#sharp snapping sound from within my crypt

[cloudninetonine]

*walks on in tiredly, waves, hands you a basket of cookies, does not elaborate* Hey, so how you've been doing? So, about Wane getting jumped this chapter- *throws this at you and runs* Turns out past Summer is an idiot who wrote too much and had to split it in two parts because Tumblr asks have a character limit, this week has been kicking my butt and I've no idea you've been cool with me tagging you, apologies if it's not too good/short, literally finished splitting this in a fit of sleep deprivation during a rough week and saving my energy to yell about the new chapters of Player's Aid (how does it feel to be created by Nayru herself? Because I've been going FERAL Monarch Cumulonimbus/Cloud) and being intrigued by your Linksonas (never thought I'd simp for them but here we are! Just saying, Iron and Crypt can get it ngl, great design choices and their lore literally activates my history nerd hyper fixation mode), so have this for now before I pass out xD

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You couldn't believe your ears. Convinced you'd finally cracked, gone fully and truly mad, that the thorns and roots and flowers of Hyrule had finally sank their greedy seeds into your soul and made you finally unhinged and insane while taking root.

Did they really...?

The person in the dark green cloak with their brilliant, verdant eye seemed to recover faster, hackles raised, their tone snapping and sharp, a fox with it's tail caught in a trap, irritable and biting and willing to bite their own limbs off to escape even as they shakily took a red potion from their pilfered Sheikah Slate, downing it like a shot, "Look, I know I'm the farthest thing from merciful, but I've had a rough week alright? Can't we save the bad time for when I'm not already on the ground? Real question right now."

"No!" You spoke, you cringe at the volume of your tone, looking around wildly (pointedly not glancing at the downed man at the strangers side) and the shade similarly lurches back, hissing like a cornered snake in the face of a mongoose, alert and wary, the shadows did nothing to settle your nerves, nor did the sweet and nauseating combination of rot, sickness, blood and death rancid in the air, settling agaisnt the back of your throat and chocking your lungs in poisonous fumes, but no sound besides the stranger's shaky breaths and those of the chosen of Hylia broke the tentative peace. Breathing, your hands twist the chain your fairy loved traveler gave you, grounding as you felt like falling and falling and falling, your tone weak, but you would not break "That's... Not what I meant. I just... You know about that game, you're not from here, either." Tentative hope falls from within your lips, dripping like the nectar of life you'd bled and shed already today, fragile as a flower, easily crushed.

Something about that made the stranger pause, gloved fingers twitching over the Sheikah Slate's item inventory, they peer at you from within the shadows of their hood, their emerald gaze that of an assessing, wild, wild beast, and you felt as scrapped raw as those first days in the land of divinity and legends and heroes and princesses and ever cycling conflict, torn asunder as they searched you for something you couldn't begin to describe, and found it, softening as tired understanding fell upon their shoulders like a mourner's shroud, someone who had returned to the mine and only found the canary's remains, "... No. No I'm not, and neither are you, huh kid?"

It wasn't a question. Though you wanted to contest being called a kid, you nod silently anyway.

They sigh, running a hand through their face with a low curse, "For Christ's sake, I really want to deck Hylia in the face right about now. That no good glow stick chicken really fucked it up this time for two of us to be around here now."

You couldn't help it, you laugh, an ugly, slightly hysterical cackle, nails on chalkboard, pitched agony from trying so hard to keep it together, but relieved, "You go for the face while I go for the knees?" You joked.

(You weren't alone in this.)

That made them bark a laugh, getting up, seemingly satisfied with their pilfered loot, a good quality spear and sword, the chain around their arm clinks as they toss you a bow and a full quiver you catch on instinct, silently thanking your Champion and Rancher and the Old Man for teaching you how to handle a bow before all this mess as they picked up W- your champion's twisted reflection with a huff (Wither, it's Wither, like decay, sickness, weakness and death. Not Wild. Chaotic but not Wild. Not magnolias and silent princesses and clear spring water after storms and howling forest winds. Not your hero), and tossed him without ceremony in an empty cell, locking it tight and placing the key in the slate, grinning slightly, though you couldn't tell if it was purely out of reassurance or from the strangled (and satisfying) grunt of pain his carcass made as he hit the dungeon's floor, they come closer to you with slow, careful steps, almost making no sound in spite of their heels, liminal like smoke. Like the world didn't have a proper grasp of their fleeting existence, "Sounds like a fair deal to me, if you've been through half as much nonsense as I did then you too deserve to commit some emotionally cathartic deicide." They examine you with their eyes, green and (e/c), mismatched and unknowable in their thoughts, a small frown on their face as they offer you a red potion, "Though no offense, you don't look quite in the shape to fight god yet kid, Jesus, did you get into a scuffle with a malice infected Lynel? Point me to who jumped you, I'll return the favor before we bust out of here."

You tense, memories from earlier in the night coming to mind-

(Conquest coming to stand guard, you nicking yourself on the broken blade you've been carefully using to pick the lock of where the Master Sword had been locked away with you, the scuffle between teeth and claw and you wrapping the iron chain you've kept concealed in your neck around his own, the hair raising, bone shaking agonizing screeching crushing open your ribcage and curling around your lungs with horror and terror as your hands felt the iron heat up with hunger. As you prayed and prayed you'd never have to hear such a sound leave your lovely, kind, sweet traveler's throat as well as the memory sunk into your very marrow and you were so sorry-)

You breath, taking the potion, wrinkling your nose slightly at it but downing it like a shot under the green clad escapee's careful watch, as you cringed from the taste you almost didn't catch their wording while trying to get the bile to retreat to your bowels where it belonged, "No, Downfall Hero, he's out for now. I'm sure I could take her- wait, we?"

"The inverted Changeling?" They hiss empathetically, though sounding impressed, you couldn't see why, as you were sure his screams would forever be etched into your mind, it's nothing to be proud of, "No wonder you look in such rough shape, the Fae are ruthless and he'd be specially troublesome given his Hyrule is a downright mess, abyss touched dragon he is. Though that saves half the work... If he and this mongrel are down for the count, then that takes two of the most troublesome one's out already. Missing two now, take the space to breath and rest up for now ok? You'll need to save your strength to make a break for it, riding on horseback or going on foot won't be a picnic either way." They raise an eyebrow, or at least you think they do, their tone disbelieving, a hand scrolling though the slate while the other offers you a wet cloth, "Yes? You're a Guide as well, no?"

"That's what everyone's been telling me ever since I got Isekaied here, doesn't mean I have noticed any difference besides Lady Luck's tendency to like fucking me over more than usual," you grumble, tone bitter as you trade them the empty bottle for the rag, you examine their arm carefully to attempt to push the memory away, silently thanking the regard as you clean your hands and collarbones off of blood, you don't think you could take anyone touching you right now, much less a kind but plain odd stranger. most of the surface is covered by dark gloves and ceremonial jewelry, claws tipped green with magic.

They nod, seemingly to themselves as they take a bundle from the slate with a small 'Aha!', and an adventurer's pouch whom you hear a faint clinking from, "Even more reason for me not to leave you then. What with the way things are."

"Why...?" You start, but close your mouth with a click, wary and bitterly amused, the you from before wouldn't have questioned it, would have accepted help from a stranger in this time in a heart beat, but you've learned, watching them wearily, you were tired, but you'd be darned if you had to deal with the same situation you did with the Shadow, where you almost died for the first time.

They look and sound genuine, but so did Abyss, before you noticed the glint of teeth and the sleeping, starved lindworm at the bottom of the chasm of his soul, you wouldn't make the same mistake again so easily.

They sigh, turning to you with a hand on their hip, you think they flinch a bit, still pained from their wounds but they level you with a serious gaze, tone soothing but firm as the roots of a tree, "You don't trust me. I get it. Under normal circunstances I would honestly just get the heck out of dodge on my own and be done with it because I don't trust you either. But two heads are better than one, and I refuse to give that dollar store, after Halloween knock off of Nightmare from FNAF 4 a single inch when it's already taken a mile." Their grip on their spear shifts, cracks run along the lonsdaleite shell of their unwavering will, ruined, but not broken, and it's so, so much like the echo of the fox clawing agaisnt your ribcage and howling with the wish to go home it makes you ache, "I have people to protect, friends I can't neglect by dying here. And either I'll kill that abomination and devour it's heart so that it won't hurt anyone ever again, or it will stop at nothing or anyone to devour The Guide and wear it's soul like a crown. It's a wounded animal looking for a way to heal and I refuse to let that vulture take from anyone else's flesh. It's not about trust, (Player), it's about plain fucking common sense and doing whatever it takes for the sake of survival." Their gaze tears through you, emerald on sapphire, wild, ruinous, but understanding on frayed, raw franticness, as they gut open the reality of the matter at hand and drop the organs at your feet, "But you already know that, don't you? I'll give you two choices: come with me while you still can, and I'll stop at nothing until you get back home or until you get someplace safe, or you can proceed alone while I burn this place to ash, choice is yours, I'm just trying to do something good for once." They growl, the fox is howling again, trapped and agitated, but not at you, they look at you steadily, itching to run but kind enough to look back, "Those people are not the hero I vowed to follow, so I don't see why I shouldn't do everything to even just mildly inconvenience them, you're a fellow Guide and were further removed from the exits than even myself, that tells me enough."

You take in a shaky, fragile breath. You've never told them your name.

Suspicion bites and pecks at your soul like a murder of crows, you were tired, you were scared, you could see that desire to run reflected in them, to not look back before you got teeth agaisnt your neck and claws dragging you down into the deep river that was despair and hopelessness, to let your weariness win.

"What's the plan?"

So you couldn't even begin to tell anyone why you looked back.

Maybe it was spite, to not let the torment you've seen while leashed to these so called 'heroes' side like a beaten dog take from you the kindness that made you human, maybe it's the protectiveness you felt towards your boys, the rekindled anger at the very thought of the Shadow gaining a single edge on them that made your vision go red, your blood become the lava and magma at the heart of Eldin, and the wounded vixen in your heart howl and snarl with the cold hunt of the deity trapped in the mask. Fury beating like the drum's of Din's booming, uncaring laughter as she jeered and taunted for war.

Or maybe it was because your Links rubbed off on you, the Chain did repeatedly say that their instincts kept them alive. Something about the person in front of you felt like a kindred spirit, like looking in a mirror, and the glittering diamond of their conviction to keep you safe felt like a promise you'd hear from Time, from Hyrule or Wild or heck even Legend, the prat.

And anyone with a tone like that would surely do their best to keep that promise, or die trying.

They blink at you, visible eye wide, before smiling, cerulean with relief, before passing you one of their pouches with a wink, the softness of comfort turning into the blade's edge of viciousness, "First, we are closing your wounds and wrapping your hands, those look like a bitch to move around with. Then we blow up the corridor where you came from and the stairs leading to here, that should keep these two fairly busy."

You send them a dry look, "Says the person almost sliced clean in half."

"Shh, this ain't about me." They poke you on the chest sternly. You snort, but come over anyway, careful not to make too much noise, it draws a smile across their face as they take the bandages and a second cloth to start patching you up, your back to the wall and theirs to the corridor, head lightly cocked, it reminds you vaguely of Twilight, listening like so even when in Hylian form, "Take out the Twili Touched. If possible the veteran too, they'd be troublesome to shake off and we need to minimize their tracking chances. I could probably stall the Sky Beast enough to take the Master Sword that dowsing would be downright impossible to shake and a pain in the ass-

"No need, it's with me. I took it after downing Conquest."

They seem to blue screen, you can practically hear the record scratch as they stare at you blankly, then moves on, "... Wow. Okay. I hope you know I would die for you."

"Now that's a bit much."

They laugh, but move on, snickering, before their tone turns serious. "Alright, so, avoid Chrono, the sailor and Conflict at all costs, the shattered hero is manageable as long as his Shadow Link decided to forsake him, Abyss too even if he would be as much of a nightmare to face, he has less stamina than the unwanted animal so all you need to do is out last him. Those three though? I mean it, you see those bastards? You. don't. engage. You run, run and don't look back no matter what you hear, I can handle myself and I have a score to settle and enough rage to keep me alive until I do it, you don't have half my experience though and I sure hope you won't ever have it, so when I tell you to run, you run, go it? I'm not about to test our luck here if Lady Luck or Hylia or Demise himself have decided to screw with us."

You shiver, you'd much rather not talk about Chrono, but something about their wording makes you pause, "Chrono I get, even if your confidence deeply alarms yet reassure me, why Cyclone and Conflict though?"

Your fellow guide seems to groan, artificial hand running through their face as they start setting up remote bombs on the stairwell from which you came, "Kid has the Wind Waker. Usually I wouldn't be down for punting a small child, I'm an asshole though not that kind of asshole, but if that little menace remembers he has it we are both screwed."

Fuck, they're right, "Aah, song of control, my bad, what about Conflict though?"

"He's dangerous, a snake in wolf clothing and a soldier to boot, if he's running with this circus of unhinged clowns then that probably means he did something so bad even the royal guard would have issues with." Craein clicks their tongue, spitting blood to the side, "I don't want to find out what that was to put it bluntly."

You wince a bit, they are absolutely right, if both of your suspicions are right, then Conflict is arguably the more personally dangerous one besides Chrono, a cautionary tale wrapped in the illusion of a perfect prince and soldier from a fairy tale, a lie within a lie. And people like that are red flags dripping blood upon the floor that even the blind, deaf and mute would rather allow Gleeok or Lynels to rip them to shreds than face the nightmare pretending to be a daydream utilizing your sweet captain's skin. The other Guide also rightfully deduced so and likely wanted to chance it as little as possible.

... Which makes what you're going to say probably make you sound absolutely insane.

"... I don't think we have to worry about him for now, actually."

Their hooded head snap towards you so fast, you almost think you hear something crack, their tone concerned, "What do you mean, hun?" They don't even wait for you to answer, looking you over carefully as you hunch your shoulders protectively, visible alarm flaring to life in the evergreen of fheir gaze, their hands tremble around the slate, "(Player), what did he-?!" They cut themselves off, head tilted, before their eye narrows, handing you one of their pouches, it smells vaguely like spice's, and taking fhe cloak they've stolen from Wither, shoving you onto a darkened pillar by an open cell, chains clacking together, "Someone's coming. Either Wane or Abyss, I hear chainmail. I'll wear them down and either take them out or give us an opportunity for escape, if it's Wane, you wait until I yell and throw this at him okay? Time for your first lesson in how to fuck up a dog's sense of smell so badly it may never be any good for tracking again. We can talk about this later where I'll surely give you a lecture my lioness of a princess would be proud of."

"Wait- wait! How do you-!" They throw something over your shoulders and face, their nephrite colored hood, the scent of silent princesses and, the Faron Woods and strangely enough magnolia's and spider lillies flooding your nose as you glare at them, readjusting the hood over your face.

And feel your heart and blood freeze.

It's your face, your eye staring back at you. A twisted reflection, a Silent Princess necklace attached to the choker around their neck and fangs for earrings, the symbol of Farore etched onto the metal holding fhen together. Tired and older and jaded. Like looking at the ruins of your own soul and not knowing wether to flinch or cry.

Or maybe just give them a hug, for all they look like you you're certain you've never looked this battered. They look like they could use it and frankly, you could go for one too.

The person with your face, no, you, smile, awkward and tired and hollow, but no surprised holding your hood down with their artificial hand, you can only see the reassuring curve of their smile, warm in spite of tragedy, growth where lighting struck, "I'll explain all of it when we leave here, okay? For now, just call me Craein, and follow me. I'll guide your way."

And, after putting the hood of Wither's hood up and concealing their clothing as much as possible, they dive into the shadows to wait. Just as you hear footsteps finally reaching the stairs of the dungeon.

Wane.

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To be continued...

(Not Pictured:

Craein: I have two people to protect and that number just went up, I'm not leaving you and the most wonderful people in my life behind like that.

Meanwhile, with the Chain

Fia and Una (aka the most wonderful people Craein knows): *record scratch as Una is on top of Fia with her axe to his throat while he tries using his iteration of Fi/a broadsword to try and pry her off like a one would a crowbar*)

SUMMER EVERY WORD OF THIS WAS LIKE A JEWEL SEWED INTO THE FABRIC OF THE MOST BEAUTIFUL GOWN GOD I LOVED EVERY MOMENT OF THIS AND I CAN'T WAIT FOR THE NEXT PART!!!!!

ALSO YOU CAN MOST CERTAINLY TAG ME IN ANYTHING!!!! I saw your tag and was reading but I kept getting interrupted 😭😭😭😭😭😭

AND YOU'RE TOO KIND!! NAYRU HERSELF!?!?! I'M JUST A HUMBLE FANFICTION AUTHOR!!!

Liking my Linksonas too? I'm so glad- I've always wanted my characters to reach this level of popularity IUSGDF

[asweetprologue]

deep in the coffin of your chest

Octoberfest 13: Possession (whumptober #15)

Something was wrong. Jaskier knew it instantly, in the way a deer knows when it’s been spotted by a wolf, the way a field mouse feels in the shadow of a hawk. Jaskier was sitting on the other side of the charcoal circle they’d drawn up, finishing the second to last of the runes. It looked like yrden, mostly, just a more permanent trap. Geralt had wanted to snare the wraith for easier dispatch, knowing that the fight would be harder without a talisman to burn. Jaskier helped as much as he was able, looking carefully over the lines Geralt had sketched out in his notebook before moving to fill in the runes on the floor. The smooth marble of the mausoleum accepted the marks easily, neat little lines of soot almost hidden from view. The air was still, the smell of damp stone and faint decay hanging around them. Geralt had finished his own side and looked over the work with a satisfied hum, and then something in his posture had changed. 

He looked the same, was the thing. Nothing had changed. There were no flickering lights, no rush of wind, nothing to indicate that a malevolent force had arrived. But the way Geralt was holding his head was suddenly a little off, his expression when he looked up at Jaskier just a bit too flat. Something wasn’t right. Jaskier had barely one more line to do before the circle was complete, but he hesitated. 

“Geralt?” he said, unsure. “Are you alright?”

It was like a switch being flipped. For a moment, everything was still, Geralt’s face utterly emotionless. And then, in the blink of an eye, rage unlike anything Jaskier had ever seen stole over his features and a growl filled the room. It rumbled through the room like thunder, echoing through the alcoves and into the vaulted ceiling above them. 

Jaskier dropped the charcoal. It clattered softly to the ground near his knee. 

“Geralt, what’s wrong? What -” Jaskier didn’t have time to finish, because Geralt was standing with all the fluid grace of a seasoned witcher and stalking towards him. Jaskier scrambled to his feet, heart pounding. He’d never felt scared of Geralt before, but something about the slow prowl towards him made the long lost prey part of his brain scream run run run! Geralt’s pupils were wide, black entirely swallowing up the lovely gold, and he looked angry. Jaskier turned, seized by a sudden panic, but Geralt closed the distance too quickly. The witcher slammed into him, shoving Jaskier back against the wall hard enough to knock the wind out of him. He floundered for breath as Geralt stepped towards him again, unable to get his bearings before fingers were grabbing his forehead and slamming his head back into the stone wall of the crypt. 

Jaskier’s vision swam. Spots danced in front of his eyes as pain exploded from the back of his skull, instantly making his stomach lurch. He gasped, reeling at the shock of the blow and the betrayal. Geralt would never hurt him. He wouldn’t. But whatever this was, it wasn’t Geralt. Jaskier could tell, squinting at him through watering eyes. Geralt would never look at him with such hatred. “Geralt, snap out of it!” 

There was a blow to his gut, not as hard as Jaskier knew Geralt could deliver but hard enough that he could hear the faint groan of his ribs. It bowled him over, one hand going to cradle his abused stomach while the other blindly reached for Geralt’s shoulder. Seeking support even when it was he who’d dealt the blow. It was a mistake; Geralt grabbed his arm and twisted, tackling Jaskier to the ground. He couldn’t keep his injured head from banging against the floor again, and the repeat impact made Jaskier’s vision go black for a long moment. Huge, warm hands were pinning him down, an ongoing growl reverberating through the chamber. 

Jaskier lashed out, blindly reaching to try and slap Geralt’s face or knee him out of the way. It must have come as a surprise, because both blows landed and the growl stopped with a startled huff of breath. Jaskier blinked his eyes open in time to see the witcher flinch back a bit, fury twisting his features. Seeing an opening, Jaskier tried to wriggle away. His head was swimming, but he tried his best to struggle free of Geralt’s grasp. Whatever was possessing him couldn’t do this. It couldn’t be allowed to use Geralt against him. 

It didn’t matter. Geralt recovered easily and grabbed Jaskier by the leg, pulling him back into place with a snarl. Jaskier met his eyes, looking for any recognition, but was met with hateful indifference. It hurt worse than any of the blows Geralt had rained down on his body, cutting through his chest like a blade. Geralt looked at him with impersonal vehemence, and Jaskier felt despair flood through him. Whatever had Geralt, it had him completely. Jaskier felt hot breath over his jugular as Geralt leaned down, violence in every line of the body above him. He choked on a sob. This was more powerful than either of them. Jaskier was going to die. And if he escaped with his own life, Geralt would be devastated. 

Jaskier's hands came up to clutch at Geralt's back, holding him close even as his body screamed for him to try and fight. His heart was pounding so hard he thought it might burst in his chest. He'd never felt fear like this - Geralt's sharp teeth were inches from Jaskier's neck, ready to tear him open at any moment. Jaskier felt a tear slip down over his cheek, falling back towards his hair. Geralt's entire body was drawn tight above him, shaking. 

"It's okay," Jaskier gasped. He raised a hand to card it desperately through Geralt's hair, his thumb barely brushing over his clenched jaw. "It's okay, Geralt, it's okay. I forgive you. It's not your fault, I forgive you, okay? It's okay. I love you - i-it's okay, I love you, I love you." He was crying, but he tried to put all of his trust in Geralt into the words. Geralt was going to tear himself apart over this, Jaskier knew, and it was almost worse than the fact that he was going to die. 

Geralt's clenched teeth pressed against Jaskier's neck, his lips pulled back in a silent snarl. One quick move and it would be over, Jaskier’s blood spilling across the floor and Geralt’s tongue. His fist slammed down next to Jaskier's head, shaking the ground. 

"It's alright," Jaskier said softly. He leaned his forehead against Geralt's temple, a parody of a lover's embrace. "I love you, Geralt. It's okay."

Geralt shuddered against him, a whine leaving him. He was fighting it, Jaskier realized, pushing back against the thing boiling his blood. It was a moment. A chance. 

The charcoal was still on the floor, inches from his face. 

His only advantage was surprise. Using the hand in Geralt’s hair, Jaskier suddenly pulled as hard as he could, at the same time twisting to shove Geralt’s knee out with his foot. It was a trick Geralt himself had taught him, one only managed successfully in the past because the witcher had allowed it. But this wasn’t Geralt, and the thing inside of the body above him wasn’t ready for it. Too distracted in a silent battle of wills, Geralt tumbled to the side.

Into the circle.

Jaskier scrambled for the charcoal just as Geralt began rising back up on his knees, none of the hesitance present in his face. He - it, whatever was playing host to Geralt’s body right now - was furious, absolute rage contorting his features. It was utterly inhuman. Jaskier threw himself at the edge of the circle, towards his last final rune, just as Geralt lunged forward. One line, a gentle curve, and a tiny dash off the end.

Jaskier held perfectly still, on his hands and knees before the circle. There was a sudden shift in the air, like the pressure change when walking up a mountain, and then Geralt gasped. Jaskier looked up just in time to see a half solidified form stutter out of Geralt’s body, peeling off of him in fits and starts. Geralt staggered when it was done, fumbling a few feet outside of the circle. The thing within lunged for him, but was stopped at the edge with an angry howl. It was no true color, barely there at all, more of a density in the air and a presence before them. So hateful. 

Geralt drew his sword, untouched throughout their own scuffle. It was a simple fight, which Jaskier watched from his slumped position on the marble tiles. Within a moment the creature was gone, dissipating into ash. 

Not a second later Geralt was beside him, sword flung to the side. An arm wrapped around his shoulders, holding him in place, and another came up to cradle the back of his head. Jaskier winced at the throb there, flinching away from the hand. 

Geralt released him immediately, his expression pained. Jaskier swayed towards him without the extra support, catching himself on Geralt’s chest with one wide spread hand. “Sorry,” he said, still feeling woozy. “Hit my head. That didn’t seem like a wraith.”

“Demon,” Geralt said. He reached out again, more hesitantly now, and cupped Jaskier’s jaw. Their eyes met, and Jaskier was relieved to see familiar liquid gold staring back at him. Geralt’s eyebrows were creased in worry, guilt making his features tight. Jaskier spared one brief moment to be intensely glad that he hadn’t died. For both their sake. “You’re hurt,” Geralt said. And then, more quietly, “I hurt you.”

Jaskier huffed, even though the movement hurt his ribs. Definitely bruised. “None of that,” he said, tapping Geralt’s chest. “You didn’t do this. You know that.”

“I could see it. I couldn’t stop. It was so angry, it wanted to hurt you so badly. Why didn’t you fight back?” Geralt asked. He sounded wounded, his other hand coming up to hold Jaskier’s face in his palms. Searching his gaze for answers. “You just… gave up. You said -”

“I said I love you,” Jaskier finished for him, bringing one hand up to curl around Geralt’s wrist. He skimmed his thumb over the pulse point there, soothing. “It’s okay. I didn’t want you to feel guilty.”

“Guilty,” Geral repeated, his voice breaking. “Jaskier, I couldn’t - If you -”

“I know,” Jaskier said. He turned his head just slightly to press a kiss to Geralt’s palm. The movement made his head swim, but Geralt inhaled sharply at the soft brush of lips, so it was well worth it. “I know, darling. I’d never blame you.”

Geralt made a choked sound, and then Jaskier was being pulled into a gentle hug, mindful of his injuries. Geralt tucked him in close, pressing his nose into Jaskier’s throat in an echo of his earlier position. This time, Jaskier had never felt so safe. “I’m sorry,” he rasped out, pressing the words into Jaskier’s skin. “I couldn’t bear to lose you. You must know, that I - You -”

“I do. It’s okay. I know,” Jaskier said. He brushed his fingers gently through Geralt’s hair, trying to sooth the guilty, fearful man before him. Who he loved so dearly. “I love you. I’m not going anywhere.”

Geralt hummed and Jaskier felt the press of slightly chapped lips at his jaw before Geralt pulled back. “Good,” he said, eyes over bright. He glanced over Jaskier’s features and frowned. “Shit. We should get you to a healer.”

“Ah, I’ve had worse after a night of hard drinking,” Jaskier said, offering Geralt a grin. “You aren’t all that tough, at the end of the day.”

Geralt frowned back at him, not rising to the joke. “I was holding it back,” he said absently, moving to run his fingers lightly through Jaskier’s hair. There was a sizable bump there, but Jaskier hadn’t been lying - this wouldn’t be his first knock on the head, nor likely his last. “You’re going to have a concussion.” 

“Good thing I’ve got you to take care of me,” Jaskier said, feeling woozy and bruised but somehow still warm and relieved. They were both alive. That was all he could ask for, at the end of it all. 

He expected to receive an eye roll and a dismissive hum at his remark. Instead Geralt just looked at him with an expression that made Jaskier ache in a too-pleasant way, deep in his chest, before he leaned in to press their lips together so, so gently. “You do,” Geralt mumbled, tipping their foreheads together. “You do.”

[writings-of-an-introvert]

Quick fic I wrote about that resurrection theory for RE8. I hope we get to see at least Lady Dimitrescu again considering just how much hype she got.

AO3 is linked as well.

It is strange, experiencing a beginning, or rather a new one. To return from oblivion is not a feeling many people get to experience, yet Alcina feels herself pulled from the void in to consciousness. It begins with sound, she notices; the sound of a heart beating, weakly at first, and then it begins to make an effort beating harder until it is like the drums of war in her mind; slow, steady, thunderous. Then, a breath, like a whisper through a window nearly silent; then soon it is labored and heavy, as though the one who was breathing was exhausted, taxed beyond their means.

Then came the sensation of feeling. With this dawning, she realized it was her heart and her breath thundering and rushing. She could feel her chest moving, rising and falling, heavy. She felt heavy all over. Her eyes refused to open though she willed them; for a moment she nearly believed she had opened them but simply faced a living void of madness, inky blackness still before her. She felt the muscles in her face work themselves; her brows knit together tightly holding tension in her forehead, the muscles over her cheekbones squeezed themselves together making her nose scrunch and her eyes clench tightly, her lips pursed and drew themselves into a thin line, her jaw clenched and unclenched. This tensing and untensing of muscles continued down her body, her fingertips twitching lightly. But her eyes remained shut. Her hands and feet felt cold, yet she could feel a weight over her body, a blanket perhaps. She is laying down on... something. It feels firm, it is not familiar.

Alcina laid there, hearing her heart, her breath; feeling her chest rise and fall. She still cannot will her eyes to open, not even when she feels a hand on her shoulder and a voice speak to her.

“Now, now, my Lady. You’ve still very little strength. Rest,” the voice said. Without much else, she is swept into a black dreamless sleep. The feeling of anything outside her body gone, she feels like she is floating, weightless, and suspended in air, or water; she could not tell.

Her mind began to wake next, where once thoughts of only the present and her immediate stimuli were processing, now were thoughts of the past. Memories unlocked themselves and spilled forth in front of her mind’s eye. She saw her daughters, laughing and smiling and running. She saw them awaken for the first time, the glassy looks in their eyes as they seemed to stare right through her. She heard Bela’s voice, /Mama?/ As she said it for the first time, elation filled her, she remembers that joy in that simple moment. Then she saw the ashes on the ground; in the library, the kitchen, the armory. Her gloved fingers sifting over them gently. They were gone. Something twisted and snapped in her chest. She saw /him/, scampering through her home, the evidence of his sins dusting his worn jacket. Then she saw him in the crypt. A sharp pain from her side wracks through her body. She sees herself above him, flying down at him. /She was going to kill herself and take him with her./ A scream tore itself, raging, from her chest.

Alcina tried to lash out, but something restrained her on the bed. Her strength still sapped away from her but the creaking of the bindings and the whining of their bolts told her it was perhaps coming back. She pulled harder, the scream now a pained howl. /How could life be worth anything without her daughters?/ She kept her eyes screwed shut, she wanted desperately to be swept back into oblivion, into the void of nothing. She didn’t want to be alive without them. She could feel large hot tears race down her cheeks; her howls turned into wails. She wanted to beg, she willed anything coherent to come from her mouth, but she could only muster the painful wailing, her pain beyond words. She felt the hand on her shoulder again but this time a sharp jab in her bicep followed it. A cold sensation ran its way down her arm and she felt heavy again. Her wails now choked sobs, she collapsed onto the pillow. The voice gently cooed to her.

“Hush now, my Lady, save your strength, all will be well,” it said. It was familiar, grating. Her mouth was dry and her lips felt as though they had been cut and torn but she mustered everything to speak.

“M-my... daught-ters...” she rasped. Her throat felt like sandpaper, her lips and tongue sticking as she spoke.

“I know, my Lady, but you must rest,” it said, the hand still holding her shoulder as though she would try to sit up again. She choked and rasped a few more sobs as sleep overtook her once again, the sound of her heart and breath becoming all she could hear again. Images swirled in her mind, vague and hazy, they were memories. Some, her mind wouldn’t allow her to process, others she only recognized a feeling they brought to her. Then there was the smell. Familiar, delicious, tantalizing. She felt her chest rise quickly, letting her breathe in the scent deeply.

/Blood./

Alcina bolted upright, mouth wide open, hissing and snapping at the air, the nauseating hollow in her belly driving her mad. She felt that damned hand over her chest, holding her back. At this her eyes snapped open; the light of the world was simply too much too quickly. A white void met her vision, her eyes suddenly and sharply ached. She closed them immediately and shook her pounding head, letting out a growl of frustration.

“Ah, I feel I perhaps should have expected such a reaction. Welcome back Lady Dimitrescu.” Said the voice, now very familiar. She squinted one eye open, the white light faded to reveal a massive hazy shape. Her cracked lips curled further into a snarl.

“Tut, tut, my Lady. Come now, surely I’ve proven my loyalty.” said the voice of the Duke. Alcina’s vision cleared further to reveal the massive bulbous form of the Duke, who seemed to be navigating the room via a wheelchair. Alcina let the tension in her shoulders go as her vision continued to clear and adjust, she eyed the Duke wearily, face still twisted into a snarl.

“There,” he said, leaning over to grab a bowl from a small table beside him that Alcina couldn’t see. “Come, my dear, let’s have you eat.” He said cheerfully. Her face fell into a perturbed confusion as her arms pulled at the restraints around her wrists. The sound caught the Duke’s attention. “Ah, a safety precaution, I hope you understand. But soon they’ll not be a problem.” He said, continuing with that cheery tone. He brought the bowl before her. Alcina lurched forward, catching the restraints, her mouth opened wide again, reaching for the bowl now snatched away out of her reach, a hiss that sounded more like a growl streamed from her parched throat. “Now, my Lady, I understand your fervor, however, this behavior is quite unbecoming.” Said the Duke, sternly, though Alcina could see the smug expression on his face, he was enjoying this, “Please,” he continued, “Allow me."

Alcina straightened up, watching the Duke settle again in his chair and bring the bowl to her lips. He tilted the bowl gently allowing the blood to run over her lips. Her hands tried to dart up and take the bowl herself, but they caught on the restraints. Her arms shook as she tried to fight and pull against the bindings. She sucked hungrily at the rim of the bowl, loudly swallowing large mouthfuls of blood. The bowl was emptied within moments and Alcina gasped loud ragged breaths as the Duke set the bowl aside, he grabbed a cloth and dabbed at the sides of her mouth.

Alcina sat there, staring upwards through half-lidded eyes at the middle distance, feeling satisfied, still taking in deep ragged breaths. Finally, after what felt like hours, she closed her eyes and took a deep breath, steadying herself.

“My daughters... were-” her voice was low and raspy, she tried not to pay attention to the way it wavered.

“You have just awoken, my dear. Please, lay back,” he said holding up a hand to silence her, she didn’t like being interrupted, but she did as she was instructed. She watched him dig for something in a pocket and pull out a small key. He leaned forward and unlocked the first of two cuffs holding her to the bed. He leaned back and moved to the other side of the bed to undo the other cuff. Once both her hands were free, she massaged her wrists where the leather chafed against her skin.

“If you are feeling up to it, my Lady, I can have a bath drawn,” he said. Despite the sustenance she had just received mere moments ago, her head swam at the very thought of standing. She could feel her knees tremble under the blanket.

“Not just yet, I think,” she said.

“Very well, continue your rest, I shall check on you again in the morning,” he said as he wheeled his way around the bed towards a door that stood ajar.

“Duke,” she called out, but he was faster than she anticipated and he disappeared through the door closing it behind him. Alcina sat back against the wall. Oh, what a sight she must be, no makeup, hair a mess, and wearing some plain threadbare nightgown. She felt her eyes stinging and her lip began to tremble. Her mind turned back to her daughters; only they had ever seen her without makeup, on days when she had not washed her hair, when she did not have the will to leave her bed. They’d come and curl up beside her, it was one of the rare occasions they didn’t bicker. She’d wrap them all up in her sheets and her blankets and hold them to her tightly, the next day she’d be up and have a full face of makeup on and her hair clean and curled before they awoke. Now, she was alone again. Alcina hugged her knees up to her chest and let her forehead rest against them letting her tears fall freely until she laid on her side and fell asleep once more.

Morning came far too quickly for Alcina’s liking. The Duke returned and had pulled the curtains away from the window, letting the grey light from an overcast sky flood the simple wooden room. Her eyes ached and she pulled the blanket over her head, burying her face in the pillow. He was humming some drole tune that grated against her ears. She rolled her eyes as she heard something shift beside her, figuring it was the Duke getting ready to pull back the blanket from her grasp, but he never did. Instead, he stopped, Alcina slowly drew the blanket back to look at him, he was staring at her with a gentle smile upon his features.

“What?” she snapped; her voice still hoarse from crying most of the previous night.

“I brought you a change of clothes, my Lady, something I think you’ll be far more comfortable in,” he said gesturing to a large bundle of clothes on the bedside table. She reached out and touched it. /Silk./ She tilted her head and picked up the garment, she recognized it immediately. She clapped a hand to her mouth to stifle a sob, she pressed the white dress to her cheek. It was her favorite dress, comfortable yet elegant enough for her tastes. She turned to look at the Duke once more, opening her mouth to speak to him.

“I have drawn a bath just in the next room for you, my Lady, I think you’ll find the size accommodating,” he said over his shoulder in the doorway, “I encourage you to hurry, however, I have a request for your presence.”

Alcina stopped, who would want to speak with her? Surely, Ethan Winters succeeded in his mission, Mother Miranda must be dead. And to the rest of the world, so was Alcina Dimitrescu. Surely, there were no survivors in Ethan Winters’ wake. Perhaps she heard the Duke wrong, perhaps it was a jest. There was no one awaiting her return, surely. A cruel joke, to be sure, but perhaps she was meant to be the butt of every cruel joke, she had been so far.

She tentatively swung one leg after the other over the edge of the bed. Her feet met cold, polished wooden floors. She took a moment to ground herself, her legs still felt shaky but she pushed herself to stand, bracing against the wall. She grasped the dress and clean undergarments in one hand and leaned against the wall with the other as she made her way to the door to the bathroom. And to her surprise, as she ducked through the doorway, the Duke had been truthful. A giant claw foot ceramic tub sat in the cramped space, steam rising from it. Alcina breathed in the steam and could smell the soap and oils he used in the bath. She placed her dress and undergarments gently on the sink and slipped off the dreadful cotton nightgown she had been wearing.

The water felt divine as she sank in to her chin, she took a deep breath and dipped her head under the surface. She held her head under the water for as long as she could, listening to her heart as it beat in her chest. She came up out of the water with a small gasp, her eyes fluttering open. She found soap, shampoo, and conditioner and got to work scrubbing herself clean. She took her time lavishing in the hot water and scented oils, and when her fingers had begun to wrinkle, she pulled the plug from the bottom of the tub and let the water drain. She stood, dried herself, and wrapped her hair in the towel to let it soak the water from her hair. She walked back over to her clothes and carefully put them on. Once she was dressed, she found a small golden canister at the bottom of the sink, as though she had knocked it over and hadn’t noticed. She picked it up, it was a tube of lipstick, familiar in her fingers, she opened it.

Alcina let out another little gasp of surprise, it was her custom lipstick, from the castle. From home. Her eyes snapped up to the mirror and she quickly put the lipstick on. She pressed her lips together to ensure it was even, and then she smiled. Her smile quickly faded, there wasn’t much reason to smile anymore. She sighed heavily and looked at herself in the mirror. She looked different, while still tall and strong looking, her skin was no longer gray; pale still certainly, but there was color in her cheeks. She traced a finger delicately over her cheekbone. How long had it been since any natural color had graced her features? Surely, long before her daughters were ever a glimmer in her eye.

There was no curling iron, but there was a comb. She thought about trying to wrestle with her hair without the proper product in it. /Perhaps it won’t be so bad if it's still wet.../ She hummed a moment. /No, better to let it dry the way it is and try again when I have the proper supplies./ She unwrapped her hair from the towel and let it flow gently over her shoulders, perhaps she should at least braid it. So, she did, loosely and messy with pieces sticking out here and there, but at least it was away from her face.

Alcina knew she had taken quite a while, perhaps she had kept her “audience” waiting, but she was hardly sure there actually was one. She strode over to the door of her room to meet the Duke, she opened it and saw him waiting just on the other side, hand still in the air as though he were getting ready to knock.

“Ah, there you are, looking ravishing as always, my Lady,” he said. Alcina nodded.

“Thank you, Duke. However, under the circumstances, I am aware I do not look my best,” she said. He waved a hand at her.

“Nonsense, now, come along. There are some lovely individuals just longing to see you,” he said. Alcina looked down at him, brows knit together in confusion.

“Who exactly?” She asked.

“All in good time, my dear,” he said. Alcina scoffed and rolled her eyes in frustration. She hated secrets, but because of their agreement, Alcina couldn’t use her usual methods of forcing out secrets. She walked slowly beside the Duke, trying to keep pace with him and not walk too far ahead. The house they were in was large, but it was not her castle. Where exactly she was, she didn’t know, but at least she could walk comfortably upright here. She walked beside the Duke for what felt like quite a long time, but as they approached the first floor, Alcina could hear chatter. Something about the noise made her chest tighten. She lengthened her stride, walking ahead of the Duke, he did not seem to protest, and even if he did, she didn’t hear him. A laugh rang out and Alcina found herself nearly flying down the staircase, taking two at a time, her bare feet hit cold marble with a small smack. Her eyes widened; it couldn’t be... She could hear the voices distinctly now as she rounded towards the kitchen, but she still couldn’t see them, tears rolled down her bare face once more. /It wasn’t possible./ She called out to the voices.

“Bela!” Her desperation made her voice crack. The voices halted.

“Daniela!” Her voice broke as a sob escaped her. She could hear quick footsteps approaching.

“Cassandra!” She cried. She broke into a run towards the sound of the footsteps. Her dress tangled in her legs and was caught under her foot, both her feet were swept out from under her as she tried to round another corner. She hit the floor with a loud thud that seemed to shake the room. She was dazed for just a moment as the breath was knocked from her. She felt something fall on top of her, warm and soft. She looked up with blurry tear-filled eyes and saw a head of red hair burying itself under her chin, arms wrapped tightly around her shoulders. There was a jolt of force from beside her as someone else clung to her, all of them shaking. She looked and saw a flash of dark brown hair settle over her shoulder. And finally, one last jostle and Alcina turned again and saw bright blonde hair covering shaking shoulders.

“My sweet girls!” She cried. "Let me look at you, come here.” They all looked up and moved to sit in front of her, tears streaming down each face, each set of eyes red and puffy, all four of them gasping and sobbing, clinging to each other. Alcina grasped each woman’s face in her hands tightly and brought them to her face to kiss them all over and wipe their tears away. Once she had kissed each of them a million times and her mouth was sore from pressing it against her daughters’ faces, she pulled them in as tightly as she could and cried. It was like a dream, sitting there with them again and Alcina prayed that it wouldn’t end. She heard a sound behind her, her head whipped around to look, tightening her hold on her daughters as if they’d be whisked away again. It was the Duke, he simply smiled and nodded to her and turned to leave the room and let the women have their reunion.

Alcina turned back to look at her daughters once more, they all looked at her, eyes wide and red.

“We missed you, Mama,” said Bela sniffling. /Mama/, like music to her ears. Alcina placed a hand on her cheek.

“And I have missed you more than life itself, draga mea.” She said.

[chelsfic]

Unseemly Desire, or Nandor's Season of Self-Discovery - Nandor x Guillermo Fanfic

Sequel to I Fell into Fantasy | WWDITS Masterlist

Summary: In which Nandor tries to convince everyone, including himself, that he does not have any unseemly feelings for his familiar. 

A/N: I couldn't decide on a serious title or a goof title, so I went with both. Thanks so much to Spiff from the Nandermo server for helping me workshop this idea. After I wrote "I Fell into Fantasy" I just kept thinking about how Nandor would spin into denial and the angst that would ensue. Then I woke up this morning with the idea of an axe throwing competition?? And now we're here?

Oh, yeah....this is a multi-chapter fic *flops around the floor helplessly*

Warnings/Tags: Angst, mutual pining, Eventual smut, Blood drinking, Toxic Masculinity in the Ottoman Empire, Repressing feelings, Axe throwing...the usual

---

Nandor wakes to the sound of his familiar quietly shuffling about the crypt, no doubt lighting the dozens of candles that line the room. The vampire shifts inside his coffin, frowning at the sticky feel of dried seed on the inside of his trousers. He’d gone to bed that morning with a powerful desire still coursing through his veins along with Guillermo’s sweet, virgin blood. The mere memory of last night’s feeding is enough to stir him once more and he growls, driving the heel of his palm against his crotch to stifle his reaction.

“Master? Are you alright?” Guillermo’s voice is sweet and tentative.

“I’m fine! Why would you ask such a thing?” he snaps irritably, then in a softer voice, “Is it safe to open my coffin now, Guillermo?”

In answer Guillermo cracks the lid, easily lifting the solid weight after years of practice. His master sits up quickly, tugging at the bottom of his loose nightshirt in an effort to cover the obvious stain on the front of his pants. 

“Good evening, master,” Guillermo greets with his usual respectful subservience. 

Good. Perhaps he won’t have to work too hard at reestablishing the boundaries he’d so savagely torn down the night before. It’s imperative that Nandor reminds his familiar of his place within the household and, especially, within their...relationship. His reaction to drinking Guillermo’s blood was shameful and he does not want his familiar getting any high ideas about a romance with his master. 

He knows--how could he not?--of Guillermo’s inappropriate attraction to him. He hears the way the human’s heartbeat races whenever they are physically close. He sees the secret grins on Guillermo’s lips when Nandor does anything the least bit kind. But a romantic relationship between a vampire and a familiar? Yeeck! It’s just not done. Of course, he considered the sex slave option when this unnatural lust first manifested. Other vampires make such arrangements with their familiars. But Guillermo would want more. He would want snuggles and romance and caring and...maybe even a break from his chores?! And the idea of using Guillermo for sex, while appealing, also causes him to feel a burning, stabby pain in his chest that he can’t identify.

No, it is better that he keep things strictly professional. A master and his servant. Nothing more.

Nandor finally steels himself to look up at his familiar, keeping his face a cold, forbidding mask.  And then he sees the massive bruise on Guillermo’s neck.

It’s an angry, deep purple that extends from his jaw down the side of his neck and beneath the collar of his fuzzy sweater. Two scabbed puncture wounds sit in the center of the damage, like demon eyes looking back at Nandor accusingly. He sucks in a breath and involuntarily reaches out to brush his fingers against the wounded skin. Guillermo flinches away from the touch with a pained mew.

“It’s just...tender, master,” Guillermo explains, almost apologetically. 

Nandor can’t think straight. His eyes, liquid and deep, full of some unnameable emotion, focus on the damage he’s caused. How many dead bodies has he tossed aside without a qualm? How many bruises and bites and broken bones has he caused? But he’s never seen the results on someone he--

“I...Guillermo,” he whispers, finally locking eyes with his human and bringing his hand up to cup his cheek, “I did not mean to be causing permanent damage…”

Guillermo gasps softly at his master’s touch. He leans into it, silently thrilling when Nandor doesn’t immediately draw his hand away.

“Permanent? No, master, it’s just a bruise. It will fade eventually,” Guillermo assures him, but Nandor still looks skeptical.

“Does it hurt?” he asks and Guillermo brims with happiness at his master’s concern.

“Only a little bit, Na--master,” Guillermo stumbles, nearly breaking the carefully established protocol between them. 

Nandor notes the mistake and snatches his hand away as if he’s been burned by holy water. He clambers out of the coffin without Guillermo’s assistance. They go through the motions of dressing. Nandor bends down so that Guillermo can get his shirt on over his head, steps into his trousers and boots, and sits quietly while Guillermo arranges his hair. All the while a single word cycles through his head.

Fuck!

---

Guillermo is practically buzzing with energy despite last night’s blood loss. Every time he moves he feels a delicious tug on his wound and the memories of his master’s touch come flying back to the surface of his mind. He doesn’t even care that Nandor dismissed him so abruptly after getting dressed. Nor does he care that he gave him a seemingly random and unnecessary order before fleeing the crypt in his bat form. Guillermo sits on the floor surrounded by his master’s extensive blade collection, carefully cleaning and polishing each one with a giant, goofy grin on his face.

---

“Well, well, well...doing the flight of shame, Nandor?” Laszlo chuckles at his own joke as Nandor drops out of his bat form into a chair in the fancy room. 

“Very good joke, darling! Because he’s finally given the sex to Gizmo!” Nadja crows.

The couple are sitting together in the loveseat. Laszlo is bent over Nadja’s hand, painting her nails and heedlessly dripping lacquer all over the upholstery as he does so.

Nandor’s face blanches in alarm and he cries, “What the shit are you two talking about!? I have not been doing sex with Guillermo! Yuck! Unspeakable! Why would that even occur to you?”

“Me thinks he doth protest too much, eh, darling?” Laszlo remarks to another shriek of laughter from his wife.

Nandor jerks to his feet, bristling and defensive, but before he can think of a reply Laszlo continues, “Well if you weren’t having sex then what the blazes were you doing to the chap to cause those tantalizing moans?”

With this Laszlo launches into a cartoonish impression of the desperate cries and moans that Guillermo made as Nandor drank from him. Nadja claps her hands in delight and joins in the fun. The pair of perverts are soon screeching and twitching in exaggerated, obscene mockery of his familiar.

“Enough!” Nandor roars, stomping his foot petulantly. “Stop speaking of my familiar this way! It’s highly inappropriate!”

“So, you’re saying you didn’t roger your little rotten soldier last night?” Laszlo arches a brow, snorting under his breath derisively. 

Nandor stares back at him in confusion, “What the fuck--?! No! Certainly not. Very...disgusting to even say such a thing. Gross!”

Laszlo glances to Nadja with a sly smirk as he speaks, “Then you wouldn’t mind if my good lady wife and I extended an invitation to the fellow to join us in a ménage à threesome?”

Nandor takes to the air, eyes glowing with rage as he hisses wildly at Laszlo.

“Hey dudes, what’s all the fuss about?” Colin Robinson, drawn by the pulsing waves of drama emanating from the room, appears in the doorway.

Nandor drops back onto his feet and whines, “Laszlo is making unsavory claims about my familiar and I won’t have it!”

“Nandor’s being a snake dick because he’s horny for his familiar and won’t admit it!” Nadja counters. 

Nandor’s mouth snaps shut at that. Nadja’s words have struck true and Nandor feels a shiver of panic at the thought of his shameful secret being known throughout the household. He must convince them they’re mistaken...but how? 

He’s still too enraged to think straight and rather than address Nadja’s words he simply bellows, “Satisfaction! I will have satisfaction against these two perverts!”

Colin grins, his eyes lighting with hungry delight, “How about a contest of some sort? Whoever wins is right. Of course, you should choose a neutral activity. Something in which you’re all equally matched. A checkers tournament? Scrabble, maybe…”

“A contest! Yes!” Nandor interrupts with an excited grin. “A challenge of strength and accuracy! Guillermo! Bring me my axes for throwing! My throwing axes!”

Nadja rolls her eyes and looks about to argue when Laszlo stops her with a hand on her arm.

“I say, good idea, Nandor. We’ll compete in a game of throwing axes. But to prove that you really are telling the truth and you don’t harbor secret, moist fantasies about your little familiar, we’ll make it more interesting. Whoever gets their axe closest to Gizmo without skewering the little guy wins!”

Nandor deflates, “That’s not...I don’t…”

Guillermo enters carefully holding a bundle of wickedly sharp axes. The blades shine in the candlelight and contrast against the soft, muted colors of his sweater. Nandor imagines one of those blades sinking into his familiar’s soft flesh and he shivers. 

Laszlo looks as if he’s already won the little game he’s playing and Nandor clenches his fists, forcing levity into his voice as he announces, “Everyone in the garden! We are going to have a little game!”

---

Guillermo can’t decide if he’s more livid or terrified. He’s standing up against the fence, shivering despite his hat and coat, and desperately trying to hold still as his master casually tests the weight of the axe in his hand. Nadja and Laszlo look on, each carrying axes of their own, and Colin Robinson looks positively frenzied as he feeds off the tension in the air.

“Master, why are we doing this, again?” Guillermo wishes his voice didn’t have such a marked tremor in it.

“I am defending your honor, Guillermo. Now be very, very still,” Nandor launches the axe without any further warning. 

Guillermo shrieks and he feels the air to the right of his head part as the blade sinks into the wood of the fence an inch away from his face. He turns to stare at the quivering handle with wide, horrified eyes.

“There!” Nandor announces with a smug smile. “No one could beat such a throw! Contest over, I win. Guillermo, attend me--”

Nandor is already starting to stride back to the house but Guillermo barely has a chance to let out a relieved sigh when Laszlo steps up wielding his own weapon. 

“Not so fast, Gizmo! I’ll have my turn, thank you!” his voice lilts up dramatically as he raises the axe, screwing one eye shut and taking aim.

Nandor whirls, eyes wide with panic as he urgently hisses, “Be still, Guillermo!”

Guillermo shuts his eyes, whimpering as he awaits his fate. One second Laszlo is letting out a manful bellow as the axe leaves his fingers and the next second Guillermo is hissing in pain as the blade cuts into his cheek. His eyes flash open in shock and he brings his hand up to cup his face. Blood pours from the shallow wound. The pain is a sharp, burning intensity that brings tears stinging to his eyes.

“Ha!” Nandor gloats. “You’ve lost! Your blade touched...him.”

Laszlo swears under his breath but Nandor has lost his steam as the reality of his words hits him. He steps forward, involuntarily reaching for his wounded familiar. Then he catches the knowing look on Laszlo’s face and he stops himself, straightening his spine and raising his head in a show of haughty indifference that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“My turn!” Nadja trills, flipping her axe from hand to hand with a little skip in her step. 

“Master… please!” Guillermo begs. There are tears leaking from his eyes now. Whatever fucking insult Nandor thinks they made against him isn’t worth this!

“Yes, Nandor, the boy has a point. My lady wife is known for many...eclectic skills, but her aim isn’t one of them. We could put a stop to this if you’d care to admit we’re right about your shameful little secret…”

“Never!” Nandor shouts, looking like a giant, angry toddler.

Guillermo’s head spins, “What? What is he talking about, master?”

Nandor turns to his familiar, injecting authority into his voice as he commands, “Guillermo, tell Nadja and Laszlo that we were not doing sex together last night!”

“E-excuse me!?” Guillermo sputters, feeling a heated blush creep up his neck.

Nandor lets out a frustrated growl and his lips curl in revulsion as he shouts, “Tell them that I did not have disgusting, unnatural sex with a...a...human servant! I order you!”

The hand he’s kept clutched over the bleeding wound on his cheek falls limp at his side. Guillermo looks from his master’s cold, detached expression to Nadja and Laszlo’s expectantly curious faces and he sighs in resignation even as another tiny piece of his heart chips and falls away.

“...He didn’t,” he says in a small voice and then, more loudly, “We did not have sex.”

Laszlo looks unconvinced and Nadja just looks annoyed.

“This is getting very boring and I still have not had my turn to throw the axe! Here I go!”

She flings the blade through the air with barely a glance in Guillermo’s direction. It wobbles in the air, toppling end over end as it cuts a deadly path that Nandor immediately sees will end in his familiar’s gut. Guillermo has barely enough time to flinch but Nandor moves with supernatural speed, dashing in front of his human and plucking the axe from the air before it can hurt him.

“Nadja!” Nandor admonishes in an affronted tone. “That was very careless of you! You could have seriously injured my Gui--my familiar! I’m very annoyed with you both!”

Guillermo trembles from behind Nandor, clinging to the fabric of his cape for comfort despite the anger, hurt and resentment that still broils just beneath the surface of his emotions. He’ll deal with all that once his legs resolidify.

Laszlo waves away the near-catastrophe with a flick of his wrist and holds out his arm for Nadja as he comments, “I think we have our answer, darling…”

Nandor’s hands curl into fists at his sides as he watches the other vampires stroll away with smug satisfaction on their faces.

Fucking shit!

---

“Guillermo…” Nandor pauses on his way up the step stool, he squeezes his familiar’s hand in his. “About tonight…”

He’s going to apologize for putting me in danger...for saying those things… Guillermo looks up at him with hopeful expectation in his eyes.

“I hope you are not getting strange notions in your little human brain because of what Laszlo said. It was very wrong of him to make such a sickening claim,” Nandor’s voice is pure condescension.

Guillermo is silent for a beat, swallowing against the lump of emotion in his throat and blinking his eyes rapidly before looking his master in the eye and lying, “Of course not, master.”

Nandor nods in satisfaction and he swings down into his coffin. But he tastes the edge of human sadness beginning to taint the air of the room and he frowns. Hadn’t this whole mess started because he was trying to get rid of the sad human smell? He is caught in one of those hog day loops!

Nandor hesitates, scowling as he chooses his words, “But… I am sorry about the axes. It wasn’t my idea. And… and… I would have been really sad if you had died, because you’re...special to me, Guillermo.”

Nandor lets the words hang in the air for a moment, watching the start of a smile curling his familiar’s lips before shaking his head and waving a hand in front of Guillermo’s face in a flourish, “You will forget about that last thing I just said.”

[thetunewillcome]

burn

Summer Omens: Day 3 (on AO3 here if you prefer)  

(Or that time I showed up to my own challenge with 1 minute to spare and 1,000 words of angst for you.)

Firedrops rained down around him, fading to flecks of ash in the tangles of his hair.  Figures wrapped in blankets were huddling together in alleyways.  Chaos.  People rushed past, dragging carts and carrying belongings, heading for the frantic mass crowded around the closest gate.  The sun had set, but the streets were cast in a flickering, harsh amber glow that threw ghoulish shadows on the walls of the buildings fortunate enough to still be standing.  London was burning.

The air hung, thick with smoke and the cries of the desperate, in the narrow cobblestone streets of the city.  To his left, a man tripped and fell.  Another shouted something about foreigners.  Raised his arm above the fallen figure, iron bar in hand.  No time, he thought, but he veered left to grab the bar from the man’s hand as he strode past.  Tossed it in the nearest broken window.  Up ahead, he could see the towering rooftop of his destination: St. Paul’s.  

If the rumors were true, there was not much time, maybe an hour before total collapse.  And he knew he’d be there.  “A kind gentleman,” they’d said, welcomed them to the safety of the church.  Comforted their children.  Tended to their burns.  Fed and clothed them.  In a city slowly smoldering closer to extinction, brawling with itself in the burning streets over gold and papers and blame while the Lord Mayor turned his back on the firemen’s advice, only one person could be that stupidly selfless.  And Crowley knew that he’d need convincing to abandon ship.

“This was no accident, no sir,” a man spat, holding open the door of a shop to argue with a militiaman.  “It’s the damned French.  You should be out hunting them, ‘stead of trying to tear down my property.”

“But it’s moving this way, and if we can’t create a firebreak–”  Their conversation faded into the noise of the street.

He fought against the tide of fleeing people until he reached the ornate doors of the cathedral.  After holding the door for a crying woman carrying a swaddled infant, he stormed inside.  “Aziraphale!” he called, and he followed his reverberating voice into the vast, dark space.

He found him deep within the building, where few people remained.  Something in him burned at the sight: Aziraphale leaning over a prone figure, the silver-blue of his outfit darkened with soot, tights scorched and ripped, holding out his hand.  “It’s not safe here anymore,” he was telling the woman.  Looking out for the unworthy and doomed, as always.  The sight brought forth the memory of a white wing extended toward him, as if he had been deserving of shelter.  Of the kindness in his blue eyes.  Of something close to love.

“Where should I go?” she asked, struggling to her feet.

“Beyond the wall is the best bet now.  Be careful.”

She thanked him quietly and shuffled off toward the door.  Crowley noticed her arms were bare.  Nothing left to carry.

“Crowley?  Why are you here?”

He forced his mind back to the present danger.  “Because someone has to tell you the same thing you just told her.  Let’s go.”

“There are more, down in the crypts with their things, and there are books– If you follow me, we can–”

“Miracle them to safety as we leave?  Deal.”

Shoulders sagging, Aziraphale shook his head in silent answer.

Crowley raised an eyebrow.  “No miracles?”  He stepped closer.  “You’re telling me all this,” he hissed, “is supposed to happen?”

“I was directed not to interfere.”  A second passed after the admission, Crowley reading the pain and anger in his eyes.  “But that doesn’t mean… I had to do something to help them.”

“Well, you did.  Saved a lot of people.  Now it’s your turn.”  He grabbed Aziraphale’s arm.

“No, not while there are–”

A sharp crack overhead.  Stone crumbled and fell with a sound that echoed through them.  Flames followed, a wooden beam tumbling in and igniting a section of pews with stunning swiftness.

Crowley tightened his grip.  “We’re leaving.  Now.”  And as they disappeared, the people still scattered throughout the dark recesses of the cathedral heard an urgent, breathless whisper in the air: run.

They reappeared in total darkness.  A snap of fingers illuminated the country road they stood on and the surrounding fields.  Crowley had briefly considered the room he kept in Rome, but he knew Aziraphale would resent being taken so far away from the crisis.

“Where are we?” he demanded, wrenching his arm out of Crowley’s grasp.

“Just outside the city.”

“Those people–”

“I warned them.”

Aziraphale shot him a reluctant glance of appreciation, then gazed around at their surroundings.  “I can’t just stand in a field while people burn.  I need to get back to the city.  If you won’t help me, I’ll… I’ll have to find a horse, and–”  His voice broke, then, and he turned away from Crowley.

Rage burned inside Crowley’s chest.  As if it weren’t disgusting enough that the powerless humans had to suffer in the name of God’s ineffability, he knew Aziraphale felt it all: their fear, their anguish, their loss of faith.  Just as there was nothing Aziraphale could do to save them, there was nothing Crowley could do to end his grief.  The cruelty of Heaven, Crowley knew, was something he’d have to come to terms with on his own.  So Crowley did the only thing he could do to help: he reached out a hand and placed it timidly on Aziraphale’s shoulder.

Shakily, Aziraphale looked up at him with reddened eyes.  “How many times,” he started softly, pausing to choose his words carefully, “must they suffer such immense atrocities while we look on in silence?”

Having no answer to offer, Crowley turned his gaze to the earth beneath their feet.  They stood like that for a while, until Aziraphale’s breathing evened out.  “I do… appreciate you coming to look for me.”

“If you still want to help,” Crowley said, lowering his hand, “there’s a bit of grass down the road where they’re setting up once they make it past the gates.  Could wander over and see what they need.”

Aziraphale tilted his head, blinking slowly, processing.  “I… Yes, I’ll do that.”  His eyes lit up with a spark that Crowley supposed was hope.  “Good idea.  Look after yourself.”  

He started to walk down the road and Crowley followed, earning himself a curious glance.  “Yeah, well, I’ve got nothing on for tonight.  Might as well come along.”

The two of them spent hours in that field: cobbling together shelters, lighting burning torches, healing, listening.  The stream of refugees arriving from the city, exhausted but too scared to sleep, continued well past midnight.  To cover more ground, they worked separately.  Crowley didn’t mind.  It wasn’t proper demonic work, and it would be a tad tricky to explain away if Head Office questioned it, but it felt right.  If the powers that be order destruction, then helping becomes an act of rebellion, something Crowley had always been fond of.

The night air carried a hint of smoke.  When the sun began to rise, he’d thought it firelight for a frightened second.  Across the field, he caught Aziraphale’s eye and nodded toward the road.  Some humans had begun to help as well, under Aziraphale’s direction.  He wasn’t needed anymore.  Aziraphale smiled warmly at him, then returned to his work.

Their resilience did not surprise him.  Seen it before, he thought as he headed for the road.  Give them some time to recover, and humans always found a way to pick up the pieces of what had been thrown at them and continue on.  Their city burned yesterday.  Today, they would rest.  Survey.  Mourn.  And very soon, they would begin rebuilding.

(Previous days: sand / ice cream)

[dragonrajafanfiction]

Dragon Dancer IV: The Journey to Dreams

I wanted to leave the Kabuki school as soon as I could to get back to Lu Mingfei and Erii. If I didn’t return in time, the woodblock would be used, Lu Mingfei would turn into a monster. They would kill him.

That Beowulf family of monstrous hybrids likely would delight in devouring them, in feeling that rush of drinking pure dragon blood, the first they had tasted in generations They didn’t see Lu Mingfei as innocent, like I did. They’d already pronounced their death sentence.

My knees wobbled, twitching with anxiety while Chime sat serene in front of a mirror. He painted his face a stark gleaming white, as white as his long ivory hair that cascaded down a shimmering white and silver colored Kimono. 

The Kimono reminded me of a white dragon, the silver markings were like the elongated scales of a fish. Underneath a bright red robe peeked out from the silky folds. It was all tied together with a black obi belt.

With a brush, he applied dark powder to his eyebrows and eyelids, exaggerating the corners and giving the illusion of large eyes.

He finished with bright shiny lip color, pressing his lips on crimson paper. Finally, he tied up his hair in a top knot with silver ribbon.

He then turned to me. The flash of his red eyes from his white face sent my heart racing. 

He asked in a soft, smooth voice. “Are you ready?”

He held out one hand without looking behind him. A student hurried forward with an ornate wooden box, carved with serpents and lacquered in bright red. He opened it and, nestled in blue velvet depressions, were a pair of long fans. Chime gripped them in his pale fingers and rose up, like a ghost from a crypt.

He approached me, his feet sliding forward, moving imperceptibly. His shadow fell over me, as well as the cold light in his eyes. He wasn’t smiling. “It’s time to go.”

I stood up, breathing rapidly. He was so different from the person I remembered who was so easily moved to tears and now more closely resembled the one I saw years ago in the winter dark of the Comemnus Building. Back then, I didn’t know him or Herzog. He came at me like a demon from my nightmares. I’d used Release on him and when he looked at me he was completely different, weak and vulnerable.

This was the power of the woodblock. A power that Chime was now freed from. Now if I used Release, he wouldn’t change into someone else. He would stay the same as he was now, smiling with a cool, shrewd glint in his eye.

“What’s wrong?”

Would Mingfei turn into someone like this? Someone with such an insufferable intimidating aura? “Mingfei... you said... he isn’t the person I should have met.”

“That’s correct. The person you should have met was altered by Herzog long ago.” His dark lids hooded his laser red eyes, surrounding them in darkness..

“I don’t want to lose Mingfei. He’s my friend. Without him... I never would have found Chu Zihang. He always had faith in me. He...” I looked up at him desperately. “I don’t know if what I’m doing is right. Enxi... I don’t really know her.”

Enxi’s sad eyes. Her sudden apology. If what I was doing was right... why was I so scared?

“Meixiu... you are a loyal friend. However... the legacy of Herzog must be erased from this world for this world to ever see peace, for humans or for Hybrids.

With a sharp shake of his wrists, the fans he held snapped open in front of my face, revealing two large painted eyes, surrounded by draconic script. The script began to read itself into my brain. It swirled and cascaded into my vision, blinding me.

I gripped my head as it filled with whispers.

“Chu Meixiu. You have to listen to me now. You’re going to take me to Erii’s compound. You are going to take me to Mingfei and no matter what anyone says, you’re going to allow me to take him into the world of Nightmare.”

Like a cage suddenly slamming shut around me, my mind lost control of my own body. I was still thinking, I was still scared. But my body was no longer reacting that way. My heart beat slow and steady, my breathing was even. I smiled.

What was happening? Chime... what did he do to me?

“I was hoping you wouldn’t have second thoughts. I know this is difficult. But the Personality separation Treatment has to be eliminated from the knowledge of Hybrids. If you hate me later, I accept that.”

While I struggled to break free, my hand was reaching out and taking his hand into mine. I wanted to cry, but I couldn’t even produce any tears. I suddenly saw an image of the compound in Tibet where Erii waited for me. 

Wait.... Wait!

The darkness closed in and in three seconds we had arrived at the temple where Erii and Mingfei had been hiding. Chime let go of my hand but I was still under his spell. 

Blood Rage... Use Blood Rage! But it was like a communication line between my mind and body had been severed. It wasn’t listening.

“Meixiu!” Mingfei’s bright voice greeted me. He was jogging towards me, with a smile, waving with his one arm. “I take it the mission was a success!” 

No! Mingfei! Run away! You don’t know what’s about to happen! My mind fought against Chime but I couldn’t free myself from his overwhelming paralysis.

“Meixiu?” His smile faded when I didn’t respond.

Erii followed him, accompanied by her translator, her expression grim. 

Her translator spoke in a nervous tremble. “EVA is assaulting Tsukino Usagi It will be a few minutes before our hideaway collapses.”

“What? How? How did they find us?” Mingfei asked, slacked jawed.

“We were hacked. Someone in Cassell hacked us.” She looked up solemnly at her her brother, Chime.

“They are coming with the woodblock sound. They plan on taking control of you two.” Chime said. “I’m here to hopefully shield you from that.”

Erii’s eyes widened in terror and her hands flew to her mouth. Then she looked confused. She held up her two fingers and looked questioningly at Chime.

Mingfei’s eyes narrowed, like a shadow had passed over him. His gaze grew distant and his eyes shifted as though looking at something right behind him. What was it?

Mingfei’s fists balled at his sides. “I’m sorry, Erii... You won’t understand why, but this is ... this is my fault.”

Erii looked up at him in confusion. 

He looked down at her and sighed. “It’s... It’s hard to explain.  But... I should have known. I never should have come and stayed with you. I put you in danger.”

Erii shook her head. She clapped her hands on either side of his cheeks and pulled his face down to hers, staring into his eyes.

I was as confused as she was. What did he mean by put her in danger?

“There’s another part of me you don’t know about. The real reason I was able to beat Herzog.” Mingfei’s voice broke. “The real reason I was able to hide out in the Hydra clans as Akira Ryuu.”

She stared into his eyes, baffled.

Chime filled in the blank. “Like Ruri Kazama and Chime Gen... Mingfei’s personality has two parts. When he hears the woodblock sound, he loses control and becomes a Devil.”

Erii suddenly let go of him. Her eyes swam with tears and she shook her head in disbelief.

“It’s true.”

“Miss Erii! Miss Erii!”

A monk came running out of the compound. “The airport has been completely overrun by unknown aircraft and troops! All communication and roads are being blocked off!”

Erii signed with sharp and commanding gestures. “Get the townspeople into the mountains! Sound the alarm! We can’t let innocent people get hurt!”

She turned back to Mingfei and the embraced him, holding him tight. She signed sharply. “I will kill them all for you!”

“No! You can’t! If you hear the sound! You’ll be as helpless as me! And if you use your Word Spirit Judgment... you could turn into a devil even without the sound!”

She signed. “I don’t care. I wanted them to leave me alone. They’ve come to hurt you, to take you away from me!”

From my inner prison I wondered how much she really understood. Erii was often ignorant about basic things of the world, but when it came to life and death as a hybrid, she was instinctively insightful based on her own experience.

“I won’t let them take you away from me.” Erii signed again.

Mingfei suddenly seemed distracted. He clutched his head. “Will you stop it!” He turned and looked at a patch of empty grass.

His outburst startled everyone there to witness it. He turned, looking at me, mortified.

“I uh... pretend you didn’t see that.”

Chime’s voice interrupted. “Mingfei... you have to become one to fight them. If you give in to the woodblock... all is lost.”

A loud buzzing suddenly became audible. We all turned and saw a phalanx of black helicopters zooming towards us on the horizon.

Erii grabbed Mingfei by the wrist and dragged him inside the dark temple. We all followed her in, down a stone staircase and into a fall out shelter with a metal door. She closed it with a loud bang and locked it shut.

I was very serene on the outside, but I watched Mingfei with an increasing panic. A sweat had broken out on his face. He was shaking.

“Now...” Chime said. “Mingfei. Have you decided?”

Mingfei straightened up. His face was a blank. All emotion had been swept away and replaced by a dull, self-deprecating smile. “Do I really have a choice?” He laughed. “Ah... This day had to come I guess.”

He turned to Erii and walked up to her. “Look.. No matter what happens. After this. I want to put a ring on your finger.” He held out his hand and she accepted it.

He raised her hand and kissed. “I love you Erii... Don’t forget it.”

Tears rolled down her face and she clung to him.

“Sh... don’t talk.” He whispered. Then he pulled her hands away, giving them a loving pat. “I’ll... be right back.”

He approached the ghostly figure of Chime. The two men faced each other. 

“I will take you to the land of Nightmare. There are no Soul Skills in that place. It will be your mind at war with itself. The one that comes out the winner, will forever rule the body.”

Chime... Did it really have to be this way? I thought from within my body.

“I want to take Meixiu with me.” Mingfei replied.

I wondered if that was possible.

Chime beckoned to me and I was coerced into walking over to stand next to Mingfei. 

This time Chime’s fans opened slowly and in a small undulating gesture of the painted eyes, my vision grew blurry.

His voice was like like a trembling bird’s song.

“In the flow of time, the heart-wrenching things come and go.  I don't even know the heart that separates me from here.”

Why was I understanding what he was saying? The words of the song weren’t in Japanese, Chinese or English. He was singing Dragon Words.

The waving of the fans was hypnotic. I couldn’t look away even as the world around me melted and became indistinct. I saw my family’s faces, scenes from my childhood. I was back on the stage dancing on point, spinning, surrounded by the ghosts of my past.  

“It doesn't matter if it moves from the beginning. It flows into the clear space of time. Before I realize it, the seasons have changed. They just change. If you feel troubled, listen to the fading words of your dreams.”

I lifted up my head and opened my eyes. I wasn’t in Tibet any more but on a boat, kneeling on the deck. Waves lapped against the hull rocking it. I lifted myself up from the wooden planks and stood. They sky was dark and stormy. Lightning and peals of thunder rumbled in turbulent clouds. But the sea itself was tranquil.

Mingfei stood in front of me, staring at a boy in a black suit, seated on the railing.

[fromkaermorhentolettenhove]

Salvation - Chapter 6

Previous - Next

Chapter Summary: Geralt helps out a town while Jaskier finds out what makes Geralt happy

Words: 2806

A/N: working night shifts but I can promise the last chapter will come next week

-

AO3

or

Within a few days, Geralt, Roach, and Jaskier had finally made it to a large, bustling town. 

Rumor had it that the town was in need of a witcher to take care of a rather large bruxae invasion, however, that didn’t stop merchants from selling in the streets. The town had so much business in fact that stalls came all the way out to the road, starting out sparse and then shoving into bigger and bigger clusters. 

Geralt fell into his usual pattern of walking near Jaskier’s side, close enough to hear every breath that left him. Fear emanated off of Jaskier in waves but he held his head high, keeping the pace steady and brisk. As the first building passed by, Jaskier let out a heavy sigh, his eyes darting around. He did not stop, but Geralt was quick to swoop in, tangling Jaskier’s hand up in his own. 

With a relieved smile, Jaskier bumped his shoulder against Geralt’s, his grip on his lute strap lessening just a little. At least, his knuckles were no longer white and Geralt’s heart beat proudly in his chest. Once they made it to an inn and Roach was stabled, the two men sought out the innkeeper, managing to snag one of the last rooms available. 

“If I were to perform, what may we expect to receive in return?” Jaskier asked with a charming smile as Geralt counted his coins for the room. 

“Meals,” the innkeeper nodded. “Perhaps even a bath if you bring in a crowd.”

Jaskier beamed and gave a little bow to the woman behind the counter. “Of course. Your townsfolk shall be swept off their feet.”

The woman laughed at this, a blush rising to her cheeks as she took Geralt’s coin. Away from the bustle of the town, Jaskier was quite the charmer and Geralt wondered what other tricks he had up his sleeve. 

As they entered their room, Jaskier immediately set his lute to the side and fell back on the bed, a pleasant sigh leaving him. “I’m certainly not complaining about where we sleep, but I will enjoy our bed tonight.”

Geralt smirked, digging through one of the bags to find all his necessary potions. “And after your performance, I’m sure you’ll need it.”

“Oh yes,” Jaskier propped himself up on his elbows. “It’s been a while since I’ve properly done a set. I hope I still have it in me to last a few hours.”

“I’ll be watching,” Geralt spoke without thinking. He chewed on his tongue, thankful that his back was turned to Jaskier. “What I mean is, I’ll be there if you need to get away.”

The bed creaked and the soft footfalls of Jaskier approached Geralt. He sidled up, a smile gracing his face. “Thank you, my dear.”

Geralt’s head whipped towards Jaskier, his eyes widening a little before he cleared his throat and went back to his potions. “I’ll deal with the bruxae tomorrow. You may come along if you wish, but there will be a point where I continue alone.”

“Of course,” Jaskier nodded, still standing in Geralt’s personal space. “I’ve heard many nasty tales about them and I certainly don’t want to be victim to that.”

Then, Jaskier was gone from Geralt’s side, sitting on the bed and tuning his lute. How Jaskier moved so fast, so silently was beyond Geralt. It was entrancing, as if Jaskier had some mysticism flowing through his veins.

Geralt focused on the notes Jaskier plucked, the sound of a string shifting up as Jaskier found the right key. While he had never been musically inclined, Geralt still knew when something was out of tune and he waited patiently for Jaskier to be satisfied with his chords. 

“Shall we go down then?” Jaskier held his lute tight to him, already at the door. 

With a sharp nod, Geralt then followed Jaskier down to the main floor and secured himself at a table in an isolated corner. A few townsfolk were already milling in, curious about Jaskier’s presence in the center while trying to get a look at Geralt in the shadows. 

When Jaskier’s first notes filled the room, it was as if a spell overcame the customers as they listened with bated breath. By the time the first song ended, the room was filling up by the second, a crowd forming around Jaskier. 

Geralt kept a careful eye, watched Jaskier’s movements as he entertained. There were brief moments of nerves, a darting gaze and short breaths, but with every clap and cheer, Jaskier shone brighter, gracing the room with a dazzling smile. Geralt became so caught up in watching Jaskier that he hardly noticed the offerings of ale and food, managing a thank you just as the barmaid left. 

Jaskier was wonderful, a welcome distraction to the usual horrors of Geralt’s life. Everything that was good in the world, Geralt saw in Jaskier. Yes, the man had his flaws like anyone else, but Geralt could live with that, find the beauty within the shadows. Jaskier was healing too and that in itself eased an ache in Geralt’s soul that he hadn’t noticed lingering. 

In time, perhaps they could become more, greater than they were right now and Geralt surprised himself with the excitement that stirred inside of him. He smiled when Jaskier sat across from him, drinking down ale and eating, all while managing to talk a mile a minute. Even with Jaskier’s energy waning, he wanted to keep going, explained to Geralt how wonderful all of this was. 

It wasn’t until midnight that Jaskier was finally ready to go to bed and Geralt kept listening as Jaskier kept on talking. 

“Did you know I’ve performed for royalty?” Jaskier grinned as he unbuttoned his doublet. “Quite a few of those courts had me come back for an encore.”

Geralt was already climbing onto the bed and he watched Jaskier dance around the room, despite his exhaustion. “Then we’ll have to find one for you to perform at again.”

Jaskier’s face lit up and he all but bounced to the bed once he was ready. “Do you mean it?”

“Sometimes kings and queens need my help,” Geralt shrugged. “At the very least the coin will be good.”

Jaskier laughed and blew out the candle before shuffling close to Geralt, arm tucked under his head. “I’m so very lucky to have you, Geralt.”

Geralt’s heart thumped in his chest and he looked at Jaskier’s face in the darkness. There were no lies or deceit, nothing but a shining admiration that stared back. Geralt fought with himself, opened his mouth to say the words back, but Jaskier’s eyes began to droop and he curled closer to Geralt. Taking a chance, Geralt tucked himself into Jaskier and let himself be carried away by the soft breaths, the warmth of a gentle rest. 

When morning came, there were no complaints of the early hour and Jaskier was quiet for most of the walk to the graveyard. Thick fog surrounded them, the eerie silence ringing in Geralt’s ears. A crypt finally came into view and Geralt held his hand out behind him, motioning Jaskier to stay. With a glance, he caught Jaskier’s nod before he charged on ahead, sliding through the door that clung to its hinges. 

The area was too dark, but Geralt could already smell the bruxae and he hastily pulled out a potion, drinking it in a single gulp. As his transformation took over, the bruxae pounced, barely giving Geralt time to pull out his silver sword. His first swipe hit the target, but he had a near miss with a swipe of talons. Rolling out of the way, Geralt cast Igni, causing some of the bruxae to break from the group. Those unaffected narrowed in, the small space even more cramped as Geralt was surrounded on all sides. 

With a growl, Geralt leapt and swiped, predicting the moves of a hive mind as he finished off another bruxa. Growls and screams pierced his ears, but he did not stop, even as claws dug into his back. His mind became a muted haze, practiced precision and instinct guiding him. He didn’t feel pain, didn’t see or hear the carnage until the last body dropped. Left in a pile of bodies and guts, Geralt heaved a breath and kicked down the crypt door, the potion still running through his veins. 

The sun was beginning to rise, the graveyard a much more pleasant state than before with the dissolving fog. Marching through the tombstones, Geralt finally made it back to where he had left Jaskier and he wiped his sword on the grass. 

He didn’t dare look at Jaskier, his chest still heaving, mumbled growls escaping from his mouth. 

“Oh, Geralt, your eyes,” Jaskier began softly. “Can I sing about them? They’re magnificent.”

Geralt snapped his gaze towards Jaskier and tilted his head, flashing a bit of fang. “Magnificent?” he rumbled. 

Jaskier nodded, almost a little too gleefully, and took a step closer to Geralt. “How long does this last?”

“Should wear off soon,” Geralt answered, the colliding thoughts in his mind forming a headache. 

He squeezed his eyes shut, gripped tight to his sword as he tried to steady himself. Jaskier was ridiculous and Geralt loved him for it. 

Eyes flying open, Geralt stared at Jaskier, realized what he had just thought. Surely this was all part of a dream, but with Jaskier watching him, his eyes shining with concern, Geralt couldn’t convince himself of anything but the truth. 

With the potion beginning to subside, Geralt sheathed his sword and soaked in the rays of the rising sun as Jaskier shuffled closer. 

“Let’s get you back. I see a wound there that needs attending to,” Jaskier pointed, tugging at Geralt’s sleeve. 

“Just a scratch,” Geralt reassured. 

He touched the wound and winced, but seeing just a bit of blood on his fingers meant he was already on his way to healing. However, he let Jaskier drag him along and chatter as the potion worked its way out of his system. 

“It was so quiet waiting for you. I thought for sure something had happened but then there you were. How many were there? Do you always take that potion before fighting bruxae?” 

Geralt did his best to answer Jaskier’s questions, to keep up with his buzzing mind. When they had made it back to the town, Geralt was then bombarded by the townsfolk with even more enquiring and small bags of coin being handed his way. 

With arms full, both he and Jaskier finally settled into the safety of their room in which Geralt was quickly pushed into a bath while Jaskier fussed over him. 

“Well, it shouldn’t need any stitches, but we’ll wrap it up for now,” Jaskier explained as he cleaned Geralt’s wounds. 

He tsked at the fresh cuts on his back, dutifully worked all the blood and grime out of Geralt’s hair. Before long, Geralt was deemed clean enough and Jaskier braided Geralt’s hair into a neat plait. 

As Geralt dressed, Jaskier counted through their coin, sorting it into a larger bag while forming a small pile to the side. 

“I’d say we’ve had quite a day. Let’s explore the town, have a bit of fun.”

Geralt raised a brow at this but motioned for Jaskier to lead the way, following him into the bustling streets. Nearly every vendor offered them a discount and Geralt soon found out just how much Jaskier enjoyed shopping. Bundle upon bundle filled both their hands, yet Jaskier still managed to leave with a fair amount of coin by the end. 

Taking a seat at the town square’s fountain, the two companions took to people watching while sharing a small meal. Geralt let the warmth of Jaskier wash over him as he savored the little bit of peace he was allowed.

“–and this one has raspberries,” Jaskier took Geralt’s hand and opened it. 

He placed a small tartlet on Geralt’s palm, explaining every ingredient as if he had made the dessert himself. Geralt ate carefully as he watched Jaskier enjoy his own food and the sunny day. 

It had been such a long journey, but Geralt was learning who Jaskier was, what hid beneath the surface. To see him happy, unafraid, was perfection. He could watch this forever and truly be content. 

“What?” Jaskier grinned when he caught Geralt’s stare. 

Geralt ducked his head with a noncommittal noise, searching for any excuse. However, Jaskier jumped in first, ushering Geralt to his feet. 

“Let’s go back to the inn. I have something for Roach,” Jaskier collected their packages. 

Helping Jaskier with the load, Geralt stuck by his side, letting himself throw glances back and forth with Jaskier. 

How wonderful this all was, the world around Geralt fading away until it was just him and Jaskier.

~

Geralt and Jaskier had been back on the road for a few days now, settling down by a small fire for the evening. There was a soft, warm wind and the two sat in content silence as they worked on their whittling.

“Geralt, what makes you happy?”

Looking up from his knife, Geralt watched Jaskier’s hardened focus on his own wood carving. His face was scrunched in concentration, but he repeated his question again. 

“I don’t know,” came Geralt’s reply. 

That was his honest truth. He wasn’t sure what happiness was, if he had ever truly experienced it. Whatever came into his life was either necessity or a means to an end. Not based on raw emotion. 

“Really?” Jaskier frowned, his knife coming to an abrupt stop. 

“What do you mean by happy?” Geralt shrugged.

“Well,” Jaskier chewed on his lip. “Anything. The best meal you’ve ever had, when a shopkeeper gives you a good deal.”

Geralt let out a small cynical laugh at this. “That’s happiness?”

Jaskier nodded, his smile gentle. The fire crackled between them, Geralt still without a proper answer and Jaskier waiting patiently. As if picking up on Geralt’s hesitation, Jaskier set his work to the side, his gaze cast downward. 

“When you first saved me, I thought it would be impossible to be happy again. In the hours drifting between our world and the next, I was ready to give up. But then, your kindness, your patience, it reignited my hope and when you made me smile, that’s when I truly knew what happiness was.”

Geralt’s heart thumped in his chest. Jaskier’s honesty was almost too much, but Geralt didn’t want to stop hearing it either. He stiffened as Jaskier got to his feet and sat close to him, their sides almost touching. Amber eyes stared into deep blue, heartbeat pounding in Geralt’s ears. He opened his mouth and he spoke without a thought.

“You. You make me happy.”

Jaskier’s breath hitched, but he didn’t pull his gaze away from Geralt. “Do you really mean that?”

Geralt nodded, his grip on his knife and the carved wood tightening. When warm hands enveloped his own, there was a tingling sensation, specks of starlight floated in his vision. 

“Geralt, may I kiss you?”

The world was fading away, there was nothing at all beyond the gaze of admiration in Jaskier’s eyes. Geralt wanted to stay in this forever and whispered his affirming answer. When soft lips pressed against his own, Geralt let his eyes slowly close, allowed his defenses to fall down. He and Jaskier breathed in tandem together, holding their embrace for as long as they were allowed. Neither could tell who pulled away first, but it didn’t matter as they held their foreheads together, their breathing loud in their ears.

“Thank you for not stabbing me.”

Geralt blinked, glanced down, and realized his knife was still tight in his grip. A breathy laugh left him and he set everything to the side before taking hold of Jaskier’s hands. Jaskier grinned, leaned back in to place a small kiss on the corner of Geralt’s mouth. Geralt’s heart stuttered and he tugged Jaskier closer to properly hug him. Tucking his face into the crook of Jaskier’s neck, Geralt inhaled sharply as the feeling of Jaskier took over. 

“Let’s lay down, hm?” Jaskier’s fingers danced across Geralt’s shoulders. 

Geralt nodded into Jaskier’s neck, reluctant to pull away. The prospect of cuddling with Jaskier was stronger, however and they were quick to get ready for the evening before settling down in front of the fire. Jaskier curled up behind Geralt, settled a strong arm across his chest as he nuzzled at the back of Geralt’s neck. 

With his hand slipping over Jaskier’s, Geralt tangled their fingers together and soon all the tension in his body had faded away. Jaskier’s breath on his skin was a reminder, a hope, that no matter what was to come, they would always have each other.

[yatorihell]

In The Darkness Chapter 46 - The Graveyard

Words: 4,767

Summary: What awaits Yato and Suzuha in the graveyard?

Previous chapter | First chapter

Thank you Ina (@leopah) for beta-ing me <3

Happy late birthday Anna (@shadownightes)!

Read on AO3

Yato hit the ground with a loud grunt.

Grass and silence greeted him. An expanse of blackness hung above him before he rolled onto his hands and knees. Somewhere nearby he could hear an equally undignified groan from Suzuha, who had landed somewhere on his right.

Yato rose to his feet, wincing slightly as he felt the soreness of his fall, though thankfully he didn’t seem to be injured. He looked around.

The maze that had been seconds away from sealing them in the same fate as Manabu was gone.

Instead, a ruined graveyard littered with broken headstones stood in a sparse landscape. Any remaining family of those under their feet were as long dead as the flowers that had been laid to remember them.

Several gravestones were marked by stone obelisks and angels which passed silent judgement on the two boys as they looked around, scuffled footsteps kicking stone and grass as they paced cautiously, wondering where they were.

Yato noticed the mausoleums and catacombs standing tall around the empty space they were in. At the centrepiece of the crypts was a statue, remarkably intact despite the grime which coated its folded wings.

He circled around. It would have been an angel if not for its skeletal face. Though, on closer inspection, it seemed that a less talented craftsman had transformed its once beautiful face into something more grotesque, turning the perfectly sculpted marble into a jarring visage of a harbinger of death.

The goblet caught Yato’s eye. It had landed a short distance away at the foot of a grave, shining with a much dimmer light now that its task had been fulfilled.

A Portkey…

“Where are we?”

Yato flinched, not hearing Suzuha come up by his side. They both looked around for some sort of indication of the maze’s tall shrubbery, or the small stadium of spectators, even the school. Nothing.

Yato’s voice came out quieter than he expected. “I don’t know.”

Just then – out of the corner of his eye beyond the edge of a catacomb – something moved.

Yato hit Suzuha’s arm, not taking his eyes off the movement as what looked like a short figure approached. He heard Suzuha’s soft curse and the tell-tale shift of clothing telling him that Suzuha was reaching for his wand.

Yato was about to do the same – until the cloaked figure jerked his hand upwards.

The air was stolen from Yato’s lungs with the action, an invisible noose pulled tight around his neck that had him gasping silently for breath and his mind speared by a thousand needles.

Yato’s legs gave out, crumpling to the ground with his hands clutching his head as static filled his mind, blinding his senses and making him cry out.

The figure – no bigger than himself – continued walking towards the pair, leaving Suzuha to stand protectively in front of his fellow champion.

“Who are you?” Suzuha shouted as the hooded figured approached. He held his wand tightly in his grip, directing it at the figure. He didn’t dare to tear his eyes away.

Its hand dropped, and Yato found himself able to breathe once more with ragged pants.

The figure didn’t answer Suzuha’s question. Instead, its hand rose once more, this time to push back its hood, revealing dark eyes beneath a parting of light hair.

Suzuha couldn’t help but notice the smile on the boy’s lips as he directed his attention behind him. At Yato.

As if on cue, Yato groaned, his hands still clutching his head that was pressed to the ground. Why does it hurt so much?

His wand in his pocket dug into his leg painfully, a poignant reminder of his inability to wield it with the searing pain in his head. He was left to the mercy of a psychological torture that felt sickeningly familiar, one that not even Suzuha’s protection could stop.

Suzuha wavered at Yato’s pained noise. He turned his head to look at Yato. Words didn’t have time to pass his lips before a wand slipped out of the intruder’s sleeve and comfortably into his hand.

Neither saw him raise the wand. The only thing that sent a shock through Yato’s system, bringing his head up in a snap of attention, was the two words he uttered.

“Avada Kedavra!”

Yato’s eyes followed the curse as if in slow motion; unable to think, unable to speak, or even push Suzuha out of the way as he whirled around in blind panic. Too slow.

In one fluid motion, Yato watched the curse slam Suzuha’s chest.

In the split second before his body was flung across the graveyard Yato could see a concoction of emotions: fear, desperation… and agony.

His body became a ragdoll, limp and manipulated. No reaction nor scream came from his mouth when his head connected on a gravestone with a sickening crack. He crumpled in a heap before the tombstone.

Dead.

His vacant eyes stared at the sky, unseeing and devoid of the emotions that had plagued him in the maze into a state that only cleared moments ago.

Suzuha remained peaceful, undisturbed by Yato’s scream – not that Yato recognised his own broken voice nor felt his limbs move of their own accord. The sound of his own pounding heart drowned out the world, muffling his heavy footfalls before they ceased altogether.

Something intangible and sharp pierced Yato’s stomach, making him stumble and see white-hot stars explode when his vision faltered into momentary darkness. Rather than the solidity of the ground beneath his feet, he felt weightless – floating – until his back pressed against hardness and the grating of metal brought him back to his senses.

Only then did Yato realise he’d been encased in the arms of the fallen angel, its scythe locking against his chest and effectively pinning his arms up, feet grazing the ground as he grasped at the statue to stop his strangulation.

Yato grunted and pushed at the bar. It wouldn’t budge.

Without a word the boy turned from Yato, indifferent of his hostage and victim whose body was yet to turn cold.

He scanned the barren landscape expectantly.

Within a second, rushes of wind and flares of darkness materialised in the shape of people surrounding both figures, each one enshrouded in black robes that nearly blended into the twilight. Their identities were obscured by skeletal masks, but this told Yato one detail – one crucial detail – about who was behind the goblet portkey.

These were the followers of one man. The same people who had attacked the Quidditch World Cup.

Death Eaters.

But where was the Sorcerer?

Silence deafened the graveyard. It seemed that whatever reason Yato was brought here for, there was a need for an audience. And he was about to find out why.

The boy approached Yato, not caring how he struggled when he came merely steps away. He examined Yato’s face in silence.

“Do you know who I am?”

Yato stared at him in response. Even if this boy was the same age as him, Yato didn't recognise him as a fellow student. Not even as someone he would’ve known before Hogwarts.

The boy made a face of theatrical shock, eyes as round as the ‘o’ of his mouth.

“Surely, you would think me famous by now! You of all people should know me. You have seen firsthand what I can do.”

His dramatic expression dropped immediately. He looked Yato dead in the eye. His face was passive, voice evenly toned as if he were discussing a mundane topic rather than revealing his identity.  

“Don’t you recognise an old friend?

Yato scowled, breath low in his throat, trying to think through the dull throb in his temple. Death Eaters, but no Sorcerer… why isn’t he here?

Then again, when had anyone seen what he actually looked like? Elusive, cunning, and…

Yato’s face drained of colour. With a nationwide manhunt for the most wanted wizard in the world, who would think to look for someone barely out of school?

The boy’s smile grew wider at Yato’s silent realisation. “Amazing, isn’t it? No one in the Ministry would ever think to look for a child.”

Yato stared at him blankly. Nothing made sense. How could the one of the Most Dangerous Dark Wizards of All Time be someone his age, let alone be able to break into the Triwizard Tournament security and slip past the Minister of Magic himself to bring Yato here?

If this was the Sorcerer, then Yato knew he was in a very dangerous situation: alone and in the middle of nowhere with a clutch of purists.

Now he was even more painfully aware of his wand in his pocket, just out of reach. Even if he could wiggle his arm free without this lunatic noticing, Yato could already feel himself slipping from the iron grasp. His position prevented him from moving without the risk of strangling himself, giving him no choice but to hold himself up.

Keep him talking, Yato managed to think. If he could just lower his guard, maybe he could escape.

“Are you working with my father?” Yato tried to keep his tone level, but even he could tell his voice had become dry.

The Sorcerer laughed and took a step forward, bowing slightly at the waist.

“If you had stuck around, you would’ve found out,” he took another step forward, voice dropping to an excited whisper. “Shall I show you what you’ve been missing?”

He tapped his temple, and simultaneously, white-hot heat seared through Yato’s head.

If he screamed, Yato didn’t hear it. The thudding in his head grew harder, pulsating and turning into a low noise which was trying to break through an imperceptible bubble that cloaked – no, protected – Yato from whatever was trying to reach him.

The Sorcerer cocked his head to the side. “You can hear it now, can’t you? That noise in your head.”

He was right in front of Yato now, his hand outstretching slowly. “Is it getting louder?”

The Sorcerer closed his eyes and pressed his index finger to the centre of Yato’s forehead.

A bolt of lightning-like shock flashed under Yato’s skin, from the point at where they connected and spreading out in jagged spikes which crawled under and clawed at every crack in Yato’s exhausted body.

Static drowned out the world and Yato’s eyes blew wide open, mouth falling open in a silent scream. Something that had been locked away inside of him was unleashed. Something he didn’t know about had been put there, and now with one touch it had been opened.

Flashes of faces and dark alleys, a vaulted door, Dementors and phantom dogs. And voices. So many voices. But the screams… they were familiar. They were his own.

The sheer force of the noise and repercussions of the single touch washing over him made Yato gasp for air, drowning and incapable of escaping the Sorcerer’s touch no matter how his body screamed.

Yato didn’t know how long it lasted, but when the finger left his skin and his desperate lungs could finally gasp for air in frantic pants, the Sorcerer murmured something that his throbbing head nearly missed.

“We are connected, Yaboku. All of your family.”

The finger ghosted from Yato’s forehead and down the side of his face, barely there until it came to rest under his chin. Slowly, Yato felt his face being tilted upwards. An invisible force made him open his eyes.

Despite his blurred vision, Yato thought he could see the Sorcerer searching his expression pensively, but the drooped corner of his mouth and furrowed eyebrows suggested something more… melancholic.

Whatever emotion he’d shown was replaced by an imperceptible façade.

“Oh, won’t you come home, Yaboku?” he chided softly, finger delicately moving to trace across Yato’s tightened throat. “Your Father misses you so.”

Yato wheezed and, through the clearing haze over his eyes, glared at him. “I’d rather die.”

This prompted a grin from the Sorcerer. “That could easily be arranged.”

The boy gave a dark chuckle and withdrew his hand from Yato’s throat. He tapped his wand lightly against his forefinger. “Do you think anyone would actually miss you?”

Yato heaved a shaky breath. Yukine and Hiyori flashed through his mind, even Bishamon and Kazuma for a fleeting second, at the question.

The Sorcerer gave a contemptive laugh at his response before he drawled,

“Ah, yes, that mudblood girl. How devoted you are to her.” He cocked his head to the side, gauging Yato’s reaction for a split second before adding, “And the half-blood orphan you’ve grown so attached to.”

It had the desired effect. A gnawing feeling in the pit of his stomach had Yato swallow thickly. How did he know Hiyori and Yukine?

“The boy has a fiery spirit. Such a shame his blood is tainted – a wasted potential. If he were a pure blood, he would’ve made a great wizard. Powerful enough to do more than you ever could, if only he had my guidance.”

He carried on regardless of Yato’s pained silence, set on an edge with every word threatening to push him over.

“He’s a true Slytherin even if he was placed in a weak house. And smart.” The Sorcerer tapped his finger to his temple with a knowing smile. “Smart enough to realise who had entered your name into the Goblet of Fire and catch them in the act of bewitching the trophy.”

A sickening grin spread across his face with his next words. “Brave enough to even try and warn you.”

He stopped and threw his arm to gesture behind where Yato was held captive, taking a sudden change in narrative. “He’s here now! Your professor who put your name in the Goblet of Fire and ensured that you would be here on this very night is here now. Won’t you thank him for this happy reunion?”

Yato resisted the urge to try and crane his neck, knowing that it would only hurt his strained muscles and labouring chest. Whoever it was, Yukine already knew. Yato just needed to find him… if he got out alive.

The Sorcerer didn’t seem to care that Yato hadn’t spoken at all during his taunting.

“Speaking of reunion, your Father suggested you save Nora from a watery grave instead of that mudblood.”

He came in front of Yato once again, though this time it was closer – personal, even. A smug grin found its way on his face. “Fitting, don’t you think? To find out who you truly care about.”

The smile vanished a second later and his eyes narrowed into dark slits. “It seems you don’t care about your own family after all.”

“She’s not my family,” Yato strained. “None of them are.”

“By blood, no. But your professor believes that you could do so much greater than I even if your loyalty is divided.” He paused for a moment. “Though I find loyalty only tends to last as long as the pair are alive.”

The Sorcerer came closer and Yato recoiled into the hardness behind him.

“But you see, Yaboku, I’ve been watching you. You never left my sight, not even when you abandoned your family. I’ve watched you grow and fight, and I’ve seen you fall in love. I’ve learnt what you fear the most, and that is that you can’t protect your friends.”

This time a hand came up to caress Yato’s cheek, and Yato flinched away from it. The fingers were slightly calloused, as if this person hadn’t ever made his hands dirty unless absolutely necessary. They rubbed light circles on his cheeks before brushing a strand of hair from the bridge of his nose.

His voice was gentle; sincere, like a father comforting a fearful child.

“Fear not, Yaboku. You won’t have to worry about the orphan anymore.”

The words were like a bucket of ice-cold water being dumped on Yato’s head, numbing him. His mouth felt heavy and dry as dirt. Panic stirred in his chest.

“Where’s Yukine?!”

His Adam’s apple bobbed hard against the cold iron as he tried to fight down the nauseating image of what sickening things might’ve happened to Yukine.

“Naturally I couldn’t let him go, nor even live.” The Sorcerer’s words were lazy, as if discussing much more trivial matters. “But murder is such a tiring business when you’ve been in it for as long as I have.”

“Where the fuck is Yukine?!” Yato practically screamed.

“I prefer new methods. Methods that torment the mind and rip the soul until death is nothing but a fairytale ending.”

The Sorcerer circled around, enjoying his limelight – and the reaction he had finally dragged from Yato. Still, he wanted to draw it out until anguish consumed what fleeting hope Yato clung to for his friend.

“He wrote in my diary, you know. All of the deepest darkest secrets and fears he could have never told you or the mudblood. And my, the secrets were riveting, but the key lies within the fears.”

Yato’s eyes widened, breathing heavier as he realised what he had seen, what he knew.

“Have you worked it out Yaboku? I’m sure you know what I’m talking about, and it’s driving him insane right now.”

He didn’t…

“If you locked someone in a chest, they would fear the confined space, oh, but not your little friend.”

His face cracked into a sickening grin as he leaned in closer to Yato, voice low but loud enough to stab pure fear into Yato’s heart at the following words.

“He’s terrified of the dark, and being locked in that chest, suffocating, I doubt he’s going to last very long.”

Images flashed through Yato’s head as he remembered when he’d found Yukine in the Chamber of Secrets. When he’d first found out about Yukine’s fear. His cut, clammy hands and tear-stained cheeks as he fumbled lost in the dark for god knows how long, until panic overwhelmed him and left him crumpled in the sewer, engulfed in his own hell.

Yato’s broken voice hollered curses and swears as he struggled, crushing himself between the statue as he tried to slip through the narrow gap.

In his mind he pictured Yukine curled up, fingernails torn and bloody from scratching blindly and frantically at the sides of his tomb as he screamed for help through bated breaths. Eventually those scratches would sound like nothing more than a dead branch against a window pane until they stopped completely.

“The half-blood is already dead. You’re already a failure to those you promised to protect.”

Any fight Yato had left in him dissipated. A hot lump in his throat choked him to the point that he couldn’t breathe.

“Oh, don’t worry, you won’t have to deal with him. He’ll be gone before you get back – body and soul. You’ll have that mudblood for a while. Play with her, fall in love if that helps to ease your loss, but she will perish too.”

The Sorcerer grinned, face millimetres from Yato’s. Yato tried to suppress his heaving chest as he stared right back into his captor’s eyes.

For the first time, he could see what exactly was reflected in a madman’s eyes: unbridled glee.

“Most murders are crimes of necessity rather than desire.” His voice dropped an octave, thick as tar and dangerous. “All of those filthy mudbloods in that school will be the first to go. You can try and save your pet, but you could never have the power to stand in my way.”

The Sorcerer pulled back abruptly, eyes filled with twisted joy at Yato’s defeated appearance. His head hung low as he listened to the meticulously macabre detail.

“Her death will involve magic – but not the kind that she so arrogantly uses as if she was born to use it. Dark magic, which will ensnare her soul and spread through her like a curse until she’s nearly overcome by my power, just leaving enough of her consciousness behind to realise what’s happened to her and to see you doing nothing as it slowly kills her.”

Yato felt tears prick his eyes, throat burning with a lump he couldn’t swallow. He felt his chin being tilted up gently, the sharp point of an aged wand pinching his skin, dragging his eyes to be level with the Sorcerer.

“I wonder if killing her will unleash that power I locked away inside of you,” he murmured, more to himself than Yato. “We can put it to the test once you’re home. Like I said, your Father does miss you so.”

Yato heard the quiet scuffs of footsteps on grass and the shifting of robes and muted talk, the Sorcerer giving orders to his followers who silently watched them.

Yato let out a breath. So that was why he was here. Father was in liege with these people, trying to get him to go back to their side. Entering him into a contest where he could be spirited away and presumed dead; it wouldn’t be the first time that someone had gone missing – or died – in this tournament. Now it looked like both were going to happen on this night; a perfect kidnap with no trace of where he went or any witnesses.

He wouldn’t go. Not if he could stop whatever was going to happen to Hiyori. Not if there was the smallest chance that Yukine was alive somewhere.

Giving a cautious glance at the Sorcerer’s back, Yato took a deep breath. He reached down, allowing himself to slip until his windpipe was pressed against the scythe.

The loose fabric of his trousers gave way to his pocket, fingertips grazing the tip of his wand. With a final strain it was in his hand.

Then he was caught.

The first warning call barely passed their lips before Yato hurled a bolt of red light at the Death Eater, sending them flying backwards. Yato forced his wand against the statue, giving a silent order to release him as quickly as it had ensnared him.

Yato let out a gasp as the pressure instantly left his chest, feeling his ribs bloom with bruises when he clutched his side.

Flares of robes and drawn wands blurred in front of Yato in slow motion, as well as the Sorcerer spinning around in confused anger at Yato’s escape attempt.

Yato threw out defence spells, not hearing what the Sorcerer was shouting as the ringing of deadly curses and hexes met his barriers.

Yato sent a frantic glance around the graveyard as he was driven back, looking for something, anything, that could help him. His eyes fell on two things: his dimly shining escape route – the portkey – and Suzuha.

Yato threw himself sideways out of the way of a curse, narrowly missing the grave which acted as a shield that splintered and chipped under the heavy fire of reds and greens. Yato panted hard, wand clutched his hand so tightly his knuckles had turned white and he feared he would never be able to open his fist again.

This was his chance.

Scrambling behind headstones which shattered faster than he could move onto the next one, Yato shielded himself with any spell that he could muster as he broke cover.

In one, two, three bounds he was close enough to throw himself at Suzuha’s body and shout his final spell.

“Accio portkey!”

~ 

The pair apparated in the stadium where they had started. The roar of the crowd was deafening as they cheered for their victor slumped on the ground but did not see the body he wept over. Clinging to Suzuha, Yato’s rasped voice called for help, unheard by none but the corpse before him.

The wrist where Yukine might’ve tied his good luck charm – if he hadn’t been taken – laid bare in the grass, a gut-wrenching reminder that with it, this might not have happened.

It felt like an eternity before a scream pierced the air and the band fell silent, the terrible – terrible – and quiet realisation that something had gone wrong falling over the crowd.

Yato struggled weakly when hands gently pulled him off the ground and away from Suzuha, muffled murmurs about screening the body from the crowd not reaching his ears. His ragged breathing and raw throat and the all-consuming falling sensation in the pit of his stomach was what grounded Yato from falling apart completely.

He was vaguely aware of the damp sensation on his shirt. He didn’t have to look to know it was dark with blood where he had pulled Suzuha to him and caught the portkey before the graveyard spun away and they were returned to where they started.

Too many people surrounded him, their eyes boring into him and the blood-stained jersey. Their faces blurred together, but Yato knew none of them were Hiyori… or Yukine.

Yato snapped back at a firm gripped on his shoulders, Professor Tenjin’s face inches from his.

Yato didn’t hear what he was saying, the only desperate answer he could give to ‘What happened?’ was:

“He’s going… to kill… Yukine…!”

“Who?”

‘He’s here now! Your professor who put your name in the Goblet of Fire’. Those were the Sorcerer’s words. He was…

‘Professor’

“Death Eater -.”

Yato barely croaked before he was being swept away by Professor Tenjin and Okuninushi, storming the castle and all but obliterating the door to the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom and its office.

The professor’s robes had changed from their usual red, white and green to black, resembling what the Death Eaters had worn. As well as this difference, his office was nearly bare accept for a suitcase next to the door.

It seemed Rabou was ready for them, poised for a duel now his secret was exposed.

Though he sent a curse at them – which was blocked by Professor Tenjin – his wand was snatched away by Professor Tsuyu the second he cast it. It seemed that she had managed to catch up amongst the chaos of the stadium.

Okuninushi – a powerful man twice Rabou’s size – was on him in seconds, pushing him down into the wooden chair behind the desk and his wand nearly impaling through his cheek.

Professor Tenjin came to the other side of the desk, eyes now burning with fire akin to a phoenix’s. “Where’s the boy?”

Rabou grinned against the wand point. His eyes glittered with madness, lips pulled tight over his teeth in a hyena-like grimace.

Okuninushi seemed to grow in size at his silence. If he had been towering over him before, now there was a faint purple aura leaking from his clothes and simmering like desert heat.

“Where. Is. He?”

Rabou didn’t seem phased by the change, almost as if he expected this side of the High Master to rear its head again. But it was enough for his eyes to betray him.

A chest, no bigger than the trunk at the foot of Yato’s bed, sat padlocked in the corner of the room. Yato’s blood ran cold at the realisation that he hadn’t noticed it, and even colder at what must be inside.

The room was silent as all eyes turned to it. Yato was the first to move.

"Open it!" he rasped, half to himself, half to the shocked onlookers. His shaking fingers clawed at the mechanism, desperately trying to find the catch to unlock it.

A rough hand on his shoulder forcibly pulled him back, holding him in place as he tried to lunge back at the chest. Professor Tenjin briskly stepped forward, wand drawn and poised. With a fluid motion of his wand, the bolts and locks of the chest began to clang and grate like nails on a blackboard.

To Yato's horror, the chest transformed, gradually revealing a smaller and smaller compartment until a coffin-sized chest remained.

He ripped himself free of the loosened grip on his arm, nearly falling head first into the chest. An extension charm greeted him, leaving Yato to stare into the dimness and make out the imprisoned figure.

Far below, Yukine lay curled up in a ball, fists screwed tightly into his hair as he fought to keep the darkness from claiming him as it did in the Chamber of Secrets.

The small amount of light that pierced the confines of the chest had reached Yukine's senses, telling him he was not alone anymore. His arms moved apart slightly, allowing him to squint at the two figures that blurred the brightness above him.

"Dad...?"

His whisper went unheard as Yato’s shouts muffled in his ears, consciousness fading into oblivion.

As before, in a cold and dark space, darkness defeated the light, and Yukine was gone.

[thelionshoarde]

Obiyuki + mirror

THIS IS REALLY WEIRD I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO TELL YOU, ILU

“Miss,” Obi sighed, in such a way that the sound caught, turned rough and prickling against his aggravation. “You are going the wrong way!”

“I think I know the layout of my own house,” Shirayuki snapped, raising the lantern high so she could see the turn of the corridor. House, of course, was too small a word to contain the labyrinth she had inherited. Too kind a moniker as well -- crypt seemed more apt, particularly as the flickering light caught the silver gleam of a mirror, and exposed the scowling visage of Obi within.

His eyes narrowed, and his mouth twitched. “Better than the person who’s lived inside the house -- quite literally, might I add! -- for nearly five decades? Really? How does that work out, hm?”

“Blueprints,” Shirayuki sniffed. “Excellent recall. Very handy ability to orient myself facing east.”

When his face crumpled with confusion, Shirayuki took the opportunity to dash further down the corridor, counting her steps. Another fifteen would take her to the panel that opened up into a hidden conservatory, full of dead foliage and cobwebs and glass walls that let in a sun that should never have been able to reach it at all. Behind her, Obi’s voice called out, lilting up in confused exasperation, “Why east?! Isn’t it supposed to be north!”

A quick twist of a grotesquely ornate sconce set the panel moving, and Shirayuki ducked in, glad she’d changed into her riding breeches for this excursion. Her skirts were difficult to manage at a crouch. A single wriggling moment brought her out into an interior hallway -- a hallway that had been tucked along the edge of the one she’d followed here, that now unfolded out from either direction, carpet unrolling, walls snapping into place, the ceiling forming to catch the flickering burst of oil lamps as they lit their way along the path.

Damn it. The house had shifted on her. She had been going the wrong way.

Directly across from her hung a gilt framed mirror. Within it Obi lounged against the wall next to her, close enough their shoulders nearly touched. He grinned -- sharp and slanted -- and Shirayuki forced herself to hold still, to not make the mistake of turning her head to check to see if he was really beside her.

Because he wasn’t. He wasn’t. He was trapped inside the house itself, held and frozen and barely real, and it wasn’t fair that the space beside her was so empty, that he only existed in the mirror.

But when he let himself shift, like he was a sapling being bowed before the wind, she could almost feel the warmth of him against her side, and almost feel his breath against the whorl of her ear when he ducked his head down to whisper to her reflection: “You’re entirely too stubborn for your own good. It’s going to get you killed.”

“So what?” Shirayuki whispered back, so tense and full of adrenaline and frustration it felt like she might shake apart at any given moment.

“I’m not worth you dying,” Obi grit out, stepping back. Shirayuki watched him in the mirror, refusing to blink. Met his eyes and raised her chin in challenge.

She said, “You’re worth saving, no matter the cost.”

[rataprimus]

The Art of Being Tyrian

Chapter 1 Rating: PG Setting: vanilla game

A series of short fics around the adventures of the (very small) Artistic Integrity [BIOW] guild as they try to save the world, keep breathing, and find their place in the world they call home. Some things deviate from canon here and there. Largely plays with the fact that we treat our whole guild as having actively taken part in things happening, with characters coming and going throughout.

I literally wrote this in my downtime at work.

This particular part of the Plains of Ashford always seemed so dull to him these days. He couldn’t really put a paw on why, but while he wasn’t as inclined to warfare as much as most of his peers, he still didn’t like going too long without something to occupy his attention.

The Flame Legion here had long been pushed back, and though they sometimes made excursions to the scrapyards and small outposts dotting the landscape nearest the entrance to the Black Citadel, it was becoming more and more rare for them to make such attempts. Too much risk, he assumed, for too little reward.

Now and then, he spotted some odd member of one of the other races running past, many of whom were accompanied by charr they had fallen in with. He had never understood the appeal himself: sure, he had joined up with a guild that was composed of all the races that currently dominated Tyria... but it was under the shared knowledge that he only partnered up with one of his pets and would only “party up” if it was absolutely necessary. As if he knew he was thinking of him and his comrades, his drake Eldritch hissed softly for a treat. And Garrus, having all the resistance of a wet tissue as usual when it came to his menagerie, obliged.

As he made his way for one of the further outposts, having been called there to assist one of his comrades, his ears twitched. He swore he heard whimpering nearby, and the soft crackling of fire and rumbling growls that often accompanied Flame Legion shamans. Had he been any other charr, he probably wouldn’t have even turned his head. No charr cub would whimper like that, so it was probably a skritt or some errant animal caught in a trap. But something about the sound sent a chill straight down his tail, and instead he turned, sending Eldritch ahead of him to scout the situation in case things got hairy.

The closer he drew, the more he could hear.

“Come out, little rat,” came the gravelly voice, one he swore he’d heard when he was younger. “It’ll only hurt for a moment. You’ll make a fine sacrifice.”

It had to be a skritt, right? Sniffing the air for a moment or two, his ears pulled back as he wrinkled up his snout. No, that was a peculiar smell, not dirt and stone like skritt. The smell was of magic, tools, oil, and grease. A strange sense of magic, but not from use. More from study, perhaps?

It was an asura.

An asura this shaman clearly had cornered. As he crept forward and over the rise, he finally caught a glimpse of the scene before him, and his lips curled back in a snarl.

The shaman was one that he knew: Cain Emberflash, son of Liath Goreblade. The haggard old soldier had disavowed any relation to him, declaring him no son of hers after he chose to follow a path to the Flame Legion. He was looming over his quarry, who was staring up at the shaman with the biggest eyes he’d ever seen. And… she was the smallest asura he’d ever seen as well, for that matter. Too small, with ears too big for her head, all pale white with snowy hair and round red eyes behind thin framed glasses.

This kid didn’t look like she should even be away from home, let alone here, in charr territory. Well, no matter. He couldn’t let that idiot hurt her. And so Garrus let out a roar, leaping forward to land poised protectively over the little rat. His sudden dive into the fray definitely threw Cain off his guard, but what stunned them both was when the little asura whipped out a rifle, firing a blast just under his muzzle directly at the shaman, who yelped when the blast struck him in the side. Faced with an angry ranger and a gun-toting asura, he chose the smarter option and retreated himself, leaving a stunned Garrus to step back and look down at the kid he’d tried to protect.

She had scrambled back and away, clutching the rifle tightly as she stared up at him. At least she didn’t seem frightened: it more seemed that she was studying him. She was wearing thick leather armor covering her from her neck to her toes, and her snowy white hair was wrapped in delicate braids around each ear. Albino, from the look of her, and from her size, none too healthy.

“Um. Thank you.” She was talking now, her ears slowly relaxing back. “For the assist, I mean. I thought I had it under control, but…”

He snorted, somewhere between disbelief and a laugh. What a funny little creature. “Glad I could distract him enough for you to get a clear shot. What are you doing out here alone, cub?”

That drew the most aggravated huff from the little asura, whose ears snapped right back up, defiance flashing in those big red eyes. “I’m not a cub. I’m sixteen, and I’m exploring.”

“Sounds like a cub to me.” He grinned as she puffed herself up, trying to seem bigger than she was. “Still, it’s dangerous out here. The Flame Legion may not have as much a presence in Ashford as they do in other territories, but they’re still crawling around.” Crouching down so he could get a better look at the girl, he let his ears flick forward, and finally, he held out a paw. “Garrus Firstblood, Ash Legion.”

Though she gave his paw a very skeptical look, she did reach out. Her small hand was barely the size of his palm, and he took great care not to grip too hard when he shook it as she introduced herself. “Qirri, daughter of Pazz, College of Dynamics. It’s very nice to meet you, Garrus!”

Sixteen. For a charr, that was pretty much an adult. She’d have been in a warband and doing a considerable amount of rigorous training, but for an asura, that was still a child so far as he knew. But here she was, out in the world with her armor and a rifle, a number of small tools and devices strapped to her belt. Probably an engineer.

“So exploring aside, what brings you outside of Rata Sum? Are you doing research for your college? Where’s your mentor? Are they nearby?”

Her ears snapped back at that and she turned her head, gazing off at some point in the distance as she worried her bottom lip with needle sharp teeth. Finally, as she holstered her rifle, she seemed to decide on her explanation. “No, I, uh… I got a leave of study from my professors for health reasons, and, um…”

“And?”

“Aaaand I may be out here alone. As in, completely by myself. Intentionally.”

Unbelievable.

Sighing, Garrus sat down on his haunches, his tail curled in the grass to the side as he observed the little asura for a moment. He could just leave her. She wasn’t exactly defenseless, and from the small amount of defiance he’d seen in her so far, it was out of the question to try to drag her kicking and screaming back to Metrica Province. On the other hand, it was dangerous out here, and she was so small…

With a snort, he nodded his head, slapping one broad paw against his thigh. “Well, then, if that’s the case, I’m coming with you.”

And it seemed she already had a retort in mind. He had to grin when his comment completely threw her off balance.

“Look, I know you mean well, but I- wait, what? Not… you’re not gonna try to drag me home?”

“You’re a capable kid, and I don’t fancy being on the receiving end of that rifle. But there’s a lot of things out here that would happily eat you in one bite, and I couldn’t live with myself if I let you go and that happened. Where are you headed?”

The way Qirri looked at him almost made him laugh. Her nose was scrunched up, eyes narrowed as her long ears flipped upward, the whole of her attention focused as intently as she might’ve been on a golem or a particularly puzzling equation. She seemed to be judging him fiercely, trying to see if he was attempting to fool her.

He wouldn’t force her if she said no, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t follow for a while at a distance, just to make sure she was safe and out of trouble.

“Well,” she finally began, tone uncertain, “I guess that would be okay. It is kinda lonely out here, and I’ve always been fascinated by charr societal dynamics. That’s why I came here first, anyway. So… okay, yeah. Sure. We’ll travel together for now. Welcome to the party!”

As it turned out, “for now” lasted much longer than he expected. It didn’t take long for her to badger him into letting her join the guild he was aligned with, and he learned a great deal about her on the road.

Qirri was the youngest of four sisters, all having the same parents, unusual for a family in Rata Sum. She had survived against all odds, having been born quite prematurely, and kept pushing forward despite a number of health issues that should have kept her homebound. Her parents Pazz and Tixxi were respected inventors, and all four girls had been accepted into the college of their choice. Her older sister Rissia was traveling as well, and he was amused to discover their relation, having known the necromancer through the Order of Whispers and the guild for some time.

He found himself, somehow, opening up about his own past as well as their journeys together went on longer and longer. His fahrar had become the First warband, and along with a number of others, they had become quite respected and formidable. It was unfortunate, then, when many of them were lost to Ascalonian ghosts while putting down a rampaging spirit in the crypts, but they had endured and overcome. He was the nephew of one of the oldest still serving Centurions, Liath Goreblade, and knew the weight of continuing their proud family legacy. As for why he traveled… well, like her, he had a thirst for more than what lay within the walls of their home cities, as well as that ever-pressing need to prove himself worthy of the respect of his people for who he was.

She was brilliant, however, and that much he surmised just from their first few weeks of traveling together. Anything she could get her little hands on became a weapon, from turrets to a handmade flamethrower, and eventually an offense golem she could call in by remote. It was no surprise to him when she made the choice to join the Durmand Priory. When they came across other asura who knew her parents or sisters, many of them spoke of how the littlest sister was the brightest, a shoe-in for Snaff Savant once she graduated and was officially able to compete.

That didn’t surprise him much.

What did surprise and worry him was how tired she would get. They’d wander a while and she would need to sit down, her ears drooped, as flushed as her cheeks and nose. It varied, too, from day to day: on some days, she could go from dawn till dusk without issue, but others, it felt like she could barely make it an hour before she began to show the signs of exhaustion. He understood, of course, that she had health issues, but charr in such positions usually found other jobs than fighting and adventuring. Building, farming, fishing, education. There were many opportunities for his people when someone was simply too weak or infirm to do what a soldier or scout must.

However as he watched her, chewing on a handful of herbs and quietly sipping from a flask of water as she tried to settle her trembling body, he realized that maybe that wasn’t at all what she wanted. So he sat next to her, tail curling protectively around the frame that refused to grow with the months they spent on the road, and waited out her spells until she was ready to go again. She never said anything about her illness, so neither did he.

But if her illness had unsettled him, the first life-threatening injury she had seen him get had terrified her. The battle at Claw Island was hard fought, with many of their guild in attendance. A petite sylvari toting a giant hammer named Oaklinna and a human thief, Garence, were among those fighting, along with Qirri’s sister Rissia and a dark, cynical asura named Vezz. They had even managed to recruit in Khaya, a sylvari thief, and Odetta Swanheart, a human mesmer. Warmaster Forgal, Lightbringer Tybalt, and Magister Sieran all fought alongside them, with the group representing the strength of all three Orders of Tyria.

In the end, it was all for naught. Forgal, Tybalt, and Sieran were lost, leaving the surviving members of the guild to flee as the forces of the Risen overtook the island, with Oaklinna, Trahearne, and another member of Garrus’s warband - an engineer named Renita Cogfirst - struggling to keep the charr on his feet. There was little to do to ease Qirri’s worry. Despite Whispers healers tending to him on the ship back to the mainland, it was clear he was in a great deal of pain. Renita stayed right there as well, swapping out with the tiny asura whenever she seemed too tired to sit up.

Their arrival in Lion’s Arch was met with little fanfare, as the Captains’ Council wanted to keep the populace as calm as possible. So it was under cover of night that the injured were moved to a secure hospital deeper in the city. Rissia and Vezz had done what they could to take over assisting with his care, but the dragon’s poison dug deep, the necrosis slowly making its way up his draw arm, creeping into his elbow.

Vezz had been called away in the end, mostly to address an issue with Garence, but Rissia stayed right with her little sister and much bigger traveling companion. “I’m not sure we can do much to save the arm,” she was saying, wringing her hands together. “Even if we do, his ability to use the bow will be severely impacted.”

Qirri’s brow furrowed sharply at her sister’s words, long ears pinning back. “I’ll- I’ll just invent something to help him draw the bow, then! It can’t be that hard. Right? Just… it’s all leverage! Leverage and understanding the right angle of motion and weight of the pull and-”

As Rissia sighed, reaching out to put a hand on her little sister’s shoulder, it was Garrus’s voice that finally interrupted her, and her head swung around, teary red eyes focused up at him. “Qirri. Don’t work yourself to death trying to stop this. If the arm is lost, it’s lost. We’ll find a way.”

Her cheeks puffed out as he spoke, ears slowly lifting until they were fully on alert, expression tight. “I don’t give up that easily, Garrus. You should know that about me by now.”

He snorted a bit, wincing as one of the medics prodded at the infection. “Yes, I do, shorty. But so far as I’m concerned, I’m still breathing, and I’ve still got one arm to fight with. Charr are more resilient than you think. Kind of like a certain runt I know.”

“I guess.” Her ears flicked. “...I’m not gonna give up, though. I’m still gonna try this thing.”

“Hah! From you? I’d expect nothing less.”

Gaining the manpower to retake Claw Island and eventually destroy Zhaitan was tough but certainly doable. Having the guild together worked well enough, and Oaklinna was always pleased for the chance to be near Trahearne, but for Qirri it was a chance to witness her invention at work. Though they had been able to save Garrus’s arm from the necrotic infection contracted at Claw Island, it was too weak to pull back his bow, and the tiny asura had put together something that allowed him to pull back the bow and release with barely any physical effort.

One of their Iron Legion cohorts had taken a great deal of interest in it, sitting down with her during one of the off moments to write down blueprints, making modifications to better accommodate size only with her permission.

It was funny, seeing her now. She turned seventeen the day before they traveled back to Claw Island, a sight in her elegant Priory armor, old glasses replaced with a much lighter pair and seemingly prepared for any occasion. Pound for pound, even if she hadn’t grown an inch, she’d become a soldier even a Blood Legionnaire would be proud of.

Not that he hadn’t changed as well. He traveled more with his guildmates, allowed himself the company of the other races and people outside his pets. He sat with them after battles, laughed with them. And though more often than not, he was seen in the company of his little asuran companion, it was less and less likely to see him turn down the opportunity for adventure with the others.

A lot of that was her fault.

She was resting now, her armor discarded for a set of loose fitting town clothes, a blanket draped over her shoulders and braids undone to hang down her back in tight loopy curls. She had struck up a bright, animated conversation with Renita here where they were camped, scooting closer so they could poke and prod at whatever they were working on… so different from the scared little girl on the plains. When he had met her, she had seemed so little, so helpless. Now she was actively backing up fights, throwing down turrets and mixing elixirs faster than her friends could lose the active buffs.

The next day, they would finally leave to face Zhaitan.

He would have been lying if he said he wasn’t scared. Everyone was, no matter how they insisted that they weren’t. Before them was a great hulking beast, a monster that had defiled their dead and assaulted their shores.

Tomorrow was going to be a nightmare.

But everyone here was as ready for it as they would ever be, from their stalwart marshal down to the lowest recruit. Qirri still sat a few feet away, her sister seated in silence behind her as she rebraided the younger girl’s hair to twist back around her ears. Next to Rissia, Vezz, the leg of his pants pulled up as he absently inspected the withered hunk of bone and sinew that made up his “prosthetic” leg. The pair of necromancers had slowly grown closer through their work, he’d noticed… a fact that was not lost on Qirri, who - in true baby sister fashion - took the time to tease Rissia about it at every opportunity.

Renita wasn’t far away, tweaking the design for the autodraw device Qirri had developed. A norn elementalist that had joined them, Eshara, was preparing meals for everyone. Garence was listening to Oaklinna gleefully tell some silly story about her time adventuring in Caledon Forest after she’d first awakened from the Dream, with Trahearne seated at Oaklinna’s side, listening just as intently with the faintest of smiles.

If it wasn’t for the uneasy sense of dread lingering over the camp… it would’ve felt like some kind of multicultural camping trip.

He barely slept that night, occasionally getting up to pace around the camp, watching as everyone else rested. He could have left, gone on without them. But Trahearne would have insisted on waking the others as soon as the other orders were notified, and it would’ve been for nothing anyway. So he simply found a quiet spot a bit away from the others, tail lashing as the moon glowed pale against the Risen infested sea.

For a time, it was only him, but before long a tiny, blanket bundled figure climbed up onto the rock next to him, sitting herself down to look out at the ocean as well.

“You’re nervous too, huh?”

Garrus stretched, folding his arms across his thighs as a faint rumble emanated from his chest. “Yeah. Little bit. How about you, shorty?”

There was a pause before Qirri nodded, a movement he could just barely feel at his side. “I feel like the whole world’s holding its breath. Everything is riding on us. All of us. That’s… it’s really scary, you know?”

For a moment, Garrus was silent. After a few moments of consideration, however, he reached down, putting a paw on her back. “You can always go back, Qirri. Waypoint to Rata Sum. The rest of us can handle things here. Not a single person here would judge you, and those that tried, well… they’d answer to me.”

The little genius fell silent for several moments, leaning back against his paw. She said nothing, barely moved. All that made sound were the waves, and the distant, awful groaning from the Risen far enough away to not threaten them, but still too close for comfort.

“...no. I don’t- I can’t leave now. I’ve come way too far. I’m part of this guild. I’m part of the pact. And what if something happened to you, or to Rissia? I- no. No, I’m seeing this through to the end, one way or another.”

Garrus nodded. If her conviction would have surprised anyone else, it came as no shock to him. He had watched her over the past year, seen her charge into battle alongside ogre, hylek, grawl, and quaggan. He’d seen her learn to handle herself in combat, how to move in a fight. And he remembered, all too clearly, that flash of defiance in her eyes when he’d first called her “cub.” For all he had seen Zojja attempt to coddle the girl, she was beyond ready for the trials that were coming.

A smile spread across his muzzle and he laughed a bit, turning his head to look down at her as she blinked up at him. “Well, then, if that’s the case, I’m coming with you.”

After a moment or two, Qirri smiled right back, an old memory flitting into her mind. “What, not gonna drag me kicking and screaming back home?”

“You’re a capable kid, Qirri, daughter of Pazz. And while there’s a lot of things out here that would hurt you, I couldn’t live with myself if something happened and I wasn’t there. So.” He grinned, tipping his head toward the sea. “You ready to kill a dragon?”

Her own grin widened and she reached up, hugging his side as best as her small arms would let her. “Indubitably.”

Those first few minutes after Zhaitan finally fell were terrifying.

There were tentative murmurs when the dragon faltered in the sky, which turned to ecstatic screaming, people embracing, and sobs of relief as the creature writhed. But Garrus was not calm. In the turmoil, several pact members had been knocked from the ship, and he could hear Rissia calling for her sister in a panic.

A sick feeling rose in his chest. They hadn’t come this far, fought all this way together, for that little runt to die falling from an airship. Had they?

“Qirri?” He sniffed a bit, turning a full circle as the crowd rejoiced around him. When she didn’t respond, he felt his hackles start to rise, tail lashing. “Qirri!”

As he began to pace the deck, he met Rissia’s eyes. The necromancer looked sick, clutching her staff desperately. Vezz was helping her search. He nodded to her, then began to push through the crowd further toward the cabin. There, sitting quietly and bandaging a gash on her arm, was Qirri, hidden by the rushing legs of all the much taller people on the ship. Zojja was kneeling beside her, holding onto her hand, a gentle flow of water magic rippling from her to the smaller asura.

“I told you there was a Risen swinging a sword at you,” the elementalist was murmuring, but her tone was much more gentle than he usually heard her use toward the young genius. “You’re lucky they didn’t take the arm off.”

Qirri, who had yet to notice Garrus watching nearby, gave an indignant sniff, tying off the bandage with her unhindered hand. “It’s still there, isn’t it? I’m fine, Zojja, honest.”

Garrus was very careful to school himself as he headed over to the pair, kneeling on Qirri’s other side to rub his paw against the top of her head. “Here you are, shorty. I was starting to wonder if you’d gone overboard.”

As Zojja rolled her eyes, Qirri turned her attention up to the charr, grinning. “No way! And miss the party? That was so awesome. We totally killed a dragon, Garrus!”

“That we did.” He finally sat down beside her, watching as Zojja quietly weaved her healing magic around Qirri’s injured arm. “It’s definitely going to be some party. What are your plans after it’s done? More adventures? Travel the world?”

“She is going back to Rata Sum,” Zojja snipped, her ears pulling back, and the expression she wore made Garrus snort. “Her professors are probably throwing a fit, and she’s going to graduate before she does anything like this again!”

It was Qirri’s turn to roll her eyes, but she sighed, slumping back against the cabin behind her. “I don’t wanna admit it, but… yeah. I probably should. Mom and Dad wanted me to enroll in a good krewe, maybe try for the Snaff Savant prize after graduation.”

Garrus smiled, letting his tail curl into his lap. “I think you’ve got a good shot.”

The pair fell silent, and moments later Rissia was rushing over. Once the elder of the pair was done fretting over her little sister, silence fell as the airship moved to dock. Qirri frowned, her ears pulling back slightly. “...hey Garrus?”

“Yeah, shorty?”

“After I graduate… once I’ve competed for the Snaff Savant title-”

“-and won.”

“Yes and won. Once I’ve done all that… will you still want to go on adventures with me?”

The question caught him off-guard, and he chuffed a bit, scratching behind one ear before laughing, genuinely relieved for the first time this whole adventure.

“With you? Indubitably.”

[solign0501]

Peacemakers

Prologue

A/N: Hi All - I did mention I might be putting some original work up to gauge your discerning opinions, so here it is. Hopefully this is the prologue of the first part of a series and honestly, the characters in this are some of my favourites. This is just the prologue as a taster, but I would love opinions.

Premise: What if every fairy tale, every bit of folklore was real? What if myths and legends were actually truth and history? Adelaide West finds herself wrestling with these and many other questions when a car accident turns her life upside down

The storm raged over New Orleans, rain pelting relentlessly down upon Kaitlyn as she ran. Every now and then she chanced a look back over her shoulder to check that she was still being followed, finding inevitably that she was. 

A flash of lightening turned the world around her to a vibrant monochrome and she clearly saw the outline of the figure, striding purposefully towards her as it gained. The nonchalance of the movement was the most menacing part, as though it had all the time in the world to carry out it’s purpose. 

Temporary relief came suddenly as a swell of lively jazz music from a nearby bar announced the exit of a group of people. They stumbled drunkenly out through the stained glass doors and directly into the path of the pursuing figure. Kaitlyn shot a glance back to see them shoving their way through the small crowd, momentarily disorientated. This was her chance. Spying a gap in the buildings ahead, she turned sharply and ran down the side road, thunder and lightening once again splitting the sky above her and sending blind spots racing across her vision.  

The gates of the Lafayette Cemetery loomed large above her, their normally imposing gates a welcome site. Safety was near, she could make it. 

Gripping the railings, she chanced one last look around to make sure the coast was clear. Spying nobody she climbed, her grip uncertain on the slippery bars. She heaved herself up and over the dip in the middle of the gate and was about to clamber down the inside when another boom of thunder rang out, startling her and causing her to lose her grip. Kaitlyn cried out as she landed hard on her ankle and felt her leg buckle underneath her. 

There was no time to waste. Forcing herself to her feet with a hiss of pain, Kaitlyn limped forward, winding through the familiar tombstones and mausoleums, the lightening illuminating her way through the necropolis. 

Relief flooded her as she spied the black granite roof of her family’s mausoleum, the name Darkwood chiselled in gold gilt scrollwork above the doorway. The relief turned to ice, however, as she rounded the last corner and saw the figure standing between her and the crypt gate. She choked down a cry of dismay as she cast about her desperately for a hiding place, but it was too late. The figure moved forward and she bolted, trying to turn back the way she came. Her movement was too fast and her ankle betrayed her, sending Kaitlyn crashing to the ground. 

Ignoring the taste of blood and dirt in her mouth, she dug her hands into the sodden ground and pulled, clawing desperately to get away as the figure strode towards her, footsteps loud and deliberate even over the sound of the rain. The click of a gun being cocked behind her made her still and she closed her eyes, waiting for the shot. 

Suddenly, rapid footsteps approached from somewhere within the curtain of rain and there was the sound of two bodies thudding together. A single, solitary shot rang out, disguised by the thunder, and Kaitlyn flinched before realising it had missed her. She seized her chance and, changing direction began crawling again, dragging herself this time towards the tomb, away from the sounds of a scuffle nearby. Chancing a glance up, she saw the newcomer deliver a blow to the head of her pursuer, knocking them out cold. They left them lying motionless on the floor as they approached Kaitlyn, hauling her to her feet with surprising strength and wrapping an arm around her waist to support her. 

“I’ve got you,” a muffled but familiar voice said, masked by a hood and scarf against the cold, driving rain. “Let’s get inside.” Together they half walked-half limped towards the gate of the Darkwood crypt. Kaitlyn steadied herself against the wall as her rescuer opened the wrought iron outer gate before pulling open the inner door that led to the main chamber. The old metal hinges protested loudly as they opened and Kaitlyn, once more supported by her companion, entered. 

Kaitlyn was lowered slowly to a stone bench next to a central sarcophagus as her companion pulled out a lighter and set it to some of the many candles within. As light slowly began to fill the chamber, they crouched down next to Katelyn and gently examined her injured ankle. 

“It’s not broken, but you have badly sprained it.” Kaitlyn was too busy looking outside at the prone body lying in the mud and the rain, her companion followed her gaze. “He’s alive, he is just unconscious. I will deal with him after.”

Kaitlyn sighed and turned back to her friend. Reaching out, she pulled down the scarf so that she could see them. 

“So there’s no choice then?” she asked, though she already knew the answer. 

“I would that there were.” They turned away from her, eyes brimming with tears they were determined not to shed.

“Kara,” Kaitlyn whispered, soft as a lover. “Kara, look at me.” Kara straightened up and took a step back from Kaitlyn, resolutely not meeting her gaze. Reaching into the inside pocket of her jacket, Kara pulled out two silver knives. She handed one to Kaitlyn, who took it with a resigned sigh.

“By combat?” Kara nodded.

“It is the best way. It is an honourable death, and means I will see you again.” Kaitlyn looked down at the blade, it’s cruelly sharp edge glinting in the candlelight. 

“Anybody else and I would have half a chance,” Kaitlyn said as Kara helped her to her feet, giving a dry and humourless chuckle. “Look after my daughter, would you?” Kaitlyn felt her throat constrict as an image of her little girl swam in her mind. “Josh too, he won’t understand.”

“You have my word, he and Adelaide will want for nothing. I will keep them safe, he shall never find them.”

“Thank you.” Kaitlyn inhaled deeply as she steeled herself, trying to grip the knife as best as her now-sweating palm would allow. Kara, meanwhile, flicked the knife back and forth in her left hand almost nonchalantly. “Let’s get this over with, then.”

Kara didn’t move, so Kaitlyn attacked first, lunging forward unsteadily. Kara dodged with ease, not even bothering to raise her blade to parry. Kaitlyn tried again with the same result, catching herself from falling against the central sarcophagus. 

“Please don’t toy with me,” Kaitlyn snapped, her voice shaking. She struck again and this time Kara caught her arm, twisting it so that she dropped the blade before pulling Kaitlyn in, her back flush to Kara’s chest. 

“Do it,” Kaitlyn begged. “Do it.” Kara reached up with the hand holding the blade and caressed Kaitlyn’s cheek. Leaning forward, she kissed the crook of her neck gently. 

“Forgive me,” Kara breathed, her voice thick with emotion. Kaitlyn reached back and wound her fingers into Kara’s hair. 

“I do.” She braced as Kara’s hand moved, drawing the blade across her throat. There was pain for but a moment, then a strange peace seemed to descend. She felt her knees give as Kara caught her weight, easing her slowly to the ground and cupping her head to comfort her. 

Lightening flashed as a single, solitary tear fell from Kara’s left eye, catching the droplet in a thousand different colours. 

“How beautiful,” Kaitlyn said as all but the rainbow of watery light began to fade around her. 

“Sleep well my brave one,” Kara breathed, her voice wracked with pain as Kaitlyn’s eyes closed for the last time. 

Thunder rumbled with enough strength to shake the ground as Kaitlyn’s life left her. Cradling the limp body, warm blood seeping out over her cold hands, Kara threw back her head and howled in grief, her voice all but lost in the storm outside. 

[astoryasong]

A Discovery Immemorial

The crowd cheered wildly from the dock. Women waved their kerchiefs, men whistled and hollered, all had come to bid the expedition adieu. 

Jane Ellis Thatcher stood at the fore of the ship. While her crew of waved and beamed in reply to the masses, she had already turned her eyes to the horizon. She had spent years reaching this moment. From traversing the deserts of Africa, to exploring the crypts of eastern Asia, to hunting down expert etymologists in the States, she had literally been all over the world in search of the information contained within the small, worn journal she now held in her hands. Her cropped hair and loose shirt tugged in the breeze as she turned to face her helmsman, a fierce grin spreading across her face. "Set the course and increase speed. Let's make history!"

By the time the crew spotted the storm clouds on the horizon, there was nothing to do but face the maelstrom head-on. Thatcher and her crew scrambled to prepare the ship as they passed beneath the front. As the wind picked up, so did the waves. Lightning streaked across the sky and a chill rain began to beat down upon the deck. "Tie yourselves to the mast, it's going to be a bumpy ride!" she yelled over the thunder. As the storm progressed, the ship began to tilt dangerously from side to side. The crew squinted and bared their teeth as they scrambled to dump buckets of water over the edge, trying to relieve the ship from the water she was taking on.

After almost four hours, just as everyone was beginning to succumb to exhaustion and the cold, the clouds parted, revealing a sparkling night sky. The moon reflected brilliantly upon the calming waves. They had made it. 

For the first time in weeks, Thatcher spotted a bird. Soon, if her manuscript was correct, they would be able to see land. Sure enough, before the sun had even reached its halfway point, her navigator spotted mountains through their spyglass. The expedition approached the shore quickly. Within a few hours, they had anchored the boat and rowed to meet the white sand. A hundred meters or so from the edge of the water, a dense green rainforest loomed. A cacophony of unidentifiable chirps, yowls, hisses, clicks, and snorts resounded from within the tree line. Thatcher eyed the forest warily. "Let's make camp here tonight. Tomorrow, we begin our trek."

 Two crewmembers walked in front of the group, their machetes glinting as they hacked a path through the dense underbrush. Thatcher followed closely behind, compass in one hand, journal in the other. The rest followed after, sweat pouring down their faces as they shouldered backpacks that extended past the tops of their heads. Every few hundred feet, Thatcher consulted the little book in her hands--at this pace, they might be able to make the halfway point by tomorrow evening. Upon reaching a small clearing, the crew paused to fish out their canteens. One glanced upwards. "Ma'am, should we make camp for the night?" Thatcher peered at the now pastel pink sky through the gaps in the canopy and nodded. With a sigh of relief, the crew dropped their supplies and began to pitch their tents. 

Light snoring and sporadic rustling could be heard coming from within the small tents circling the campfire. Thatcher sat next to the fire, squinting at the pages of her journal as she made note of the day's events. Today's excursions had seen breathtaking waterfalls surrounded by misty rainbows, birds in a spectacular array of colors and sizes, and some particularly quick quicksand, which had claimed one person's right shoe. Consumed by her writing, Thatcher failed to notice the large cat silently prowling the tree line. Only when she heard the scream of the beast did her head snap up. She threw up her arms just in time to protect her face as the cat knocked her onto her back, pinning her to the ground. It snapped at her throat. Thinking quickly, Thatcher stuffed the journal into the cat's maw and scrambled backwards. The cat shook its head and spat out the little book before refocusing on its prey.

It crouched and snarled as it inched towards her. Thatcher backed away slowly, eyes darting as she looked for her machete. She spotted it... on the other side of the camp. With a terrible yowl, the cat lepta at her, and a bang echoed throughout the clearing. The cat landed on Thatcher, sending her back to ground, but to her surprise, the creature was limp. With a grunt, she pushed the cat off and got to her feet. One of her crew was standing on the other side of the fire, a smoking pistol in hand. They grinned at each other before Thatcher returned her attention on the dead cat. It would have almost passed for a leopard, if not for the green pelt. "How strange," Thatcher murmured. She looked for her journal, eager to record this finding. Apart from a toothy indentation in the leather cover, the journal was intact, if not a bit sticky. Without a moment's hesitation, she returned to her writing spot beside the campfire, her machete now within arm's reach. 

They stood before the cavern. The entrance was nearly 30 feet tall, but despite the expansive opening, the cave seemed to take in very little light. According to Thatcher's notes, this cave marked the last leg of their journey. Beyond this final obstacle, if her decades of research were correct, laid the ruins of the lost city of the N'täyli people. Assuming they existed in the first place, the N'täyli were rumored to be a people of immense agricultural, medicinal, and mechanical aptitude, far more advanced than any other cultures during at the height of their civilization nearly 1,500 years ago. There had even been hintings at a N'täyli attempt to reach the stars, something the modern world had yet to achieve. If Thatcher found these ruins, not only would her name go down in history, but she could help unlock the mysteries of the N'täyli's near-mythical technological feats, perhaps leading to significant ameliorations in her own day and age. "Time to get out the lanterns, ma'am?" The question from her crew brought her mind back to the present. "Yes, good idea. Let's get going," she replied, as apprehensive as she was determined. 

The lanterns did little to cut through the darkness that enveloped them. The cave, which cut into the side of the mountains they had first spied from the boat several weeks ago, proceeded at an upward angle. This proved treacherous, as not only was the uneven floor coated in a sheen of slick dampness and moss, but the walls and ceiling were covered with rocky protrusions and formations. A wrong step could spell death. Thatcher held her lantern close to her journal, re-reading the final line for the thousandth time. "Seek the stars that aren't to find the stars that are." Of all the clues she had discovered, this was the most perplexing. In any language, it sounded like nonsense. The tablet she had found it engraved upon provided no other context. She had researched constellations and spent hours in labs and libraries and planetariums. She had even placed the clue in her local classifieds, hoping someone would read it and miraculously contact her with an answer. To no avail. For this part of her journey, she was on her own. 

A yell pierced the air. Thatcher whipped her head around, looking for the source of the noise. One of the team had slipped over the side of the ledge they had all been inching along. Thatcher's heart thudded in her chest as she peered over the ledge to the chasm below. There, precariously dangling from a jutting rock by a single backpack strap, hung her crewmember. "Help me!" they called, panic lacing their voice. Thatcher immediately pulled a rope out of her pack, tossing one end to the rest of her crew and lowering the other towards the person below. With the rope only inches away from their outstretched hand, a sharp cracking noise echoed throughout the cavern. Everything happened in slow motion. Thatcher and her crewmember looked at each other for one, terrifying moment. Then, the rock formation from which they hung crumbled. They kept eye contact with Thatcher as they fell, their screaming ending abruptly with the sound of a heavy thud. 

Thatcher stared into darkness. The cave was eerily silent. "Ma'am," one of her remaining team put their hand on her shoulder, "There's nothing we can do. Let's keep going, get away from this ledge." Just as they turned to go, Thatcher threw up her hand. "No, wait," she hissed. All she could hear for a few moments was the dripping of water, until...

"Thatcher?" a weak voice rasped from below. Her heart leapt in her chest. "Are you all right?" she called. "I think my arm's broken, but ma'am, you gotta see this." 

It had taken some time, but finally Thatcher and the remainder of her crew had found a way to reach their teammate. They were bruised, and their arm was definitely broken, but as soon as she found them, they had immediately directed her attention to a small opening in the rock wall to her right. Thatcher held her lantern out in front of her as she ducked through the entrance. Then, her jaw dropped. 

She was standing in a huge cavern. A small lake filled the basin of the cave, which reflected the light of the thousands and thousands of stars set into the ceiling above. Well, not stars exactly, but something that glowed like stars. Her crew shuffled in behind her, and all were also taken aback. The sight was incredible. But even more incredible was the tiny glimpse of morning light filtering in from the ceiling on the other side of the cave. "Seek the stars that aren't to find the stars that are," Thatcher grinned. Time to go for a little swim.

If climbing down the rock face earlier had been difficult, then this was excruciating. One crewmember was injured, all of them were soaking wet, and Thatcher found limited purchase amongst the stones as she looked for ways to reach the exit above. At least the bit of sunlight streaming through the opening was helpful. "Let me give it a go," one of her crew suggested. "Once I get up there, I'll toss the rope down." Thatcher obliged and handed over the rope. They began to scale the wall, exhibiting a finesse that could only have come from years of experience. She knew she had put together a good team, but she was especially proud of them in this moment. She only hoped that this had all been worth their while. 

During their climb, the crewmember had a couple of close calls, their damp fingers slipping from their hold, but after about fifteen minutes, they had reached the top. They scrambled through the opening, and Thatcher waited for the rope. It didn't come. She called out to them, worry creeping over her thoughts for a moment before she heard a muffled, excited reply. She couldn't make out what they said, but moments later, the rope fell through the opening and onto the floor in front of her feet. "Okay, you guys first." 

One of her crew threw their injured teammate over their shoulder and, grunting with effort, strained to pulled the both of them up the rope. Thatcher watched them slowly proceed, her thoughts rapidly spinning. "Seek the stars that aren't to find the stars that are." That was the last clue. There were no more instructions after this, no riddles nor maps nor diagrams. The N'täyli ruins were either here, or this was a dead end. Or, the ruins would be so ravaged by time, that there was naught left to study. Or, the N'täyli had never existed. 

Thatcher took a deep breath and steadied herself. She was the leader of this expedition, and she needed to be confident and decisive in her actions. The last member of her crew was nearing the top of the rope. She took one last look at the glowing cavern behind her, and began her ascent. 

The sunlight burned her eyes. She placed a hand over her face for a moment, waiting for her eyes to adjust. She could hear the heavy breathing of her crew members, but otherwise, they were silent. That was odd. And there was something in the background--a humming noise? She wasn't sure. She once again attempted to open her eyes, doing so more slowly this time. 

Before her laid the most spectacular sight of her life. In the valley beneath the plateau on which they stood rested an enormous, glistening city. Miles and miles of tall, silver buildings shone brightly in the sunlight, nestled comfortably in between the surrounding mountains. Small specks bustled about on streets below, and the source of the humming seemed to emanate from the hundreds of glittering crafts zipping through the air amongst the structures. The N'täyli, it would seem, were alive and well. 

Thatcher sank to her knees. This discovery surpassed her wildest dreams. There, before her own eyes, was a civilization that was not only thriving, but had seemed to surpass the rest of the world. The city blurred into a silver haze as tears welled in her eyes. One of her crew punched her arm, "We did it!" Thatcher leapt to her feet, grinning from ear to ear, and laughed in giddy celebration with her team.

She peered back at the city below. She could just make out three small, shining aircrafts rising towards the plateau, each appearing to carry a single rider. Thatcher smiled one more time at her crew before pushing back her hair, yanking her shirt straight, and turning to face the oncoming vehicles. If she was going to be the first to see the N'täyli in over 1,500 years, she would be damned if she wasn't going to make a good first impression. 

- LMR

[ecotone99]

Piece of the Cut [FN]

Hi guys,

This is a “piece” (excuse the pun), that I’ve been working on for a while now and I’ve had a lot of fun writing it. Although it’s one of the longer short stories I’ve written, I urge you to read it until the end. Set in the great fantasy city of Ark, this story tells of a gang of thieves trying to locate their stashed goods from a score, in a graveyard of all places…

I hope you enjoy it and as always, I’d love to hear any feedback or thoughts you might have.

Cheers,

Lordchimp

​

“What made you put it in a pitting graveyard? Honestly Slim, we’re gonna draw too much attention...” Deckard said, irritation thick on his tongue and loathing heavy on his stare. It had taken them weeks of careful planning and delicate preparation to make the heist, and now that they had finally pulled it off…

Slim’s put it in a pitting graveyard. Saying it again in his mind didn’t ease the feeling of disappointment and frustration that was building up inside of him. In fact, it did the opposite, making him put his head in his hands and groan loudly.

“You can stop right there with your attitude sunshine. First of all, none of us actually lifted the cargo, that was done by the Hatters. Second, you were the one who suggested we go down potters street, which meant they had no choice but to ditch it in the graveyard. Thirdly, you make out like it’s the end of the world, but nobody’s going to give a rats arse if they see the four of us going into a graveyard in the dead of night.” Slim almost spat the words out in anger, with his finger pointed firmly at Deckard’s face to drive home his three points even further.

“You talk to me like that again, I’ll slap the salt out of you, I swear by the gates. This is the third damned time you’ve cocked up a job.” Slim snarled.

Deckard had to admit, that Slim cut a fairly threatening figure in the small confines of the carriage. His thick bushy eyebrows were twisted into a fierce frown and his eyes were so sharp they could have cut stone. Slim was easily one of the biggest of their small crew, which was probably why he was in charge, that and he possessed the harshest, most cut throat instinct of them all. He was exactly the sort of man who would use any of his strengths to exploit anyone else’s weakness. He was, in every essence of the word, ruthless.

Deckard shook his head and moved his gaze to the other members of the crew, attempting to garner some support in his accusation. “Oz, come on, this isn’t my fault!” He said, stressing the “my” to try and make them all see how innocent he was.

Oz, short for Osbert, was one of the talkers of the group. He possessed the odd ability of being able to talk and talk and talk, but not actually say anything. That particular trait was very common amongst the nobility and other wealthy folks within the city, so naturally, Oz fit perfectly into the role of the crew’s imposter. Any time one of their schemes required someone to talk to the middling levels of society, Oz became that man.

His hair was long, but slicked back on his head with grease, making it shine softly every time their carriage passed one of the oil street lamps. He was thin, but not weak. Tall but, not gangly. Simple, but not ragged. He looked across with a look of boredom plastered to his face, it would of been very annoying to Deckard, if it wasn’t the fact that this was simply who Oz was. There was no malice in his action, no intent to cause offense, it was just…

Well…

Oz.

“While you do seem rather sure it wasn’t you who caused the problem, I’m afraid Slim makes a very valid point. It was you who said to go down Potter street. Unlucky Decker.” He said, firmly and resolutely, then he turned his head to continue gazing out of the window.

There was a brief few moments of silence, save from the horse's hooves clattering on the cobbles. Deckard was just about to open his mouth to attempt to garner support again, but a voice interrupted him before he could speak.

“Decker, just admit ya ballsed it up. Sure it was the biggest job we’ve done yet, and sure we’re probably not gonna get another like it, but hey. We’re here, so admit it and we’ll move on.” Vinne said pointedly, cutting an apple apart with one of his many knifes.

Vinnie was a gutter rat, through and through. His early years were spent in rags, fighting, stealing or cheating for every precious breath. He had unintentionally been brought up a criminal, learning that it was either learn the ways of unsavory business, or be a victim of it. With a quick mind and even quicker hands, his education in the slums of Ark had taught him the ways of nimble, fast fingers, perfectly suited to picking pockets and swiping coin purses.

Deckard scoffed at his comment and shook his head again, something that he seemed to being doing more and more in the carriage’s interior. Vinnie’s face instantly twisted up into a shade of anger, his features going dark and his once reasonable expression turning very bitter indeed.

He spat his fruit out the window with utter disdain, as if the fruit had suddenly turned rotten and putrid inside of his mouth. The point of his blade was raised in Deckard’s direction before he spoke.

“You serious? You that pitting proud that you won’t admit you’ve messed up? You’ll get no sympathy from me you useless rat.”

Deckard was about to retort, with righteous fury at the sheer cheek of what Vinnie had said, but something stopped him just as he was about to open his mouth. Violence. Much like Slim’s expression, but so much worse. It wasn’t just the piece of steel he held firmly in his calloused hands, it was the aura that surrounded him, enveloping the small carriage like shadows in the dark.

He wondered just how dangerous Vinnie was, but then he remembered. Vinnie had grown up fighting on the streets of Ark, Deckard was just a guest here. He turned his away and remained quiet.

The night streets of Ark passed by outside of the window and Deckard pretended to observe them. The streets were like in any other city at this quiet time of night, empty, dimly lit and only populated by the few people who preferred the darkness over the light. He’d seen the same sight before countless amount of times. The late hours were when the crew tended to be the most active. Thoughts of anger, annoyance, doubt and pride all flashed through his mind in a brief burst of emotion.

It’s not my fault the Hatter’s messed it up!

Everyone else agreed with me, so they’re all just at fault as I am.

Is it really my fault?

I wonder if Vinnine would have gone for me.

I can’t believe the cheek of it!

Was it me?

A seemingly endless amount of questions began to bubble up inside of him, causing him to wonder if it was in fact possible that he might have failed in his planning of the job. He reached up and ran his fingers through his hair, but the thoughts still bounced around inside of his mind like sparks in a foundry.

Before his dark thoughts could fester however, the carriage rolled to a gentle stop, the horses whinnying with pride at their good work. There was a brief pause and the sound of a few heavy footsteps from the driver’s section of the carriage. The wood creaked and groaned with annoyance as the driver appeared in the window, a hood obscuring much of his face.

“We’re here boys.”

********************************************************************

The old battered gate had an old battered chain which entwined it shut, although, it looked like it could fall apart at a particularly strong gust of wind. Rust had nearly won its age old battle to eat to the lock away entirely, so it was to no surprise that when Arn, the driver, all but tapped the thing with a smith’s hammer, it snapped open easily.

Arn was the fifth and final member of the group, the muscle. He was nearly as big as Slim, but where Slim was a large man with a large belly, Arn was a big man with very little fat on him. He’d been brought up as a blacksmith’s apprentice, but when the owner was seized by the city watch for selling stolen goods, he was cast out to fend for himself.

He used his muscle to his advantage, fighting in the pits until Slim had recruited him a few years back. It turned out Arn could beat men just as easily as he beat steel. Whenever a job needed a heavy hand, Arn was surely there, using his skills in his own, brutal way.

Slim turned around to the crew and addressed them all, a worn cigar that looked as old as the gates smouldering in his lips, sending smoke curling up, only to be snatched away by the quick fingers of the wind.

“Right then lads, here’s the deal. The Hatters stashed our haul in one of the tombs, it’s marked as Alazar. We’re gonna all split up and look for it.” He took a large puff on his cigar, savouring the rich, acrid smoke for a second, then he started up again.

“If you see the watch, light a red burner and leave it somewhere high that everyone will be able to see.” Burners or ever burning candles were a nickname for the cheap candles that the gang used. They had small, symbols of power carved in them to stop them from blowing out, making them very useful for signalling.

“If you see the right grave, put a green one up. Green good, red bad. You all got it?” He asked the group of shameless thieves.

They all gave various nods of understanding or agreement, and walked through the gate to find their prize.

*****************************************************************

Deckard saw a green light just over the other side of the mausoleum.

It was so feint, he wasn’t sure he’d actually seen it at first. It was like a distant lighthouse in a storm, only there if you focused enough. He stopped his search and began to make his way over to it, navigating the maze of forgotten crypts and ancient tombs. He was having a fruitless search in the dim light anyway.

Oz was stood nonchalantly next to the thick heavy gate of the tomb, with his hands in his overcoat and a pipe gently burning, hanging limply from his mouth. He nodded as Deckard approached and pointed to the rotting wooden sign that was nailed to the top.

ALAZAR

“Well, I’ll hand it to you Oz, you got keen eyes.” Deckard said grudgingly.

“Well, seeing is believing when it comes to the merchants.” He replied smoothly, annunciating each word correctly, even with the pipe still lodged in his mouth.

They waited in silence for a while, the conversation refusing to come to them, refusing to emerge as they waited in the dark. Deckard thought about opening his mouth many times, but he couldn’t find the right words. He wanted to apologise, to say that it was his fault it had gone awry for this job and the last two they’d pulled off.

It seemed like no matter how hard he planned, other things out of his control came in a wrought havoc. He felt like the stress was getting to him, but who could he tell? If he mentioned is faults to the other gangers, they’d cast him out at best, swirl him at worst and so he was trapped with his own thoughts, with nobody to help.

He was interrupted from his thoughts by the sound of footsteps on the stones and the sight of a few figures striding closer in the darkness. Slim’s light from his unmistakable cigar singalled his approach, pushing down any hope of Deckard expressing his fears. He might have a chance with just Oz, who was the most reasonable of the bunch, but Slim would swirl him for certain.

At last, all of the crew had arrived and they surveyed the tomb, eagerness shining in their eyes. Slim looked over to Oz who nodded his head smugly.

“Good work Oz, right...let’s get to work. Vinnie? You’re up.” Slim said, a crooked smile stretching across his face, his one gold tooth glinting slightly amongst the sea of yellow in his mouth.

Vinnie padded over and produced a set of thieves picks, expertly inserting them into the lock with a practised ease. Even though the candlelight was dim, he set to work instantly, listening and feeling for the telltale clicks of the lock’s pins. He had tried to teach Deckard once, but Deckard’s fingers not used to the subtle manipulation of the tumblers. It had taken him well over twenty minutes to open a lock Vinnie had deemed easy.

Better to let the expert do it.

It only took him about a minute to produce a satisfying, final click, then he twisted the tools in the lock and pushed the gate open with a satisfied smile. “We’d be here until morning if Decker was doing it.” He said with a wink as he pocketed his tools. The rest of the men sniggered and followed suit, walking down the marble steps into the crypt. Deckard was unable to come up with a retort fast enough and so he sighed to himself in annoyance and reluctantly followed them down.

There was another door a few steps down, Vinnie making short work of the heavy lock inside of it. It took Vinnie and Arn to push it open even Arn letting out a grunt of effort at shifting the heavy wood. As soon as it creaked forwards, there was a small rush of air as the wind flooded in excitedly.

Their footsteps echoed loudly in the tunnel, each step they took sounding like three or four reverberating back at them. It was if a small army was traipsing through the underground depths, searching for the treasure that was promised to them. They had lit a torch to better see in the darkness, and it was only a few short steps until they came upon a chamber.

Vinnie whooped with joy, clapping his hands together at the sight of it.

“This is it boys, it’s finally here!” He said, laughing and patting Oz on the back with glee. The others managed to contain their excitement well, but Vinnie was skipping around like a child who’d found an armful of candies.

It was relatively big considering it only housed a dead man, the man obviously having done well enough in life that he was looked after in death. But weather it was the gravekeepers not earning their pay or that the late Alazar wanted to be left well alone, the interior of the crypt was a sorry state indeed. Cobwebs hung thick in every possible place, like the spiders had made this their new base of operations within the city. A few dead rats lay crumpled across the floor, twisted and rotting from the ravages of time. Dust covered every surface like a second skin, making the entire room look like it was made of grime.

Slim battered the largest of the cobwebs out of the way with his big arms, carefully making sure his smouldering cigar remained unmolested by the spider’s handiwork. As they strode further in, the room was revealed in its entirety by the flickering torchlight.

Two large grey Sarcophagi sat boldly in the centre of the room, as if daring the newcomers to gaze upon their stone coffins. There were probably intricate markings and emblems etched into them, but the dust covering had rendered them flat and boring, just two stone boxes.

The walls were shelved with small trinkets and items caked in a layer of thick dust, goblets, books, a small shrine to the four, there was even a painting that hung in between the two coffins, but the colours had been cracked and ruined so badly it was unrecognisable any more. A rotten grimoire lay content on a small lectern in the centre of the room, with an amulet hanging from it’s side forlornly.

But the gang weren’t interested in any of that, after all, they sought a far more recent addition to the tomb, something less old and more valuable. Sure enough, their prize lay in the corner of the room.

Four heavy wooden chests, all new and untouched by the dust of the tomb.

Four chests full to the brim of fresh taxes, that were all bound for Tomruddy’s Counting House, but had somehow ended up in a crypt in Mercy’s Quarter.

Slim smiled, a devilish glee blazing in his eyes.

***************************************************************************************

The final chest gave a loud grunt as it was ungracefully shifted into the back of the carriage. Arn’s breath was laboured from the effort, small beads of sweat softly glistening in the gentle glow of the faraway street lanterns.

“That’s the last one boss.” Arn said gruffly, turning to face slim who was stood just behind.

Slim gave a big smile, revealing a sea of yellowed teeth.

“Nicely done Arnie. We’ll head back over now.” He said, throwing the snub of his cigar onto the cobbles below, grinding it between his foot. The soles of his boots gave a harsh rasp as he turned back to the graveyard.

“Boss?” Arn asked.

Slim cocked his head back, his smile still lingering sinisterly.

“We gonna swirl Decker?” Arn asked with a neutral stare.

Slim’s smile managed to impossibly grow, revealing all of his rotting teeth. His grin as vicious as a shark, his eyes dripping with malice. His one gold tooth glinted.

“We’ll head back over.”

***************************************************************************************************

Deckard turned the pages of the grimoire over in his hands, the old parchment doing it’s very best not to crumble into dust. It was all a useless mess of jumbled symbols and glyphs, with a few scraps of nonsense in there for good measure.

To tell the truth, Deckard was only reading the damned thing so he would look busy. If anyone were to ask him, he would explain he was trying to determine the value of the book, to see if it was worth selling. In reality however, he had seen how ridiculously heavy the chests of gold were and he certainly had no intention of lifting them.

That’s what Arn is here for.

It was only when he heard the sounds of more footsteps again, his ruse was momentarily broken, the appearance of the noise shocking him from his false work. He flinched out of instinct and the old grimoire slipped from his fingers and clattered to the floor.

It was at that exact moment, when the grimoire split apart scattering it’s pages onto the ground, that Slim and Arn came back into the crypt. Slim had one of his infamous post-job smiles carved on his face, his cigar surprisingly non existent. Deckard stood flustered at his obvious clumsiness and placed his hands on his hips in a futile gesture of assertiveness.

“The book was no good Slim, just full of ramblings and ravings. I mean, by the gates, he was probably senile when he wrote the damnned thing.” Decker said, running a hand through his hair as he spoke.

Slim shrugged his shoulders.

“Naahh, well it’s no bother, we’ve got enough of the tax gold to drink ourselves into an early grave!” He said with a hearty laugh. The other members of the crew gave a happy cheer in response.

Deckard’s heart jumped at the noise, panic rising in his heart like a watchmen’s bell. He held his hands up with a wince.

“Slim! The watch! Someone will hear!” He said in hushed, rushed tones.

Slim’s eyes turned hard for a second, the laugh momentarily dying in his throat. But, as quick as lightning, his signature smile returned.

“Nobody’s gonna hear anything down here Decker. This tomb’s far underground, you could bang and scream all night and nobody would hear a thing.” He said, still beaming.

Pitting hell, he’s a scary bastard.

Deckard could have sworn his eyes flared with a hint of something, but he couldn’t place what exactly the mysterious something was. Before he could consider it further, Slim turned to the others and began to congratulate them all, clapping them on the shoulders and giving words of encouragement.

Vinnie and Oz had procured a bottle of spirits from somewhere, and were both sharing it around with mischievous smiles. It was eventually passed to Deckard, who took an eager drink. The “rasp”, a cheap spirit often found more suited to remove rust from metal, was also found quite frequently in the slums of ark and it had become a fond favourite of Vinnie’s.

It also was absolutely abhorrent. It made Deckard shiver and turn his face in disgust. Mocking laughter from the other crew members echoed in the small tomb.

Deckard smiled as warmly as he could, but he was growing more and more uneasy being trapped under the ground, in truth he had never been good with confined spaces. But once again, he could not betray any weakness to the other crew members. They were like sharks, circling each other in a constant dance. At the first sign of softness, they tore it apart.

After a few more moments of congratulations Slim addressed them all again.

“Right boys, we’ve got what we came for, let’s get out of here and get a proper drink.”

By the gates, about damned time. Decker thought to himself.

He began to move to the steps, but he was stopped by Arn who stood in his way.

Deckard smiled in mock amusement, until he heard a laugh from behind him. He turned his head, smile gone, to see Slim wearing his smile yet again, only this time, he could pinpoint what was wrong with the smile. It had no warmth.

There are many kinds of grin. Deckard had assumed it was the kind of smile one friend wears to another, a smile like a crackling fire at the end of a cold day, full of warmth and comfort. But Slim was wearing a predators grin, showing all his teeth, his eyes shimmering with ill intent. There was no comfort here.

“You’re not going anywhere Decker.” Slim said.

***************************************************************************************************

There was no feeling he had ever experienced than the complete and utter realization that his death was mere moments away. His stomach dropped, as though he had swallowed a lead weight. His chest began to constrict and tighten making every breath a battle. A blast of dizziness hit him like a fist and he felt all the moisture vanish from his mouth.

He tried. He really tried to not show it, but he had been gripped by the firm, unrelenting grasp of terror. A shaky smile birthed from his lips, but his fear was palpable.

“Ha, Slim, I’d love to stay down here, but I’m quite thirsty! After you.” He attempted to appear cool and collected, but his voice betrayed him, cracking and breaking like a sheet of ice under pressure. He noticed the other crew circling him on the fringes of his vision, like a pack of hungry dogs.

Slim’s grin faded in an instant.

“It’s no joke Decker. Truth is, this has been a long time coming...” He said, his voice dancing with satisfaction.

Just as Deckard began to prepare himself for an answer, he felt all the air driven furiously from his lungs.

There was a pain, a pain so sharp, so fierce, he could not do anything but stand there dumbly. His mouth opened, but he could only snatch a precious breath to fill his lungs.

Like a fish out of water, he desperately tried to find air that wouldn’t come.

A scream longed to burst from his mouth, but only a pitiful wheeze emerged.

The stinging suddenly intensified, making him groan in agony and he felt a firm hand on his shoulder and a gentle voice in his ears.

“Ya’ve got no idea how long I’ve been wantin’ to do that.” Vinnie whispered softly, as heartfelt as a lover.

Deckard felt the knife slide out of his back and the agony rose to new heights. He felt a deep ache within his body, numb yet blinding. Dead, yet searing. Warmth began to slowly blossom around his spine.

His heart was pounding, slamming against his chest as if to escape. Another gasp escaped him and he wobbled, but somehow his feet stayed under him.

“Would you look at that? He’s still standing!” Slim laughed to the others. They all stared at him, oddly impressed that he wasn’t lying in a crumpled heap on the cold, dusty ground.

Deckard coughed in response to their gazes. He managed to wrestle a deep breath in, which just made the pain even worse.

“Why?” He said shakily.

Slim let out a harsh bellowing laugh, which echoed all around the small chamber.

”Are you serious?! You’re pitting useless! The only thing you’ve done for the crew is make things more difficult, and we don’t need that. Do we boys?” Slim raised his hands and looked around the room. All the others either nodded or spoke a few words in agreement.

Deckard was struggling to hear what they were saying, his heartbeat booming like a drum in his ears.

Slim strode towards him, murder burning in his eyes.

Deckard felt a fist crash into his face, but there was no pain as he tumbled to the floor. He struck the lectern awkwardly on his way down, sending it spinning to the ground noisily. The dizziness inside his head had intensified, the whole room spinning and twirling. Another groan sounded from his mouth as he struggled to put his hands underneath him.

“No Decker, you stay down there lad.” Arn said distantly. His voice was so far away.

A boot smashed into his ribs and this time, his mind found the necessary strength to scream. Another blow hit his stomach like a hammer, turning his shill scream into a desperate retching. He lay onto his side, and could see through his blurred eyes figures moving to the tombs entrance. The torchlight they carried grew dimmer. Their footsteps were muted, as if he was underwater.

“No.” He mewled. “Don’t do this...”

He retched again.

“Oz...help me!” Tears came to his eyes and a sob caught heavily in his throat. One blurry figure turned a head back, mumbled something, then continued walking. Deckard heard the door close and then he was left in complete darkness.

“Don’t leave me!” He shouted to nobody.

**********************************************************************************************

In that small, cold tomb below a crypt nobody cared about, Deckard lay weeping.

For the first few minutes, he had shouted and cursed his double-crossing crewmembers, but only the quiet stones could hear him. Defiance was the topic of his pursuits. He ranted and raved at the wall, promising a swift retribution to them all, that justice would be done, but alas, only the stones heard his cries.

After his initial bout of rage and fury, reality settled in like a chill wind. As warmth on his back grew and grew, his anger ebbed, being replaced by the heavy hands of sadness and the slowly tightening grip of fear.

It was at that moment he started to beg, to plead. He beseeched his former friends to let him out, that he would redeem himself with a bigger score, one that would make them all rich beyond their wildest dreams. The stones listened, but replied only with silence.

In between choked sobs, he managed to find and light a burner. It was a fearsome battle to create the flame, as his hands were growing numb, but the struggle was worth it just to see that feint spot of red light amidst the darkness.

It seemed like his whole body was tingling, alternating between unfeeling and small stabs of pain. He wanted to groan, but he was getting weaker by the second. A sudden burst of panic rushed through him, from the tips of his toes to the hair on his head.

Not like this...

I don’t want to die like this!

It was then amidst his quiet sobs, he saw another light out the corner of his eye. He thought it was a hallucination, some figment of his imagination that his mind desperately conjured to ease his passing to the gates. But, after a few silent moments of study, he was certain of it’s realness. It was a figure. The shape of a man walking to him slowly.

“P...ppleease...Onorous...take me to the afterverse...” He pleaded reaching out to the ethereal figure.

A sound began to echo around the chamber, emerging gradually into existence, but after a second or two, it was as if someone was in that dark room with him. Laughter. Possibly the last sound Deckard expected to hear.

“Onorous...be merciful...” Deckard sobbed.

There was an eerie silence for a moment, but only for a moment.

“Relax there lad, death isn’t so bad. It’s the dying that’s the worst part.” The ghost said with a sad smile.

***************************************************************************************************

Deckard awoke not in the afterverse, with green fields all around him and an endless sun gently caressing his soul, but instead in the dull, dank tomb with the stone floor pressing forcefully against his face. His soul was certainly not caressed.

“Woah there, you okay there lad?” The ghost asked, slight concern in it’s tone.

Deckard couldn’t tell whether he had passed out from the blood loss or the shock of seeing what he thought was supposed to be herald of death. He let loose a thick groan and managed to roll himself so he was resting on one of the coffins. His back still burned with a gentle pain, but he was too weak to properly register it.

He took a ragged breath and worked up his courage, then raised his eyes to the figure stood in front of him. The man was made entirely of green light. Everything from his skin to his clothes, all green, translucent light. He wore simple robes, like a scholar or a clerk might have. His face was weathered by age, wrinkles and marks where there should be none, but he did not seem to be ancient.

The figure was instead a man just past the prime of his life, experience and wisdom etched into his face, where a younger man wears lust and pride. His mouth was curved into a calming smile, making his green moustache form a neat semi-circle below his nose. The hair on his head was combed back into an orderly ponytail, completing the look of a tidy, learned man.

“You’re not Onorus.” Deckard stated, mildly disappointed. He was vaguely aware that he was slurring his words, but the numbness was making it difficult to care.

The ghost’s eyes closed in a humoured acceptance and he stood up from his crouch, groaning at the pain that only old bones know.

“My apologies friend, I’m not the gatekeeper. You’re safe for now.” He said with a wink.

Deckard’s head was pounding and his back was sheer agony, but strangely, he was relatively relaxed and agreeable with the idea of a ghost talking to him. He raised his eyebrows and blinked twice, his face utterly blank. The ghost saw this and put a hand to his head.

“How rude of me! You’re sitting there bewildered and confused and I haven’t even thought to introduce myself!” The figure exclaimed. With an elaborate flourish of his hand, he held it out as if to shake.

“Ulster H Alazar, at your service my boy!” He said merrily.

Deckard’s hand reached out automatically, then he toppled over with a groan when his fingers met nothing but air.

“Oh blast! I’m awfully sorry there lad, easy to forget these things. My word...what’s wrong with your back?” Ulster asked. Without waiting for an answer, the ethereal man bent down once again and examined the blood slowly oozing from the knife’s kiss. Deckard attempted to speak, but he was growing cold now, that ever present numbness that had started in his fingers had spread to the rest of his body, which he welcomed gladly. He was content to mumble nonsense.

“Ahh, a knife in the back eh? Not just a figure of speech is it my friend? Here, take a deep breath, this may sting...” Ulster said to the dying Deckard. Deckard responded with a dull moan.

Ancient words of an ancient language filled the air as Ulster began to chant. The melody was simply beautiful, his tones rising and falling in a perfectly enunciated song, one syllable blurring gracefully into the next.

Although the prone Deckard could not see it, an emerald light spun from the spirit’s fingers, flowing perfectly in rhythm with his singing. It twisted and twirled through the cold air of the tomb, seeking out the wound with a peaceful ease. The blood on Deckard’s back shone and sparkled as the light infused it and impossibly, the liquid began to retreat back into his body.

It sluggishly, unfathomably reversed its flow. His shirt was no longer soaked with his own blood, his face was no longer deathly pale. Deckard took a breath in and immediately, all of his ails vanished. The numbness that had infested his being was cast aside, like fog evaporating in dawn. Strength coursed through his limbs and where once there was pain, only a gentle calm remained.

Deckard’s eyes flew open, seeing in wonderful clarity once again. He pushed himself to his feet and was amazed to find there was no pain. A laugh burst from his lips uncontrollably, something born out of sheer amazement and happiness. His fingers traced his back, but there was no sign of anything other than smooth skin and a small hole in his shirt.

“There you go, good as new eh?” Ulster said with a nod.

“Thank you.” Deckard said, tears brimming in his eyes.

Ulster smiled again, something that Deckard suspected was a regular occurrence in this man.

Well…

This...appearance of a man.

“You never introduced yourself earlier my dear boy, though, I can forgive you, given your current condition.” Ulster said.

Deckard felt like he should be offended at his use of the word “boy”, but he was overcome with the elation of being alive again. The word passed over his head without a second thought.

“Deckard Duncan.” He replied, holding out his hand in welcome. Ulster reached out with his own transparent hand and held it next to his. They both moved their hands up and down in a mock handshake.

“A pleasure to meet you my friend.” Ulster said.

*********************************************************************************************

“I still don’t understand, what are you Ulster?” Deckard said, throwing another rotten book on the makeshift fire they had created. Ulster had offered them up at once now that he had a visitor to accommodate. Ulster was sat on one of the coffins, looking around his tomb with a mild curiosity.

“Well I will confess, I expected it to be cleaner.” He said thoughtfully. After a few more savoured moments of contemplation, his gaze snapped back to Deckard.

“I guess you could say I’m a ghost or a spirit, but the truth is I am a manifestation of a dead man’s consciousness. A walking soul if you will.” Ulster continued.

“But how are you here? How did you fix my back? Why are you helping a me?” Deckard asked, one of his hands combing through his hair in confusion.

Ulster smiled and stood up from his chair, once again grimacing from the pain in his knees which no longer existed.

“To answer your first two questions simply, magic.”

“Magic?” Deckard repeated in awe.

“Magic.” Ulster confirmed. “But the answer to your first question has a little more to it than that.” He paused for another moment, trying to find the right words.

“I was a mage, when I was living. A practitioner of the ancient words of power. My particular studies took me along a path that nobody has walked in many years.”

“You were a singer?” Deckard asked respectfully.

“Yes...and I adored my work. You see, once I had graduated from the Court of Mages, I dove into the study of the soul. I yearned for the secrets of our consciousness, the mysteries of existence that had been unsolved for a milenia. So I studied. Researched. Countless hours of searching. I put aside everything else and then, after one hundred years of toil.”

He paused.

“I found it. Or at least, I thought I had found it. In my excitement I threw caution into the wind and attempted to place a piece of my soul into an object. That amulet to be precise.” He said, gesturing to the necklace that lay abandoned on floor. It had fallen from the lectern when Deckard had crashed into it earlier.

Deckard walked over and picked up it up, admiring the quality of its construction. It was a piece of gold formed into the shape of a book, with a small emerald in the center. Intricate, delicate symbols had been carved into it, Deckard could only marvel at the care and attention that had gone into its creation.

“That stone,” Ulster began, “Contains my being. This existence you see before you, my walking soul, resides inside that tiny emerald.”

Deckard turned it over in his palms and marveled at the torchlight reflecting off it. Even though the amulet was worn by the years in the tomb, the flame’s light still glittered and twinkled on the gold beautifully.

“I completed the process, placing my soul into an inanimate object, but rather than a piece, I placed the entirety of it.” Ulster chuckled to himself, as though he didn’t appreciate the severity of his mistake.

“My body collapsed and died, I only had a shadow of a understanding as my body was brought into this crypt, to rest beside my father.” Ulster placed a translucent hand on the sarcophagus next to him.

“Your anguish, your pain is what called to me and brought me back to sentience. The howls of the lost and broken are extraordinary. I thought St.James himself might come and visit as you were shouting that loud!” He said with another smile.

Deckard placed the amulet on the stone coffin carefully and walked back to the fire. He stayed in silent contemplation for a while, pondering on Ulster’s tale, searching for understanding in the flames.

Once the fire had died low, the once crackling flames reduced to mere embers and smouldering pieces of parchment, Deckard spoke again.

“Why are you helping me Ulster? Look, I’m grateful, but why save a man like me? Why not leave me to bleed, like the rest of my crew?” He said quietly, still focused on the burning books.

Ulster strode over and stood opposite Deckard.

“Every man has worth, even if many struggle to find it. I can do nothing in this form, unable to stray from the amulet, unable to breathe the sweet air of life, unable even to feel the ache in my bones, although I pretend to. We can help each other.”

Deckard looked up from the dying remains of the fire and met the ghost’s eyes. They were as serious as the gatekeeper himself and they shone with a firm purpose.

“You can help me escape this prison. You can help me be a member of the living again. With you to carry my amulet, I can get my life back!” Ulster said, feverish resolve burning in his voice. It was strange to Deckard, this calm, quiet ghost suddenly alive with desire and focus.

Deckard started to speak, but Ulster continued on.

“I can help you find your worth. To ascend from this charade of crime and deception and to forge yourself a new path. I can give you the most valuable thing in this life we have...knowledge. I can give you vengeance on those that betrayed you, or purpose elsewear should you want it. Together, we can shape our futures.”

Deckard stayed silent. His mind began to surge with ideas of his future, but at the forefront of his mind was one clear image. Slim’s cruel smile, a single gold tooth shining.

“Okay Ulster. I’m in.”

submitted by /u/lordchimp [link] [comments] via Blogger http://bit.ly/306GHcJ

[jeichanhaka]

If Any Would Avenge: 14

Chapters 01-10|| Chapter 11|| Chapter 12|| Chapter 13||

Chapter 14||Chapter 15|| Chapter 16|| Chapter 17||Chapter 18|| Chapter 19|| Chapter 20|| Chapters 21+||

A Few Centuries Ago, in Another Realm:

It was dark and cold, and the stones reeked of damp. A chill passed through him, gliding down his spine, the alcohol-bestowed warmth long since gone from his limbs. Replaced instead by numbness and a raging fever.

He shivered, a rat scurrying over his foot and then behind his leg. The sound its feet made crawling over the stone and old bones grated on his ears, and its stench added to the mustiness. His breathing quickened and he retched, only nothing came up; it'd been weeks since he ate anything, his only sustenance a bottle of wine.

He finished that off about five days ago, according to his estimate of time. It was difficult to tell. The darkness surrounding him gave no hint to how long it'd been since he first became trapped. Or rather, imprisoned, within the wall. He only knew he slept and woke over fourteen times since Montresor left, and his fever came and went twice.

Now it was back, worse than before and his skull felt ready to burst. Shuddering as another rat crawled by him, he pounded and clawed against the stone sealing him in. Fingernails broken and worn down to his fingertips, the skin of which was torn and caked with dry blood, he clawed at the wall, muttering.

"I will kill you...I will…." He hissed, barely able to open his eyes from fever, not that it would've made much difference in the dark. "This life or the next….or the next….I'll….argh!"

The rat, tired of running by him or perhaps just famished like himself, bit his heel. He swore and sputtered, ready to grab hold of the vermin and tear its head off. A prospect that sounded more and more delectable each time he considered it. Breath quickening and his stomach growling at the idea of food, he reached down as low as he could, trying to grab the rat before it could scurry off.

He growled when it bit deeper, unaware of the danger of his hand; it screeched and struggled as he snatched it up. Within seconds he placed it within his mouth and bit down on it, tearing into its back viciously and desperately. Its warm blood and guts spilling onto his tongue - he could barely describe how sublime yet grotesque it tasted and felt.

It was a rat, a plague riddled vermin, yet he savored it. Ate every bit of it, flesh and bone and organs. And after he finished he leaned his head against the wall and sighed, satiated. He closed his eyes and resumed muttering, repeating Montresor's name. And his vow.

"I'll kill you. I will kill you. Bleed you. This life or the next….or the next….Montresor….I'll..."

"Ahh...Uhm?" A gasp and the clattering of a lantern dropping onto stone interrupted, there was also the clip-clapping of feet hurrying away and tripping repeatedly towards the exit.

His eyes shot open and he pounded at the wall, shouting as loud as his scratchy voice could.

"Who...who's there?" A steady and gentle voice asked, too near to belong to the fleeing one. He was shocked by it, for it was a child's voice and held little fear. "What are you doing in our uncle's crypt? Are you a ghost?"

"I…."

"...-elle! What are you doing?! Come on! You know what uncle said!" Another voice called out, older than both the one who had fled and the one who spoke to him. It was obvious that its owner hadn't heard him behind the wall. "No playing down here. It's disrespectful."

"But sis…." The younger child whined, but followed her sister's order, walking away from the wall before the man in the wall could call out again. As the children's footsteps faded in the distance, he glowered and swore.

Storybrooke: Present

Tap, tap, tap.

Fortunato stood up swiftly upon hearing knocking coming from the front door. His crimson eyes nearly glowing, he slipped silently into another room just in time to avoid being seen by Henry opening the door cautiously.

"...hello? Is anyone…."

Fortunato listened as the 19-year-old's footfalls stopped abruptly, followed closely by a sharp gasp and then by loud footsteps rushing towards the stairs.

"Mr. French!" Henry exclaimed and rushed to Maurice lying on the floor at the bottom of the stairs. His eyes wide, he tentatively shook the florist's shoulder to try and awaken him, his stomach tightening. There was no sign that the older man was still breathing.

Fumbling in his pocket for his cell phone, Henry heard a weakened whimper above him, and sprung back to his feet. Realizing it came from upstairs, he immediately hurried up the staircase, his palms sweaty and heart racing. Midway up he heard the whimper again and knew who it was.

"Belle!" Henry blanched seeing the petite woman curled into a ball, bleeding from her abdomen. Nearly stumbling onto his knees as he hurried to Belle's side, he dialed Regina who had gone with Emma to search for Gold first at his shop and then at his cabin.

-"Henry, what…."-

"Get here now!" Henry nearly shouted, terrified that explaining would delay his mother getting there in time. His voice trembled as he hung up and focused on applying pressure to Belle's abdomen, a shiver rushed down his spine as her warm blood quickly drenched his hands. "Please hold on, grandma Belle, my moms are on their way. Please."

"...by….my ba...baby….my…." Belle mumbled, barely conscious. "Need...to save…."

"Ah...shhh. It'll be okay." Henry replied, confused by what the librarian was mumbling about but chalking it up to grief and delirium due to blood loss.

"Not quite." Fortunato hissed and tossed something onto the floor beside the 19-year-old. His red eyes leered at Henry, watching as the young man bristled and glanced at the object: The positive pregnancy test Fortunato had pilfered from Belle five nights ago. He gave a twisted, half smile at Henry's expression.

It took only seconds for the 19-year-old to put two-and-two together.

"No…." Henry muttered, horrified as he stared at the petite woman's bleeding abdomen. Fortunato approached a few steps, still leering down at the young man.

"You're Rumplestiltskin's grandson." Fortunato hissed, unsheathing his tanto. The gilded scarab mark on its blade gleamed the nearer he approached Henry. His crimson eyes lit up as he readied the tanto. "You're not a target, but your blood will be quite useful…."

"Don't you even THINK about hurting my son!" Growled Regina, appearing in a cloud of magic, along with Emma, behind Fortunato. Livid, she lifted Fortunato magically and started choking him, while Emma hurried towards Belle. Her eyes narrowed at the dagger in Fortunato's hand and the gilded scarab mark. "I'd gladly snap your neck and that of any of your cohorts."

"...Mom!" Henry piped up, concern in his voice at the thought of his mother Regina killing anyone in cold blood, even someone like Fortunato.

Fortunato simply laughed, unfazed, and completely unaffected by Regina's magical grip about his throat. "Snap my neck? Heh...I'd like to see you try, your majesty."

"What the…." Regina stared perplexed at the red-eyed assassin, her magical chokehold firm enough that any normal person would be struggling not to pass out.

"Not that it'd do much good." Fortunato continued, his crimson glare shifting back towards Belle. His lips twitched as Emma healed the brunette and a cold grin spread over his face when Emma noticed the pregnancy test lying on the floor.

"That's…." Emma mumbled and reached for it, only for a healed Belle to snatch it first. The brunette hugged it to her breast and curled back into a ball, ignoring everyone around her. Belle clung to it, her lips trembling and body heaving with quiet sobs. Emma felt numb as she listened to the librarian's quiet sobbing and pleas not to lose another child. "No…."

"Heh. You're too late." Fortunato simply sneered, his crimson eyes narrowed to slits. "The blood price is paid. In full." He laughed and snapped his fingers, vanishing in a cloud of ash and dust.

Night Of the Accident:

The figure in the hoodie approached, lips curled into a sneer. It seemed to be mouthing something, a taunt? A question? He couldn't be sure, only that his stomach twisted in horror and goosebumps spread over his skin when he caught a glimpse of the figure's face.

"It can't be…." Killian mumbled and gripped the steering wheel tightly, his heart beating quick like a machine gun. The figure stopped, its face illuminated by the headlights of Killian's car. Its familiar countenance deathly pale and gray tinged, its eyes lifeless; Killian stared horrified at it, not believing what he was seeing and unable to move. "...father?"

Seconds after muttering that word, another car with its headlights turned off rammed into his, crashing hard into the back passenger-side door. The impact caused him to slam his head against the driver-side window, knocking him out.

When he came to, there were voices arguing and a throbbing in his head. He swore incoherently and fumbled with the car door, managing to open it just as one of the voices - his father's - vanished. Killian stumbled out of the car, realizing after he attempted to stand that his foot was broken. He hissed in pain and fell. "...fuck."

"Ooh. That's gotta sting, captain." A man approached, holding the hoodie that Killian's father, or the thing that resembled the long dead man, had worn. His vision blurry, Killian was just able to make out the gilded amulet the other wore, alarm bells ringing in his head at the sight of it. The man leered at the injured pirate, his lips twisted in a cold smirk. "It's too bad…."

"...what?" Killian growled, attempting to lift himself up using the car as a brace. It failed, and he stumbled back to the asphalt, dizziness hitting him. "...what's too bad?"

"...you're not my target." The man sneered and glanced towards the backseat of the pirate's car.

Killian bristled, alarm filling his eyes. His brain felt immersed in a heavy mental fog, yet he realized exactly what the other meant. Gideon was the only person in his car. Snarling Killian lunged at the sneering man, to sink his hook into the bastard's heart. Or at least he tried. He stumbled, tripped up by his broken foot and dizziness, his vision blurry. Just as he struck the asphalt, he heard the other man approach, mumbling something.

Before he could make out what it was, Killian's vision blacked out completely, unconsciousness overtaking him.

Present:

"...idd…don't…" Killian mumbled, lying asleep on the bed in his cell. The marking on his neck and the headache accompanying it long since faded.

Across the room a man dressed in tawny trousers and a faded white shirt, stared at the pirate. A peculiar expression was on his face, one of worry and regret, yet there was a coldness in his eyes. The man clenched his teeth and fists, his longish hair falling into his face, blocking his eyes.

"Killian…." Brennan Jones muttered his son's name, his mouth contorting as he struggled to continue speaking. "I for…."

"I think not." A gray eyed man seethed, stepping into the room, the gilded amulet he wore about his neck glittering beneath the overhead lights. As did the two rubies inlaid on either side, both equidistant from the other. The rubies glowed bright crimson as the man gestured and Brennan knelt down, struggling not to the whole way.

Brennan scowled up at the other man, his death-pale skin illuminated by the ceiling lights. His eyes filled with loathing staring at the man's face and then the amulet; he did so wordlessly however, his tongue silenced by the same magic that forced him to his knees.

The other man glowered back, before shifting his gaze towards the unconscious Killian.

"It is really too bad. I would just love to crush your son's heart in front of you. 'Sins of the fathers' and all that." The man drawled, relishing in the anger and fear-laced glare Brennan gave in response. Seconds later, his gray eyes darkened and his brow furrowed. "...why the hell hasn't the Dark One done so already? I'd have thought…." He grumbled, frowning heavily. A few moments passed before he growled at Brennan. "Find Fortunato. Things haven't gone to plan."

"...yes…." Brennan Jones muttered before leaving, wanting to but unable to refuse.

[jeichanhaka]

If Any Would Avenge: 13

Chapters 01-10|| Chapter 11|| Chapter 12|| Chapter 13||

Chapter 14||Chapter 15|| Chapter 16|| Chapter 17||Chapter 18|| Chapter 19|| Chapter 20|| Chapters 21+||

Chapter Thirteen:

"We lost members of our...family. It's only fair you lose some of yours."

Sir Maurice paled staring into the assassin's scarlet eyes and listening to that threat being crooned out. He bristled when the man stepped closer, terrified even though the tanto the other had was safely sheathed. The whispers he'd heard of Nemesis and those counted as members within it were laced with warnings of their cutthroat, bloodthirsty natures. Cold and lethal. He had no doubt that this assassin would be able to slaughter him easily, and without compunction.

"Though, on second thought." The man stopped, his crimson eyes less livid and more thoughtful. Almost like a predator deciding whether to give its prey a reprieve. "There is something I seek, that may...compensate my brothers and sisters well for the losses we sustained."

"Wh...what is...this some...something?" Maurice stammered, his skin crawling under the other's piercing gaze.

"First, let me show you what will happen if you don't pay." The assassin crooned and snapped his fingers; Maurice's vision went dark and when it returned he was floating over his own body. He tried to speak, to scream, shout for the guards - anything, but no sound escaped him. Then with another snap of the assassin's fingers, Maurice was back in his body collapsed on the floor.

"Wh...what the...what the hell was that?!" Maurice gasped, his lungs heaving for breath and his heart pattering wildly. He struggled back to his feet, his extremities feeling numb and his legs shaking.

"Just a trick of mine. Learned it from a necromancer years and years back. Quite useful." The assassin grinned, delighting in the fear pulsing through Maurice's veins. He licked his lips, nearly able to taste the weaker man's terror. "Now, where were we? Ah, yes. There's an item my brethren and I seek, originally from our land, it made its way to this one some time ago. If you were to present this item to me, then the blood price could be forgotten."

"I...can't spare any guards, those who survived the ogres are needed to defend against brigands and the like while we rebuild, so whatever this item is...unless its close by, I can't promise..."

"Oh! But that's the thing! It is close by. Or should be." The assassin smirked, his eyes never flitting from Maurice's face. "In your family's burial vaults to be exact. An enchanted chest, once belonging to a certain knight who went by Fortuné."

Maurice's eyes widened, knowing the chest the assassin meant. The shakiness of his limbs stilled, and instead gave way to tenseness. "How do you...?"

"I have my ways. Now, will you present it to me?"

"I..." Maurice took in a deep breath, his heart thumping loudly in his chest. Part of him relieved that the assassin's price was something so easily obtainable, and the other part terrified. The chest in question, belonging once to his great-great grandmother, had lost all its enchantment when she passed. Thus giving it to this deadly man wouldn't be dangerous itself, but the assassin discovering its lack of enchantment could be. "I just have to present you the chest?"

The assassin tilted his head in affirmation, the gesture less of a nod and more of a bow.

Maurice hesitated a moment, thinking about the chest stored within the burial vaults beneath the castle. Mulling over whether to risk giving the assassin the useless thing, and whether it would be too disrespectful to his ancestors to give away such an heirloom. He grimaced. "All right. But I can't bring it to you - removing it from the family crypt would be too disrespectful - but I can bring you to it."

The assassin digested Maurice's modified offer, fingering his sheathed tanto's handle. He mumbled something under his breath, most of which Maurice didn't catch. The nobleman did make out the words wine cellar and wall, though. "Fine. Lead the way. But if you try anything...treacherous...I'll bleed you like I did the Montresors."

Maurice gave an uneasy smile at the name, not recognizing it. But fully recognizing the threat and enmity laced within each syllable. He gestured towards a door leading out the back of the chamber and into a corridor, a narrow and cold space that led to another door. Behind which lay a stone staircase.

"It's down there. I…." Maurice faltered, feeling the assassin's glare on his back, and took a torch from one of the wall sconces. Part of him was tempted to simply allow the assassin to descend into the crypt himself, take whatever he wanted, but Maurice knew he'd never be able to rest peacefully if he allowed that. He sucked in a breath and descended. "No one has been interred down here in decades….last one was my grandfather. And he…."

"I care little about your family, Sir Maurice. Just about Fortuné's enchanted chest." The assassin interrupted, walking closely behind the other man, close enough that Maurice should've felt his breath on his neck. There was none, however, no breathing, no heartbeat from the red-eyed man.

Maurice shivered and nodded, continuing the descent in silence. His heart palpitating quicker with each step, the names the assassin had mentioned repeating in his head.

x

The sharp bleating of the house phone cut through the downstairs and carried upwards to the second floor. Its shrill shriek drowned out the groans and sobbing coming from upstairs and the creaking floorboards as the assassin loitered. His red-eyes leered at the chestnut haired woman clutching her abdomen, widening in arousal at the crimson plush drenching the woman's hands.

"I warned you, sweet Belle, that a worse tragedy would befall you." Fortunato whispered, licking his lips. He knelt beside Belle, watching her struggle to stay conscious, her trembling hands trying to staunch the stab wound in her lower abdomen. A cold-hearted smile spread over his face seeing the horror in the librarian's bright blue eyes. She knew. From the moment his blade pierced her flesh, she knew what he was after and how futile it was to hope that maybe he'd miss.

That maybe his blade would miss the small bundle of life growing inside her.

Belle shook and sobbed, her fingers slimy with her own blood; her cheeks glistening with tears. "...w…why…?" She whimpered and flinched as Fortunato touched her cheek, pushing a few straggly strands of hair behind her ear. His fingers were ice cold, and though his eyes were a gleaming, fiery red, there was no real warmth to his affect. "Fir...first Gideon….now…." She faltered, glancing down at her abdomen and her hands sticky with blood. "...why?"

Fortunato simply grinned, coldly. "...That's the question, isn't it? Why? I could say it's the blood price being paid or a client's order or that I long ago asked the same question once of a...friend, but was denied an answer. A friend...fiend...of which your father…." He peeked down the stairs where Maurice lay, motionless at the bottom - the foolish florist had attempted to protect Belle and had been pushed down them for his troubles. "...sorely reminded me." Fortunato paused and licked his lips, holding out his blood drenched tanto so the gilded scarab mark was visible beneath the blood. It glowed and pulled the red liquid towards itself, almost like it was drinking it. "I offered him a way out, you know, out of his blood debt. All he had to do was give me an enchanted chest belonging to your family. Know what he did instead? Your father locked me inside your family's ancestral vaults. In the Catacombs! I swear, if he was any more like Montresor I'd…."

Belle trembled, only partly listening to the assassin, her vision blurring. 'My baby...my…I can't…I can't...' She shut her eyes tightly just as the phone stopped ringing, blocking everything out as she pleaded for a way to undo what Fortunato had done. To save at least her unborn child, if bringing Gideon back was impossible. She repeated the plea, muttering it incoherently while clutching her bleeding abdomen.

000000000000000000

The castle was dim and dour, its many treasures coated with dust; a result of being uninhabited for years, except by the occasional squatter. Gold glanced around, his brown eyes taking quick note of which items were missing and how long going by the amount of dust on each pedestal. It didn't matter much to him which ones remained, all the items he'd really cared about he'd made sure were brought to Storybrooke during the first curse. Mostly items connected to the original cursed residents or that he'd viewed as potentially useful.

None of which were useful to him now. Not that he'd come back here for any of his remaining artifacts or baubles, anyway. Not one of the enchanted trinkets could bring back the dead, making each one worthless to him. Utterly useless.

His gaze lingered mere seconds on each item arrayed around the abandoned castle, searching not for magic but rather a more mundane object. A painting that he'd received years ago from a bankrupt merchant in exchange for a small sum of coin, it was one of his earliest and more innocuous deals. Hardly more than a business transaction between a buyer and a seller.

"Where…ah, there." Gold mumbled as he search and located the painting, the small masterpiece tucked away in the corner of a glass-paned cabinet. His lips twitched as he picked it up and gazed at the tawny greens and violets of the alcove depicted on its canvas. A grove of trees towering around a shadowed clearing where nothing but the sparsest strands of light peeked through.

It was identical to the wooded area he saw in his vision of the pirate's daughter. The alcove where Emma and Hook's grown up child crushed a heart in front of her parents. This painting depicted that place, making finding it the first key to his future revenge. Once he found it, he could set everything in motion and simply wait.

"Such a quaint little spot. It's almost a shame…." Gold mumbled, scanning the painting and the back of the canvas for any hint of a location or artist name. Anything identifiable, anything to pinpoint where and in what realm the place existed. It was over two centuries old, so the painter was likely long dead as was the merchant who sold it to him. His eyes narrowed on an inscription at the bottom left corner, reading only the brief description: a silent dell. "You're going to be quite the troublesome spot to find, aren't you?" Gold grinned coldly, taking a few moments longer to scrutinize the painting before glancing out the windows.

Outside the landscape was luminous and verdant, a beautiful sight he had seldom ever appreciated. Even back when he first moved into the castle, he had barely remarked on the natural beauty surrounding his new abode, focusing instead on the castle itself. Now though, he lingered on it. His somber eyes locked on one of the trees, hidden from view by the rest of forest at every other angle, but discernible from his spot. It was different from the other trees, being the oldest one and the only juniper in the grove.

Gold gazed somber and wistful at the solitary juniper, his thoughts going back to a story he heard once as a lad. It was an old story, just a tale that the spinsters who raised him had told one day. A tale about a juniper tree and a child who'd been buried beneath it. In it a murdered child was resurrected after being buried at the foot of the juniper, leading to a superstition amid some of the older village folk that those buried beneath junipers were bound to return. Through his insight as the Dark One, Gold knew it was nonsense - no magic could bring back the dead - yet he still stared at the tree pondering 'what if?' What if he buried Gideon beneath the juniper tree? Would he get his son back?

'Even if it doesn't work, at least Gideon will be surrounded by such beauty rather than stuck in a cold, wretched cemetery.' Gold mumbled to himself, clenching his fist tightly in effort to keep from breaking down. He closed his eyes and took in a deep breath, shifting his focus from his son to his wife.

Uneasiness gnawed at his heart as he thought about Belle mourning back in Storybrooke while he was here. Worse, he'd taken Gideon's body from the funeral parlor and come here with the intent of burying his son alone. Caught up in his grief for Gideon and reeling from finding Belle in their bathroom trying to take the easy way out, it'd seemed perfectly all right to leave without Belle.

It was only now, standing in his old castle, that he realized it was unfair and nigh unforgivable to leave his wife behind in Storybrooke. To abandon her to her grief and not even give her a chance to be there when he buried their son. He cursed himself under his breath, scowling in frustration as he took out a magic bean. It would be simple to go back to Storybrooke, but getting back to the Enchanted Forest afterwards would be tricky.

In his determination not to be followed, he had destroyed the magic bean crop Tiny had been tending as well as any other beans he could find - aside from the two he took for himself.

-"What's it going to be, dearie?" His Dark One subconscious tittered at him, sensing his weakening conviction. "Do you go back to poor, grieving Belle and lose all hope at turning the Pirate's and Savior's daughter dark or do you continue on your path towards vengeance? Vengeance for Gideon and for Bae."-

Gold glanced downward in thought, lingering on his subconsciousness' words. The vision he had of the pirate's daughter - Sadie's - future was brief and unclear on whose heart she crushed. It could be anyone's. Anyone's. Including the witch who practically murdered his firstborn through trickery.

-"Think, dearie. You know Sadie is destined to crush someone's heart. You can manipulate things so she crushes Zelena's." The imp goaded, his tone singsongy and low. "Seventeen or eighteen more years and you'll have vengeance for both your sons….you just have to not use that bean right now."-

Gold shut his eyes, mulling over his choices.

xxx

A/N: This chapter was nearly as difficult to write as chapter 12...

I can't believe how horrible I'm being to Belle, having her lose Gideon and then having another assassin stab her to get to her unborn child...I did not plan on that in the beginning, but I go where my muse and the story seems to want to go...

Would you believe that she's my favorite character after Gold? I have a bad habit of putting my favorite characters through the worst things...

Futhermore, I wasn't planning on using characters from Edgar Allan Poe's works...but seeing as the show itself included Frankenstein, Jekyll and Hyde, and the Count of Monte Cristo, it doesn't seem too out of place to include Fortunato, (and possibly others...). BTW, the assassin was originally just gonna be a completely original character, without much of a background story, but then I thought of the idea of making him Fortunato and giving my own spin on the character.