eyes were so full of admiration and love that you felt as if you would faint if you looked into them for a second longer. In a flash, he held you in a tight embrace, pressing his body flush against yours.

"I love it, _____. Thank you so much."

You could barely react to his sudden act of affection, and although you wanted this embarrassment to end, you never wanted Link to let you out of his loving grasp. Gingerly, you wrapped your arms around his torso, returning the hug gently.

It seemed like only seconds had passed before he pulled away suddenly, leaving you feeling vacant and also a little neglected. As soon as you saw him open the box of chocolates, however, you watched him with renewed interest.

Link observed every piece of chocolate in the box, appreciating the time and effort put into each individual candy. After what felt like an eternity, he picked up a chocolate in the shape of a rose, small flecks of bright red dotting the edges. You watched keenly as his slender fingers turned the chocolate over, taking in all the details on the petals; before raising it up to his barely parted, slightly chapped lips, enveloping half of the sweet in his mouth...

Your head snapped to the side violently, a dark blush igniting in your cheeks. That was so... Hot... You suppressed a shudder, reminding yourself to contain your thoughts.

While you were battling with your inner turmoil, you had not noticed Link's sneaky expression as he glanced at you. Unknown to you, Link had seen your reaction to him eating the chocolate, and soon, an idea formed in his mind.

Of course, he had an itching feeling that you had liked him before, but he had never acted out on it because he was unsure. Now, however, it was quite obvious that you had more than just a little "thing" for him- and you'd be thrilled to find out that the feeling was mutual.

With that in mind, he purred your name, not unlike a way a cat would, and you clenched your jaw, trying not to look at him. "W-what?" You asked, peering out of the corner of your eye when you didn't receive an answer.

Your eyes widened slightly when you realized that Link was sauntering closer to you, and you attempted to gain space immediately. "Uhm, Link, what are you-Woah-!" You fell backward, landing on your backside rather painfully.

‘Way to go.’ You thought, swallowing thickly as you looked up at Link. Aquamarine eyes watched your every movement and didn't miss a beat. Without hesitation, Link kneeled between your splayed legs, placing his unoccupied hand on the floor beside you. The blond leaned in close, his eyes holding an emotion that almost looked like untamed hunger.

You were too stunned to speak, feeling his hot breath cascade over your lips.

"Why don’t you try some?" He asked, his voice low and airy. He held out the half-eaten chocolate to your flushed face, watching in satisfaction as red blossomed even further down your face. "It's delicious." He smiled, his eyelids lowering seductively. “…And if it’s not, we can try the others in the box, what do you say…?” You were frozen at his words, unable to speak yourself. Instead, you took notice of how long his golden eyelashes were. You felt a gossamer touch on your own lashes, and you swore that they were touching yours.

Link leaned into your body, holding the chocolate rose against your trembling lips, tempting you to open your mouth. Your mind was dizzy with embarrassment. You could feel the chocolate pressing against your mouth, as well as the small grooves and saliva that Link had left behind when he had eaten it. The scent of the chocolate wafted up to your nose, and you felt like you were being put under a heated spell.

You were entranced as you looked into his aqua-eyes, opening your mouth just enough for him to slip the chocolate in. Link gave you a small smile, pressing the sweet into your mouth with a satisfied look.

Your taste-buds set off fireworks in your mouth. The chocolate slowly melted in your mouth, the taste of bitter dark chocolate mixed with foreign spices gave the treat a dark, but tangy flavor.

Your eyes never left Link's as you savored the chocolate, his half-lidded eyes nearly causing you to melt yourself. You were unable to suppress a shudder when he shot you a sultry look, darting his tongue out to lick his lips.

You watched, hypnotized as the hero raised his hand up to his lips, lapping at the chocolate that had melted on the tips of his fingers.

“Link…?” You whimpered, watching him with clouded eyes. You blinked as he pressed a finger to your lips, silencing you. Slowly, his hand slithered behind your head, tangling into your hair.

All the while, the blond moved closer to your face, gauging your facial expressions. You shook in anticipation, almost leaning toward him as well. When Link was finally a few centimeters away from your lips, he watched you lowered your eyelids slowly, following in suit, his eyes slipped shut as well.

Gently, he pressed his lips against yours, your mouths molding together perfectly.

After a while, he pulls back and placing his forehead on yours, looking content. "I love you, so much..." He hums, opening his eyes.

You let out a shaky sigh, still flustered, but at the same time, thankful. Your mind began to wander, wondering how a box of chocolate had resulted in this.

"I love you too, Link."

[kob131]

Morgan Le Fay (Alter Ego) My Room Lines

Morgause

“Master~ Can we stay here please? A moment’s rest may bring you far after all!”

“Ah, you really like to work don’t you? No no, I’m not accusing you of anything. I know your drive after all...”

“No matter what, it doesn’t seem I’ll get use to fighting. I wonder if either of those two would-ah. nevermind!”

Bond 1 “...Oh, sorry Master! I was spacing out there for a moment. I’m...not really use to being...heh, nevermind me!”

Bond 2 “Your magecraft seems a little shaky lately. Are you sure you’re feeling well? You eating well? Maybe a nice plate of meat and potatoes will make you feel better? ...Wh-what do you mean that’s too heavy?!”

Bond 3 “How strange.  I’m still here. Usually I can’t remember where I’ve been or how I got where I am because...because...

...Well anyway, I can’t say it’s bad after all. I’d certainly be worried if one moment I was here with you and the next you left my sight. That-that can get rather scary...”

Bond 4 “... ... ... I can still feel them inside me, you know? ‘The Lady of The Lake’ and ‘The Fairy Witch’. My...other selves.

... Why? Why? WHY? Why do they have to exist? Why are they inside me? It’s not fair! I lost so much to them! So much of my life- Take, STOLEN from me by them! And even worst, they took my home away! I’m Morgause Pendragon, the daughter of Uther Pendragon! I am human! Not a fae! Not a witch! I. Am. HUMAN, ME! 

So why can’t they just leave me alone?!”

Bond 5 “... I won’t be here for long. Even if this body were to see the end of your journey, I-I might not be the one in it. I was the first to fade away after all. It’s simply my fate...to be used and discarded by everything I love. 

...Even so, I won’t run. As weak as I maybe in comparison to them...I won’t surrender a second of my time with you. With anyone. I’m here now. I am me.”

To Gawain “My son...my darling son. P-please don’t turn away! Please. I-I lost so much time with you. I can’t-I have to. Please, come embrace your mother. Before I’m gone.”

To Gareth “Gareth...my little pup. Look at you, you’ve grown up so much. I bet you had the lords at your beck and call. ... I wish I could have been there for you.”

To Agravain “Oh Agravain. It hurts to see you look at me so. And yet, it’s all my fault. If only I were stronger, if only I could overcome them. My little knight...I’m sorry.”

To Arturia “Arthur-no, Arturia isn’t it? To think I felt so bitter about what our father wanted...when there was so much to lose to that envy. I...I shall take my leave.”

To Mordred “Master, that knight over there?? That...wouldn’t happen to be Sir Mordred correct? ... Yes I assumed so, given her glares at me. Le Fay’s child with my own brother...There’s nothing I can do to help her, is there?”

To Morgan (Lostbelt) “You there, the witch. You have quite the nerve to show your face here. You, who abandoned her humanity for the sake of a kingdom. Your kingdom was a shame and deserved it’s fate. Glare at me all you wish, without the three of us you would be nothing.”

Likes “What do I like? Well, I always liked cooking. It was always such a treat to see my children’s faces light up when I cooked with all my heart!”

Dislikes “...Lake fae and evil witches.”

Holy Grail “Even if it is a heresy, I would like to wish upon it. Then maybe, I can finally be free.”

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Vivian

“Master, come. We have much to do still. ...I know you must be tired, I understand your weariness. But still, we must persist.”

“There’s no need to worry about me. An adventure like this-it is a simple matter. Compared to guiding those troublesome fae...”

“Quiet, quiet, quiet. ...Sorry Master, I was...having some difficulties with...the others. Le Fay especially...”

Bond 1 “So, you have stayed by my side? How strange, most humans simply leave the lakeside after so long.”

Bond 2 “Your heart is weary. There is no point in lying. I know that feeling well myself. Perhaps I have been pushing you too hard. Come, rest. All need reprieve after all.”

Bond 3 “It seems my time has not come yet. Good. I cannot-I will not fade like before. I refuse to let things end like before.”

Bond 4 “It is so tiring. To have their thoughts, their minds inside me. Always, always a reminder. That I am more than the fae ‘Vivian’. The human princess and the raging witch-

...No. No. NO! I am here now! I will be the one to fight! I will be the one to guard the Human Order! I will be the one protect the Age of Man that Father wished for! Not the human Morgause! Not the witch Le Fay! 

I am Me, Vivian, The Lady of the Lake!”

Bond 5 “Even though I am the fae Vivian, an existence incompatible with mankind. It was always the humans I loved most of all. The fae, so fickle and cruel. I guided and guarded them out of duty alone.

Why you may ask? Because it was mankind that my father Uther loved. He protected them to his last breath. And so shall I. Even if I may never see the Age of Man, I will protect and guide it. Especially you, my Master. I shall ensure your safety to death and beyond.”

To Lancelot (Berserker) “Master! Th-that figure cloaked in black! I-it can’t be! My son! This is what became of you? ... Who did this?”

To Lancelot (Saber) “I knew it. Of course my son would be here. There was no chance he wouldn’t answer the call to protect mankind. He grew into a splendid knight after all.”

To Mash “This feeling... You there, young lady with the shield. Come forward, let me take a good look. ...It really is, isn’t it? Don’t be scared young lady. I shall never hurt you. Now, come with me. I have much to discuss with you.”

To Fae Servants “*Sigh* It seems there are some troublemakers in this place isn’t there? Worry not Master, I know how to keep them on a tight leash.”

To Morgan (Lostbelt) “Ruler of the fae, huh? How pathetic. To have resorted to such evil. I do not care what your excuses are. I lead and guarded the fae myself. I sacrificed my place in the world. I expect no less of you.”

To Arturia (Archer) “How cute, thinking that little spruit is alike to my magic. Here, let me show you what a true Excalibur Vivian can accomplish.”

Likes “Besides mankind? ...I do enjoy watching the forest creatures prance about. The little bugs especially.”

Dislike “Lazy princesses and malevolent witches. That is all I’ll say.”

Holy Grail “It is a false wish granting device isn’t it? Still, if supplied with enough mana, it might just be enough to grant my wish To gain my freedom.”

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Morgan Le Fay

“Careful now, Master. One wrong step and things will certainly go wrong. I know how much fun it is to lose yourself in the throes of battle. Hehehe...But your goal must come first.”

“That fire...that determination. Very well, I’ll join you in the fray. After all, I haven’t nearly indulged enough myself.”

“Your magecraft is rather lackluster isn’t it? Hm, whatever you call your ‘talents’, that doesn’t matter. Practice, practice, practice. Experience breeds excellence. I didn’t match Merlin with pure talent after all.”

Bond 1 “I must say, staying this way at will without being subject to the fickle whims fate...it’s rather nice. Thanks Master.”

Bond 2 “Fate is cruel. I know your pain better than most. Forced into the impossible by the will of others. But don’t let your heart waver. Through will and guile, you will gain your freedom.”

Bond 3 “Don’t hesitate to give me tasks. I find myself with more time than i know what to do with. Preferably with you around...”

Bond 4 “I’m sure you’ve heard about this before but...My other selves are still here. Deep inside, I can still here them. Their woes, their uncertainty, their hatred. All mine...

...Bwahaha! What a joke! As if I would let them trend upon me. It was my loathing that struck fear into Camelot. It was my malice that twisted the Green Knight. It was my love for Britian that allowed me to stomach sharing a bed with that liar. I am no feeble princess or passive fae. I am me, Morgan, the witch that loved Britian!”

Bond 5 “So here we stand still. I’m sure you caught on but I hate the Age of Man. Tearing away all the work I put out, fading everything I’ve done into legend. Acting as though I was never here. For it’s sins, I will always spur it.

So why am I here? Because I would rather have an Age of Man with Britian than not. Be it the destruction of history or man, I will not stand for it. I will rage and hate and burn until all is done. So long as we stand on the same ground, I will be here. I can’t trust the other two to get the job done after all.”

To Mordred “Hm, that defect of a homonculus is here? Master, you are best off sending it away. It’s incapable of following orders or performing tasks sufficiently. I would love to fix it but that’s beyond my reach.”

To Arturia (Alter) “Tch, that liar dares to attach my name to something so weak. She preaches that the strong rule over the weak, shall I teach her who is truly strong then? Gwahaha!”

To Merlin “Ah, Teacher is here too. How unusual, that fickle asshole couldn’t be asked to cut a blade of grass, let alone save humanity. He’s not even really here is he?”

To Fairy Knight Tristan “Master, this annoying brat won’t leave me alone. Acting all familiar and friendly with me... Maybe I’ll teach her what it means to truly be sadistic. Perhaps by rending her limbs asunder...”

To Arturia “So the King of Liars has come as well. Maybe a trip into Hell will teach her the place where she belongs...but that will have to wait, won’t it? She still has her uses after all...”

To Oberon-Vortigern “That mana. Another embodiment of Britian is here?! It feels like that failure Vortigern...yet...it’s so different. I must dissect him, to know!”

To Morgan (Lostbelt) “Ah yes, that other me. Heh, what a fool she turned out to be, no? She rages against man, fae and knights, wasting all her efforts in the process. Focus, my dear. Focus is the key to victory. I did not waste my time with man or fae, I put my all into the slaying of Arturia. And which of us succeeded, hm?”

Likes “A rough night with a man below me, of course.”

Dislikes “My other selves. Unlike them, I will not hide the truth.”

Holy Grail “Hm, I have no need for such a thing. Unlike them, I will not cling to a false hope. It will be my hand that cuts them out like the parasites they are.”

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Bond 10 CE: I Am...?

One minute *I’m* home with my children One minute ^I’m^ guarding those troublesome fae One minute -I’m- cackling as I tear into his flesh

The next I’m not.

It is my duty to *lead*/^guard^/-destroy- my kin No, That is *my*/^my^/-my- duty. No, it’s *mine*/^mine^/-mine-!

...Is it?

No, I am a *princess*/^guardian^/-witch-! That is not what *I*/^I^/-I- am! Stop it! This is who *I*/^I^/-I- am!

I am *me*/^me^/-me-! I am *Me*/^Me^/-Me-! I AM *ME*/^ME^/-ME-!

I am... I...am... I...

....Who am I?

[oncefutureemrys]

18. "I'm afraid."

hello, my friend! thank you for asking me this!

If you want to know what prompts we’re talking about, it is @night-faye’s incredible list of prompts that you can find here. If you would like for me to write another one, send me an ask and I’ll write it!

Anyway, I was honestly a bit nervous about this because I didn’t think it came out great, butttt there’s a thing called positive thinking which I’m working on so I’m going to say it’s not bad. (This is exactly how to get people to read your work haha) no but seriously, there are many Tumblr posts about writing bad fics are okay if we can learn something from them, and so here is me, writing some bad fics.

Hope you enjoy!

(It was also posted on my ao3. The link is here).

Merlin gazes at the darkening sky and the flickering light from the dimming campfire. He feels the breeze brushing his skin gently and hears the way the trees rustle like whispers in his ear.

It’s here, in this peaceful moment, when Merlin closes his eyes and thinks:

I’m not ready to die.

Five simple words, strung together to create one sentence Merlin’s more afraid of than anything else.

He’s not ready to die.

And yet he knows he must, for it is his destiny and his alone to always sacrifice his needs, his wants, his morals, his life for Arthur.

He knows this, he’s been told this since the beginning, and yet suddenly he feels so… unready. Unsure. Nervous, worried, afraid.

It was… odd, to say the least.

Before, when he was staring death straight in the face, when he was envisioning a world without his friends, Gaius, his mother, Arthur – it was easy. Merlin’s never been one to think his life was somehow more meaningful than others, that he was worthy of life more than anyone else.

Which is why he now finds it strange that he’s having second thoughts.

Maybe it’s because there’s more time to think about his inevitable death, more time to fixate on his fears and insecurities that plague his mind, haunting him with lingering thoughts he wishes would disappear.

Maybe because he’s reminded of his destiny, as this overwhelming burden that clings onto his shoulders, that beats down on his skin whenever he tries veering off course. This ever-hanging cloud that keeps him in constant darkness, the shadow that constantly reminds him, over and over again, how foolish he is, how ungrateful he is, how selfish and weak and useless he is.

Maybe because he’s sitting here next to his king, his best friend, the one man he has sacrificed his entire life and more for, unsure how he’ll be able to say goodbye. Not sure how to explain to him that he won’t be dying tomorrow, how Merlin’s planning on taking his place.

As if sensing his thoughts, he looks over at him in that moment, the warm glow of the fire dancing across his face. “Everything alright?” he asks.

Almost out of habit, he nods, not meeting his gaze.

Arthur studies him for a moment and Merlin swallows, afraid he will push. Thankfully, he simply nods and drops the subject, letting the silence sit still.  

Except the silence almost feels unbearable, this guilt clawing at his skin and threatening to suffocate him. Merlin knows that he needs to say goodbye, in a roundabout way if possible, but the words are sticking in his throat and he’s having a hard time finding the right ones.

He’s reminded of an earlier time, years ago, when he was willing to sacrifice his life for his mother and had to say goodbye to Arthur. It had been a bit difficult – his throat had felt try, his hands had been shaking. But it was different back then. While they were far more comfortable with one another than when they had originally started, they weren’t as close back then. Now, they had been through everything together – from evil sorcerers to betrayals, to friends dying and dead knights walking, they had seen and experienced so much. If it was hard for Merlin to say it then, it was even harder saying it now.

And yet, he knows that he must, knows that he doesn’t want to be another person that betrays Arthur. And so, he opens his mouth, about to let the words through – words he hadn’t planned yet – when Arthur sighs loudly, turning to look at him. “So… this is it.”

Merlin’s quite confused – he’s not exactly sure where this conversation is going – but decides to go along with it. “Yes, I suppose it is.”

“Well,” Arthur says, taking a sip of water. “I’d like to say I made the most of it, but I’m not sure I have.”

Merlin’s eyes widen, stunned by his declaration. How in the hell could he think that? Well, sure, not all of Merlin’s hopes and dreams were panning out the way he had wanted, but to say that Arthur had not tried, had not given his all for his people, was baffling. He says as much when he finally finds the right words to say.

Arthur simply smiles but Merlin notices it’s devoid of any mirth. “I appreciate that.”

“Arthur—“

“Merlin,” Arthur says abruptly, cutting him off. “You’ll make sure to let the others know, right?”

And there it is again, that guilt that twists in his stomach, reminding him of the many lies he has told this night, and every day since he’s met him. He forces himself to take a deep breath before finally choking out, “Yes. I’ll tell them.”

Arthur nods, turning to look at the fire in front of them. Merlin realizes this is his chance to finally tell him of all the secrets, everything that he has bottled up over the years. To finally release all of the remorse he has felt throughout the years.

But he’s selfish and a coward, so he keeps it bottled in, throwing it into the ocean and hoping desperately for the tides to wash it all away.

It’s during Merlin’s slight panic that he’s brought back to the present by a small chuckle. He’s surprised to almost see a smile lingering on Arthur’s face. “What’s funny?” he asks.

“Huh? Nothing.” When Merlin gives him a look he sighs. “I was just thinking… how strange this all is.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that… seven years ago, so many things were different. We were such different people.” Arthur shrugs, scratching at his neck. “It just feels crazy looking at how far we’ve come.”

Merlin remembers his journey to Camelot, his inexplicable wonder when he first entered and saw bustling crowds and the large castle. Now, years later, he finds no new wonder in the bustling crowds or even the wondrous castle. Merlin smiles to himself, memories of those days coming back to him. We were so innocent back then, he thinks to himself. I wish it had stayed that way.

“Yeah,” Merlin says when he’s managed to return to the conversation. “Yeah, it’s pretty crazy.”

“Did you ever expect to end up here?”

“Not a chance,” Merlin responds immediately, chuckling at the thought. “I certainly never thought I would have to deal with a pompous, arrogant, supercilious, prat like yourself.”

“Hm, no I suppose not.”

Merlin’s eyes widened, turning to look at Arthur. “Did you just admit to being a prat?”

Arthur attempts to play it off, but Merlin knows him too well. Huffing, he crosses his arms as if he were a child. “Alright, so maybe I wasn’t the best person back then.”

“Yes!” He says gleefully, clapping his hands together. “This is the best day of my life.”

“Whatever Merlin, at least I changed for the better!”

Merlin grins, recalling memories of Arthur risking his find a flower to save him, memories of Arthur leading his people when they needed him, memories of Arthur smiling and laughing and praying pranks and knighting commoners and marrying a servant and Merlin finds himself softly saying, “Yes.” Then, “Yes, I think you have.”

Silence hangs in the air and he tries to think of a way to rein in his words, add a joke in to rid them both of the tense silence, to erase those truthful words. But Merlin realizes that he won’t ever get to say these words to Arthur ever again and so maybe he shouldn’t. Just this once.

“Yes well,” Arthur says after a few minutes of tense silence, “I never would’ve done it without you.”

Merlin immediately shakes his head. “I don’t believe that.”

Arthur looks at him incredulously. “I appreciate the lie, but truly Merlin, it’s quite obvious. You don’t have to pretend just to make me feel better.”

“Arthur, have I ever, in the seven years you’ve known me, attempted to sugarcoat anything for you?”

He starts to speak and Merlin raises his eyebrows. “No,” he admits. “I guess not.”

“Good because I mean it.” 

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“…and everyone knows, I’m always right.”

Arthur huffs. “Sure.”

Merlin bites his lip worriedly before finally asking, “You know, I actually mean it right?” He makes sure to look straight into his eyes as he says this. “I know I mess around and call you all sorts of names, but the truth is, I am so proud of you. I know it may not seem like it, but you have done so much for your people and your loved ones. You are an amazing king, Arthur, and you will always be remembered like that.”

Arthur’s eyes hold so much insecurity and unsureness that Merlin wants to reach out and take it from him, take away the pain and the self-doubt that continue to torment his mind. Arthur takes a stuttering breath before asking, “Merlin?”

“Yes?”

Arthur swallows. “I’m afraid.” Two words that don’t need explaining, two words that Merlin understands perfectly.

Merlin finds himself nodding slowly, finding himself becoming more honest and open than he’d ever been before. “Yes... I think I am too.”

The silence following them feels freeing as if the words they had been struggling with had finally been released. For the first time that night, Merlin feels as if his last fears, his last bit of hesitation, leaves him. Merlin never thought he could be ready for such a heavy task, for such an enormous burden. But looking at Arthur now – his blue eyes of clear skies, his hair that brightens against the moonlight, the small scars, and cuts from the adventures they had been on – and realizes that he must. Realizes that he would do anything for him, not necessarily because of destiny, but because he was a good man and Arthur deserved much better than this. Arthur deserved everything and Merlin would happily give it to him if he could.

So, as they sit, the darkening sky now fully black, Merlin finds himself taking a deep breath and closing his eyes. He feels the comfortable breeze against his skin and hears the familiar rustle of the trees as he thinks to himself:

I am ready.

[lovee-infected]

By my side

♥Leona Kingscholar ♥

Art credit

Well it still isn't too late to offer our dear Lion a bitter-sweet birthday gift , right ? Let him let go of his sad past and find happiness in this birthday night

...Sometimes I wondered why would I be even given birth to if this was the point life was going to drive me into ? If this was how it was supposed to be , I wished to never be born . Living without needing and to be needed , wanting and to be wanted , loving and to be loved was nothing different from death , some are given birth to by mistake , could it be that I as well was a mistake ? I was pretty sure that I was until something later changed my mind

Preview : Years has passed , each filled with dread , hatred , loneliness and dishonor . Unwanted pains shattering his heart to pieces , unexplainable emotions no one around him would ever care to imagine , endless tears fallen from his eyes over the years on his lonely corners , injured heart of him which no one ever cared to heal... But from now , things are going to be different . This year will be his new start because he has you by his side

Why did I always have to be the second one ...?

They say you've got to live your and only your life , that the only one holding you back from your dreams is you , that you can be anything if you try your hardest , and I tried

No , it wasn't only trying . I lived for my goal . I lived to become the strongest , I lived to be the one who brought honor to my family's name , I lived to pull myself out my brother's shadow , I lived to change my unwanted fate...but I couldn't . I cut back on my everything , my free time , my friends , my family , my own self . All to have my time to focus on my powers , to be an almighty magician . As I grew stronger , I begun to bring fear along myself. I got warned that I'm going way further than I ever should but it didn't matter . I still needed to be stronger , strong enough to prove that I'm worthy of being the next king

Farena brought light wherever he went and I brought...shadows . Shadows reflecting the terrifying darkness taming into my soul . I thought these would turn me into a worthy heir to my kingdom but they didn't , they turned me into something others called terrifying . Fearful . Greedy . Monster

My brother himself tried to hold me back for many times but I didn't listen , thinking that he was afraid of my strength which I thought had surpassed him so far . Even if it wasn't his purpose , this wasn't going to hold me back from the path I'd chosen ; it was too late

All they could see was my stunning powers growing more and more fearful day by day , slowly turning into a threat . No one ever saw what it took me to get to this point , no one ever cared . While children were playing outside and enjoying their short lasting carefree days , I had locked my self inside my hidden training spot , spending hours each day all alone there . Learning everything on your own isn't really pleasant , specially when no one's there to tell you how harmful magic can be . I was covered in dust and bruises each day after training , I even passed away of tire too many times right there

I have to admit...It doesn't really matter how much I grow . A part of me will always remain child because I sacrificed my time to be a child when I had to enjoy it . Yeah , there's an extremely annoying cry baby hiding inside me... It came clear to me again on the day of my nephew's birthday , the day life proved me that I can never change my path , no matter how much I try , no matter how much I lose , no matter how much cry , no matter how much I suffer

All those pain , loneliness , hours of crying and wiping blood off my body was a waste . Not because I didn't try , no dear it wasn't ever my fault . It was this life . It wasn't ever fair...

That child...This was the end of me . The only thing I fought for , my very last chance to get all I ever wanted out of my life . Why?...why?? I gave up my all just to be respected ! To be looked up to ! To be wanted !! Didn't I lose enough...?

I couldn't take it anymore , I couldn't . I had lost my purpose to live , to breath , to exist . Suicide would've been a pretty simple and shameful way to end it all , but you won't believe it if I tell how many time I was too close to doing it . The story of the infamous king Scar was getting reflected into my life . I was becoming what I refused to be , I didn't want to be like him , I didn't want to be the monster he became but...Not everything always goes as you expect , right ?

When I announced that I'll be heading to Night Raven College , everyone knew that I'd finally given up to my dark side . I was no longer afraid of becoming the monster they warned me about ; this was my path

I started a new life with entering Night Raven College or this is what I thought . No was there to look down to me for my neglected past and that was enough for me , enough to not suffer much more . My mind finally came to a more stable zone , somehow I could pull some parts of my shattered personality together and that seemed to be good...but the holes in my heart , there was no way to get rid of them . Loneliness , pain and , isolation took more than having a more stable life to be forgotten , but I never knew that my medicine would one day come to me on their own

I used to think that you were just as empty as I was , perhaps even a lot weaker with not a single sight of magic inside you . May seem rude but I believe that was the first thing that made me have an interest in you : You made me feel superior . Don't hate my dear , but that's just how I grew up . Being compared to my brother my whole life and receiving endless critiques and blames on it . You do understand , don't you ? Told you , those holes in my heart needed to be filled . Bullying you was just a small part of it

Back then , you were nothing more than a child in my eyes . Your will to make a change and save others sounded pathetic to me ; not just because I looked down to you as a human , but rather because I saw myself inside you ; my unfulfilled wishes and useless tries . This was how I expected you to end up , just like me . But you didn't

Overblot may be counted as my most terrifying form , but it isn't the only the thing you saw through me . That was the very first time I show you the others how empty I was , how weak I felt . I revealed my holes and that made me feel unsafe

Considering how I was wrong about being superior to you and the way you saw how measurable and weak I could be , I wouldn't have been fascinated if you too had started looking down to me as a loser . It was odd of you to try and get closer to me instead , no wonder why I kept rejecting you at first . You were stubborn and I was moody , I didn't really like the two of us getting much closer . Helping you take back the Ramshackle dorm was supposed to be our very last business together but , I'm thankful that you didn't give up on me . I accepted the two of us becoming friends since you insisted , but I'd never imagined what great changes were coming to my life by letting you in

Your powerless self which I used to make fun of , became a way for me to spend sometime forgetting how strong my magic would be or how important it can be in my life . Having ice cream together , taking walks , talking like two friends would , these were nothing special but they were all new to me . I had to accept that it was nice having you around , finally someone that wasn't as annoying as the others

Finally I gained enough self-esteem to speak of my personal issues , stuff that were bothering me over the years . I didn't want you to do anything about them , I just needed a listener . But to see how you cried hearing my pain... I- I wasn't ever expecting that . You were not only the first one to know but also the first to care...that shook my heart

When you said that you wanted me to spend more time with my family specially brother and nephew , I couldn't help but to laugh it off . But the way you actually forced me into doing it seemed to by quite childish at first . I was too selfish to even call my brother but you were there to force me into doing it - It felt like you were my mum sitting next to phone to see if I talk politely or not, but it worked out anyway

As the time passed , many things changed . Our small friendship was now way further than were it once was , specially now that I look how you changed me and my life over

Farena and I are now much better than we used to be , I can now really feel like I have someone as my older brother , not a symbol to be compared with . My family now check on my casually asking how I am doing . I still refuse to go home since I still have a lot to take care of here , but I can somehow feel that I as well missed them too . For so long I thought that I was forgotten , invisible and unwanted . But after you showing up in my life , I can finally see what it means to be alive

My dear (y/n) , I'm still learning to be a better me and need you by my side to learn me how to , so I'm not yet prepared to tell you how I feel . I kept on learning to be a great magician for years and now , it's time for me to learn to be a great lover , someone worthy of your love and attention , someone you'd like to remain by his side for eternity

I love you (y/n) , not just because of giving me all I needed for my whole life , not because of making me feel like I have a real family after the years , not because of helping me gain all respect and honor I always wanted to have , but for showing me that my path as well can be changed

Tonight here I am with my family , friends and you by my side , celebrating a date I called filthy for the past 20 years of my life :

" Happy birthday Leona! "

The crybaby inside me isn't going to shut the hell tonight- I know that I shouldn't cry but , I can't help it . My first tears in front on someone else than myself fall not because of pain this time , but due to the unbelievable happiness and joy my heart has drowned into . I look at you , your bright smile giving me straight and your beautiful eyes keeping on bringing light to soul . Even if my birth was a mistake , I would mow say that it's the most beautiful mistake that could have ever happened in my life

My family , my friends , and my beloved (y/n) , I need them all , and I'm glad to see that they as well need me . I want them in my life , and I'm proud that they as well want me . I love you (y/n) and I would die to see that you too love me , but even if you don't , that will never change my feelings for you . For the first time in my life , I feel alive . And it's all thanks to you , because of you by my side

I can't help but to hug you tight , feeling your warmth close to me . Digging my head into your shoulder as I let go of heavy tears in my eyes : " Thank you , (y/n)..."

♦♥♠♣

Tagging : @ji-yaaan @lilyholo @yandere-wishes

[wingsofhcpe]

whumptober day 2- choking

fandom: shadow & bone

pairing: fivan [ivan x fedyor kaminsky]

rating: T+

additional warnings: blood, injury, gore

you can also read here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/34208404/chapters/85175464#workskin

[tagging @camilleisback upon request <3]

He makes it out of the Fold by the skin of his teeth. He uses everything that he has at his disposal; his powers, his experience, even the little bit of faith to the Saints he has retained over the years. It’s enough to get him out in the end, but not enough to make sure he does so unscathed.

Ivan crawls the last few meters away from the outer reaches of the Shadow Fold, tendrils of darkness still clinging to his clothes -or whatever has remained of them, anyway- as if they’re trying to pull him back into the hell he just barely escaped. He knows it’s all in his mind; the Fold isn’t sentient, although it houses sentient forms of life. Still, if there’s even the slightest possibility that something, be it the darkness or its monstrous inhabitants, may appear out of nowhere and drag him back inside, he knows with mortifying certainty he’ll be unable to get away a second time. All of his strength, his willpower, the force of his very life, is spent. It’s quite literally bleeding out of him as he collapses for good between the abandoned ruins of Novokribirsk’s outer reaches, the thick red liquid soaking into the barren ground. Within the haze of pain and exhaustion that muddles his thoughts, Ivan realises what poetic justice means; he helped cause this disaster. He helped drain all life out of this ground. Now, he’s giving it all back with his own blood. That’s alright, he thinks. It’s the circle of life, after all; when someone dies, their essence returns to the Making at the Heart of the World. Their life force seeps back into the heartbeat that makes the earth turn, that moves the waters, feeds the animals, drives the Grisha. They must all return to it when they’re ready.

And Ivan is ready. He really is. He is content to be sacrificing himself for General Kirigan’s righteous purpose, for the good of all the Grisha, for the safety of everyone in Ravka. He’s content to be reunited with his deceased brothers, his father, his uncle. And he would have been content to leave this cold, cruel world behind, if it wasn’t for one thing. One mere little thing that’s still holding him back. That is making him think he’s not yet ready to leave this plane of existence.

He doesn’t want to leave Fedyor behind.

It’s foolish, really. They’re soldiers, and the knowledge that one or both of them will most likely meet an untimely death, far out of reach from the other, has been ever-present in their relationship even before they made their feelings known. It had all been a silly little fantasy, a comforting but naïve dream, thinking that they may get the chance to grow old together, to die in bed held in each other’s arms after living to see Ravka in peace. Ivan had always believed himself to be a pragmatist, if not a pessimist- but this dream, this hope… Fedyor had almost made him believe they would get their happy ending. And now… it hurt. It hurt to think that he would leave Fedyor behind. That his death would extinguish his beloved’s warm, bright smile. That it would break his heart.

What Ivan wouldn’t have given to be able to speak to Fedyor one last time. To say all the things he may have kept to himself all those years. ‘I love you’. ‘You’re the light of my life’. ‘There is nothing more important to me than you are’. Fedyor knows already, and Ivan is aware. But still- he has been frugal with words of affection. Fedyor deserved so much more than his silent. Sometimes actions may speak louder than words, but others, you need to hear those words from someone’s lips. Words are comfort; words are a promise. Ivan didn’t realise until now. But now it’s too late, far too late.

Ivan closes his eyes as the sun sets below the horizon, somewhere to his left. Part of him mourns its descent; he already misses the warmth, the light. The sun… Fedyor is his sun. The Starkov girl, the traitor, may be the Sun Summoner, but nothing she does will ever come close to the warmth radiance that Fedyor emits just by existing.

“F-Fedya…” Ivan chokes on his own blood, sputtering and coughing until his lungs feel like they’re on fire. He knows he’s alone, and that Fedyor can’t hear him. But he wants to speak his beloved’s name just once more. A prayer, a goodbye.

Darkness seems to ebb out of the Fold and engulf the world around him, but it is just the night. Simply the natural order of things. Ivan gradually begins to shiver, his temperature dropping by the minute due to blood loss as well as the lack of a proper heating source. He groans softly; the little spasms that run through his body make the pain worse, make his wounds feel as if they’re being torn anew over and over again. But soon even those weak sounds fade, his strength nowhere nearly enough even for that. It’s barely enough to keep him breathing. To keep his heart beating.

The hours pass, or at least he thinks so; he cannot be sure. When he hears the distant sound of hoofbeats on the ground, he initially dismisses it as a hallucination, or perhaps even Death itself riding on its black steed to come claim his soul. But then something else tugs at the corners of his senses; a sound as familiar as breath, as life itself. A heartbeat he would be able to recognise even if he was already dead.

Ivan wants to stand. He wants to shout, to draw the attention of the one person that’s still keeping him tied to this world, that is making life worth living. But he cannot move- he cannot even speak. He can only lay in silence and pray with all of his might to whatever Saint is still watching over him, that Fedyor will detect his heartbeat just as Ivan detected his. That he won’t just ride right past him, leaving him to die alone, and cold, and in so much pain.

Don’t leave me. Fedya, please, don’t leave me.

Call it a miracle, call it divine intervention, or just luck. But the sounds that have stirred Ivan from his dying slumber draw closer and closer, until there’s no further doubt- it’s not a hallucination. It is real. This is real. He’s not alone.

A voice, a familiar and adored voice, calls his name. Fedyor is suddenly kneeling on the ground next to him, the flickering light of a traveling lantern illuminating his face. His eyes are brimming with tears, and all he repeats, over and over, is Ivan’s name.

“Vanya, my Vanya. It’s alright. I’m here now. You’ll be okay my love, I promise.”

Strong arms lift him slowly, as carefully as possible, and Ivan hears his own voice distantly as he cries out. Saints, the pain- it’s unlike anything he has ever experienced before. He feels his insides may drop out of his body from the gaping wounds across his chest and stomach, and he’s not certain whether or not his right arm is still properly attached to his body. It surely doesn’t feel like it is. But Fedyor whispers words of comfort to him, even as Ivan chokes and coughs up more blood. He cannot reply, although he dearly wants to; he wants to thank Fedyor, he wants to ask him not to leave him, to be gentle because oh, it all hurts so bad. And even though he’s unable to talk, and can only stare at his beloved pleadingly through blurry eyes, Fedyor understands. Fedyor has always understood, and now it’s no exception. He presses a soft kiss on Ivan’s blood-streaked brow, and sets himself to work.

Ivan flashes in and out of conscience while Fedyor and his Grisha companions clean and bandage his wounds. Even amidst unconsciousness, however, Ivan can feel his partner’s steady, unwavering and comforting presence. And he knows, now, that everything will be okay.

The next time Ivan comes properly around, the pain has subsided. Someone has lit a fire between the ruins that have offered shelter to the group, and there’s something soft and warm enveloping him. It takes him a moment to realise it’s Fedyor’s kefta, having replaced his own torn and ruined clothes. Fedyor himself is holding him in his arms, humming a soft Fjerdan lullaby- one that Ivan had sung to him during a particularly bad injury, while the Healers at the Little Palace had been patching Fedyor up. Despite himself, despite everything, Ivan’s lips twitch into a small smile. Fedyor smiles back, and leans down to gently bump their noses together.

“I’m here, lapushka.” He says reassuringly, as if he knows it’s just what Ivan needs to hear. The latter sucks in a wobbly breath, but Fedyor immediately shakes his head.

“No, don’t try to talk now. Just rest. I’ll stay with you.”

There’s no need for words between them, as there has never been. But Ivan silently promises, both to Fedyor and himself, that as soon as he regains his ability to speak, he’s going to tell Fedyor every day how much he loves him, how much he means to him, how thankful he is that Fedyor didn’t abandon him out here in the darkness and the cold.

Before sleep overtakes him, he swears he won’t ever again leave those words unspoken.

[cupcakemolotov]

Our Bones are Iron

Synopsis: When Mikael starts a war with the Throne over his wife's execution, Caroline's world is thrown into chaos. Two years later, and she finds herself facing her ex-betrothed from opposite sides of the war. Klaus has defeated her father for the King, and now she must find a way to strike a deal with him to save the people her father nearly destroyed to aid Mikael's rage.

Tags: Alternate Universe × Alternate; Universe - Fantasy; Alternate Universe - Magic; Knight!Klaus; Lady!Caroline; Broken Engagement; Family Drama; Dark Magic; Magic; Light Angst; Angst and Feels; Implied/Referenced Torture; Aftermath of Torture; all non con elements are not the main characters and referenced only; Esther is not a nice person in this fic; magical rituals gone bad; Post-War

I wrote this after being inspired so, so long ago by this post. If you would prefer you can read it here on A03.

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It  was the clink of armor that left her heart in her throat. Caroline’s fingers tightened on the satchel she carried with her, and she forced herself to breathe. Six steps below, and she could see the light flickering from the soft mage lights and the movement of a shadow just visible beneath the heavy wood. For a single moment, she allowed herself the fantasy of fleeing back up the darkening staircase to the safety of her room but  she was no longer a child. At twenty-four years of age, she should have already been wed and looking after a home of her own, but the Civil War had put many dreams on hold. They had been boxed up and tossed as easily aside as a servant cleaning a room. 

But now the war was over and her family had lost. 

By every tradition, it should have been her mother walking these steps. But Elizabeth Forbes had retired hours before the army had arrived on their doorstep, and she had made no move to rise once it had become clear that they would be occupied for the evening. Caroline had long since learned that no amount of pleading would stir her mother once she’d taken to her room. She tried not to resent her for it. Something had broken in her mother when her father had turned his back on the kingdom, and no amount of wishing or magic could fix it. But tonight, it would have been the worst of slights to leave this Knight to his own bath. And rudeness wasn’t something she could afford. Not when the lives of everyone in her household depended on her. And they would continue to depend on her as they walked the tightrope her father had left them on. 

Caroline had little hope that they would be rid of the Knight and his men anytime soon, and it’d been made abundantly clear that they were being evaluated for weaknesses. Her father’s surviving Senschels had been requested for dinner that night, and the exquisitely polite note sent along requesting that the household to keep to their rooms had been a request she’d been more than willing to keep. 

Except for this one thing.

Her fingers shook, and she closed her eyes, forcing herself to take a slow breath. Caroline had known this was coming the moment she’d seen the banner cross the ridge. She’d been tending her mother when word of the soldier’s approach had reached them, and she’d paced at the window waiting for the first glimpse of who approached. Somehow, she’d known what she would see before the first banner had crept over the ridge. The Black Knight’s banner had been easily recognizable as the crossed the ridge, and unavoidable proof of who had won. The King’s grasp had held firm, and they were now on their own. No remaining allies would offer them aid as long as this Knight occupied their castle. 

It had taken most of the day, the long arm of evening shadowing the courtyard before they’d reached the gates. Caroline had already given the order that they would offer no resistance. The remaining lives of the young boys and elderly left behind would not be sacrificed on the ashes of her father’s arrogance. 

Now she just had to ensure their futures.

In that one regard, Caroline knew she was the better advocate for her people than her mother. With her father gone for the last two years, the duty of caring for her people had fallen to her. She knew the lands, the people, their lives. Tonight, alone with their conqueror, it was her duty to advocate for those who remained. 

And she would. 

Caroline just... needed a moment. 

Her nails dug tightly into her palm and she struggled to find the composure that had been missing since she’d seen the first clear view of his banner. It had been two years since she had last seen Lord Niklaus Mikaelson, and nearly as long since he had broken their bethroment. All her life, she’d grown up under the weight of that marriage. Klaus had been the third son of William’s closest friend, and he and Mikael had looked forward to combining their bloodlines. 

Klaus had still been mostly a boy then.

Freshly knighted with long bones and a face he hadn’t yet grown into. But even then, only a fool had ignored the raw violence of his magic, the way he seemed to hunger for the world. Once, she would have called him something like her friend. Their relationship had always been a bit contentious, the families expectations an unrelenting pressure between them, but she’d found herself learning to trust him. He was rough around the edges, darkly cynical and had a temper that was so very easily pricked but he’d never deliberately hurt her. In a world where she was her father’s daughter first, his betrothed second and Caroline third, she’d always appreciated that. Quietly, in the secret corners of her heart, she’d let herself like him. 

Then a year to nearly the day before their marriage, on her twentieth birthday, everything had gone to hell. Esther had been executed by the Crown for magical treason, and Elijah and Klaus had denounced their parentage, taking their younger siblings with them. Her father had taken her silence as he’d announced the end of her bethrothment as agreement, but it had been shock that held her tongue. In the span of three days, all her expectations, all of her plans, had been upended violently and she’d been left clutching bloody shards of a life where she couldn’t find her footing. 

But the worst had been yet to come. 

Her  family had been banished to their country estates in sudden disfavor from the crown when her father chose to side with Mikael and all his rage, and nearly all Caroline’s court friends and acquaintances dried up like a spring stream. Her mother had disappeared to her bedroom, her father fell into drink, and she’d been left trying to hold together their estate and people with a grim determination. For weeks, she waited for Klaus to send her word. Something. Anything that could explain why he hadn’t warned her of his plans, given her time to shore up her defenses before he’d abandoned her. 

It’d been a bitter, angry pill to swallow when he sent nothing. 

Two years later, her father and Mikael had instigated a Civil War that had split the kingdom nearly in half. And now her father was likely dead, killed by the man he’d once viewed as the future of his family. By right of conquest, everything her family had owned for generations, everything she had worked so hard to preserve now belonged to Klaus. 

Caroline let out another shaky breath, sudden exhaustion leaving her winded. She couldn’t afford to let it show. Tonight was her only real chance of finding mercy for those who had been left behind by her father’s armies. She couldn’t let the memories of the boy he’d once been interfere with her negotiations with the man Klaus had become.  Becoming a Knight, earning the Black Banner for his own? It was proof that Klaus had grown into his strength, that he was considered worthy by the King. No easy feat, when his parents were both traitors to the crown. 

And now he was here. 

She didn’t know how she wanted to feel. 

Sometimes, in the dark of her chambers, she’d let herself wonder if things had been just a little different between what might have gone differently. What would her life have been like? Would she have been brave enough to make a similar decision if she’d seen what her father had become before it was too late? Did it matter? In the end, those were nothing but foolish, girlish thoughts. She would never abandon her mother or her people to her father’s capricious whims and Mikael’s unquenchable thirst for vengeance. 

And so while the heart that Klaus had bruised had healed, it hadn’t forgotten. 

And knowing that if she stepped through those doors and she’d see him for the first time in years, that she would be close enough to touch him, left her breathless. And she couldn’t afford that kind of weakness. Klaus who might have been hers once was gone. Lord Klaus Mikaelson thought her the enemy. Squeezing her trembling hands tightly together, Caroline took another bracing breath and squared her shoulders. Avoiding Klaus any longer wouldn’t give her any more clarity of thought than hours of waiting hadn’t already wrought. Jaw set, she set her palm flat on the bath door and pushed it open. 

It was a little like stepping into a different world, and she could almost taste the magic that layered the walls and windows, an unsubtle reminder that he was now the power here. For a moment the humidity from the steam made it difficult to adjust to the low lights, and she let the door shut quietly behind her. Klaus stood with his back to her, gaze directed through the windows that were kept were usually cracked open to let out the worst of the steam, but he had left closed. She didn’t know how he stood the heat in the heavy armor he wore.  

Still, he said nothing, and so she took the time to study him. To absorb the changes time had wrought in an attempt to shore her heart against them. The lanky youth she’d known was gone, and the man was built on lean but powerful lines. The armor added a layer of bulk, but it was clear that there was solid muscle beneath it. The short curls were familiar, for all that the steam had turned them riotous. 

Finally he made a soft sound, nearly a sigh, and turned. His gaze locked on hers immediately and the hard line of his jaw softened as he was clearly caught off guard by her presence. For a long moment they simply stared at each other, and Caroline tasted blood as she struggled to contain her reaction to the impact of him. 

“Caroline,” he said finally, slowly. He drew out the consonants and vowels of her name as if he was remembering how to say them. “I expected your mother.”

Caroline dipped in a quick curtsy, refusing to allow his casual use of her name rattle her even though it had. The flush on her cheeks could easily be mistaken for the heat. For a heartbeat, she allowed herself to wonder what he could possibly have wished to speak to her mother about that required this level of spell work to maintain their privacy. She supposed she’d find out, and dread filled her stomach. “My Lady Mother is unwell, Lord Mikaelson.”

Something hard flickered through his gaze, the fullness of his mouth tightening. “I am sorry to hear that.”

She sincerely doubted that. But there was something about the way he stood, the slightest hint of his magic between them that warned her to be cautious. Lifting her chin, she nodded. “Thank you.”

The corner of his mouth tilted upwards before his eyes skimmed down her body, and it took teeth gritting composure to keep from reacting to the edge in his gaze when it returned to hers. “You’ve lost weight.”

The familiarity of his words had her spine stiffening. “I cannot imagine that is any of your concern.”

An arch of his brow, something undeniably arrogant behind his gaze. “No?”

Caroline lifted her chin. She would not let him make this personal. “No.”

Klaus studied her face. “You’ll find that there are very few things that are not of my concern, Caroline. Particularly now.”

His refusal to use her surname and title left her stomach churning, but to give an inch now would mean being at a disadvantage later. Her people couldn’t afford her to be weak, no matter her tangled feelings. Tongue sliding briefly between her teeth, she took a deep breath. This particular conversation would get them nowhere. “Should I take your words to mean my father is no longer alive?”

Something jumped at the base of his jaw, a muscle pulled too tight. “Your father chose death over a trial. I am sorry for that, Caroline.”

Something inside her chest cracked open at the acknowledgement, and her next inhale was shaky. It shouldn’t have hurt as much as it did, the acknowledgement of her father’s fate when she’d already known the likelihood of it. Her father had never intended anything but victory, had allowed no plan for failure to be brought to his attention. A more charitable person would perhaps attribute such a decision to choose death as not wanting to drag his family though the pain and horror such a trial would bring, but Caroline knew better. Her father had finally seen the consequences of his actions before him and chosen to abandon his family to their fates, again. 

And it hurt. 

Her father had done so many terrible things in the name of friendship, had allowed Mikael’s rage to feed his own, but once he’d been a father who had cared for his daughter and people, a man who had honored his wife. But that pain, that mourning for the man he’d once been, that was a private grief and she would not let Klaus see it. Setting her teeth, Caroline clawed her emotions into place, and when she spoke, her voice only shook a little. 

“You cannot be comfortable in that armor in this steam.” She motioned for him to turn. She would do her duty. When she had nothing else, there was always duty. 

Caroline did not expect him to catch her hand, palms and fingers warm and calloused against her skin. Her gaze snapped to his and he studied her with a familiar intensity that left her mouth dry. “It is your mother who should be here, now, Caroline. There are a number of things she and I need to discuss. Why did she send you?”

“As I have told you, she is not well.” She repeated, voice sounding hard and flat to her own ears. He sighed, mouth tightening as he looked at the door behind her, and then those blue eyes touched with gold returned to hers and nothing there was comforting in the depths. Iron and fire, a hint of the power that clung to him like a shield. A sort of resolution that left her shoulder tight with strain.

Klaus had always been powerful, but she had never feared that power. Even then, with the weight of it sitting behind his eyes like judgement, the strength of it tangible between them, it did not frighten her. It should have. He had never hidden what he was and how terrible he could become, though as a girl she’d foolishly thought he’d never have cause to use such strength against her family. How wrong she had been. 

When he spoke, his words were measured, pulled taut by an emotion she could not name.

“Yes, I imagine she is. Defying a geas is never easy, but she has done it before and as all of the holders are now dead, it should be gone.” His words pounded in her ears like blows, and she stared at him, not comprehending his words. “She should have found the strength to finish what she started, not offer her daughter as a sacrificial lamb.”

She jerked against his grip, shock replacing the hard knot of grief. “Do you jest?” she rasped, shaking her head. “That is impossible. My mother could not…”  Her words died as he continued to watch her, expression unyielding. “A geas is blood magic.”

“So it is.”

Anger flashed hot and potent through her veins. “You are accusing my father of blood magic. Is it not enough that he is dead? That all that he worked for is now laid to waste?”

“No, Caroline. Not your father, though we will always wonder what part he played in my mother’s schemes as he chose his sword instead of confessing his part to the courts.” He set his jaw, and she almost didn’t recognize the judgement he wore on his face. “Though I am sure we will find bits and pieces of the scheme as we go through his things and question his remaining people. But the blame, the magic that built the conspiracy that lies at the feet of Esther.”

Caroline opened her mouth and closed it, something hard fisting around her lungs. Shaking her head, she curled her fingers tightly against her palms. “Esther is dead these two years past,” she pointed out around a throat gone tight. “Powerful she might have been, but even she cannot perform magic beyond the grave.”

Blood magic did not linger, after its holder died. 

“If it was only so easy,” Klaus returned, a hint of bitterness in his voice. “To cut the head off of the snake, and everything ends. But my mother schemed far better than anyone realized, Mikael upheld his part of them, until the very end.”

She didn’t want to ask,  but she needed to know. “My  mother would never have willingly committed to aiding black magic.”

He shook his head. “I cannot speak for the motivations of your mother, Caroline, only of the actions she took to protect you. Esther was many things, but trusting? Never. Your mother was her confidant for many years. There were secrets shared between them that she would allow no one to spill. How do you think she survived so many years practicing forbidden magic?”

She couldn’t breathe. Of all the terrible things that she had imagined Esther to have committed to receive a King’s Execution, she had not once thought of this. That Klaus thought her mother had been a victim? That Mikael had willingly helped her do these terrible things and that her father had fought at his side. Had he known? Had he also been a victim. Did it matter? 

Emotions carening, she took a shuddering breath. He said her mother had protected her. Not abandoned her to her duty, to the fate that her father had chosen for all of them. He said she was weak for not doing this duty instead of Caroline. She didn’t know what to think. 

“Turn around.”

His head tipped, brows lifting. “I beg pardon?”

Caroline gestured impatiently, her lungs stretched too tight. “You lay serious accusations at the feet of ghosts, while damning my mother for her lack of strength in nearly the same breath. I need to think, and if you insist on having this conversation here, I will not be accused of failing to show you the full kindness of my house. Turn. Around.”

She needed him to look somewhere else than at her, needed a moment to drag back a little of her shattered composure. A hint of something like understanding softened the look behind his eyes and he obligingly turned, giving her access to the ties and buckles that would loosen his chest plate and arms. Her next inhale was shaky, and not something he could miss, but at least she wouldn’t have to deal withhim facing her while she refitted her mental armor. 

“I would never dare lay such an accusation of a lack of manners at your feet.” Klaus said after a moment, and his words were light, nearly teasing, and she made a noise of disagreement. 

“You toss words such as blood magic and geas about quite easily,” she rebuked as she set to work, her fingers strangely steady. Such a duty should have been merely practical, the duty of a Lady for a visiting Knight, an old tradition that built a formality between them, and yet. She had never done this for him before, had never seen him in less than fully armed or in the many layers of court garb. The sudden pounding of her pulse was not merely from her temper. Forcing herself to ignore the strange intimacy, she kept her eyes on his armor. “Let us not pretend that you believe manners to be important when speaking of such things.”

“I would never be so foolish as to forget their importance, particularly after having been taken to task regarding them by you, more than once.” Now she could hear the smile in his voice and it annoyed her. That he would remind her of what he had walked away from so many years ago now and just how well he had once known her. “Manners, the correct way to fold a tablecloth and the proper way to curtsy to cut someone from your social circle. Were those not the skills you informed me in these very halls that should not be underestimated for their importance?”

She paused, gaze flicking to the nape of his neck, eyes narrowed. “Now you jest.”

“About the importance of how to fold a tablecloth? I would never.” 

Annoyed, because his words were helping her steady, she tugged the first piece of his armor away from his left arm and set it on the bench to her right. It was a struggle, not to study the shape of him so clearly defined by the thin cloth that ran down the length of his arm. The hard muscle she could have felt beneath her fingertips if she fumbled a buckle even a little. 

She could not let her mind wander in those directions or to allow him to distract her from the hard truths, if it was the truth, that he spoke. “Do you have proof?”

“Of what?”

Caroline rolled her eyes now that he could not see and started on the ties for the other arm. “What do you mean of what? You have declared my mother was under a geas, that she kept Esther’s secrets because of magic. What else could I possibly wonder about?”

There was a long pause and she had finished his arms and was working on the complicated buckles for his chest piece when he finally spoke. “Did you ever wonder why I never sent you a single message in all the years since we last saw each other? We did not part on harsh terms, indeed, we both rather looked forward to upcoming nuptials the following year. 

She bit down hard on the side of her tongue as she tried to steady herself from his question. They had looked forward to the wedding, to the future they were building together. Those curious, heated promises Klaus had made as they had danced carefully around the discussion of the marriage bed. It was why his silence had hurt. She had trusted him. 

Caroline found that she didn’t want to admit to that now, of how much his silence had cost her. She also couldn’t lie convincingly, not with his magic still tangible in the air between them. He would know the moment she tried. It was a particular quirk to his magic he did not advertise, but one he had once admitted to her. 

“No.” 

A shift of his weight, the slightest shake of his head, but he did not call her on the lie. “The bargain I struck with your mother - her condition was that I not contact you until after we had won.”

The back of the chest piece slipped from her fingers and clamored loudly between them, barely missing her toes. He spun and she took a hasty step back, eyes wide. He impatiently removed the rest of the amor and for a long moment, they stared at each other. Klaus, stripped to his waist of his armor and suddenly so touchable her hands trembled with it, but his words were a sudden, intangible barrier between them. 

“Bargain? What possible bargain could you have made with my mother?” Caroline demanded, reeling. That was impossible. What he said should have been impossible. Her mother...

“She knew the identity of my father.” His eyes were steady, and he started to move and stopped himself at her careful step back, his chest rising in a careful breath. “Once my mother was executed, it gave Lady Elizabeth a window of opportunity and she took it. But she had conditions.”

“Your father? That isn’t a hard question to answer.” Caroline retorted, hiding her shaking hands in her skirts. “Mikael.”

A laugh, bitter and harsh. “Did you ever wonder why Henrik died?”

She paused, staring at him. Henrik had been the heart of that family, the tiny, pestering glue that had brought them all together. Even Finn, with his remote manners and unbending distaste for those he considered beneath him had smiled around Henrik. “He caught a wasting sickness.”

“My mother liked to accomplish her plot in threes. For every two children Esther gave Mikael, she birthed one to another man.” Klaus’ eyes shimmered with magic, the rage beneath his words palpable. “I was the first child born out of wedlock. Henrik was the next. The magic he was born with was not what my mother had hoped for, so she considered him expendable. She drained him dry. She planned to use the magic in her play to take the throne, and she nearly got away with it, except for Kol.”

Caroline swallowed hard. “Kol was always in places he didn’t belong.”

He tipped his head in agreement. “It almost cost him his life. Elijah and I did not understand what he had found until weeks after we had buried our brother, the evidence he stole from Esther’s hidden chambers, until weeks later. It was by his testimony that Ester was executed.”

Mikael would never have forgiven Kol for it.  

“It was your mother who warned us that we had to cut ties with Mikael immediately, that returning home would cost us more than we could bear. She is who told us the truth of Esther’s and Mikael’s ambitions, though we had little other than her word for what it meant.”

“But that’s…” she stared at him, aghast. “What could my mother have known? She has so little magic and no use for it.”

“My father’s name is Ansel,” he said bluntly. “He was thought to be dead, but your mother not only knew his name, but how to find him. But her information had a price. She wanted us to cut ties with Mikael publicly, and she wanted my promise that I would not attempt to take you with me.”

Her own laugh bubbled in her throat, hysterical and disbelieving. “And why should I believe you? What purpose could such a bargain have served either of us? I am not so dear to either of you that such a thing should make any sense.”

His mouth tightened into a slash of anger, but his words were cool. “Ansel is the King’s brother, Caroline.”

Her lips parted, and she stared at him in shock. “What?”

“My father is the King’s youngest brother. Esther planned to kill him, to kill everyone in the royal family, and then place me upon the throne as a puppet. But my magic was too strong, too violent to be easily bent, so she tried again with Henrik. And while his magic bred true for the royal line, it wasn’t a magic that would easily see him put on the throne. I imagine she had other plans, but Kol caught her in her act and her schemes started to unravel.”

“And so your mother was executed for blood magic, and what? My mother told you how to save yourself?” Caroline crossed her arms and stared him down. “Why should I believe you? To do as you have said when she would have to have known how my father, how Mikael, would have reacted to such a move by the Throne. Neither would have easily given up power, and our family was tied too closely to yours to do anything but suffer from your mother’s death. And I am supposed to believe that she let us suffer? That she helped instigate the Civil War that would leave so many of our people dead?”

“Yes.”

The room went from warm to stifling and she swallowed. Throat closing, she tried to find the words to rebuke him, to tell him to speak truly and not whatever this was and she couldn’t find them. She didn’t want to believe him. She wished she didn’t. But Klaus had never lied to her before, and she couldn’t see any gain for him to do it now.

Not looking at him, she sat down on a bench, staring at the glass panes in front of her. “Why?’

Klaus moved carefully and knelt beside her. The steam had turned his clothing opaque, and it clung shockingly to the line of his shoulders and the breadth of his chest. Seeing Klaus nearly bare from the waist up was a sight she shouldn’t have appreciated even in her shock, but there was a strength to him that she had missed. 

“I do not know, Caroline, but before we spoke tonight, I thought you did.”

Caroline looked at him, suddenly exhausted. “Why would I know?”

“Because that was part of my bargain with her,” he said, words gentle. “That if I were to walk away from you, if I was to leave you to your father’s whims while I worked to destroy Mikael and Ester’s legacies, that she would tell you why. That she would explain. And when I walked back into this castle, she would meet me here as tradition demanded so that we could finalize the rest of our agreement before protocol and the King’s will complicated matters.”

Shoving a riotous curl away from her eyes, she laughed bitterly “And what could you two possibly have to discuss that would be so important?” She flung her hand out in the direction of the courtyard, where his men were camped and her people were sleeping in their homes. “My people are close to starving, my father’s men have stripped this land of everything of value, and only the very young and the old have survived this grab for power. All in the name of a woman who schemed to destroy the Throne and killed innocents. My mother has told me nothing, Lord Mikaelson, and if what you say is true about her being bound by a geas and then a bargain with you, she could be suffering from any number of magical ailments. Such magic is not kind to its hosts, willing or not. So tell me, what could possibly be so important that she should drag herself down several flights of stairs to meet you in person? What could you have to discuss?”

He caught her hand, eyes cautious as he tangled his fingers with hers. She blinked, but couldn’t bring herself to protest. Her emotional equilibrium was a disaster and the conversation she thought they would be having, how best to save her people, had fluttered away at the first mention of the word geas. Thumb tracing the line of her knuckles, he leaned his head forward and spoke with a quiet determination. “My forthcoming marriage to you.”

Caroline’s lips parted on a sharp inhale, eyes wide. “What?” 

Not even a flicker of a smile crossed his mouth and her breath turned harsh in her throat at the set look behind his eyes. “Our marriage, Caroline.” She shook her head, words failing her, and his fingers tightened around hers. “Did you think I would abandon you?”

“You did abandon me,” she snapped back, her temper rousing with her words. The hurt she’d tucked away into the quiet parts of her heart burning. “No promise to my mother could have been worth the silence between us if what you say is true and you have wished to marry me all these years.”

A short nod, as he accepted her rebuke, but the steeled determination did not falter behind his eyes. “Be as that may, I am set on this course Caroline. The King’s messenger will be here in three days time, and I plan on us to be wed before their arrival. The King will be angry, certainly, but he owes me a great boone, and Ansel is awake. I may have failed you, unintentionally or not, but I will not do so again.”

“Boone or not, you could insight war,” she rasped. “My bloodline…”

“Is of no consequence. I am who I am, Caroline. Every man here belongs to me, and if the King wishes to incite a second war over the daughter of his enemy, he is welcome to do so, though I do not believe it will come to that. Now when he becomes aware of your mother’s sacrifices.”

She wanted to say no on principle, to rage against him, her mother, everything she hadn’t been told. But she had walked into the bath house desperate for a way to save her people, to find a way to survive. Klaus was offering her more than survival. For her people, she would say yes. 

For herself...

Caroline lifted her chin. “This may save my people, but it does not absolve you of my anger.”

“I would expect nothing less.” Klaus murmured. He brought her hand to his mouth, kissing her cold fingers. “But I will still marry you tomorrow at sunset before our people, and I will have you as my wife.”

She forced herself to stand, to tug her fingers free. Klaus stood with her, those blue eyes burning. “If I am to be married to you tomorrow, arrangements must be made. I will leave you to finish.”

He tipped his head. “Sleep well, love.”

Caroline sucked in a breath once she was outside, shivering in the cooler air. Eyes squeezing shut, she pressed her hand to her pounding heart. Tomorrow, she was to be married, her mother had not truely abandoned her, and Klaus was the bastard nephew of the King. So many things to digest, not enough time. 

Squaring her shoulders, she headed for the stairs. She would wake her maid and dig through her closet for something appropriate for tomorrow. The cook would need to be alerted. Her mother told. The mental list grew until she knew the sleep Klaus had wished her would be hard to find. But underneath the rage and confusion, the pain of her abandonment and two years of loneliness was the smallest kernel of hope. 

Klaus had come for her. Had fought her father and his father’s armies, had brought his people here. Tomorrow they would be married. She wasn’t sure what she felt about him, his bargain with her mom, or anything he’d said. 

But that small bit of hope was stubborn. 

But none of that made her any less angry. Curling her fingers into her palms, Caroline squared her shoulders. She would protect her people, but whatever this was between her and Klaus? If he thought a hasty marriage and an apology were enough to cool her temper, he find himself quite surprised. She had no intention of making things easy between them just yet. Cheered at the though, she picked up her space.

Everything was changing, and this time, she was determined to have a say.

[thatscrazyrandom]

..so um.

What if Dumbledore didn't have the Potters' invisibility cloak the night they died?

They knew they were in danger

And if that cloak had been passed down through James' family they had to have known it was special.

I think if they'd had the cloak, it would've been kept in Harry's room, specificially because they knew that Harry would be the target.

So imagine this..

It's Halloween Night 1981. It's a Wednesday.

Barely a week ago, the house of James and Lily Potter had been put under the Fidelius Charm. Their secret keeper was Peter Pettigrew- a last minute change that would lead to the attack.

It's still early in the evening.

Lily watches from the couch as James crawls around on the floor trying to make their son, little Harry Potter laugh.

They hear a loud bang as You-Know-Who opens the gate to their property.

They don't know it's him yet.

Peter is supposed to be in hiding.

Voldemort makes his way up the path at a leisurely pace. He has the upper hand. There is no way he will lose tonight.

James leaves his son to go check who it is, not knowing this is the last time he will ever see him or his wife.

Voldemort opens the door, and James' face drops.

Despite leaving his wand in the living room, James knows in that split second what he has to do.

"Lily, take Harry and go! It's him! Go! Run! I'll hold him off!" James yells.

He tries. He does. He is a skilled and talented wizard..

But without his wand, facing a powerful dark wizard like Voldemort.. James could only hope to buy Lily a few seconds.

He is struck down by a killing curse, the unforgivable falling from Voldemort lips as easy as breathing.

In the living room, Lily scoops up Harry the second she hears James yelling.

She knows she can't escape by running. Even if she could, she wouldn't want to put the rest of the neighbourhood at risk.

Instead of running out the back door and into the garden, she instead runs up the stairs.

There is one way she might be able to save her son.

On her way she hears Voldemort utter the killing curse.

She doesn't have time to grieve.

She makes her way to Harry's room.

Baracading the door to give her a few more precious seconds, she grabs the invisibility cloak from where it is stored in Harry's room.

Later, she is glad she trusted James' instincts and kept it there, instead of moving it to somewhere harder for Harry to find.

A few panicked minutes looking for Harry the one time he managed to pull it down on top of him seems more than worth it now she knows how useful it was that fateful night.

She pulls it over them, and with the last few seconds as she hears Voldemort in the hall outside the door, flings open the window as a diversion.

It's not perfect, but it's better than nothing.

As Voldemort bursts into the room, Lily cradles Harry in her arms, begging the 15 month old to just stay quiet as they cower under the window.

"I know you're in here Ms. Lily Potter. Give me the boy and you'll live."

Voldemort's voice chills Lily to her core. She doesn't respond.

She silently prays to every god and powerful wizard she's ever known that Harry will just stay quiet.

"An invisibility cloak was a clever idea. But not clever enough!"

Lily flinches as Voldemort begins firing summoning charms around the room.

One is fired right at them, and she thinks 'This is it.'

It glances right off.

Dumbledore had mentioned he had a feeling that James' cloak was special.

Lily knows Voldemort won't give up. She's heard the Prophercy, and she knows he will stop at nothing to kill her son.

She is utterly trapped, cowering under a window, invisible to the eye, but holding a time bomb that could give away their position at any time.

"You don't have to die Lily Potter. Give me the boy."

Harry starts to fuss. He's upset at his game ending so quickly, and this new game is nowhere near as fun.

Lily tries to shush him without making a sound. Any sound could be fatal.

The house is silent except for Voldemort's footsteps as he paces the room.

Lily knows she has to get out of this room.

It's hard to trust that the invisibility cloak keeps them invisible as she creeps as slow as she possibly can towards the door.

She only moves when Voldemort isn't looking her way, just in case.

She thanks her lucky stars that James prefers to keep Harry's toys downstairs n the living room.

As Lily creeps silently and invisibly around the edge of her son's bedroom, clutching him to her chest tightly, Sirius Black enters Pettigrew's hiding place.

When he finds Pettigrew missing and no signs of a struggle, he knows it can only mean one thing.

Lily is nearly at the door.

She knows she won't be out of the woods until she can apparate somewhere safe, but she's inching closer to freedom.

It's not that easy.

As she hears the quiet rumbling of a motorcycle through their small village, she's distracted for a split second.

She bumps into the door.

It creaks.

Everything happens at once they both realise what has happened.

Lily knows she has given away her position, so gives up on being silent, and runs the last few steps to get behind the wall and out of Voldemort's immediate firing range.

Voldemort whirls around and fires a bright green killing curse right at her.

Swearing she felt it hit them, but not having the time to question it, Lily bolts towards the window at the end of the hall.

Harry starts to cry.

No one knows why until later, when Lily tells them about James' sacrifice, but the house explodes.

Lily uses magic she hasn't used since before she knew she was a witch as she dives at the window, holding her son in her arms.

They float to the ground as the house collapses behind them.

Sirius Black arrives on his motorcycle.

Neither of them know Voldemort is gone, for now.

Lily immediately jumps on the back.

"Go Sirius! Drive!"

Sirius drives.

Harry cries, wedged tightly between his mother and his godfather.

He has no idea his dad won't be coming back to play with him, but he knows there were loud noises, and his mommy is scared.

Lily clings to Sirius, clings to the invisibility cloak that saved her and her son's life, clings to her son.

Sirius takes them to Hogwarts.

He can't think of anywhere safer.

James and Lily's home was supposed to be safer.

Dumbledore lets them stay.

In the days that follow, the wizarding world celebrates that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is finally defeated.

Lily makes sure her husband's sacrifice doesn't go unrecognised as instrumental in his death.

Dumbledore doesn't tell her he thinks it's only a temporary thing. That even now he suspects he will someday return and try to kill her son again.

It isn't until days later, when Harry is in bed, that Lily truly gets a chance to grieve for her lost love.

The man she loved, still loves, who sacrificed himself to buy her the precious seconds she needs to get to the cloak.

Harry grows up without a father, but he has his mother, and his Uncle Padfoot, and his Uncle Moony.

He has Hagrid, who was the first to offer Lily a hot drink and a warm drink when she arrived at Hogwarts, and, along with Sirius, didn't leave her side while she was questioned by various aurors.

He has McGonagal, who Lily relied heavily on when Harry was a child, because she may not have kids of her own, but she has been teaching for over 20 years, and is always ready with a strong drink when Lily needs one.

He grows up with Ron and all his siblings.

Molly Weasley knows the poor girl is grieving, and having to take care of a baby on her own. She knows it must be hard, so despite already having 7 children, including a newborn baby, she sends a care package, and offer to babysit whenever Lily needs a few hours.

Lily makes sure Harry knows his father was a hero.

She makes sure he knows that he is loved, and is never alone.

She raises him on her own, with help from her friends, and he has a happy childhood.

He has no scar, but wizarding children still know who he is.

Wizarding adults look at him in pity and whisper, but he keeps his head high.

When he is old enough to understand, Lily gives him the invisibility cloak, and tells him the story of how it saved them, and how it used to belong to his father, and his grandfather before that.

He almost never leaves home without it.

Harry grows up and looks nearly identical to his father.

It stings Lily's heart occasionally, when she looks at him and sees James' smile looking back at her.

Voldemort does return.

Harry does have to face him.

But he has his mother behind him.

And the protection of his father.

And an invisibility cloak that is more useful than one could possibly imagine.

So this spiralled completely out of my control. I have no idea where I was originally going with this and I hurt myself so now you guys can hurt too lmao.

[twisted-imagines]

Octavinelle with a mer-shark!MC who's anxious about showing her true appearance.

Hi there! 👋 I'm mod Mel, this is a new writing blog dedicated to Twisted Wonderland by Disney. I'm it's sole moderator and this is my first work on here. It's only Floyd for now, but more boys are sure to come.Please enjoy yourself!❤

Floyd Leech🦈

It should have been just a simple excursion to the Coral Sea, which Floyd unbeknownst to you proclaimed a 'date', but clearly something went very wrong. The first time you came here, more like was thrown right into it, you weren't able to observe and enjoy the brilliance of the underwater world, more so had to flee from human-turned-mermen Leech brothers. Even after Octavinelle boys invited you all to the sea again, you thought, sadly, that it would be the last time you visited it. But apparently Floyd had other ideas, spontaneously dragging you to the teleport and handling you a "breath-in-water" potion along the way. With you barely registering what he was attempting to do, you two were already submerged, the boy beside you swiftly changing his appearance to his "usual" one. Looking at that face, him all giddy and eager to show you around his homeland, you couldn't get angry with him, vice versa you were really happy at the possibility to spend time with him. Maybe your first meeting was quite disastrous, and you clashed a few times after that, resulting in his friend's overblot, but your relationships have improved a lot afterwards. It seemed Floyd got really interested in the new magicless student from the other realm and you in turn... Well, in rare moments at night, when you couldn't fall asleep plagued by your thoughts, you sometimes quietly admitted to yourself, that maybe you had a tiniest crush on the ever smiling, carefree, ambiguous eel twin. You too, were very interested in him, since the day you saw him appear with his brother in all their glory to get in your way. You remember like it was just yesterday, how you didn't want to leave and just gaze at his beautiful form. You were not prepared to see something so familiar in this new world, somebody who had brought your thoughts back home so sweetly and yet so painfully close.

Oh how you wanted to tell him that, to share your own stories and see his face lit up, but you couldn't. The nagging fear of rejection, of what he would think of you didn't allow you to do. Times and times again you told yourself that he of all people would understand and accept you, but every time you tried to start the conversation you ended up closing and opening your mouth like a fish, unable to say anything. And so you kept silent.

With Floyd being so enthusiastic, basically telling your ears off, he didn't require much of your own input at the moment. You were listening attentively, picturing in your mind two young eels and a cecaelia merkids exploring the sea together, their hands entwined. This relaxing, tranquil, as much as it was possible with Floyd, dive was bringing a peace to your mind and body. You felt every sway of water, every little wave that tiny fishes caused swimming past you. The smallest thing, you could feel it reverberate within you.

It was abrupt, a state of total harmony suddenly crushed, disturbing noises filled your ears. It was obvious that Floyd felt it too, for he took a defensive stance right away, moving closer to you. One would say it was already too late, when you saw them - several orca mermaids quickly approaching you two. You were concerned, mostly because of how Floyd had reacted: he looked genuinely distressed.

"Hey, koebi-chan, it's better for you not to leave my side."

He sounded totally serious, unlike his usual cheery self. And so you obeyed, the anxiety in you growing with every second.

One of the newcomers approached you, from what you could judge she was the eldest female of them all. She looked smug and confident, leisurely briefing you about how this was their territory, how unwelcomed you were there, offering you a "deal" since they were so generous today and would gladly let you get away with your "trespassing".While Floyd was fuming with rage he still patiently listened to them. He understood, that was he alone it would not be a big deal to get away, but he could not allow you to be harmed, not on his watch, not his precious koebi-chan. He couldn't make a more displeased face while speaking with them.

"Fine~ What a pain in the ass... What's your conditions?"

Their answer made his blood boil, you could see how agitated he was, in the way he glared daggers at them, the way his fists clenched. Truth to be told, you started to feel angry yourself, their demands being just ridiculous, smirks irritating you to the core. The little skirmish was quickly escalating to a full-blown clash, even though both sides perfectly understood who had the upper hand. And maybe some of them got just a tad bit arrogant because of it.

A younger orca surged at Floyd, being confident that his sheer strength would be enough for the moray eel to cave in. You easily gauged his mistake,and your body acted on it's own.

"Don't touch Floyd, you scum!"

The last thing the orca heard was your chilling growl, before his hand was swiftly chewed off. "No mercy for foes and food", - if any motto deserved the attention of an apex predator it would be this one.

Your changing appearance took by surprise every present creature. You could feel the strain, muscles not accustomed to the process of transformation after a long period of not changing, but you tried not to mind it, the only thought in your mind being protecting the person precious to you.

When the bloody mist from fallen orca finally subdued they could take in your full image. Strong tail, just like their, but much bigger; sharp claws, just like their, but more deadly. In the reflection of their eyes you knew how you looked. Intimidating.

Even the eldest orca gave up her position and shifted back. You could clearly see the gears in her head turning: was it worth sacrificing younglings just for the chance of overpowering you. Since you too were a very "kind" person, rivaled only by your very "generous" opponents, you decided to give her a time out to think her actions over, and hopefully reflect on them.

Knowing that her choices weren't numerous, the leader orca suddenly stirred back to life, giving the group a barking command and hastily retreating with them, hoping that her luck wouldn't let her down, that you wouldn't chase her.

Which you indeed was about to do, when you remembered about your companion, who was still behind you. You felt confidence slowly leaving you, you wanted to turn around before it evaporated into nothing, but you were given no time to spare. Floyd was suddenly before you, pure delight on his face. He had this toothy smile while he was fully taking in your appearance.

"Who would have thought that koebi-chan was actually a same-chan, ahaha!~ Hey hey, how did you manage to hide it, you were so tiny just a moment before! It's super cool, that jerk definitely didn't understand what hit him!"

He definitely was enjoying himself, being very upfront with you, all in your personally space, grabbing you and giggling excitedly. You were happy one moment and totally bawling your eyes out next. You didn't even know you could cry in this gigantic, powerful and terrifying form. Floyd somehow moved even closer to you, taking your face into his hands, caressing your cheeks and fins, tracing marks and lips. Unable to piece together a coherent speech, you just clinged to him.

"Y-you are... not afraid of me, right? Floyd?"

The merman just squeezed you tighter, a light laugh escaped him.

"It's quite easy with sharks. If they want to gobble you up, they do it. Not only I'm in one piece, you actually protected me. And you know, same-chan, when you're like this you're not scary at all."

At this point, you weren't sure if he was mocking or cheering you up with this smug smirk of his. You were just glad that your worst fears happened to be nothing but fears, the Floyd's embrace melting the remains of them.

You were suddenly well aware of your position. Even attempting to pull back would be futile, the clutch of merman's tail around yours was hard.

"Oh, going somewhere, same-chan? I don't think so, you didn't tell me everything, did you? And I'm not in the mood for guessing games right now."

A wicked note entered his voice, was he toying with you?

"Same-chan, do you like me that much to willingly blow up your cover, ahaha?~"

The question he voiced was a crushing force that presses on your gills. You were stunned. You didn't know what to answer, how could you if you never allowed yourself to dwell on it for too long in fear of a very obvious answer being formed. But right now, your mind was freed from your worries, from fear, from intrusive thoughts. A crystal clear answer echoed in it.

You tentatively reached with your hands, hugging the small of boy's back, nestling further in his chest, mumbling those words earnest words more to yourself than to him.

"I do. I do like you, Floyd."

Only silence surrounded you for a moment, before your companion forcefully made you look at him. Were your imagination playing trick on you, or it really was a deep green blush on his face? Merman's heterochromatic eyes were fixated on your face looking for a hint of a joke or a lie, but neither the crease of your brows, nor the tight line of your lips told him anything except for how serious you were.

"A-are you like for real? Ahaha~Ahahahaha! Same-chan, so cute!♡ I like you too~"

You don't see him so happy very often, and mighty sea, was he beautiful. You couldn't help but join his joyous laughing. No matter, what happened prior to this, this day you will remember as the of your happiest ones. Overwhelmed with excitement, Floyd squeezed you even harder, and you were grateful to be in this form, since your chances of surviving this embrace would be close to zero in your human body.

But the feeling of his lithe body against yours, boy's cheery voice feeling your ears and undeniable warmth spreading though you from the realization of the mutual nature of your feelings, all of this was priceless.

"Nee~[Name]-chan? I don't want you to keep silent about your thoughts and feelings from now on, 'kay? They're so entertaining, and you're so impressive, I want to aaalways know you're thinking about. I won't let you leave me now, I want you to stay with me forever! But you feel the same way, right?♡“

• He's definitely telling about it to Jade and Azul!!! Boy is so excited, even if you beg him, he won't be able to contain himself so his twin will definitely know this sooner or later.

• But there's nothing to fear, while initially suspicious, Octavinelle boys are generally positive of this revelation. Somehow, you feel much more comfortable with them now.

• The news about apex predator in their school definitely gets the spotlight when Floyd drags you to his dormitory, and it's not until the later, when Jade questions Floyd's rather strong grip on your hand, that you two remember how much the status of your relationships has changed. Cue you two looking quite embarrassed and Jade with Azul just instantly understanding what is what.

• Jade is definitely supportive of his twin. "Yes, Azul, they can probably swallow the three of us at once, but they didn't." He knows how much their ability to make friends is impaired but their intimidating appearance, he's not the one to hold it against you. Jade is the one that notes, how you hadn't transformed to fight them when they were interfering with your task, but risked it to protect his brother. For that he's very grateful.

• Azul is more apprehensive of you and it's definitely not because he's frightened by the mighty "apex predator" title you have!!! Not a-at all! All it takes is just Jade reasoning with him for a bit for him to start feel ashamed of his initial reaction. It hurts very much when people judge you for your appearance and prejudices they have against you, isn't it so?

• You four are definitely going to Coral Sea together, Floyd really wants them to see your shark form. More likely than not, it was the first time any of them saw a mershark up-close and not trying to eat them. They appreciate a possibility of staying alive after such an encounter, Azul even trying to touch your fins out of sheer curiosity and Floyd quickly swatting away his hand with the most fake, passive-aggressive smile ever.

• Yes, no matter your size, race, actual strength or anything else Floyd will still stay possessive of you. You're his, and his only significant other. All will probably soon figure out that the two of you are dating now, with how much he throws himself at you and hugs you close. The smiles he gifts you are too, nothing alike of those others see.

• Since you are a powerful specie, standing in the food chain much higher than himself, he will relinquish in this, forgetting quite often to control his strength, biting and scratching much more often, and looking so happy while doing it. You'll probably need to have a chat with him about that~

• He actually can't get used to the thought that you're actually way scarier than him. Your demure looks just don't channel it at all, and he still tries to scare or intimidate you from time to time. It doesn't work. Pikachu meme but make it eel boy.

• He would LOVE to learn about your homeland, he's starry-eyed when you tell stories about you world to him. It's so interesting to him, he can't help but wonder how he managed to find such an interesting person, mermaid, fall in love with them and actually date them. He only heard about such stories in his childhood and never thought something like that was possible in reality.

[caxsthetic]

PHANTASM BLUES • Suna Rintarou x Reader x Kita Shinsuke

Episode 1: Hidden Feelings

Type: TV Series (Multiple Chapters)

Cast: Suna Rintarou, Kita Shinsuke

Storyline: There was no good ending when your heart was bound to love more than one. And up until now, you still asked the universe why you have been given such curse.

Genre: Slice of Life, Drama

His intonation started to go up, little by little, "(Y/n), why?" From his usual calm voice, turned into a painful shout, "Fucking answer me!"

The ocean breeze touched your skin as you stood on the balcony, a phone in your hand while your face was painted with a gentle smile, never once leaving. The white sand and gentle waves could be seen from where you stood, engulfing you with the feeling of home.

You were just done calling all of your family and friends, telling them about the bachelorette party that would be held in two days. Yes, in a few days from now, you would finally become his forever, bear his last name until the end of time.

In just a few days, you would finally become a Suna.

Placing your phone in your pocket, you let out a satisfied sigh as your eyes looked at the sight in front of you. Here you were right now, on the beach house that you bought with your lovely fiancé, the safe haven that the two of you created.

Remembering your fiancé, these past few days had been hectic. The middle blocker went to practice a lot since he had a tournament in a few weeks, making you to be the one who had to take care of the wedding. It burdened you a little sometimes, when question after question was being thrown towards you at once.

Every time you asked for his opinion, he would just say things like, "I am alright with anything." And truth to be told, it was something that made you contemplate things even harder. Because by then, with every single decision that you made, you didn't know if that was what he really wanted.

But even with all of the uncertainty that he put you through, a complaint never once left your lips.

From the very first moment, you knew that to be with him would mean sacrificing a part of your sanity. He was an unpredictable man; sometimes he asked you to just cuddle with him, telling you that you were his personal source of energy. Other times he would just walk past you after practice as if he lived alone in the house.

And for you, it was a price that you were willing to pay.

It was late now, so you decided to go back inside, searching for your fiancé in the house that could be filled with hundreds of people.

"Rin?" You called out as you walked through the hallway, but the only thing that answered your call was silence, "My love?" Your feet strode towards the whole house, searching everywhere until you finally came back again to the bedroom that you two shared.

The room was empty, and the bed was still tucked nicely from where you arranged it this morning, meaning that he hadn't laid down on it. You scrunched up your nose, wondering where this man could be at this hour.

Your worry was answered by an exasperated sigh that you heard, coming from the walk-in closet. You let out a relieved sigh, knowing immediately where your fiancé was. It wasn't hard for you after all to realise that it was him, since you knew any kind of sound that he emit.

Nine years. You had known each other for nine years. You could never forget the first time you laid your eyes on his figure.

He was so enigmatic, such a beautiful human being. And by just given the chance to meet him, you felt like it was a gift from the deity.

The Kyudo tournament would be held in a few days, and that meant you didn't have time to slack off. Every day, you would come home late, practising your shoots at the school's arena. Even if you were the only one who decided to stay up late, you were alright with it.

Today was the same, you were the last person at the club. It was around spring right now, and the night was cold. You walked through the school ground that now looked deserted. Not a single soul could be seen.

While you walked, you decided to open up the canned drink that you bought from the vending machine. But as you looked in your bag, it was no longer there.

"Oh, come on!" You were frustrated, wanting to taste the beverage that you have been saving for a walk home, "I swear to God, why does this happen to me?" And the fact that the closest vending machine was the one located near the volleyball gymnasium (the opposite of your club), made you groan even more.

You walked mindlessly with a pout on your face. It was freezing right now as the wind touched your skin, making you tighten the embrace on your body. When you were finally near the gymnasium though, you were surprised by the sound that you heard from inside.

Curiosity overtook you as you walked closer to the gymnasium door, mind no longer filled with the canned drink. You peeked inside, and the sight that you saw took your breath away.

A couple of students from your year that you knew well (from your friends who could never shut up about their handsome appearance), were shouting and moving their body to follow the ball that aired on the sky. Four of them to be exact.

You have seen them play, a lot of times already. Something that you loved about your school was how supportive each student was towards each other. Every match, no matter what club it was, your school would send a horde of students to give some support.

They all looked so majestic, playing with a smile on their faces as if they were in a different world. Every squelch of sound from the shoes, every serve that they did, and every shout they roared towards each other, it made you feel alive.

But then your eyes caught his movement. One that flows like he knew too well where the ball would go to, one that was so different compared to the others. When the rest of the team moved to follow the ball, he was there, moving in rhythm with it as if they were dance partners.

His gaze was sharp as he positioned himself near the net, ready to block the attack that his opponent gave.

Then again, no matter how perfect a dance was after so many practices, some flaws would be made.

He let out a hiss when the ball hit his little finger. Miscalculated, you assumed. Once his foot touched the ground, he looked at his calloused hand like a broken finger was so common for him. Maybe it was though, with how his friends were all just asking him without any sense of panic lingered on their voice.

"Oi! We ran out of tape!" One of the infamous twins shouted from the bench, hands wrecking whatever was inside the first aid kit to get some tape. But when he could not find any, he walked back to the court where his friends stood, "Shit, Suna, should we get some from the market or something?"

"Of course we should, you idiot."

And just like that the worried atmosphere that engulfed the gymnasium for a second, turned into a full blown fight. The spiky haired outside hitter could only facepalm himself when the twins started to do their daily fight, as if he regretted joining the extra practice that the setter asked them to do.

While the three of them were busy with their own bickering, the one player that was injured could only sigh and sat on the bench. Suna Rintarou, if you were not mistaken, that was his full name. The middle blocker of your school's volleyball team.

He sat there in silence, looking at his hand as he wondered how he could let such a thing slip. Getting lost in his own mind, he didn't realise as you walked towards him and put tape on the bench beside him.

His hair looked so soft, dark brown strands that were still neat even after hours practising. Then you cleared your throat, making him turn his face towards you in an instant. His eyes looked straight into you, a questioning look filled his small green orbs.

Only when you were that close to him did you realise how beautiful this human being in front of you. Your friends never shut up about the twins, yet rarely talked about the gem called Suna Rintarou.

You shot him a look before he could even ask who you were, reassuring him that everything would be alright as you held out your hand, asking for his injured hand.

"Give me your hand, I know what to do."

You walked towards the walk-in closet to check up on your fiancé. With every step that you took, the long sigh that he emitted sounded louder. It made you raise one of your eyebrows as he secluded himself like this.

He was fine this evening when he got back from the practice. The second you opened up the door he engulfed you in this tight hug, saying that he was tired and needed your company to recharge his stamina. So to know that he hid himself like this all of a sudden made your heartstrings tug with worry.

The door creaked a little as you opened it up and stepped inside the closet. The air was cold, and it felt like misery jammed the whole room with the air conditioner sending a shiver running down your spine. So cold that you subconsciously put your hand on your arms, trying to warm yourself.

Your eyes finally fell to the man that you swore you would love forever. There, sitting on the couch that was placed in the middle of the room, he had his back against you. He just looked up to the ceiling, staring into space as he was lost in his own thoughts.

"Rin," You walked up to him with a gentle pace, trying to make sure that you were not invading his privacy, "Why are you here, love? What happened?" His face looked a lot paler right now, green orbs that were usually filled with love and warmth were now only coated with glistening tears that seemed to stick on his orbs.

"Nothing." He looked up at you, swallowing a huge lump, "I am fine." With how long you have known him, you knew that he tried to hide things from you.

He was not someone that really loved to talk about things that bother him. When he had a problem, he just asked you to stay with him, nothing more, not even a word of explanation about why he became so gloomy.

You once asked about why he didn't like to share his burden with you, and his answer was actually simple — because he didn't want you to be worried about whatever was creeping his mind.

"You are not fine." So you always tried to divulge him that you were alright with that, "You wouldn't tremble like this if everything was fine." You were alright with him sharing the burden in his head, and you showed him by putting your hand on top of his, warming his cold skin with your heat.

"Nothing. It's just—" You peered into his face, thumb gently grazed the back of his hand, "I am upset when I know that we ran out of chuupet."

You got a little bit taken aback by his words, you blinked several times until the information finally absorbed into your mind. That was it? The reason behind him looking like someone just ripped his heart apart was just because he ran out of his favourite food?

The statement sure made you chuckle, he could be childish sometimes even as a twenty five year old.

"Goodness, Rin. Why don't you ask me?" You gave him a gentle peck on the lips before resting your palm on his cheek, snickering to know the reason behind his solemn look, "I always stock some in the pantry. Want me to get it for you?"

He nodded softly, afraid that him acting like this made you feel annoyed. But you were the one who volunteered yourself, and even if he was already an adult that could do things by himself, you couldn't help but like to satiate him with some little affection.

"Alright, wait a minute, okay?" You gave him your usual gentle smile before standing up. He nodded and sat down, continued to stare into space just like what he did when you first saw him. It made you frown a little as you walked out to grab some of his late night snacks.

"(Y/n)," Before you could close the door and turn around to face him, he suddenly appeared beside you and engulfed your torso with his, so tight that it was hard to breathe.

You wanted to tell him that the force was too much, asking him to ease the hug a little.

But you couldn't as your body felt how he was trembling by now. Your eyes widened, rushing your arms to wrap around him. It was so sudden, and the way he acted right now made your heart break into million little pieces.

This was the reason why you wanted him to share the burden with you, the sole reason why you wanted him to tell you all the things that were bothering his mind. Because he could be like this from time to time, acting like everything was fine while actually he was stressed to search for a way out.

"Please don't leave me," His voice cracked as he blurted out the words, "I love you, please don't leave me." He was someone who rarely said please. Always thinking that he sounded so desperate every time he said that (no matter how many times you told him it was a word of manners).

Then again, he was so desperate to make you stay, even if he knew that you wouldn't leave him.

"I would never leave you, Rin." You whispered softly, searching for his face, urging him to look at you, "I love you, you know that?"

"I know," He knew, he knew that you loved him, so much that even after all these years, you ended up choosing him, "And I love you," With all of my heart.

He started to relax after you pampered him with soft kisses and spoke with your gentle voice, kept saying things about how you would stay with him, as long as he wanted you to.

"Go wash yourself, then we can relax on the bed with a pack of chuupet, how about that?" You gazed at him with so much love that you always offered to him.

"Alright, no rush to get it then." He rested his forehead on yours, cupping your cheeks with his calloused hand. His green orbs looked so beautiful under the dim light, and it was the last thing you saw before he crashed his lips on yours.

The kiss was passionate, tingling your soul as he pushed you to the nearest wall, demanding as much affection as he could get. You whimpered when his tongue nipped on your bottom lip, and there was nothing else that you could do except parting your lips to let him in.

It was always like this. Every time he was at the breaking point, he would relieve it by releasing his lust. And you? You would succumb to his need until the sun greeted the two of you on the horizon.

But then he pulled away, turning his back on you as he escaped himself to the walk-in closet. You were too dumbstruck, everything was moving a little bit too fast to your liking. He was just there right in front of you, yet the next second he suddenly left you breathless; in a way that felt suffocating.

What he kept doing to you was not good for your heart — yet you stayed anyway.

You let out a long sigh, fingers fiddled with the ring that he gave you one sunny day. You and him, on top of the couch. Just a simple, "Marry me?" but the burst of feelings in your heart that day notifying you that it was all enough. It was all enough because it was him who said those words.

"Fuck," You slapped your own cheeks to bring you back to reality. Maybe the problem he had was just too much. Reminding yourself that he was probably stressed due to his own dispute, you decided to walk downstairs.

Silence consumed the entire space as your feet touched the ground floor. The breeze from the ocean waves slipped from the windows that you let open, made you feel like you were outside while you were standing inside.

You hummed softly, fingers tracing the kitchen islands as you brought yourself to the pantry. Unlocking the door, you pushed it open and went inside, eyes immediately scanning the neat shelves that were filled with snacks and ingredients.

"Where is it..." Muttering under your breath, you crouched down to open up some of the boxes, mind lingering to the previous events.

It was not like him to be like that. When he was stressed, his eyes would look tired or maybe annoyed. But when you recall the memories just now, the only thing that you could see from his green orbs were just pain. And it made you purse your lips, making you feel helpless.

Click!

You jerked your head to the door, raising one of your eyebrows when you heard something come from there. Abandoning the task that you had, you stood up and grip the handle, trying to open up the door. Once, twice, it was stuck, you tried to pull it with some force but it was no use.

"Rintarou!" Calling out for your fiancé, you were hoping that he would come down to search you. You were frantic by now, hands could not stop pushing the handle down, wishing for some miracle that maybe it would be opened.

But after a few attempts that you did, it didn't change the fact that you were locked inside the pantry, in the middle of the night. Though, your mind lingered with hope, since you were sure that your fiancé would search for you. Maybe it will take a few minutes, but he will-

"(Y/n)," You heard his voice from the other side of the door, feeling at ease because he found you in a split second, "I am so sorry," Yet the smile of relief that you had disappeared completely when you heard the tone of his voice.

"Rinrin?" Right now as you heard his melancholy voice, the only thing that you could think of was how to lift his spirit up, "What is it, love?" Your hand unconsciously trying to open up the door once again, "Rin, can you open the door?"

Sweats started to prickle on your skin, worried for yourself, and worried for whatever was lurking inside his mind at the moment. You wanted to see him, engulf him into a bear hug to calm him down. His voice filled with misery as he muttered your name before.

"Can we talk first?" You stopped trying to open the door by now, letting your hands fall to your side, "It will be quick, I just want to know something."

Your lips were dry from the cold atmosphere that consumed you. You wanted to beg for him to open up the door and talk whatever he needed to. But you were afraid that he wouldn't talk to you at all once his eyes met with yours.

"Alright, just tell me, Rin."

"Answer everything truthfully."

"Of course."

Silence filled the air once again as you stood there, waiting for him to emit words. You wonder what he was doing on the other side, wondering what kind of expression that displayed on his face.

"Kita-san." The name rolled down from his lips like a poison, as if the man who bore that name was bad news, "You remember him, right?" His voice sounded scarily calm, like he was so done by just mentioning that one person who was before everything — constantly became the hot topic that he never got tired of talking about.

And here you were right now, completely at loss. You were stunned, didn't know why the name that you let go a few years ago, started to crawl back in front of your eyes.

Just a few days, before you say I do.

"Of course I remember," You said softly, trying to arrange the right words, "He was your captain in high school, someone that you really admire, someone that—"

"—you really love."

He finished your sentence, as if it was the exact same words that you were going to say. You parted your lips, wanting to say that it was not what you meant, wanting to explain to him that he was wrong.

But every denial that you were trying to say, stuck in your mouth as if you were put in silent mode.

You swallowed a huge lump, easing the dryness that you felt as you tried to calm yourself down.

"Why did you ask me that, Rin?"

He knew too well about the relationship that you had before. The first ever relationship that everyone was always envious about. Your relationship with someone that he really respected and admired.

The love that you shared with the light grey haired man was something that everyone could call as pure love. The two of you were always there for each other without once falling apart, like a love story that one found in a children's book.

Your past relationship had been something that everyone wanted to have. There were never any fights, not even a day filled with rage. The two of you would always find a way out from your problem together, something that was rare to find in this world.

And then there was him, Suna Rintarou, the man who had your heart since the first time you saw him in your second year of high school. All of the students thought that you were always dating the middle blocker. But one thing that they didn't know, was the fact Suna always became a coward when it comes to your love.

"You didn't even try to deny that," He chuckled bitterly, and you could hear a thud on the door, making you know that he probably bumped his head on the hard surface, "It was never me anyways, I suppose."

When he received the call that day while he was away, he should have ended everything right there. He should not have continued the ritual that the two of you shared. Maybe, maybe if from the very first start he knew that you were in love with his old captain, he would not let his feelings for you grow even more.

After all, he had no right to stop you from falling in love with someone new. Someone that, on paper, was perfect, someone that would never make you feel sorrow, someone that Suna knew so well would suit you — even better than him.

And maybe he shouldn't have pushed himself too much, stretched his chance to have someone who would love him. To ask you, to be his. Begging for you to stay in his life instead with the man who would never treat you any less.

A selfish plea of him that he didn't know would shatter three souls.

"Rin, what do you mean?" You didn't know why the name was brought up in front of your face once again. Both of you knew that you already closed that chapter of life a long time ago, "What do you mean by that?"

But have you really closed that chapter already?

"You called his name in your sleep," His voice cracked as he remembered how you were fast asleep peacefully, "You called Kita-san last night." And the name that rolled down from your lips, "Why was it not my name? Why was it his name?"

His intonation started to go up, little by little, "(Y/n), why?" From his usual calm voice, turned into a painful shout, "Fucking answer me!"

"I still love him,"

"What?"

The disbelief could be heard from his voice. He knew that deep down, the only woman that he ever loved was never moving on from the past. But that doesn't mean hearing it right from your lips didn't hurt more than it was supposed to.

You answered him with the lowest tone that you could reach. There was no use for you to lie in front of your fiancé. You knew him like the back of your hand, so did he as he knew everything about you, even sometimes when you didn't even know yourself.

"You asked for it," Guilt and shame could be heard from how you spoke up the words, "From how you asked me like that, Rin, I know that you knew."

But he wanted you to lie. He wanted you to answer that you were thinking about some old memories, and just that. Not about your real feelings, he didn't want to know that. He knew everything along the way, about what you buried inside your heart.

He didn't need you to say yes to the fact that he was not the only one you loved.

"Then why?" He gulped down, clenching his hand into a fist as he stared at the hardwood door, wanting you to feel the pain that he felt, "Why were you stringing me along these past years?"

"Oh so now you're blaming it on me?" Shut the fuck up! "You were the one who begged for me to come back, Rin! Don't think you have the right to insult me like that!" Shut up, goddamnit!

You clapped a hand to cover your mouth, didn't believe in yourself from saying such spiteful words towards him, "Rin, I—"

"I'm sorry, love."

"No, no, I am sorry for—"

"I should have never come back."

He grabbed a duffel bag that was laying beside him. When he prepared some stuff in the closet this evening, he thought that he would not have to use it. Hoping that tomorrow morning, he would unpack it like nothing happened.

But right now, he realised that his relationship that he had with you had a countdown from the start. And he could not stretch it too much, no matter how many times he wanted to put a blind eye over this.

"Rin, let's talk." You hiccuped as tears started to run down your face, "Love, please open the door. I am sorry for never coming clean about this."

This was what you were always afraid of since you crossed paths with the gentle senior in college. This was what haunted you since you fell in love with someone else, yet never once falling out of love with the first man.

This was your nightmare, you faced it once, and you have to face it again. Only this time it was with Suna Rintarou.

"It was no use, (Y/n)." He took a step backwards, "We need to take a break from each other."

"No, Rin! Open the goddamn door!" You banged your fist into the oak wood surface that didn't even budge, "Rintarou, please... Just open the door."

He was just staring into the door, the one where you were standing on the other side. Debating what he should do next.

To have you in his life, even for just a moment, was a blessing to him. So maybe, two years having you in his arms was enough. Maybe, his time to be with you was already up — and it was time for him to be the one who let you go.

"I love you, you know that?" He whispered those three magic words like it was the last time he would ever say that to you, making your breath hitched "I promise I only love you."

That was the last words that you heard from him before silence engulfed you once again.

"Rin?" You called him out, in hope that maybe he was still standing in front of the door, "Rin!" But you couldn't hear anything. It was all too quiet, you couldn't believe that he left you here with the door locked.

The next thing that filled your eardrums was the start of an engine car, and you never felt as desperate as this while your mind frantic to search for a way out. Your orbs looked through all the things inside the pantry, and you lit up immediately when your gaze fell on the toolbox at the corner of the room.

With incredible speed, you opened it up and found a hammer there. This could do, with force, you tried to tear down the handle with it.

Tears blurred your line of vision as you realised what it meant for the two of you. Suna was stubborn, if he really did not want to meet someone, he could really disappear from their radar. And you didn't want to be the one he avoided in his life.

After a few attempts to annihilate the lock, it finally crashed down. With as much power as you could gather, you kicked the door from its place and ran as fast as you could towards the terrace.

No, you had sacrificed a lot of things to be here with him. You chose him, you wanted to be with him. You would not let something that you had let go all those years ago jeopardize the relationship that could last until the end of time.

But as your bare feet met with the white sand in front of the house, there was no trace of him anymore.

Just like that, he left you to stand alone in the dark driveway.

For years you have tried so hard to never show him that you were still in love with another man. You understood well that you were the one who was at fault. It was something forbidden to exist in this world, to have romantic feelings for two different people.

Two people that apparently, always thought highly of each other.

It was a rare thing to happen in this universe. To love two people equally, to want them in your life forever without letting the other one go.

But in the end, society would ask you to choose.

And you chose Suna Rintarou as your endgame. Because deep down, everyone could know that he would be broken without someone anchoring his life. He knew, that with you, Suna could be the best version of himself.

Your breath began to get heavier as the realization dawned on you. He left, Suna had left you. He let you go, just like the other man had done so you could be with him instead.

You were not prepared to feel this again, you never thought you would have to endure the loss again, the same agonizing pain that you once felt.

He wouldn't be too far, right? Something clicked inside your mind as you still refused to believe that this is it. With a hurried pace, you ran back inside the house as you wanted to grab your car keys.

In a hurry, you stumbled on the wooden rung that was installed on the terrace, making you fall forward. And in reflex, you tried to grab the banister beside you.

But you were not fast enough.

Your head hit the ground with a loud thud. And in a second, your mind was detached from the rest of the world. All you could concentrate on was the pain rooted deep inside your head. The pain that felt like someone had taken a knife to your skull, multiplying the pain that your heart felt before.

It was all blurred as you tried to keep your eyes open. Everything became fuzzy as darkness started to engulf your vision. Your consciousness was floating through an empty space — filled with a thick static.

It was all too much, the pain that was fresh inside your heart was enough to make you want to just leave this world. All the guilt, all the heartbreak, you never wanted this curse, you would have never wanted to feel what love would be if the outcome was nothing but nightmare.

To love more than one person in your life.

To be given such things while you never asked for it.

To live knowing that your existence only brought doom.

You didn't want that, never wanted to be such a catastrophe for two people that you knew didn't deserve to feel this way. To love someone, only for her wanting the other to stay.

The last thing that you remembered before your eyes closed was a red liquid and the metallic smell that filled your sense. At the very end, all you could see was just black.

And if it became the last thing that you ever saw in life, then may it be.

Because maybe, they could live a better life without you.

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[badgersprite]

Fic: Desiderata (10/?)

Chapter Title: Collide

Fandom: Mass Effect

Characters: Miranda, Samara, Oriana, Jacob, Jack

Pairing: Miranda/Samara, I told you it was a fucking slow burn 

Story Rating: R

Warnings: I don’t think any specific warnings apply for this chapter. Certainly nothing that doesn’t apply to the fic as a whole. Just assume any past warnings remain relevant.

Chapter Summary: The ‘flashback’ storyline comes to an end at the party on the Citadel. In London, Miranda’s insomnia is affecting her worse than ever before. Then Samara shows up at her door. And everything implodes.

Author’s Note: “If I'd have said I love you, she'd have said it back. And then everything would have been different.” - Sue Trinder, Fingersmith. Featuring Citadel dates that aren’t dates except they’re totally dates part II. I’m not going to lie, I’m kind of proud of myself here with the contrasts and parallels going on between the flashback scenes and present day scenes. People at their best, versus, well, close to their worst. Spotify playlist below the cut again.

(Link to Playlist)

*.    *     *

Miranda had been on the run from Cerberus for so long that it still hadn’t fully sunk in. She wasn’t hiding anymore. Wasn’t looking over her shoulder every waking moment. Didn’t get startled awake by every sound she heard in her sleep.

Somehow, she’d done it. She’d turned against The Illusive Man, and lived to tell the tale. For now, anyway.

The events at Sanctuary were so fresh in her mind that she’d barely had the chance to stop and catch her breath since. The bruises had mostly healed, but she still felt lingering echoes of her fight with Kai Leng, which could have ended a lot worse had she gone in unprepared. Not even ten days had passed since she hugged Oriana on Horizon and said her goodbyes, perhaps for the last time.

And yet she wasn’t thinking about what lay ahead. Not really.

Miranda was here. Living in the now.

For this one night, she was able to just...stand in one place, and enjoy the moment. That was something she had never taken the time to do previously, before all this came to pass. On an unconscious level, she had always taken tomorrows for granted. Never stopped or cared to appreciate today.

Suffice it to say, her head hadn’t quite fully caught up to where her body was, and that this was no mere illusion. It felt like at any second she would wake up and find herself alone in the dark again, scurrying like a rat through the shadows in hidden passages of the Citadel where nobody but the keepers could find her. 

But this wasn’t a dream. It was really happening.

It meant all the more that at this particular moment she was surrounded by familiar faces from The Normandy she hadn’t seen in months, plus a few new ones. For a while there, it had felt like she would never see them again.

It was something to savour. So she did. 

Miranda drew a deep breath and allowed herself to be present. To exist. To not be in her own head. She took in the scene as she made her way through Shepard’s apartment, letting her eyes wander the party going on around her, her gaze landing on each person she could see as she passed them by.

Liara and James Vega had spent a good portion of the evening arguing whether biotics were superior to brawn, or vice versa, with Jacob and Ashley having joined in on the great debate earlier. That still seemed to be ongoing, from what she could tell. The answer should have been eminently obvious to anyone, Miranda thought. Then again, she didn’t feel the need to convince anybody why her own preference was correct when she already knew she was right, as usual.

On a related note, Miranda might not have been the best judge when it came to reading signals between people, but even she was starting to get the sense that James and Ashley might be more than just shipmates by the end of the night, if they weren’t already. Good for them.

Tali, the last time she’d seen her, had been very much enjoying how uncomfortable EDI was making Samantha Traynor, talking openly about the crush Sam had on her voice. Although, come to think of it, Miranda was pretty sure Traynor had at long last managed to escape that awkward conversation and gone to hide under a table somewhere. Or maybe she’d just locked herself in the bathroom until she felt safe to emerge again. Either way, fair.

Speaking of potential couples, it hadn’t eluded Miranda’s attention that EDI and Joker had definitely become, shall it be said, a lot closer ever since EDI got a body. In retrospect, that wasn’t surprising, although the idea of the two of them becoming...entangled in that way had obviously never occurred to her before. Why would it have? But, come to think of it, the two of them had always bickered like an old married couple even when EDI was just a disembodied voice. From that perspective, Miranda supposed it kind of made sense.

And lastly on the list of possible relationships, there was also a...vibe coming off of Tali and Garrus, which was by far the most unexpected. And a little weird. Jacob had picked up on it before Miranda had, and she wished he hadn’t pointed it out. It was like finding out that two people she had thought of as more of a brother and sister might be hooking up. But it was none of Miranda’s business. In any event, the two of them seemed to mostly be avoiding each other. Perhaps they hadn’t confronted whatever this was between them yet.

She’d also caught sight of Zaeed and Samara admiring the artwork adorning Shepard’s new apartment. Miranda had thought about intruding on that, since that duo included the one person at this party she had been hoping to speak to tonight above all others, but she ultimately elected not to disturb them just yet. There would be other opportunities to catch up with her.

Somehow, she got the sense that Zaeed had finally been brave enough to shoot his shot with Samara after all this time. Judging by the expression on his face, and given that he was now drinking alone and very much not with Samara, presumably it had gone exactly as smoothly for him as had been predicted a year ago. She would be lying if she said she felt sorry for him.

A big group that included Joker, Garrus, Wrex, Steve Cortez and Javik had been arguing about guns and target practice or some similar nonsense, which hadn’t sounded particularly riveting to her in all honesty. Boys and their toys. They were still in that discussion from what she could hear. Unfortunately, Shepard seemed to have encouraged that line of thinking, which Miranda wished she hadn’t. Guns and alcohol were not the best mix.

Meanwhile, Kasumi had been popping in between all groups almost as much as Shepard had, like the perpetual snoop she was. She always loved getting up in everybody’s business. Miranda would have been a pretty big hypocrite to take issue with that, though. Although, when Miranda spied on people, it was for entirely professional reasons, not because she liked to gossip.

She had heard Grunt yelling at party crashers over the intercom a while back too. Who better to be a bouncer for a party than a genetically perfect krogan? She didn’t care to interrupt him. He’d done a good job of keeping the riff raff out.

And, honestly, for as much as Jack still grated on her nerves, a small part of Miranda had been somewhat relieved to see her there too, because if nothing else that meant she had survived long enough to attend this reunion. Miranda may not have liked Jack in the slightest, but if anybody thought she was actively rooting for any of her former Normandy comrades not to make it through this conflict, even Jack, then they really didn’t know Miranda at all.

Sure, they had instinctively traded barbs when they unintentionally crossed paths, because god forbid Jack actually behave like a fucking adult for once. But then Shepard had appeared out of nowhere and, for some bizarre reason, suggested that they, quote unquote, ‘work out all that unresolved tension between them’ and go have sex, or words to that effect.

In a weird way, that stupid comment had inadvertently somewhat doused the animosity between herself and Jack because, for once in their lives, they finally agreed on something - being that that would never fucking happen, and they would sooner drink broken glass than even think about it.

Credit to Shepard, though, Miranda and Jack hadn’t fought after that.

Maybe that had been the point.

Unfortunately, not all members of The Normandy had made it this far. There were missing faces. Only a few, but too many. From what she knew, they had all gone out like heroes, whatever that meant, and if it made any difference.

Thane had died giving his life to protect the Council from Kai Leng when Cerberus attacked the Citadel. Mordin had sacrificed himself to end the genophage, undoing what he had in retrospect come to believe was his greatest mistake. And Legion, well, to the extent that Legion could be considered ‘dead’, he had certainly ceased to exist in any recognisable form - giving up his ‘individuality’, for lack of a better word, to achieve peace between the quarians and the geth.

It wasn’t until after being forced to go into hiding for so long, believing some Cerberus agent would find her and put three bullets in her head before she saw any of her Normandy comrades again, that Miranda began to regret that she never took the chance to get to know her shipmates better, especially now that there were some with whom those lost moments could never be reclaimed.

What was that saying - you don’t know what you’ve got until it’s gone?

Yeah, this was definitely one of those instances.

She’d always liked Thane, come to think of it. There was little to dislike. He had been one of the few on the ship who had never been anything other than extremely civil towards her, even when, admittedly, Miranda hadn’t been particularly courteous in return, misjudging him as a man of tenuous loyalty.

He never complained or questioned any task he was given. He just did it. A consummate professional. Exactly the kind of person she would want on any team.

Mordin, she respected. Hadn’t trusted, no, nor completely understood, but respected. They’d teamed up on a fair few field missions with Shepard early on when they were still studying the Collectors. Between her warps and Mordin’s incineration tech, they could tear through any armour in seconds. And he was undeniably a genius. Back on The Normandy, he was probably the only other person who’d spent as much time hard at work as Miranda. Maybe more.

With the benefit of hindsight, she wished she had taken more of an opportunity to pick his brain, and work with him on his endless list of projects. Even if he did talk at a million miles a minute, it was only because he had so much to do and no time to waste doing it. A sombre smile came to her face as she thought how many of the galaxy’s ills the two of them could have solved given enough all-nighters and enough pots of coffee between them.

And then there was Legion. In truth, she hadn’t had much time to speak to him, much less get to know him. He had been on The Normandy so briefly. Less than a month had elapsed between finding him, and Miranda being forced to leave. He was the one she knew the least. But he was unique.

She had been wrong about Legion, hadn’t she? Miranda still didn’t fully know where she stood on the whole question of whether machines could be considered ‘alive’, but that wasn’t the point, was it? Did it even matter if they weren’t? Either way, it would have been wrong to send him to Cerberus, like Miranda had initially suggested. If that had happened, Rannoch might not be at peace right now. With his final sacrifice to unite the quarians and the geth, Legion had definitively proven himself to be more than the mere sum of his programs.

So the question remained. Why hadn’t Miranda taken the initiative to get to know them? To speak to them? It wasn’t as if she hadn’t known that the time Thane and Mordin had was short, irrespective of intervening events. She’d just...not bothered.

It hadn’t occurred to her back then to think that was something she ought to have done. The old Miranda hadn’t cared to do such things. Because other people didn’t really matter to her.

By the time Miranda had started to defrost and emerge as a more tolerable (and, in turn, more tolerant) person to be around, it was already too late. The mission was over. The Alpha Relay was destroyed. And everyone went their separate ways.

But there was no changing the past. Perhaps there was no sense in wondering what could have been, or what she would have done differently if she had known then what she knew now, or if she had been the person back then that she was now, because that just wasn’t possible. And Miranda could do many things, but even she couldn’t make the impossible possible.

Well, not usually.

She couldn’t have those days back. But she still had this day. This one night. Best not to dwell on what was missing or the mistakes of yesterdays gone by when there was so much that she had to be thankful for. And, moreover, so much which she had, for once in her life, finally learned to appreciate.

And it wasn’t lost on her that this one night of joyful reunion was almost certainly the last one they could ever have like this. The last time they would all be together. The last time that all the faces in this room would still be here to celebrate as one. 

Because they wouldn’t be alive much longer.

The reality was, the whole galaxy was at war. And it was a war they were currently losing. Their chances of victory were slim to none. From what Miranda had gathered, all organic life was essentially banking its hopes on some ancient miracle superweapon passed down from previous cycles called The Crucible that they didn’t even fully understand or know how to use yet. And if that failed?

...There wasn’t a plan B. Not yet, at least.

Even if The Crucible worked and they somehow defeated the Reapers, the chance that more than a handful of people in this room would survive the war was infinitesimally small. And, perhaps more than anyone else at that party, Miranda had no expectation that she would be among the living when the dust settled. Because Miranda had never been happier than she was right then. Never had more to live for. And if that wasn’t a curse that put her right at the top of the list of ‘most likely to die’, then she was not only naive, but delusional.

The universe was a cruel place. The people who had the most to live for were always the first to die. There was no way that Miranda could rationally believe that the future she now saw for herself and Ori after the war might ever actually come to fruition. Because, if there was one thing that Miranda’s thirty-six years had taught her, it was that she would never get to be that fucking happy.

Things like that just didn’t happen. Especially not to people like her.

Or, if they did, then they shouldn’t.

Seeing what Cerberus had become, knowing she’d spent just shy of twenty years of her life working for them? No, she didn’t deserve a good ending.

As that thought went through her head, Miranda glanced up, and spotted a singular, solitary figure standing alone by the second floor balcony, watching the scenes playing out below. Samara. Somehow, that she was by herself was the least shocking thing Miranda could have imagined.

Finally sensing her long-awaited chance to catch a private moment with the one person she had been more eager to spend time with than any other, Miranda ascended the stairs, a glass of wine curled in her grasp.

“Not mingling?” Miranda asked as she joined Samara’s side.

“I am content to observe,” Samara replied, maintaining an upright posture with her hands clasped behind her back. She seemed to mean it, preferring to watch and listen from a distance than to be directly involved in the action for the most part. Considering she was about four hundred years out-of-practice when it came to this sort of thing, being a passive onlooker probably genuinely was the most enjoyable way for her to experience this party at her own pace.

“Normally, I would do the same.” Miranda leaned on the railing beside her.

“Yet you appear to be enjoying the festivities,” Samara noted, pleased with that.

“I know. It feels incongruous, doesn’t it? Me, being social? A year ago I would have been telling you all to stop wasting time and focus on the mission,” said Miranda, finding it rather bizarre to consider how far she'd come from the cold, aloof person she was previously. Well, not that she couldn't still be those things. But she was less so now. Especially among this dysfunctional bunch of misfits she had reluctantly become fond of, despite her better judgement.

Being part of The Normandy crew had changed her irrevocably. More than she'd realised at the time. Meeting her sister had done that too. And Samara, of course. And so had losing all those things when she went on the run. It made her appreciate aspects of life she wouldn't have otherwise.

It was almost enough to make her call them all her friends. Even Jack.

...Almost.

“You do not need to deprive yourself for my sake,” Samara assured her, gesturing towards the party going on beneath them, as if believing Miranda was only approaching her out of a sense of obligation to ensure she didn't feel excluded.

“I'm not. I enjoy your company. I always have.” Nothing had changed in that respect. No matter how much time had passed, Miranda would never feel any less at ease in Samara’s presence. She just had that effect on her. A vague smirk came to her as she thought back on the last time they spoke, toying with her wine glass. “I was right, you know?” she said, recalling her own words from all those many months ago. “I did miss you more than anyone else.”

“Even Shepard?” Samara inquired, her lip quirking with amusement.

“Even Shepard,” Miranda confirmed, taking a sip. “Don't pass this on, but Shepard was always barging into my office when I had a lot to do. Ask Garrus and he'll tell you the same thing about his calibrations.” She gestured to their comrade, currently setting up a number of glasses on the bar, resembling a firing range. That was going to end badly. “That was something I always liked about you.”

“What was?” asked Samara.

“You might be the only person I've ever met who never wanted anything from me,” Miranda explained, having had plenty of time to think about that in her loneliest moments this past year. “Not to be presumptuous, but it wasn’t because you simply didn't care, or wanted to get rid of me. You just...accepted me, as I was. I never felt as though I had to earn your approval, whether through my usefulness, or my accomplishments, or even through keeping you entertained with conversation. I could just...do nothing around you – literally, just sit there and say nothing in your presence, and that was fine with you.”

That was no exaggeration. They had spent hours together in serene silence, or in meditation. Maybe more than they had spent talking. It never mattered what they chose to do. One was never any more or less welcome than the other.

“It was,” Samara confirmed, her voice soft and reflective. “And, no, you are not being presumptuous. You may be more forthright than I am about such things, but, if I ever desired to be left alone, believe me, I would not have made a secret of it.”

“Ah, good, so you weren’t secretly dreading it whenever I showed up because you were too polite to tell me to bugger off this entire time,” Miranda joked. She already knew that, of course, but it was nice to have it on record.

“I am unfamiliar with that term. But no, I was not,” Samara answered kindly. “I would be a fool not to value your abilities. The things you have accomplished are remarkable, let alone what you have yet to achieve. But such things are only possible because of who you are. That is what is truly important. And I asked nothing of you, because I already enjoyed your companionship.”

Miranda wasn’t prone to blushing like an idiot, but it took an uncharacteristic amount of effort not to glow at such sincere praise. “You aren’t so bad yourself,” Miranda wryly replied, gently nudging Samara with her shoulder. 

“No, I am terribly dull. I assure you, I am aware of this,” Samara replied, a self-effacing smile tugging at the corners of her lips at the misplaced compliment.

Miranda snorted at that assertion. “Are you kidding? You were the only one out of this lot I found even remotely interesting to talk to most days. And, considering the company we keep, that’s saying something,” she said, indicating their cohorts below, who included some of the most famous heroes and infamous outlaws in the galaxy. “You’re one of the most fascinating people I’ve ever met. Besides, I owe a lot to your wisdom and advice. More than you know.”

“It pleases me that you feel that way. However, if I may, I do not consider myself especially wise,” Samara humbly responded, downplaying her role. “If I appear so, it is only because experience has taught me one lesson that can make even the most dimwitted person appear well-considered in their thoughts, and that is to speak as little as possible, until I have something worthwhile to say.”

“See? That’s the most intelligent thing I’ve heard all evening,” Miranda pointed out, earning a faint chuckle from Samara. “In all seriousness, though, I really have been looking forward to catching up with you.”

“And I you. Much has come to pass since last we met. For both of us, I suspect,” Samara reflected, as if she had often wondered in her journeys where her friends were, how they were faring, or what they might be doing. Miranda knew, because she had done the exact same thing. “If it would not trouble you to share it--”

“I killed my father,” Miranda nonchalantly answered, filling in the gaps of what had transpired over the past few months before Samara could even ask her to, bringing up the subject about as casually as she might remark on the weather.

“Good,” Samara enthused, without a hint of hesitation. She didn’t even need to ask whether or not he deserved it. She already knew the answer.

That Samara took it so in stride almost made Miranda laugh. That exchange would have sounded so bizarre out of context. “Couldn’t have happened to a nicer man,” Miranda commented, taking another drink from her glass, nearing half-empty. “So, yeah, I’ve gone from having the absolute worst year of my life so far to feeling pretty bloody wonderful, if I’m being honest.”

“I am glad to hear you say that. However, if I may...are you sure you are alright?” Samara asked with the warmth and gentleness Miranda had come to expect from her. Although her own experiences with Morinth were very different, no doubt they gave her an insight that, irrespective of how much Miranda hated her father or how justified she was in her actions, killing the man who had been her only family for sixteen years of her life might unearth some complicated feelings. “It would be no failure on your part whatsoever if you are not.”

“Yeah. I’m fine. Believe me, if there was any small part of me left that might have wanted to let him live, or might have felt something resembling an attachment to him, that part of me died the moment he hurt my sister,” Miranda declared, her voice unwavering. She glanced down. “Unfortunately, I...should have gotten there sooner. Oriana’s adoptive parents weren’t spared. They didn’t make it.”

“I am sorry,” Samara said, her sympathy sincere. “Is there anything you could reasonably have done to prevent this from happening?”

“No, probably not,” Miranda acknowledged. She had been fighting so hard just to survive some days. To stay one step ahead of The Illusive Man and his agents. She’d kept an eye on her as best she could, but it hadn’t been possible to watch over her and protect her the way she used to from such a position of powerlessness. She hadn’t even known she was in danger until it was too late.

“Then you must not blame yourself,” Samara encouraged, ever the voice of compassionate wisdom. “If your actions could not realistically have changed anything that transpired, then you cannot be held responsible.”

“I suppose not,” Miranda conceded, staring down at her glass.

More than anything else, Miranda hated that feeling of helplessness. Knowing that Oriana had suffered and felt pain she never wanted her to experience, and there was nothing she could do to shield her from it. She would have traded her own life in a heartbeat to take it all away and wind back the clock for Ori and her family, if it were within her power. But such things weren’t. It couldn’t be undone. It couldn’t be fixed. They just had to keep moving forward.

“Enough about me. How about you?” Miranda changed the subject. “I tried to keep tabs on everyone but...you are a hard woman to find, Samara.”

“That is my way,” Samara affirmed, calm and quiet. “I have no possessions, but that which you see before you. And I often journey through very remote places.”

“You’re off-the-grid,” Miranda translated. Certainly, Samara was about as disconnected from galactic society and unplugged from the network as it was possible to be in this day and age, short of eschewing those things completely.

“You could say that, yes,” Samara gave a firm nod, accepting that description. She stepped away from the balcony, gesturing with her hand as she spoke. “You may not know this, but there are villages in remote parts of asari space where people have...returned to a simpler way of being, rejecting modernity and embracing tradition in every facet of life. Even though their ancestors may have come to those worlds by spaceflight, they prefer to live as their predecessors did thousands of years ago. It would not be an exaggeration for me to state that several such places I have visited recently would still not currently be aware there is a war going on as we speak, and would never have heard the term ‘Reaper’.”

“Doesn’t sound that strange. There are people and places on Earth that haven’t changed at all in the past two hundred years, if not longer. As long as they aren’t holding back social and scientific progress for anyone else, why force them to adapt?” Miranda shrugged. If people wanted to stay stuck in the past, that was their business. She would happily continue moving forward and enjoy all the trappings and privileges of modern life that they rejected.

“...I have always liked such places, at least since I became a Justicar. They remind me of my temple somewhat,” Samara confessed, her eyes losing focus, drifting into thoughtful contemplation. “Just as there is tranquility in being surrounded by nature, there is truly no wiser woman than she who is content with her life, however humble it may seem. Would that we could all achieve such harmony.”

The hint of sombreness in Samara’s final words wasn’t lost on Miranda.

“Speaking for myself, give me twenty-second century technology any day,” Miranda remarked, both because it was true, but partly in an effort to lighten the atmosphere. It wasn’t clear whether Samara even heard her, in all honesty. “So where did you go after that?” Miranda asked casually. Given that she was here, she must have run into Shepard again somehow.

At those words, a sudden flicker of sorrow passed across her features. Samara turned away, one hand falling across her face, as if struck by a surge of sadness, and needing a moment to collect herself.

Needless to say, that reaction definitely didn’t escape Miranda. She moved closer to Samara, concerned. “Are you okay? What’s wrong?”

Samara summoned a heartbroken smile as she looked up at her once more. “Forgive me. My thoughts turned to the day I encountered Shepard,” she began, a hard story to tell. “I heard that the monastery where my daughters were taken four centuries ago had issued a distress signal, and none who had been sent to investigate had returned. As soon as I knew they were in peril, I did not hesitate. I had to go to them. I feared the worst, and my fears were not misplaced. The Reapers were indoctrinating Ardat-Yakshi, turning them into…” Samara couldn’t even say it. There weren’t words to describe those creatures.

Miranda listened to her recount the events in heavy, dread-filled silence. Nobody had told her that. She had no idea about any of this. 

“Fortunately, both Shepard and I arrived in time to rescue Falere from that fate. However, we were not quick enough. I lost...I lost Rila.” Samara’s voice caught in her throat, choked by a sob as she relived the all-too-raw pain of her death. 

Her oldest daughter. Gone.

Miranda’s heart sank. “Samara, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know,” she said with heartfelt remorse. Miranda never would have brought this up if she had suspected anything had happened to what little family Samara still had left. Why hadn’t anybody said anything? Why had no one told her about this?

“No, it is…” Samara shook her head, raising a hand as if to signal that it was not her fault for inadvertently touching upon an open wound. As if she thought the only misstep made was her own for letting grief cloud the moment, when she had so much still to be thankful for. “I should not. Not today.”

Miranda didn’t quite know what to make of that reaction, but if Samara didn’t want to talk about the death of her child, she couldn’t exactly blame her. She certainly wouldn’t force her to.

Their moment of quiet was interrupted by glass shattering somewhere below.

“Oh, God,” Miranda groaned miserably, getting the sense that the boys were in fact about to break out the guns and start shooting after all. She was not particularly keen to be near them when that happened. “Do you want to go somewhere a little quieter?” Miranda asked, thinking that would be best.

“As you wish,” Samara replied, gesturing for her to go ahead, composing herself as she followed in Miranda’s footsteps. With that, they retreated into Shepard's bedroom, seeing that it appeared empty.

Out of the corner of her eye, Miranda glimpsed something. Shepard's closet was open, but the clothes were shifting ever so slightly as they hung there. Hmm. She had a fair idea what was causing that. However, this wasn't the time to address it. Not when this moment with Samara could be one of the last they ever had. She made a mental note to file her theory away for a little later.

Ignoring the disturbance, Miranda stepped inside. She supposed they could have sat on the bed, but, somehow, that just didn't seem fitting. “Here, for old time's sake,” she said, sitting down on the floor, her legs crossed, patting a spot beside her. “I know the view isn't as good, but—“

“I have spent many years gazing out over the stars, and I will see them again before my days are at an end,” Samara interrupted Miranda, joining her by her side, mirroring her posture. “In comparison, I have spent far less time with you. This is more worthy, do you not agree?”

“Definitely.” Miranda glanced down, having reflected on that sort of thing a lot recently. “Cutting myself off from...everything like I did made me appreciate the value of how I spend my limited time in this universe. I’ve come to understand what I want to do with my life, after all this is done. Assuming there is an ‘after’. And it turns out you were right, but you probably already knew that.”

“I...do not,” Samara replied, mildly perplexed. “If I said something in the past that you are referring to, I am afraid that I do not recall it.”

That happened a lot, Miranda thought. She had a near-perfect memory, by human standards. It felt entirely natural to her to harken back to conversations that had taken place long ago as if they’d happened only yesterday when, almost invariably, by that stage, the other party had forgotten them completely.

“You remember how you would encourage me to concentrate less on devoting all my energy to my work and other external achievements and to focus more on my inner development instead? Well, you asked me once which of those two things ultimately has greater meaning to me,” Miranda refreshed her memory.

“That does sound like something I would say,” Samara acknowledged, certainly remembering words to that effect, even if a few more specific details had faded.

“You did. And you were right,” Miranda continued. “I had a lot of time to myself these past several months. Completely to myself. And when that crushing isolation was just starting to tip me over the edge, I thought of you. I thought of us, our time together. And so I tried my hand at meditating again. It succeeded at calming me down and clearing my head but, more importantly, finding that state of tranquility gave me the first chance I’d had since leaving Cerberus to really stop and think about my life, and the direction it was heading, even before this.”

Samara’s expression revealed she knew that epiphany all too well, as if she had undergone something similar in her own life. Possibly more than once. It was no wonder she considered meditation such an essential facet of her existence.

“Serenity is the key to mindfulness. The only key. Even the simplest truths are often lost to us in the noise and chaos of life, or clouded by impenetrable shadows of anger and despair,” Samara spoke sagely, from the benefit of experience. 

That was the truest and most astute thing Miranda had heard anyone say in a long time. And beautifully poetic. And, as she looked at Samara then, Miranda had to once again wonder how she could possibly believe herself to be dull or unwise, even if she had only made those disparaging remarks about herself in jest. 

“What came to you in the silence?” Samara prompted, keen to hear it.

“I thought of the person I was before I met you, and, out of nowhere, it suddenly hit me - really hit me - that all that time I spent working for Cerberus was...wasted. It meant nothing. And I knew it meant nothing because all I could think was that, if Cerberus did catch up to me and kill me, then I would be leaving behind absolutely nothing that I could look back on and say, ‘Yeah, you know what? I’m satisfied with that.’ Not one thing. Except for bringing Shepard back, but any contentment I feel about that has less to do with me, and more to do with Shepard.”

“Because you were never satisfied with anything you produced,” Samara intuited, sensing what Miranda had come to terms with. “Nothing could ever truly meet your own unattainable standards that you set for yourself. And no amount of work could ever fill the void that you felt inside. A void that festered because you were...completely avoiding focusing on your inner life.”

“Yes, I was. And, no, it couldn’t fill it,” Miranda confirmed, seeing now what she had been too distracted to see before. “And, although I didn’t realise it at the time, I really did not like the person I was when I was working for them. I was not happy. I thought I was, compared to the life I had before. But, in actuality, I wasn’t any less trapped with them than I was with my father. I was like Shepard’s stupid hamster, running in a wheel, doing the same things over and over again, thinking I was getting somewhere, but going nowhere. Deep down, I was...I was fucking miserable. And...honestly, I think I was lonely.”

Samara watched on, her eyes glistening with unfeigned sympathy and understanding. “I gathered as much,” Samara admitted, barely above a whisper. Miranda wasn’t surprised to hear her say that. She wasn’t sure at precisely what point it had occurred to her to suspect that Samara’s spiritual intervention in her life might be intentional, but she’d made no secret of her guidance. 

“I’m glad you noticed, because I never would have. It was you who gave me that gentle push that made me re-examine what I was doing with my life, how badly I was treating myself, and reflect on what really mattered to me,” said Miranda. Hell, Samara had known what Miranda was missing better than she knew it herself. “So, as I was having this moment of insight and meditating on all those things you said to me, it made me think, maybe the path I’ve been taking until now isn't what's fulfilling to me. That's why, once the Reapers are defeated, if I make it out alive...I think I'm done,” she stated frankly, shrugging her shoulders.

“Done?” Samara echoed, curious as to her meaning.

“Done being that person,” Miranda clarified. “Done leading my life that way. Or at least I’ll try to be someone different for a while, until I figure out what I really want to do now that there’s nobody controlling me anymore. I'm not planning to be a puppet for another shadowy organisation. I'm not going to go off on some grand mission to save the galaxy. I’m not going to spend sixteen hours a day hunched over my computer screen, stressing over worthless administrative tasks to meet the arbitrary standards of people who don’t care at all if my crippling addiction to perfectionism sends me to an early grave,” Miranda announced, voicing that commitment aloud as though it were a vow. “If I’m finally going to take charge of my own life, then I'm going to focus on what's most important to me.”

“And what is that?” Samara asked, suspecting she already knew.

“My sister,” Miranda answered without hesitation. Oriana was her be all and end all. Whether she knew it or not, she always had been, ever since she was brought into this world. She made Miranda feel complete, or as close to whole as she had ever felt, anyway. “I made a promise to her that, when this is over, we're going to find some nice, quiet place on a colony world and start living our lives together as a family. And that's the only thing I want to do. The only thing I know will make me happy. I don't care about anything else.”

“You are...retiring?” Samara inferred, tilting her head in questioning.

“In a manner of speaking, I guess you could say that,” Miranda affirmed. As she glanced over at Samara then, it wasn’t lost on her that, while she was clearly impressed with the level of growth Miranda was demonstrating, suffice it to say that there was a hint of scepticism. “What?” Miranda prompted her, always preferring people to be direct rather than refrain from speaking.

“Forgive me. It delights me to hear that you have chosen a path which you believe will bring you inner fulfilment, but...with greatest respect, after our many conversations, I find it difficult to imagine you content with embracing idleness,” Samara noted with interest, even though she obviously supported her decision. She knew it drove Miranda crazy when she didn’t have enough work to do. She was perpetually busy, by choice. She hated being bored more than anything.

“No, I'm not saying I’ll be idle. I mean, I am only thirty-six, and...well, you've seen what I'm like,” Miranda conceded that fault, aware of her workaholic tendencies. She didn’t expect those qualities to fade, and she wasn’t sure it would be a good thing if they did. They were part of her personality. “But the point is that I’ve been doing the exact same thing for twenty years and getting nothing in return - except money, I guess. Before that, I was my father’s prisoner. I’ve never had the chance to be my own woman. I need a clean break. A hard reset. To steer things in a new direction. I need some time to...do or be something else, for the first time in my life. I need to…” She trailed off, struggling for the right words.

“Find yourself?” Samara suggested.

“Something like that,” Miranda confirmed. She’d never had a chance to discover herself and her identity except insofar as it related to her upbringing, or to her career with Cerberus. What else was there? Who was Miranda Lawson when she wasn’t working? Or wasn’t busy solving all the galaxy’s problems?

She would have loved to know. It was a shame she wouldn’t get to live long enough to meet that person. But, God, did it feel good to live in denial, and allow herself to hope, for just one night.

“I don't know how long this experiment will last, or what this phase of my life will look like,” Miranda continued, “And I'm sure that at some point in time I'm going to find ways to keep myself productive, because I probably can't do otherwise. But, whatever I decide to do with my time and my skills, I'll be doing it of my own volition. Not because I'm tethered to anybody else. Not because somebody else is running my life and telling me what to do. It will be because I took time to think about it, and found a way to devote myself to something that actually makes me feel good when I do it. Whatever that ends up being.”

That was the core of it, when it came down to it. She wanted to be her own master. To have control over her own life. To be her own boss. Wanted the freedom to cut ties with anyone or anything that was toxic to her quest for self-actualisation. 

“Either way, from now on, all those other things are going to be secondary, because my family is my priority. Oriana is,” Miranda professed, and that was immutable. “And, while I already knew that, you helped me realise what that means. So thank you for that.”

“If I was able to be of any assistance, then seeing you embrace your innermost desires is thanks enough. I am glad that you and your sister have found one another,” Samara said, her sincere smile reaching her eyes. “Truly, you have come so far from when I first met you. Wherever your path takes you, I wish you nothing but happiness. And I hope you both lead very long and peaceful lives.”

“Don’t we all?” Miranda remarked. That was the hard part, though. The entire galaxy was under attack by genocidal, unknowable cosmic horrors. But nobody wanted to think about them right now. Not tonight. “What about you and Falere?” Miranda asked, hoping she wasn’t treading on too sensitive ground by asking that question. “Will you do the same with her?”

“...I cannot; my adherence to The Code does not end with the salvation of the galaxy,” said Samara. Though it was clear she accepted that, her response left her visibly conflicted. No doubt, she wished it could have been otherwise. “I am the last of my Order. When I perish, so do the Justicars perish with me. It may seem futile to continue to walk this path when there is no one left to demand it of me, but I must. I must, for those who can no longer walk it with me.”

Samara’s devout pledge carried a hint of sadness, but it was well-camouflaged. What she personally wanted was irrelevant, ever since she'd renounced her former life and sworn her service to the Justicars. Being their sole living legacy only further cemented what had already been true. She wouldn't turn her back on her obligations, no matter how tempting it was to savour every moment she could with her daughter. She could never forgive herself if she did.

“However, I have also promised Falere that I will return, if I survive – when I am able,” Samara continued, though her tone did not change. It remained distant. Almost resigned. Layered in over four hundred years of history between them.

Miranda couldn’t quite make sense of the mixed emotions she sensed in Samara’s voice. Perhaps she was disappointed that they couldn’t be as close as she would like - that there were restrictions standing in the way of them fully reuniting in the same kind of way Miranda and Oriana had. Falere was still an Ardat-Yakshi, after all; she could never live a normal life. It was too dangerous.

“But you will see her? You will have a life together?” Miranda surmised, in a subtle attempt to encourage Samara to think of her circumstances more positively.

“...Yes,” Samara answered hesitantly, deciding that was indeed true, in part.

“Then, if both of us have reasons to survive, I don't like the Reapers' chances,” Miranda spoke with false confidence. If she said it with enough self-assuredness, perhaps she might actually start to believe it. But she wasn’t trying to convince herself. Only Samara. “If we've said we're going to do these things, then we already know what the outcome of this war has to be.”

Samara didn't share in her display of bravado, but she did appreciate her sentiment. “Though I am not afraid of death, I certainly have found a great deal more to live for than I ever thought I would have again...” Samara trailed off at that thought, her eyes briefly drifting out of focus, almost pensive in her reflection.

“Here's to living,” said Miranda, raising her mostly empty glass in a salute, finishing the last of her drink.

At that, Samara shook herself from whatever temporary trance had come over her. “Yes. Indeed. As you once said to me, I will…’see you on the other side’,” Samara echoed Miranda’s words from The Collector Base, nodding her head in agreement. There was nothing more worthy of affirmation than the desire to emerge from the ashes when all this was over. “The hour grows late, and I fear I have kept you too long. Do you wish to return to the festivities?” 

“You go on ahead,” Miranda encouraged. “And don’t just sit in a corner and meditate all night. Go...fucking have fun, Samara. You deserve it.”

Samara uttered a soft chuckle. “I am not entirely sure what that means, but if you are insistent, then...I will try to avail myself. The atmosphere is certainly...energetic,” she commented, as if sounding faintly overwhelmed by the party.

Miranda didn’t need to be a genius to recognise that it had been a long, long, long, long (too many longs to possibly put into a sentence) time since Samara would have experienced anything like this. The young Samara she had heard tales of had definitely been a wild child, but she had ceased to be that person even before her personal tragedy befell her. As a Justicar, she had been travelling alone, in total solitude, for over four hundred years, barely even speaking to anyone for most of that time, except as required to carry out her duties.

How many centuries had it been since she was able to get together like this with a group of friends? Since she even had a group of friends? Since she...relaxed and unwound? It was no wonder that, so far, she seemed content to watch from the sidelines more than actively participate in the unfolding chaos. 

Still a little sad, though. At least from where Miranda was sitting.

“Will you join me?” Samara asked, extending her hand as she got to her feet.

“In a bit,” Miranda declined. “There's something I have to take care of first.”

Samara didn't ask what Miranda meant by that, respecting her decision. “Very well. May we speak again soon,” she said, taking her leave and rejoining the others. 

Once Samara was gone, Miranda uttered a faint disgruntled sigh. “I know you're there, Kasumi,” she said, annoyed. “Samara may not have noticed, but I did.”

“Aw, what gave it away?” Kasumi playfully whined, de-cloaking in front of Shepard's closet.

“The movement as you rifled through those clothes,” Miranda answered plainly.

“Ooh, you're good,” Kasumi acknowledged. Most people wouldn't have seen it.

“Genetic enhancements. Superior vision. You've heard this story,” Miranda explained, waving that nonsense away. She elected not to ask what Kasumi was doing by rifling through Shepard’s clothes. That was the least unusual thing about this. “So, were you riveted by our conversation?” she asked.

“Actually, yes,” Kasumi replied, her answer apparently unfeigned. “Samara wasn’t kidding; you really have changed your perspective for the better. This new you, it's nice. You seem happy. I hope everything works out for you and your sister.”

Miranda couldn't quite manage to be cross with her after that kind response. “Yeah, well...I’ll never hear the end of it if the crew thinks I’ve gone soft and sentimental, so don’t go telling anyone. Besides, I haven't changed so much that I won't be capable of making your life hell if you let word of this spread around,” Miranda idly threatened, not meaning it at all.

Kasumi lost any trace of heartfelt sincerity after that. “On the other hand, I was also enthralled because I thought your little love session was going to end with you and Samara christening Shep's sheets,” she teased.

Miranda arched an eyebrow. Her and Samara? How absurd. “Of all the comebacks you could make...Really? A gay joke? In this day and age? What century are you from?” Honestly, it was the lack of creativity and wit that disappointed her more than anything. Kasumi was normally funnier than this.

“Who’s joking?” Kasumi wryly replied. “I was going to take bets from the others on which one of you topped. I picked you, for the record.”

Miranda snorted, not even humouring this nonsense. “Sure. If you say so.” 

“Be dismissive if you want, but I was right across the hall from Samara. I overheard more than one of your conversations. I know nobody else knows how much time you spent together, but I do. Besides, Shepard has it all wrong; Samara's a much better match for you than Jack would ever be,” Kasumi nonchalantly commented.

Miranda sighed heavily and let her head fall in her hand, massaging her forehead in visible annoyance. “What is it with everyone tonight--”

As soon as Miranda began to utter the question, she found that Kasumi had already cloaked herself and disappeared, leaving her by herself. Miranda rolled her eyes, not even slightly shocked. Kasumi had done that to everyone all night.

Seriously, though, why was everyone suddenly so intent on getting her to sleep with women at this party? They knew she was straight, right?

*     *     *

Drip.

Drip.

She stirred at the disturbance. Her right eye flickered open, but the other didn’t respond. Twisted metal and exposed wires loomed over her against the backdrop of an empty sky.

Drip.

Drip.

A body hung out of the seat above her. Half a body. A cracked ribcage visibly protruded from a burned uniform. Entrails dangled from the open corpse. Droplets of blood ran down a lifeless arm swaying limp in the light breeze.

Drip.

Drip.

Miranda had been here before. So many times. But this time, she was frozen in place. Trapped. Stuck. She couldn’t move. Couldn’t shift her body. Could only feel the blood and the viscera. It surrounded her. She was practically floating in a pool of it beneath her.

It was still warm.

Drip.

Drip.

She could taste copper in her mouth. She was covered in sanguine from head to toe. She wasn’t sure how much was hers, and how much was the pilot’s.

Drip.

Drip.

Her eyelid fluttered as a drop landed directly in her iris. As she blinked, she noticed something she’d never seen before. The pilot’s neck was bent back the wrong way. But there was a head. Half a head. Split clean open. Down the middle.

Her helmet had come off, exposing blonde hair. Stained with a crimson mask.

Drip.

Drip.

Miranda’s instincts reacted before she did. Her heart began to race - her pulse quickening with a deep, abiding dread. Adrenaline surged through her veins. And she didn’t know why. Until she saw.

Until she saw the body above her move.

Drip.

Drip.

That bent-backwards broken spine shifted consciously. And, with a wilful snap, suddenly that limp neck was above her. Hanging. That half-skull hovered directly over her. Looking at her. Appraising her.

Drip.

Drip.

Miranda tensed with the urge to fight or flee, but she was frozen in place, as if made of stone. She couldn’t move a single part of her body below her neck.

Drip.

Drip.

That torn face, broken in two, shifted back and forth, as if studying Miranda. Examining her. Asking itself…why did this stranger live, when I died?

Drip.

Drip.

With one click of a button to release her harness, the pilot dropped to the floor, freed from her restraints. Miranda could only watch as that unliving corpse of the woman blasted in half by the Reaper unnaturally positioned itself above her. Then the thing looked over to one side. Its eye was fixed on Miranda’s left arm.

Her wounded limb hung like dead weight from her shoulder. Fractured. Lifeless. Her forearm was twisted around completely the wrong way from the elbow down. Miranda couldn’t so much as twitch her fingers in self-defence.

Drip.

Drip.

Without warning, it seized her left hand.

“Ah!” Miranda gasped in pain, but couldn’t fight her off. Couldn’t move.

All she could do was lie there helplessly and watch as this dead creature lifted her broken, mangled arm. She willed herself not to scream from how much it hurt. Not to give it the satisfaction of breaking her.

Drip.

Drip.

The pilot stared down at her, unmoved by her anguish. It felt nothing.

It never broke eye contact with her as it lifted her backwards-twisted hand towards itself. Until Miranda’s fingers were almost touching that split-open face.

Miranda would have resisted if she could, but it felt like her arm would rip clean in half at the elbow if she pulled back with even the slightest force.

Drip.

Drip.

And then the pilot opened her mouth.

And a river of maggots came pouring out.

Wriggling.

Writhing.

Miranda could do nothing except watch as those horrible, crawling larvae spread from her fingers, down her palm, and to her wrist. And everywhere they touched, her flesh was consumed with rot. Infection. Disease. Death.

She could smell it.

She could fucking smell it.

And they just kept coming.

Drip.

Drip.

Some of the vile things fell onto her abdomen, there were so many of them. And the rot took hold there too. Turning her skin sickly septic. Pestilent. Necrotic. 

The pilot let go of her arm, letting it fall to the floor as the maggots swarmed her.

That half-body reached down and grabbed a fistful of the squirming things that were feasting on her still living corpse. It held that pulsating mass above her.

Drip.

Drip.

“No,” was all Miranda could say, knowing what it intended.

But there was nothing she could say that would stop it.

Drip.

Drip.

It shoved that handful of maggots directly onto her face.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

Instinctively, Miranda reached over and slapped the alarm off before anyone else would hear it. The next thing she did was bite down on her pillow to keep from screaming, or vomiting, stifling the lingering echoes of her nightmare.

Once the panic subsided, Miranda flopped onto her back, catching her breath.

Four forty-five in the morning.

This had been her bright idea to get some sorely-needed rest. She’d set her alarm to go off every half hour - to wake her before she could dream. It worked for the first three cycles. That was the fourth. Another failed solution. Another plan that hadn’t helped. Every time she slept, it was hell. It was always hell.

Miranda lay there in darkness, staring at the ceiling, listening to her ear ring. At least she’d got two hours before the nightmares struck this time. Thank Christ for that small mercy. But she was still so tired. She was so fucking tired.

Miranda could run on far less sleep than the average human. Persevere longer before frayed edges started to show. But even she had limits on what she could withstand. The longer this went on, the harder it got just to function.

How long did she have before she was physically incapable of staying awake?

Miranda had given up trying to pass time during the night. With anything. Didn’t use her computer. Didn’t read. Didn’t listen to music. Didn’t go out for walks by the river. Didn’t do any of the things she turned to in the past.

It was all so...boring. Everything was. Every single thing in her life that she used to use as a crutch to ward off these dreams had lost its lustre. Nothing was worth the effort of doing anymore. Expending the energy. All she had to keep herself awake anymore were her thoughts. And that sound.

That relentless

Fucking

Sound.

Days bled together in a blur. It almost didn’t feel like the past few hours had even happened. Fresh memories were like watching scenes from someone else’s life. What little release she’d had from getting off with Shiala earlier that night had already worked its way out of her system. It had been nothing more than a fleeting distraction, which offered scant relief from the problems that plagued her. And now she was back to this. A torment she’d been living with for so long that she no longer even remembered how it felt to be rested.

But thinking about literally anything else was preferable to dwelling on the nightmares, and she could only count the same cracks in the ceiling so many times before that would drive her clinically insane. So Miranda replayed the night in her head, trying to make sense of it all, and where it left her.

If sleeping with Shiala had accomplished one thing, it had proven that her feelings for Samara weren’t just in her head. No, the desire she’d felt when she imagined Samara in Shiala’s place, picturing her body beneath her, had not been some mere delusion. Those physical reactions couldn’t be faked or exaggerated. The sheer fucking want. That was real, vivid, stark, and intense.

So that was just great. After all that, not only had she not managed to convince herself that she was any less in love with Samara, she was now painfully conscious that she was sexually attracted to her. Extremely so.

It was the opposite of what she’d hoped to achieve. Fucking Shiala hadn’t been a release for her feelings. If anything, it had only crystalised them.

It was no wonder why Samara was dominating her thoughts. This obsession with her was about the only thing Miranda could feel at all anymore, outside of her nightmares. When it came to everything else in her life - all the death, the destruction, her own survival, her injuries, and the loss of all but a small handful of people she knew - everything else that should have provoked her to feel something, anything...there was nothing there. A hole. A void. An empty space.

She was just so fucking…

Blank.

Neutral.

Numb.

She couldn’t feel anything at all. Just hollowness. Except when Samara was there. And then, when she looked at her, when she felt her standing by her side, everything got so intense and so achingly real and corporeal that it burned. She came so alive in her proximity that she damn near couldn’t stand it.

But Samara wasn’t there.

She had gone again, leaving her to wilt in the dark.

And there Miranda lay. Staring at the ceiling. Avoiding her dreams. Listening to her ear ring. And she felt dead inside. Like every breath she took, she wasn’t getting enough air. Like she was asphyxiating, bit by bit. Suffocating so slowly that nobody would even notice if she simply stopped breathing. Not even herself.

But what the hell did she have to complain about?

She was still here.

Millions of others weren’t so lucky. Hell, billions. 

As her mind began to wander in the way that minds could only wander when they were desperately tired and teetering on the verge of sleep, she thought about The Normandy. About the shockwave that had destroyed the mass relays, and all ships anywhere near them. The faster-than-light blast that killed her friends.

Miranda hadn’t even been conscious when it happened. She’d only heard descriptions of what it looked like when the Crucible fired. It painted a pretty grim picture. Jacob had told her how he’d seen people standing only a few feet in front of him scream as they disintegrated in front of his very eyes. Torn apart on a cellular level, in a single, bright, flash.

Was that what happened to The Normandy? Had it been sudden? Had they been scared, in their last moments? Had they felt pain? Did they even know that they were in danger? That they were going to die? Or did they just...blink out of existence, blissfully quickly?

Did it matter?

People didn’t go anywhere when they died. There was no soul. No afterlife. No heaven. No hell. There was just...nothing. People were, and then they weren’t.

They would never even find any trace of them, would they? They would never have anything to bury or lay to rest. Even reading out their names as she had done hadn’t added a sense of catharsis or closure to it. It still didn’t feel entirely real, even though Miranda knew it had to be. The Normandy would have either reported in or been found by now if anyone had survived.

And then she thought of the people who were serving aboard The Normandy when it disappeared. People she had spoken to only a few months ago - a mere matter of days before the battle for Earth. People she would never speak to again. People she probably hadn’t earned the right to call her friends.

Tali, Miranda had never had a problem with. They only talked when it was directly related to the ship or the mission, which had been an ideal working relationship from her perspective. She wasn’t on The Normandy to make friends. That wasn’t something she wanted or thought she needed back then. It was only around the time of Shepard’s party on the Citadel that Miranda had finally begun to twig that Tali actually did not like her at all, and never had. To her credit, she had simply been far too professional to let it show, or interfere with her job.

That was perfectly fine, honestly. And, if Tali really did hate Miranda this whole time, that made her not a bad judge of character, in fairness. She hadn’t realised it about herself when they served together but, in truth, Miranda hadn’t liked herself all that much either. Still didn’t, on some level.

Garrus, by contrast, was notoriously snarky and sarcastic towards her. She’d never thought turians could smirk before, but Garrus had proven they could. He would meet her commands with smart-arse quips and a wry glint in his eye. He never took Miranda’s shit. Needless to say, she hadn’t been his biggest fan because of that but, in retrospect, she couldn’t blame him. With the gift of hindsight, she now recognised she had been pretty intolerable to be around at times. If she’d had a better sense of humour, they could have traded some witty banter. But the old Miranda took herself far too seriously for that.

Liara, Miranda had met earlier than any other member of The Normandy, save Jacob. Miranda had enlisted her help to retrieve Shepard’s body from the Shadow Broker, before it fell into the hands of the Collectors. It was strange to think that that brief crossing of their paths had set all subsequent events in motion.

Miranda had been so focused on her own goals at that time that she never formed particularly strong impressions of Liara, beyond a mixture of respect for her capabilities, tinged with appropriate suspicion and mistrust. That mistrust had mostly faded through a combination of being there when Liara took down the Shadow Broker, and perhaps more importantly from getting to know Shepard well enough to trust her judgement about the company she kept.

She didn’t know Liara well enough to speculate as to whether she shared that sentiment. Miranda rarely cared to ponder others’ opinions of her. Presumably Shepard didn’t have quite as many positive things to say about Miranda as she did about Liara, given their relationship. But they’d never had any issues.

James, Javik and Ashley, Miranda obviously didn’t know. She’d barely been introduced to them, really only meeting them when Shepard threw that party. She hadn’t formed particularly noteworthy opinions of any of them, beyond that James was a bit of a meathead (albeit, a fairly charming one), Ashley was what happened when the quintessential military brat grew up and became a soldier, and Javik was coping with being the loneliest man in the universe by staying alive through the sheer burning willpower to avenge the destruction of his people. 

Then again, maybe she was wrong about them.

Joker and EDI, though, Miranda definitely knew. Joker had never been shy when it came to talking shit about everyone on the ship. Miranda was no exception, although he was more cautious about her than most, given that she scared the crap out of him. Still, that hadn’t stopped him from spending an entire week humming the Wicked Witch of the West theme every time Miranda approached - a reference Miranda hadn’t understood (because of course she didn’t) until Jacob explained it to her, which led to her swiftly putting a stop to that.

And EDI? Well, EDI was The Normandy. The closest thing it had to a soul.

It was difficult to say whether Miranda could truly consider her a ‘person’, but on some level she supposed she did. She did think of her as one. Miranda had always found herself being instinctively polite to EDI, even in moments when she didn’t extend the same politeness to anyone else. But for as calm and helpful as EDI could be, she also had a personality. A sense of humour. Desires. Wants. In some ways, maybe she was more human than Miranda herself.

And then there was Doctor Chakwas, and Gabby and Ken, and Engineer Adams, and Kelly Chambers, and Mess Sergeant Gardener. So many people. So many faces that had become part of her world. She didn’t even like all of them, but they were there. And now they weren’t.

And Shepard.

Where did she even start when it came to Shepard?

Meeting Shepard had changed Miranda’s life on a fundamental level. She’d led by example, and shown her a different way of being. She was the undeniable proof that being kind and empathetic wasn’t a weakness, but a strength. That making friends with the people around her wasn’t a distraction from more important work, but an essential tool she used to build a strong and loyal team.

She was, without exaggeration or qualification, as close to a perfect human being as Miranda had ever met. If humanity strived to be more like Andrea Shepard, then the galaxy would be a better place.

Huh. What would Shepard say if she could see Miranda now?

Do you even miss us?

At all?

Good question, Miranda thought. Was this what it was like? Was this how a normal person was supposed to act when they missed people who had died? Because it didn’t feel that way. If this was a test, she was failing. Despite what Samara had said about there being no correct or incorrect way to grieve, it certainly didn’t feel like she was mourning the right way, whatever that meant.

Do you even care that we’re gone?

You haven’t cried.

Not once.

Not even the faintest sting in your eye.

No, she hadn’t. She’d never really been able to do that. Only Oriana ever brought that out of her. And Miranda wasn’t speaking to her right now. Because she still had nothing positive to say.

At this rate, it wasn’t looking like that was going to change anytime soon.

Miranda lay there in the dark for two more hours, forcing herself not to slip into slumber. It was seven in the morning when she finally willed her weary limbs to get her up and out of bed. She had already heard the pipes going, so she knew some of the kids were awake. Sometimes she got up before them, but she usually waited for them to stir as her signal to stop pretending to sleep. It aroused less suspicion if she wasn’t the first one up every morning. And her ruse must have been working because so far none of them had noticed.

She got up, had her shower, got dressed, and joined the early risers for breakfast.

“Morning, Miss,” Leah Brooks greeted her.

“Morning.” Miranda opened the fridge, her voice slightly hoarse. She stopped, blinking as she glanced back at the students. “...Is that actual fresh milk in the fridge?” she asked, wondering if she was just hallucinating from insomnia.

“Sure is,” Rodriguez confirmed.

“How on Earth do we have that?” said Miranda, on a slight delay.

“Black market,” Rodriguez answered with a shrug.

Miranda gave her a single nod of approval, grabbing the glass bottle. “Good girl.” She was teaching them well. It was worth every credit to have food that didn’t come in powder form whenever they could manage to get their hands on it.

With that, Miranda poured herself a bowl of cereal and joined the kids at the table. They ate in silence for a solid two minutes. Despite not paying the students much mind, she didn’t fail to notice that they were sneaking surreptitious glances at her, and being awkwardly quiet. They were usually chattier. She didn’t ask them what this was about, because she didn’t care. It was always some teenage nonsense with them. As long as it was harmless.

“...Screw it, I’m gonna ask her,” Reiley eventually broke the silence.

“Don’t! Don’t fucking ask her,” Rodriguez warned, hushing her voice as if that would somehow make her imperceptible, even though Miranda was sitting right across the table and could see her and hear every single word uttered between the two of them. “I’ve played this game, it doesn’t go we--”

“Miss…” Reiley began, completely ignoring Rodriguez’s protestations. “Is it true you banged an asari last night?”

Miranda fumbled her spoon.

Fuck.

“First of all, that’s a very inappropriate question,” Miranda responded, not at all impressed with Jack’s students. And she stood by that assessment, even if she knew damn well she was being a giant hypocrite, because she was also prone to asking questions she wanted to know the answers to without caring who she offended in the process. But the key difference there was that she did that to other people, and this was now happening to her. And that was obviously unacceptable. “Secondly, where is this even coming from?”

“I overheard you talking to Mr Taylor last night,” Leah solved that mystery.

At that, Miranda’s normally faultless composure cracked. “You...what?”

“We sleep right there.” Leah pointed at her room. “Voices carry.”

Instead of coming up with some elaborate fiction, which she was far too drained to do, Miranda simply ran her fingers through her hair and uttered a frustrated groan. Damn it, Jacob. She should have guessed at least one of them might be awake and listening through the door when she came home.

“Holy shit. You were right. She did,” said Rodriguez, finding all the proof she needed in Miranda’s reaction, and complete lack of any defence.

Leah made a gesture with her fingers. “I told you. Pay up.”

“You know it's rude to eavesdrop on people,” Miranda pointed out, displeased.

“Pfft. You would do it to us,” Reiley remarked.

“No, I wouldn't. None of you have anything remotely interesting to say,” Miranda countered, going back to her cereal, seeing little point in denying the truth, although there was no way in hell she was going to divulge anything further.

“Yeah, well, if we did, you would,” Reiley replied with a shrug.

Miranda never liked admitting when other people were right so she didn’t respond.

“Was it Samara?” Rodriguez asked, immensely intrigued, or at least pretending to be for the purposes of screwing with her. “I know I sensed a vibe between the two of you. So were you lying when you said she wasn't your girlfriend?”

Miranda rolled her eye. She hated her life. She hated everything.

“You will run out of cereal eventually, and then you’ll have to talk,” Leah teased.

Miranda fixed her with a one-eyed glare as she ate, making it plain that this pestering would get them precisely nowhere but ignored. She really did wish that Jacob hadn’t made her be nice to these teens. Back when they were intimidated by her, they never would have pulled this stunt.

At that instant, Prangley emerged from his room, half-asleep, rubbing his eyes.

“Jason. Good to see you,” Miranda called his attention to her, seeing an opportunity to escape this torment. “Do me a favour. Bring my pistol over here and shoot me with it, would you?” Miranda requested with an entirely straight face.

Prangley blinked blearily, certain he must have misheard. “What?”

“Kill me,” Miranda reiterated, in the same tone. “I don't want to live anymore.”

“What? Why?” asked Jason.

“She boned an asari last night and Leah overheard her and Mr Taylor talking about it,” Rodriguez explained. “It was totally Samara,” she added in an aside.

“Oh. Nice,” said Prangley, continuing his march to the kitchen, unfazed.

Miranda exhaled in annoyance. “Damn it, Jason.” He’d been her best hope of backing her up and putting a stop to this. And he’d failed her. She was disappointed. “You were this close to being my favourite,” she complained in jest, holding her thumb and forefinger a small distance apart.

Jason shrugged. He wasn’t about to interfere with this. She was on her own.

“Samara seems really cool, Miss,” Reiley commented, nodding in approval.

“And also super hot,” Leah chimed in. “And I mean that in both a feminist way and a lesbian way. So, you know...good for you.”

Jason snorted. “Did you just congratulate her on who she had sex with?” 

“Yes. Absolutely,” Leah confirmed. “I mean, have you seen Samara?”

“It wasn't Samara!” Miranda insisted, finally getting fed up with this.

Rodriguez gasped excitedly. “So you're seeing someone else? Who is it? Is she your girlfriend? Is that why you and Samara aren't together? Wait, oh my God, Miss, are you cheating on Samara? Is that why she left London?” 

Miranda let her head fall forward and hit the table with a thud. This was why she normally chose to stay silent when they tried to get a rise out of her like this. Shame she’d forgotten that strategy in her exasperation.

“Wow. You’ve officially done it. You’re all dead to her now,” Jason noted.

“Oh, I crossed that boundary a long time ago,” Rodriguez assured him, evidently proud that she’d finally managed to break Miranda. “I have nothing to lose.”

“How about the roof over your head,” Miranda retorted, picking up her cereal, deciding she would rather starve than continue to be subjected to this.

“Pfft. You don’t mean that,” Rodriguez brushed her off. Miranda just silently arched her eyebrow at her as she limped away. Rodriguez began to sweat, turning to her partners in crime. “She...She doesn’t mean that, right?”

Jason just pulled a face, as if to say he’d warned her.

*     *     *

“I heard a rumour about you,” Shepard began, approaching Miranda near the lounge on the second floor.

The party had gone fairly late into the evening by that point, and the energy was starting to wind down. Miranda hadn’t asked but somehow she got the sense that everyone was planning on crashing at Shepard’s for the night, since nobody had made any motions to leave yet. 

“I’m the subject of many rumours, Shepard,” Miranda dryly replied, sitting back against the armrest. “You’re going to have to be more specific. Although, if it’s the one about the incident with the drop bear, I swear that only happened one time and only three people died.”

“Drop bear?” Shepard echoed curiously, tilting her head, as if trying to work out whether that was Miranda’s serious voice or her sarcastic voice. Miranda just gave an ambiguous shrug. If Shepard couldn’t tell, then she wasn’t going to spoil it. “Nah, it was nothing that exciting. Although remind me to ask you about that later. I’ve been told you’re considering an early retirement?” 

Miranda sighed, not needing to guess where that had come from. “Kasumi...”

“Mhmm,” Shepard confirmed the source of her information. “And, from that look, I'm starting to think it's true. So, this is really it for you, huh? Once we get rid of the Reapers, you're out – you're done.”

“Well, not immediately. I'm not about to leave people dying in the streets. But yes, you heard correctly,” Miranda replied, taking a sip from her freshly refilled glass of wine. It was a relief that not every single bottle or glass had been destroyed when Garrus set up that makeshift shooting gallery. “I’m my own woman now.”

“Really?” Suffice it to say, Shepard didn't seem to be buying it. “Not working for anyone at all, other than yourself. Ever. You're sure?”

“I haven’t made up my mind about ‘ever’, but yes. As of right now, that's the plan,” Miranda answered.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but who are you and what have you done with the real Miranda Lawson?” Shepard teasingly remarked, since this was the single most uncharacteristic thing the Miranda she had come to know a year ago could possibly have said or done.

“Oh, she’s dead. I buried her under the floorboards. I probably should have mentioned, I’m also an escaped Cerberus clone. You are the fake Shepard, right? Because if you’re not, then this is a joke and you should forget I said that,” Miranda responded, her tone completely deadpan.

Shepard laughed, moving to sit across from her on the opposite sofa. “Seriously, what brought this on? Where is this coming from all of a sudden?”

Miranda exhaled, shifting until she was seated on the armrest, deciding to stop being snarky and start being direct. “Being on the run this past year...It's been the worst year of my life. Including all the years I lived with my father. But if nothing else, being on my own for so long made me realise that, for as long as I've been alive, everything about me has always been controlled by other people. In one way or another, I've never been free to make my own choices. Except for a few months with you. I need to take some time away to breathe. Just be me, without anyone expecting anything from me. Figure out how to be...”

“What?” Shepard prompted, when Miranda fell silent.

“I was going to say ‘an actual fucking person’ and then I realised how depressing that was,” Miranda muttered with appropriate self-awareness, earning a light chuckle from Shepard. “I guess that’s the whole point. I don’t even know who I am when I’m not working myself to the bone. I could be anybody under all this.” Miranda vaguely gestured at herself.

“And what if you can’t stand having nothing to do?” asked Shepard. 

“Then I change plans,” Miranda answered plainly. She wasn’t so attached to this idea that she couldn’t be flexible if it didn’t work out, and she wasn't sure why it mattered. As it stood, the chances of any of their dreams for the future coming to fruition were slim at best. “But how can you be so certain that I'll hate it? I'm not; I've never had the freedom to do nothing before. Maybe I'll thrive.”

“But you were always putting yourself under pressure to stay busy, even when you didn’t have to. You love how much of a workaholic you are. Don’t deny it. You were practically begging me to give you more stuff to do towards the end there. What would you even do with your time if you’re no longer devoting yourself to some kind of high-powered career?” Shepard wondered aloud.

“I don’t know. There are a lot of things I’ve never done before, and never thought I’d do.” Miranda shrugged. “Maybe I’ll try being a blonde for a while. Maybe I’ll get a tattoo. Maybe I’ll become Wiccan. Maybe I’ll get fat.”

Shepard stared at her sceptically, sensing the obvious sarcasm.

“What? Don’t think I couldn’t do it if I set my mind to it. I’m secretly a foodie at heart, you know,” Miranda pointed out, her tone drier than her wine.

“And you have a superhuman metabolism,” Shepard countered.

“Ah. Right. Scratch that one off the list then,” said Miranda, taking another sip from her glass. “Blonde, tattooed Wiccan it is.” Shepard laughed, entertained.

“Well, when Hell freezes over a million years from now, I look forward to meeting that version of you. But, until that happens, you know it’s not a two-party system, right? You don’t have to choose between going in a totally new direction forever, or staying exactly as you are right now. There's a lot you can do that isn't either of those things,” Shepard reminded her, gesturing as she spoke. “You'd excel at anything you tried. It doesn't have to involve life or death struggles over the fate of the galaxy. And, if you’re sick of bringing people back to life, you can retire from science and move onto something else. I could definitely see you taking well to life as a lawyer, or a CEO, or even a political leader.”

“Politics?” Miranda snorted, reaching out across the gap with an insincere handshake. “Hi, I’m Miranda Lawson, former terrorist. Vote for me.”

“Point taken,” Shepard conceded.

“You also realise that all the professions you listed have a higher than average ratio of sociopaths compared to the general population,” Miranda noted.

Shepard scratched the back of her head. “Sunday school teacher?” she offered.

“Can’t do that. I’m becoming Wiccan, remember?” Miranda quipped. “Did you really come and find me just to try and talk me out of this?”

“No. No, I didn't. It's...actually the exact opposite,” said Shepard, shaking her head and leaning back against the cushions. “Because the truth is I've been thinking the same thing; that this is the end for me too,” she confessed, piquing Miranda's intrigue. “If I make it through this...I don’t know if I can keep fighting other people’s battles anymore. If I can, I don’t know if I want to.”

“I guess after stopping a galactic genocide, all other conflicts start to look petty in comparison,” Miranda mused, swirling her glass, strangely empathising with that sentiment. What would be the point of Shepard saving the entire goddamn galaxy from the Reapers, only to then continue imperilling her life, risking getting shot and killed day after day over some insignificant political squabble that didn’t matter the slightest bit in the grand scheme of things? 

Shepard had been lucky enough to get a second chance at life. Literally. She had more reason than anyone to realise how precious that was. And also how fragile.

It would have been beyond tragic if Andrea wouldn’t get to savour a calm, peaceful future if the war with the Reapers ever ended - a future that would only be possible because of her. Because she was the one person who saw what truly mattered, and valued collective unity over selfish, shortsighted division.

“Don’t take anything I’ve been saying about you as an attack. It’s not,” Shepard assured her. “I'm just surprised, and maybe projecting a little, because...I have no clue what I'm going to do after this, and it's terrifying to me. I’ve never...I’ve never not been a soldier. I don’t even know how to be an...an ‘actual fucking person’, like you said. And neither do you. And yet here you are, and that doesn't bother you at all. I thought it would have been the other way around.”

“Me too,” Miranda conceded. “But things are different now.”

“You mean you're different now,” Shepard added, impressed by Miranda’s growth.

“You helped,” said Miranda. She crossed the floor and sat down beside Shepard, sinking into the seat, leaning her head back on the lounge to look up at the ceiling. “I’ve been cognisant for a very long time that I’m not a normal person, Shepard. Not only that, but...I don’t have the faintest clue how to pretend to be normal,” Miranda elected to be frank about that flaw. Though she rarely showed weakness, she felt safe sharing that with her. “My whole life, I’ve never seen the point trying to fit in with other people when I know I can’t, and don’t even want to. So, while I might not be showing it...I am more scared than you think. But I’m also just kind of over worrying about anything anymore? Maybe because I’ve spent most of this past year living in constant fear. I think I got sick of it.”

Shepard paused, considering Miranda’s words. “Can I be honest with you?” she began, after several seconds had passed. Miranda gestured for her to go ahead. “I also have no idea how to be a normal person. I think that’s what’s freaking me out about what comes next. What if I’m bad at it?”

“What a horrible thought. Being bad at mundane problems,” Miranda dryly commented, hoping her sarcasm would help Shepard put her anxieties into perspective. “What if you mix up your recyclable plastics with your non-recyclables? Perish the thought. That’s a disaster, right there.”

“I’m being serious,” Shepard insisted, though it was obvious she got the meaning behind Miranda’s comment. “Look, you get what I’m going through better than anyone. You and I, we’re both...not to sound arrogant, but we’re both fuckin’ good at what we do,” Shepard stated plainly. And she wasn’t wrong. They were the best of the best. “What if we suck at everything else?”

Miranda shrugged. “Then it was a fun experiment, both of us trying to be ordinary people for a while. I think it will be worth it.”

Shepard exhaled, and rested her head on her hand. “So...what does being a regular, everyday person look like to Miranda Lawson?” she wondered aloud. “What does a nice, safe, boring future look like to you?”

That was a question Miranda had no problems answering. She had a singular vision. “I’ve promised Oriana that we’re going to find a quiet spot on a colony world. We’ll buy a big plot of land far away from anyone else, and build our dream house. Somewhere with a view, where we can sit out on the deck, watch the sunset, drink wine and eat sashimi while we talk about our day,” Miranda revealed, trusting Andrea enough to tell her what she said to Ori before she left.

“...That sounds pretty great,” Shepard said softly. In that simple description of what life after the war meant to her, and the goal she was fighting for, it had instantly clicked into place why Miranda was so content with the idea of ‘retiring’.

“What about you?” Miranda asked, gently nudging Shepard’s knee with her own. “Where does Andrea Shepard see herself in five years’ time?”

“That’s the million credit question, isn’t it?” Shepard spoke quietly, barely above a whisper. She sat forward, electing to just give voice to what was in her heart. “Honestly, this is going to sound corny as hell, but...when I think of my future, I can’t see anything but Liara. That’s it. Nothing would make me happier than just...I don’t know, having a boring fuckin’ house with a yard and a white picket fence, and lots of little blue children running around.”

“Maybe I’m getting sentimental in my old age, but that might possibly be the most adorable thing I’ve ever heard in my life,” Miranda commented, eliciting a sheepish chuckle as Shepard rubbed the back of her neck.

“Oh, God, we are getting old, aren’t we? And we’re only in our thirties,” Shepard realised aloud, as if it had hit her that both of them had been through enough to fill several lifetimes. No wonder they both wanted to ‘retire’ so young.

“Mhmm. And I’ve got five years on you, so I can promise you it’s all downhill from here,” Miranda confirmed, taking another sip of wine. “But I meant that, though. Don’t be ashamed of that dream. Lots of people would kill for something like that.” Herself included, she thought. “And you will make an excellent…father? Father’s the correct word in this context, right?” Miranda asked aloud, earning a nod. “Take it from someone who killed hers: you would be the best Dad ever.”

“Now you’re just making fun of me.” Shepard gave her a light knock on the arm.

“I’m not. I’m really not. Okay, I know it sounds like I am, but…” Miranda trailed off for a moment, a thought occurring to her. “Huh. You know what? I just realised something. You and I actually both have the exact same dream,” she pointed out, turning to face Andrea. “We want a family.”

“...Yeah. Yeah, we do, don’t we?” Shepard nodded in agreement, seeing the clarity in Miranda’s words. “Ours just look a little different from each other.”

“So, that settles it. We’re both going to hang up our weapons and retire somewhere nice and dull so we can each have the families we always wanted,” Miranda reiterated. Despite her efforts to be hopeful, at those words, she couldn’t keep a pessimistic sigh from escaping her. “Now, we both just have to convince ourselves that we'll live long enough to do that.”

“I'd bet on you,” Shepard acknowledged, glancing over at her.

“And I’d bet on you,” Miranda replied with a bittersweet smile, but it lacked the conviction to reach her eyes. “Don't get me wrong; I haven't given up, and I'm going to fight for that future as hard as I can. But I can't believe that it's going to happen until I'm standing in the rubble and the Reapers are all gone.”

Shepard exhaled heavily, sinking lower against the couch. “That makes two of us.”

The more Miranda thought about it, the more it became painfully apparent that their odds of getting to lead those lives they were imagining were slim to zero. Even if by some miracle they did find a way to defeat the Reapers, it was virtually impossible that both she and Shepard would survive whatever came next. At best, it seemed like a binary choice. One or the other. And Miranda knew which of the two of them was least likely to endure if push came to shove.

Her body tensed imperceptibly. An apprehensiveness fell over her. A sense of urgency rose in her stomach. Words she couldn't leave unsaid.

“...Shepard,” Miranda began, her tone serious. “If anything happens to me—“

“Miranda,” Andrea attempted to cut her off, but Miranda ignored her interruption. She couldn't forgive herself if she stayed silent about this.

“Just listen, Shepard. If I can’t be there for her, for whatever reason, promise you'll keep an eye on Ori for me?” Miranda persisted, needing to hear Andrea give her word on that, because she understood what this meant to her, and she would absolutely follow through. Even if Andrea had to die to honour her commitment to Miranda, it wouldn’t stop her. “Make sure she's okay.”

“You can do that yourself,” Shepard replied, either refusing to fear the worst, or determined not to let her crew see that she possessed any doubts that they would live to see those tomorrows, come what may.

“Hypothetically, then,” said Miranda, rolling her eyes at Shepard’s reluctance to answer the question. “If something happened to me, whether now or twenty years from now...I need to know: would you look out for Oriana if I couldn't?”

Andrea relented, realising what she was asking, and why. “Of course I would.”

“Do you swear?” Miranda pressed.

Shepard sighed, and held up her pinkie. “I swear.” Eyeing that gesture somewhat peculiarly, Miranda eventually extended her own little finger. However, Andrea pulled away before they could interlock. “Uh uh. But before we do that, I need you to make the same promise to me. So, if--”

“Liara does not need protecting, Shepard,” Miranda reminded her. 

“You had your turn. Let me finish,” said Shepard. Miranda signalled for her to take the floor. “Thank you. Now, if anything ever happens to me...you’re the one person I trust more than anyone else to step in for me when I’m gone. No matter what, you’ll have your shit together, and you’ll do what needs to be done. So, if I can’t be here…” Instead of articulating it all in words, Shepard flicked her gaze out towards the balcony, down to the lower floor, where everyone else was. “I know it’s a lot to ask, but...just do what you can for them. Watch over them for me. Make sure they’re alright. And, if they’re not...do what you think I would do.”

At that request, Miranda softened. It hadn’t been what she’d anticipated Andrea would say, but perhaps she should have seen it coming. Shepard loved her crew like family. She was their North Star. A guiding light who united so many disparate personalities in a common cause, and brought out the best in all of them.

Shepard really was a hero.

A bloody icon.

How could Miranda possibly say no?

“What else is a second-in-command good for if not that?” Miranda extended her hand once more. At that, Shepard finally locked pinkies with her, swearing on it. “You know I’ve never done this before - pinkie promised,” Miranda noted, finding it a bit juvenile. 

“Of course you haven’t.” Shepard shook her head, not at all shocked by that. It was at that particular moment that a certain AI came up the stairs, into view. Shepard called out to her. “Hey, EDI. I have a question for you.”

“What would you like to know?” EDI asked.

“What the hell is a drop bear?” said Shepard.

Miranda arched her brow, and took a long drink, saying nothing.

“One moment.” By the time she finished saying ‘one moment’, EDI had already concluded her search of the Extranet. “Here is what I’ve found: the drop bear is a hoax Australian folklore creature. The origins of the drop bear hoax are unknown, though it appears it may have originated as a campfire story in the early-to-mid-20th century. Australians have been known to pretend the drop bear is a real creature so as to frighten and confuse tourists and non-Australians for their own amusement.” EDI paused for a beat. “It is a joke.”

“Thank you, EDI,” said Miranda, concealing a smirk. Way to ruin the fun. 

Shepard slowly turned to her, eyeing Miranda in quiet bewilderment. “...Did you of all people just prank me with a two-hundred-year-old joke?” 

“Not that I’m that attached to it, but I’m pretty sure I would be stripped of my citizenship if I didn’t do that at least once before I die,” Miranda informed her.

Shepard’s expression didn’t change. “Mhmm.”

*     *     *

“So are you gay now?” was the first thing Jack said to her the next time they saw each other, a week after their last meeting.

Miranda sighed. God damn it. Nobody could keep their mouths shut about anything, could they? “I’m something,” she muttered, taking off her wet jacket. It had been raining all day. And not the usual soft English drizzle that didn’t even warrant mentioning, but actual rain.

“Good for you,” Jack replied, not actually interested. “Let’s play.”

Miranda slumped down into the chair across the table from Jack, the raindrops pittering off the windows behind her. “Your advice was terrible, by the way,” she told her as she moved her first piece.

“Nah, you’re just a shit lay,” Jack countered, making her own opening.

Miranda flicked her eye up at her, unamused, but decided it was best not to validate that comment with a response. 

All of a sudden, Jack started laughing at something unsaid.

“What?” Miranda asked suspiciously.

“...‘Meh’-randa,” Jack remarked, making an appropriately nonchalant gesture.

Miranda exhaled heavily, rubbing her temple in annoyance. “Jack, I need you to understand this,” she began, placing her elbow on the table and leaning forward as she spoke, eerily calm. “One of these days, you will forget that this conversation ever happened. You will go on with your life, and there will come a day when you are blissfully ignorant and happy. And on that day, I will come to wherever you live. And I will break into your room. And I will suffocate you in your sleep.”

“Fair,” Jack conceded. “Worth it, though.”

Miranda leaned back in her chair, oddly relieved to have gotten that off of her chest after biting her tongue for so long. “God, that felt good. Why did I ever stop insulting you?” she wondered aloud, starting to think she should snap back at her more often instead of taking every jibe Jack threw at her in stride. 

“Because you’re a fucking pussy now apparently.” Jack shrugged, focused only on the game. “Shut up and play me.” Miranda didn’t need to be asked twice.

She didn’t know what it was about that particular day. Maybe it was the dreary weather, and the sound of the rain making the tinnitus a little less abrasive for once. Maybe it was how long both of them were taking between moves. But, for whatever reason, Miranda found herself stifling yawns as the game went on.

She moved a pawn, and leaned her head against her hand as Jack studied the board, weighing up her strategies, keen to avoid falling into another trap.

God, she was so fucking tired.

It had been three days since she last slept. Or...wait, was it four? She couldn’t remember. Six or seven days seemed to be her absolute limit before she started passing out irrespective of willpower, and that was because she was, quote unquote, a ‘genetic freak’ as Jacob had once put it. She’d only managed two hours of thirty-minute naps the last time she got any rest at all.

Her eyelid felt so heavy. Every single time she blinked, it stayed dark a little longer, and it took a little bit more effort and time to open it again. 

What harm would it do to just rest her eye for a second, she wondered? It wasn’t like she was going to fall asleep, sitting up like she was. Although, leaning on her hand felt so fucking comfortable. She didn’t want to move.

So Miranda let her eyelid drift shut for a moment, listening to the rain.

…

…

...

“Hey, eyepatch.”

…

…

...

“Eyepatch?”

Miranda was vaguely aware that someone was talking, but it didn’t reach her in the darkness. That was, until Jack hit the table, hard, and startled her awake. Miranda’s head slipped off her hand. At that jolt, she panicked and reflexively reared back so hard that she damn near fell out of her chair.

“What? What? What is it?” Miranda took a few moments to blink and remember where she was after being shaken from her stupor. It only clicked when she found Jack sitting across from her, looking thoroughly unimpressed.

“Am I boring you?” Jack remarked, arms folded across her chest impatiently.

Miranda shook her head, trying to save face. “It’s called ‘thinking’, Jack. You should try it sometime,” she retorted, moving a piece quickly as if to prove she hadn’t just blacked out for a couple of minutes.

Jack glanced down at the board. “You can’t do that.”

“What?”

“That’s not a legal move,” Jack pointed out. Miranda checked the board. She honestly didn’t even know what piece she’d just touched. Jack reached across, and dragged her knight back to where it should have been. Jack sat back in her chair and fixed her with a stare.

“...Fuck me dead,” Miranda muttered under her breath, realising she actually had to stop and concentrate to figure out her next move.

“Forget it. I’m out.” Jack pushed her chair back from the table and stood up.

“No, no. I’ve got it,” Miranda insisted.

“I don’t care. I don’t want to beat you when you’re like this. That wouldn’t even count,” said Jack, gesturing listlessly towards her, having lost all interest.

“I’m not ‘like’ anything. I’m just…” Miranda trailed off, staring at the board, stuck for a move. Her head was so full of fog that she couldn’t see any options. The whole table was a blur. A featureless mush. Every piece looked the same. She couldn’t even fucking think. If someone asked her to name a single rule of the game in that instant, she would have drawn a complete blank.

“Go home. Take a fucking nap or whatever. Don’t know if you’ve noticed, but you look like death, by the way. More even than usual,” Jack casually observed, opening her fridge and pulling out a can of energy drink.

“I’m fine!” Miranda barked, a little too loud, willing that lie to be the truth.

“I honestly don’t care. You could jump off a bridge for all the difference it makes to me. I wouldn’t stop you,” Jack said frankly, nonchalantly gesturing with her drink in her hand. “All that matters to me is making sure you don’t have a fuckin’ excuse when I destroy you. So get the fuck out of my apartment, and don’t come back until you stop sucking at the only reason I keep you around.”

Miranda swallowed a groan, the pain in her head only growing. Jack obviously wasn’t going to change her mind. This game was over. “Alright. Fine. Suit yourself,” she grumbled as she got up, collecting her things. “See you next week.”

“Only if you don’t look like complete shit by then,” Jack commented, prepared to close the door in her face if she wasn’t going to play her at her best.

Miranda left and went out into the cold December rain, which showed no signs of easing. The problem was, she didn’t have anywhere to go. She couldn’t go home. There was nothing there to keep her awake. And she absolutely was not ready to fall asleep, and contend with the nightmares that awaited her.

She couldn’t go to the bar, because drinking would make her tired. The last time she got drunk, the nightmares were so visceral that she woke up vomiting. 

She thought about it a bit longer, and then one option came to mind. She still had a key to her office. Bailey had banned her from working weekends out of concern for her wellbeing if he didn’t, sure, but he wouldn’t be there. Even if he was, she could avoid him seeing her. Nobody else would question her presence. She ranked above them. They would just assume something had come up, and most of them were too intimidated by her to talk to her anyway.

So Miranda fell back on her one and only crutch. Her only coping mechanism. Her favourite distraction from her problems. She buried herself in her work.

“Director Lawson,” the man at reception greeted her. She glanced at his name tag to remember who the hell he was. “What are you doing here on a weekend?”

“Losing control of my life, Ian,” Miranda remarked as she limped right past him, heading straight for the lift without stopping.

He chuckled at that. “Aren’t we all? You have a good day, now.”

Miranda rolled her eye as soon as he looked away. As predicted, there were no interruptions between her and her office. Nobody thought to question her.

She didn’t even glance at the clock as the hours ticked by, and file after file went across her desk. Task after task got done. When she finished her own matters, she moved onto work delegated to her subordinates, just to stay there longer. Nobody bothered her. Even without distractions, it was hard to concentrate. Her mind was full of fog. Everything she did was lost in a haze, forgotten mere seconds after she did it. But, in the present, it was something to focus on.

It wasn’t easy, though. She had instances where she...lost time. Just drifted into space for a few seconds, here or there. When that happened, she would go and fill up on coffee. She only decided she’d had too much when she started to feel her heart beating a little too fast in her chest, and her fingers got jittery, and she had to flex her hand to keep it from shaking. If she had any more she would probably start hallucinating, as if she wasn’t on the verge of that already.

So maybe she’d hit her limit as far as caffeine toxicity went.

But she was awake.

She was fucking awake.

It was dark out, and still raining by the time she was snapped out of her work-induced daze by a text message alert. She already knew who it was. Miranda squeezed her eye shut, resting the base of her palm against her forehead, fighting off the constant, nagging pain that had become her permanent companion. She knew she shouldn’t look. But she had to. She couldn’t resist hearing from her.

Miranda opened her message tab on her computer, and clicked on Oriana’s name.

“Still not talking, huh?” said the first message. And then a second and third popped up. “Okay. That’s fine. Take your time. I’ve got more jokes.”

Oriana could see that Miranda was reading her messages in realtime. She would know that she was there on the other end at that very moment, not replying back. And yet, in typical Oriana fashion, she wasn’t calling her out on it or judging her for it or demanding a reason for her silence. Just letting her be.

“A horse walks into a bar and the bartender says, ‘Why the long face?’ And the horse says, ‘I have crippling depression, Steven. I’ll thank you not to mention it’.”

When that joke garnered no response, Oriana sent another.

“A glazier invited me to high tea. It didn’t go well. Turns out people in glasshouses shouldn’t throw scones. Eh? Worked on that one for ages.”

Miranda felt the warmth of a single, stray tear trickling down her cheek. God, she loved Oriana. She loved Oriana so much it physically hurt. No one else could be so...bright, and radiant, and happy, and genuine about it. Her positivity and cheerfulness wasn’t faked, or feigned, or insincere. She was just like this. Just funny, and kind, and...and fucking perfect.

“Why did the funeral director need to go to the doctor?” Oriana asked. “Because he couldn’t stop coffin--okay, no, that one was atrocious even for me. I’m sorry. Please delete that. You deserve better.”

If she were in a better mental and emotional state, all of this would have brought a smile to her face. Of course it would have. Oriana always did. Miranda thought about finally texting her back. Saying something. Anything. Even started to type. Just wanted to let her know she was okay. Just wanted to talk to her. Needed that connection with the person who mattered to her most.

But she stopped herself.

What the fuck did she have to offer Oriana right now? What could she say to her that was worthwhile when she was this dour and miserable?

She could just see how it would play out. She would say something, and then Oriana would eventually start asking questions. She would need, and deserve, some sort of explanation as to why Miranda had been so quiet. So distant. Any half-hearted excuses would be recognised for the lies they were.

Oriana would ask her if she was okay, because of course she would. And, then, if Miranda started telling her the truth, that she really wasn’t, and hadn’t been for a long time, she didn’t see how she could stop the floodgates from opening. Everything she’d been holding back since the shuttle crash, Oriana would bring it out of her, like a torrent after a storm. And she just...refused to be that person. Refused to drown her little sister in her unresolved trauma.

Oriana was the Sun. She was light, and warmth. Basking in her presence for even a few minutes could make even the lowest person feel uplifted, and stronger, and brighter. She was doing just fine without Miranda. She always had.

Why bother her? Why disturb that?

In fact, all the best times in Oriana’s life had been the moments when Miranda had pushed her as far away as possible. When she wasn’t involved. When she kept herself at a distance. Ever since Miranda introduced herself to Oriana on Illium, Ori’s life had only gotten worse. Never better. A downward spiral. 

Perhaps that was a sign.

What did she really think was going to happen when they met up with each other again anyway? That they were going to spend the rest of their lives together? As if. Oriana was twenty. She would be twenty-one before too long. She was only just starting to grow into her own as an independent adult. She would want to go do things normal twenty-one-year-olds did, without anyone cramping her unique personal style, or getting in her way as she formed new connections.

The Reaper Invasion had cut short her degree and compelled her to start work earlier than expected, but she probably planned to finish her education at some point. Chances were she would want to move in with friends her own age. Eventually, of course, she would meet some boy she liked (who Miranda would absolutely hate) and she would want to find a place with him. Statistically speaking, that would happen more than once over the course of her life.

She wasn’t a kid anymore. Oriana was an adult. At exactly the age where families like theirs...tended to drift apart from one another. When young women like Ori wanted to go out into the wider world and discover themselves, and carve out an identity free of any ties to their childhood. And it was at that moment that a thought abruptly struck Miranda that had never connected before.

When she and Oriana had talked about finally getting to be a family, they probably had very different ideas of what that looked like.

And Miranda’s vision of that future was completely fucking delusional.

It always had been.

She wasn’t helping Oriana by being near her. Wasn’t protecting her, because the man who posed a danger to her was dead. With Henry Lawson out of the picture, Ori didn’t need her in her life. In many respects, she never had.

Miranda wasn’t some noble self-sacrificing big sister anymore. She was a fucking leech. Sucking her sister’s energy and her positivity, consuming it for herself. She was a chain holding Oriana down, when what she truly deserved was to spread her wings and fly wherever she wanted like the free spirit she was. 

Wasn’t that precisely why Miranda had denied herself the connection she craved with Ori in the first place? Wasn’t that why she had given her up? Because she knew it was the right thing to do? Because, deep down, she knew that the best thing she could do for Oriana was to ensure that she grew up completely isolated from her - so that she could become as unlike Miranda as possible?

She’d succeeded at that, at least.

Where Miranda was cynical, Oriana was optimistic. Where Miranda was closed-off and antisocial, Oriana was outgoing and friendly. Where Miranda was rigid and concrete, Oriana was creative and open-minded. Where Miranda was bitter and sarcastic, Oriana was lighthearted and funny. Where Miranda was cold, Oriana was warm. Where Miranda was dark, Oriana was light. Where Miranda lacked empathy, Oriana was sensitive, and the kindest person she knew.

They couldn’t have been more different.

And Miranda wanted it to stay that way.

None of her qualities were things she would wish upon Oriana. And, if Oriana did become more like her, Miranda wasn’t sure she could ever forgive herself.

The most loving thing Miranda could do for Oriana was just let her live her life in peace, the way she had done for her before. She really would be better off just being cut loose, without her older sister weighing her down, shackling her to the weight of despair, damage and loneliness.

So Miranda didn’t text. She deleted the message she’d started typing, and the three dots to signal that she was writing were erased. She closed the app, got up and left her desk, deciding to head home.

She didn’t see the next message her sister sent.

“Miranda? Whatever is going on with you right now, please just remember that you are my most important person. I love you more than anything. And I’m here for you whenever you need me. You do know that, don’t you?”

Miranda limped home in the dark in the rain. It was freezing. She didn’t know how late it was. She hadn’t kept her eye on the time. She dragged her weary body up the stairs. Aside from the fact that her head was killing her, parts of her body that had never hurt before were starting to feel sore, and tight, and tense.

“Hey, Miss,” Seanne greeted her when she heard her key in the door. A few of the kids were gathered together in the main lounge, watching some sort of movie on the television. “We saved dinner for you. It’s in the fridge.”

“I’ll have it later,” Miranda muttered, not hungry at all. Just tired. 

“No problem,” Seanne replied, too focused on the film to pay her any mind.

Without another word, Miranda retreated to her room, and shut herself away, prepared for another night of staring at cracks in the ceiling in the darkness in a desperate attempt to ward off her dreams.

She slumped on her bed and ran her hand through her hair, staring into space.

And that was when it hit her. She didn’t...know what she was doing with her life anymore. Or why. She didn’t have a plan. A goal. For the first time since she’d reunited with Oriana, she no longer had a future she was working towards. Because that hope, that dream, had been snuffed out. A lie. A delusion.

The one thing that had made getting up every morning worth it since the shuttle crash - believing that, one day, she and Oriana would start a new life where nothing tore them apart ever again - had been exposed as a figment of her imagination.

With that dream dead, when she pictured her future now, there was...nothing.

Absence.

An empty, black abyss. Filled only by the ringing in her ear.

Miranda lay down on her bed. Curled up. And stared. And listened to that perpetual sound. And her mind, like her future, was blank. She watched the time tick by on the clock. Barely even registering it in her fatigue. 

One hour.

Two hours.

What was the point of anything anymore?

What was the fucking point?

Three hours.

Four hours.

It was after midnight when she was disturbed from her near-catatonic state by an urgent knocking at the front door. It came once, such a strange and unexpected sound that, at first, she wondered if it was just a trick of her mind. But then it came again, even more insistent. 

Reluctantly, Miranda dragged herself out of bed and shuffled into the entryway, not even bothering to grab her cane. She saw the door to one of the students’ bedrooms was open. Jason was leaning out, as if to go investigate. 

“I’ve got it,” said Miranda with a dismissive wave as she limped to the door, assuming it was probably for her. “Go back to sleep.”

Jason gave her a nod, but lingered in the doorway, just in case.

The frantic knocking came again. With an annoyed grunt, Miranda undid the lock, wondering who the hell was bothering them at that ungodly hour.

“Jesus Christ, what is it--?” The words caught in Miranda’s throat the second she flung the door open. Her weary eye flickered wide awake. “Samara?”

*     *     *

Miranda stepped over snoring bodies and discarded glasses on the floor, not keen to wake anyone up when half the crew were spread out at various points on the spectrum between ‘fast asleep’ and ‘passed out drunk’, and all of whom were likely to be very cranky if awoken. Miranda hadn’t drunk as much as most of the others, and neither was she prone to going to bed early. 

Indeed, she was very much awake, not even close to tired. And it was not her idea of a fun end to the night to hang around being as quiet as a mouse, forced to pretend to doze off because everyone else was such a goddamn lightweight. 

With that in mind, Miranda crept over near the door to where Shepard kept her keys, pinching them for herself so she could let herself back into the apartment. Shepard wasn’t going to miss them. She and Liara had gone to bed some time ago for very obvious reasons. They wouldn’t be seen again until morning.

However, Miranda’s cunning plan was not one concocted purely for herself. A thought had occurred to her while she waited for everyone else to nod off, being that there was one other person she expected might be awake. Someone who, by all appearances, had not been a drinker for centuries. Someone who Miranda was eager to spend a lot more time with one-on-one, particularly given that it was not lost on her that this might well be the last opportunity they ever had to do so - the last time they might ever see one another.

Sure enough, she found that very person meditating under the stairs.

“Samara,” Miranda whispered just loud enough to be heard. Blue eyes opened, and shifted her way. “Can’t sleep?” Samara did not respond verbally, but let her current state speak for itself. “Me neither.” At that, Miranda held up Shepard’s keys and made a signal towards the door. “Feel like going out?”

Samara glanced at her slumbering companions scattered over the lounge. After a moment, she held a finger to her lips, and silently stood.

Taking that as acceptance of her invitation, Miranda stealthily snuck over to the door, and held it open for Samara. She closed it behind them as quietly as she could. There was a faint ‘click’ as it automatically locked.

“Do not mistake my surprise for protestation, for it is not, but...to what do I owe this?” Samara asked, once they were safely out of earshot of the others. Evidently she had not been anticipating this - that Miranda would seek her out. 

“What, did you really think I’d just forget about you after a single conversation?” Miranda rhetorically remarked. “I told you I missed you more than anyone else.”

Samara allowed herself a small smile, touched by her intentions. “You did.”

“Since you and I are both still awake, and I have way too much energy to sleep, I figured, hey, the Strip is right here, and nothing ever closes - let’s go enjoy it while we can,” Miranda offered, circling Shepard’s keys around her finger before slipping them into a discreet pocket. “Nobody will even notice we’re missing.”

“No, they certainly will not,” Samara concurred, clearly not regretting her temperance when it was apparent most of the crew would be nursing hangovers come morning. “I must admit, given I saw you partaking earlier, I did not expect you to be in such a better state compared to our other comrades.”

“Good genes, plus I know how to pace myself,” Miranda casually explained. She gestured for Samara to follow her. “Come on. Let’s go be stupid for a while.”

Samara suppressed a chuckle. “An enticing prospect. Very well. Lead the way.”

“I was planning on taking you back to my favourite sushi place - you know, the one we went to before. Unfortunately, it’s not open right now.” Miranda sighed, putting a hand on her hip. “There was an incident. Shepard was involved.”

“I see. That is unfortunate,” Samara commiserated, needing no further explanation as to what had happened. For as much as they both loved Shepard, it was no hyperbole to say that trouble followed her everywhere.

Ultimately, Miranda didn’t have a preference as to where they went, or what they did. This entire venture was little more than a flimsy excuse to spend time with Samara without anybody else interfering. A throwback to those intimate moments on the Starboard Observation Deck, and a means of paying her back for all her kindness, assuming Miranda succeeded in showing her a good time.

“There is the casino,” Miranda thought out loud. She’d been there before, and didn’t mind the atmosphere of the place. Plus another drink or two wouldn’t go amiss to kick things off - she was still a fair few away from her limit. 

“After you,” Samara gestured for her to go ahead, trailing in Miranda’s footsteps. A reverse of the last time they had visited the Citadel together.

Unlike the Presidium, the Wards didn’t operate on artificial day and night cycles. Virtually everything on the Citadel stayed open at all hours, with everyone resting and working shifts according to their own personal needs and wants. Thus, when they came to the casino, to nobody’s shock, it was still as busy as ever. 

The people here had been affected by the war, of course, but there was a sense of safety and security that existed nowhere else. As all the homeworlds fell, the Citadel stood strong as the heart of Council Space - the one place most species would unite to protect. If anywhere would survive the war, this was surely it.

“Can I get you anything? The food here’s not bad, if you’re hungry,” Miranda offered as they both made their way up to the bar.

“Just water, thank you,” said Samara. Miranda ordered something much stronger for herself, and the bartender filled up their respective glasses.  

“So, how have you been, Samara? Really?” Miranda asked, keen to make up for lost time. Now that they were alone, they were free to talk as long as they wanted, which was something they couldn’t really do at the party. That was precisely her intent in sneaking out like this. It would be several hours at least before anybody else woke up and wondered where they were. The Silver Coast Casino was no Starboard Observation Deck, but it would serve well enough.

“That is a...complicated question,” Samara acknowledged, still a little caught off guard by Miranda’s genuine eagerness to catch up with her, as if she hadn’t expected to warrant her attention. “Some days have been kind to me. Others have not. Many somewhere in between. I imagine you could say the same.”

“Most of my days have ranged between terrible and awful since I left. I’m glad you had some good ones.” Miranda took a sip of her drink.

“Forgive me. I am aware this past year must have been difficult for you.” Samara bowed her head, as if she had misspoken. “As a Justicar, I am not unfamiliar with the peril of knowing there are many people who would seek to have me killed, nor am I a stranger to looking over my shoulder expecting to see a gun each time I turn my head. Although, by the same token, my status affords me many privileges. Many asari will lend me aid or support without question, for no other reason than because they see my armour, and know what I am. You do not have that luxury.”

“No, sadly,” Miranda confirmed. Hiding like a cockroach in parts of the Citadel not fit for human habitation had not been fun. Having any allies she could have safely turned to, beyond her few limited contacts with Shepard, would have made a world of difference. “But I’m out in the open now. If anybody still wanted me dead, I would have been executed days ago. I think it’s safe to say what little is left of Cerberus no longer sees the point in targeting me.”

“I hope you are correct.” Samara instinctively cast her eyes about the place as she said that, scanning for signs of any suspicious activity. Miranda picked up on that, of course. “If it would be safer--”

“Samara, seriously. It’s fine. You can let your guard down. You don’t need to be on alert. Not for my sake,” Miranda assured her, reaching out to touch her hand to make sure she understood that. Nobody was hunting her anymore. 

“If you are certain…” Samara took her at her word, despite a hint of hesitancy.

“Yes. Relax. I insist. If you don’t, it somewhat defeats the whole purpose of going out,” Miranda pointed out. At that, Samara seemed to concede she was right. Being paranoid would only spoil their time together. “Enough talk of serious subjects. Have you kept up reading human literature?”

“When I have been able, yes. Although, I must confess, I did not have such access when I was travelling in asari space. The Citadel libraries have been a source of great assistance. Tell me, I must know, was this ‘King Arthur’ a real person?” As soon as she asked, Samara just as swiftly changed her mind. “No, no. On second thought, I would prefer you do not answer. I fear I would be disappointed.”

Miranda laughed, endeared by Samara’s odd, childlike fascination with such figures. If it wouldn’t have sounded so patronising to describe a woman in her mid-to-late 900s as ‘adorable’, that label definitely would have applied.

“Oh. That reminds me. Kurosawa,” said Miranda. Samara tilted her head in questioning, not sure what that meant. “Not an author, but a director. I’ve been told, if you’re interested in samurai media, his films are the place to start.”

“I see. Thank you.” Samara nodded, taking that recommendation on board.

“What is it with you and this sort of thing anyway?” Miranda decided to finally broach the question that she had been wondering for a while, earning a curious glance. “Knights. Samurai. Why are you so interested in them?”

Samara did a poor job concealing a grin. “Yes, why would I, a lone wanderer who adheres to a strict moral code and seeks to bring justice to the places she visits, see any appeal whatsoever in stories about virtuous, heroic wanderers who adhere to strict moral codes and seek to bring justice to the places they visit?”

Miranda couldn’t argue with that logic. “I withdraw the question.”

“You did not withdraw it. I answered it,” Samara corrected.

“No, no. I withdrew it,” Miranda maintained in jest, as if she had come to that conclusion entirely on her own, without any assistance. Samara affectionately shook her head. During that pause in the conversation, the song changed.  “You know, I saw you dancing before,” Miranda said with a smirk, indicating the dancefloor. “I’m glad you listened to me about enjoying yourself tonight.”

“I did. However, if I remember correctly, you once stated to me that you would dance when I danced,” Samara reminded her. Miranda raised her eyebrows and took a drink, averting her gaze. She’d really hoped Samara had forgotten that conversation. “And yet you did not join me. How perplexing.”

“Oh, so you haven’t noticed that I’m a pathological liar until just now. Good to know,” Miranda joked, toying with the stem of her glass as she placed it down. 

“You must be. You keep insisting to me that you are not funny, even though you clearly are,” Samara cleverly countered, a glimmer of mirth in her kind eyes.

“I--” Miranda stopped before she could retort, taken aback by that comment. Nobody had told her that before. Nobody thought she was funny, because she wasn’t. According to everyone else, she was just mean and sarcastic and unpleasant to be around. Eventually, Miranda awkwardly rubbed the back of her head, managing to mumble a response. “I think you have a very different definition of ‘funny’ than everyone else in the galaxy, but...if you say so.”

It didn’t seem lost on Samara just how much that compliment actually meant to her. But she didn’t harp on it, letting it stand unchallenged. “There is still time for you to keep your promise to me before we part ways,” Samara pressed and, though her tone was lighthearted, it was evident the offer was genuine. “After all, there is a dancefloor here, and I am finding this music rather persuasive...”

“Still time for me to continue breaking my promise forever, you mean? Yes. I intend to. Glad we’re in agreement,” Miranda remarked. Samara’s enquiring gaze didn’t shift. “...Okay so I did dance at Shepard’s tonight, just a little bit.” Miranda reluctantly held her thumb and forefinger slightly apart.

“Good. I am delighted to hear it,” Samara enthused, pleased to see that Miranda had heeded her own advice and let herself go, and allowed herself to have some fun at the party. “My only regret is that I did not witness it.”

“You didn’t miss anything,” Miranda assured her. “But I fulfilled my end of the bargain.”

“No, you did not. This imbalance must be rectified immediately,” Samara persisted, getting up from her seat and extending her hand. Miranda did not accept the invitation, quite intent on not moving anytime soon. “You made a promise to me, Miranda Lawson. As a Justicar, I must insist that you keep your word. You said you would dance when I danced, and I am going to dance. Hence...”

“No. You knock yourself out, but I am very comfortable on my stool.” Miranda shook her head, waving Samara off, making her stance plain.

“Then hand me the keys, and I will return to the apartment,” said Samara.

That got Miranda’s attention. “What?”

“You were the one who said, and I quote, ‘let us go and be stupid for a while’, and it was you who suggested we both sneak out after midnight for this purpose,” Samara noted. “That was the evening that was represented to me - one spent in inane, ridiculous frivolity. Yet, so far, you are being extremely sensible. If you are not going to do this with me, then I fear I have in fact been misled.” 

Miranda saw right through Samara’s feigned disappointment. “You’re evil.”

“In this moment, perhaps,” Samara conceded, but she still extended her hand.

“This is peer pressure,” Miranda complained.

“Yes, it is,” Samara confirmed, without shame, her mischievous smile widening.

Miranda sighed, but it was hard not to be uplifted purely from seeing Samara this outgoing and cheerful. That was a rare privilege. The last time she’d seen her like this was...well, the last time they visited the Citadel together, which must have been around nine or ten months ago by that point.

“You’re in an abnormally good mood tonight, aren’t you?” Miranda observed, certainly not complaining, but wondering what had made her so upbeat.

“Why would I not be?” Samara asked plainly. “I am with you.”

Miranda’s heart skipped a beat. Honestly, Miranda was so thoroughly charmed by that response that Samara could have asked her to do anything in that moment, no matter how embarrassing, and she would have been powerless to resist.

“...If you’re trying to butter me up to get me to dance with you...good strategy, because it’s working,” Miranda admitted defeat, seeing no point in even pretending to warn her otherwise. No doubt Samara could tell the warmth in her cheeks had nothing to do with the alcohol. “Flattery will get you everywhere.”

Samara was evidently entertained by that reaction, but equally quick to dismiss any notion that her words were coming from an insincere place. “It is not falsity. The time you and I spent together aboard The Normandy was the most I have enjoyed myself in many years. Longer than you can possibly imagine.”

“Oh, wow, that's depressing,” said Miranda. “Because I am not fun at all.”

“Neither am I. Perhaps this explains it,” Samara quipped. 

Miranda didn’t agree with that, but that wasn’t the point. “You’re not dropping this are you?” she deduced, realising she didn’t have a choice in this.

“I am afraid I cannot,” Samara confirmed, as if the decision was out of her hands. “Just as you have sensed that I am in a good mood, I have also been astounded by the change in you tonight. I have never seen you so unshackled from your burdens as you are now. So, if we are ever going to keep our promise and share a dance together, I fear this will be our only opportunity. We may not get another. And I cannot abide a broken promise,” she pointed out.

She wasn’t wrong. Tomorrows weren’t exactly guaranteed.

“Well, you bloody got me, alright? Now that you’ve accused me of being good company, I feel compelled to live up to the hype.” With that, Miranda threw back her head and downed her drink, determined to be ‘fun’ for once in her life. “You get one song.” She held up one finger. “And only because it’s you.”

“One song will suffice,” said Samara, taking Miranda by the hand at long last, leading her to the dancefloor. That was all she had been promised.

Maybe it was just the drinks talking, but as she let go of her inhibitions, started moving to the music and surrendered to not caring whether she looked stupid, Miranda found herself having a far better time than she would have thought.

Most of all, the best thing about it was getting to see Samara let go of her usual restraint, and glean a rare escape from the harsh and austere lifestyle that she was required to abide by as a Justicar. It went without saying how much she deserved this reprieve. Not merely to have fun and enjoy the evening, but to have a chance to let her walls down and be herself. Her real self, beneath the armour. Just one fleeting night in however many centuries, free of worries or cares. 

If Miranda could give her that, then making a fool of herself would all be worth it.

Miranda didn’t know what had suddenly made Samara so open to things like this she would have politely declined a year ago, aside from the same ‘carpe diem’ reason that applied to everyone at the moment, nor did it really matter. The point was that they were here and they were doing it while they could. And any time spent with Samara, no matter what they were doing, was never time wasted.

One song turned into two. And two into three.

In truth, because the music all blended together with similar rhythms and chord progressions, it was hard to tell where one track began and another ended. And, for the first time, Miranda began to understand that perhaps that was the whole point. It would have been pretty jarring and moment-ruining to have the flow disturbed by each new song. So, for now, she stopped being critical of that.

It was as the music changed to a fourth song that they were rudely interrupted.

“Heyyyyy, ladies,” a complete stranger wandered up to them, making finger guns and clicking his tongue. “Can I be the meat in your sandwich?”

Miranda gave the man an unimpressed look. “Mate, if that line ever actually works on a woman...she deserves you,” she said, earning a confused expression in response as the insult went over his head. 

“...Is that a no?” he asked, clueless.

“Yeah, look, I’m in a good mood, so just save yourself some embarrassment and…” Miranda signalled for him to walk away, not particularly keen on wasting time and effort verbally destroying him when she would rather not bother.

To his credit, he took that rejection without a fight and left without causing a scene.

“Sorry about that.” Miranda turned to Samara. Unwanted male attention was something that happened to her a lot, so she was used to dealing with it.

Samara seemed more perplexed than perturbed. “He made this gesture.” Samara somewhat awkwardly mimicked his finger guns, as if she’d never seen anyone do that before. “...I assume I should not interpret that as a threat.”

Miranda blinked. Then, as soon as it clicked that Samara was in fact joking, cracked up with laughter. She’d never forgotten how funny Samara could be, but that sneaky delivery of hers still took her by surprise when it came out.

“Why are you laughing? We may be in grave danger,” Samara feigned ignorance.

“Alright. That’s it. That was the last song,” Miranda declared, taking that disruption as their cue to leave. “Since neither of us are gamblers, I think we’ve seen as much as there is to see of the casino. We should move on.”

“Where should we go next?” Samara prompted, letting Miranda take the lead.

“Hmm.” Miranda pondered that. What she would ordinarily do versus what Samara would expect of her on a night devoted to frivolity were two very different things. Fortunately, the Strip did serve the latter quite well. “There's an arcade not far from here. Did you know I've literally never been to one?”

Samara looked rather impressed with that suggestion, given that it was entirely out of step with Miranda’s usual character, and hence very much in keeping with the evening of inane silliness she had been promised. “I believe you humans have a saying that 'there is a first time for everything'.”

“Alright. Arcade it is.”

It certainly wasn’t far to get there. And Miranda wasn’t kidding when she said she had never had the simple pleasure of playing these games in her childhood. Or any games. She had been deprived of anything resembling fun growing up.

That being said, the lightgun game came pretty naturally to her, even if Miranda did maintain the only reason she didn’t score higher was because the controller was a shitty piece of plastic and the sensor must have been broken. If Samara thought otherwise, she just smiled and didn’t correct her.

By contrast, Samara definitely did recognise some of these games from her youth.

“You’re telling me that some of these machines basically haven’t changed at all in nine hundred years?” said Miranda, arching a sceptical eyebrow.

“No, they have not,” Samara happily confirmed, an audible tinge of excitement colouring her voice at the prospect of coming across something familiar.

Miranda snorted. So much for creativity.

“Oh. This. I remember this.” Samara went over to a particularly old-fashioned machine in the corner. ‘Whack The Thresher Maw’. “It was not thresher maws when I played it. I do not recall what it was. But I was very little. I could not have been more than...twelve? I remember vividly; it was shortly before my father left Thessia to come live here on the Citadel. That was the only day I spent together with both my mother and father - the only day that they ever both took me out together,” she spoke softly, nostalgic for that fond memory.

Miranda’s eyes twinkled as she stood by her, listening to Samara reminisce about her past. She said nothing as she waived her credit chit over the machine, spurring it to life. When Samara glanced at her in questioning, she leaned against the wall, and gestured for Samara to go ahead and play. And she did.

The next game they played was a version of what Miranda would have called air hockey, using a virtual puck. Miranda was winning up until Samara cheated, using her biotics to subtly move Miranda’s wrist away from the goal. 

“I would never cheat,” Samara professed, not even trying to conceal her guilt.

“Mhmm.” Miranda fixed her with a knowing look. Two could play at that game. The very next round, she used her own biotics to move the table right when Samara least expected it, allowing her to get her goal back. “I would never cheat,” Miranda echoed back to her, mirroring Samara’s false innocent voice.

“Hey!” At that, one of the arcade workers pointed at a sign behind the counter which clearly stated ‘no biotics’, giving them no further warning than that.

Keeping track of the scores kind of went out the window when they could hardly make it through the next few rounds without cracking up. They called it a draw and gave up before they did something that got them both banned for life.

They moved on. The next thing that caught Samara’s eye was the claw machine.

“I used to be very good at these,” Samara noted, examining it.

“Really? I thought they were all rigged.”

“No, not at all. Certainly made to be difficult, yes. But if you could not win, that would be illegal. There is a skill to it,” Samara explained. Miranda gestured for her to go right ahead and show her. “I have no money,” Samara pointed out. “And I could not keep the prize even if I won.”

Miranda sighed. “...Just because I’m doing this doesn’t mean I don’t know this is a waste of money on the same level as gambling,” she said, making it clear that nobody was to know she had done this. She put credits into the machine.

Samara appraised the prize spheres to see which would be the easiest to grab. “Aim for that one,” she advised, indicating a sphere that was higher up than the others. “It may take more than one attempt, but if you line it up correctly…”

“Yeah, yeah. I’ve got it,” Miranda waved off her backseat driving, still sceptical that it was even possible to win.

The first time, she didn’t get it at quite the right angle, and the claw slipped off. The second time, she was sure she lined it up properly, but the claws snapped shut above the prize sphere, without picking it up, like the prize was too heavy.

“See? The machine is rigged,” Miranda insisted. “It’s not possible.”

“You are very close. And you have one play left,” Samara encouraged. Miranda rolled her eyes, reluctantly deciding she may as well use the game she had already paid for. “Try coming at it slightly more from the left.”

Miranda did as Samara suggested, and this time, the claw grabbed it. She blinked as the claw lifted the prize and took it all the way to the chute. “Huh.”

“I believe the appropriate phrase is ‘I told you so’,” Samara teased.

“Alright, alright. No need to get cocky,” said Miranda, opening up the prize sphere to see what she’d won. It was a keychain in the shape of Blasto the Hanar Spectre. She uttered a tssk. “I’ve never seen any of these movies. They look like rubbish.”

“Sometimes, that is precisely the appeal,” Samara advised. Miranda didn’t share the sentiment. “I think that triumph signals that we have overstayed our welcome here,” said Samara, aware they were still being watched by the same employee from before in case they cheated again. “Where to next?”

“Hmm.” Miranda glanced around as they left the arcade, thinking of options.

“There is a combat simulator here, is there not?” Samara piped up, as if she’d been holding onto that idea for a while. “I would be eager to try that.”

“By all means. Though what people find fun about a laser arena is somewhat lost on me,” Miranda remarked, probably because her father had subjected her to similar combat programs when she was a kid. “It just feels like training.”

“Its intent is to recreate something we experience as a regular part of our lives. It is fun for them because it is unfamiliar. For us, it is not a deviation from the norm, save that for once we have the liberty of not being in any actual peril,” Samara astutely observed. She had a point, Miranda thought. It wasn’t the most relaxing pastime, but Miranda could run combat sims in her sleep. She had no problems teaming up with her if that was what Samara wanted to do.

“Okay, that absolutely was rigged,” Miranda loudly complained as they emerged from the combat arena a while later. “I hit that soldier dead between the eyes, and he still had twenty percent health left? That's nonsense. No human being could possibly survive that,” she argued, gesturing as she spoke.

“We still did extremely well,” Samara pointed out, content with their performance.

“If this program was realistic, my name would be on top right now,” Miranda proclaimed, waving her hand towards the scoreboard. She was nothing if not competitive, when she wanted to be anyway. Her rant was interrupted when Samara uttered a quiet, amused chuckle. It was impossible not to soften, seeing the unfeigned affection shimmering in Samara’s gaze. “What is it?”

“Nothing.” Samara shook her head, her smile reaching her eyes. “I simply...I did not forget how much I missed spending time with you, but...in a way, I forgot just how much I missed spending time with you,” Samara acknowledged, well aware of the contradiction in her own words, but unable to say it another way.

Miranda knew exactly what she meant. Memories of the Starboard Observation Deck were no substitute for the real thing. They didn’t do justice to just how at home she felt in Samara’s company. “Yeah. Me too.”

“And do not think I did not notice,” said Samara, a very proud look coming over her. Miranda tilted her head in questioning. “Reave. You mastered it,” Samara clarified, somehow wholly unsurprised to witness that.

“Oh. Right. That.” Miranda brushed that off. It wasn’t a big deal.

“Do not undersell yourself. It is not an easy feat,” Samara told her, not about to let this go unremarked upon. “Well done, Miranda. You are the first, and I suspect only human ever to learn this ability. And it would be a great achievement even if you were asari. Indeed, I have personally never met anyone, other than some fellow Justicars, who have mastered it.”

“Well, I owe that entirely to you. So here. Present for you.” Miranda held out the Blasto The Hanar Spectre keychain she'd won from the claw machine earlier, as a token of her appreciation for Samara’s teachings a year ago.

Samara smiled, politely raising her hand to decline. “Although I am grateful, I am afraid I cannot accept this; Justicars eschew personal possessions.”

Miranda's brow crinkled, looking down at the stupid thing in her hands in abject incredulity. “...It's a keychain.”

“That is not the point,” Samara reminded her, although clearly not at all shocked or offended why someone who had not chosen a religious life might fail to understand this. The fact that the gift had no material value did not make it any less of an indulgence. “I have sworn an oath to the Goddess. I can own nothing but what you see before you - my weapons and my armour - for that is all that is essential for me to carry out my duties as a Justicar.”

“Alright. Allow me to rephrase,” Miranda began, sensing a solution to this issue. “This is a...tactical keychain,” she informed her, arching an eyebrow as she twirled the chain around her finger. “It provides an entire additional square inch of armour plating. So I insist that you take it for your own protection.”

Samara laughed, more freely than Miranda had ever seen her do so. “There is that sense of humour you maintain you do not have again,” Samara wryly commented. “I will never comprehend why you insist on claiming that you are not funny.”

“Because I'm not.” Miranda shrugged, wearing a small, self-deprecating smile. “You also described yourself as ‘terribly dull’ earlier when you’re by far the most captivating person I’ve ever spoken to, so if we’re going to start this debate right now, then I’m pretty sure I’m going to win.”

“You would not be a stranger to that, would you?” Samara sighed, realising Miranda would not relent from her position. “Very well, then. You have convinced me.” She took the keychain, clasping it in her fingers. “Make no mistake, this is still yours,” she said, pointedly. “However, I will hold this in safekeeping on your behalf. And I will return it to you the next time we meet.”

“See? Was that so hard?” said Miranda, glad they'd reached a compromise.

Samara tried not to smile, because it was evident that she knew she was technically stretching the rules by accepting this gift, even on loan (though Miranda naturally assumed that she was kidding about intending to return it later), but despite her intentions she couldn't really fight it off. Not tonight.

“If you do not mind my asking, I know what your plans for the future are in the long term, but what of the short term?” Samara asked her, curious to know where Miranda would go when she left the Citadel.

“What else is there to do but get ready for whenever Shepard needs us?” said Miranda, leaning against a nearby railing overlooking a lower section of the strip. “I’ve taken command of a small ship and started putting together a team of Cerberus defectors. So, whatever happens, I’ll be there.” She looked over at Samara. “I suppose I don’t need to ask you, but...what about you?”

“I am as I am,” Samara answered, confirming Miranda’s assumptions. “When the day comes, I will walk into the fire, alone, with nothing but what you see before you, and fight to my last breath. And, should I die, I can only pray that my final acts honour the memory of all the Justicars who perished before me.”

“...I don’t see how they wouldn’t,” Miranda said softly. “I mean, you’re you.”

Samara didn’t respond to that. “Miranda, I...” Samara hesitated. Her expression was unsettled, but she swallowed, quickly finding an equilibrium and settling on what she intended to say. “Though I imagine we will be fighting on the same battlefield in the near future, it has not eluded me that we may not get a chance to speak like this before that time comes to pass. Or...ever again.”

“I know,” Miranda admitted, glancing down. The same thought had been swirling in her head even before Shepard’s party. She wasn't sure if they were meant to address that, or if that looming spectre of death was an open secret they weren't supposed to confront, but she was glad Samara had raised it. The problem was, there were too many things she wanted to say if this was going to be the last conversation they ever had. Thoughts she hadn’t even put into words in her mind, and could never fully express. “...I really am sorry about Rila,” was where Miranda chose to begin. It would have felt wrong not to tell her that.

Samara swallowed and nodded her head, trying to stay strong. Then her resolve cracked, and the tears came. Her hands went to her face, unable to stem the tide. Even the strongest woman in the universe could only carry so much.

For a split-second, Miranda thought she had made a mistake bringing this up, seeing how much Samara was hurting over her recent loss. But then it occurred to her. Maybe Samara breaking down in front of her didn’t mean she’d done anything wrong. Maybe it showed just how much she needed this moment of connection with someone she trusted - to allow herself the vulnerability to be hurt.

Had anyone even comforted Samara at all since it happened?

Had anyone given her the chance to grieve for her daughter?

“I did everything I could to save her. Even though I should not have. Even knowing it might mean putting myself in the position of choosing between my children and The Code. Even while the rest of my Order gave their lives to save so many on Thessia.” Samara drew a deep breath, but it wound up shallower than she intended in her sorrow. “...I violated one of my Oaths, Miranda.”

“What do you mean?” Miranda asked, not knowing enough about the Justicars to understand what that meant. “You mean you broke The Code?”

“No. No, I would never...never break The Code. Not while I draw breath,” Samara insisted, making that clear, even through her tears. “But the first step to becoming a Justicar is to take the Oath of Solitude. That means you are forsworn from any family, including children. I did not utter a single word to Falere or Rila in four hundred and thirty-one years, save for when I wrote to them a year ago to let them know Mirala was dead. However, when I heard their monastery may be under threat...I did not go to them as a Justicar.” Her breath hitched as the moisture trickled down her cheeks. “I went to them because I am their mother.”

“Of course you did,” said Miranda, feeling nothing but sympathy for her, and a touch of anger towards the Justicars for subjecting Samara to that dilemma in the first place. For depriving her of the shattered, broken remnants of a family she had left, and making her feel ashamed for protecting her daughters from certain death. “There’s no oath in the universe anyone could swear that would make a mother stop loving her children. Not a mother like you.”

“No, there is not,” Samara confirmed, her voice breaking under the strain as her body was racked by another sob. “I saw so little of Rila before she died, but what I saw...I could not be prouder of the woman she became, in spite of the cruel hand fate dealt her. I always knew her to be the most responsible of my daughters, always taking care of her younger sisters, though she was barely any older than they were. But she was so strong, Miranda. I never knew she was so fearless. So ferociously protective. She gave her own life so that Falere could live.”

“And you,” Miranda added. “So that you could live too.”

Samara didn’t reply to that.

“How’s Falere?” Miranda asked, after Samara didn’t respond.

“She is well. Alone, but well.” Samara glanced down at her hands, her tears beginning to dry on her cheeks. “She was always a gentle and sensitive soul, so much like her fath--” Samara’s voice caught on that word. She couldn’t say it. It hurt to speak of her. “The woman she has grown into...she is so much kinder than I could possibly have imagined. She had not seen my face or heard my voice for four hundred and thirty-one years. She had every right to hate me. But, instead, she...when all was said and done, she embraced me.”

“Why wouldn’t she?” said Miranda, thinking that should have gone without saying. “She’s your daughter. She loves you.”

“That is more than I deserve.” Samara’s voice was low, barely above a whisper.

Miranda couldn’t stand to hear her talk about herself that way. “Samara--”

Samara raised a hand to silence her. “Respectfully, Miranda...It is no fault of yours, but there are some things that are beyond even your understanding. I believe this is one of them. I would prefer not to argue with you.”

Miranda sighed. She hated to admit it, but Samara had a point. If she felt that way, it wasn’t like it was a poorly-considered opinion. She had lived her own life for nearly a thousand years, and the disconnect between Samara and Falere had been there for centuries. It wasn’t Miranda’s place to debate with her about her perception of herself, or where she stood with Falere, much as she wanted to.

“...But you weren’t lying before, right?” Miranda pressed, unable to leave that thought alone. When Samara said things like this, it made her worry about her. “You are going to keep seeing Falere, aren’t you?”

“My Oaths say I should not,” Samara acknowledged.

“But you will,” Miranda intuited.

Samara held back the last of her tears, the first signs of a conflicted, broken smile coming to her lips. “I have no choice. In truth, there is no power in the universe, nor within myself, that could force me to stay away,” she said honestly, recognising she did not have the willpower to resist seeing her daughter again, especially knowing Falere had nobody else to look after her.

“Good,” Miranda forcefully enthused. For as much as she respected Samara, she might have had to slap some sense into her if she said otherwise. “No offence, and I know this is easy for me to say because I don’t have a single religious or spiritual bone in my body, but any oath that would compel you to stay away from the one person in your life who makes you happy isn’t an oath worth keeping. For me, that person is my sister. For you, that person is Falere.”

At long last, Samara allowed herself to smile again, her eyes glistening from her tears, but shedding no more. “She is.” Her voice was soft, perhaps even fragile, but Miranda had never heard it filled with so much tenderness. “I should not permit myself to feel this way, but...if you thought you perceived a change in me tonight, Miranda, you did,” she admitted. “Though losing Rila broke my heart, and my wounds for her will bleed until my dying days...even so, I have never felt more at peace than I do at this moment. Or, if I have, then I cannot remember it.”

Miranda could only imagine. In her own life, she had gone without seeing Oriana for nineteen years. And, the moment they met on Illium, it was like a weight she hadn’t even known she was carrying had been lifted off her shoulders. That was nothing compared to what Samara had endured.

Going four hundred and thirty-one years not seeing her daughters, the people who mattered most to her...it must have been torture. Now, that torment had finally stopped. Even though Rila hadn’t lived long enough to be part of this new reunion, Samara had still regained a connection with Falere she never thought she would have again. She had some semblance of her family back.

That was life-changing.

“I’m glad to hear you say that,” Miranda said sincerely. After everything she’d lost, Samara had more than earned her just reward. "And, for what it’s worth, I hope this is merely the start of newer and brighter things for you and Falere.”

After recollecting her composure, Samara faced her. “Thank you, Miranda.” 

Miranda was not anticipating that shift in focus. “For what?”

“For this. For tonight,” Samara clarified, gesturing at their surroundings. “For allowing me to enjoy myself more than I have in centuries. And for reminding me to savour these effervescent glimmers of happiness while I still can.” She paused for a moment, averting her gaze down towards her hands on the railing. “I think, perhaps, on some level, you sensed I needed this. But perhaps you do not appreciate just how much I did. So, again, I thank you for spending your night in the company of this poor, tired old woman, when it was not required of you.”

Miranda hesitated at that. Of course, it meant a lot for Samara to tell her that she had gotten so much out of their time together, and that it had helped her in some way. But Miranda never liked it when Samara made those resigned, self-defeating comments about herself. They made her sound like some washed up, retired old racehorse about to be put down with two barrels behind the garden shed. And that was the furthest thing from reality.

Samara was amazing. Beyond compare. She had not lost a step. Aside from being a matriarch and continuing to get stronger with every passing year, she did not show a single sign of age. It certainly hadn’t hindered her yet, and probably would not for many decades yet to come. Asari regularly lived to be over a thousand years old. Hell, although hitting eleven-hundred was rare by most accounts, even that wouldn’t be unheard of. Not by a long shot.

Not that Miranda was an expert, but just from knowing her, she would guess Samara was still a long way off from the natural end of her life. About as far off as any of the human members of The Normandy. So why did she so often talk about herself like she was past the point where she had anything of worth left to offer - a broken relic of a bygone age to be carelessly discarded and cast aside?

Did she think Miranda was just doing this because she felt sorry for her?

“...I didn’t invite you out with me because I pity you,” Miranda broke the silence, glancing over at Samara. That had never been what this was, and she would correct any such mistaken assumptions as promptly and frankly as possible, so that there was no chance for misinterpretation. “I wanted to spend time with you because I like you, and I care about you. You know that, right?”

“I do,” Samara confirmed, returning Miranda’s gaze. “And I hope you know that I did not spend time with you because I was merely seeking some distraction from what has come to pass in recent weeks.”

“I do,” Miranda replied in kind. She folded her arms across the railing, seeing no reason not to continue being so transparent. “This probably isn’t going to be a shock to you, because there aren’t exactly a lot of contenders for the title, but did you know you might very well be the best friend I’ve ever had?” 

Jacob may have been her friend for longer, sure, but they butted heads a lot, often on pretty fundamental things. There were some things she hadn’t told him, and may never tell him. Some things she couldn’t go to him about. Whereas Samara just...knew her so intimately. She got her on an entirely different level. One that didn’t even require words, a lot of the time.

Samara’s eyes dipped slightly. “It...occurred to me, some time ago, in fact, that...I could possibly say the same thing about you,” she replied. Miranda was taken aback by that, and it must have shown on her face. “You doubt me, but you have a stronger claim to that position than you know.”

Miranda brushed that off, finding it too hard to believe. Samara had been alive for over nine centuries. She’d definitely had better friends. “You’re just being nice.”

Samara squinted at that comment, visibly perplexed. “I do not know where you have garnered this impression that I am ‘nice’, or would say things I do not mean just to be thus. I can assure you, I have never at any stage of my life been renowned for being particularly ‘nice’ to anybody. Quite the contrary,” Samara assured her, wanting to clear up that mischaracterisation. “I mean no offence, but...in that regard, you and I are more alike than you seem to think.”

“None taken,” Miranda nonchalantly replied. She supposed she understood where Samara was coming from by not accepting that description. If anyone tried to tell Miranda she was ‘just being nice’, she would have looked at them like they had grown a second head. “And I guess you do have a point. I mean, the first time I met you, you crushed a woman’s skull with your foot.”

“You would have used a gun,” Samara noted.

“Yeah, probably,” Miranda conceded. “You were always nice to me, though.”

“Not always. There were times when I challenged you. Like you, I am not prone to remaining silent when I disagree with someone. If I am less stubborn and stern than I once was, it is only because experience has humbled me, and I have spent many centuries practicing patience and mindfulness,” said Samara. 

Samara wasn’t wrong about any of that, Miranda thought. Samara had indeed called her out on her bullshit a couple of times, although whenever she did offer advice she had always treated it as something constructive rather than an exercise in judgement, which was largely why it had been so effective.

“However, if despite all that you perceived me as being especially nice to you...I probably was,” Samara admitted with a small sigh, willing to concede that wasn’t misplaced. “It is easy to be nice to a person you are already fond of.”

“Why though?” Miranda couldn’t help but ask, earning a confused look. “That’s something I’ve never been able to figure out. Look, I know I’m not the most self-aware person, but I’m better than I was. And, God, I could be fucking intolerable sometimes.” Miranda grimaced in annoyance at her own memory of herself, eliciting a faint smirk from Samara. “But even at my worst, you never had a problem with me. So, why did you like spending time with me?”

“How long do we have before our absence will be noticed? Because, if I answered that question comprehensively, we would be here a very long time,” Samara stated. That was, without question, the most heartwarming thing Miranda had ever heard another person say about her. “If I am being truly honest, I have often wondered the same thing about why you chose to spend your time with me.” 

“Is that a joke?” Miranda asked, not sure how Samara could even question that.

“You know very well that it is not,” Samara said astutely. She wasn’t a liar.

“Well, then, you and I remember things very differently, because you had countless things to offer me. Wisdom. Insight. Friendship. A place where I could just sit in silence for a while. You've taught me so much, but somehow you never made it feel like you were lecturing me. Even when you clearly were,” Miranda remarked, with a hint of teasing to her tone. “The only problem is that I've gained so much more out of knowing you than you have from knowing me.”

“That is not true,” Samara firmly insisted, the quickness of her response catching Miranda somewhat off guard. “The life of a Justicar is a solitary one. We meet many people, but have no companions. I had no companions. Until you. The connection we share is unlike any I have known in centuries. Or...even before that. You have enriched my life. I am better for having known you.”

“You don’t mean that,” Miranda instinctively replied. Samara was...well, she wasn’t a ‘perfect’ person per se, because they didn’t exist. But she was as close as Miranda had ever seen to one. She was a perfect version of what she strove to be. So how could Miranda make her better than she was? How could she possibly do anything to improve upon such sheer mastery of the self?

“Goddess, you do not even know…” Samara’s suddenness took Miranda by surprise. She watched as she let her fingers fall across her face, sighed deeply and shook her head, choosing her words carefully. “Forgive me. It is difficult for me to say this, but...when we travelled together, there were times where I thought…” Samara stopped herself, as if reconsidering what she intended to say. “Perhaps I did not always recognise it then, but in hindsight there were days where I do not know how I could have withstood my burdens if you were not with me.”

Miranda didn’t know what to make of that. It just...didn’t make sense. Samara was so strong. “But I didn’t do anything,” Miranda pointed out. 

At that, Samara uttered a quiet sound, almost like a short, sombre laugh. “But you did,” she said, meeting Miranda’s gaze once more. “You were there. And you have shown me nothing but kindness from the moment we met.”

Miranda still couldn’t accept what she was hearing. Besides, she didn’t remember doing anything that would strike a normal person as especially compassionate, because that wasn’t who she was. “But I’m not kind,” she said.

“No, perhaps you are not,” Samara acknowledged, never blind to the person Miranda was. She was not known for being sensitive or sympathetic, for good reason. “But you were to me,” she stated plainly. That was all that mattered.

Miranda didn’t completely agree with that. But she was glad Samara thought so. And, if nothing else, it was true that Samara did make her want to try to be a better person than she was, and had brought different shades out of her in a way that nobody else had, irrespective of whether they came naturally to her.

That was the thing about people like Samara, Miranda thought. When a person had a special connection with someone else, a special relationship, then they got to know a version of them that didn’t exist for anyone else. Parts of them nobody else ever saw. Truths nobody else ever knew. So maybe the Miranda reserved for Samara's eyes only really was gentler than the one everybody else had met. But, if so, that was only because their friendship brought that out of her.

As the silence lingered, the memory of one very unkind thing she had done emerged in Miranda’s mind. It wasn’t lost on her that there was still one regret she had in their friendship. One mistake for which she’d never made amends.

It was not something she had forgotten about. She recalled with discomforting clarity how she’d never taken her numerous chances back on The Normandy to confess to Samara about looking into her past without her consent. She’d never apologised for it, though she had intended to do so, eventually. She would have done it after The Collector Base but, when the Alpha Relay was destroyed, the thought had genuinely completely fallen from her mind amid so much death. By the time she thought about it again, it was too late. They had already parted ways.

So many months had passed since all of this transpired that part of her just wanted to let sleeping dogs lie, and not raise the subject now. But Miranda knew this was the only chance she would get. If she was ever going to apologise, this was her moment. She had to take it, or live with being a coward.

“...Samara, can I say one more thing?” Miranda broke the silence.

“You may always speak freely with me, Miranda. Indeed, that you always say precisely what is on your mind is perhaps my favourite thing about you. Certainly, one of them,” Samara said with a charming twinkle in her eye.

“Okay, then.” Miranda took Samara’s encouragement at face-value, and elected to come out with it, even if it was a heavy subject. “What happened to your family wasn't your fault,” Miranda began, deciding to approach the topic from that angle. The unexpected shift in the conversation caused Samara to stiffen visibly. “And you know I'm not the sort of person who'd say something I didn't think was true purely to make you feel better, no matter how much I like you. But you didn't do anything to make that happen. None of it is your fault. None. So please stop blaming yourself for what happened four hundred years ago.”

Samara didn't seem to know how to react to Miranda’s words, as they were the last thing she had anticipated. It was obvious it was a message she struggled to accept, even after all this time. Of course, she had no idea how much Miranda knew about her past, beyond the broad picture she’d painted. Not yet.

“Has anyone ever told you that before?” Miranda asked, curious.

“...They have not,” Samara answered, no less taken aback. From prior conversations, Miranda knew she had scarcely spoken about her past. Her daughters’ diagnoses made her a pariah as soon as they happened, leaving her nobody to turn to, and Justicars did not discuss the people they were before they swore their Oaths. Samara had carried her burdens alone every day since.

“Then I'm glad I said it,” Miranda replied, already feeling a sense of relief just from stating that out loud, though she knew she was far from finished when it came to things she had to get off her chest. “I should have said it a long time ago.”

“Then may I also say something I should have said a long time ago?” Samara cut her off, speaking rather quickly. Miranda gestured for her to go right ahead. If she was being that abrupt, then it must have been important. “I wish you loved being Miranda Lawson as much as everybody else believes you love being Miranda Lawson,” Samara spoke plainly. “Because she is and has always been a far, far better person than you seem to think she is. And there is not a single thing about her that makes her a ‘failure’. It wounds me whenever you think otherwise.”

Miranda was totally blindsided. She hadn’t expected Samara’s response at all, since she would never say anything unless she truly meant it. In fact, any prior thoughts Miranda had were completely ripped from her mind.

Samara didn’t need to ask whether anybody had told Miranda that before. She knew they hadn’t. Evidently, that knowledge bothered her a great deal.

“Miranda, I...” Samara reached out and touched Miranda's arm, as if considering saying something more. She swallowed, glancing away for a moment before meeting Miranda's eyes. “I think we have been gone longer than we ought. We should return before our absence becomes a cause for concern,” she said, mustering a faint smile, sensing they had both lost track of time.

“Of course,” Miranda concurred, too dumbstruck by Samara’s confession to remember that there were words she had left unsaid. “After you.”

With that, Samara led the way back towards Shepard's apartment.

As she trailed behind her, Miranda discreetly wiped at the corner of her eye, maintaining her composure, masking any lingering signs that betrayed any frailty, and just how much Samara’s words had touched the core of something she hadn’t even known was as raw and vulnerable as it was.

It may have been a scant two hours that they’d shared there alone on the Silversun Strip, but stealing that precious time together felt like the best decision Miranda had ever made. It may have been over sooner than she would have liked but, if nothing else, at least she could look back on this night in the coming days and feel content with the way she left things between them.

She wanted to part ways with Samara on a high note. After all, deep down in her heart, Miranda knew it was the last time Samara would ever see her again.

*     *     *

Of all the people Miranda had expected to be banging on her door in the middle of the night, Samara was not high on that list. She hadn’t expected to see her anytime soon, given she had left only two weeks ago. And, when they eventually did meet again, Miranda hadn’t imagined Samara would look like this.

“Samara, what are you doing here? It’s freezing out, and you’re drenched--”

“I must speak with you,” Samara cut her off, her voice firm, and her eyes ablaze with a strange intensity Miranda had never seen in her before. It seemed as though Samara didn’t even feel the ice-cold rain on her. “It cannot wait.”

Judging from her tone, that wasn’t a request.

“Uh...Of course,” was all Miranda could mutter as she held open the door for her, closing it behind her. It wouldn’t have even occurred to her to say no. Not when Samara was in such a state, moving with such urgency. “In here.” Miranda gestured towards her room. Samara marched in without hesitation.

Suffice it to say, Miranda was a little stunned. What the hell was happening?

She followed her inside, and clicked the door shut. There wasn’t much space in her small room, but Samara found enough to pace back and forth. She was uncharacteristically wringing her hands as she wore wet tracks in the floor. These were things Miranda had quite literally never seen her do before.

“Samara, what is this? What’s going on?” Miranda asked.

“Forgive my intrusion. But I needed to see you. I could not...the way we left things, I…” Samara paused for a moment, meeting her gaze. “I fear that perhaps you already know what has brought me here, and what I wish to discuss.��

Miranda said nothing, too disoriented and sleep-deprived to be capable of doing anything other than staring at her in a dazed silence. She had no idea what she was talking about, or what could make her act so out-of-sorts. Miranda had never seen Samara so dishevelled. So discombobulated. So...frazzled.

“Oh. Oh, I see. You do not. I see. Very well, then. I…” At that realisation, Samara resumed her pacing, running her hand along her crest. “I suppose I shall have to start from the beginning, then. I do not know why I expected to avoid this.”

“Samara, please slow down.” Miranda raised her hand, her mind far too clouded with fog to make sense of any of this. Even just watching her march back and forth felt like running a marathon, which would have been an exhausting prospect even if she had slept in the past four days. Her request fell on deaf ears.

“Miranda, I was...I was dishonest with you the last time we spoke,” Samara began. “No, worse than dishonest. I have been deceiving you, for no other reason than because I have been too craven to admit the truth. What is worse, I fear that you have sensed my deceit, and that this is what has damaged our friendship. I cannot...I cannot abide this. I cannot continue to lie to you.”

Miranda could barely even make out what she was saying as she paced. She was speaking so quickly, and with such adamance that it felt like she might spontaneously combust from internal friction if it weren’t for the rain soaking her skin. Miranda had never seen Samara in this state. She was like a completely different person. A stranger wearing the face of someone she knew.

Samara was so restrained. So dignified. So elegant. She was a woman who had walked alone, unflinching into mortal peril thousands of times with no regard for her own life, and somehow emerged unscathed, even where countless others had fallen around her. She was the most fearless individual Miranda had ever met. 

There was none of that here.

She was...overcome.

Her proverbial armour had cracked.

“Samara, respectfully, you’re a category five hurricane right now. I need you to bring it down to a stiff breeze,” said Miranda, gesturing for her to cool her frantic energy just a little bit, because right now this was impossible to follow.

At last, Samara halted, and stood still. “...Yes. Yes, of course. You have my apologies,” Samara replied, no less anxious, but at least she seemed able to recognise what an incoherent onslaught her words must have sounded like. 

Miranda leaned back against the chair that was tucked into her desk, gripping it with her hand to take some weight off her bad leg. Whatever could have left Samara so shaken, it had to be serious. Nothing ever rattled her.

Except apparently this.

“What have you been lying about?” Miranda asked, that being about the only thing she had managed to make out of Samara’s hasty, jumbled rant a moment ago.

At that question, Samara held her stare, a distant expression falling across her face. “...After all this time, you truly do not suspect, do you?” she asked aloud, the realisation sinking in, as if that was a possibility she had not contemplated.

“Suspect what?” was all Miranda could say, tempted to utter a desperate laugh as she shrugged her good shoulder, not because there was anything remotely funny about this, but because she was so fucking tired, and so fucking lost.

“Why I abandoned you as I did. Why I fled this city and deserted you. Why you have been forced to contend with so much pain, suffering and death alone, when I ought to have been here to share those burdens with you, and taken care of you when you needed me by your side,” said Samara. Her voice was shaking.

Miranda softened when she heard that. Did Samara really think she was angry at her for leaving? “Samara, no.” Miranda shook her head, unconsciously gesturing with her amputated arm as if to strike that thought from history. “Of course I understand why you left. You’re a Justicar. You have your Code--”

The moment that word left her lips, Samara laughed a humourless laugh, laced with turmoil and despair. Miranda was struck mute by that. It was so unlike her.

“Oh, my sweet Miranda, you truly still believe that about me?” said Samara, her hand on her forehead, as if she couldn’t fathom what she was hearing - that even now people still trusted her at her word. “No. No, my dear, it is a fiction. A comforting lie. A shadow I hide behind.”

Miranda damn near recoiled in abject confusion. “But you are a Justicar.”

“Yes, but that is not why I acted as I did. When I turned my back on you, it had nothing to do with The Code,” Samara unburdened herself at long last, revealing a secret that had been silently killing her. “When I left, it was for one reason only. And that was because I...because I could not be here to watch you die…”

Samara’s voice cracked on the last word, and her hands covered her face as tears began to swell from beneath the surface.

Miranda was dumbfounded - rendered speechless from utter astonishment. She had only seen Samara break like this twice before. Had only seen her cry twice before. That was when she killed Morinth. And when she opened up about losing Rila. Only the deaths of her daughters affected her like this.

Samara trembled, her hand over her mouth. Her eyes shone with remorse as she met Miranda’s frozen visage across the room. “I am so sorry,” Samara told her sincerely, her words cut by the hitch of a breath. “I know my contrition means nothing, but I am so deeply, deeply sorry. I do not blame you if you despise me. You should. I know I deserve it, because the truth is that I failed you. I failed you because I am weak, and I am broken, and I could not...I could not lose you.”

Miranda’s heart tore in half when she heard that. Her head fell, and she pressed her palm to her eye, squeezing it shut. Was this why Samara thought Miranda had snapped at her the last time they spoke? Was she responsible for hurting her like this? God, she regretted that day even more now than she already had before.

“You didn’t fail me, Samara,” Miranda quietly assured her. “You saved my life.”

“That, too, was selfishness,” Samara confessed, owning up to her sins. “When the dust settled, I saw you had not returned. When I realised how close you had been to the Conduit, I went searching for you. And only for you.”

“That’s not true,” Miranda interjected, refusing to let Samara denigrate herself for what had been unparalleled heroism. “You saved dozens of lives in the wasteland.”

“Because The Code demanded I must, and my life would be forfeit if I did not. Every time I came across another survivor, I had to stop and render aid. But, though The Code compelled me to do everything in my power to rescue those in need, I tell you plainly I did not want to. I did not care about any of them. I would have abandoned every single one of them if I could,” Samara said starkly, stripping bare her truth. That revelation hit Miranda like a shockwave. It was something Miranda would have said. Not Samara. “People thought me brave, but I was not. People thought I was saving lives, but that was never my goal. My deeds should not entitle me to praise, but rather scorn, because I was selfish. I was so selfish. My only reason for going out there again and again was to find you.”

Samara swallowed. Miranda would have, but her mouth was suddenly dry.

“...And I did,” Samara continued, her features softening as she gazed upon Miranda. “You were caked in blood and dirt when I found you. So much so that I could barely recognise you. And then you...and then you stopped breathing.”

Samara took a moment to compose herself, affected by those painful memories. She drew a deep breath, and wiped a stray tear from her cheek.

“I did not merely believe that you would die. I knew it. I was certain of it,” Samara quietly admitted. “The infection had already reached your blood. It was shutting down your organs. There seemed to be no hope that you would survive. The only reason you were breathing was because machines were doing it for you. Your pulse was so weak. Your condition showed no signs of improving. As I sat by your bedside, I came to understand that I was doing nothing but watching your life slip away before my very eyes. Every day, you were slowly dying in front of me. And I could not endure it. I...I broke. I ran away, rather than face it.”

“But you left me that message,” Miranda pointed out, struggling to fit the puzzle pieces together in her clouded head between things she already knew, parts of the story she had been told by others, and what Samara was saying now.

“A lie,” Samara said bluntly, her voice too strained to speak louder than a whisper. “To convince myself that I had not forsaken you. That I was not hiding in the shadows from my fears. That I was merely doing as I ought to, as a Justicar. A lie that rang hollow.” Samara glanced down at her feet, ashamed of her actions. “If I truly believed that you had any chance of recovering, I tell you from my heart, I would not have left. Never. And, if I had sincerely been forced into some temporary departure by my Code as I claimed, I would have placed a much better message beside your bed for you to find when you awoke. But I did not do so. I did not do so, because I could not bear to step into your room again. I was afraid each time I went near you, it would be the moment you would…”

Samara couldn’t even finish that sentence. She didn’t have to.

Miranda didn’t interrupt her, too overwhelmed to respond. 

“This is why I have returned now. To apologise for my selfishness. Not to seek your forgiveness. Just to apologise,” Samara explained, repentant for her recent failings. “You have earned nothing less than that.”

“I…” Miranda didn’t know what to say. Couldn’t...form the words. It was a lot to take in. She could scarcely process it in her heavily fatigued state. She couldn’t think. She was so tired. So confused. “I still don’t understand. You’ve seen death before. Why couldn’t you be here? Why did you have to leave?”

“Goddess…” Samara turned away, facing the wall. “You truly do not know…”

“No, I don’t. So tell me,” said Miranda, growing exasperated with how Samara kept doing things like that. Acting like there were things she should already know, which she didn’t. She wasn’t psychic. She couldn’t read her mind. Obviously not. Samara had come all this way to throw this confession at her feet out of fucking nowhere. Why hold back now? “You’ve already said so--”

“Because I could not bear the pain of losing you!” Samara snapped back, her voice sharper and louder than before, as if she had to force the words out, fighting against herself to speak them. But, once they were said, they couldn’t be retracted. “I did not trust what I would do. How I would withstand it. Goddess, Miranda, I was coming apart. I had already broken The Code for you!”

Miranda’s eye widened. “What do you mean?”

“You know this. You said it yourself.” Samara faced her once more, moving a step closer. “I...I threatened to murder doctors, because they wanted to turn off your life support,” Samara confessed, hard as it was for her to say. “You were functionally dead, and I was prepared to harm innocents rather than accept it - to use violence against healers so I could keep you hooked to those machines.”

Miranda’s heart stopped in her chest.

Wait, what? That wasn’t something Jacob had just misunderstood? Her weary mind went black. She couldn’t even comprehend that revelation. 

“I breached two tenets, in total. Not only by threatening innocent medics, but that I lied about The Code in order to compel them to spare you,” Samara confided in her, exposing her transgressions, her shame. “This is not permitted. I was unjust. Had I any sisters left to judge me, I might be expelled from the Order for this. At worst, perhaps even executed. Though, if there is but one small mercy to be found, it is that my words, evil though they were, were only words. I took no violent act, drew no weapon, and made no attempt to carry out my threats. Had I done so, The Code would not suffer me to live. Nor should it.”

“...You…wait…” Miranda couldn’t hear herself, her ear was ringing so loud.

What the fuck was happening? This couldn’t be real.

“In what small part of me was still capable of thinking rationally, I knew my behaviour had made me a danger to myself and others,” Samara continued. “If you passed, I could not take the risk of what I might do. At least, that was what I told myself. In truth, by that stage, I was simply too afraid to stay. Afraid of how much it would hurt when you...” She trailed off into silence, her meaning clear.

Miranda didn’t even catch all of that, her thoughts blank. No, this didn’t make sense. Samara was a Justicar. A servant of her Code. She was the embodiment of her way of life. She stuck to it rigidly. She never bent the rules, much less broke them. She would never do that. She was so disciplined. So loyal to it.

Samara hadn’t even broken The Code when it came to her own daughters. An Oath, yes. But not The Code. From what Miranda understood, that was the difference between breaking a promise, and breaking the law. She had told Miranda straight to her face that she couldn’t do the latter. That she would never.

And yet now Samara was standing there in front of her telling her that she had not merely violated The Code, but that she had done so consciously. For her.

Twice.

“Now you see me for what I truly am. Frail. Weak. A fraud.” Samara glanced aside, accepting that what she had done would forever tarnish her in Miranda’s sight, as it should. “So, like a coward, I ran. As far as I could. Every day thinking, is this the day she died? Is this the day? Surely, she must have passed by now, Samara. Just go back. Just go. Confront this. Be with her. But I could not. I could not return, because I was not ready to know. Because I was not ready to feel--”

Her voice caught, rendering her unable to finish that bleak thought.

Miranda felt a heavy tide rising inside her. Like she was swimming in a maelstrom. Sucked in under the water. Unable to breathe. Unable to think or react. It was so much all at once. It was as if she’d been consumed by a tsunami.

“...Why are you telling me this?” Miranda asked through the haze.

“Because you do not deserve to believe you are at fault,” Samara insisted, taking another step towards her. “I abandoned you in your hour of need, not because you mean nothing to me, but because you...you are so important to me it scares me. But that is my burden, not yours. You should not have to suffer for my lack of bravery. I could not bear it if you thought that I have treated you so carelessly because you have slighted me in some way. You have not. I am to blame. Only me. The failure is mine, and mine alone. I am the monster here. Not you.”

“Please don’t say that,” said Miranda. It hurt to hear Samara berate herself like that. She was the opposite of a monster. “I wouldn’t even be here if not for you.”

“But I should have been here.” Samara took another step. As the space between them shrank, Miranda felt a shiver pass through her body, but not because it was cold. “I should have watched over you. Cared for you when you awoke. Been by your side as you rebuilt this city. Weathered the terrible news with you when you learned what became of our friends. But I could not. Instead, I left you. I let fear take hold, and surrendered to despair. Worst of all, I gave up hope. I did not have faith in you, when I should have known you are beyond extraordinary.”

“You don’t owe me anything--”

“Please.” Samara quietly cut her off, refusing her forgiveness, feeling unworthy of it. Even so, she could not refrain from reaching out, curling stray strands of hair back behind Miranda’s ear. Miranda’s pulse spiked, thundering like a drum. “I was distraught for so long. Too paralysed with sorrow to return, and face the news. So convinced that everything I dreaded had come to pass. That I had been too late when I found you in the wastes. That you had succumbed while I was away. That I would find nothing here but your grave.” Samara’s eyes shone as she looked upon her, a warm smile coming to her face. “I do not know how I ever doubted you would defy the odds. You are truly incredible. You always have been.”

Miranda didn’t dare to breathe, Samara was so close. All those bottled up feelings came flooding to the surface. It felt like somehow Samara should just know. That she should be able to lay eyes upon her, and glean from a single glance how easily Miranda came undone in her presence.

God, the things it did to her for Samara to be this near, her fingers on her skin. It was too much. She should have withdrawn and pulled away, but she couldn’t. She didn’t want Samara to stop. She needed her, with every fibre of her being.

Miranda couldn’t take it. For her own sanity, she had to force herself to turn her head away. To look somewhere else. Anywhere else but Samara.

"Do not hide from me.” Samara’s fingers curled beneath her chin, lifting her head, compelling Miranda to lock her eye on Samara once more. “I know I ran before, but it was not because of you. Do not think it was ever to do with you.”

She realised then that Samara must have assumed the reason Miranda averted her gaze was because she’d felt self-conscious in that moment. Of her wounds. Of the scars on her face. Little did she know that had nothing to do with it.

It became achingly apparent then as she got lost in that shimmering sapphire stare that Samara had no idea what Miranda felt towards her. And that those feelings were so powerful and intense that they were threatening to devour her. 

How could Samara not see what she was doing to her? 

She was laid open. Bare. Exposed.

Samara’s fingers combed through Miranda’s hair until they grazed the cord that held her eyepatch in place. Miranda was so transfixed that she almost didn’t even feel her touch it. “May I?” Samara asked her permission to remove it, gauging whether Miranda trusted her enough to show the extent of her scars.

Miranda swallowed and nodded, giving her consent. That was never the problem. Least of all with Samara. Miranda stood stiff against her desk, knuckles turning white against her chair as Samara carefully slipped it off.

Samara released a slow exhale as she set that black cloth down on the table, a wave of heartfelt warmth washing over her features as that barrier fell by the wayside. As if on instinct, her fingers reached out to touch her face, but she stopped her hand just short of Miranda’s scarred cheek. “Will it hurt if I…?”

Miranda shook her head, almost too tense to speak. “Not if you’re gentle,” was all she could manage. And when was Samara ever anything less?

With Miranda’s tacit approval, Samara softly cupped her cheek. Miranda’s breath hitched. How could she be so on edge that such a feather-light caress could make her feel like her entire world was on the verge of exploding? 

“I have been devout in my faith for a very long time, and yet...Believe me when I tell you, the only time in my nine hundred and seventy-one years of life that the Goddess has ever answered my prayers was when I turned around on that balcony, and saw you standing there in front of me,” Samara professed.

If she moved so much as a single muscle, Miranda wasn’t sure there was any power on Earth that could stop her from crashing her lips against Samara’s, no matter how wrong she knew it was, or how bad of an idea. She willed her body to stay stone still, because it was all she could do to control herself.

If Miranda hadn’t been leaning so heavily on the desk and chair behind her, she was certain her legs would have given out right from under her. Samara’s skin was still so cold from the rain, but her touch was hotter than fire, and Miranda like wax beneath her fingertips. She could have melted into a puddle on the floor.

“I know I should not, but…” Without another word, Samara tilted Miranda’s head down, and pressed a tender, savouring kiss to her forehead. Miranda’s palm shook against her desk. She was trembling like a leaf. When she parted from her, Samara let her head rest against Miranda’s, cradling her jaw. “...I am sorry, but that is all I have wanted to do ever since I learned you were alive.”

Miranda’s heart wasn’t just pounding. It was screaming.

Somehow, she just knew, if she dared to utter a single sound, she wouldn’t be able to keep from shouting the truth at the top of her voice. The desire to say those five pivotal words seeped from every pore. She was bursting at the seams. 

“No, I should not have done that.” Samara shook her head, taking a step back. It was only then that Miranda realised she hadn’t taken a single breath in the last minute, and sharply gasped for air. “I have been selfish. Allowed myself to…” Samara stopped herself, as if suddenly coming to her senses. “Forgive me, Miranda. I have said all I needed to say. I should--”

The instant she turned to leave, Miranda’s hand shot out and seized Samara by her wrist, grabbing her as tightly as she’d ever held onto anything in her life.

“Don’t you dare walk away,” Miranda growled. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

Samara hesitated, caught off guard. “...I thought you did not want me here.”

“Why would I not want you here?!” Miranda shot back, her tension built to breaking point. She felt like she was going insane, trying to find her balance on shifting sands. Nothing made sense anymore. For all Samara’s honesty, she still didn’t understand what the hell was going on.

“Because I abandoned you,” Samara answered. That had been the whole reason for her confession. Her apology. “Because I hurt you. Because you hate me.”

“Hate you? Samara, you idiot, I’m in love with you!” the words tore themselves from Miranda’s chest before she could stop them. Samara froze. Miranda released her tight grip on Samara’s wrist. Her hand flew to her mouth in horror as she realised what she’d said. But it was too late to stuff that confession back in.

God damn it. She’d really just said that out loud, hadn’t she?

“Fuck…” Miranda cursed under her breath, realising there was no going back. It was out there now. She had to confront it. “I’ve never...you’re the only person who’s ever made me feel this way. It’s like a kind of madness.” She wasn’t sure what to say, or whether it was even a good idea to keep talking. But she had to. Now that she’d said it, she had to. “That was why I asked you to leave me alone before. Not because I hate you, but because...I feel the exact opposite.”

Miranda pressed her hand to her forehead, fighting off the incessant pain in her skull. The insomnia that made it so hard to think. To put these complicated feelings into words. She was so not in the right frame of mind to have this conversation.

Yet here they were.

“I’m pretty sure I have for a long time, actually. I was just too bloody stupid to figure it out any earlier. But...” In place of adding anything further, Miranda simply gestured, leaving her feelings out there, in the open, for Samara to do with as she wished. It was a horrible position to be in. She hated every second of it.

“...No,” was the first thing Samara said. Her voice sounded so distant. And it was tinged almost with a sense of...dread. “No. You do not. You should not.”

“I know I shouldn’t, but I do. I do. I think about you all the time. And I don’t...I don’t know what to do about it,” Miranda admitted, shrugging her shoulder. 

“No,” Samara repeated herself, more insistently. Her suddenness startled Miranda a little. “You...you are mistaken.”

“I’m not,” Miranda reflexively answered back. She couldn’t help but get defensive, hearing Samara tell her she was wrong about her own feelings, when she knew painfully well she wasn’t. “I tried to convince myself that I was, but--”

“You do not know what love is. And you do not know who I am,” Samara coldly shut her down, refusing to hear this. “If you did, you would know there is nothing about me that is worthy of you.”

“Fucking hell, Samara…” Miranda ran her hand through her hair. This was not how she would have planned this to go. For one thing, she never anticipated she would have to contend with Samara being in staunch denial about her dramatic love confession. But then she paused, as the final part of Samara’s sentence gradually registered in her tired mind. “...I’m sorry. What did you just say?”

“You…” Samara swallowed heavily, realising she had perhaps revealed more than she ought. Maybe because she thought her own feelings had already been blatantly obvious, and it hadn’t occurred to her to think Miranda wouldn’t have realised them by now. But she didn’t take it back. “No, I cannot do this.”

Samara moved for the door as if to leave. In response, Miranda extended her hand, biotically lifting Samara six inches off the ground, holding her in place.

“No,” Miranda sternly commanded her, not letting her run off and hide again. She was getting pretty bloody sick of that. “We’re talking.”

Samara could have overpowered her easily if she wanted to. Miranda was no match for her biotic prowess, especially not in her current state. She could have broken out of this grip with little more than a shadow of a thought. They both knew that. But she didn’t fight. She didn’t resist.

After a moment, Samara just gave her a nod, as if to confirm she would stay. Miranda let go. Samara’s feet hit the floor. She didn’t so much as stumble.

“You were saying,” Miranda prompted, losing patience for her evasiveness.

“...You heard what I said. It is as it seems,” was all Samara could bring herself to say, not denying Miranda’s suspicions. She would not lie to her.

“Do you feel the same way about me?” Miranda asked, forcing her to acknowledge it out loud. To put it into words. There was no room for misunderstanding here.

“That is not the point,” Samara responded, tersely.

Miranda sighed heavily, intuiting what she meant. “Of course. You’re a Justicar,” she said. It didn’t matter what Samara felt about her, if The Code forbade it.

Samara’s eyes narrowed in confusion. “I...am uncertain what you mean by this.”

Miranda’s expression mirrored Samara’s, equally bewildered. “Doesn’t the Justicar Code forbid...?” Miranda didn't finish that sentence, simply glancing down at the space between them, choosing to be deft in her words. Using any specific term that entered her mind might be perceived as demanding or presuming too much, or too little, and she wouldn’t risk that. 

Samara stared at her, the open-ended meaning not lost in the silence. It was obvious from looking at her expression that she wished her status as a Justicar permitted her to speak falsely. That would have made things so much easier. “...It does not,” she replied to Miranda's myriad unspoken questions, and the words running through her mind. It was the same answer for all of them.

At that, relief dared to trickle through Miranda’s skin. 

“That was never the problem,” Samara continued, not allowing Miranda to think that information changed anything. It didn’t.

“Then what is?” Miranda replied. “There’s obviously a connection between us. We both feel it. And if your Code says there’s nothing wrong with that, then--”

“Because I deserve to be alone!” Samara professed. “That is my penance.”

Miranda recoiled. It actually, physically hurt to hear that. “How can you say that?”

“Miranda, listen to me,” Samara implored her, holding her focus. “You are a remarkable woman. You are brilliant and exceptional, in every respect--”

“So are you,” said Miranda.

“No, you are not listening.” Samara raised her hands, determined to continue. “You are so young. You still have so much life ahead of you. So much potential. When others see you, as I have seen you, the entire galaxy will fall at your feet. As it should. You have nothing to gain from me. I am...I am regret, and ruin,” Samara told her, a faint glint of unshed tears in her eyes. “If you truly saw me for what I am, you would know there is only death and misery for you here.”

“I do know you, Samara,” Miranda spoke quietly. “I know that, despite all the tragedy you’ve endured that would break a lesser person, you somehow still manage to wake up each day and choose to be warm, and kind, and good--”

“I am none of those things,” Samara assured her.

“You are to me,” Miranda persisted, undeterred. “I know you are, because you found me when I was at my most jaded, my most cynical, my most closed off--”

“Miranda, no.” Samara shook her head, pleading with her not to feel this way.

“And, instead of rejecting me, you...you reached out to me,” Miranda continued, talking right through any interruption, or resistance. Because this needed to be said. “You made me smile more than anyone has ever made me smile. You showed me that...that opening up to someone you trust and letting yourself be vulnerable around them isn’t a weakness, but that it takes bravery and strength.”

“Please stop this,” Samara begged her, her voice a whisper.

But Miranda didn’t stop. “You single-handedly made me a better person than I was before I met you.” There was no denying that. Without Samara, she wouldn’t have learned from her past mistakes. She would have kept perpetuating the same cycles, and never stopped to reflect on her preconceived notions about what mattered to her, and what made her happy. “So, if you’re unworthy of love, then what does that make me? Because, from where I’m standing...Samara, there aren’t enough superlatives to describe you.”

“Enough!” Samara swept her hand across her body, signalling for this to cease.

But Miranda wouldn’t.

“No.” Miranda pressed forward. She was pouring her heart out. She’d never done this before, because she’d never felt this way about anyone. And, now that she’d started, she couldn’t stop. “Don’t you get what I’m saying? You’re it. You’re it for me. I will never feel the way about anyone else that I feel about you, and I know because I’ve tried, and those efforts failed so hard I didn’t even think the ability to fall in love with someone existed in me, until I met you. You’re not just beyond comparison to everyone else. God, you’re...you’re fucking transcendent.”

“Do not...say these things!” Samara cut her off, her voice so loud and forceful that there was no doubt it bellowed through the whole apartment. Miranda had never heard her raise her voice before, let alone like that. “You know not of what you speak. You love a shadow. Nothing more.”

Miranda’s gaze narrowed. “What is it you think I don’t know, Samara?” she challenged, determined to prove herself. “I know more than you think.”

“I killed the last person I loved!” Samara shot back, refusing to subject herself to that indescribable agony a second time. She would never let that happen again.

“No, you didn’t, Samara. She killed herself,” Miranda curtly replied.

“You know nothing of it!” Samara insisted through her teeth.

“I know everything,” Miranda interrupted, unshaken by what Samara thought were secrets. They weren’t. “I know every little fucked up detail you didn’t want me to know. I know you tried to kill yourself too, and the only reason you failed is that your neighbour found you. I know you blame yourself for Mirala becoming Morinth because you think whatever you said to her the night before her test scared her into running away and melding with her best friend to prove she wasn’t an Ardat-Yakshi. I know the police blamed you and wanted to charge you with something, anything, and that you broke down during your interrogation and told them you blamed yourself for everything too. I know the whole world turned against you for something that wasn’t your fault. I know it all.”

Miranda’s response thrust Samara into stunned silence. Miranda had the decency to look contrite, already seeing the fire of betrayal in steely blue eyes. Exactly like she expected. Exactly why this admission had been so easy to put off.

“There’s nothing about you that’s a mystery to me,” Miranda continued, quieter than before. “I looked into your past when we were aboard the SR-2. I’m surprised you didn’t already assume I did. I mean, this is me we’re talking about.”

As that slowly sank in, Samara stepped away and shook her head. “I am disappointed in you, Miranda. Yet I suppose you are correct; I cannot claim this was a shock,” said Samara, in a tone Miranda had never heard before. “After all, you have at all times been nothing if not transparent about your duplicity.”

Miranda’s eye darkened. That hurt.

“Fuck you, Samara. You don’t get to turn this around on me right now. In case you haven’t noticed, between the two of us, I’m not the one lying.”

“Yes, how very dare I be hurt by your treachery,” Samara countered, looking her in the eye once more, her words laced with biting sarcasm. “I should know better than to criticise you, or confront you with consequences for your actions. After all, you are Miranda Lawson. You can do nothing wrong.”

“I’ll apologise as much as you want later. But that’s not what this conversation is about. So don’t change the subject,” Miranda snapped. 

“What more is there to say?” said Samara, her arms folded across her chest, unwilling to discuss it further. This hadn’t helped. “You know my answer.”

“There is so much more to say, because you’re pulling away and I don’t even know why. To punish yourself for some imaginary sins? Is that it? Look…” Miranda crossed the distance between them, reaching out and gently clasping Samara's hand, guiding it to rest upon her chest, where she could feel her heartbeat. “Whatever this is, I...I want this,” Miranda assured her. “Do you?”

Samara withdrew, resisting the temptation. “What I want is irrelevant.”

“Why is it irrelevant?” Miranda pursued her. “You’re a person, Samara. An incredible one, but still just a person, with feelings, and wants, and needs. You've spent four hundred years being selfless, to a greater degree than your Code required you to be. You don’t have to do that. You’re allowed to feel things. To want things. To need things. You’re allowed to...to move on with your life.”

“Move on?” Samara echoed incredulously. She turned her body away, refusing to look at her, visibly caught up in a tempestuous tumult of conflicting emotions.

Hurt.

Anger.

Grief.

“If you knew me half as well as you claim to, you would understand what an insult it is to me that you would tell me such a thing,” said Samara, shaking her head in contempt and disbelief. “‘Move on with my life’. The audacity...”

“I'm not saying that to get something from you. Genuinely, I'm not. You don't have to...” This wasn’t working, was it? “What I’m trying to say is that, whatever this is between us, this doesn’t have to go the way I want it to. I’m not even sure what that is, or what that would mean. I was so convinced this could never happen. But don't you deserve a bit of happiness?” she asked, trying to catch Samara’s eyes, though she was intent on avoiding her. “If I bring that to you, then—“

Before she could finish, Samara exhaled heavily and stepped closer, until the space between them virtually evaporated. Miranda trembled as she stumbled backwards on instinct, until she could go no further, and hit the wall near the door.

“Do not speak of happiness.” Samara pinned Miranda in place without exerting any force whatsoever. Without touching her. Whatever Miranda had intended to say before swiftly fled her mind. “My happiness died centuries ago. And I promised myself -- I promised myself, I would never...never betray that.”

Miranda moved to protest, but stopped abruptly when it became apparent Samara wasn’t really talking to her, but rather that she was arguing with herself.

“But, I...you were not...you were not part of that plan. I did not foresee how much I would...how much I would come to...” As her dilemma tore at her soul, Samara grimaced and braced herself on the wall, as if in physical pain. “I do not know what to do. I know I do not deserve this, but...perhaps we can, without...”

“Yes,” Miranda all but whimpered. Whatever she meant, her answer was yes.

She wanted this. So bad. Even if it might have been a terrible mistake. Even if it might have ruined everything they already had. At that moment, she didn't care.

Miranda wanted to kiss her. To sink her teeth into her neck, and tear her armour off. Her body was screaming at her to do those things, desperate to touch her, and powerless to resist if this was what Samara chose. But, in what little part of her brain could still think, she knew she had to let Samara take the initiative for whatever happened next. If she didn’t, she would push her away forever.

They probably only stood like that for a few seconds, but time moved so slowly it felt like minutes. Miranda could see the cogs spinning in Samara’s head. The conflict. The indecision. Temptation. Torn between resistance and surrender.

Samara’s fingers brushed her bare arm. She’d leaned so close Miranda felt her breath against her lips. Then, blue eyes went black. And Miranda felt the magnetic sensations she recognised as a meld beneath Samara’s fingertips. 

In an instant, everything changed.

A wave of sheer, uncompromising despair crashed over Miranda, plunging her into the deepest, darkest, blackest abyss she had ever known. It felt as if her very soul had been ripped from her body and murdered in front of her, leaving behind only a hollow, empty shell. Any memory of happiness or joy was stripped from her mind, and shattered into a million pieces at her feet.

She had never felt more devastatingly, crushingly alone.

Bereft of hope.

And, although it had come over her as suddenly as the blink of an eye, it felt like she had never known anything else.

Abruptly, Samara glowed blue, her biotics repelling Miranda, like a barrier between them, pressing her back against the wall. The meld ended only a fraction of a second after it began, leaving both of them visibly shaken. The moment they separated, Miranda's hand flew to her lips, trembling as tears spilled from her eye, coursing down the unscarred side of her face, beyond her control.

Samara staggered backwards, as if she had seen a ghost. “No, I...I cannot.”

“No, don't...” Miranda could hardly speak, overcome by a grief that she could not name. She shook her head. What was happening? She never cried, unless her sister was involved. But this sorrow. It had lasted only a fleeting moment, but it was intense and crushing and it dwarfed any sadness she had ever felt. So much so that it hurt just to breathe. Just to be alive. “I'm sorry, I don't...I'm not...I'm not normally like this. I don't know why this is happening.”

“Because it came from me,” Samara answered, her lips scarcely moving.

“...What did you say?” Miranda lifted her head, staring at Samara, shellshocked. But she hadn’t misheard. Whatever she was feeling, these weren’t her own emotions. In that brief instant that they had started to meld, Samara had inadvertently transferred whatever she was currently feeling onto her. 

“I did not mean for this to happen. I am so sorry. I...I thought I could contain myself. My boundaries. I never wanted you to experience this...” Samara whispered until her words trailed off into silence, confirming it to be true.

That realisation struck Miranda to her core, that agony still permeating her being.

“...Is this how you feel about me?” Miranda asked, a deep, dull ache pooling like lead at the base of her heart at the very thought - that this was how miserable she had made her by putting her in this position. Samara didn’t respond, neither confirming nor denying it. “Is this how you feel all the time?”

“It does not matter. This cannot happen,” Samara stated, her voice hollow.

“Samara.” Miranda reached out for her, but Samara raised her hand, signalling for her not to come closer, convinced this had been a terrible mistake.

“In another time, or another life, this would have been...” Samara didn't finish that thought, shaking her head. “I cannot contemplate this. I must not.”

“So, what? You’re just going to run off again?!” Miranda’s shout was enough to momentarily stop Samara in her tracks. Her throat was strangled with emotions that weren’t entirely her own. But some of them sure were. “Tell me, Samara, when did the strongest woman I’ve ever met turn into such a pathetic coward?”

“This is what I have always been!” Samara hissed in response, despising herself for this horrible misdeed. There was no hint of the stoic, composed, restrained person Miranda previously knew. “I have always been a coward. A fraud. A monster. A mistake. A worthless, selfish waste! I have the blood of over a thousand murders on my hands! I am nothing! I should not even be here!”

“Then why don’t you just fucking go!” Miranda shot back, lashing out in pain.

Samara took her at her word, looking at her one last time before she stormed out. Miranda heard the front door slam. The instant it did, Miranda slid down the wall, tears spilling from her eye, the weight of what just happened combining with Samara’s despair, still coursing through her body.

She felt so cold. Like everything right, or good, or light was just...absent.

There was only shadow.

Only grief.

A shaky exhale escaped her lips. What had she done? This was exactly what she’d been afraid of. She’d told Samara the truth, and pushed her away forever. They would probably never speak again. Not after this.

She didn’t even realise that the door to her room was still open until a few heads peeked around the corner to see her. Obviously, they’d been roused by raised voices, and the door slamming. The walls weren’t that thick. They probably hadn’t heard everything. But they would have heard enough.

“Are you okay, Miss?” Reiley asked, visibly concerned.

Miranda wiped her eye and picked herself up to her feet, refusing to let herself look vulnerable in front of them. Even though it was too late for that. “I’m fine,” she said through gritted teeth, taking her eyepatch off the desk and putting it on.

“You don’t look fine,” Jason pointed out as Miranda limped her way past them.

“Samara left in a hurry. And we heard fighting,” Rodriguez noted, not really sure how to approach this. “...Did you fuck things up between you?” she asked, in what sounded like an effort to be understanding and comforting. It wasn’t. Jason chastised her insensitivity with a light slap to the back of her head. “What? It’s fucking obvious they just had a fight…”

Miranda ignored them, grabbing her things, pulling on her jacket and scarf.

“What are you doing?” said Jason, shaking his head at her. For a second, it almost sounded like he was the responsible adult in the house. “Where are you going?”

“Out,” Miranda answered stonily.

“It’s 1:00am,” Jason pointed out, as if convincing her to see reason.

“I don’t care.” Miranda slipped on her shoes, and took hold of her cane. She couldn’t stay there. Couldn’t lie there and think about this. Couldn’t feel this.

“Are you coming back?” said Reiley, confused.

Miranda was tempted to lash out at them and say no out of sheer bitterness and spite, but she couldn't. Unlike Samara, she didn't run from her problems.

“...I'll see you in the morning,” she said, before she closed the door and left. None of them knew it then, but they would not, in fact, see her in the morning.

And, when they did see her again, they would wish they hadn’t.

So would Miranda.

*     *     *

[talesmaniac89]

Choices - Dean - Follow Him In

New to Choices? Start Here

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Summary: Choices is an interactive Supernatural choose your own adventure story where your choices determine the outcome and whether it’s a Dean x Reader or Sam x Reader. Go to the intro to start your story now!

Triggers: Injury, blood, pain, series levels violence, demon death

Choice:  [You chose to follow Dean in]

Y/N = Your Name | Y/E/C = Your Eye Colour | Y/H/C = Your Hair Colour

---

Shifting your grip on the angel blade you let your eyes burn into Dean’s back. The stubborn soldier was always so ready to sacrifice himself for others. Both Winchester brothers were. It was infuriating. They always lived like they were bulletproof. Always risking everything in an effort to save a life or die trying. 

Especially Dean.

Well, you weren’t going to stand back and let him be your shield. You were his partner; you had his back during hunts. And that didn’t include standing outside with your hands in your pockets when there was the possibility of a demonic ambush waiting behind the rotting wooden door. 

Choosing to pretend you hadn’t noticed his little hand signal, you stepped up on the rickety porch just as Dean quietly opened the door. Bracing yourself for the angry flash of green you knew would follow your blatant disregard for orders, you squared your shoulders. Waiting just a beat before slipping into the dark farmhouse right behind him.

Even in the low light, it was impossible to miss the sharp light in Dean’s eyes as he silently glared at you for disobeying his orders. But you gave as good as you got. Silently waving your angel blade in a mimed shout back at the stubborn man you loved more than life itself. 

Using your blade, you underscored your silent scathing point with a slash of lethal silver through dusty air and a frustrated roll of your eyes. The self-sacrificing hunter had given you the angel blade and Sam both the colt and demon blade, since the younger hunter would be solo. 

Yet, Dean himself went in with nothing but iron and holy water. Both of which could incapacitate, but not kill, any of the five demons in the house. If they all jumped him, he wouldn’t be able to get the exorcism out fast enough to avoid getting hurt.

And if you’d waited outside, you wouldn’t be close enough to save him.

He might be willing to get injured and possibly even killed just to keep someone else safe. Always placing the lives of others a mile above his own. But your greedy little heart was way too selfish to let him go anytime soon. No, even if your love was unrequited, you’d never let the man in front of you get hurt. Not if you could be there to watch his back. The world was a better place with Dean Winchester in it, even if he sometimes seemed to believe the opposite.

Throwing you one more burning look as he gestured at the empty hallway, Dean shook his head at you. Clearly conceding the mimed screaming match with a silent sigh, at least for now, as he gripped his gun tighter and nodded towards the door to the right of the small entryway. Finally letting you fall in step next to him. 

Silently following the hunter across the dusty floor, you kept your eyes peeled, straining against the dim light. (Y/E/C) eyes sweeping across the other still closed doors and keeping watch as he reached for door number one. Giving him a quick glance, you pushed your back up against the wall next to the door, shoulders tense and breathing careful and calculated. Your eyes travelling over the painful clench of his jaw and the green flames of a soldier ready for battle. Keeping his gun aimed at the seam of the door frame, ready to fire in case a demon was hiding right behind the faded grey wood. 

Dean’s shoulders were tense as he opened the door just a sliver, enough to look in and keep his gun aimed at any approaching demons. Yet, just as quickly as the painfully tense hold started, his shoulders relaxed. Followed by a small shake of his head. Which you didn’t even really need as you were already on the move again.

You’d been watching Dean Winchester since you started hunting with him. His small movements, the darkening shade of green eyes, or the way his jaw would tense up, you knew them all. Including the many silent words and hidden meanings behind each gesture. Which was why you could easily step back and cover the next door before he even got to nod towards it. 

Your love for the hunter helped, sure, but you’d always worked well together. Perfectly in sync since that first fight, where the Winchester brothers had popped out of nowhere and helped you finish off a nest of fledgling fangs. 

Maybe it was slightly grotesque, but to you it was like an intimate dance. You could watch him, tilt slightly right, and just know that he needed you to take a step to the left and duck for him to finish off another monster in desperate need of a dentist.

Shifting your grip on your angel blade, your eyes met his as you placed your back against the wall next to the door again. Lifting your weapon slightly to be ready to strike while simultaneously covering the rest of the dark hallway. And, just like you, Dean needed no other indication to know you were set. His hand reaching out and opening the second door, gun aimed and hand on the doorknob slow and steady.

Though, unlike the last one, this one didn’t just open a small sliver. No, as soon as his hand pulled at the doorknob, the door shot open in an explosion of dust, mould and wooden splinters. Knocking Dean back into the wall across the hall with a breathy curse and a loud thud. 

Demon.

The word barely registered in your mind before you’d spun on your heel, angel blade raised and clutched in whitening knuckles as you leapt into the room and straight at the black-eyed man that had been moving towards Dean. So, focused on the winded hunter that he hadn’t even noticed you until you were basically on top of him. Every. Single. Time. One of those damned monsters would spot a Winchester in pain and get all hot and bothered. Making it way too easy for you to get the drop on ‘em.

You didn’t even have time to think. Relying fully on the advantage of surprise, the deadly weapon in your hand and your hunter instincts. Your blade made short work of him with one swift downward stab, right between the black-eyed bastard’s ribs. The satisfying full stop to the end of the demon’s story marked by glowing eyes as the holy blade tore him from his vessel.

Pulling your blade out, you wiped it against your jeans as you turned back to Dean. Not giving the demonic bastard anything more than a hurried once over to ensure he wasn’t moving. More out of habit than actually believing the demon had any chance against the angelic weapon clutched in your hand. Before hurrying towards where Dean had carefully started trying to get up from where he’d been flung like a ragdoll across the room. The small wince you caught before he managed to settle his features hinting at a few new bruises already forming across his back. 

“Next door?” You asked, grinning as you reached a hand out to help him up. One Dean gratefully grabbed as he smiled back at you. The adrenaline of the hunt setting in now that the jig was up. There’d be no more sneaking around. The demons knew you were there now, and they were sure to come gunning for you any second. 

Time to get this show on the road.

Dean was just back on his feet when an angry scream reached you from the other end of the hallway. The blonde young woman who met your eyes once you followed them to the source of the noise looked like she’d stepped out of some Good Housekeeping ad from the 50s. All big skirt, tulle and heavily hair sprayed bouffant styled hair. Yet, as her eyes flashed black and she came running for you, it was clear to see that this was a little less Martha Stewart and a hell of a lot more twisted Stepford Wife. 

Steeling yourself, you took a step to the left, letting Dean stand shoulder to shoulder with you. Twirling your angel blade, you took a small careful breath, steeling yourself for the inevitable loud bang that came as Dean pulled the trigger. Aiming to slow the demon down with a little dose of iron. 

However, with the skirt’s width, the shot seemed to have missed its intended target as she didn’t slow down at all. Instead the black-eyed bitch simply veered slightly in the direction of Dean and sped up as she threw herself towards him. Hands outstretched and clearly looking to cause as much damage as possible, instead of using any of her actual powers. Again. All hot and bothered at the thought of the fame that came with taking down a Winchester. It was laughable. There were much better things to be hot and bothered about around the green eyed hunter than that.

Saving your annoyed groan and eyeroll for later, you laser focused in on the demon. Acting quickly as you crouched, sliding in front of Dean before he could protest, and easily pushed your blade up and into the stomach of the Martha Stewart lookalike. Following through on your own sliding crouch to quickly roll out of the way until you were on the balls of your feet again. Missing the heavy mix of underskirts and flesh as it landed with a hefty thud where you’d been crouched just a split second before.

“Damn, that was freaking awesome,” You gasped as you looked up at Dean with a victorious grin. The worry in his green eyes easily fading as he joined you in the early celebration by pulling you up and letting a large hand make a mess of your (Y/H/C) hair. 

“Yeah, that was awesome,” He laughed, stepping around the now dead demon and not so secretly checking your bare arms for any signs of cuts or bruises. Just as worried as always about any harm coming to anyone he cared about. Eyes betraying how, if you got as much as a damned scraped knee, it’d hurt him. Though you doubted the mix of tulle and hairspray that was the now deceased demon could have caused you even that much pain.

From somewhere further into the farmhouse, you heard a gunshot, followed quickly by one more. Sam was kicking some serious ass of his own down around the back of the house. Which meant you had to hurry if you wanted to get in on any of the action. 

“Let’s go (Y/N),” Dean’s eyes were back to those of a soldier, just a hint of warm worry gliding over your body once more before he led the way deeper into the house. Hurrying to his brother’s side with quick, worried steps. 

—

You’d found Sam on your way around the back in what had probably once upon a time been a cosy little kitchen.

Two dead demons lying by his feet as the younger Winchester struggled to catch his breath after getting badly winded by one of the two. The Colt hanging limply at his side as his other hand clutched both the blade and his side. As soon as Dean saw the slight tinge of pain in his brother’s eyes he’d demanded he stay outside. 

To be the backup for the last demon as Dean went further into the farmhouse to play hide and seek with little Ms. or Mr. black eyes. 

As Sam flinched around another painful breath, he quickly relented, grabbing his weapons and giving the two of you a nod before heading outside. Where he could hopefully catch his breath easier than in the dusty confines of the abandoned farmhouse. 

Leaving him to watch the perimeter, you’d stayed by Dean’s side. Not as willing to listen to the older Winchester as his younger brother. Even when the hunter insisted he had it, you refused. 

Too many memories of earlier hunts, previous sutured wounds and broken bones, lingered in the back of your mind. You couldn’t risk him getting hurt when you were this close to a perfect game. Well… Nearly perfect if you didn’t count Sam’s momentarily winded state or Dean’s earlier violent demonic tackle against the wall.

“Think the bastard’s up there?” Dean murmured to you without taking his eyes off the stairs. Casting a quick glance towards the other possible dark hallway the demon could be hiding down before refocusing towards the stairs. His gun aimed into the darkness above as he squinted to try and get a better look. 

You only entertained the thought of splitting up for a short second. Knowing that the hunter wouldn’t let you walk down the hallway or up the rickety stairs on your own. Nor did you want to leave his side either. No, you’d go together. Even if the hunt could last a little longer that way.

“Only one way to find out,” You groaned, casting weary glances at the withered steps, wondering if they’d even hold your weight. Yet, just as you placed your foot on the first creaky step, electing to go first, a shadow fell past you. Your mind barely even registering the scrawny looking balding man jumping down from the upstairs section as you spun on the creaking step. Catching you unaware and with your angel blade limply by your side. 

“Shit!” 

The surprised yell barely left you before you had to sway dangerously backwards to avoid the demon that swiped for you. Clearly seeing you as the easier of two prey when faced with a Winchester. At least this demon didn’t just go blind to everything else when face to face with notoriety. Though, this time you kind of wished he would have at least let his gaze linger for a second longer on the green eyes hunter to give you the time to find your footing.

Feeling yourself teeter on the edge, you placed your foot back down blindly behind you. Unable to find a good steady footing for a frontal attack as the demon’s arms reached for you again, hands shaped like vicious talons where they aimed for your throat. To choke you out, break your neck or… Hell, use you as a hostage. 

Yet, before the black-eyed son of a bitch could reach you, Dean was on him. Jumping on his back and getting in a direct shot to his side that disoriented the demon for just long enough to give you time to throw Dean the angel blade he was silently gesturing for. 

Gripping your blade in his hands Dean turned around again, looking to take down the bastard in one fell swoop. Only to be tackled by the demon, who was recovering a lot quicker than you’d hoped for. 

A scream stuck in your throat as you watched Dean grapple with the scrawny man hosting the demon. Your body frozen between one moment and the next as you watched black eyes light up, and the monster go limp on top of the hunter who held your heart. 

Catching the relieved sob that threatened to explode into the suddenly deadly silent room, you watched as Dean pushed the body off of himself and got up on unsteady legs. His back turned to you as he looked down on his handiwork. 

Dean was fine.

“Thank God… You saved my neck there, I thought he got me,” You said with a shaky laugh as you finally found your voice again. Your eyes locked on Dean’s back with a small victorious smile. You got them all. Finally. 

Still even as your hesitant smile grew, Dean didn’t turn to face you. He kept standing still, head down and focused on the demon… Or maybe, something was wrong? No…

“Dean?” You could hear the early warning signs of fear and panic in your own voice as you spoke into the quiet, dark air of the abandoned farmhouse. Wishing with all your heart that the hunter was just momentarily lost in the close call. Maybe he was angry at you? You could deal with angry… Hell, you could deal with anything as long as he was alright. 

Yet, as he finally turned to face you. There wasn’t anger in his wide green eyes. Just shock and the beginnings of pain. His body swayed dangerously as he leaned against the closest wall, one hand holding onto the faded and peeling paisley wallpaper as the other went to his side. 

In the darkness of the room you couldn’t fully see the palm he barely glanced down at before looking up at you. Your shaky legs already carrying you across the room towards him, though you didn’t remember even moving.

“So, slight problem…” 

The words were barely out of the hunter’s mouth before his legs gave in under him and he collapsed against the wall. Sliding down it only to be caught by your arms just a second before he hit the ground. Wrapping your shaking arms around him you felt more than saw that this was more than just a slight problem. Warm wet blood was soaking into your jeans and coating your bare arms as you choked on a broken sob. 

Oh God… No. 

“I’m… Fine,” Dean’s voice was raspy and strained as he forced the words out. Only to be followed by a string of breathy curses and groans as he squeezed his eyes shut over another shot of searing pain. 

“No Dean… But you’ll be fine,” You tried to smile through your traitorous tears as you gently laid his head down to examine the extent of his injuries. Careful, frantic hands easily finding the large gash in his side as you suppressed another anguished cry. The demon had cut into him, deep. This wasn’t good. Oh god, this wasn’t good at all. 

“Just… Focus on me ok?” Your voice was shaky as you put pressure on the wound. Your mind racing a mile a minute as imagined nightmares and possible solutions fought for dominance in your head. You could save him. You had to save him. 

“Focus on my voice… We got them Dean. We got them. You’re fine, you’re safe. Just… Focus on me. Stay with me,” 

You needed to think. Cas wasn’t an option. The angel was low on juice lately, and with the state of his wings he was in no condition to come to your side fast enough. Maybe if you were closer to the bunker, but… God, you were terrified, you were in pain, you were fucking heartbroken. But still… 

You. Had. To. Think. 

Ignoring the pang of searing pain in your heart as the man you loved groaned out in agony from the added pressure, you tried to steady your breathing. You had to stay calm. You had to… For Dean. He was losing a lot of blood and you needed to act fast if you wanted to save him. Stem the bleeding, get him help, save his life…

Dean still had Sam and you. You’d save him. You just needed to make your fucking frazzled mind work and think.

---

Make your choice below to move the story along:

What do you choose to do?

[Call for help] or [Rush him to the car]

---

Confused or New to Choices? Start Here Choices is an interactive Supernatural choose your own adventure story where you pick your Winchester brother and go on a hunt for one of 8 different endings in total. Four for Sam and four for Dean (2 happy and 2 bad endings per brother). Go to the intro to start your story!

---

[littlemisslol-fic]

Varigo week continues!!! @alistairwrites these prompts are so fun omg

Day Two: First Kiss 😘😘

They said that if you wanted a favor, you could always go ask the Witch of the Iron Wood.

 Varian’s sure it’s bullshit, of course it is. Witches aren’t real- the only magic that he’s ever come across is from artifacts and space rocks; things that, no matter how you looked at it, are already goddamn weird to start with. Magic is just a type of power they have yet to harness, something celestial and ancient- but within the parameters of science.

 He’s never believed the rumours, that if you went to the woods bordering Corona and the Iron Kingdom and walked so deep into the woods you risked getting lost, you might come across the esteemed witch. For a price, they said, the witch would grant you a single wish and be done with you. Your debt would be paid, and you’d wake up in your own bed without a clue as to how you got there, with your wish fulfilled. Varian’s never believed it, never wanted to believe it- he’s a man of science, damn it, and he’ll stick to science, thank you very much.

 But…

 Then his dad had gotten sick.

 Something in Quirin’s lungs- potentially too many cold mornings working in the field, maybe too long trapped in the amber, or perhaps just a stroke of bad luck- had festered and eaten away at him, leaving the man nearly bedridden in a matter of weeks. Varian, only twenty, had been forced to listen as the doctor recommended that Quirin start writing an airtight will, just in case, to assure that Varian would be taken care of in case… in case Quirin didn’t make it.

 Varian had worked himself into a tizzy, refusing to leave his father’s side, brewing medicine and other alchemical solutions in an attempt to find a cure, a fix-it, something, anything, to save his father. But nothing had worked, and Varian was at his wits end.

 So when someone had spoken of their own failed trek to find the witch, Varian- desperate as he was- had packed a bag and started running.

 It was a long shot, longer than he liked to think, but if there was even a semblance of a chance that this Witch of the Iron Wood could help his father… then Varian was willing to try. So he’d packed a bag, left his father in the competent care of Old Corona’s best physician, and had started the three-day trek to the Iron Wood.

 The forest was ancient, and it wore its years well. Grand trees stood nearly thirty meters tall, gnarled and drooping with ivy and vines, covered every inch of the woods in a way that suffocated light and sound. Standing at the threshold Varian had nearly turned back- what good was he to his father if he ended up lost in the woods… or dead?- but the memory of Quirin’s pale face and limp chest spurred him forwards, allowing the woods to swallow him whole.

 He’d wandered for a two days, tripping over twisted roots and sleeping in trees to keep himself away from curious wildlife. It’s on the third day, when Varian’s well and truly lost, that he stumbles upon the cabin. It’s plain, humble. well kept but obviously old in the way the creeping ivy had grown close around the building, digging deep into the stone over the course of years.

 It's set in a small clearing, surrounded by a lush garden of herbs and plants Varian has no name for- he’s never been one for the apothecary side of the sciences- and a prim, well built fence. It’s a modest cabin, made of cobblestone and thick wooden timbers, with a single chimney merrily spitting a small plume of smoke. The windows are large, and Varian can catch sight of rows of plants poking out from under the curtains inside.

 The cabin is warm, inviting.

 Suspicious.

 Varian approaches with caution, walking forwards with a tenseness to his shoulders. He can’t be sure if this the cabin, or just a cabin, but it’s best to approach as if it were a trap- better to be wrong and look strange, than be too casual and end up dead. Birdsong rings through the calm clearing; sunlight beams down in shining pillars that sets the grass aglow. He doesn’t trust it for a second.

 There’s a little stone path that leads up to the front door. Varian follows it with a measured step, ignoring the happy little bees that gently float between the flowers. For all he knows, this is a trap. The Witch of the Iron Wood could be a con artist, a thief, hell, even an actual witch who wasn’t super into the idea of helping people so much as sacrificing them for weird witch-spells.

 Magic bullshit. Can’t be too careful.

 Still, Varian wasn’t raised in a barn; when he reaches the oak front door he still knocks like a normal person, and waits for an answer. It doesn’t come. Curiously, he raises his hand to knock against the old door again, only for the door to swing wide open by itself with a long, drawn out creak of old hinges.

 “Oh, that’s creepy.” Varian mutters to himself, peeking into the dark interior of the cabin beyond. “Super creepy.”

 He peeks behind himself, looking back down the path with a grimace. He could just turn around, go home… but then what if Quirin wasn’t improving? What if he was worse, and Varian had turned away from an option to save him because he was scared? Varian’s hands clench at the thought, so tightly he can feel his nails through his gloves. He turns back around and gazes into the darkness in front of him.

 Teeth grit, Varian walks forwards into the cabin.

 The interior of the building is just as well maintained as the exterior. The room Varian steps into is a great room of some sort, a larger space with a small kitchen pushed to the side and a series of mismatched, but well loved, couches and chairs surrounding a large fireplace in the very center of the room. Hanging above the fireplace is a large cauldron, filled to the brim with a smoking, bright purple concoction. The light from outside filters through the wall of plants Varian had noticed while outside, keeping the interior relatively dark.

 “This place just keeps getting creepier,” Varian grumbles into the empty air, approaching the cauldron with hesitant steps.

 “Well, thank you, I built it myself.” Comes a snarky voice from behind, startling Varian into flinging himself forwards, hiding behind the cast iron cauldron. For a brief second, he considers making a break for the door-

 Which slams shut of its own accord.

 Perfect.

 Varian risks a peek up and over the edge of the cauldron, the steam hazing his vision over as he crouches on the floorboards. Before him stands a blond man, looking at Varian with an expectant expression. It tugs at his pale face in an attractive way, tilts his glasses askew in a way that compliments the choppy blond hair and pony tail the taller boy sports. He’s dressed in green, a similar shade to his honestly stunning eyes and-

 Wow. Wow okay time to tone that down.

 Varian peeks over the lip of the cauldron a little more, sizing the taller man up. The other stands between Varian and the door, he’d have to get around him to get out-

 “So, what is it that you want?” The blond asks, and Varian realizes how out of place he is.

 “I- sorry!” Varian crows, stepping back from the cauldron as if it’d burnt him. “Sorry, the door was open, and I’m actually looking for someone that lives out here, and-”

 “Listen.” Blondie cuts him off. “I know that you’re here to ask your favour, so. What is it? Gold, immortality, love? I don’t have all day, spit it out.”

 “I-”

 “Wait, no, I bet you I can guess. You look like a nerd, something to do with fame? Glory?”

 “No!”

 Blondie raises a brow. There’s a brief second of pause, before Varian finally fully creeps out from behind the cauldron. He takes a breath. For dad, he thinks.

 “My name is Varian,” He starts. The blond man raises a brow, looking rather confused to be given a name. “What’s yours?”

 “H-Hugo.” The blond stutters a bit, like he wasn’t ready to be asked that. Varian smiles.

 “Hugo,” He repeats. “Nice to meet you. Are you the one everyone’s been calling a witch?”

 “Sure am.” Hugo replies, taking a step forward. Varian feels his face light up, even as he’s passed by in lieu of the cauldron. Hugo begins to stir the liquid, looking at it judgementally. He twists around towards one of the plants on the windowsill, plucking a leaf off it and tossing it in. The mixture goes a shade of green, not unlike pea soup.

 “Great!” Varian chirps, “I was wondering if you’d be able to help me?”

 “Yeah, your wish, right?” Hugo mutters, “That’s all anyone ever cares about. So what is it you want?”

 “I- that’s a little sad.” Varian says, “No one ever just visits you?”

 “Nope,” Hugo says, popping the p. “And neither did you, so spit it out.”

 “My… my father is sick.” Varian finally says, looking to the floor. “I’ve tried everything I can think of to help him get better, but nothing works.”

 Hugo pauses in his stirring, looking back to Varian with a calculating look. “You realize you could ask for anything, right?” He says, “Eternal life, endless fortune, riches beyond your wildest dreams.”

 “I didn’t think that was real.” Varian replies, frankly. “I thought you would just be a skilled healer. That’s all I was looking for.”

 “Just medicine.” Hugo says, as if he thinks it’s a joke. His face twists into something confused when Varian nods.

 “Just medicine.” The shorter of them says with conviction. “Nothing else. Whatever your price is, I’ll pay it; I just want my father to be well again.”

 Hugo looks to Varian like he’s grown a second head. Varian looks at him with a schooled expression, choking back the anxiety boiling in his gut. If this didn’t work, if this Hugo couldn’t help him, then Quirin would surely not have long left-

 “Fine.” Hugo says, “I think that’s a stupid wish, but who am I to stop you from throwing it away?”

 Varian’s expression must do something stupid, because Hugo laughs. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” He mutters, reaching forwards towards Varian with a grin. The shorter of them feels his face heat up in a blush, going red at their sudden closeness, but winces when Hugo reaches up and tugs a single strand of hair from his hair.

 “Ow,” Varian whines, rubbing at the spot the hair had been tugged from. “Why’d you do that?”

 “Ingredients.” Hugo chides, “And unless you’re going to stop asking stupid questions, you can go wait outside.”

 Varian pauses at that, quietly taking a seat on one of the chairs. Hugo looks at him with another questioning expression, but eventually the blond shrugs. “Suit yourself.” He mutters, and goes back to his work.

 Varian watches with rapt attention as herbs and other ingredients get tossed into the cauldron in precise amounts, the mixture going every colour of the rainbow over the next hour. Hugo works quickly, focused on his… potion? Elixir? Varian’s not sure what to call it actually. While Varian keeps from asking questions, that doesn’t stop him from watching with a keen eye as the mixture continues to bubble. After an hour, it eventually turns a rather pleasant shade of lilac purple and stops smoking. Hugo looks smug about it, so Varian assumes the mixture must be finished.

 Hugo takes a small pipette from a nearby shelf of strange looking glass instruments- Varian would kill to be able to know what they all did, though Hugo doesn’t seem apt to share- and uses the tool to transfer some of the mixture into a small, glass vial. He does this three more times, making a total of four, before placing them into a small bag.

 “And done.” Hugo says, more to himself than to Varian. He twists around with a smarmy grin, holding the bag out. Varian looks at it with a sense of wonderous apprehension, reaching out a hand but stopping himself before he can touch the crushed red velvet. He stands from the couch, pursing his lips.

 “What’s the trade?” He asks without malice, but with a hefty amount of suspicion. Hugo’s smile draws wider, and Varian brings his hand fully back to his chest. Always a catch, with magic, something cynical in him groans, absolute bullshit.

 “Well,” Hugo muses, “There’s always things that I need from around, though to be honest I’m pretty stocked up on anything I could want.”

 “Surely there’s something?” Varian says with a hint of panic- Hugo wouldn’t make the stupid potion only to refuse to trade Varian for it, right? The previous anxiety rears its head again; stupid magic, honestly, always being so contrived.

 “There is one thing,” Hugo muses, eyes trailing on Varian’s face. The shorter man feels himself blush again as Hugo steps close, cupping his chin in a way that feels scarily intimate for someone he’s only just met. “One, tiny thing…” Hugo says, trailing off. Varian can’t help but feel a little thrill, pressing closer, unconsciously, to the extremely attractive man in front of him.

 “Anything.” Varian says with a small grin of his own, having half an idea of where Hugo might be going with this from the way the blond’s gaze lingers on Varian’s own lips. He’s not against it, not at all; Varian’s not the type, usually, but something about the blond in front of him draws him in. Hugo’s smile widens at the permission, leaning forwards.

 It’s a chaste kiss, a little too soft and sweet for strangers, but one that Varian can say he enjoys. He’s never been kissed before, but if this is what it’s like- the smooth press of lips against his own, the soft feeling of a body pressed up against his front- suddenly all those romantic ballads make a lot more sense.

 Varian’s eyes slip closed, barely registering as the bag is slipped into his hands. After what could be hours, or merely seconds, Hugo pulls back. Varian keeps his eyes closed, hoping to entice the blond to come back and kiss him again.

 “Have your father drink that twice a day, every twelve hours.” Hugo says, his tone somewhat sad. When Varian opens his eyes again, he is standing in his bedroom, alone. He brings up a dazed hand to lightly touch at his lips, blinking in shock.

 The sudden silence rings in his ears.  

 BANNER

 “Well, Olivia.” Hugo says to his beloved pet, “Another few hours to go, and then we’ll break for dinner.”

 He’s out in his garden, weeding. Nimble, long fingers deftly pull undesirable plants from his herbs, tossing them into a nearby pile. Oliva, small little mouse that she is, does her own work of yanking out the smaller plants, working on her own pile. Hugo smiles as she chirps her assent at his idea, plopping a rogue dandelion on her pile with a squeak.

 It had been nearly a week since Varian had come to ask for his favour from Hugo- the blond couldn’t help but miss his company, to be honest. After the few hours they’d spent together, Hugo found himself to be a little enamoured. Hugo’s had dealt with every thrill seeker in the book, those who came to his cabin demanding fame, or glory, or riches, but he’d yet to encounter someone who had been so willing to make the dangerous walk to Hugo’s home for the sake of a family member. Varian had asked his name before asking for his help, had commented that it was sad that no one visited him. He’d been��� genuine. Nice. Treated Hugo’s skills like they were less something to be demanded, and more like a gift to be asked for. He had been sweet, and it made something in Hugo bitter.

 It was a lonely life, out in the woods, but a peaceful one. Hugo was willing to live alone if it meant he was mostly left to his own devices, though times like when Varian had arrived, he couldn’t help but feel the sting of the isolation creeping in. Perhaps that was why he’d asked for the kiss, though now Hugo felt rather stupid about it. What else could he have asked from Varian? Something more useful for sure. Supplies, food, anything really to save him a walk. But instead his stupid brain had seen a pretty boy and gone totally blank. Hugo can’t help but be a little concerned at that- if he started giving things out for free, he’d surely be in trouble when winter rolled around. 

 Oliva squeaked again, this time something that sounded concerned. Hugo looked up from his plot of dirt to see her rush over to him, the little mouse scrambling up his shirt to perch on his shoulder. He looked up to where she had come from, seeing a familiar figure standing on the edge of the grove.

 “Hi, Hugo!” Varian said with a grin, holding up a small basket. “I was wondering if you wanted some company?”

 Hugo… short circuits. “What?” He asks dumbly as Varian walks towards him. The shorter man pauses at the gate, his face asking to be let in. Hugo nods, still stunned as Varian- Varian had come back????- lets himself in and strides over to Hugo with a smile.

 “Well, you said no one ever came to visit.” Varian said softly, “So I thought I’d change that.”

 “You… don’t want anything?” Hugo asks, struck stupid.

 “Well, I mean, I want to talk to you.” Varian flushes, biting at his lip. “And I wanted to thank you. And so does my dad! He helped me make this for you.” Varian shoves the basket at Hugo with a sudden motion, as if embarrassed to have it now that he’s dragged it all the way here.

 “He’s doing better, then?” Hugo says, taking the basket without thinking. It’s got some weight to it. A peek under the lid shows about four loaves of fresh bread, tucked away and kept good by a thick towel.

 “Much, thank you.” Varian says earnestly, “He was up and walking the day after I came to see you.”

 “That’s good.” Hugo muses, lost in thought. No one had ever come back to see him after they’d gotten their wish, let alone to thank him and bring him another gift.

 Varian nods with a smile, one that’s bright and happier than the one he’d worn before. Hugo likes it on him. “It’s fantastic.” He breathes, “I owe you more than you could ever know.”

 “Nah, we’re even.” Hugo says, flushing at the memory of Varian’s lips on his. “Your debt’s been paid.”

 “Oh,” Varian says, looking sideways. “Well, I mean, if you’re sure you don’t want to- uh. Again. Never mind.”

 Oh.

 Oh.

 “Hm.” Hugo muses, catching on quick, “Actually, you know, I think something went wrong the first time.” 

 Varian perks up at that, looking to Hugo with a small grin. “Oh?” He asks, “Should we- maybe…”

 “Sorry, goggles.” Hugo shrugs, leaning forwards, “Looks like we’ll need a second payment.”

 “Aw, shucks.” Varian rolls his eyes, leaning forwards with a smirk, “Whatever am I going to do?”

 “Eh, we’ll figure it out. Put you on a repayment plan.” Hugo grins, teasing for just a second more before Varian grabs him by the collar and drags Hugo down into a fiery kiss, their smiles melding together in the quiet of the grove. When they split for air, Varian smiles.

 “I can live with that,” He says, and Hugo can feel the grin splitting his face as he leans back down.

 Their third kiss is the best one yet.