#she lives and outlives snow and SHE GETS THE LAST LAUGH.

[snowangeldotmp3]

actually i think lucy gray’s ambiguous ending is even better if she did survive. if she did escape somewhere north, knowing she gets her freedom and outlives snow. both literally and metaphorically.

[kettlequills]

how the dragon chases his tail

Miraak the Dragon Priest was not always a man haunting the halls of Apocrypha. Once, he was a little boy, and he had a terrible choice to make. On A03 here. For TESFest21, prompt: change.

CW: brief self harm, indoctrination, mention of castration, explicit references to violence and character death. Also, the Dragon Cult.

The boy that would be Miraak thrusts out his chest in pride when he sings. (He has another name, then, one that tastes of sweet snow and young summers. But that name is never written in any book and fades even from its bearer under the press of centuries, so the boy he shall be.)

 He is only young, but he knows he is the best singer in the cult choir, probably in the whole temple. The priest that directs the children always gives the boy solos and arranges the whole choir to compliment his voice. Not every child born in the village below gains the chance to serve out their due to the temple so quickly, and the boy is very sensible of the good fortune his lovely singing wins him.

 He is devastated, therefore, when his voice cracks halfway through a pure high note that should be      easy.  

 “It is natural – quite normal, a maturation process, of sorts,” Frinaar says hurriedly. Frinaar is an absently devoted man, but he lives for his choir pleasing the ear of his dragon master. (In five years, this love will not save him when his master grows bored and rends him chest to groin with one swipe. His organs will fall soft and pink from his belly, and he will be dead before he hits the ground.)

 But for now, the priest cranes his head around the corners before he takes them, ushering the boy along with sweeps of his voluminous, incense-stained robes, like he is quite afraid of anyone with less than perfect control over their voice to be found in the temple. “Quite normal – only so unfortunate – right before our master should return – so unfortunate. The display will not be the same without the lead and that understudy…”

 Frinaar clucks his tongue, ringing praise for the boy’s young rival, Jyric. (Older, and jealous of the boy’s special treatment by the priests, Jyric is resentful and bitter. He will not mourn the fate he hears the boy earns for himself, when the boy is a man. But he will not long outlive it either, for he will be seized with a terrible wasting disease that will take the strength from his bones, and abandoned by his kin, will succumb to it in shivering fever alone.)

 “Master may be displeased – so many of the choristers eaten, at recent, and…”  He pauses, sweeps down to look at the boy beneath one bushy brow. “You do not think – you do not think that you could      delay    it? Your voice breaking?” he asks hopefully.

     “Yes,”    the boy cries at once, desperate for any chance, and his voice cracks.

 Frinaar winces. “Get gone.” He brushes the boy vaguely towards the temple doors, muttering to himself. “I knew that we should fix them when we get them, then this would not happen! Or only permit girlchildren, but it’s ‘ah, Frinaar, how will our village grow, if you prevent our boys from becoming fathers and our girls becoming mothers?’ Well, I should like to see how our village will grow when the choristers are all off and the master is displeased!”

 Disappearing in a whirl of mumbling and swishing robes, Frinaar leaves the boy to it. For a moment, the boy stands there, hoping against hope that there is some mistake, and that Frinaar will come back to fetch him.

 The iron doors, carved with beautiful depictions of the dragons the temple serves, remain stubbornly closed. And the boy that would be Miraak is brave, and he is strong, but he is only a boy, and he is suffering the bitterest disappointment of his life.

 He bursts into tears, and the shame of it is enough to send him to his knees.

 Sat on the steps, knobbly knees drawn up to his forehead, he cries silently with the experience of any child who has lived every night of his life since his sixth winter in a crowded dormitory. He is lucky, he knows, because the boy has family in the village. A mother, and siblings; he sees them sometimes when the temple children are allowed to go down to the village to celebrate festivals. They are good people. His mother will be coming to get him.

 Not everyone has a mother to fetch them when their temple years are served. Some go to beg for an apprenticeship, a trade, or remain at the temple to join the ranks of warriors destined to guard the temple and barrows beyond. But the boy does not feel like it is luck now.

 Anything that takes him further from the temple and all that he has come to know feels like a curse.

 Eventually, though, he runs out of tears and instead dips his fingers in the snow, rubbing the cold water under his eyes to reduce the swelling. This too, he has practiced, how to look as if he has not just been crying. He straightens his spine and assumes a bored posture, like he has never been more confident and calm in his life. He is aware, after all, of the slits cut into the walls of the temple, for the guards to see approaching intruders on the temple steps where he sits.

 This is how his mother sees him, when she, huffing, reaches the top of the temple steps. She glances around, a little uncertainly, her smile tentative. (Her name is Sinawen, but the boy will not remember it all, when he is a man looking back through muddled memories. So, we will call her Sina, because her story is sad enough without the grief of eroded memory. She will burn in agony for the crimes of her son, having outlived all of her children save one, whose fate is murky to her on her deathbed, but whose suffering is assured.)

 “My son?” Sina says, and calls him by that name, that name that the boy would forget.

 “Mother,” he says back, determinedly keeping his voice at a low, even tone, and her whole face crinkles into a sunbeam of joy.

 “My boy!” she says, and rushes towards him, and quite before the boy can do anything at all he is enfolded into a huge hairy hug. She smells like peppermint and the winter trees she tends in their beds of snow and ice for the village. (It is important work. It is why she has only had to give one child to the temple, her lastborn, who takes most after his long-distant father.)

 The boy that would be Miraak hangs there in his mother’s arms and wishes that the ground would swallow him up on the spot. He hopes his rival Jyric has not found a slit to watch through, and laugh at the boy being coddled by his mother like a child. Humiliation makes rosy apples of his cheeks, and he pushes at her.

 (He is a child, still. How quickly do they wish for what they do not understand. Does he know that this will be the last time he gets such an embrace, steeped in a mother’s love, uncomplicated and clear as ice? Of course he doesn’t.)

 She releases him, used to the pride of the young, but she holds his hand when they go down the temple steps, and he lets her. Her black claws are like his, though the boy’s are clipped short so he will not tear the papers he works with, and when he looks up he sees her cloud of hair swaying in the breeze, salt-flecked cream, and this is the image he will hold of her in his heart, looking off towards the home the boy had been born in with a smile on her lips and tear-tracks on her cheeks.

 (Would it change anything, if he did know?)

 “I am so glad you are coming home, my son,” she says, “We have all missed you.”

 The boy says nothing at all at this, because there is a flicker of shame in his heart. Of all the children in the dormitory, he has been the quickest to scorn the homesick, the swiftest to pledge every thought in his mind to devouring whatever scraps of knowledge the priests have seen fit to grant their charges. He has not thought of coming      back,    in that vague way of inexperience, thought then that this heady time of learning would last forever.

 (He will learn, unfortunately, that there can be too much of such a good thing.)

 The village is not far from the temple, and Sina’s home not far from the village, nestled between cold white stands of frosty trees. A small shrine waits off the path, devoted to the owl-god Jhunal and the whale-god Stuhn, warding against demons drawn by the misty woods. It is well tended, but the boy still spots, hidden on the bark of a tree, a watchful carved eye that does not seem like it belongs with the rest of the shrine.

 The boy does not think anything of it.

 (Do you?)

 “Better things than that temple out there,” says the boy’s eldest brother, after they have eaten, and the misery on the boy’s face can no longer be attributed to hunger. He is wild and tangle-haired, spends his whole life to date out in the snows, and still feels constrained.

 (His name is Terren, and he will not survive a chance stumble into a bear trap, not far from the hunter’s path he had strayed from. A summer from this day, he will be a frozen corpse, found only the following spring when a lost hound tracks the wrong kill. The boy will remember him unnamed, as only as his shredded blue face, gnawed by animals, exposed bone pointing to the sky, and forget their relation, any sense of why this face hurts more than any other he has seen.)

 (It will be the kindest fate those with this boy’s blood meet.)

 “Yes!” pipes his second sibling, Minwen, a sister whose quick fingers at the distaff has won her valued approval, whose bright eyes look at the temple on the hill that swallows her brother with as much trepidation as curiosity. (She will die choking, and her quick fingers will not be enough to stem the blood warm and wet that will gush from her cut throat. The boy’s memory of her kindness will be taken from him, and of her all he will recall is blood-soaked snow and deep dragon-laughter.) “You could learn magic, at home with us.”

 “That’s stupid,” the boy snaps. His voice cracks and he sinks his head into his arms. “I’m      supposed    to be there now. I’m the best singer they have.      I,    ” he adds, venomously, thinking of Jyric, “      never    lose the beat.”

 It is true. The boy has a sense of timing that is as innate as it is perfect.

 (Any skill can be a torment, when cultivated by the right gardener.)

 “When you are a man,” his mother offers, quietly, mouth pinched around the edges, “couldn’t you go back?”

 “They don’t need any more apprentices,” the boy says glumly. “They have too many. Frinaar always complains. And that’s years, and      years    away. I’d rather die.”

 His siblings exchange glances. A depressing silence has settled over the table. The boy takes this as his due, too young to realise his selfishness.

 (I would love to tell you that he learns.)

 Sina sighs. “It may not be what you want, my son, but we are very happy to have you home.”

 (But you know better, don't you?)

 The boy’s brother Terren scoffs, a little, muttering something about ungratefulness. Minwen next to him elbows him sharply in the ribs, hissing      “Think of mother!”  

 (Please do think of her. Sinawen’s suffering will be eaten by her god. Someone could at least remember she existed. Eventually, her son won’t.)

 The boy says nothing, grinding his forehead into the wood of the table. He is consumed in his own misery, everything he has worked for in his young life ripped away from him. It isn’t      fair,    he thinks jealously. He doesn’t      want    to be a wood-grower like his mother, or a spinner, or a scout, or to join the everlasting battle against the beasts and bandits beyond the bounds of the village that has taken his father from the guards.

 (It isn’t about what the boy wants.)

 He wants… he wants the feeling he gets, when he is tasked to sweep the courtyard and lingers close to the wall where the master roosts, eyes running over dragon-words scratched with dragon-claws. The feeling that swells, hot and bright, when he sees dragons overhead, chasing each other’s tails and immense in their majesty. The power that he feels, somewhere just out of reach, when he sings out strong and brave and the whole of the choir rises up around him like a voice of thunder. He feels – he feels alone, in the warmth of his mother’s house, the people that are his family all around him.

 He feels alone when he squeezes a carefully-rescued scale no one misses in his hand, so hard that it draws blood. And something in him looks at the blood that wells around his skin, warm and red, and is disappointed that it doesn’t burn like acid dragonblood. He feels alone then, too. But it is a different      aloneness,    something that feels like a secret whispered in a language he doesn’t know.      Set apart,    instead of      left behind.  

 But, the boy thinks mulishly, he could learn another language. He can’t fill the gap that has grown after years away.

 (See how proud and foolish he is! Can you imagine yet how much the boy will regret this?)

 Dinner is eaten quickly, and Terren is out the door to roam the stands of ice-trees, trail hard claws over the bark. Minwen braids her mane around her fox-ears with ribbons. And his mother draws the boy outside, and takes him to stand beneath the tree with the watchful eye. Sina goes to her knees in the snow and holds her son’s face. Her eyes are deep and warm, crinkled with laugh lines at the edges.

 “You have the look of your father,” she tells him, “And his spirit, apparently.” She clucks her tongue. “He was insistent that we go to a temple village, for the winged ones. I see Kyne in his hawk-eyes like yours.”

 (Do you think that Kyne cares?)

 The boy is watching the sky, not paying attention. Something in him is itching. “You’re not supposed to say that,” he says. “You’re supposed to call them masters.”

 “When the priests can grow wood from ice alone, they can correct how I speak,” Sinawen says firmly. “You are not in the temple, any longer. I can teach you my art. How often did they even let you out? You were not made for stone tombs, my son.”

     “I    am a priest,” says the boy.

 “There are other gods,” Sina says, but his mother’s reply is drowned by the sweep of mighty wings overhead. Sina grabs her son as he lurches towards the temple, eyes tracing the shimmering, bluer-than-blue shape, the joyful roar of frost. It shakes his bones. He knows, without knowing, that the dragon is greeting its roost, crowing its mastery over the mortals that serve it.

 Something in the boy that will be Miraak aches to roar back.

 His mother’s amulet brushes his cheek, freed from the neckline of her shirt. It is carved of a single emerald, one eye half-hidden between two branching leaves. The eye looks at him steadily. (How soon a seed is planted.)

 The boy tugs impatiently against his mother’s arms.

 “I need to go,” he says, “I need –”

 He is aware of a distant, enormous sensation, somewhere in the place that knows without looking at the sun where the planets are, and how long it has been since he last looked. He is aware that something about this is important, terribly important, as if the world itself is waiting, waiting to see what he will do.

 Sina’s shoulders slump. (She has her own choice to make here. How she will pray that she did not.)

 “May the Woodland Man reveal the answers you seek,” his mother says, face buried in the loose tumble of the boy’s hair, “and when you are satisfied, She-Wolf guide you home.”

 (The boy will not remember this, but the eye of the gods opens on him.)

 Her arms loosen, just a little, and the boy tears himself free. He races up the path nimble as a mountain goat without a backward glance. The enormous feeling only grows stronger as the boy runs, until it begins to feel like he is being crushed under the soulful, silent weight of monumental purpose. He gasps for breath, but doesn’t stop, doesn’t stop even as he flies up the vast stone steps and into the thick iron doors. They creak open, only a little, and the boy throws the entire impatient weight of his child body against them again, and again, causing hollow booms to reverberate through the temple.

 (This temple will not even survive as a ruin. Its rocks will be torn apart, its iron doors melted down, its servants slaughtered. Nothing lasts forever. Bormahu-that-is-Alduin is always hungry.)

 “Who dares –      You?”    It is Frinaar who pulls the temple doors open, his face furrowing angrily into confusion, but the boy does not stop.

 He bowls past Frinaar, following the inexorable drumbeat of his soul, hardly knowing where he is going but not needing to as his feet follow the halls he has lived half his young life traversing. Frinaar is shouting behind him, at first loudly, then with increasing urgency, his robes flapping like dragon wings.

 Dragon wings. The boy sees them again, white as snowfall against the curve of the sky, and pivots on his foot, crashing out the door into the open courtyard where the dragon of the temple holds reign.

 The singing breaks off as the boy bursts in, and sudden silence drops sharp as a death-knell. Snow swirls about his eyes, but the boy can still see the great icy-blue form of a dragon crouching on the Wall that commemorates its greatness, a vast treasure of gold and gems spread out beneath its shading wings. The tribute of the temple.

 (How many fingers bled and bellies cramped for a master’s vanity this year? How little things change.)

 The boy has interrupted the ceremony.

 The dragon roars. “Why have you stopped?”

 Its voice is huge and rumbling, shaking the boy’s bones. (I won’t tell its name. The fate of this dragon is whispered in soft horror even amongst its scaled, cold-hearted brethren. There are some things simply too brutal to record, some fights too desperate to be remembered in the mind. The boy’s body will remember, though, and he will carry the scars of this dragon to his grave.)

 The choir looks at each other. (None of them will make it out alive.) The boy can see Jyric, moon-faced and trembling, staring at him like he is a daedra. (Maybe he is.) The dragon swings its great head and catches sight of the boy, a lone figure at the door. It leaps and lands with a crash that shakes the earth.

 (Is Bormahu-that-is-Akatosh even looking?)

 “Fool!” the dragon cries, “This is my temple! You will find no nest here!”

 The boy says nothing, seized in the grip of enormity. A choice is happening, vast and terrible, and he can feel it resounding down into his earbones, blocking out the dragon’s threat.

 (Is it his? Was any of it ever his choice at all?)

 Its head rears back as it draws in breath, and the choir scatters, diving nimbly out the way. The boy watches numbly, mind screaming to follow their suit as they have all practiced, but his body is still and firm. It knows, with granite certainty, that the boy can withstand the dragon’s Shout.

     “IIZ!”    The dragon roars, and ice barrels towards him. It strikes with the weight of a warhammer, and the boy staggers. But he remains standing, instinctively protecting his face with his arms. His hair is crusted into crystals, and ice cracks down his arms when he lowers them. They burn, distantly, with horrible pain.

 (Did it always have to end this way?)

 The dragon looks bewildered that the boy is not dead. The choir rustles as they slowly raise their heads. A shocked murmur runs through the courtyard. Some have frozen solid, unmoving lumps that quickly become dusted with the light snowfall, those that were huddling too close to the boy where he stands, garlanded with frost like a princeling at the epicentre of the blast.

 “I have to be here,” the boy says, “I-“ He struggles, wordless, for a way to convey the inexorable exhortations of his soul. “Take me with you. Burn me – claw me – but let me with you!”

 (We can’t stop this. It’s already happened.)

 He thinks of Sinawen, her hand tugging his, as if nothing is more natural in the world.  The strange pull – it has to be like what he has seen in his brother and sister. In the other children, who weep for their families, when the boy pretends he does not. He thinks of the words of his mother, how easily she folds him into her, as if there has been a place for him all this time, as if she has been waiting for him.

 The boy cries, helplessly, unable to name what he is feeling, the strange and intense kinship he feels to the dragon, the unbearable sense of loss when he thinks of that scar around that family table where a boy with a name like summer snows had once lived. Claw to claw, ice to ice, eye to sky. Is it love?

 (Maybe it even is, then. Is a boy a son because of flesh, or spirit? What about a boy whose heart is kissed by the dreadful Wheel of the Creator-Destroyer of Time? This boy has always had the look of his Bormah. He has the hunger, too.)

 The dragon pulls its head back again, but not to Shout, the boy knows, does not know how he knows. For a moment, there is no sound but the snow, soft as sighs on his shoulders. And then the dragon laughs, low and gravelly.

     “Geh,”    says the dragon. “Would that all took you as a guide for their service.”

 (Oh, they will. The boy will learn how little choice matters, will learn how to take it from his masters. He will teach this lesson on a firm Voice, and when they listen, and when they see, they will remember, because the boy is the son of his father, and there is no choice in orderly, eternal grind of the doom-driven.)

 The dragon lowers its head, amused, to regard the boy with one gleaming blue eye. Deep in its chest, it makes a strange clicking sound, ticking like a Dwemer time-piece. Then it snorts, and turns its great scaly body. Making for a tunnel cut into the cliff, its tail sweeps carelessly, nearly bowling over a dumbstruck Frinaar.

 “Come along, Miraak mal-sonaaki,” says the dragon, not looking back.

 (What is will, fate, if not another prison? This is a farce.)

 The boy hesitates for a moment, and then realises all at once that the dragon means      him.    He blinks, feels a small smile stretch his lips, wreathed in the warm glow of burgeoning confidence.

 (The mask this name gives him will become as part of him as his skin. It’s too late now. Fate has decreed that this boy’s hope must die to win his service.)

 Miraak runs after his master and feels each step ring with the hollow promise of fate. And though nothing simple has changed, for he is back in the temple and everything is right in his young world, he knows, blood-and-soul deep, that nothing is ever going to be the same again.

 (The gods are watching. Do you think they laugh?)

Gloss:

Bormahu - Our father. Dovahzul that when used by dragons means Akatosh, father of dragons. Also the Creator (Akatosh) and Destroyer (Alduin) of Time.

Woodland Man - Hermaeus Mora.

She-Wolf - Mara. God of love, handmaid to Kyne. 

Hawk-eyed Kyne - God of storms and sky. Compared to Kynareth. 

Whale god Stuhn - Warrior god of ransom, brother of Tsun. Compared to Stendar.

Owl-god Jhunal - God of wisdom, runes and mathematics. Compared to Julianos.

Frinaar - Eager Servant.

Miraak - Allegiance Guide. 

Mal - little or small. 

Sonaaki - my priest. 

Iiz - Ice.

[i-drink-and-i-write-fics]

Let It Die

Chapter 2: If You Love Me

Summary: Loki makes a plan with Thor to win back Reader’s heart.

Your room had become your personal ice castle. Small frozen ice sculptures were decorating your window sills while a light ring of frost surrounded the window panes. Snow lightly covered your dresser and nightstand while your bed was piled high with thick blankets. Not that you really needed them. As an ice queen once said: the cold never bothered you anyway.

Not that your were like the ice mutant on the X-Men team; you couldn’t turn your whole body into movable ice. But you thrived when the temperature dropped. Which was also a downside. You could never go on missions in desert areas. No moisture in the air meant no powers for you.

When you met Loki, you felt all your dreams came true. You never had to worry about accidentally freezing him in your sleep. And with your mutation, his frost giant skin never harmed you. Not that he showed that form very often.

He had a sweet side to him no one else had seen and could make you feel like the most important person in the world. Loki also had the bad habit of cutting you into pieces, as if dissecting you would help him understand humanity better. All he accomplished was cutting into your self esteem.

You couldn’t understand why you were so upset. It was no secret that he would have outlived you without even trying. There were rumors, whispers that there were ways to make a mortal live as long as an Asgardian - er, frost giant. But since Loki never once brought it up in the two years you had dated, you just assumed there was no truth to them. And you hated the idea of looked so old and worn next to him in 50 years while he looked untouched by time.

There was a gentle knock on the door followed by a familiar voice. “Hey hon. Can we come in? We promise mortals only.”

You smiled and shook your head before opening the door to let Natasha and Wanda in. “Hey guys. Sorry about earlier. I just wasn’t in the mood to look at yet another gift from the dumbass.”

“Don’t worry about it. If anything, it’s been the liveliest we’ve seen you in months!” Wanda sat down on your bed and immediately wrapped a blanket around her. Nat followed suit. Both of their breaths were visible.

“Well, sorry about the temp in here, then.” You chuckled as you sat back down. “I guess I don’t have many guests in here as of late.”

“It’s ok, really. Your comfort is number one right now.” Nat tried to reassure you. “Besides, we were hoping to get you to leave your igloo tonight.”

You laughed again. “Ok, ok. I get it. My powers have been out of control lately. Every time I think I’m back to normal, Loki comes around and fucks it up all over again.”

“Want me to kill him?” Nat asked, deadpanned.

“Thanks, but that won’t help. My problem is I still love the asshole. And I don’t even know why! Yeah, he could be really romantic at times and-“ you paused and gave the girls a side glance, "other reasons as well. I’ll spare you.”

“Thanks,” Nat pretended to gag. “I personally don’t see it, but I also had to battle against him at one time.”

You smirked. “Fair. But man, he could really be a douche at times. I don’t even think he realized he was doing it half the times. I’d do something and instead of being proud, he’d point out what I did wrong. Made me want to punch him in the nuts.”

“So why do you hang on?“ You furrow your eyebrows in confusion. "I mean no offence, but it seems like there a small part of you that still hangs on. Like I get you still love the guy, but what’s there that’s making you hang on instead of trying to move on?”

You sighed and leaned back into your chair. “Ok, so maybe I do know why I still love him. Loki…. has this side that no one but Thor and I have seen and I wish he would let it out around more people. He has an amazingly kind heart. Yeah, I know, I know.” You held up your had as Nat opened her mouth. “I literally just said the man could be a douche at times. The times he criticized me, it was for things that pertained to our job. I didn’t throw the knife right. My stance is too wide. I breathe too loud, the enemy will hear me. But when it came to everyday life…. he could’t praise me enough. He loved to watch me cook and listen to me sing. Snow days…” you sighed, “those were my favorite. But I wanted his approval for work. How could we work together on a mission when all I could think about was how I wasn’t doing something correctly? And then the mortality thing….”

“It all comes down then to if he can reign in how much he criticizes your work would it be worth it to try again when he’ll just outlive you?”

“Pretty much. But I doubt that will happen. That man likes to think he’s the best when it comes to fighting and war. Just because he’s a freakin’ god.”

Wanda looked over at Nat and nodded her head. “Ok, sweetie. Enough moping! We’re getting your out of here and clearing your head. So get dressed, it’s time for a night out!”

You couldn’t help the smile. “Yeah, maybe that is a good idea. If I clear my head maybe I’ll be able to control my powers better even if I never make a decision about Loki.”

“That’s the spirit!” They left you to change your clothes and you opted for dark black pants, black and silver boots, and a icy blue top.

You met the girls in the common area and Nat had opted for a stunning tight, black dress while Wanda wore a dress the same shade of red as her hair. The three of you piled into a car Nat had hired for the night and headed into town. Wanda picked out a very upscale club and the three of you managed to talked you way in past the bouncer and the incredibly long line. The place was packed but the three of you managed to make your way over to the bar to grab a drink before trying to find a table.

“Man, it’s hella packed in here! Maybe we should have invited Stark so we could abuse the VIP section.” You shouted over the music.

“You rang?”

You whirled around to find Tony at your side. “What are you doing here?”

“Night out, of course! I even brought my own lady.” Pepper looped her arm in his. “Actually, Nat told us what she had planned for tonight and we decided to tag along. We’ve been worried about you.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

Tony leaned over and kissed your forehead. “Don’t worry about it, kid. We’re all here tonight.”

“We?”

Tony just smirked and held out his other arm. You couldn’t help the grin as you took it so he could lead you across the crowded club. People immediately parted out of the way of your entourage as you made your way to the VIP corner. There a mix of your friends were waiting for you: Sam, Steve, Bucky, Thor, Rhodey, Vision, and Maria.

“Young Mr. Parker sends his regards. He was dying to come here, but I wasn’t about to break the rules to sneak him in.”

“Glad to hear you’re trying to be a good influence on the kid, Stark.”

“I have my moments.”

You climbed into the booth next to Thor while Tony and Rhodey pulled over another set of table and chairs. “So you guys subjected yourself to an overly crowded club just because you were worried about me?”

“Of course, Dear ____!” Thor’s voice easily boomed over the music. “We are your friends and we care about you.”

You looked down at your drink as you spoke to Thor. “And what about your brother?”

“Loki sends his regards if you’ll have them. He acknowledges he has been an ass to you lately.”

A corner of your mouth twitched upwards. “It’s what he does best.”

“If I may, I would like to say something on his behalf.” You took a deep breath but nodded your head yes. “My brother is not the best at expressing his feelings. A trait, I am afraid, he learned from Odin. You do not have to give him a second chance, but I would hope you could at least have one last conversation with him before making your finally decision.”

You took a long gulp of your drink before answering. “Alright, I will. For you, Thor. You’ve always been like a brother to me. If this means so much to you, then I will.”

Thor’s face lit up as he smiled at you. “I was hoping you would say yes. Now we can get to your surprise!”

“My what?”

Before Thor could answer, the DJ’s voice rang out through the speakers. “This next one is a request. Dedicated to the Icy Monarch from the Frost Giant!”

You whipped your head to look at Thor. “Loki’s here?! What’s going on?”

Thor held up one hand. “Just listen, Dear _____.”

The song began to swirl around you:

I cut you into pieces Searching for your imperfections I had plans to make you whole But all my threads couldn’t stop the bleeding There’s nothing left, but I’m not leaving When all I know is you

You’re breath caught in your throat as you listened to the lyrics.

I’ve been looking for a way To bring you back to life And if I could find a way, then I would bring you back tonight I’d make you look, I’d make you lie I’d take the coldness from your eyes But you told me, if you love me Let it die

Your eyes stare right through me Ignoring my failed attempts to Breathe back life into your veins But I can’t start your cold heart beating You’re so far gone, but I’m not leaving When all I know is you

It was like your relationship and the last two months following the break up coming to life in front of your eyes. And then he walked into your line of sight and goddamn, he could always make a suit look good. Black suit, black shirt, a tie as green as his eyes, and a small black box in his hands. Your heart raced as he quietly walked up to you and set the box by your drink. Everyone at the table sat as still as statues, not wanting to disturb the scene in front of them.

You reached for the box and began to open it as the end of the song rang out:

And you left me more dead Than you’ll ever know When you left me alone I’ve been looking for a way To bring you back to life And if I could find a way, then I would bring you back tonight I’d make you look, I’d make you lie I’d take the coldness from your eyes But you told me, if you love me Let it die

Inside the box was a single gold apple. It was the oddest thing Loki had ever given you and you weren’t sure as to what it was. Picking it up, it was instantly clear that the apple was far lighter than you expected and softer as well. As if you could actually eat the golden fruit.

You raised your eyes back up to the Trickster God. “My dear, I have behaved horribly towards you. You loved me more than I ever deserved and I couldn’t even give you what you needed. If it is possible, I would like a second chance to prove I can be worthy of your love. And in exchange, I present the Golden Apple of Idun’s orchard.”

“I’m-I’m sorry. A what?”

“A golden apple. It is to be consumed by a mortal wishing to extend their life. Forgive me, I never brought them up before as I feared you would only want the apple. Not me. No one has ever wanted me for what I was.”

You looked up into his eyes. “I did. In any form you would give me.”

He knelt down by your side. “I know that now and I am a fool for not seeing it sooner. I know it is asking for the world, but I would love to give us a second chance. Because you are my world.”

Your lower lip trembled and you placed the apple back before closing the lid on the box. Loki’s face fell. “I cannot accept this apple.”

“Of course. I understand.” He lowered his eyes.

“Loki, please let me finish.” You placed your hand under his chin and lifted his face so he was looking at you again. “I will not accept this apple at this time. We first need to talk about the problems we have and if it’s possible to fix them. Only after we have gotten our footing back will I eat the apple for you.”

“So…”

“Yes, Loki. I will give us a second chance.”

Loki’s joy was clear on his face and beyond words. He stood up, pulling you with him, so he could engulf you in a hug. “I promise to make myself worthy of this chance. You are my love.”

“And you are my Frost Giant.” You gave him a quick kiss.

[narniagiftexchange]

                                i’ll find you in the next one.

                              THE AUTUMN NARNIAN GIFT EXCHANGE.

                for: @ihaveknownone  from  @luxaofhesperides.

When Peter is six, he asks his parents where his siblings are. They laugh at him and say that he’s an only child and they weren’t going to have another kid. That wasn’t an answer he wanted to hear, but even at six Peter knew better than to keep pushing. So he kept quiet and didn’t mention it again.

And his home remained quiet without the presence of the siblings he knew he had.

So he grows up, always lonely and always quiet, looking out of other kids because he never stopped being an older brother. And no matter how hard he looks, there is no Susan, or Edmund, or Lucy. Just him, and his memories.

There are times when Peter doubt himself, wonders if it’s just a dream or delusions left over from childhood, but he knows the laughter of Susan, and the teasing words of Edmund, and the strong hands of Lucy. He knows them. He knows his siblings better than anyone, even when they don’t exist.

(If he’s alone in this world… Peter forces the thought away and tries to forget his dreams when he wakes.)

He grows bigger, and quieter, looking through crowds for familiar faces he’s only half-sure are real.

And when he gets to college, Peter gives up.

‘I guess I’m alone in this life,’ he thinks as he makes his way through campus, holding that familiar ache in his chest. He scrolls through Twitter as he walks just to avoid people; he hasn’t lost the habit of involving himself in things that help people, and now there’s always a friendly face around ready to talk to him. It wouldn’t be so bad if he was able to fully commit to a friendship, but there’s always a part of him that’s looking away, searching for other people he knows should be by his side.

“Hey, Peter!” someone calls, and he forces down a wince as he looks up. Adam waves at him and jogs over, grinning as he holds up his phone. “Check this out!”

“What is it?” Peter asks, looking down at the screen to a video about… archery?

“There’s this girl who’s coming to this university next year on a scholarship because her marksmanship is insane. You gotta see what she can do.”

But Peter’s already watching, breath caught in his throat as he watches Susan nock an arrow and send it piercing straight through a target too small to see clearly through the camera. She looks exactly as he remembers, back in Narnia, participating in a tournament and holding the title of champion for years until they returned to England.

She’s here. And if Susan’s here then…

“Can you send that video to me?” he asks. His voice sounds as though it’s coming from far away. His heart beats hummingbird fast. He almost doesn’t want to believe it, because if he’s wrong then it will hurt so much more this time.

“Yeah, no problem. Didn’t know you were into archery,” Adam says as he pulls his phone away. Peter almost reaches out to grab his wrist, to bring back the image of Susan, but Adam pockets his phone and carries on as though he didn’t just alter Peter’s life. “You should probably go, doesn’t your class start soon?”

“It does.”

“Alright, I’ll see you at the meeting tomorrow!” Adam leaves, and Peter watches him go.

He isn’t… He doesn’t feel real at the moment. The entire world’s gone soft and faded, like the colors are slowly being washed away. Everything feels quiet and distant and Peter can’t focus on anything other than the fact that he’s not alone.

He skips class for the first time that year. He doesn’t even remember leaving campus.

-

In the age of social media, it’s easy to find Susan. But he wasn’t even sure if that was her name this time around, or if she’d remember anything, if she looked for them too. He doesn’t know anything.

But her Instagram is dedicated to archery and in every tagged photo she’s smiling, which is. Something. It’s a good something.

Looks like she didn’t need an older brother after all.

(Peter thinks about bombs and wardrobes and going years without parents. Thinks about being five and walking a crying four year old Susan home because she fell and scraped her knee. Thinks about his mother in another life, brushing back his hair and telling him in a soft voice that he’s the oldest so he needs to look out for his siblings. Thinks about holding a sword and being terrified that he’s going to outlive all of them. He thinks about a lot of things that don’t matter anymore. They happened in another life, after all.)

He closes the app and collapses onto his bed.

The house is quiet.

- 

Peter tries to focus on other things: school, clubs, deciding whether or not to apply for a part-time job, and most definitely doesn’t think about the siblings he doesn’t have.

His mind, apparently, has other plans. He dreams constantly, of wolves and lions and snow, dreams of a world that no longer exists to him, dreams of a train and a light. After a lifetime (or two?) of ignoring it, suddenly it’s all that he can think about.

Everything’s getting mixed up in his head; Peter hears the church bells ring in the distance and thinks of the small church down the street from the house he lived in while he was in America— except he’s never been to America and the church next to campus is large and old and looks nothing like the one in his memories. He finds himself at the grocery store wondering if he should buy apples to make the apple tart Lucy loved so much, but he’s never been much of a baker and the recipe escapes him.

Even his friends comment on how dazed he is, constantly lost in thought as he walks, forgetting what he’s doing in the middle of doing it, barely able to focus on anything that’s being said. They laugh it off, and Peter laughs with them, but he wonders what he could possibly say if they start asking questions.

It’s hard, now that he knows he’s not alone. But that might be worse; at least when he only had the memory of his siblings, it was easier to live without them. Knowing they’re out there and they don’t know him— that’s what breaks his heart.

-

“Excuse me,” says a familiar voice, and Peter looks up, tears already welling in his eyes. “Is this seat open?”

It takes him a moment to process her words, then he clears his throat and says, “Go ahead.”

Susan smiles at him and takes a seat.

-

They argue over who pays the bill, because they both refuse to split it, and it’s so familiar that Susan almost cries. Peter does cry, and she laughs at him because she understands exactly what he’s feeling. Everything in her feels light; she’s gone so long without anyone, having buried her family in two lives, and here is her older brother who

knows

her, who recognized her before he even saw her, and is so happy he cries.

Susan hadn’t been prepared for this. This small hole-in-the-wall cafe just a couple streets down from the main campus of the university she was touring, the university she’s absolutely going to, between the scholarship and Peter. She walked in, welcoming the warmth after walking around for an hour in the cold wind, and immediately ordered something warm to drink.

The cafe was quiet, only a few people seated here and there, when her eyes caught sight of a familiar face: Peter, typing something on a laptop with an open notebook besides it.

She had spent her whole life wishing she had her siblings back. She wondered, for the longest time, if this was a punishment, to be reborn alone while knowing what it was like to have a loving family. She had been born to an older couple who passed away from illnesses a few years back, and the aunt she lived with now was often out for work.

Susan was far too familiar with loneliness these days.

And then, suddenly, there was Peter and the last time she ever saw him, he was waving goodbye from a train that would take everyone away from her.

(Susan often wondered if they’d ever want to see her again. After everything she did to distance herself from them, all the callous things she said that hurt them when she was pretending to be okay. Wonders if they’d want her back in their lives if they ever met again.)

But he smiled at her, tearing up, and they spent two hours just catching up.

They both skirted around the same topics, careful with their words, but everything that went unsaid was enough for Susan to know that Peter remembered her, them, everything that happened in another life.

He ends up paying, but only because he shoved her away from the cashier and handed them his card before Susan could recover. And he told her that she’d have to pay next time, and wasn’t that something?

There would be a next time.

“Here,” Peter says as they step out of the cafe, holding out his phone to her, “So we don’t lose each other.”

She puts in her number and shoots herself a text to have his number, and hands back his phone. She has to go, she knows, but she doesn’t want to. They’d just found each other again, but now that they had no ties besides memory, their lives were pulling them apart.

“I’m going to be coming here next year. I’m planning on getting an apartment off-campus. I was going to look around for a roommate later, but if you want…”

Peter beams at her and says, “Yeah, of course I’d room with you. It’d be nice to live in the same house again.”

“I guess I’ll see you later.” Susan hesitates, looking down the road where she should go, if she wants to catch the bus that will take her home. She stays.

Peter pulls her into a hug. “You will. I’m free this weekend if you want to hang out.”

Neither of them move for a long time.

It’s only when they really have to that they say goodbye.

-

Peter’s house is quiet. It’s nice, has plenty of space, and is farther way from campus and downtown, so the streets are quiet and mostly empty. It barely looks lived in.

She had hoped he hadn’t been as lonely as she has, this in this life.

“My parents have been traveling a lot,” Peter says when she asks about his family, “Since I can take care of myself. They’ve been sending money every month so I can buy groceries, and they call every night, but we’re not all that close.”

“Oh.”

“It’s alright though! They’re good parents. It’s just that since I can remember another family…”

They don’t say anything else about their parents.

Now that they’re not in public, it’s easier to speak about themselves. How different everything is, compared to their first life, and they talk about Narnia out loud for the first time in this life. It’s a relief to know that it wasn’t her imagination, or lingering daydreams from childhood.

It was all real. All of it.

And it means she’s not alone at all.

 -

“Have you seen anything about Lucy or Edmund?” Peter asks the next weekend and Susan shakes her head.

“I didn’t think any of you would be here, but somehow we still found each other. I haven’t looked at all since I thought I was alone.”

“I’ve looked but I haven’t gotten anywhere. A friend found you, actually, from one of the videos of your shooting. It was a complete accident.”

He knew she was around because of a video one of her friends took while she practiced, and Susan just happened to go to the same cafe Peter was in. What were the odds?

Peter grabs her arm and tugs her along into a small park just outside the main library. It’s hidden off to the side, between the library and the physics building. Susan has found that Peter is a far better tour guide than the one who showed her around campus that fateful day. He’s lead her down shortcuts and into hidden little areas where people seeking quiet and solitude go.

It reminds her of being seven and following around a young Peter down the streets, hand in hand as they looked with wide eyes all the buildings and people they’ve never taken the time to see before.

It took almost two decades, but she’s here now, with Peter.

She’s here now. She’s here.

-

Susan stays an extra hour after practice is over, waxing the string and replacing the nock. It’s familiar, comforting work, something she’s done for years, here and in Narnia. By now it’s muscle memory, and she lets her mind wander, remembering wars and tournaments and competitions, remembers people praising her right up until she scares them away with how intense she can be, remembers splitting an apple a field away.

She looks over her bow with careful fingers and sharp eyes, then stands. One target is still set up, and Susan eyes it, breathes out, then nocks an arrow and draws it back in a quick, fluid motion.

It hits the center.

Behind her, the door to the gym opens with a loud screech, and Susan whips around to face the person coming in, one hand grabbing another arrow.

“Sorry for bothering you!” a student, probably a Year 7, says, wringing her hands. “They asked me to get some mats from here.”

Susan lowers her bow and thinks. “Mats? Who’s asking for them? Shouldn’t most clubs be done by now?”

“Ah, some people from the fencing team are still here. Preparing for a competition or something. I didn’t have anything better to do so I stayed behind to watch and decided to help out.”

“Alright,” Susan says, “Let me put my things away and I’ll help you carry them.”

They don’t talk much at all, besides making sure they can both handle the weight, and Susan follows the girl’s lead outside to the field. Sure enough, people in fencing gear and milling around, going through different strikes and stances. Some of them break off from the group to grab the mats from them, giving their thanks as they set up for an impromptu match.

Susan turns to leave, ready to call it a day, when she catches sight of someone taking off their helmet and stops, heart hammering in her chest as Edmund gives her a small wave and takes his place on the mat.

-

Although fencing is a more delicate way of fighting than he’s used to, Edmund still takes to it easily and becomes the best on his team. He wishes for his sword often, wanting to go back to a more familiar way of fighting, but there’s no need for such skills anymore.

So he settles for the next best thing and fights his way to the top.

The warrior in him never died, after all. It just laid in wait until he was ready to be who he once was.

Sometimes he wonders what it would be like to live without these memories; would he still be the same person? Or would he become a different Edmund, one who never knew any siblings and went through life uncaring of what happened to him? Perhaps he’d be as he was once, years ago, having just left his mother to be safe from bombings and bitter about everything. Or maybe he’d be just like any other boy of this century, laughing and playing video games and wondering what career he’d have in the future.

None of that matters, though, because Edmund does remember. He knows love and heartbreak and grief and joy. He’s lived three lifetimes, all of them impossible, and he carries every memory, every feeling, and holds it close.

And he looks for the people he loves, because he’s never been one to leave others behind.

- 

He wins almost every fencing match, because of course he does. This goes on for years, and though it’s fun and he cherishes the friends he’s made on the team, he wishes he could meet someone who would actually give him a challenge.

Peter would. But he can’t find Peter. Not yet, in any case. There’s very little he can do, being so young (again), and having overprotective mothers. So he plans, looks online, and tries to see what he can do to send out a sign that says “Here! I’m here and I miss you!”

There’s not a day that goes by when he doesn’t miss them. Peter and Susan and Lucy who are probably, hopefully, out there, looking for each other too.

He wants them back.

So Edmund trains and studies and looks around. He tries to see if anyone talks about lions or wardrobes or childhood games in a magical land, but everyone around him is normal. Edmund, who was once both a king and a boy in a world new to him, carries all these memories alone.

He wins another match. It doesn’t feel like much a victory.

(Nightmares of war and battle, of a witch, of gasping for breath, blood on his lips, blood on his hands, feeling everything hurt then fade away. He wishes he knew how to stop fighting.)

He wins match after match.

And then, while practicing alone, he hears someone shout and looks up to see another fencer swinging down their foil with more strength than is allowed in matches. They don’t move like a fencer; they’re aggressive and fluid, slashing and spinning as they force him back.

Edmund feels the wild grin grow on his face as he steps back and becomes the Just King once more, and rises up to meet his opponent.

It feels almost like a dance, alive in a way most of his fights aren’t. There’s energy between them, following a routine no one else knows, twisting their wrists and barely dodging out of the way of another strike. It’s exhilarating. It’s Narnian.

Edmund wins this one, too, but it’s a close thing. This isn’t fencing; contact doesn’t stop the fight. But a thin blade pressed against his opponent’s throat does. His heart is pounding in his chest when he tears off his face guard to wipe off the sweat on his brow.

“And who did I have the pleasure of fighting?” he asks, breathing hard even as he grins.

They stand up slowly, and hesitate for a moment before taking off their face guard. “It seems I still have ways to go before I can best you at swordplay,” Caspian says with a lovely smile, one he’s spent a lifetime dreaming of.

The shock sends him to his knees, but when he reaches for him, Caspian reaches back.

-

“I found Susan,” Edmund says the moment Caspian answers the call.

“What?”

“Susan. You know, my older sister. I found her when I was visiting a friend at another school. She’s still doing archery, by the way. Got a scholarship for it at Peter’s university.”

“Wait, you found Peter too?”

“No, I found Susan. But Susan found Peter and she said she’ll send his contact info over tonight.”

Caspian is silent for a minute, processing what he’s just heard. Then he sighs, and says, “I can’t let you go anywhere alone.”

Edmund laughs, feeling lighter than he has in years, and replies, “That’s why you found me first, isn’t it?”

“Among other reasons.”

He softens and ducks his head. “I’m glad you found me. I never thought that I’d get to see you again.”

“Where you are, I am. You’ve already followed me to the ends of the world. Let me do the same for you now.”

“Caspian, you’re going to make me cry.”

The laugh he gets in response is the same as the one that surrounded him on the Dawn Treader. “What a terrible boyfriend I am. Sure you don’t want to break up with me?”

“Like hell you’re getting rid of me now.”

-

Peter(TM): Sorry I’m gonna be late! People from my club found me :(

why does he have a knife: take your time high king, i know you cant stop yourself from helping them

Peter(TM): I’ll eat all your food

why does he have a knife: i have many swords. try me

Miss Stabby: Why did I think a group chat was a good idea

Miss Stabby: Who changed my name to this, I just wanna talk

why does he have a knife: you KNOW im more creative than that. so i didnt do it

Miss Stabby: Peter. My aim has only gotten better

Peter(TM): ………

Peter(TM): I’ll buy you both crepes if you let me live

why does he have a knife: deal

why does he have a knife: also my bf is gonna be here jsyk

Miss Stabby: YOU DIDNT MENTION A BF

Peter(TM): !!!!

why does he have a knife: yeah caspians excited to see u again

Peter(TM): Caspian’s here too????

Miss Stabby: CASPIAN???

Miss Stabby: WHO ELSE DO WE NEED TO LOOK FOR

why does he have a knife: brb waiters here im ordering first bc u two are taking too long

-

Edmund hooks his foot around Caspian’s ankle and passes his phone over to him. Peter and Susan’s texts always make him smile. Though none of them live together (yet), having some way of contacting them, of being able to annoy them late at night and see that they’re here is incredible.

Now they only need to find Lucy, and then they can all be together again as a family.

It’s all he’s been dreaming of years.

He can’t wait.

-

(And on the other side of the restaurant, Lucy tells her grandparents that she sees some friends and that she’s going to talk to them very quickly. And they wave her away, telling her to have fun, and turn back to their food.

Lucy weaves between the tables and catches Caspian’s eyes as she approaches. He sits up and opens his mouth, but she puts a finger against her lips and shushes him, then creeps up towards Edmund.

He’s typing something on his phone, a small smile on his face, and Lucy’s hands are shaking from excitement. She grabs her bracelet, one with a golden lion charm and a dagger charm on it. Takes a deep breath for good luck.

She pulls up a seat next him and sits down.)

-

Digory taps on the Instagram notification the way his granddaughter Lucy taught him too when she first made him an account. It opens to a picture of Lucy and the rest of her siblings, children who he hasn’t seen in years, children who had grown up without him ever knowing. They’re all pressed against each other, laughing as they struggle to fit onto a small bench.

They look just as they did in the last life, but somehow, brighter. There’s a light in their eyes that he’s never seen before. The weight of a crown and a kingdom no longer rest on their shoulders. In this life, they’re free, and they used that freedom to find each other.

The caption Lucy puts is simple and fun, just like all her other Instagrams.

“living my found family dreams #youwishyouwereme”

He likes the picture and comments a yellow heart.

It’s a good life indeed.

____

i hope you like it!!

[itstheendofthegoddamnworld]

Skin-Walker/Nature Spirit Boyfriend: Daithi 2

I felt guilty last time when the first part ended with the death of a character (spoiler) so, I thought I would add more to it and try and bring a happier ending to it all. I hope you enjoy it.

Themes: death and mortality, moving on, all that depressing stuff.

Genderless reader x Male monster 

PART 1 

Can’t Pretend Part 2 

Skin supple once had aged like curdled milk, the roots of old flowers had brought them to the weeds, just like those and their faces you knew that grew up in their stages – growing then thriving then leaving - all the same, except you were the exception.

Life had been too cruel enough to make you stay to watch everyone leave around you, even when you hadn’t needed them a very long time ago.

Your child first, your womb had quickened into dust and quicksand, the bane of your existence to have a child with your husband and to thrive as a family was taken from you the first and last time; your womb a crypt for your babe that never made it out.

Your husband was next to leave: from when growing old together had brought the good and bad of memories, he was too frail to the end of it all, his lovely trinkets and fishing pole still left on the mantle where he had left it from his youth; the wedding present he had given.

Your days in matrimonial to Erik were sincere and fond, the bricks you both laid one by one to build a foundation of trust had stayed sturdy and upright after he left, the very existence of your home was an example of it all. Even during the building of your marriage, you found yourself thinking to your youth: to the times of thinking you were not desirable, more so now just cursed than lucky to outlive everyone.

Daithi… you thought of him a lot.

You awoke with your bone old and frail as usual, the heartfelt soreness made up for how you wrapped in bundles to fend off the eternal colds of the seasons, leaving with little more than a cane to get you out of your door. 

The nature surrounding you hadn’t changed, the people had – in the youthful children running around to young lovers - you kept yourself happy in the best ways as possible, even when everything felt futile.

You tottered but got around as best as you could even in the prime of age, your cane helpful to help you go to the clearing you had gone to many times before. Every day, without fail. 

The soil was cold but crunched with each step you took, the path had been covered over in snow and moss as you crossed the small river with its rickety old bridge you had seen built 3 decades ago. And still, no-one had repaired it.

Your head craned upwards suddenly when you heard a caw above your head just to see fly past two crows in a loving pairing, fly to their nest to feed their young. You frowned, your hopes too high once more.

You continued onward, ignoring all signs of what you wanted in it being him, staggering up the hill to reach the top, where the air was at its coldest and you were wheezing and cold.

“Even now, you would love how nothing has changed, Daithi.” You hummed to yourself, onlooking the rows of small stone huts that had been once made of straw and little else, the coal and fires that burnt out and danced above the treeline whilst you looked onward at the large lake.

“Do you remember Dalia? Well, she had her babes in the frail spring. Two boys, bright as rain and bold as fire. She says they always go out into these woods to climb the trees.” You laughed to yourself in thought, “I’d imagine you would give them a good scolding.”

You listened to how the air calmed and surrounded you as one as you leant over a lovely yet old oak tree, as old as you had been or even older, onlooking the view. “I always imagined what it would be like… the other side. How morbid, I know, but… even if it’s cold and lonely, I think—I’d like to think I’m ready.” You rubbed your slender fingers to keep the warmth as best as you could, wincing at the pain in your joints.

“What is it like, Daithi? Is it different for you or do you have all walks of life with you?” You found yourself here to think and pray, pray to any old cold God that was out there to hear your prayers, making you believe that your wishes were all for your own misery.

“I don’t even know if I will ever see you again, or Erik or mother. But that’s okay—I think, I’d like to believe that there is peace out there, away from all of this, and that you are all happy.” The cold nipped harder at your skin, leaving you practically shivering with little to no fibre in your body allowing you to move.

“Will these same cruel Gods be kind enough to give me closure? Is my time now, I wonder?” You closed your eyes, thinking back to the days of youth and skin supple and your legs carrying you long and far enough that you didn’t grow so tired.

You had been 10 when you remembered the distant memory: under a willow tree that wept tears with you, hiding you with its billowing leaves and branches, you cried that day over something so feebly that the other children had laughed over, leaving you to run as far off as you could away from your village that day – in hopes of running away altogether.

‘You know, if you had stayed five seconds longer, you would’ve witnessed a small crow threaten them all.’

Your head rose swiftly when you met the comforting smile and light eyes of the skin-walker, ‘Daithi!’ You beamed tears of silver that leaked down your face as you leapt into his arms, his long strong ones wrapping around your sturdily and protectively, never seeming to want to let you go.

‘You gave me quite the scare, little one,’ you breathed in his scent as he gently spoke to you, calming you down quickly, ‘I was worried about you.’ He inspected you of any wounds, except for a few scratches and bruises.

‘Did you do that for me? Did you scare them off for me?’ You whimpered whilst you dried your tears. Daithi seemed to be taken back by your question as if you didn’t believe his words at all. “My dear, I would risk my own life to save you, you know that, don’t you?’

You nodded innocently, not realising his words would seemingly come true. Did you risk your own life for me, Daithi? Why? You could still be living and breathing now, young and never ageing for aeons.

“Daithi, oh, Daithi, how I miss you.” The tears like that day fell down your wrinkly cheeks thickly, dribbling down your chin and dampening your shawl. “Life has been so cruel, and you were taken from me before I had the chance to love you truly. I miss you so.”

By the time you realised, the wind had stilled and there was no cold nor bite that stung your skin when you had been freezing earlier – in fact, you couldn’t feel anything at all. It wasn’t terrifying nor scary, but soothing and calming, as if you had been reunited with an old friend.

When you lifted your head in reaction and realisation to this, the sky had changed in colours, as if you had been up the hill all day, now a sky full of lavender and pink, milky clouds littering the sky in wonder and amazement.

Out of the corner of your eye, a lone ink-black feather floating to land just at the heel of your foot, drifting away in the thin air.

There, in the distance, the faint sound of a bird’s wings fluttering in the distance, a shriek of a caw echoing along the buoyant trees.

“Little one?” You turned your head abruptly, feeling no pain if you had done so earlier, your body picking yourself up as you looked to the person standing before you like a God. “Oh, Gods… it’s you.”

The nature spirit hadn’t looked any different but just as comely as you had remembered in your youth. His skin wasn’t sickly nor wan, no blood blotting your skin as he stood before you like an illusion.

“It’s you, how—it can’t be, not yet.” Were his words of shock as he stumbled his way towards you, gingerly holding out his hand as you brought him into a warm embrace.

“What do you mean ‘not yet?’” You questioned sombrely, “Do you know how many decades have gone by? And now you want me to leave?”

“No—no, I don’t, but it is not your time to leave.” He cradled you, and when you met his gaze, his eyes were glassy, as if the fog of his pupils were dissipating. He was taking you in, silently marvelling you, “You’re still incredible like I remember, little one.”

“What, even in my wrinkled state?” You laughed dryly, stroking his hair back, as smooth as if he was real. “Are you… dead?”

“Yes, but your memory of me has kept me alive all this time.” He smiled through his tears, “ I’ve been here with you all this time, watching you grow through the good and bad. I was there when you laughed when you cried, I never left.”

You finally allowed more tears to fall, your hands shakily trailing over his flesh, when he halted you. “But you cannot stay here, you must go back.”

“I do not want to, Daithi. Please, I don’t want to go back, not again. Never have I felt a day so warm here with you in front of me right now.” 

Daithi brought his fingers to cradle the back of your neck, his long fingers stroking at your jaw. “Are you sure?”

“Is it… terrifying?”

“No, I don’t think so,” he assured you in what you believed was acceptance, “look around you, dear. Everything has to die soon: the little flowers, the trees, those of your village. But there are things that still stay, the moon, the sun, the rain that doesn’t stop dripping. The fear eventually stops, and the calm comes after the storm. And it’s beautiful.”

You smiled sadly, breathing in his scent of mint and pine. “If this is what the afterlife is like then, why would I want to leave so soon?”

Daithi smiled in comfort, hugging you back with no intention of letting you go. “It’s been too long, dear.”

You nodded, and when your hand came to cradle his fingers, you found yourself looking to the flesh of your own. Your skin was no longer wrinkly and there was no joint pain: your skin was smooth and supple once more, the sudden realisation had taken a toll on you as you leant up to kiss the skin-walker against his lips. “I know, but I’m here now.”

Warm, reassuring and tender. You had missed him so.

[vaingloriosa]

let it snow (and awaken hearts)

Summary: Almost like a Christmas miracle, you get the news that the love of your life has returned from the dead.

Words: 2.2k+

Characters: Loki Laufeyson x f!reader

Warnings: none. takes place somewhere in a non-canon timeline where loki returns but he isn’t the one from 2012. though christmas is briefly brought up, it isn’t discussed in-depth.

Author’s notes: hello, y’all! this is my first story in over three months and my final story for the year of 2019. “let it snow” is part of a writing collaboration with one of my dearest friends, susie of @pendragonfics​! what sparked as a random idea and one of those “just kidding!...unless?” moments has come to this. our prompt was: “You fell asleep on me, but it’s fine, I made sure you’re warm and comfortable.“ where we took creative liberty with it! our two stories are like narrative foils where susie’s is more on the fluffy spectrum whereas i navigate the choppy waters of angst with comfort (because it’s the HOLIDAYS, BABEYY!). thank y’all for your support this year!

read “let it snow” by @pendragonfics​

Homecoming.

Snow silently leaves its mark on the New Zealand land overlooking the roaring sea. Purple and pink hues grace the skies and provide a beautiful setting for the evening. It’s almost majestic the way that the New Asgard had transformed over the years. From the Asgardians losing the only home they knew to rebuilding a life afterwards; it was never about the place, it was always about the people.

You stretch out your arm for the snowflakes to melt against your warm hand. A shadow of a smile forms on your lips as you turn your hand over to capture more falling snowflakes.

The people.

It had been years since the Snap, since losing him, years you have bore witness to immeasurable heartache, pain, and lingering suffering. Uncertainty was always cast above your head for you didn’t know you would ever see the people you cared about again. You put your mind into aid efforts for the Asgardian refugees, hoping that healing would come in the form of volunteerism for the people he helped protect, for his sacrifice not to be in vain. To see life blossom back again after slaying the Titan, bringing everyone back, to see the light of the Asgardian people return brought a sense of peace.

Maybe you can move forward.

Then, when you thought you did enough mourning, Loki returns. Alive.

A breath catches at the back of your throat, tears welling in your eyes when you got the call from Valkyrie. You boarded the next flight to New Zealand with fidgety hands in your lap, trying to find the right words to say to the man you’ve always loved, the one you presumed dead and mourned but now living and breathing.

Perhaps the pattern of rising from the dead when presumed otherwise should’ve been a sign.

An early Christmas present indeed.

Mortality as a Midgardian sinks in the middle of your chest as you read the welcome sign of New Asgard. This is far different than being reunited with your loved ones after everything has been said and done to undo the Snap. Nothing can ever truly prepare you to meet the love of your life again in your lifetime, not alive at least. You knew Loki might outlive you and you had made peace with your future. Maybe mortals weren’t meant to be with gods, but you want to be the exception.

Your love for Loki never left, not even a sliver.

The sound of your heels pacing along the floor echos down the corridor.

“Stop pacing back and forth before you make me nervous!”

Above the raging thoughts forming in your head, your head perks up from the familiar voice of your friend. A smile forms on your lips as Valkyrie softly bumps her shoulder on yours, taking a place right by your side. You take a shaky breath out as you start to pick at your nails you just done earlier this morning. Stars, you are a complete nervous wreck.

“You look lovely this evening. Is it new? Who’s the designer? We should’ve gone together! Have you seen this snow? So lovely this time of year...” You try to change the subject but Valkyrie knows all the tricks in your hat, white bunny and all. Her eyes know the full story and you know there’s no point in hiding away from the Asgardian queen herself.

“First off, we did go together. You’re the one who suggested it. And two, why are you avoiding the inevitable?”

You look longingly at the ornate wooden door mere feet away from where you two stand. Your chest rises unevenly from taking a deep breath in then you move your gaze over to Valkyrie and shake your head.

“I don’t know what to say to him. How does one convey their messy emotions about seeing the one they love rise from the dead? ‘Hello, I mourned your death but surprise to me! Not dead!’” It’s a forced laugh that escapes your lips which in turn brings a prickle to the corner of your eyes. You take in a short breath then let it out through your teeth. You wrap your arms around your chest in an effort to comfort yourself and guard your true feelings.

Valkyrie cocks her head to the side, placing a warm hand on your upper arm which melts away from of your tension. You put your arms to your side then shake your head, a nervous smile once again.

“Most of the things I’m feeling are selfish, I know. All this can more than likely be resolved if I just talked to Loki but it’s been years. Things could’ve...changed.” The last word almost comes out as a whisper but the condensation that forms indicates you said the word out loud. Your friend takes both of your arms into her hands and forces you to look at her directly in the eyes. You’re almost petrified by the intensity.

“Stop doing this to yourself; it won’t solve anything. I only briefly talked to him and he’s been asking about you. Things haven’t changed between the two of you on the Loki front.” She offers you a small smile, rubbing both of your arms for reassurance. You can feel some of the tension melt away from your muscles and begin to ease up just a bit. Your mind still spins of things to say but it’s now an organized chaos.

“Be it as it may, whether it’s the Yuletide or the Christmas energy in the air, the universe has spoken. Now,” Valkyrie lets go of you then brings her hands up towards her head where the crown sits nicely on top. It’s more a formality than anything but she said that it was just the cherry on top of the whole king thing. With gentleness, Valkyrie removes the golden crown and examines it in her hands for a second. It’s nothing exuberant or too gaudy, just the way that it should; a delicate golden circlet with laurel-like tendrils woven all around. Right in the center is a peak with a stunning red gemstone in the middle.

Valkyrie clears her throat then gestures you to bow your head. Your eyes narrow, shaking your head as you put two and two together.

“Val-”

“Not another word.”

You do as she says, bowing ever so slightly as Valkyrie fixes the crown on top of your head.

“You have the power of me and the gods alongside you now. It’s time you get your damn ass in there and talk to your boyfriend.”

You let out a sharp snort then give her a mock curtsy. You already feel slightly powerful with your new given rule. “Thank you, queen.”

Valkyrie calls out as you walk away. “Don’t do anything stupid with that crown of mine!”

The night appears to be in full swing once you pull open the wooden double doors. Laughing people glide all over the dance floor, merriment sounds and lively music fill the open air, with people enjoying the sprawling Yuletide feast table. Lights twinkle above every head in the ballroom that creates an almost surreal and dreamlike atmosphere. You let your eyes wonder from the decorations to the faces of joyous Asgardians as they celebrate another year of being together, of being alive.

You crane your neck to find a particular set of eyes but to no avail.

Once again, you feel that heaviness in your chest as if you suddenly forgot how to breath. Even with the pep talk, it’s no match for what lies ahead for you. Knowing that he’s somewhere here, walking, breathing, existing...

The music switches to a more slow tempo song.

You watch couples take each other in their arms, swaying to and fro, eyes locked into each other’s souls. There is no one else in the room but them together, in that moment, soaking in each other’s presence. A melancholy feeling washes over you as you remember asking Loki to dance at one of Stark’s stupid galas you always despised being dragged to. You’ve been mustering up the courage to ask him all night that with one final swig of liquid courage, you came up to him and offered you his hand.

The look of pure delight sparkling in his eyes still stays with you.

A smile forms on your lips when you recall the moment.

“Hello, my love.”

A breathe catches in your throat. The sound of his voice...you blink twice to make sure that this all real and not a figment of your imagination. You turn around to face the man you’ve never thought you would ever see again in your mortal life.

“Loki.”

His name feels ancient on your tongue, as if you never knew you would be able to say it again. You can feel Loki take a hold of your hands as you continue to examine his face. This is real, this is all real. He is in front of you and not dead somewhere out in deep space like they’ve told you. Loki is standing there, right here and right now, in the flesh, body and soul. You can feel tears prickle at the corner of your eyes knowing that the two of you have been reunited by a red string of fate; almost like destiny.

Loki rubs his thumbs along the tops of your hands. “I know I’ve been gone for awhile but I didn’t expect you to become queen of Asgard in such a short amount of time. Never doubted you once, little dove.”

For the first time that night, you allow yourself to be vulnerable and cave into your emotions. You burst out into laughter, tears streaming down your cheeks, then press your body against Loki, wrapping your arms around his neck. You close your eyes as you nuzzle into the crook of his neck, taking in the scent of sandalwood and a hint of spiced cinnamon. Loki can feel the tears along his exposed skin and he holds you even tighter in his arms.

The rest of the world had been forgotten for a few seconds as the two of you focused on only each other. Almost everyone in the ballroom had taken notice of the glorious reunion between you and the raven haired prince. Thunderous applause erupts around the two of you and you let go of Loki to press a warm hand on his cheek. He places his hand over yours, fond eyes looking at you as you press your lips onto his for a soft kiss.

All of a sudden, the jitters you’ve had before dissipate for you knew there is nothing to be worried about anymore.

You can feel Loki’s lips curl into a smile as he sinks in deeper to your touch. There’s another rounds of some hollers and you can feel your ears burning from such prying eyes. You take his hand, nodding towards the entrance in a silent invitation of escape. He takes your cue, interlocking his fingers with yours as you guide him towards salvation.

Once outside, you take him towards an intimately lit garden with archways full burnt orange calendulas. The snow has given way to a peaceful and silent winter’s night. Loki brushes away some snow from a bench then pats the space right next to him. After you remove the crown, you place your head on his shoulder.

There’s a slight tension between you two of you.

“I know you may have a lot of questions-”

“That’s an understatement.”

“And there are no words to tell you how deeply sorry I am to have put you in such a difficult position.”

You move your head away from Loki’s shoulder to look at him. There are tears welling up in his eyes as he remembers the hurt he has caused not only his people but to you especially. What Loki thought he was doing was protecting everyone he has ever cared for has turned against him. Nothing was prevented, people still suffered, however, he still had hope that things could get better.

“It’s unfair for you to have gone through such turmoil and loss again and again. You deserved to be safe and happy, not this. I apologize for not sending you a sign but it was far too dangerous. There aren’t enough apologies that can express it. I promise you that I will do everything in my power to be there for you and fight by your side. May we never have to be separated again.”

You place your hand on his cheek to wipe away the tears that drop down his face. “You don’t have to apologize. I know you did everything you could and I did everything I could. We were brought back together, I think that’s a good sign.”

Loki takes the hand that was resting on his cheek and presses soft kisses on each knuckle.

“So, are you going to tell me what happened?” You raise an eyebrow at him and he lets out a small laugh, almost as if reminiscing on his adventures.

“Yes, but I don’t want to ruin this moment.”

You lean against your chest as your eyelids become heavier and heavier; his heartbeat almost like a lullaby. There’s a flash of green magick as Loki summons a knitted blanket to wrap around the two of you. You let out a sleepy smile when you feel Loki bring your legs up to rest on his lap.

“Welcome home, Loki.”

For a brief moment, you open your eyes to soak the moment all in. Loki presses a small kiss on your forehead with a smile.

“With you, I already am.”

Tagging: @kwaiky​ (my cinnamon apple, my day one freak nasty), @cura-posterior​ (WHO WOULD���VE THOT I WOULD BE BACK ON THE WRITING TRAIN AHA!!), @diansaprince​ (bithch lily...im loveu thank u for being on this ride with me...churro pride), @black-widow-fangirl​ (queen, your creativity and motivation inspire me to no end), @deviantramblings​ (HOE JASKLDJSKAL LOOK AT US! LOOK AT US! thank you for being the light of my life), @moonbeamgogh​ (miss. maeve...u beautiful sunflower we loki hoes had a delicious year), @michverse​ (okay i know u ain’t on this joint as much but...that’s our white king okay...thank u for everything bb), @attentionseekingprincess​ (ANOTHER OG ON GODDDDDD you’re amazing)

[kriscme]

One Life To Live

Hi Readers, sorry for the longer interval that usual.  It took me awhile to work out where to go from here.  The hazard of not working to a plan.  Thanks as always to Ronja for allowing me to write fanfic of her Hunger Games fanfic “The Chance You Didn’t Take.”  You can read it on AO3 and Fanfiction.  Chapter 28 The following morning, I set out for work as usual.  All is quiet in the Village.  Peeta would still be sleeping off the effects of sleep syrup but there’s no sign of Johanna or Haymitch.  I modify my usual route to the school and walk down the main street, curious to see if Lace is working today.  She doesn’t open this early, but she can usually be seen behind her shop window bustling about, either sewing or sorting through fabrics.  Today there’s no sign of her.  Even more oddly, the tailor’s shop is closed.  Arthur starts early and finishes late, eager for as much business as possible to fund that factory he intends to own one day.   The bakery is open though.  Cass and Saffy are serving behind the counter.  Saffy replaced Sateen after she quit her job to marry Roy.  Her full name is Sapphire and she’s aptly named with dark blue eyes and pale blond hair.  She’s someone I might have been jealous of if Peeta hadn’t already been with Lace.   Very pretty, she flirts with everyone, male and female alike.  Peeta told me she had been training as a career before the war put an end to the Games.  Her favored weapon was the bow although she admits that she was only middling good at best. But if Glimmer – also from 1 – had made it through on good looks and charm, then why not her?  It’s the early morning rush and there’s quite a few people ahead of me.  While I wait, I take the opportunity to examine the contents of the display counters.  Bee stings must still be popular as they take up an entire shelf.  Below them are apple pastries and jelly slices.  Chocolate eclairs and fruit tarts, cupcakes and . . . yes, iced cookies, each decorated with a floral motif.  It’s clearly Peeta’s work.  In one corner of the bakery is a large glass case displaying a dazzling array of celebration cakes. “Amazing, aren’t they?”  says Cass behind me.  I look around and see that the other customers have left and there’s only me, Cass and Saffy, who is occupied packing loaves of bread onto shelves.   “We’re really lucky to have found him.  He could get work anywhere, if he wanted.”  He points to the central cake, a large multi-tiered wedding cake decorated with an intricate vine design in gold.  The pattern and the shape of the leaves stirs a memory, and I wonder if it had for Peeta too.  “We even got an order for one just like it to be shipped to the Capitol.” “The Capitol? Wow! That’s a long way to come for a wedding cake.   How did they know to look here?” Cass chuckles.   “She actually came in for the beestings.  She recognized us from our bakery in the Capitol.  But when she saw that cake, she just had to have it. It was the strangest thing.  The tattoo on her head was an exact match with the vine decoration on the cake.” “Oh, that is strange.   Did she say why she was in 12?  We don’t usually get tourists here.” “She didn’t say.  But the beestings was a treat for her crew, I know that much. Construction, maybe?  There’s a lot of that going on.” “Yeah, probably.” Despite my efforts to keep my voice even, I can’t help a sense of urgency creeping in.    “Did she ask to speak to Peeta?  You know, to talk about the cake?” “No.  She didn’t ask who iced it.”  Cass’s brow pinches in worry.  “Is there something wrong?” “Of course not,” I quickly assure him.  “Just curious, that’s all.  I thought she might have wondered how the cake and her tattoo happen to match.  But it’s probably a standard design.  Peeta likely saw it somewhere from his days in the Capitol.” His face relaxes into a smile.  “Well, there was plenty to choose from, fashions changed so fast.  None as popular as your Mockingjay symbol though.” “Yeah, it did seem to be everywhere.  Although I bet there’s a lot of people who regret they got a tattoo of it,” I say with a laugh.  I search for a change of subject. I really don’t want to revisit those days.  “Do you have any cheese buns ready?”   “A batch is due out of the oven now.   Just wait a minute and I’ll get them,” he says, and disappears into the rear of the bakery. The aroma of freshly baked cheese buns would normally have me salivating, but all I can think of is the woman who ordered that cake.  Cressida! What’s she doing in 12?  The last I heard, she and Pollux had been sent to the Districts to cover the wreckage of the war.  This was not long after the Capitol had fallen, Coin was in charge, Snow awaiting trial, and I was in hospital being treated for burns.  Maybe she’s here to do a story on District 12’s recovery. That would make sense.  I just hope Peeta and I aren’t the subject.   Paylor would certainly put a stop to it if we were, wouldn’t she?  She didn’t want me attracting any attention when I was in 8, after all.   I think as far as the government is concerned; we outlived our usefulness long ago.  Nowadays we’re more of an embarrassment. The lunatic who went berserk and kicked a fellow combatant into a pod to his death, and the lunatic who executed the wrong president.   I think, if the government have its way, we’ll never be heard of again.  No ill will, just please quietly fade into the sunset. Max sheds no further light on the Cressida mystery.  When asked if I’d missed anything while I was away, he only commented on Arthur’s uncharacteristic behavior at the pub on the Saturday night.  Max describes him as an odd mixture of concern and excitement. “Like he was happy about something, but felt bad that he was happy about it.   He didn’t stick around for long.  Said he had personal issues to attend to.”   Lace, probably.   That could explain why his shop wasn’t open as usual.  Arthur wouldn’t, would he?  Spend the night with her?  To give comfort, or maybe something more? Maybe he’s heeding his own advice: be adaptable, be open to possibilities.   “Lace and Peeta broke up,” I say, and wait for Max’s stunned reaction.  To my surprise I don’t get one.  Not beyond a raise of eyebrows and a sardonic laugh, that is.   “Did they now?  Well, you could see that coming.” “How?” I ask, disbelieving.   It’s so typical of Max to claim credit for knowing something after the fact.   Peeta and Lace were never anything less than a devoted couple.  No one could have seen it coming. I get a disbelieving look in return.  “You must have been too preoccupied with making plans for your weekend in the woods with Nature Man.   Because while their hands might have been all over each other their eyes weren’t.  His were on you and hers were on Arthur.  I was surprised Lace held out for as long as she did.  If looks could kill, Johanna would have been dead a dozen times over.” Max finishes collating the work sheets on the table and sets to work stapling them together.  “So, what’s between them? Obviously, they’re more than just acquaintances if he knew her secret before Psycho Boy did.” “They knew each other in 8.  They’re related through marriage,” is all I say. I doubt if Arthur would appreciate me giving away more than that.  Certainly not that he’s had a crush on Lace since childhood. “And stop calling people names.  It’s immature.  And unnecessary.” “But I like calling people names.  It’s fun.  You’re just jealous I haven’t one for you yet.  How about The Scowler? Yes, that fits,” he says, grinning at me. I try to wipe the scowl off my face but give up.  Max gives me so much to scowl at. “And now the big question is, who will she choose?  Nature Man or Psycho Boy?  It should be no contest but there’s no accounting for some women’s tastes.” “There is no choice,” I snap.  “And mind your own business.”  I plonk my still half-full cup of tea in the sink and stomp out of the staff room before remembering that I’ve just committed the grave offense of not washing my cup and placing it back on the self.  Maybe I can get back in time later to do it before Mrs. Matson sees it.  But I’m not going back in there right now.  Not while he’s in there, no matter the consequences.  That man annoys me so much.   And the most annoying thing about him is that he can see right through me. Because if I’m honest with myself, the thought had occurred to me too. Which is really, really dumb.  The situation bears no relationship whatsoever to the choice I had between Gale and Peeta.  Because then there really was a choice.  Two boys who were in love with me compared to one man who isn’t, and another I can’t say.   But somehow, I sense that there’s still a choice to be made.  I don’t know how, or why.  Just that at one point, I’ll have to make one.   If Max can be trusted with anything, it’s to spread information in the fastest time possible.  By lunchtime everyone knows.  I get a few looks, especially from the newest members of staff.  I suppose I’d better get used to it.  People will speculate and assume the way is clear now for Peeta and me.  In their minds, anything other than a star-crossed lovers union is unthinkable, an aberration that shouldn’t be tolerated.   It’s unfortunate for them that they’re going to be disappointed a second time. I walk home the way I came, down the main street.   Lace’s shop is still closed, but Arthur is open for business.  I watch him through the window as I walk past.  Arthur has really only one expression, but it manifests in varying degrees according to his mood and the situation.  Today it’s serious light, and if I’m not mistaken, there’s the barest hint of a smile at the corners of his lips.  It’s the happiest I’ve ever seen him.   Johanna calls by soon after I arrive home. Marcus isn’t here so I lead her into the sitting room where we can talk openly in comfort. “How is he?” I ask as soon as we’re seated. “Better.  There haven’t been any more flashbacks, at least.  I think the long sleep broke the cycle.  Not that I’ve seen much of him.  He kept to his room most of the day, except when he came down to talk to Aurelius on the phone.” “And?”  Neither of us pretend that Johanna hadn’t listened in.  We’re both shameless.  Johanna for eavesdropping and me for asking her to repeat it.  But justified, we tell ourselves, because we care about his welfare. Johanna’s forehead crinkles in concentration. “Well, I only heard Peeta’s side of it, of course.  And it was muffled at times.    But he talked about the flashbacks.  That’s how I know they’ve stopped.  And then about the break-up.  I got the impression he must have already talked to Aurelius about the possibility, because he didn’t explain why they broke up, just that they had, and he felt badly about it.  And then, all of a sudden, he started to cry.  He kept saying over and over that his life was ruined and he’ll never find a love like that again and that it was his own fault.” It’s a knife to the heart.  I know Peeta doesn’t love me anymore but he has some awareness that he once did, and that it was, by his own account, overwhelming in its intensity.  But Lace has supplanted me in that too.  She’s the love that can never be surpassed.   But something doesn’t quite make sense. Why break-up with her if he feels that way? She was the one who had to be forgiven.  Peeta did nothing wrong.  But then I remember what Peeta told Johanna when she asked him why they had broken-up.  He said they’d both lied.  Could Lace have initiated the break-up?  That whatever Peeta had lied about was a deal breaker for her?  And then I think about Arthur and his closed shop this morning and the little smile on his face when I saw him later in the day.  That’s more than relief for a disaster averted.  He’s had encouragement.  From Lace.   Poor Peeta.  Poor, poor Peeta.  Everything about her he adored – her laughter, her bright personality, her ambition.  He even liked that slobbering dog of hers.  And after everything he’s suffered. The Games, losing his leg, his torture at Snow’s hands.  And the loss of his entire family in the bombing too.  He had no one except Haymitch and me – a drunk and a depressed recluse, as battle scarred and broken as he.  And then he meets Lace.   The ray of light in the darkness.   And the amount of money he spent on that wedding!  To please her, to show her and the world how much he loves her.  And now, oh, how could she? “It was heartbreaking.  I just wanted to leap out and tell him that little bitch isn’t worth it.  But I couldn’t, you know.”  No, not without revealing yourself.  “But he calmed down eventually.  He talked about going the Capitol for treatment but I think Aurelius persuaded him to stay here.  And that’s about it.  Except to talk again tomorrow.   Oh, and Peeta promised to think about returning to work as soon as possible and to get out and see people.  And to continue to work on his memories.” That’s similar to the advice Dr Aurelius gave me when I told I was in love with Peeta.  To work on myself, to find my direction. “No, that’s not quite right,” Johanna adds.  “I left out an important detail.  He promised to work on his memories with her.  I guess Aurelius appreciated my input.  And he did make a lot more progress once I took over.  Sorry, Katniss, but he did.” I nod wearily.  It hurts, but it’s true.  All I managed to do was confirm what he had already convinced himself of. A disaster from start to finish.   “Are you going to see him?” asks Johanna. “I think it will help him to know that he still has friends.” I want to say no.  But I know that if the positions were reversed Peeta would put aside his own hurt feelings and support me any way he can.   “Yes, in a day or two maybe. I want to give him time to adjust first.”   It’s a lame response but Johanna seems to accept it.  If I were Peeta I could leave a bag of cookies or cheese buns at his front door as a convenient way of conveying support without having to actually engage. But I can’t think of anything I can give him that he’d want so I’ll have to face him.  I can’t delay it forever. I tell Johanna about the cake with the vine design and the woman who ordered one just like it.   And of my suspicions of who this woman might be. “Yeah, that’d be Cressida.  She’s been covering an ongoing story about Marcus and the national parks.  She comes around this time, just as Marcus is almost finished wrapping things up. Although, in 7, she was almost there from the start.  You know, because of all the trouble we had with the logging companies.  I don’t know if you saw it, but she did a special feature on me.  It was called “Johanna Mason – Environmental Activist.  Her Life After the Games.”  It was sensationalist rubbish really.  They kept on showing footage of me chained naked to a tree.  Even asked if I’d do the interview like that.   I did, but I want to be clear, it was their idea, not mine. And they tried to fabricate a love affair between me and Marcus too.  Marcus hated it.  Especially when memes appeared on social media transposing me naked against the tree with him next to me with his hands in various places.” “But why?” I’m aghast.  This is dreadful news.  If they did that to Johanna, what would they do to Marcus and me?  Or to Peeta and Lace?  Or to Peeta and me?  This is juicy fodder for the tabloid media.  “I thought they wanted us to lay low.  To just blend in and be ordinary people again.” Johanna looks at me askance.  “Well, maybe you and Peeta.  But not for the rest of us.  Beetee writes for a science magazine and does frequent guest appearances on “Cool Science” and Enobaria has her own reality show.  “Keeping Up with the Barbarian,” or something like that.   Annie likes to keep a low profile though.”   “Does Marcus know she’s here?” I barely whisper the words. Johanna shrugs.  “I don’t know.  Maybe not if she’s just arrived.  But he would have known she’d be here eventually.  Marcus doesn’t like it, but he relies on the publicity.   And when he goes to 13 next – “ “13?” “Well, yes.  He’s doing all the Districts.  You know that.  And 13’s practically virgin territory.  That’s one advantage in living underground I suppose, nothing on top gets damaged. He’ll want to move quickly to preserve the area most in need of conservation before developers make any more inroads.  I don’t envy him though.  That’s one place I never want to see again.”   Me neither.  There’re no good memories for me in 13.  And they hate me there. I killed their president. Johanna leaves shortly after, but not before extracting from me an assurance that I’ll visit Peeta soon.   I have about an hour before Marcus arrives home.  Enough time to use his computer to do some research.   I find the memes Johanna talked about.  One has Marcus with one hand at Johanna’s crotch and the other inside his trousers, pumping away.  I search Beetee’s name and find links to articles he’s written and his TV appearances.  There’s very little about his personal life other than he still lives in his home district of 3 and has investments in an electrical company.   Enobaria attracts the most publicity.  As well as her reality show, she’s a regular on the celebrity circuit, her trademark pointed teeth bared for maximum effect.   On Annie, there’s been no media reports since the War ended.  And there’s none for Haymitch, Peeta and me either.   I can understand why Peeta and I have been left alone.  At least, I thought I did. Haymitch and Annie would be fair game though.  Annie, slightly mad Annie, Victor and the widow of the handsome and seductive Finnick Odair, himself a Victor, the most notorious womaniser in Panem turned war hero.  Surely the birth of their son would have garnered some attention.  And Haymitch is a news story too.  A popular Victor and a prominent player in the Rebellion, you’d think they’d be some public curiosity about where he ended up.   But nothing.  Either there’s been no interest or it’s being squelched.  It dawns on me that maybe the lack of media attention isn’t just because we’re a national embarrassment.  It’s because we’re being protected.  Enobaria, Beetee and Johanna have chosen to be in the public eye, and they must take the bad with the good.  But not Annie, Haymitch, Peeta and I.   We’ve lived quiet lives, eschewing the lime-light.  I let out a long breath, not realizing that I’ve been holding it.  We’re safe then. Cressida will do her news story about Marcus and the new national park and then leave. Peeta and I have nothing to worry about.   A door opens and shuts and there’s footsteps in the hall.   I close the computer and replace everything as it was.   Marcus is home.

[morelike-bi-light]

AU Where Victoria and Bree Join the Olympic Coven

And Also Vampires Can Cry Now Because Fuck Smeyer

Starting with Twilight

So in this AU Laurent tells the Cullens that Victoria and James are mates while he's info-dumping, because James isn't a total moron on top of a dick and tries to utilize Victoria's power of self-preservation to aid in his hunt by having her guard the studio instead of... whatever he asked her to do in canon. Unfortunately those powers only work when her adversary's goal is to kill her, and in this version Bella asks Jasper to stay and guard her dad so he can use his powers to provide comfort to Charlie while Bella's away. So Esme takes his place at the studio and she proposes that instead of destroying her, they use Victoria as a bargaining chip to trade for Bella.

But when they confront him, he just laughs and tells them to kill her. That she was just a toy and a tool for him to get what he wants. Tells them how pathetic she was before he started hunting her down, too afraid to interact with even the weakest of vampires. He tells them how she was so grateful to be left alive when he hunted her down, how she’d do whatever he said, how useful her ability to evade was, how amusing it was to see her scramble to appease him. He tells them that if she's so weak that they could overpower her, then she's outlived her use to him anyways. Victoria’s humiliation grows as she listens, and eventually she restrains him herself, gleefully helping Edward and Emmett destroy him. However, Bella’s wounds distract them soon after, and they fail to make sure his body burns with the ballet studio.

When they return to Forks, Carlisle and Esme offer her a place to stay, seeing as Laurent has already left for Alaska. While she refuses at first, unwilling to take the vegetarian lifestyle, after a month or so of living alone, she makes her way back. She shows up at the school prom, confessing that she just doesn’t know what to do anymore. Victoria needs a purpose, and James may have been abusive and cruel and heartless but he had offered her that. Bella convinces Edward to take her back to the house and the Cullens take a vote on whether to accept her. Edward and Rosalie are the only ones who vote against, so in she’s brought. They spend the rest of the school year and then the whole summer teaching her how to control the bloodlust, and how to be a part of the family.

She stays very close to Esme whenever she can. Esme is the first one that Victoria really tells her story to: her sister and her getting beaten as servants, working as prostitutes to stay off the streets, finally finding happiness in her coven of sisters, only to have the Volturi steal Heidi and slaughter them all. Getting hunted and then recruited by James. Esme cries (fuck smeyer) when Victoria can’t, and she asks for permission to touch her until Victoria tells her she doesn’t need to. And even when Victoria is itching to scream or cry or tear the walls of their perfect house done, she’s patient and gentle. She sees Esme reading a book one day and mentions ofhandedly that she only barely knows how to read, despite being alive so long, and that’s when they start reading together, starting with Anne of Green Gables, who also had fiery hair, freckles, and a found family. Esme is home.

Of course, the whole coven comes to mean something to her. Carlisle fills her with a feeling of safety and hope. He doesn’t let anything happen to his family, and she’s part of it now. Emmett makes her feel a different kind of safe - the kind that comes with knowing that there’s someone who doesn’t care if she screws up, who will invite her out for a run through the woods regardless of what she’s done and who she’s been. Jasper, she feels a kinship to. He comes from bad blood too - no pun intended. They’ve both down awful things to innocent people to appease those who controlled them. And she can always count on him to bring her calm when everything else is driving her crazy. Alice’s optimism, while irritating at first, has often been her only source of hope for the future, and Bella, though she smells delicious, is even more valuable for how normal she can make Victoria feel. Edward is still cold, but Victoria trusts him, and he seems to have accepted that her intentions are genuine. Rosalie is distant, and when they’re alone together, they’re quiet, but she walks with her at school, and sits with her around the house.

Then Onto New Moon

At Bella’s party, it’s not just Jasper who can’t control himself when Bella bleeds - Victoria loses control, too. After all, Jasper can’t calm her when he can’t calm himself. She feels bad about the whole thing, but secretly she thinks that Edward pushing her into the glass made everything a lot worse than it had to be. Edward argues that this is exactly why they should never have taken her in in the first place, which hurts more than she wants to admit, but to her surprise, Rosalie comes to her defense, pointing out that Jasper lost control too, and they’d never use that as an excuse to throw him out.

When the clan decides to leave, she’s scared that they’ll figure out a way to leave her behind. That when they move, they’ll bring her, but something will change. That they’ll figure out that she’s a lost cause and just be rid of her. But nothing happens. They move, for Bella’s safety, and her absence is the only thing that changes. Esme still cuddles with her on the couch and reads with her. They’re working through Anne of Avonlea now. Emmett and she still go racing through the forest, and despite his talk, he still never wins. Rosalie and she still sit at the table. Alice still does her hair in the mornings. She catches Esme drafting letters, then throwing them out while shaking her head and trembling. They’re crumbled and scribbled on and addressed to Bella. Victoria wonders if they’ve all made a mistake but bites her tongue. She doesn’t have the right to question their decisions, not when she is still one of the most recent ones.

When Edward decides to commit suicide, and Bella and Alice go to bring him back, the Volturi mention concern over the adoption of Victoria into the Cullen clan. Edward sees the memories of Aro and the rest hunting down Victoria’s coven, and feels a pang of guilt over his dismissal of her as unfeeling, untrustworthy and a threat to Bella. Among their other complaints and suspicions, they demand that the Cullens ensure her control if they plan on keeping her in the same area for as long as they usually do, and warn that if they fail to turn Bella and control Victoria, the Volturi will be forced to take drastic measures to protect their kind.

When they return, Victoria refuses to talk to Edward for a while. Her head pulses with memories of her sister’s cries cutting off abruptly, with just the echoes left to listen to. Of the sound of her coven members’ footsteps fading, until hers are the only ones still crunching through the snow. Of screaming and collapsing and being utterly alone once more. She wants to yell at Edward, demand he tell her how he could do that to Carlisle and Esme, who love him more than should be possible. How could he do that to his siblings? I mean, maybe he doesn’t care about her, and she knows that, she’s accepted it, but to do it to Emmett? To Alice?

It’s weeks before they reconcile. He approaches softly as she sits alone, in the house, and he sits next to her. She glares at him, and he flinches. She tells him he was stupid. She tells him exactly what he knows she’s been thinking - that he is lucky to have found a family that loves him so much, and he has proved how unworthy he is of that love, to throw it in their face. She tells him that she is older and has been lonelier. That he must be a fool to not recognize the gift he’s been given in Carlisle and Esme. He stares at the floor as she hurls her abuse at him. When she’s done, he looks up, pausing, and tells her that he’s sorry that he left, and that she lost her sister. She freezes, scowls at him, and disappears. 

A few days later, Esme talks with her about it. She thanks her for caring so much about her and Carlisle, and for valuing them so much. She asks her to consider what Edward must’ve been feeling, to consider what he did. to commit. She starts thinking about it more and more. In the end, she approaches him, and gives him a reluctant, awkward hug. She doesn’t say anything - he can read her mind. No point in being redundant.

And Some Major Changes to Eclipse

By the time that summer rolls around, Victoria is just starting to relax. She knows better than to expect it to last, but she takes a cue from Esme and Alice, and determines to take comfort where she can. At least, she does until she slips up and bites an injured human while running in the woods a few miles from Seattle. He’s a young man, wearing a U of O shirt that’s splattered with blood and mud from the wound on his shoulder. In the midst of drinking his blood, she thinks about the reactions of her new family, and wrenches herself away from the body. She’s so overwhelmed by her own self-loathing and fear, that she doesn’t process the padding of paws or the rustling of branches that linger in the brush. 

Sprinting all the way back to the house, she admits her deed to Esme in the dead of night, and then Carlisle the next morning. After some debate, they decide to wait before they tell the others. Unfortunately, it’s only a week or so before they get wind of a string of murders and disappearances cropping up in Seattle. Edward immediately learns of Victoria’s guilt when they bring it up and is furious that she has put both the clan and Bella in danger. Rosalie, too, is frustrated, but the rest of the clan does their best to keep things from escalating.  Edward and Victoria’s relationship worsens further when in a moment of discomfort and disgust, Victoria points out that James would also prevent her from seeing other men without his permission.

While Bella and Edward deal with drama concerning their relationship and her connections with the pack, Carlisle helps Victoria work on her control using first animal blood, and then whatever human blood is about to expire from the local bank. Eventually, Jasper and Alice join in on the sessions as well. While the sessions are a struggle, and increase in difficulty with each success, Victoria finally starts to feel like her future may remain in her control. But everything feels like it’s crumbling when Alice gets a vision of James surviving to seek revenge on the Cullens, but even more than them, Victoria. On top of the lessons on self control, Jasper starts giving her lessons in self defense, should James catch her unawares and the rest of them aren’t there to help. 

After some time, Jacob, on behalf of the wolf pack, informs Bella that the injured man that Victoria fed on has been helping James to build an army of newborns, who are responsible for the corpses scattered all over Seattle. The coven begins to prepare for an attack, though the Denali Coven refuses to come to their aid. Apparently, Laurent thought that supporting James was wiser than defending her and the Cullens, a choice that had resulted in his death at the hands - or teeth - of Bella’s pack of shapeshifters. She doesn’t feel anything but a vague irritation at the news. The La Push pack offers to replace the Denalis in battle, although her presence in the coven certainly doesn’t make them more enthused about it. Edward, Bella, Jacob, and Seth go up the mountain to wait out the fight.

While Victoria had fervently hoped that James would be too angry at her to bother chasing after the squishiest member of her new family, he decides that going after Bella is the only way to get his revenge - as well as finally complete his hunt. However, his beating at the ballet studio has weakened him, and Edward manages to kill him before he can do any damage. Seth kills his right hand man Riley, who himself had sworn to kill her, as she was responsible for his transformation and had abandoned him in the woods. Meanwhile, the Olympic coven and the pack work together to destroy the newborn army, and during the battle, Victoria and Jake’s combined efforts protect Leah from a newborn. (It’s lucky she was there, too, or she suspects Jacob would’ve broken something.)

On the other side of the battlefield, Carlisle and Esme offer Bree a new home in exchange for her surrender, and she immediately agrees. Victoria and Jasper are initially suspicious, and have Carlisle and Esme leave her with them. When Edward and Bella arrive, Victoria asks him to read the girl’s mind and they discern that she has genuine intentions. Bree is obviously terrified, and Edward tells Victoria that the newborns were fed horrible stories of what would happen to them should they be captured - especially by the red-haired target herself. Victoria feels a pang of regret and empathy, knowing exactly what it’s like to have James slip inside your mind, draw out your greatest fears, and paint them onto the world around you, until everywhere you look, you see a threat. When Victoria looks at Bree, she sees her previous self - except wiser, clearly, as the Victoria of the past would never have been able to discern foe from friend under the influence of James.

That’s when she looks across the field and sees the Volturi have started to arrive. It’s been over half a millennium since she turned, but at the prospect of experiencing a repeat of the events that claimed her original coven, she’s never felt more damned. Things only get worse when Victoria recognizes her former coven member, Heidi, emerging from their ranks, and surveying the scene with disinterest, until their eyes meet, and her brow quirks. If Victoria was human, her stomach would be rolling. Jasper tries to ground her with a feeling of calm and peace as she starts to tremble, and Esme and Carlisle slowly drift over, placing supportive hands on her back as the two groups come to stand before one another.

When the Volturi demand that Bree be handed over, for interrogation, Victoria nearly collapses on the spot. “No,” she whispers, even as Bree slowly stands, resignation etched into her young features. “No, they can’t.” She grips Esme, leaning into her embrace, staring up into her kind, horrified eyes and pleading as she never has before. “Esme, please. Esme. Please.” She’ll offer herself in the girl’s place - she’s had aeons to become something worthy of existing, and this girl has surpassed her with hardly a childhood. Carlisle implores the Volturi to entrust the girl with the Olympic Coven, and Aro makes a show of pretending to consider it. Victoria remembers, looking through his curtains of dark hair and into his mercilessly red eyes, exactly why she spent so many centuries hiding from her own kind. Heidi whispers something in Caius’s ear, and a murmur breaks out among the coven’s core members. 

When the whispers stop, Aro turns to the family with a hard glare, looking them over one by one before his eyes land on the fifteen-year-old on trial. He pins up a saccharine smile to tell them that the Volturi will bequeath her to the Cullens, but only after a short and painful interrogation, the screams from which are muffled by Jasper’s kind smothering, and a vow to to uphold the laws of the Volturi. Bree doesn’t really feel alive until Carlisle steps forward and grasps her by the elbow, leading her back until she’s pressed between him and his wife, with Victoria and Rosalie maneuvering forward to flank their sides, crouching defensively in case they should change their minds. Esme curls one hand into Bree’s hair, and places her other in Victoria’s hand, chin lifted defiantly in the direction of the Volturi.

Aro isn’t done, however. He asks the Cullen how the newborn army’s leader was turned. He says, looking at Victoria, that whoever is responsible for the spawning of the first newborn must face the consequences of their failure to clean up after themselves. Even as Esme’s grip tightens, the redhead doesn’t blink, meeting his eyes. She knows what her lack of control has cost her family - and isn’t it funny, that it’s the first time she doesn’t hesitate to think of them as that - and she won’t cost them anything else. Carlisle, to his credit, doesn’t bat an eye as he tells the Volturi that they don’t know who is responsible, that he imagines it must be James. That Alice has only ever seen him in her visions. Aro smiles and points out that wrongdoing is not always a matter of choice, but before he can continue, Edward interrupts, claiming that one of the shapeshifters has something to add. One of the wolves begins to change form, and when the process is done, the wolf is now one of the most beautiful women that Victoria has ever seen, with cropped black hair, and merciless eyes that simmer with disgust.

Leah steps forward from the pack and testifies that she was present during the initial changing of Riley. Aro beckons her forward, and she complies, though her pack rumbles with discontent. Carlisle joins her side as she walks forward, explaining softly how Aro’s powers work, and hesitating before informing her that she does have the option to refuse to comply. Leah nods, glancing away, before silently presenting her arm to the red-eyed coven leader. Aro ghosts his fingers along her forearm before wrapping his icy fingers around her warm wrist. Edward whispers to Bella and his clan about what he’s seeing in the shapeshifter’s mind. She was taking a familiar run that summer night a ways outside of Seattle, when Riley was first bit. She’d caught a whiff of blood in the distance as well as a hint of something nauseatingly sweet, and decided to investigate. Riley’s initial injury had been inflicted by a weakened James from behind, who upon recognizing Victoria’s scent, had abandoned his victim in her path. The temptation to drink was too much for the new vegetarian, but when she realized what she was doing, she’d wrenched herself away and sprinted back to her home as quickly as possible, leaving the injured boy behind. James then emerged from where he’d been watching and soon after dragged him away.

Leah had warned the pack of what she’d seen, and soon thereafter Jacob had informed Bella of the pack’s interactions with James. Victoria’s eyes are glued to the shapeshifter as Edward relays her memories. When the account has been given, Leah firmly removes her arm from Aro’s slackened clasp and takes a step back. The Volturi leader gives the shapeshifter an odd look, as though he’s both fascinated and disgusted, before reluctantly announcing that Victoria is not technically at fault for the newborns, but she will be watched carefully by the Volturi - and should she make even a minor mistake again, it will be her last. She doesn’t flinch under his gaze as he says this, but Esme loops her arm around the redhead’s shoulders, providing support without releasing her hand.

Finally, the Volturi leader inquires about Bella’s humanity, noting with distaste their failure to honor their word. The Cullens assure them that the date for transformation has been set, and that as soon as Bella graduates from high school, her disappearance will warrant much less panic. Carlisle notes that this is actually in better keeping with the Volturi’s philosophy than if they were to change her and disappear without a trace. At long last, the Volturi admit satisfaction, and reluctantly depart with only warnings and threats in their wake. Victoria watches Heidi’s back as she follows the clan leader away from the battlefield, and tries not to feel a pang of rejection. They haven’t seen one another in centuries - and even if that wasn’t the case, there would be none of Heidi’s former sentiment surviving under the influence of Chelsea.

After they depart, the battlefield slowly starts to clear, first with bodies piled and burning, then with the coven and the wolf pack’s diplomatic exchanges. Victoria hesitates to leave Esme’s side, but she glances down at Bree, still glued to the matriarch’s side, and determines to learn to stand on her own feet more often, so that she could support Esme - who would surely be doing the brunt of the work of acclimating the newest Cullen, just as she did with Victoria - as well as Bree in her own right. She glances across the field, at Leah, and thinks there is no better time to start than then. 

She pulls away from Esme and slowly pads up to Leah, still in human form. She thanks her for testifying on her behalf, and Leah thanks her for her part in protecting her from the newborns. She makes her laugh at some point, and Victoria makes her smile and blush. The vampire pretends not to notice. After all, she imagines that if she were human, Leah would’ve turned her red more than once already. Eventually the two groups part ways, returning to their respective homes, and as Victoria returns to the coven, Esme and Alice are watching her with strange looks on their faces - strange, mischievous looks. She pretends not to notice that either.

That summer, Bree slowly begins to acclimate to the clan. Victoria feels a pang, watching her go through the motions. After all, she’s only barely gotten used to being in the family herself, and there are still so many days where she wakes up wondering when they are going to abandon her, or destroy her, or worse. Rosalie is almost as protective of and attentive to the teenager as Esme and Carlisle. In fact, the entire clan seems to have decided to involve themselves with her healing. 

Victoria swallows the bitterness, trying to remind herself of the sensibility in the clan’s initial reaction to her, but it scares her how little reason soothes her anxiety. Emmett, Bella, and Carlisle seem to understand her worries, though, and with their help - distracting games with Emmett, indulgent hangouts with Bella, and long talks with Carlisle - she learns how to manage and erode any lingering envy or fear. (She never worries about Esme though. They finish Anne of Avonlea, and complete Matilda before the summer ends. She’s gotten better at reading on her own, but she has a feeling it will always be easier with Esme.)

Besides, she adores Bree. Bree is kind, and quiet, and goofy. She is a kid the likes of which Victoria never got to be, and, according to Edward and Carlisle, the likes of which Bree never really got to be before she was bitten either. Of course, Rosalie loves her too, to everyone except Emmett’s surprise. She pulls Victoria aside one day, with newspaper clippings and social services records, a month or so after Bree moves in. They disappear the following weekend, leaving just a note claiming the need to go hunting and a desire to bond. Carlisle frowns and furrows his brows, but Emmett is a good boy and stays tight-lipped about the whole thing. When anyone asks, he just shrugs. “They left a note, you know.”

Esme is the only one home when they return two weeks later in the dead of night, with black eyes, and human blood crusting under their nails. She’s wiping down the kitchen counter after one of Alice’s wedding planning sessions. “What’d they do?” she asks, without looking up. The blonde and the redhead glance at each other, before answering. “He killed her mom,” Victoria murmurs, thinking of her sister. “And tortured her,” Rosalie continues, remembering her death. Esme pauses, using her rag to wipe any glue or glitter stuck to her own hands. She pays special attention to her wedding ring. “I’m glad you’re home.”

While Alice is obviously involved with the wedding as soon as it’s announced, Bella asks Rosalie, Esme, Victoria, and Bree to be bridesmaids as well. Bree is shocked and starts to tear up immediately, but Victoria turns to stone at the proposal. She nods her acceptance, but she can’t find her voice. Later when she’s sitting alone on the balcony, pondering the situation she’s in, Bella approaches and asks her what’s wrong. Victoria asks why Bella asked her to be a bridesmaid, and Bella tells her she doesn’t have to be one if she doesn’t want to. Victoria asks her again why Bella asked her to be one. Bella thinks for a moment, then slowly comes over and sits next to her. She asks Victoria why she is asking.

Victoria lists everything she’s ever done to endanger Bella, every time her decisions made it harder for Edward and Bella to stay together. It seems liek she’ll never run out of reasons for Bella not to have asked her, until Bella interrupts and tells her that first of all, none of what she’s said was Victoria’s fault. She tells Victoria that she has never blamed Victoria - for James, for Laurent, for Edward, for Riley. She suggests that Victoria’s should consider therapy - obviously she couldn’t tell a therapist everything, but she could start to work on some of the trauma and self-doubt she has at the very least. “But that’s not the point,” she continues. “The point is that you guys, all of you, are my family. All of you. And I love all of you. You’re my sister, Victoria, just as much as Alice, and Bree, and even Rosalie. I love you, and how you came to be a part of this family doesn’t change that. We’re in this together, right?”

Bella still hangs out with members of the wolf pack from time to time, and during their trips to theaters, game stores, and bowling alleys, Victoria gets in the habit of asking after Leah. Apparently, Leah asks after her, too. Eventually, Bella gets sick of being the messenger and just sets them up to hang out without her. At Alice’s suggestion, they go to the movies and see an animated film about a garbage robot who falls in love with a space robot and accidentally-on-purpose helps humanity return to Earth. It’s nice, and afterwards they go to a cafe where they both order dinner so that Leah doesn’t have to deal with rude looks for ordering so much food. They talk about silly things, like music, and art, and eventually books get brought up and Victoria mutters that she likes Anne of Green Gables before clamming up. Leah gets the hint and changes the subject.

Spending time with Leah becomes a thing. It’s not habitual enough to be casual, but it’s just often enough to be a thing. Having plans with her feels like an event, and the first few times Victoria spends way too many hours fighting with herself over what to wear and how to do her hair and if she should use makeup - aren’t they already supposed to look perfect? What if she can’t do better and just messes things up? Not the point. The point is, Rosalie takes over her Leah-plan looks from then on, because enough is enough, and Alice is too busy planning a damn wedding to do the job for them. The third time they hang out, Victoria confesses that she’s still learning to read. The next time they meet up, Leah admits that she did some research on adult literacy and found a few articles and pamphlets about helping friends who learned how to read late adjust and continue their growth. Victoria tries to play it cool but her eyes are wet the whole time and she’s smiling like she’s psychotic for a week straight.

They’re walking back to the border of their territories after the sixth of such hangouts when she glances over at the shapeshifter and starts to notice an ache in her chest. They stop at a midpoint and stare at each other before awkwardly saying good night when the ache drips lower and turns to a burn. Victoria hasn’t wanted to attack somebody for a reason other than hunger in a while, so she blurts her goodbyes and gets out of dodge as quickly as possible. It’s only when she’s bursting through the front door and Emmett is asking how her date went that she realizes that she’s burning not with the urge to drink, but with the urge to touch. Bree gives her an odd look, asking if she’s okay, and Victoria chokes out a hoarse ‘yes’ before locking herself in her room and having a minor mental breakdown. 

She avoids hanging out with Leah for the last few weeks of summer, all the while cursing herself. But she can’t help it. For the first time in centuries, she wants to be touched. She wants to be wanted. And the magnitude of what it would mean for Leah to reject her or to return her feelings, overwhelms her to the point of breaking. They have time, she tells herself. Time for her to overcome her fears. Time for her to become somebody worthy of Leah. She has time.

And We End Before Breaking Dawn Because I Guess I’m Writing a Fic Now And No Spoilers

@alaska-blu @cmgmurphy @michaelalovesseaside @loudlyglorioustragedy @habblez-the-babblez @fiercehunter411 @snailcullen @shittytwilightaus

@a-checkered-mate @imawednesdaygirl @twilight-mademegay @twibidriveby @the-bilight-saga @trashanddrivel @bog-vampire @maryaliceswan @bellaedwardcullenswan @gaybeauswan @maryalicebrandon @orange-twilight @vampireguarddogs @thechangingcolourswithinthewoods @kerrym1516 @bitchrosalie @bellatops @alicemcullen @once-and-future-thot @super-lady28

Thanks to everyone who showed interest in this post/fic! Also, sorry that this thing is so fucking long and monstrous, but I’ve honestly never felt so inspired by an AU before. Special thanks to: @the-bilight-saga @shittytwilightaus @snailcullen @trashanddrivel for messaging me and talking to me about stuff like this! My inbox is always open.

If you want to be tagged in posts related to this au or in posts regarding the fic I plan to write for it, message me, reply to this post, or reblog with a request in the tags! If you want to be taken off the taglist, let me know and I’ll do that immediately. If my post or ideas inspire you to create your own fic/art/post/work, even if it’s different, go for it! And tag me or message me! I’d die.

[trump1rocks-blog]

Jimhunters - Walter and Barbara Off-Screen Fanfic (Mature...ish? Eh, not really)

A fanfic about the aftermath of what happened between them in Jimhunters.  It’s not explicit.

"What do I know about being human?" 

 She leans against the table, quietly contemplating the meaning of it all. To outlive your child is a nightmare but to watch them become something you don't recognize anymore; It's another nightmare entirely. With no end in sight, the uncertainty eats away at you.

"I'm scared Walt. Everything's happening so fast. It was just the other day he was fine... I don't..." She halts, choking back tears. "...I don't want to lose him."

Walt turns to put away the remainder of the books albeit haphazardly on the shelf. Turning his attention back to her. "You haven't lost him Barbara. He's still here, just gone through a change."

"He got turned into a Troll! I-I-I didn't even know Trolls existed until a few days ago... a few months technically..." Barbara runs her fingers through her hair, frustrated.

Walt makes a half smirk but hides it so as not to offend her.

"Is he still Jim then? Is he still my son?"

"Of course. But Barbara..." His tone going serious yet again. Shes worried of what he's about to say. "You won't recognize him anymore..." Before she can respond with tears, he adds. "Because he won't recognize himself."

"You know that’s the case?"

"I know from experience, that will be the case."

Her hands crawl up to her chest to clench her proverbial heart. "What can I do?"

He unravels her fingers into his palm, pressing it lightly with his other hand. "You can help by reminding him that your still his family. When he rediscovers who 'him' is... will happen in time." He ends his advice with a gentle simper, doubly reassuring her things will be okay.

The words not only comfort her but send a warm surge through her blood. "Thank you Walt. I really appreciate..." She stutters, unsure why. She withdraws her hand.  "– I really appreciate you staying to help clean up."

“I wasn't about to leave you alone with such a mess. The kids will be alright without me. Besides my presence might of 'cramped their style' as they would say?" He jokes before readjusting the aforementioned books upright.

Barbara already feels more at ease but the tensity is still there. She looks intently at Walt's back, her stare lingers far longer than it should. Not a single thought in her head, no reason or idea as to why she's staring and yet she's looking at him like there's something strange about him.

He turns around ever so slightly and catches her in his peripheral vision, ready to say something she interrupts with an excuse to pivot from the awkwardness of her staring. "Would you. Would you like some coffee?"

"Coffee!?" He repeats. "At this hour?" He turns his head as if to look at a nearby clock.

But Barbara simply shrugs. "It's not like I'm going to get much sleep tonight anyway."

There’s a breif pause but soon he nods to her offer. Given What she’s been through, there’s no reason not to indulge her. "Alright. I'll take..."

"Three cream, no sugar?"

"You remembered?"

Barbara heads for the kitchen, more than ready to leave the room and catch some air. "You ordered it every time on our dates." She calls out from the hallway. "I don't know how you could take it without sugar."

Barbara hastily puts on the kettle, her hands shaking the entire time. With the water getting ready to boil she gives out a deep, pained sigh. Not even distractions can lift this burden of an uncertainty but they help. Just like coffee helps keep you awake, your bodies still tired but at least you can keep going. The situation hasn't changed, the world is coming to an end but something as simple as getting the instant coffee from the cupboard helps her ignore the larger situation at hand.

"You seem lost in your thoughts." She hears from the doorway.

She fumbles the plastic jar. "I'm just... not thinking much really. There's too much to think about so why bother trying?" She ends in an awkward laugh.

He rest the broom on the kitchen wall  and walks over to her. "Need any help?"

"No, it's instant." She chirps pointing at the upside down label on the jar. "See? Says it requires 'No tedious effort'. So you can sit down." She returns to lean against the counter, staring blankly at the wall just as she was before Walt entered.

He nods. "Ah. I see. Well I've put everything away and I swept up most of the dirt. That Troll really wreaked havoc in your living room."

She scoffs, releasing another sigh. "Wouldn't be the first time."

Her meaning comes through loud and clear. He reaches to brush the left side of his nose and sheepishly continues. "No, it certainly wouldn't be. For the record, when me and Jim were fighting, I was certain not to leave a mess."

"Thank you." She scoffs again but there is a levity to it. "Trying to kill my flesh and blood is one thing but heaven forbid if you get my rugs dirty."

This time he can't help but let out a laugh, though immediately trying to rectify it with a clearing of the throat. "Shall I shampoo the carpets while I'm here?" He whimpers.

She knows what Walt is trying to do. After looking everywhere except at him, she finally raises her head. "It's okay, I think we're even now. You did save my life after all.” She places the jar down. “And I wanted to thank you for earlier."

"Save your thanks. I already owed you for having risked your life in exchange for mine. Besides, my motives were selfish, you mean too much to me now before I’d let anything bad happen to you.”

She interrupts him. "That's not why I want to thank you."

He tilts his head. "Pardon?"

"You came running to Jim's aid when we thought he was in danger. You didn't have to do that."

Walter utters one of his infamous oh's. Scratching his head, a little unsure as to how he should reply. "The Tollhunter?” Well, he does have a way of growing on you."

“I appreciate you coming back to help him."

He raises his head haughtily, "I came back for you."

Her smile switches to a surprised frown but Walter finishes with, "Helping him happened to come second..."

Barbara tries to be happy but emotions once again begin to swell and has to draw herself away, twiddling her shaky hands on the counter as she worries over her son’s fate. The kettle whistles blows, interrupting them both. Walt takes his exit, leaving Barbara to prepare they're drinks and have her needed moment alone.

She comes out with tray in hand bearing two holiday mugs from one of her last Christmases. A trail of steam blows from them as she walks over to the table, presenting it to Walter. She grants him the mug depicting a snow family of three on it. Why she noticed this detail is beyond her but seeing him drink from it with a polite thanks, gives her a strange feeling of security.

"Hold on. Whats this?" He asks out of the blue, peering under the table ledge curious over what his foot just bumped.

She looks as well, spotting the familiar red book in the shadows. "My photo album?" She wonders, picking it up. "It must have gotten knocked under the table during earlier?”

"Sorry I missed it." Walt replies, reaching to relieve her of the album but Barbara pulls away. She rests it on the tabletop and lifts it open. Walter wonders to himself if he should suggest this may be a bad idea but ceases, it's not his place to say anything right now.

She skims through the book, looking intently at the snapshots of Jim's slow progression since birth. Some of the photos were jostled out of place so she neatly tucks them back under the slim plastic sheath. Walter's eyes follow the path of her hands along each photo, showing her own journey through motherhood. So many photo's of her and her son, Jim is of course but a baby looking wide eyed at the camera like it was his first time seeing one. There’s also her previous husband James but only in the photo's too precious to store away. He catches a glimpse of him in one Christmas photo holding the very mug he's drinking from now. The next page is a series of photo's from one particular outing at the park but only Jim or Barbara are in the shots now. There was no longer a third member to hold the camera for them.

Barbara stops. "This was our first normal moment together after... after everything that happened."

He rests his hand on her knee, beckoning her to not linger.

"The forecast predicted clouds but Jim insisted we go ahead with the picnic anyway and it turned out to be sunny. You know, this was the day I decided to go back to school and get my Bachelor's degree."

"You dropped out?" He says in suprise.

"Had to." She explained. "I was pregnant. I had lost so much time with the wedding that raising a baby meant I wouldn't have time to catch up.” Sipping some coffee, she soberly adds, “I decided to be a good wife and stay at home to raise my family; of course, James was quick to agree." Her tone comes across as annoyed, hinting to a more troubling aspect of her first marriage. "I don't regret it though. In the end I was there for Jim and when I went back to school, he was there for me. Despite how hard it was for the both of us." Her happiness returns, this time with an added sense of mischief. "He was so excited for me too when he heard I was going to be attending school just like him. I remember; one day he came back from making crafts at daycare with this..." She pauses with a snort, trying hard to hold back her laughter.

"Was it the infamous Macaroni necklace?” He jokes.

"No.” She howls. “No it was or he said it was supposed to be a pencil holder that I would use as part of my school supplies. It was made out of clay but..." She blushes again. "It looked, well I think I have a picture of it here."

She flips a page or two to the one depicting the infamous craft and Walt's face turns positively red in amused embarrassment. "Oh my!" He chirps.

“Yep! I felt...I felt pretty much the same!” She blushes.

Walter adds. “You think being a boy, he'd realize what that looks like?"

“You’d think that but he was still too young and innocent. When I picked him up that day I remember how he was waving it around trying to show me. All the other parents just stared. His reasons..." She pauses to catch her breath from laughing so hard. "His reasons were because it was for pencils, it needed to be tall and thin." She snickers.

" He had to use pink clay...”

"He was mad about that; said he wanted to use green but someone had used it all up. I still have this actually."

"You do?"

"Jim thinks I threw it out but I have it stored up in the attic. It's been there for years."

Walter rubs his face trying to massage out his smirk. "Poor thing probably can’t stand up straight anymore.”

Baraba, of course elbows him in the arm.

‘Did you end up using it?!” He suddenly asks.

“No! I didn't want to give my colleagues the wrong idea. I was just happy to see Jim be so invested in helping me. That Kiddo’s always been looking out for me.”

"That’s because you did a good job raising him." She hears him say. Barbara only sits there motionless, looking blankly at the album that Walter has to nudge her leg just to awaken her from the trance.

She perks up, albeit dazed and muffles the words sorry. She clears her throat before sipping some coffee, flipping to the next page.

In these photo's, Jim is clearly older by two years and looking far more like the Jim, Walt knows today or rather yesterday.

"Why is there a band-aid in this sleeve?" Walt grimaces, trying hard not to show disgust over what's probably an important memento for Barbara.

"That. Oh there's a story there. Jim was seven. He randomly toke off one day, disappearing for hours. Turns out, he had been chasing after a cat the whole time.”

'I hope that habit doesn't persist for the wrong reasons.' Walt thinks quietly to himself.

She continues. "I was so worried something happened to him. Calling his name for what felt like an eternity. I was just about to phone the police when there he was behind my back with an angry cat in his arms and his face covered in scratches. He thought the cat was hurt so he wanted me to treat it. I ended up having to treat him instead. This was one of the band-aid's I used. I kept it to remind myself that no matter how bad I thought things were, everything turned out fine." Her words come to a saddening slow. Barbara just stares blankly at the photo of her scratched up son. Her finger slowly tightening over the snapshot, that Walt can see her hand turning white.

"Barbara?"

His words fall on deaf ears, she sits there somberly, fidgeting in her seat trying to battle the negative thoughts in her head. He's ready to tap her leg once more but as he reaches out the chairs begin to quake! A loud thunder shoots up from the foundation of the house and everything around them shakes in pandemonium.

"Walt!" She screams.

He throws his arms around her shielding her from the Earthquake as it reach it's peak. Books stumble off there shelves in a crash. The lights flicker as the tremor roars on madly; finishing as quickly as it began. Both of them unharmed. It takes a New York minute before his heart stops racing but Barbara has yet to recover, despite the tremor having ended, she hyperventilates on his lapel.

"It's alright..." He whispers, patting her hair. "It's alright, It was only a small quake. They've happened before." Walter lies, knowing full well there was something unnatural about the tremor.

But despite his gentle caress, she cannot relax. The earthquake did more than startle her, it's the straw that broke the camels back. The dam bursts and out from Barbara’s collected self comes a flood of tears. Repeating his name indistinguishably, she lets loose a flurry of muffled wails into his lapel. To her, the world has come to an end, everything she once knew is gone and her very life or worse, her son’s could be destroyed. Walter can do nothing more than to continue cradling her, rocking her back and forth as she continues to shake from crying. He holds her head close under his chin, staring at an empty wall with no lead as to what he can say to rectify the situation. Perhaps holding her is enough? The tears continue with no sign of ceasing, to the point where Walter feels the dampness seeping through his sweater and onto his chest but It doesn't bother him. A good deal of time passes before the sobbing trickles out into variable sniffling then halting completly. The gentle rocking continues at her silent consent; they're shared breathing being the lull-a-bye that sends her back to peace. She thinks of nothing else other than the bliss of having someone here at such an ungodly hour.

"It feels like the worlds coming to an end." Her shattered voice croaks.

Walter sits there contemplating her words. He looks over to the small stereo resting on the self by the couch. He reaches for his pocket and pulls out his phone. Narrowing his brow at the phone screen, he releases her from his embrace in order to get up.

She watches him walk out into the living room. "What are you doing?" She asks.

After a few swipes on his phone, Walt places it in a small slot on the stereo and taps the screen. 'La vie en Rose' begins to play. "I remember when the world was coming to an end in 1832. Then again in 1918, and then 1939. And somehow we survived, just like now." He removes his jacket and rests it neatly on the couch. Walking over to her with his hand out, beckoning her to take it.

She blushes, looking at his empty palm. "You know I'm not that good at dancing..."

"Just follow my lead." 

Taking his hand, Walt pulls her up from her seat. Together he raises there right hands out in the traditional arm styling of dance; with his left just centimeters off her waist. Pose ready, they pull into the romantic sway of the American smooth. He starts off with a simple step back, turning her ever so slowly around the living room. The song continues on, reciting the happy lyrics of seeing the world in a positive light once you’re in love.

He holds her out to do a slow twirl. Unsure, she tries her best being as awkward as a beginner could get but by Walter's standards, it's perfect. Barbara returns back to the comfort of his chest. Looking intently at one another while listening to the lyrics of someone declaring their love, proves too much for her that she rests her head down on his bosom to hide her flustered expression. Her heartbeat comes to a slow, falling in-line with the steady rhythm of their dance. They make circles around the floor not needing to change the songs as each one after another plays only the gentlest of love songs for them to move to. This unexpected romantic moment proves to be therapeutic. For the first time that evening, her mind pulls away from the fear over her son’s situation. Walter’s here to aid her and stay he will remain for as long as she needs. There’s no doubt in her mind about how she feels about him. Their steps become fewer and fewer till it boils down to just them standing there swaying, He could have sworn he heard the muffled words,"I love you, Walt." but dismissed it. The words I love you are heard many times throughout their songs that perhaps his hope had him mishear things?

The night continues on with the same monotony of them swaying to the rhythm but it's a monotony they enjoy. With the night drawing on as it is, soon the inevitable dreaded words are spoken by Barbara. "What time is it?"

He stops dancing almost immediately, looking at his watch in shock. "Oh my goodness, It's quarter to eleven! How'd it get so late?"

"The coffee must've kept us up." She remarks, adjusting her glasses.

He’s absolutely ashamed of himself for having kept her so long. "I completely lost track of how late it was getting. I do apologize."

"Why?" She asks him, pulling away to take the dirty mugs from earlier back to the kitchen.

"I don't want to keep you of your rest. I can't imagine you've gotten much of that these past few nights." Picking up his jacket and phone, Walt makes his way to the foyer. Calling out to her as he gets ready to make his leave. "You have my number, if you need anything or just want to talk give me a call. I'm here if you need me."

Barbara hears him from the kitchen. Tossing the mugs into the sink, she hurries out to meet him in the hall. Coming to a slow a few feet away from him, she approaches in inches; her hands cupped at her waist. "You're leaving?"

Walter carries on like he somehow must reason with her. "Well Barbara, it's getting late, don't you..." His gaze catches her body language, noting the way she draws her hands up from her lower region to her stomach in the most alluring of fashion. She looks meekly into his eyes in such an admirable way that he hardly remembers what he was just doing. Having been made aware, "Oh..." is the only word that falls from his mouth. He returns her advances with own his look of longing, tossing his car keys back on the end table in the hall.

"Don't go Walt..." She whispers upon his approach.

"I'm not going anywhere Barbara." 

[snowflakes4amanda]

What can I say that I haven’t already except that another year has gone by.  One that is filled with loss of a child but also a year that is filled with HOPE seeing how Amanda’s story continues to filter through the others in hopes of making a difference.

23 years ago today, I gave birth to Amanda at 12:59 pm and there was snow on the ground.  Never imagining that 23 years later, I would never get to wish her HAPPY 23RD BIRTHDAY AMANDA face to face.  As parents, we always have the belief that our kids will outlive us. In this case, it didn’t happen. For me, her birthdate is much harder a day than her date of death.  I am sure it is different for everyone who has lost a child, but for me, that is my truth.

What do you say to so many who remember who Amanda is and remember her as a 15 year year old?  I say THANK YOU for remembering her and for the thoughtful messages and comment posts on social media.  These kind gestures warm me up and help me to remember so many of the memories I had with my daughter.

WHAT I MISS ABOUT AMANDA

I miss Amanda and her spiritted nature.  Although her spirit was often what got her in deep doo doo at home when she was younger.  She was always the child who wanted to switch the sugar and salt and see the reaction. She was the kid who decided she wanted to paint TODAY and then found the paint to make her art.  Ummm.. Amanda, that paint doesn’t wash off ‘anything’. She was the kid that wanted to help others. As a family, I taught both my kids about kindness and compassion since they could walk and talk (sometimes not at the same time).  They knew about how to treat others and what NEEDED to be done. But like all humans, mistakes were made on that path but we learn from our mistakes (whatever they may be).  

It is here that I want you to think deeply about the mistakes that Amanda made in her life (as you might know them) since joining her story.  Those that knew Amanda in life remember stories from the different years. If you have one, please share it!!!

WHY HER LEGACY LIVES ON

Because people are remembering what Amanda went through and if you have raised a 15 year old, one never knows how their brains are processing information or if they rationalize at all.  All the words of advice in the world can be told to them and only a small portion is aborbed.

I came home tonight from an amazing graduation ceremony at the University of BC to this message:

Dear Amanda, 

I never got to meet you while you were alive. I did watch your YouTube video and saw your cries for help and mercy. I felt connected to you in a way that can’t be explained other then I knew our paths would cross one day. When I heard you just couldn’t go on anymore, despite everything your mom tried to do, I cried for hours. Your death had a huge impact on how I handled how life unfolded in our own family with our girls, mental illness, bullying, disabilities and daily life.  Thank you for your courage in making a video to bring awareness to the cruelness and despair that’s out there that so many face everyday. It breaks my heart that you couldn’t find what you needed to keep going. I want you to know so many of us have picked up that torch and are carrying it for you. You are not forgotten. 

I had a dream about you last night. You were sitting there with my baby brother he would be almost 27 if he was still with us on earth. The 2 of you were laughing together, talking about your families down there. Taking turns making shooting stars for us to see.  The smiles on your faces made my heart so full and I felt such peace. No more suffering or pain for either one of you. 

Remember when I said I just knew our paths would cross? Well it wasn’t really you and me, it was your mom and me! 2 momma bears doing whatever we can for our cubs! I never knew how much strength I had until I had kids and then a kid with special needs and mental health challenges on top of it all! Your mom is a hero to me.. someone I respect and honour highly. She’s in the trenches, the arena of life and is doing it with such incredible courage, vulnerability, love, compassion, kindness and tenacity. She is someone I can lock arms with and soldier on, to embrace life with. Your light didn’t go out when you crossed over.  And you have your mom to thank for that. Countless lives are being changed because of you, your journey, your story, your mom and her daily choice to keep going no matter what, when you couldn’t any more. Your spirit lives on and I’m a recipient of it! 

Happy birthday beautiful angel!

The words written above means so much to me on this day.  And I hope somewhere in this universe, that Amanda can see it and know that she is loved and missed.

With humbleness and appreciation for all those support me,

Amanda’s mom

23 years ago today …. What can I say that I haven’t already except that another year has gone by.  One that is filled with loss of a child but also a year that is filled with HOPE seeing how Amanda’s story continues to filter through the others in hopes of making a difference.

[dialux]

made weak by time and fate, but strong in will

[The Potters survive Halloween, but nobody else knows it. As the world gets darker and colder they need to decide when and how they’re going to fight back.]

...

Chapter One: in the dark times

Chapter Two: will there be singing?

Lily lands just out of the cave and screams as she falls- she skids down two meters of sand before she manages to stop. Her ankle is definitely broken; Lily hisses out through her teeth and drags herself upright.

She limps into the cave sweaty and disheveled, and drops as soon as she’s within reach of James.

“Here,” says Lily, taking the small pouch she’d retrieved from Gringotts and tossing it at James. It’s charmed to be extensible, and featherlight. There’s twenty wands at the bottom. “Pick your wand.”

“Mummy?” asks Harry, reaching out to her dyed-black hair, eyes wide at the new color.

Lily leans back, dropping to an elbow, and groans when she jars her ankle. She lifts her other hand and catches Harry’s tiny fist in hers, stretching her fingers to bop his nose.

“Yeah, buddy,” she says, as lightly as she can manage. “Mummy’s hurt. And her hair’s messed up. Looks too much like your dad. Right ugly, don’t you think?”

“Hey!” yelps James.

Lily’s elbow slips out from under her. She laughs through the pain and holds her hand out, blindly, until James takes it. He’s so warm. Lily doesn’t close her eyes, doesn’t cry, but the ache behind her ribs eases, slowly, and all but disappears when Harry starts crawling over her prone body.

...

“What happened?” James asks, quietly, that night.

Lily’s ankle is bandaged. She’s got a scar along one arm from Voldemort that she hadn’t healed in time, and James is obsessed with it- the long, shallow cut, the way it’s fading back into her freckled skin- it’s a part of Lily that he doesn’t know, and James can’t stop sweeping his fingers over it. Harry’s asleep, half on his lap, half on Lily’s lap, and he’s never looked sweeter than with him sleep-heavy and warm.

“Bellatrix,” says Lily.

His heart skips a beat. “Lily.”

“She was attacking in broad daylight,” Lily says quietly. “She killed a muggleborn girl’s mother. She would’ve killed the girl, her sister, their father- even more, likely- if I hadn’t stopped her.”

“Merlin, Lily,” James whispers, hand smoothing down Harry’s back in a vain attempt to regain his equilibrium. “I didn’t even know. If she’d killed you-”

“She didn’t.”

“But if she had?” He reaches for his wand when he can’t quite keep his hands from shaking. “I understand, I do, but- I’m allowed to worry, aren’t I?”

Lily presses her head against his neck. “Yes,” she says simply.

The fire flickers over her dark hair, red glinting through. The air outside their little cave is freezing, snow and ice frosting the ocean; but they’ve put up warming charms inside, and the stars are shining, and James swallows all the other words he wants to shout, winding his arms around Lily’s waist instead.

“She’s not going to be a problem now,” Lily whispers into his ear.

James pauses. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” says Lily, slowly, triumphantly, “that I killed her.”

...

Do you know how dangerous it is to make your own rituals? James wants to shout at Lily, at her shining eyes and her beautiful, beautiful lips. She might have died so easily. Do you know how many people have died, because they just tried something and failed and the ritual blew up in their face? Not even the most insane Death Eater would have tried what you tried.

But they’re Gryffindors.

Being Gryffindor doesn’t mean being insane, but sometimes- when on the wire, when pushed to the brink- it means taking risks that seem that way. It means gambling with your life, with your world, and never once looking to see the fall that’s snapping at your heels.

James holds Lily tighter, and he loves her with everything he has inside of him.

...

In one world, Bellatrix Lestrange outlives her Lord’s first death. She plans to take down his enemies while the rest of the Wizarding World celebrates, and destroys all the things her Lord gave her before she heads to the Longbottom’s house.

In another world, she dies before she can do any of that.

She dies before she can destroy her portkeys.

...

Bellatrix had six things in her pockets: a little book that was splattered over with blood; an extra wand; three quills; and a small, innocuous button that Lily had almost left behind.

The button’s the important thing.

When James runs tests on it, it proves to be a portkey.

There’s only one reason for a Death Eater to have a portkey masquerading as an innocent button.

Lily watches Harry run one finger over the broad, reflective edge, before she asks James, “You can get it to work?”

“It’s password locked,” replies James. “It’ll take me some time, but- yeah, I’ll be able to get it to take us where it needs to.” He knocks his hand on the stone of the wall. “That isn’t the question.”

“The question is whether we want to go there or not,” Lily finishes. “If we do- both of us will have to be ready.”

“Fighting fit,” murmurs James, lips twitching. “None of this- still-recovering business.”

Harry tries to chew on the button. Lily takes it out of his hands and tosses him in the air instead, catching him and rubbing her cheek against his soft hair, smiling at his giggling.

“This isn’t our fight,” she says, looking out into the sea, the horizon that she can’t exactly identify because the sea is the same shade as the sky. “We could hide here, and stay silent, and nobody would ever ask for more from us.”

“Would you be happy like that?” James asks curiously.

Lily glances over her shoulder at him. “Yes,” she says. “I would be happy. I wouldn’t be at peace, I think- but if I have you, and I have Harry- I can’t imagine being unhappy.”

He drops his head to her neck, nosing at the skin, one hand coming up to cup Harry’s head. “They’ve killed our parents,” says James. “They’ve killed our friends, and they’ve killed our family, and I can’t sleep without dreaming of him, in our home, the absolute bastard-”

“James,” Lily says, turning to face him. She looks up at him, through the curtain of her hair, and Lily is close enough to smell the apples on his breath, the clean salt, the dust and mud and blood. “It’s going to be difficult.”

“Our entire damn lives have been difficult,” says James. “Let’s not start being easy now.”

...

(Lily’s always been too sharp for the world. It’s the kind of thing that’s smudged by death, but it doesn’t make it less true. Lily’s too sharp, too quick, not the kind to throw herself into danger unnecessarily, not the kind to hesitate when she feels it necessary. In another world, she’s remembered as a mother and a wife and a muggleborn.)

(In this one, she is called death, and it is a name she chose for herself.)

...

“You carved runes into your skin?” James demands, flipping her hand over and dragging her closer to him. “Lily!”

“I had to tell the magic,” she says, yanking her hand back. “In Gringotts- I didn’t know how the bags or wand-boxes would look. So I did it. And that’s how I knew the button was important, too- there was magic in it, his magic. All cold and frightening and rotten.”

Old druidic runes stand up on her skin, bright red, scarred.

Lily’s sharpness isn’t borne just of her tongue. Her sharpness comes from her knowledge: she’s doing right. And so long as she does right, she won’t regret her actions.

The pain is a price to pay. Nothing less.

“Sometimes you frighten me,” whispers James, thumb brushing against the raised, knotted edge of one of the runes.

Lily leans into James and kisses him softly, lips barely moving.

She thinks of a twelve year old boy who refused to be frightened by a werewolf. She thinks of a sixteen year old boy who’d refused to be complicit in murder. She thinks of a twenty-one year old boy, who’d stood against the cruelest, darkest man in fifty years not once, not twice, not thrice- four times, each with nothing but a wand in his hand and love in his heart.

Lily is not the only one who’s too sharp for the world.

This world isn’t safe, she thinks, love blossoming through her limbs like warmth, like light. So we must make it safe.

Voldemort and his men brought war to Hogwarts’ walls. They let a generation of children grow, none of whom knew peace, all of whom knew love. Lily can’t think of anything more dangerous to the Death Eater’s philosophy.

"We all do,” she whispers back.

Lily’s outlived her heroes. She’ll outlive her enemies, too.

...

Two weeks later, they disguise Harry with three layers of charms and drop him off at a one-day daycare. Lily drapes Death Eater robes over their heads, fastens the mask to James head and lets him do the same to her.

They don’t land in any dungeons.

Instead, they land in a field.

Lily feels James cast protective shields; she narrows her eyes and looks up instead, towards the hill that she can feel pushing at her mind. Leave, it whispers. Don’t come near me.

And underneath it all, there’s a slow pulse that reminds Lily of something achingly familiar.

“There’s no active magic around,” James mumbles, sweeping his wand in slow circles. “Nobody’s cast in...”

“Forty years?” Lily looks over her shoulder to see him lift a brow at her.

“How’d you get that? The best spells only go till a decade.”

She rolls her eyes at him. “I developed it before I went to Gringotts. How else d’you think I managed to get all the stuff I wanted? I wasn’t sure how it’d look, and the goblins weren’t exactly going to be helpful.”

“So you created a spell.”

“I’m good at that,” Lily agrees, before tilting her head at the hill. “There’s magic that side, though, and it’s long-lasting. With notice-me-not charms all over it.”

James’ hand knocks into Lily’s arm, but he doesn’t say anything- instead, they head towards the hill. Lily keeps her grip on her wand easy, the better for the quick movements needed in both breaking and forming wards. She trusts in James’ auror training to look out for physical dangers.

“Village’s name-” James kicks at a moldy wooden sign, flipping it over. “Little Hangleton, apparently.”

Lily shrugs. “Never heard of it.”

They arrive at the hill. Lily can make out that the notice-me-not charms are tied into four trees, forming a proper rhombus at the base of the hill. She just brute-forces her way through it; notice-me-nots are fairly fragile charms, overall, relying more on going unnoticed- rather than on sheer power.

When the charms fall, Lily frowns.

There’s a cabin there, in the middle of the clearing, but it-

“It looks like a hovel,” says James, flicking his wand to check for glamours. “What kind of-”

He cuts off when a pack of snakes emerge out of one of the windows, slithering directly at them. Lily tries to dispel them- she’d thought they were a good illusion- but no, the tracks they leave behind them in the grass tells Lily that they’re actually real.

“He’s a Parselmouth!” James exclaims, before he sends a piercing hex directly at the quickest-moving one. It explodes in a shower of guts and viscera. “That’s why the snakes are real- they’re probably forced to obey-”

Lily doesn’t blink. “Ignis,” she snaps, directing her wand in a circle that corrals the snakes away from them. “James, take the far end. Circle them properly.”

James climbs the nearby tree and closes the circle from that height; the snakes die, leaving behind a large swath of burned grass and a horrible stench in the air. When they step closer to the hovel, she realizes: another notice-me-not, this one even more powerful- even more insidious- than the last.

Dark magic hums in the air, just enough to make her grit her teeth. And right under it, like a heartbeat: something Lily knows. Something that frightens her, just a little, because magic isn’t supposed to be slow, it’s supposed to eddy and dance and-

“Down!” grunts James, jumping off the branch and straight onto her back.

Lily spits out grass and rolls. “The hell was-” she trails off, seeing the silver axe spitting the tree that James had just climbed.

If he hadn’t dived on top of her, Lily would be dead. She exhales roughly and shoves herself upright.

“He’s not messing around,” James mutters.

Lily narrows her eyes at the handle. “It’s Norse,” she says, then swears, fluently, at the message she can see in the runes carved into it. “Norse- Merlin, James, the name’s-”

He barks out a warning- Lily spins to the side, feeling something rustle along her ribs and scoring a bloody line across it-

She pants, staring at the scorch marks impacting the tree trunk, one hand held to her side.

“What’d you say?” calls James.

“Wolf-killer,” spits Lily, before she rises and lobs a ward-eating curse at the window the snakes came out of. She drops and turns to face James. She can feel her anger surge, swirling in her gut. Her wand’s handle digs into her palm, hard and unyielding. “It’s Thor Odinson’s.”

James stills. “You don’t mean Deathlight?”

Thor Odinson had not been a god. He’d been a wizard, born millennia before the Founders- and he’d been a powerful one at that. For two centuries, he’d conquered and held Europe together, safe against the Persians and Macedonians.

He’d been a Dark Lord.

When his daughter was turned into a werewolf, Thor had slaughtered her and the entire village that allowed it to happen. Then he’d gone on a rampage against werewolves, and to do that, he’d forged a silver axe that- even as it split the tree behind Lily’s head- was bathed in more blood than any other weapon in the history of the world.

The populations of werewolves in Scandinavia has never recovered.

There’s a reason why they’re a problem that England’s faced, and not the rest of the Continent.

"Oh,” says Lily, reaching forwards and yanking the axe out of the trunk, hefting it carefully- “I do.”

...

They carve out a hole in the hut with the silver axe next to the window the snakes emerged out of.

Lily freezes when they enter, eyes narrowing on one of the corners, where there’s an intricately carved wooden box. “It sounds-” she shakes her head like she wants to clear it, “-like you. Like your magic, James.”

“Good or bad?”

Lily thinks for a moment. “Bad,” she says finally. “Magic’s not supposed to be slow, and that’s what this is.”

“My magic’s slow?” James asks, contemplating the box.

“No. Something you had...” Lily clicks her tongue. “That’s it. Not you, something you always had around you. Your cloak.”

James’ breath hitches. “But that wasn’t ever dangerous.” Dark.

“Maybe,” says Lily. “But there’s something darker than that, too, here. It’s- difficult to explain.”

“Be careful,” James tells her.

Lily moves slowly towards the box. Her wand flicks through a complicated series of motions and the box starts to glow. Then Lily brings her wand in a decisive swish towards it- but nothing happens.

She frowns and slashes at it, quickly, but the yellow light that cuts across the wood doesn’t have a single effect.

“It’s not so bad, closer to it,” Lily mumbles, before reaching for the thin latch holding the box closed.

“Lily-”

“It’s warm,” she says, before she opens it.

Inside, James can see dusty velvet and a gaudy, ugly ring. It doesn’t look like much, but Lily- when he looks at her, she looks captivated. Her green eyes are all but glowing; she’s not blinking.

“Lily,” says James, a pit growing in his belly.

She doesn’t answer.

Instead, Lily reaches for the ring.

James flicks it closed and holds his hands up when she whirls on him, outraged.

“You looked like it was drawing you in,” he says slowly.

Lily snarls incoherently.

“I take that back,” James mutters, backing away. “Clearly it’s already-”

Lily moves, then, with devastating speed: she throws James into the far wall. If James’ ribs hadn’t been healed to perfect health, the impact would have probably been enough to have him down. But he’s healed.

So James throws up sand, straight into the air, and rolls to the side, throwing a wide-range buzzing spell that’ll keep Lily busy until he can subdue her.

It’s a solid plan.

James is a better dueler than Lily. He’s got more experience, he’s quicker with his wand, and his spells are generally geared towards the explosive; Lily’s slower, but more devastating when her plan snaps into place.

Except now she’s faster, ten times faster than James has ever seen her-

First she dissipates the sand wordlessly. Then she volleys forwards, with a purple-flecked-black spell that James hasn’t even heard of; he dodges instead of risking it with a shield. The spell hits the wooden wall behind his head in the place of his head.

James almost sighs in relief.

But Lily smiles.

Slow, coldly amused, terrifying. James’s never seen her look so cold before. Lily’s warm, always, even when she’s angry; she shouts and screams and doesn’t ever look like this, like she’s got the world in the palm of her hand and is ready to catch it under the delicate point of an eyetooth-

“Lils,” James pants, throwing up more harmless jinxes that she bats aside as if they’re nothing more than minor inconveniences, “Lily- goddammit- stop for a moment-”

He realizes, too late, what that purple spell was supposed to do, when vines snake around his arms and drag him back. One wrenches his wrist backwards until he’s forced to give up the wand; James grits his teeth and strains against it.

“This isn’t you,” he tells her.

Lily’s eyes are glassy, empty. Sheened over like someone’s covered them with a lens.

“Darling,” she coos, voice sickeningly sweet, “this is me. The most me. Without you around to drag me down, who knows what I’ll become?”

“A killer,” grunts James, even as the vines press him against the wall.

Lily laughs. She steps closer to him and rubs her wand down James’ cheek, soft and caressing. He doesn’t move; only glares at her, at her eyes, where it’s clear that she isn’t in her right mind.

“I’m already a killer,” says Lily. “Or did you forget about Bella?”

She turns, moving towards the box that James had closed- turning her back on him for a critical moment.

Because James knows what he saw.

Her eyes- her lovely, sharp, green eyes- the part of her that James loves the most, the part that he can sketch with his own eyes closed, the part that he’s been staring at so closely for the past moments- flickered red.

Bella, thinks James. Not Bellatrix. And red eyes.

There’s only one person he knows with red eyes.

It makes a sick kind of sense. This is what they’d feared, why they’d worn Death Eater robes; Voldemort.

Voldemort, who James had blown up.

Voldemort, who killed James’ parents, who tried to kill James’ son, who even now is trying to kill his wife.

I am a Potter, thinks James, and his fury in that moment- it’s been building, seething, over ragged wounds and festering helplessness and magical objects that hold the blood of thousands of innocents- but it boils over then, exactly, at the moment that he thinks his own familial name. I am James fucking Potter, and you- I will not let you take anything else from me!

He flexes his wrist, and feels something cold and hard under it. James twists to see it. Thor’s axe is right there, under his fingers, silver and shining. Uncertainty thrums through his chest for a brief moment; there’s hundreds of stories through history, of the axe rejecting Thor, of the axe killing Thor’s sons when they tried to take up his mantle, of the axe’s bloody, terrible history.

Then he looks up to Lily, and sees her cradling the ring, close to her chest, as if it’s Harry.

James sees red.

The vines around his wrists snap off, burned to ashes under the force of his rage, and before they can grow back, even as Lily spins around, eyes shining scarlet, wand rising to curse him to oblivion and back-

James raises the silver axe straight into the air.

For the first time in five thousand years, Thor Odinson’s axe flares white.

Lightning splits the world apart around them.

...

Lightning is the symbol of death. It’s the life-bringer, and the death-caller.

The first life in all the universe was born amid lightning and violence.

There are things in this world that will not leave it without the same violence.

These are all truths that Lily Potter knows.

...

Hundreds of miles away, Lord Voldemort stands in front of the Ministry of Magic, flanked by his army. His gut shivers, rolling with anticipation, thick and sweet in his mouth.

"Take it,” says Voldemort, and the very building trembles.

...

Three floors away, trapped inside the building they’re supposed to work inside, are the aurors. Rufus Scrimgeour snarls under his breath, but he’s well and truly beat: there are five Death Eaters to every auror.

And once they take the office, they’ll be able to find the rest of the force easily. There’s trackers that map to each auror, on a magical map pinned up in the bullpen.

“Stand down,” says the leader, a broad man in black robes and a white mask. “If you cooperate, there won’t be anything to fear.”

Rufus grits his teeth and feels a shiver wrack his body. Blasted dementors- useful for nothing so much as-

Fuck, he thinks, as You-Know-Who’s army breaches the Ministry of Magic. Fuck this.

Britain hasn’t once fallen to the Dark. Other countries have. Time and time again: France, Prussia, the city-states of Greece; some even have cycles of light and dark, alternating and equal in power. The Aztecs used almost solely dark magic. The fall of the Zhou dynasty in China had led to such a resurgence of dark power that it still hurts Rufus’ teeth to go near a full three-fourths of the country. Some of the ziggurats in Mesopotamia had been built to worship muggle gods, but the majority were constructed to aid in ancient Akkadian rituals that harnessed the sun’s power for longer-lasting, dark potions.

But Britain?

Brittany had almost fallen to Mordred, to Morgana; but it hadn’t actually collapsed. Grindelwald’s reluctance to cross the Channel hadn’t been entirely because of Dumbledore: the very earth, the very soil and stone- it’s steeped in light magic.

There’s dark magic, of course, as always; light magic’s mirror and opposite, but it’s never held control of the land.

It’s never governed magical Britain.

And now, there is one place that even has a chance to stand against it. If they don’t want the elements themselves to recoil on the highest bastion of light’s defilement- the Ministry is finished. It’s Hogwarts, now, that is their last hope.

Hogwarts must not fall.

Rufus is an auror. He’s a Slytherin, and he loves the Light like he loves his duty. He is a Slytherin: he understands sacrifice.

“Augustus,” he says, standing. His people- good witches and wizards- shift, allow him an unimpeded line of sight to a man Rufus would like nothing more than to strangle bare-handed. Augustus Rookwood, a boy Rufus had roomed with for seven long years. “You could have been great.”

“I am,” says Augustus, lifting his hands. “I’m the lieutenant of the most powerful wizard in the world. And now you can join me, Rufus. There’s no need for you to be limited by the Ministry’s stupid, bureaucratic minutiae.”

Rufus smiles and watches Augustus relax. One of his deputies- a muggleborn girl, with some of the quickest wandwork he’d ever seen- flinches, in the corner of his eye; then she straightens, and holds her wand at a sharp angle. Rufus can all but see the curse on the tip of her tongue.

Do or die, thinks Rufus, vaguely amused, viciously angry. That’s what the muggles say, isn’t it? This is that moment.

This is what he’ll be remembered for.

He says, loudly, “If you’d ever looked beyond the tip of your nose, Gussy, you’d know that I’ve never wanted anything other than this Ministry’s stupid bureaucratic minutiae.”

He twitches his wand, one precise, clockwise circle, and brings the physical wards crashing down.

Only the Head Auror can do it. It’s not told explicitly to them when they take their oaths, but Rufus knows the laws like he knows his magic. He knows his capabilities. And the wards are keyed to the Head Auror, not the Minister, not any Department Head. Though it hurts in him like a stab- he brings the wards down, and brings the Ministry down with it.

The floor rolls, as the ward stones holding the entire building together collapse.

“What have you done?” Augustus shouts, trying to find his balance.

Made your life harder. Rufus slips to one knee and rolls to the side, dodging the flashes of green light.

“Sir!” screams one of the rookies, not a foot from his face, crouched behind a desk, half-hysterical. “We’re not getting out of this alive!”

“No,” says Rufus grimly. “That, we are not.”

He takes aim, accurate and precise, and fires. Two Death Eaters fall, dead, and Rufus shakes out his hand, his leg that still cramps on bad days. Rufus is not a Gryffindor; bravery is not bred in him.

But ambition is.

...

(Of all the people who fought in the war, against Voldemort and for him, Rufus Scrimgeour’s tally is the highest.)

...

Frank holds Neville. Alice’s hands are tight on the Prophet- there’s a rip down the middle, sharp and thin, from her hands clenching against it. This morning’s paper has just arrived. It has Malfoy sneering from the front page. It has Lestrange smiling- smiling!- beside him.

(The last thing they’d printed, the last thing that hadn’t been Death Eater propaganda; Alice has it saved.

It’s been the point of discussion of multiple Order meetings. The swirl of dark cloth as Thanatos apparates away- the picture had graced the front of multiple Prophet covers ever since Bellatrix died. But that isn’t what caught Alice’s attention.

There’s a girl, narrow and pointy, with colorless hair- she stands in the middle of the street and glares at the photographer. She wears muggle clothing; doesn’t have a wand in sight, despite being Hogwarts-age. Alice is certain she’s a muggle.

She’s quoted, in small, cramped print, as if printed in a hurry: “This world isn’t safe. And the only way to make it safer is to make sure it’s safer ourselves.”)

I am an auror, Alice thinks, before she rips the paper in her hands firmly, straight down the middle and into two. Whatever that means now.

This morning, at breakfast, a hundred Patronuses soared in from aurors that Alice had known, had loved, had protected. She’s never seen a lovelier sight, how the world had turned shining and bright in a single moment that seemed to last forever.

And then one of them landed at the Head Table: a lion, grizzled, with one ear torn raggedly and a long scar down its flank.

“The Ministry has fallen,” it had boomed in Rufus’ rough voice, and through the shrieks of fear from the students, Alice had seen Minerva go pale, Albus sag in his chair, Filius flinch hard enough to rattle his top hat.

Alice is an auror, like Rufus, like James, like Frank.

Her wand is cold in her hand. She knows, in her heart, deep and true: it will see battle soon.

...

Lily is blind.

She can feel the earth under her knees, the hard, hot edges of the ring under one palm, the shattered pieces of the wooden box that had held it. Her ears are ringing. She’s hiccuping, just a little. But the bright white lights are still spotting her vision, and Lily can’t find it in herself to try to blink them away.

Her chest is too fragile to risk movement.

The world had felt so perfect. For long, breathless heartbeats, Lily’s world had been made of light and right and weightless beauty. For weeks now, she’s had to make decisions that leave her questioning, doubtful; she’s spent weeks doing the best she can, and Lily’s certain that it isn’t good enough.

She wants to go back to that perfect world now, now that she knows how lovely it can be. Unquestioning adoration. Doubtless freedom. 

Lily feels coldness on her cheeks and knows she’s weeping, but she can’t stop. She bends over, and there’s a rawness in her throat but Lily can’t hear her screams through the ringing in her ears; she can’t move at all, she’s so afraid of what will happen- if she hurts James, if he’s gone or stuck in her brain besides all the memories Lily has of loving Harry and James and-

Oh- 

In the life Lily had before magic, she’d attended church. She doesn’t remember much of it; her mother had been the only person in their family who’d been religious, and Lily’d always been closer to her father anyhow. 

But she thinks about the psalms now, the songs, the chants, those rhythms that had reverberated below her breastbone in a place that magic’s never managed to touch.

She’s so fucking afraid.

Then she feels James, his hands large and gentle, so gentle, along her spine. Lily cants into his touch blindly; she can’t help it. Her muscles feel over-stretched and aching, her bones feel like they’ll shatter against one wrong touch, and she feels violated like she’s never felt before.

Steadily, even as her skin scrapes and aches, James gathers himself around her.

She can feel his chest rumbling soothing sounds, even as she can’t hear them. It’s James, of the two of them, who loves poetry- Lily’s too impatient for it- but in the warmth and scent of James, surrounding her all over, Lily can hear the echoes of a prayer. 

Slowly, achingly slowly, Lily blinks her eyes open.

Through the brilliance of the white spots, she sees James’ dark hair. She’d know that shade anywhere; Lily reaches for it, feels the soft spikes that curl and rub against her skin. Then she turns to James and meets his eyes.

He relaxes.

“You looked different,” he whispers, settling on the ground and bringing Lily closer to his chest. “When- when he had you. Your eyes were red.”

Lily thinks about the warmth that suffused her limbs. She’s never been under the Imperius before, but she can’t imagine that there’ll be much difference there; the knowledge of her own weakness burns in her chest like acid.

“I’m sorry,” she says. Her voice rasps, thick in her throat. “I’m- I- I hadn’t realized what was happening. It was- it was so warm, and I’ve only ever felt dark magic as cold, and he was so persuasive-”

“Lils,” says James, and she breaks off. “I don’t blame you.”

“You should,” says Lily. 

James shakes his head. “Don’t be stupid.”

It’s the fondness in his voice that makes the tears come again: exasperated, patient love. He doesn’t flinch from Lily; he drags her closer, keeps her grounded, and Lily’s never before trusted someone so implicitly. So wholly. 

“I didn’t hurt you?”

He huffs a laugh against her ear. “Your vines sprained my wrist, I think,” he says. “But then- well, I didn’t help matters any either.”

Lily frowns. “What did you do? The ring-” she looks down, and sees it- it’s warm, yes, but not in the pulsing, living manner it had been before. It’s a smoking, burned-out shell instead; a blackened husk. Lily twists around to meet James’ eyes, almost clocking him in the jaw with her skull. “Jimmy!”

“Yeah.” James nudges the metal ring with his toe. “I think I overdid it?”

“What did you do?”

“I, ah, got angry.” He looks sheepish, the idiot. “At him, right? I mean- he’s taken so fucking much- and I was just- well. Angry. And my accidental magic’s always taken the form of fire, so your vines? They got burned.”

“All of them?” Lily asks slowly. The amount of magic that would take- wandless magic is usually stronger than wand magic, but less directed; to match a wand’s spell and completely undo it would likely take more than ten times the magic needed for a wand spell.

James shakes his head. “Just my wrist. Half my arm. D’you know what was right there, though? That I could catch?”

Lily reaches for his arm and runs her fingers over the half of it that’s pink and hairless, as if something’s just plucked all of the hair out.

“Jimmy,” she breathes, as she turns his hand over and sees the livid rune carved into his wrist.

“Thor’s axe,” says James softly.

Her heart stutters. “You did what?” Lily demands, digging her nails into James’ skin. “I couldn’t possible have heard you correctly- James- Thor’s axe-”

“I wasn’t exactly thinking.”

“Oh, that’s obvious.” Lily lets go of him. “It’s called Deathlight, James, have you lost your mind?”

James looks like he’s chewing on his cheek. “Listen. I think- it’s wrong.”

“Four thousand years of history, and you’re going to prove everyone wrong?” Lily snaps. 

“Yeah,” says James, starting to sound irritable. “Because I’ve actually seen it work, Lily, and I think I know more about it than some stuffy witch translating pen marks that’ve been translated a dozen times before her?”

Lily bites her tongue, jaw working for a long moment. Then she sighs, waving her hand. “Yes,” she says crossly. “Yes, alright, that’s a fair point.”

James nods. “I don’t think it’s Dark.”

“James-”

“Because-” he breaks off, lifting his brows questioningly, until she nods. “Because you’ve all assumed it’s death of light, haven’t you? That’s what Deathlight means.”

“...yes.”

“Can you think of another meaning?” James asks quietly.

There’s a spark in his eyes- and it’s that thought, that light there, that gives her the answer. 

“No,” says Lily, jumping to her feet. She sways- the world sways- but Lily keeps to her feet and glares at James. “James. You can’t possibly be serious!”

“Deathlight,” says James, spreading his hands, revealing the rune, inflamed, livid, vivid: lightning, carved dark against his unmarked skin. “Lightning, Lily.”

Lily closes her eyes. She can see it, now that she knows what it is: a blinding, brilliant bolt of white light, searing down through the roof of the hut; it had shattered the wooden box that had held the ring, and completely destroyed the ring itself. There had been a high, electric whine in the air- that must have been what made her ears ring.

She breathes. Her chest aches, in the same spot that had hurt to kill Bellatrix. Lily’s hands are empty, her wand lying on the ground. She closes them into fists and folds her arms over her chest instead.

“Where’s the bloody axe now?”

“It listens to me,” James tells her, rubbing one hand over the back of his neck self-consciously. “I just had to will it- and it disappeared.”

Lily grips the wooden chair tightly. “And you can call it back?”

James holds out his hand and his brows furrow, before his arm jerks- Lily inhales sharply as the axe materializes out of thin air, as if James’d just conjured it. But when she approaches it, she can feel the promise of violence just leashed in its silver handle, in its shining blade; Lily can’t feel the darkness that had permeated it. 

Not that she trusts her instincts now.

“James,” she whispers.

“It’s dangerous?” asks James, wryly. 

We are both too sharp for this world, Lily thinks, sadly, tracing James’ cut lip, the shadow of a bruise ringing one temple. They’ve both had so much worse than this. When will we ever stop bleeding?

James’ skin is glowing from the silver light of the axe. Lightning, Lily thinks; deathlight, lovely, dangerous.

“Yes,” says Lily, reaching up to press a kiss to his lips. “But that hardly matters now, does it?”

...

“You need to get your head on straight,” James tells Lily. “We need to get our heads on straight. It isn’t even noon- Harry can stay in the daycare ‘til evening. Let’s go to Diagon.”

“James,” sighs Lily.

But James knows Lily; he knows how much it shakes her, to be doing the wrong thing. He knows how much it hurts her, to be doing the wrong thing and feel like she’s doing the right. To someone who lives with certainties, to have them shaken- James knows well, how that feels.

(James lives with others, depends on those that he calls family to love him and support him. 

Peter betrayed that.

There hasn’t been a single night in the past three weeks that James hasn’t woken up from a nightmare.)

“We’ll have hot tea,” he coaxes instead, reaching out and catching Lily’s hand. “Hot tea, with milk and honey. Not the watery stuff we’ve had for the past couple weeks.”

Lily closes her eyes tightly, then she nods, once.

James apparates them straight to London.

...

They slip into the Leaky Cauldron quietly, and wait in silence until their tea arrives. Lily tries to soak the warmth of the cup into her bones, where she feels as if winter has sunk into it. 

There’s marrow there, Lily knows, in the hollows of her bones. It’s where her body is born. Her blood- the vast majority of it- is made up of cells that last for only four months. Give her a year, and her blood will be formed anew thrice over. Right there, in the hollow, hallow shadows of her bones, there’s ice and darkness alongside all the parts of her that aren’t old enough to become anything.

James looks haggard, too. He’s charmed his hair blonde, and Lily’s hair’s some halfway shade between red and black; they’re both huddled in a small corner booth and curled over their cups silently, letting the steam catch on their face’s skin.

Lily rubs her finger over the smooth wood of the tabletop. 

There’s no varnish. It’s age that’s worn it down, not polish. Lily wonders how many tears have soaked into the wood, how much beer and grief and joy.

“James,” she whispers, reaching out one hand to his. She rests it on the table, upturned, waiting for him to press his palm back to hers. “I’m so afraid.”

She shouldn’t be. Lily knows how to defeat death. She knows, down deep in her blood and bone. You defeat death by accepting it, and she has to, she has to accept death before she can save James and Harry and-

“You know what we call insane?”

James’ face is thinner than Lily’s ever seen it. There’s a gauntness to his face that makes Lily want to take him and kiss his pain out of his muscles, a pallid cast to his face that makes her viciously, terribly angry. His hair is blond and his eyes are dark and there’s a spark in that darkness that reminds Lily of death and fear and brilliant, shining, lovely light.

Lightning.

“What?”

“Doing the same thing over and over again, and expecting different results.” Lily clutches tighter at James’ hand. “How many times can we fight against him before we’re defeated? How much- how much can we lose before we lose our-”

Suddenly, James smiles and Lily stops. The shadows darkening his face don’t fade; they deepen. He looks angry, and regal, all at once, like the busts of Arthur and Gryffindor brought to life once more. 

“We’re Gryffindors,” he says. “And that doesn’t mean being insane, maybe, but sometimes it means looking insane.”

“James,” she says quietly.

“Lily,” he returns, eyes alit, silvered. “Our family isn’t dead. And so long as our son is alive, he won’t stop coming after us. I’m not letting him have Harry.”

“I’m af-” Lily freezes.

James tries to turn to see what she’s looking at, but Lily tightens her grip on his hand until he stops. She knows she’s lost what little color she had- her heart is pounding in her ears, loud, drowning out everything else.

“Fuck,” she breathes.

“Lils-”

“Don’t move,” Lily hisses, reaching for her wand and sliding it off the table silently. “Don’t call anyone’s attention- we can’t-”

“Then tell me what’s going on!”

“The day’s paper just came,” she whispers, eyes flicking over the pub. 

James frowns. “This late?”

Lily knows her hands are shaking. They’re too late-

“It wasn’t there when we came in. I thought it was because we weren’t here in the morning, that they’d run out- but they just delivered it.” She meets James’ eyes, and shivers convulsively. “Malfoy’s on the front cover.”

“Lily-” he twists around, sees the front page that Lily’s been seeing, and turns back to her, dead-white. “We have to get out of here.”

“We have to find out what’s happening.” She straightens and swallows, hard. “Three weeks was too long. If he has control of our government- well, Jesus, James, we have to move faster. Find out what that bloody artifact was in Little Hangleton, see how to kill a man who’s better with his wand than both of us combined-”

“-but first, we need to see what’s going on.” 

“Yes.” Lily tilts her head and appraises him closely. “Go to Harry. Take him home. You’re shaking, Jimmy.”

James’ eyes narrow. “You’re not much better off.”

“I’m not the one who called down lightning this morning,” says Lily. “You know that only covens used to do that, right? Weather witchery always takes covens, because it’s so exhausting. And you just- did it. By yourself.”

“Thor helped,” he says dryly.

Lily sighs. “That isn’t the point.”

“I’m a pureblood.”

“And you’re faster than me with your wand,” agrees Lily. “Listen- you levitate this cup, and I’ll let you go, Jimmy. Go on.”

James closes his eyes. “Lily.”

But his hands don’t move towards his wand. 

“Apparate home,” she says gently. “Spend time with Harry. Rest. I’ll come back with the news.”

“The last time I let you come to Diagon alone, you fought-” he drops his voice, so he’s mouthing the last bit: “-and killed Bellatrix Lestrange.”

Lily feels sick, and free, and exhausted like she’s never felt before. Her hand shakes, but her grip is sure. Give her a target, and she’ll blow out the bullseye without pause.

“I survived,” she says, before pushing her teacup back and rising to her feet. “And it won’t get that far again. The door’s that way, Jimmy.” She tilts her head towards the door leading out to muggle London, and after a long moment- when James nods in one abrupt, irritable jerk of his head- Lily moves towards the door that leads further into Diagon.

In a small corner, she disillusions herself, then spends a dozen minutes transfiguring and charming her clothes into something better fitting her persona. Dark pants, for freedom of movement; a similarly dark form-fitting tunic that splits apart at the hips for the same purpose; boots with sensible soles and a cloak that she charms with a nifty spell that keeps it from tangling with her limbs. Her hair’s already thick and tangled, so she only brushes it and

Then, still disillusioned, Lily steps out.

The paperboy that delivers the Prophet to the rest of Diagon steps out of Jigger’s Apothecary, and Lily presses her wand to the soft skin of his neck. 

“Step into the alley,” she breathes.

He goes rigid. But he does; it’s shadowed and empty, and Lily cancels the disillusionment at the same time as she shoves him away from her. When he turns back, she’s haloed by the brightness of the sun outside of the alley, and cloaked in darkness otherwise.

“Who’re you, then?” he demands.

Lily flicks her wand to the side. The boy flinches when the rock explodes beside his head- he scrambles all the way to the other side of the alley- before he sees what Lily’d done.

A silver theta, crossed through the middle with a jagged lightning bolt.

“Thanatos,” he whispers.

“Yes,” says Lily. 

“You killed Lestrange.”

“Not enough of them, clearly.” Lily eyes him. “I need help.”

The boy’s fingers dig into the dust. Slowly, he levers himself upright. He’s a slender person; tall and lean, and the result makes him look like he’s been stretched a little, pulled too thin like taffy. His hair’s a colorless sort, all washed-out, but it’s dyed at the tips with purple and electric blue. They make his eyes- a very pale green- stand out.

“I’m not helping you hurt anyone,” he says.

“There was a boy before you,” Lily says slowly. “The Diagon Alley Runner, they called him. It worked out because the shops all pitched in on his coin, and none of them needed to pay for a Prophet subscription. His name was...”

The boy swallows.

“Brian,” says Lily. “That was his name. What happened to him?”

The boy shakes his head. “I don’t- I don’t know anyone by that name.”

Lily feels anger balloon in her chest. She’d known Brian, not well, perhaps, but- they’d been friends, of a sort, and he’d always had a smile that lit up Diagon even brighter than it was. He’d been a muggleborn. For three years, Brian had run around Diagon, delivering papers with cheerful abandon, and the day there was a headline screaming Ministry of Magic in Shambles and a Malfoy and Lestrange in the papers, he was gone.

A fucking muggleborn.

“You started working this morning,” she whispers, voice shaking, her wand untrembling. “Didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Get up,” snarls Lily, jabbing her wand at him, barely stopping herself from throwing sparks in his eyes. “Get up. Where’s your backlog of papers?”

“There’s-” he pauses, thinking, before flinching again as Lily’s wand starts spitting sparks again. “-a warehouse? We keep old papers there.”

“Take me there.”

“The past month,” she says when they arrive, crisply, coldly, like wind-whittled ice. “All of the papers, one from each day. Bring them out to me.”

He does. Lily follows him where he goes, and when he’s reached this morning’s- he pauses.

His hands tighten on the last packet, knuckles blanching, before he says, quietly, “My mam’s in the Ministry.”

Lily lifts her wand, but he continues talking without turning.

“My dad’s on the run,” he says, almost soundlessly, and Lily lets her wand lower just a little. “The Prophet doesn’t know that, though. They know I’m a halfblood, and forget all ‘bout the other half.” He turns around, suddenly, and his eyes are bright, like a glowing, eerie lamp. “They’d kill him if they get a chance.”

“I-”

He shoves the bundle at her and steps away. “You come near me again and I’ll go to the aurors.”

“They’ll kill him, but you won’t help me?” demands Lily.

“My mam’s in the Ministry,” he says again, firmly, loudly. 

Oh, thinks Lily, watching his long, ungainly limbs. Oh, you poor boy.

“Do you need help?”

He clenches his jaw. “No.”

“There’s no shame in it if-”

“Thanatos, right?” he asks. “I don’t need help from someone called death. This ain’t my fight.”

“They have your father running away,” Lily exclaims. “They have your mother working besides the men hunting him down, and-” 

How many times has she heard that- this isn’t my fight, this isn’t my battle, if I close my eyes I won’t have to see my friends and family die-

“Not your fight?” she demands. “Not your fight? This is your fight, like nothing else.”

“’m a halfblood.”

Lily scoffs. Rage thrums in her breast like a second heartbeat, hot and fierce. 

“Voldemort will come for the mudbloods first, yes,” she says. “He’ll go for the muggles, too. Then he’ll attack anyone who dared to stand against him, and then he’ll kill everyone who didn’t kneel to him- but do you know what he’ll do after that?”

The boy stares at her.

“He won’t hesitate to kill you,” Lily tells him. “And there won’t be a single person in this world who’ll stand up for you then, because all that will be left are the cowards.”

He turns away, then back to her- and he’s smiling, humorlessly, like a skull stripped of skin. “You were a Gryffindor,” he says, as if it’s a grand joke. “Weren’t you?”

“Yes,” says Lily cautiously.

“Lady,” says the boy, leaning forwards, “coward ain’t the worst insult you can call someone.”

Lily hisses out through her teeth before she can stop herself.

“Call it what you want,” he says, stepping away. “You come after me again, and I’ll show you how quick I can be with my wand.”

“I killed Bellatrix Lestrange,” Lily calls after him. “You think you’re faster than her?”

He doesn’t turn around, though he stops moving. “Doesn’t take speed to kill people. Just luck.” Then his shoulders drop just a little. “Lady Thanatos,” he says, quietly, head arching to meet Lily’s eyes. He looks older, then- exhausted, worn, but steady. The bright tips of his hair catch the late afternoon sunlight. “I won’t leave this place. But that- well, I mean to say- it doesn’t mean I don’t want my father back.”

“I don’t understand.”

His lips tip up. “Give ‘em hell,” he says, and steps out of the door.

Lily watches him leave- I don’t know your name, she thinks, a quizzical sort of sadness in her chest, before she apparates away. There’s no time for thoughts on people who don’t care about the future of their world in her life, not now. There’s far more important things that she has to face.

...

Lily spreads the papers on the damp floor of the cave carefully. 

They take alternating papers and sort through the articles as quickly as they can. After this, they need to research the ring; James isn’t sure how, exactly, Lily plans to do that- but she’s better than him at the esoteric magics, and he’s not shy about admitting it. But he can manage this easily enough. It’s just skimming over cruel words that make his gorge rise; it’s watching Harry out of the corner of his eye and thanking everything he knows that his son is safe, so near to him.

 Then James feels his heart stutter to a stop. “Lily,” he says, strangled.

She jerks her head up. 

He tosses the paper over to her. 

Lily’s eyes narrow as she skims the page. James can identify the exact moment that she reaches the pertinent article- her face drains of all color. He thinks her hands are shaking.

“James,” she whispers, not looking away from it.

He closes his eyes. James knows what it says; it’s imprinted itself on the insides of his eyeballs.

Death Eater Captured!

Early this morning, the auror department arrested Sirius Black (Figure 11) on charges of high treason, murder, and aiding and abetting the terrorist organization known as the Death Eaters. According to Head Auror Scrimgeour, there is “incontrovertible evidence” of Black’s crimes.  “Due to extenuating circumstances,” said Scrimgeour, “Black has been directly transported to Azkaban, where he will remain in the maximum security cells.” Scrimgeour went on to stress that this arrest is a triumph for the department. The aurors are making progress in derailing the terrorist activities of the Death Eaters, and witches and wizards have no need to fear for their safety.  However, until his high-profile arrest, Black had been well on his way to a distinguished career in the auror department. These are likely the extenuating circumstances that Auror Scrimgeour spoke of: the auror department is mandated by law to keep citizens accused of high treason in the Ministry of Magic’s cells for a period of 72 hours under which the accused can either prove their innocence or be remanded to Azkaban for a longer trial period. To eliminate security concerns arising from Black’s intimate knowledge of auror protocols, he was taken to Azkaban directly, where he is now under the purview of dementors. 

Azkaban is such a dark and terrifying word, the very spikes of the letters piercing through James’ skin, regret dripping across the cave floor under him, soaking into the stone.

“Jimmy,” says Lily, again, and when he looks up at her, there are tears in her eyes.

“We have to get him,” says James, in a voice he scarcely recognizes.

Lily swallows. “Of course.”

“Bloody-” he grinds his fist into his thigh and forces himself to still. Harry’s there, right next to Lily, playing idly with the seaweed net that Lily’d woven a few weeks ago. Instead, he slumps back. “We should’ve thought about it.”

“We didn’t tell anyone,” Lily agrees. “They all thought Sirius was our Secret-Keeper.” She exhales, slowly. “If I get my hands on Peter-” she shakes her head. “He’ll be lucky to die.”

James doesn’t move his head.

He doesn’t know what he’ll do, if Peter ever shows up. If Peter is standing in front of Lily, she’ll curse him until his skin is inside out, he knows; but if Peter was standing in front of James- James doesn’t know how he’ll raise his wand. James doesn’t know how he’ll cast spells at a man he’s known for nearly half of his life. James doesn’t know if he can look into Peter’s eyes and muster the hate.

He knows Peter, that’s the problem. He loves Peter, deep as he’s ever loved Sirius or Remus- they’re his brothers. They’re his brothers, and that’s the end of the story.

Sirius would never have raised his wand to Regulus, no matter how much they hated each other.

James doesn’t know how he could ever hope to do any different to Peter.

(Anger is different from hatred, James thinks, even as he doesn’t look at Lily where she’s weeping silently. He is angry at Peter, perhaps will be for the rest of his life- but he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to hate the man. Ah, Peter, I don’t know where we went wrong.)

Then he reaches for Lily’s hands and draws her to her feet.

“We sleep tonight,” he says, curling his hands over her cheeks, cradling that lovely, loving face in his palms. “We rest. And as soon as we can, we’ll take him from there.”

“Break into Azkaban?” asks Lily, disbelieving. “There’s things that even we can’t do.”

“It’s... difficult,” agrees James. “But do you know of anyone else who’s survived Voldemort more than thrice? Lily- we don’t have a choice. Sirius isn’t- we can’t- we have to save him. We have to.”

Lily’s hands reach up to clutch at his forearms. “Jimmy,” she whispers.

James kisses her. Long and slow. She tastes like honey, like summer; amidst the biting wind outside, James can feel home in her warmth.

“We have to,” he whispers into her ear, and watches Lily slowly rock forwards, press her face into his chest.

Then Lily pulls away. She steps towards Harry and swoops him up, pecking at his forehead. Slowly, she turns back to James.

“Harry can’t stay with us if we do,” she says. “It’ll take too long- what, two days? Three?- we’ll need to keep him with someone safe, then.”

James leans against the side of the cave. The rough stone is cold against his shirt. He thinks on it- Remus is in hiding with the werewolves; Sirius is in prison; Peter’s betrayed them. Of Lily’s friends: Marlene is dead, Mary left for foreign shores as soon as she graduated, and hasn’t been seen since. There isn’t anyone else that they can trust with Harry.

“Who, though?” he asks.

Lily traces Harry’s hair, then conjures a glittery phoenix out of her wand that flies around his head. He looks enchanted by it, and Lily rises to her feet slowly, looking like her limbs are aching, like she’s more than thrice her actual age.

“I know someone,” she says, hesitantly. 

James frowns at her. Lily looks up at him, glass-green eyes like all those shattered, shining pieces he’s seen out of pubs, drinking glasses and bottles crushed under his heel in the gutter. The phoenix soars above them, glittering golden and scarlet as it spirals upwards to the ceiling.

“You’re not going to like it,” says Lily.

The phoenix explodes.

“Do you trust me?”

Red sparks fall on their skin, catch on Harry’s dark hair, shine from the depths of Lily’s thick hair. She looks like a siren, like an ancient priestess. She looks like his wife.

“Always,” says James. “Forever.”

...

In one world, Petunia Dursley opens the door on a cold November morning to a letter that explained of her sister’s death.

In one world, it was accompanied by a small, scarred boy. In another, it wasn’t.

...

“May I come in?” Lily asks quietly.

Petunia glares at her. “No,” she snaps. “I don’t want you here.”

“Petu-”

“You’ve the nerve to come here after what you did?” Petunia demands, voice growing shriller. “You try to- to- to infect my son with your witchiness, and now you come here? Get out, I say! Out!”

“I’m not in yet,” says Lily levelly. Petunia flushes angrily, but Lily only lifts her chin to meet her anger. “‘Tuney, I’ve no idea what magic you’re speaking of. I haven’t spoken to you in-”

In nearly a year.

Since their parents died.

“-a while,” finishes Lily lamely.

Petunia flushes as if she knows what Lily’s thinking of. Her chin goes up, in a move that Lily recognizes as her own, as a thing that comes directly from their father- but then she steps aside from the door, eyes sweeping over the rest of the street.

“Well, come in then,” she says impatiently. “No use dawdling on the street.”

“It’s a lovely neighborhood,” says Lily, pressing her hands together to keep from wringing them. She feels distinctly helpless, in this white kitchen and its smooth linoleum tiles and polished appliances; Lily’s world is made of wood and stone and blood, and this modernity is as far as one can come from that. “Very expensive.”

“Vernon and I moved in when I realized I was pregnant,” says Petunia, before turning and arching a disapproving brow. “There’s a primary school right down the street- the best in the county. And there’s a lot of families with children around Dudley’s age. Where are you living now, Lily? Some mansion, like your husband spent all of my wedding dinner expounding on owning?”

Lily thinks of the chilly, damp cave that she and James have been living in for the past month, and can’t resist a wry smile. “No,” she says. “Definitely nothing like that.”

“So your husband’s a liar as well as an imbecile.”

“’Tuney-”

“Don’t call me that,” flares Petunia, before smoothing her hands over her skirt. “No, Lily, you tell me how fair it was of him to spend our wedding dinner- the wedding that Vernon paid for out of his own pocket!- in homage to himself and his- his stupid friends, and all the money that his father and father’s father had passed down to him! As if Vernon hasn’t been working himself to the bone for his entire life! As if being given things is better than working for them! And then his friend- your friend, Lily- had the gall to call Vernon a leech!” 

“I’m sorry,” says Lily quietly.

Petunia eyes her. She breathes deep and lets the angry flush fade from her cheeks. “Why are you here?”

“Because- well, you know of the war, don’t you?”

“The war that killed our parents.” 

“Yes,” says Lily. “Well- the leader of the terrorist group- he came for us. For me and James. A month ago.”

There’s a long silence. If Lily’d expected Petunia to gasp or ask after her health, Lily would’ve been sorely disappointed. But their relationship had soured long before such expectations could have arisen.

“Clearly you’re alright,” says Petunia.

Lily inclines her head. “It was close, though.”

“Lily-”

“One of James’ friends betrayed us. That’s how he knew where to come.”

“The one with black hair?” asks Petunia, lips twisting.

“The- the short one,” replies Lily. “And he framed Sirius. Which is why I’m here, actually.” She firms her shoulders. Don’t flinch now, Lily. “I need your help.”

Petunia’s eyes narrow suspiciously. “Help?”

“It’ll take three days- at least- to rescue Sirius. We can’t have Harry with us then. It’ll be so dangerous, ‘Tun- Petunia. Dueling, spells being thrown all over- he needs to be kept somewhere safe.”

Petunia doesn’t answer for a long minute. Then she whirls around and strides into the living room, Lily chasing on her heels, where she scoops up a chubby little boy with her stick-straight hair; she whispers into his ear and juggles him through a tiny tantrum before setting him down once more.

“I told you we don’t hold with your- kind in our house,” she announces coldly. “You haven’t respected that ever before, so why would you do so now?”

It sounds like a rhetorical question, but Lily answers anyway.

“I’ve stayed away since you sent that letter last year,” she says. “Petunia- I haven’t sent anything, I haven’t spoken to you in-”

“-you sent a letter!” exclaims Petunia. “It was just there, under my milk one morning, and you had it magicked to follow me wherever I went! Don’t deny it, I know what your magic looks like! It spat glitter all over me when I tried to ignore it!” She sweeps a hand over her collarbone, shaking. “It was terrifying.”

“And I’m sorry for that,” says Lily, before stepping forwards and taking Petunia’s narrow palm in her own. “But I didn’t send that letter. Did you read it?”

“No.” Petunia hesitates. “I burned it.”

Lily snorts, imagining the glittery letter and Petunia’s desperate attempts to burn it before it could be seen by her neighbors. There’s only one person who would have sent that kind of a letter, though. In fact, there’s only one person who would even know to send it to Petunia.

“Then it was probably Dumbledore,” she says. “He probably sent it to you to say- well- that I was dead.”

Petunia goes white. “What?”

“I told you that the leader of the terrorist group came for me and James,” says Lily. “We survived, but- it was so close, Petunia. James was hurt so badly. And I had to heal him, I had to care for Harry, I had to make sure nobody else was following us- the safest thing was to let everyone think we were dead.”

“Have you lost your mind?” Petunia demands loudly. 

Her eyes are their mother’s eyes. Blue-grey, like the froth of an ocean’s waves. Lily fights not to recoil at the brightness in them; at the fear, and shock, all melding into something that looks a lot like anger. Of all the people she’s known, Lily’s lost the most: her mother, her father, everyone she was close to in Hogwarts. James and his friends don’t understand- they’ve been risking their lives for so long, they’ve forgotten how it feels to not throw themselves into danger at the first provocation.

It’s been so long since she’s had someone look at her with rage for risking her life, rather than pride.

“No,” she murmurs.

Petunia shakes her head. “You’ve a son,” she hisses. “How selfish can you be, Lily? You’re still fighting, after everything you’ve lost? Why?”

“Because I can’t run,” replies Lily, wearily. “He’ll follow us wherever we go.”

And god, isn’t that frightening? There’s nowhere in this world that will keep Lily’s son safe from Voldemort. If they flee to France, further- dark magic is strong there, stronger by far than Britain, and even worse: no nation in the world will harbor refugees fleeing from a Dark Lord. If the government finds out that Lily’s family might begin a war in their lands, they won’t hesitate to deport them.

The best defense for Harry is for Voldemort to think he’s dead.

“Will you help me?” she asks instead of explaining further, turning to meet Petunia’s gaze. “I know how horrible we were to each other, Petunia. I know- I know our history. But a terrible mistake’s been made, and an innocent man is in prison, suffering things he should never have to, and the only people who can save him are me and my husband. Will you help me?”

Petunia closes her eyes. She wavers, thin and tall, like the girl from Diagon; like the boy Lily’d met this morning. 

Then she opens them.

“This prison,” she says, licking her lips, “is it- that one- Azkaban? The one with the... dementors?”

Lily pauses. Petunia couldn’t have ever heard that name more than twice; Lily’s shied away from discussing it in front of their parents. The only person in Lily’s life who would have ever spoken of such things is Severus, and she hasn’t spoken to him in nearly seven years.

She thinks of Petunia, small, smart, shoved out of the limelight by Lily; Lily’d looked like their mother’s youngest sister reborn, a woman who’d died from an unlucky riptide almost before she could walk, and their mother had always been more loving of Lily, kinder to her, than ever to Petunia. Lily thinks of how close they’d been, despite all those little things that must have hurt Petunia. She thinks of their childhood, and all those things that had made Lily stand out in a world that had only ever punished Petunia for attempting the same. 

She thinks of Petunia trying to grasp those slippery, shining syllables that encompass magic, quietly, desperately, slowly turning to hate to keep jealousy at bay.

“Yes,” says Lily, careful to keep her voice unpitying.

Petunia’s jaw works, slowly, like she’s testing out the words and biting them back even before they can reach her lips.

She doesn’t look at Lily- her eyes are focused on her son, and there’s some conflict raging in them- and after a long, breathless pause, she says, deathly quiet, “Very well.”

“What?” Lily can’t help asking.

“I said very well,” says Petunia, lifting her eyes to meet Lily’s. She doesn’t look away now. It’s bravery, Lily thinks; not a kind that anyone else would have recognized, but real, extant, and as hard as anything Lily’s ever done. “Bring your son here.”

“Thank you,” says Lily softly.

Petunia’s eyes harden. “Nobody deserves to be locked in a place with soul-eaters.” She swallows. “I never liked that boy- but- Lord, Lily, there’s things that I wouldn’t ever wish on a person.”

The last time she met Sirius, he’d charmed Petunia’s hat into a frog and cursed Vernon to have a raincloud following him over all of their honeymoon.

Lily steps forwards and before she can overthink it, she hugs Petunia.

But Petunia shoves her away. 

When Lily looks up at her, hurt, Petunia’s trembling, white-faced with her anger. “Don’t you dare act like we’re on equal terms,” she bites out. “This is- this is what a normal family does, when asked to, when given this choice- but that doesn’t mean that I’ve forgiven you of anything. You’re a selfish, privileged little girl who’s never had to grow up with the fears everyone else has. So send your son to me.” She seems to coil in on herself, abruptly embittered and sour as an unripe lemon. “Maybe I can teach him to be kind.”

“Why do you hate me?” cries Lily, throwing up her arms. 

Every time she thinks they’ve bridged something- every time she even hopes- Petunia changes the game, she steps back, she goes cold and cruel as Severus fucking Snape. Lily hates it. 

“Oh, as if you’ve not given me enough excuses,” sneers Petunia. 

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Where were you when I buried our parents?” shouts Petunia, advancing on Lily, using her height to crowd her backwards. “I sent you letter after letter, Lily, and you didn’t come! I delayed for a fortnight before I realized you weren’t coming!” There are tears in her eyes, those terrible eyes that look like their mother’s. “I needed you,” she whispers. “For the only time in my life, I needed my sister there for me, and you weren’t there. You couldn’t even give me the courtesy of an answer.”

Oh, thinks Lily, and her heart twists in her chest like someone’s taken it and squeezed it. Oh, ‘Tuney, I never meant this.

“I did send you one,” says Lily quietly.

Petunia’s eyes flash. “One. And it ignored everything about the funeral- it was like you hadn’t even heard-”

“I’d heard.”

“Then why?”

“Because they went after our parents because of me,” says Lily. “You know that. They killed our parents and they would’ve killed you, too, if they could’ve gotten their hands on you. And I had to make sure that wouldn’t happen.”

Petunia sits down, hard, on the armchair behind her. “That was a possibility?”

“Petunia.” Lily stares at her. “It’s a war. Of course it was a possibility. These people- they’re such- I tried to hide it from all of you. The ugliness of magic. But it’s- there’s people there who hate people like me, who hate people who aren’t born into magical families. They’ve gained power. Too much.”

“And you couldn’t tell me that, of course,” says Petunia. She’s trying for her usual disdain, but she looks utterly unnerved; her voice wobbles just enough for Lily to try to soften hers. “You couldn’t come here, and explain things to me.”

“I spent the weeks after they died developing a ritual,” Lily says, before kneeling and taking one of Dudley’s red colored blocks, running her fingers over the smooth wood. “I made sure they couldn’t track you through my blood.”

Petunia licks her lips. “How?”

She hesitates. “By cleaving myself from the name Evans.” Petunia’s head snaps up, and Lily clarifies, sadly: “I’m no longer Lily Evans, ‘Tuney. Not Lily Evans Potter either. I’m Lily Potter.”

If she and James ever separate, then Lily won’t be anything. Just Lily, red-haired, bright-eyed, quick-tongued Lily. She’ll have her wand and her mind and her anger, and not a single thing more.

It isn’t a sacrifice she regrets.

Lily watches Petunia for a long minute, then she reaches over and pats Dudley on his head- and then she rises to her feet. It aches in her bones. But Harry will be safe here, Lily knows, between wide windows and clean sofas and soft carpets. So she nods to Petunia and heads towards the door.

“Lily,” calls Petunia, and she stills. “That letter- those flowers you kept prattling about- was that a code?”

“Yes,” says Lily.

“Whose?”

“Whose do you think?”

(Their mother’s. Long, sunny afternoons filled with their mother showing them pictures of coastal blossoms and describing another language. They’d eaten oat cookies that tasted like salt and sand, and their mother had whispered long, liquid syllables of a language that their father hated- he’d never learned Welsh, had even forbidden it from their household, and their mother had accepted that to his face.

When he napped, though, she took her girls out to the back and gave them cookies she’d learned from her mother, and taught them, slowly, patiently, two languages: one of her hometown, and another of flowers.

The last time she’d done so had been before Lily went to Hogwarts.)

“You remember that?” asks Petunia.

“I’ve never forgotten,” says Lily. 

She turns, and Petunia’s closer to her than she’d thought- close enough to touch, though neither of them does.

“I’ve never forgotten,” Lily murmurs, and Petunia nods, once, face pale and narrow in the kitchen sunlight- she’s not pretty like Lily, not with life bursting out of her, but rather like a piece of cut glass- hard, harsh, tempered and forged and shining. They’ve hated each other for so long. For too long. “I’m sorry for letting you think otherwise.”

“As,” says Petunia, slowly, lifting her chin, eyes glittering, the last Evans in all the world, “am I.”

...

In one world, Petunia welcomes a boy into her home in November.

In another, she welcomes the same boy into her home in December.

(In one world, Petunia welcomes a boy into her home. In another, she welcomes him into her heart.)

...

They’re ready: James- as an auror- has patrolled Azkaban; he knows the way its security works. One day to map the terrain and decide their route, Lily thinks, and to test the wards from the island’s edges, where the wards are faltering, and then- then, they can break into it.

Lily hefts her bags higher onto her back, and sees something stick to the rough cloth- she peels it off, revealing a damp, smeared piece of the Prophet that she’d clipped out and forgotten in the rush to save Sirius.

Irene is there, written into immortality on one of the papers: defiant, angry, vicious. This world isn’t safe. And the only way to make it safer is to make sure it’s safer ourselves. Lily reads the words, traces over them, and she feels the sadness in her chest battle with pride, feels the sadness surrender.

I said this. Her fingers are stained black with ink. I touched another’s life, and she remembered that. 

There had been blood on Lily’s hands that day. She’d touched Irene’s shirt, and she’d stained it red, and Irene hadn’t flinched away. Just a few days earlier, Lily’d hated her sister. This morning, she’d handed her son over to him, and shed only shed a few tears in the process. Days before that, Lily met a boy, years older than Irene, a coward and a prideful one at that- a boy who’d been swallowed by the war far earlier than Irene ever had been; a boy who hadn’t raised a single wand to the dark side, who refused to do so.

Courage, dear heart. It’s an old saying. Lily remembers the words, surging up from the black waters of her childhood; reading books on her kitchen counter, amidst the smell of egg and pungent thyme, sunlight leavening her hair and warming her shoulders. There is something brighter than this.

She hadn’t known courage then. She hadn’t known all the forms courage could take, hadn’t even dreamt them.

Now, she looks up at James, as he enters the cave, ready to do the impossible, and the tears in her eyes fall when she sees the familiar, blocky edges of his hair. 

“Lils?” asks James, startled.

She shakes her head, not trusting her voice. Lily swallows, then reaches up and presses her fingers to his narrow, sharp jaw, spreading shadowy ink over his stubble.

“Let’s give ‘em hell,” she whispers.

...

They land on a stony shore.

James transfigures a boat out of the smooth rock, and Lily charms it to head towards Azkaban. Once at the edge of the wards, Lily runs the quick tests, wand flashing over the choppy waters with bursts of brilliant light.

“They’ll allow you in,” she says finally. “With verification.”

“Then it isn’t an issue.”

“James,” says Lily. “You don’t have your wand, have you forgotten that?”

He narrows his eyes back at her. “Bobby Crick had a memory for shit.”

“Azkaban’s warden?”

James nods easily. “Kept forgetting his wand inside the sealed room. So Scrimgeour changed the wards, from wands to magic. And there’s no way they’ll have stricken me from the stones, not with the whole restructuring of the Ministry. If they’ve even figured it out in the first place.”

“If you’re wrong, Jimmy,” warns Lily.

But this is James at his worst- or his best, because Merlin knows his luck’s held out thus far- because his friend is in danger, and half the reason his friend’s in danger is because of James, so there won’t be any reasoning with him on safety.

“I’m not,” he says firmly, and that’s that.

...

The next morning, they return. And James’ luck holds: they enter the wards without any problems. Lily keeps herself tucked in the shadows of her cloak, motionless, as they move further towards the dark fortress.

It’s like a parody of heading to Hogwarts. Here, the boat is cold, the waves are rough and chilling, the fortress is lit by sparse torches that aren’t helpful even in the light of day.

“Come on, love,” murmurs James, as they dock. His eyes- so bright, always- are shining with something too hot to call excitement. Bloodlust, perhaps. This is what the Britons of old had faced against Viking raiders, thinks Lily. This is what the Romans had faced, when battling the druids. Lily’s so glad she’s not on the opposite side. “Ready?”

Lily lifts her wand and tilts her head at him. “Always,” she returns.

...

The bottom levels of Azkaban are devoid of dementors.

It’s where petty criminals are kept, as well as those who are still waiting for their trials. The dementors’ miasma permeates even this floor, despite them not being allowed here, and it’s that which holds the prisoners locked inside, not the guards, who’re just three aurors, all of them who spend their miserable shifts in the guardsroom that’s really nothing more than a glorified dungeon.

James walks back into the prison.

He doesn’t shiver; he’s well past such easy, uncomplicated motions. Even in the dank, dark blackness, the world feels hot and bright and sharp enough to slice. Slowly, silently, James heads towards the guardroom.

Years and years ago, the first time he watched Remus transform- the world had been so bright that night, the moon silvering everything in sight; James’ flank had been ruined, a mess of shredded blood and bone, to the point that he hadn’t been able to walk- James had watched the sky lighten, had watched Remus’ shame, his horror, and he hadn’t repented for any of it. He hadn’t been able to breathe without choking on the blood. For weeks after, his teeth were stained red, the insides of his cheeks raw from chewing on it to keep from screaming.

He can’t imagine regretting that.

In this war, James has taken lives, saved lives, blown up buildings and escaped madmen. His hands are stained a red bright as Lily’s hair, as Harry’s mouth, as Remus’ tired eyes and Sirius’ jackets and Peter’s delicate, carefully tended roses. 

He doesn’t regret it.

James slashes his wand down, once, words surging over his tongue, slippery and harsh, and the door to the guardroom explodes as if it’s never existed in the first place.

Spellfire erupts from his wand, scalding and brilliant. The three aurors within don’t stand a chance: James is the best in the division, in the Order, and he’s got rage and surprise both on his side. A breath later, Lily sweeps in after him. She waves her wand and sinks into the glittering strings that represent wards. She’s searching for Sirius, whose magic she can probably feel with those runes she’s carved into her skin. 

Suddenly, Lily hisses out through her teeth, like she’s been slapped across the face, and her fingers move even faster, flicking the strings with a fervor that makes James’ spine itch. Then she looks at him.

Her eyes are dark.

Black, like the sea around them.

James lifts his wand immediately. “Lily.”

“It’s me, Jimmy,” she says, but it’s strained, as if coming from a great distance or after a great feat. It does nothing to reassure him. “It’s me. But- there’s a thing that I can do with these wards- it’s like a loophole. Stupid of them. It’ll take- give me a minute.”

“We don’t have much time.” 

“I know,” she snaps, but her eyes are reflecting the light of her wards, unearthly and ugly; James doesn’t care what she says, he wants to reach forwards and catch her pale, lovely hands, drag her to him, ground her to the earth with the weight of him. But he trusts Lily, too, would trust her even if she gives him a sword and asks him to gut himself, would trust her so long as he knows her to be in her own mind. So he stays silent.

When she finally lets the wards fade, the blackness has faded from her eyes. Her pupils look a little larger than usual, but that could just as easily be the darkness around them.

“I have Azkaban,” whispers Lily, before raising her chin to the ceiling, eyes shutting dreamily. “Come. I know where Sirius is.”

James follows, slowly, warily. But Lily does seem to know where she’s going- they head upstairs, towards the maximum security portion of Azkaban; and, perhaps, Azkaban is indeed responding to her, because they don’t even encounter any dementors along the way.

“Two more flights,” she murmurs, at one point. 

This, thinks James, wand held too tight in his left hand, fear and anger a hot ball in the pit of his stomach, lungs a little too small for the rest of his body, is too easy.

And just as he has the thought, Lily’s body seizes up. She doesn’t collapse. Rather, she goes rigid as a board, and when James leaps forwards, he sees blood trickling down her nose, vivid against her skin. Lily opens her eyes.

They’re black again, and James has to fight not to recoil.

“You didn’t kill them,” she says. 

“Kill who?”

“The guards.”

James shakes his head. “No, I did. I definitely-”

“One of them just alerted the Ministry!” Lily says, voice pitching higher, almost into hysterics. “I need- give me a- a minute.” 

Even as he supports her body, she flicks open the ward schema- it shouldn’t be accessible outside of the guardroom, but Lily’d mentioned something about a loophole, hadn’t she?- and starts tangling the strings together with a speed that looks like madness. 

But the walls ice over; James can feel the chill in his bones as the dementors approach. Whatever Lily’d done to keep them away must have failed. It’s clear to him, even as he watches her worriedly: she’s faltering.

James jumps as the door at the far end of the hall starts rattling. He swears under his breath, then shifts away from Lily carefully- she keeps to her feet easily, doesn’t even seem to realize that he’s not behind her- so he turns to face the door. 

The hall goes darker, if possible, and James sees three dementors surge through the door. The only illumination comes from Lily’s ward schema, and even that is a flickering, pale shade of what’s necessary.

He thinks of Harry, warm and small in his arms, a tiny, black-capped bundle that hadn’t even been as long as his forearms, and shouts, “Expecto Patronum!” and-

And-

And Prongs doesn’t leap from his wand.

A silver shield forms instead.

James is driven backwards one step, two, three. He sets his shoulders and shoves forwards, gasping. But the dementors approach, unconcerned by the flickering, fading shield between them.

He sinks to his knees. Sweat drips down his back. James inhales, exhales, inhales- and he breathes in freezing, terrifying despair along with precious air.

It reminds him of the peppermint leaves off the Orkney coast; that’s where Potter Manor’s been, for the history of their family, and it’s where they’re all buried, his blood. In fields of peppermint, where the wind bites through one’s cheeks and the entire world is colorless and the sea and stone and salt all comes together in cold, icy wrath. When his father died, he’d clutched James’ palms in his dry, fevered hands and choked on the word peppermint.

James lifts his head, shaking, and bites down on his tongue, blood red and rich in his mouth as his shield winks out.

He’s never been good at the Patronus spell. It’s such a stupid thing to fail at; here lies James Potter, who survived Voldemort but couldn’t survive his own despair.

There’s no light. The black sluices over his head, starless and dark as Lily’s eyes. James can’t breathe. This will be how he dies: swallowed by his wife’s darkness, by all the things they’ve sacrificed along the way. 

The dementor reaches down and grips James’ chin and there’s nothing left in him.

It leans down. 

James doesn’t close his eyes. Even terrified, even cold down to his bones and despair a living, clawing beast in his chest, he won’t die blind.

There’s a rattling, slow inhale.

Lily... he thinks. He can’t tell her that he loves her. But she’s the last thought he’ll ever have: his wife, lovely, beautiful, wonderful wife. Lily.

And something brilliant, brighter than a thousand stars, explodes out from behind James.

He sprawls, ungainly, on the floor. When he gains the strength to move his head up, he sees Lily standing, wand outstretched, blood dark and dripping down her face. She’s staring at something, face white and eyes wide. But James doesn’t have the energy to turn, to see, so he looks at her instead. He stares at her until he can see her eyes, pale and green and clear as spring vines chasing away winter’s ice.

Relief clutches at his heart.

Slowly, aching, he rolls over. 

The first time Lily cast her Patronus had been the first time they’d defied Voldemort. James remembers it well: Benjy Fenwick’s corpse beside him, the yawing hole in his heart that he hadn’t realized came with dementors. The sun had turned shadowed. Just that morning, he’d showed Lily his animagus form; they’d laughed, and drunk tea, and been happy.

James had been so sure he’d die. 

Lily’d done the Patronus instead, a silver doe leaping from her wand to save them. He’d loved her so much in that moment- even now, he doesn’t remember what he’d told Moody, what he’d told McGonagall; all he knows is how they’d fucked just moments later, in the foyer of their home, vicious and hard and bruising and good, like they couldn’t live without it.

But now, in the icy corridors of Azkaban, glowing and large as any phoenix, is a silver swan.

“Lily?” croaks James.

Slowly, she lets her wand fall; slowly, Lily approaches James, and cards her fingers through his hair. “Up, Jimmy,” she whispers. “C’mon. We don’t have time for this.”

“That’s looks... different.”

“If you don’t get up, I’ll slap you.”

“Lily-”

Something settles over James’ shoulders, warm and stifling. He jerks his head up to look at her, meets her eyes- those lovely, light eyes- and Lily says, quietly, “I’ve put up anti-apparition wards.”

“Okay.” James blinks. “Why?”

“To buy us some time.” She stands and levers James up, too. “We need a distraction. That’s the only way. Get their attention some other way- get them not to pay attention to Azkaban, just to something else-”

“And how’re you planning on doing that?” 

“Thor could fly,” she says. Her eyes are so earnest, so true; it makes James want to shrink away. It’s so fucking terrifying. “Thor could fly, James. You’ve his axe. I’ll get Sirius, get us both out; but you need to make sure they aren’t looking for us.”

“That’s a big task,” he says slowly.

Lily grins at him. “You’re up to it.”

“Lily-”

“If anyone was born to fly, it was you.” She steps away, towards the stairs leading to the maximum security. “I’ve faith in you, Jimmy.”

Is this the last time I see you? James wonders it, but he doesn’t reach for her. They’re in a war. They’re the fucking leaders of the war. There’s no room in them for those kind of things now. I love you, Lily.

But she knows that.

She needs him to fly, though, to survive. So James- his hands red, his chest cold, his wand steady- 

James will fly.

...

(Here’s a secret that the world doesn’t know: when James first transformed with Remus, when he first saw that painful, terrible, unnatural change- when he shifted back the next morning with a bloodied flank and wounds severe enough to leave him with a limp- James Potter laughed, loud and clear and ringing, because this, this, was what life was about.)

(Here’s a truth that James hasn’t told anyone: he doesn’t regret standing up to Voldemort, not even when it means he’ll come after Harry. Here’s a burning, terrible secret: James has regretted three things in his life, and none of it makes him a better person.)

...

“Oh, Sirius,” says Lily sadly, when she sees him. 

He’s so thin. He’s gotten so gaunt- his eyes are sunken, dark holes, and his robes are threadbare, patchwork things that hang off his bones. He also doesn’t recognize Lily; he seems to think she’s an apparition.

Lily bundles him out of the cell quickly, carefully.

...

Thor’s axe vibrates in James’ hand, impatiently, and James tries, hard, to breathe through the fear in his gut. The winds around Azkaban buffet his body, try to make him throw himself over. He doesn’t know how to tell them that he’ll be doing it of his own free will in just a moment.

As he clambers onto the stone turret, wand in one hand and axe in the other, struggling for balance, the world narrows to one shining point, glittering like a gem.

I’ve faith in you, Jimmy, says Lily, warm and loving, right beside him. 

James doesn’t let himself think on failure. 

That’s where the others fell. That’s why Thor’s sons and all the rest were rejected by the axe. Because the axe won’t accept anything less than total faith in it. Absolute trust.

He breathes in, salt and ice chilling his lungs, and steps off of Azkaban’s highest tower.

...

Lily nearly has Sirius out of the castle when she sees an auror limping along. The third one, she thinks, that had been in the guardroom; the one who’d called the Ministry.

Fuck, she thinks.

Then he sees her, and her world lights up with spellfire.

...

James flies.

...

He alights on the shore trembling, quivering, weak as a lamb. He’s never felt so glorious in his life. It’s strange, of sorts, to feel such disparate things together; but James catches himself before he can fall into thoughts.

Now is not the time for reaction.

It’s time for action.

Raising the axe, letting it catch all the light, letting it swirl the clouds above him, James thinks of how angry he is. How desperately, furiously, terribly he wants to be safe once more. How he wants his son to grow up in a world that loves him, and how enraged he is that Harry can’t.

Lightning splits the sky open.

[tales4thesoul]

~The Sorceress’s Moons~ (ONE)

(IF YOU HAVEN'T READ PROLOGUE< PLEASE READ IT!)

Super Junior (Suju) Supernatural AU

Poly Suju x Reader

Warning: Shirtless Suju 

Prologue / Chapter TWO

This was probably one of the coldest winters on Jeju island that you every experienced. The temperature has dropped down to 18 Degrees Fahrenheit and for some reason you were sitting out in the cold keeping a careful eye on the elderly couple who were outside trying to shovel the newly fresh snow that fell the night before. You approached the two, beckoning them to go back into their home by dragging your body around their legs, but they were a stubborn pair.

“Mooine-Ah, go inside where its warm ok? We don’t want our town’s lucky treasure to get sick.” The woman picked you up off the ground and pet your fur while walking towards their home.

Yeah you heard right, fur.

You decided to be a cat in this generation you were living. You had been doing so since you moved here all those years ago. At first it was a bird, being able to fly around came in handy, but the people were very wary of you. The next animal was a dog, and you would help out a lot until you disappeared and reappeared as horse. There were a few more until you became the cat you were today. There were rumors going around the island saying that you were a god, since all the animals you were had hair that matched your own. The snow white stood out, and people matched your previous animals as your own. You were alright with that though. You would rather them think of you as a god then know you for what you actually were.

“Now stay inside. We won’t be too much longer.” The woman shut the screen door behind her to keep you in, and she went back to joining her husband in help of removing the snow. You watched them as they struggled and went ahead and said some spells to better their energy and power to get the job done. When you did all that you could you made your way into the house and went up the stairs to look out your favorite window.

From there you were able to see the small town that you lived in and watched over. It mostly consisted of elderly retired people, with the few exceptions of young adults and children. You enjoyed watching many of these families grow and continue on for generations. The one you currently were with, you knew the young woman since before she was born, having lived with her grandmother in your dog days.

“You are looking quite concerned My Lady.” You turned to see a male cat laying on the balcony railing from the window you sat on.

“Just thinking Hansol.” You hopped out the window to sit next to the young male. The two of you keeping warm by leaning against one another.

“What’s on you mind?” You sighed looking up at the Bengal cat before facing back towards the town.

“Reminiscing how long I’ve been here for. How many different lives I’ve lived, and things I’ve seen. It’s surprising how time flies by so quickly.” You told him. Hansol didn’t speak as you went on to tell him of all the things you’ve done, watching generations of families go by, watching the island develop for what it is now.

Hansol knew what you were the moment the two of you met. He was a cat with no home. A kitten abandoned by its mother. His kind served yours, and having no place to go, he’s stuck to your side ever since. You were like his mother in a way, even though appearance wise you too looked the same age.

“It must be tough for you. It sounds really lonely and sad.” You nodded. It was hard getting to know someone and end up outliving them. It was harder when it happened to everyone you know. It’s going be hardest when it was Hansol’s time as well.

“Sometimes I think it would be best to go back to Seoul. Things have changed since back then, and it would probably be good for me to go back to the Den.” You simply put it. Hansol didn’t say anything, knowing that he wasn’t knowledgeable of your past, and just sat there to make you not feel lonely.

“Anyway, enough about me. Any news to report?” You asked the boy. Hansol opened his eyes wide if remembering something important. He then moved to turn facing you and looked at you with a stern face.

“Actually. Just last night I heard news of a group of people coming to the island.” The male stated.

“And? Surprisingly people do vacation here in the winter.” You said.

“I know, but these people are a little strange. Jaemin told me that they weren’t human.” Your eyes widened in shock. Since you arrived on this island you were able to scare off supernatural beings who lived or visited the island. You didn’t want anything to do with them, so you made it hard for them to come.

“How?” You didn’t say to anyone in particular, but Hansol simply shrugged his shoulders. He wasn’t to into detecting or knowing much about your world, but he was the island gossip and made ties with other animals to get information for you.

“Where are they staying.” You asked.

“Jaemin said they own that abandoned building on the island.” You perked up at that, knowing that building was built but no one moved in. It was surprisingly well kept up for no one living in it for that long. What concerned you the most was if they were here to do harm.

“Let’s go check it out tonight.”

~**********~

It was around ten o’clock at night that you left with Hansol. You made sure the elderly couple ate, got warm, and fell asleep under many blankets before making your way out of the house. You put some protective spells around the house and town before heading out.

“How many are there?” You asked Hansol. The two of you were walking along the beach towards the abandoned house a couple towns over.

“I think Jaemin said seven.” You nodded, thinking that if they were like you, you could take them. Demons could be taken care of easily, but if they were werewolves or vampires you would have a little more difficult time.

“When we get there, I want you to wait outside.” You knew he was going to object, but you weren’t having any of it. At the end of the day Hansol was simply a cat. He could easily be killed, and for the fact that you cared deeply for him made him a weakness.

The rest of the time to the house the two of you mostly walked in silence. Though an occasional topic or story was brought up by Hansol to ease the two of your minds. The journey by foot, or should you say paws, took a few hours. When you could see the house, it could have been three in the morning.

It had been a while since you were in this town, and you forgot how big the house actually was. It stuck out compared to the other houses around it. It seemed to be two stories with a balcony patio on the top. There were a lot of windows, but no lights on, indication they were sleeping or preferred the darkness. The second one was the one you hated to think about.

“Are you sure you want to go in alone?” Hansol asked.

“No offense Hansol, but you know there’s not much you can do.” As harsh as your words sounded you both knew it was true. Hansol sighed and nodded, telling you to be safe as you headed towards the house.

You walked up the stone steps, taking you time examining the house for movement in the meantime. As you approached the house, you looked through the windows. There was nobody there, and you made your way up, climbing to the upped deck, staying away from the upper windows. As you sat yourself on the ledge you peered inside, and what you saw had your eyes open in surprise.

There was a man who stood looking out of the sliding door leading to the deck. He was strikingly beautiful with his flawless skill and dark orange hair that brushed across his forehead. He has in a white button down that was completely undone and black slacks that hung loose at his hips. HE was so model like that you thought he might have been an angel.

But then you realized, this man was a Vampire.

Luckily, he didn’t notice you off to the side. Shocking since Vampires could hear a pin drop a mile away. He must have been in deep thought not to have noticed you. You also realized this man had a whine glass in his hands filled with the most obvious liquid a vampire drinks. The man was looking out towards the sky, seeing as your shadow from the moon was against the house, you knew that’s what he was staring at.

You glanced inside to see if anyone else was around the house, but luckily it was just him. You didn’t really know if there were seven others, or if he was alone. It was puzzling as to why he was here, and you decided the best way to find out was to ask.

“What are you doing here.” Your voice shocked the man. His eyes widened as they traveled to you sitting on the railing. He then looked at you puzzled, not knowing if it was you that spoke.

“I’ll only ask one more time, what are you doing here?” The mans eyes widened again realizing you were the one that spoke. The next thing you knew, the man opened the door coming out into the freezing air in his attire. As he approached you, you made sure to keep your distance by walking the railing.

“Am I going crazy, or did you just talk?” You laughed at his question. Not thinking a vampire could be this oblivious.

“For a vampire, you’re kind of stupid.” The man froze in shock when you let him know that you knew what he was. In stead of letting him respond you continued.

“I don’t know why you’re here, but this is my island and I protect it. If you came here to feed or do any harm I will not be afraid to kill you.” What happened next was something that you least expected to happen while you were here.

“(Y/N)?” It was surprising because even Hansol didn’t know your real name. The reason why he stuck to ‘My Lady’ instead. You haven’t heard you name being called out since you left the Witch’s Den all those years ago.

At the mention of your name you froze, staring at the man with wide eyes as he looked back at you the same way. You were pretty sure you didn’t know this guy from before you got here, so there were only a few options as to why he was here.

“You’re (Y/N), right?” You didn’t respond, still shocked out of hearing your name the first time. He stepped a few feet closer to you, still farther away to where you had enough space.

“How do you know that name?” You hissed at the man, not sure if he was a threat or not. Someone the Mother Witch sent to kill you, or a Vampire coven here to claim a witch for themselves. The later not having happen in a while.

“We’re looking for you.” The man said.

“We?” You asked.

“My coven and I.” He answered. You glared at him, now seeing this was more of a personal gain than a task handed to him by someone else.

“Why?” You continued questioning him.

“You are the last missing link to our coven.” He told you. You looked at him confused. You’ve never heard someone say that before claiming a witch.

“What do you mean?” You asked, keeping up your defenses incase he tried anything fishy.

Instead of speaking, the man took his right arm and rolled up his sleeve. He then presented the underside of his arm, and you almost fainted on the spot. Being shocked to the man knowing your name was an understatement from how you were feeling now. On the man’s arm was almost an identical tattoo of what you had on the back of your neck in human form.

“You see. Everyone in my coven has this tattoo somewhere on their body. In the Vampire world, that signifies someone’s precious one. Like werewolves, Vampires are also destined to be with someone, but with us it’s different. Werewolves have a destined one person they are forever bound to, but with vampires, we are promised into a group as a polyamorous relationship.” You listened as the man explained everything to you. Of course, you knew about the soulmate thing with vampires and how some are in a way ‘poly’, but you never thought that non-vampires could be a part of that.

“So, you’re telling me I am a part of your coven?” You simply asked. The man put on a breathtaking smile and nodded, and you were weirded out but also felt warm seeing him happy.

You really didn’t know how you felt, you were feeling a bunch of strange things. It was a lot to take in, and you knew he wasn’t lying from all the facts put in front of you. There were so many questions, and so many things that didn’t make sense as well. All you wanted to do was leave and collect your thoughts.

“I….I need some time to think about this.” You told him. It saddened you to see his smile drop into a frown, and before he could say anything lights were turned on in the house having you both look in the direction of the new person.

“Hyung, what are you doing outside? It’s late.” Another beautiful man came out in no shirt and sweats coming out to hug and hold the older in sleepy manner.

“Donghae, you’ll never guess what just happened. (Y/N)’s here, look!” The two men turned to look to where you were, but you weren’t there anymore. Panicking, the older man ran up to the balcony looking over the edge for you. Searching for where you could have gone.

“Hyung are you ok?” Donghae asked.

“She was right here! We had a whole conversation!” The older sobbed, confused as to why you would just leave after finding out that you were destined to be together.

“You might have been imagining it hyung. You know you’re a light weight and you’ve been drinking.” Donghae tried to get his hyung to get back inside the house, but the older barely budged.

“Donghae, I swear she was right here.” He started to choke up at the thought of you just being work of his imagination. Even though you were only talking for a short while, also the fact that you were a cat, didn’t change the fact that he felt something toward you. The same feeling he got around the others. The older started to sob as Donghae held him, shushing his hyung and telling him everything was going to be alright.

“What’s going on out here? Why is Leeteuk hyung crying?” Donghae turned to the sound of the second oldest clad in a set of expensive pajamas. He looked concerned seeing the oldest in such distress, thinking that whatever happened really hurt his hyung.

Donghae told him about what transpired since he got out here. Saddened at the thought that maybe his oldest Hyung wasn’t imagining anything, and that the last piece of their puzzle really left them. Heechul walked out onto the deck to check everything out. He looked around the deck to give any sort of proof you were here. He stopped in his tracks when he was something written on the floor.

“I found something.” At the words both Leeteuk and Donghae came over to see. Donghae’s eyes grew wide reading the letters that were magically put there. Leeteuk let out a sigh thanking that the conversation he had with you wasn’t a part of his imagination. It was a message that was for all of them.

‘I’ll be back’

[razieltwelve]

Linger (Final Rose/Final Effect)

Lightning eased herself onto the bench on the front porch. It was harder than she would have liked, and she couldn’t summon much of her usual grace either. Her lips twitched ever so slightly. It wouldn’t be long now. In the back of her mind, Saviour was already running the calculations and updating the count down.

Two weeks, maybe three if she was lucky.

“Hey.” Fang sat down beside her on the bench. The other woman’s hair was almost entirely grey now, and she gave a small sigh as she settled onto the bench. “It looks like it might rain today.”

Lightning peered up at the sky. It probably would. There were certainly storm clouds gathering on the horizon. A young family walked past, and they stopped and stared for a moment before waving nervously. Lightning and Fang waved back, and Fang chuckled softly.

“They look like they’ve seen a ghost,” Fang murmured.

“We’re legends, Fang. How many people can really say that they’re legends in their own time while they’re still alive.” Lightning leaned against Fang. “You know, I never thought we’d get this far.”

“Oh?” Fang put one arm around Lightning, and Lightning felt a quiver run through her. Lightning had lost weight recently, and Fang had to have noticed. “You didn’t think we’d beat the Grimm?”

“To be honest, I thought we would. I just didn’t expect to live through the war.” Lightning closed her eyes for a moment as a pair of children ran past, laughing and yelling. It reminded her so much of the past. “Vanille has done research on suspected previous bearers of Saviour. None of the others ever died of old age, you know. They all died in battle.”

Fang stilled. “So… you’ll be the first then?”

Lightning opened her eyes, but she very deliberately did not meet Fang’s gaze. “I suppose I will be.”

“You…” Fang took a deep breath. “Do you know how much time you have left?”

“Saviour knows. It’s known ever since that last battle we fought.” Lightning took a deep breath. She’d used far too much power in the battle to defend Oerba Prime, power she hadn’t had to draw upon for years and years. She was old now, far older than she ever thought she’d be. “Two weeks, maybe three.”

“Is that why the kids are all arriving tomorrow?” Fang whispered.

“I think so. Averia saw me after the battle. She knows. At least, she should.” Lightning rested her head on Fang’s shoulder. “This isn’t so bad, you know, as endings go. I’ll be the first to go, I suppose.” She paused. “Or not. It’s been more than a decade since Summer.”

Fang tried to smile, but she couldn’t quite manage it. “I always thought Vanille might be the first with how crazy she is. Knowing her, though, she’ll probably outlive us all.”

“I’m not sure whether that would be considered lucky or unlucky.” Lightning closed her eyes again. “I’m glad we came back here. Oerba Prime was nice, but this… this is home.”

“Our home.”

“Yes.” Fang swallowed thickly. “It is.”

“There’s going to be a storm,” Lightning said, and almost as if her words had caused it, there was a flash on the horizon followed by the peal of thunder. “But do you think we could stay out here for a while?”

“Whatever you want.”

X     X     X

Three weeks later…

Fang sat down on the bench again. The spot beside her was empty, and none of the children could quite bring themselves to sit there anyway. That had always been Lightning’s spot.

“There’s an afterlife, right?” Fang asked.

Vanille was sitting on Fang’s other side. “You bet there is. I even can give you the mathematical proof if you want.”

“I’ll take your word for it.” Fang sagged, feeling every bit her age. “Do you think they’ll remember any of this?” She gestured vaguely at the porch and house and then at the front yard.

“Any of what?” Vanille could hear Averia, Diana, and Taren in the house. None of the three were exactly young themselves, but none of them were willing to leave Fang alone in the house after Lightning’s passing. 

“Us. This. Everything.” Fang’s fists clenched. “Oh, we’re heroes, all right. We’re legends. But do you think anyone will really remember us. Will anyone remember what a neat freak Lightning was or how she threatened that squirrel after it stole Diana’s sandwich? I mean… we weren’t always heroes, not all the time, we were people too. I’d like to hope that people remember that after we’re gone. We were people too.”

Vanille smiled. “I think they will.” She patted Fang’s knee. “Your kids know who Lightning was. And your grandkids did too. Heck, I’m pretty sure that Lightning has personally grounded every single one of your great-grandkids at least once.”

Fang chuckled softly. “She’s had all of them scrub toilets at least once too.”

“But if you don’t want people to forget, then why don’t you write some stuff down? It doesn’t have to be much, but, well, you know what my lot are like.” Vanille grinned. “Dia-Farrons don’t forget, so you can be sure we’ll pass it on.”

"I’m sure you will.” Fang smiled faintly. “But you’ll probably add lasers to it and maybe a death ray.” She shook her head slowly. “You know, Lightning was always worried that your side of the family would try to conquer the galaxy or something, now that we’ve got space travel.”

“Meh. Conquering the galaxy will have to wait. We’ve got a lot of inventing to do before we’re ready for that.” Vanille got up. “Come on, those kids of yours should have some food ready by now.”

“If they haven’t blown up the kitchen.”

“Hah. Your kids were never as good at that as mine.”

X     X     X

Her Imperial Majesty Averia VII tried not to sigh as her children ran down the sidewalk toward a very familiar house. 

“Where do they get the energy?” she asked before looking accusingly at Claire and Jahne. “I blame you two.”

“You don’t complain about our energy in bed - oof!” Jahne jerked back as a snowball mysteriously struck her in the head. Claire, that jerk, had the foresight to duck and then laugh before evading a succession of snowy projectiles. “Anyway,” Jahne said, wiping the snow off her face. “It’s about time we brought the kids here. They need to know their roots.”

“Yes, they do.” Claire paused as they reached the house. “It’s hard to believe that so much begins here.”

In front of them was the Yun-Farron house, the one where Oerba Yun Fang and Lighting Farron had raised Averia, Diana, and Taren. It had been lovingly preserved over the centuries with the most advanced technology at the Empire’s disposal. There were even a few ornery squirrels in the tree in the front yard, which were supposedly descendants of the same squirrel that had once been Diana’s nemesis.

“They were heroes,” Averia murmured, recalling the words Oerba Yun Fang had written so long ago. “But they were people too.”

“Is this the house, mom?” the crown princess asked.

“Yes,” Averia replied. “It is.”

“It looks like a nice house,” one of the other children said. “And the yard is pretty big.” She grinned. “And there are trees to climb and stuff.”

“Is that the bench?” another one of the children asked. “The one you told us about?”

It was Claire who answered. “It is. That’s the same bench they all used to sit on.” She smiled ever so slightly. “You can even see where they made it longer, so they could still all fit on it after Taren was born.”

“Cool.”

“Don’t forget why you’re here,” Jahne reminded the children. “Empires aren’t built in a day. Heroes don’t come from nowhere. Everything starts somewhere. For the Yun-Farron side of our family… this was where it all started.”

“I wonder if they’d like us,” one of the other kids asked. “Or maybe they’d think we were weird.”

“I have it on good authority,” Averia said primly. “That as weird as we are, the original Yun-Farrons were every bit as weird.” She smiled warmly. “But I think we’d get along well. After all, family is family.”

[gsmarling]

“You can’t get rid of me that easily.” Advika leaned forward to press another kiss on her boyfriend’s lips. Sam smiled lightly and pulled her closer to him from where she was standing in the doorway.

“Does that mean you don’t have to go?” She looked at her watch and sighed.

“No, no I do. I’m working at the library tonight, so I’ll be home late.” She gently pulled away from his embrace and stepped into the hallway of their apartment building. He planted one last kiss on her forehead and grinned.

“I’ll see you when you get home. Love you.” He leaned against the doorway and waved. She tossed a bright smile over her shoulder as she made her way to the stairs.

“Love you too!”

The evening air was cold and Advika wrapped her coat around herself tightly as she approached the library where she worked after school. It was finals week and she was already feeling exhausted from her classes, and dreading the hours of studying in her future. But for now she got to enjoy the warm and quiet of the library. She dropped her coat and purse in the small employee break room, then began her work. She set about organizing books, reshelving volumes that had been left on tables, and cataloguing titles. She milled up and down the rows, quietly answering the questions of the many students who were frantically studying. Soon the minutes bled into hours and before she knew it, it was time to head home. Yawning, she pulled on her coat and swung her messenger bag over her shoulder. The weight of her schoolbooks reminded her of the mountains of homework that her professors had assigned, and she yawned again. She opened the door to the library and the cold air hit her like a train, the icy wind causing her black hair to whip around her. She shivered and tried to shrink into her coat. In the time she’d been working it had snowed, and the ground was a hazardous mix of ice and snow that had been walked and driven over to the point that it was dirty slush. She sighed, it was going to be a long walk to the subway.

Advika climbed the stairs from the subway station, and once again shivered. It was fully dark out by this point, so she let muscle memory guide her along the path to her apartment building. Something hit the top of her head and melted into her hair. It had started to snow. She muttered a few curses under her breath and ducked her head against the wind, hurrying her steps. She arrived at her apartment covered in a light dusting of snow. She fished her keys out of her bag, stepped into the slightly warmer building and began climbing the stairs. As she approached her floor, an uneasy chill that had nothing to do with the weather came over her. She tried to shake it off and started down the hallway. She stopped dead when she saw the blood. Small droplets were scattered in a haphazard line towards the door of her apartment. That uneasy chill deepened and she cautiously approached the door. It was ajar, the doorframe around the lock broken and splintered. She eased the door open, and carefully made her way into the apartment. A sob tore from her as she surveyed the room. Sam lay on his back in the kitchen, a pool of blood surrounding him. Her sob turned into a scream as she fell to her knees and cradled his head in her arms. The room began to spin and she was only dimly aware of her surroundings, her half screams half sobs sounding as if they came from miles away. He was her world, and he lay dead in her arms. Anger, grief, and despair crashed over her in a disorienting wave of emotions. She screamed until her throat was hoarse, and after that she just sat, rocking back and forth, still holding Sam’s body. She lost all track of time, it could’ve been hours or minutes, until another silhouette darkened the doorway. Advika looked up, meeting pure-black eyes, as a thin, skeletal hand reached out and took her by her throat. She gasped for air, one hand scrambling in vain at the fingers around her throat, the other desperately searching through her bag for anything to defend herself. She grasped the small pocket knife that was attached to her keychain and drove it into the side of the figure holding her. The fingers around her throat tightened in surprise, and her attacker let out a chuckle. A harsh, dark sound that seemed to claw its way from his throat. The figure lifted her up and pushed her against the wall, giving her a clearer view of the man, no, the creature, that still had its long nails digging into her neck. It was pale and thin, with malice filled black eyes staring at her from a gaunt face. And it was covered in blood. Sam’s blood. Advika’s blood ran cold as the figure leaned in closer. A flash of movement, pain, and the world went dark.

Cold hands were touching her face. Advika jerked awake and immediately batted the hands away. Her vision was blurry and there was a horrible shooting pain in her neck. Gingerly she raised herself into a sitting position from where she had crumpled on the floor.

“Take it easy.” A cool voice sounded from somewhere in front of her. She opened her mouth to try to speak, but ended up having a coughing fit instead. She tasted metal, and when she wiped her mouth the back of her hand came back smeared with red. She coughed again, spitting blood into the tiled kitchen floor. Her vision slowly focused, and she located the person who had spoken. A woman dressed in all white, at least what used to be all white, it was now splattered with red, was leaning against the kitchen counter. She was tall and lithe, her platinum blonde hair pulled up into a bun. She wore a mask that covered the bottom half of her face, and round tinted glasses. The strangest thing about her appearance, though, was the sharpened wooden dagger she was twirling through her hands. Like everything else in the room, it was stained a dark crimson.

“Who are you?” Advika rasped. The figure stopped twirling the dagger and looked down at Advika.

“I’m Talitha.”

“What are you doing in my kitchen?”

“Until about five minutes ago, I was killing him.” Talitha reached out a foot and nudged the corpse laying on the floor. Advika choked and lunged towards it.

“Sam-” She came up short when she realized that it wasn’t Sam’s body that Talitha was gesturing towards, but the creature that had attacked her earlier. Its mouth was frozen open in a snarl, and Advika saw that its canines were sharp and pointed. Her mind started to spin, refusing to believe what she was seeing. The edges of her vision got dark again and she reached out to find something to steady herself. Talitha stepped forward, took her hand, and hauled her to her feet, pulling Advika’s arm over her shoulder. Panic continued to course through Advika as she unsteadily leaned against Talitha, who regarded her quietly.

“We need to talk.”

Advika shakily wrapped her hands around a cup of steaming tea that sat on the table in front of her. Talitha leaned back in her chair across the table, quietly noting Advika’s every move. It took all of Advika’s willpower to not glance over to where both Sam and the creature’s bodies had been covered with a sheet. Instead, she forced herself to meet Talitha’s unwavering gaze. Talitha raised her eyebrows.

“Do you have questions?”

“Of course I do. Starting with why we haven’t called the police. I have two dead—,” Advika choked on the word, “I have two dead bodies in my kitchen.” Talitha shook her head sharply.

“No police. No family. No friends. No one can know. Do you understand me?”

“No! I really don’t, and I would appreciate it if you would actually explain this.” Advika gestured frantically at the room. Talitha sighed, removing her glasses. She closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. When she opened her eyes to meet Advika’s gaze, her eyes were solid obsidian.

“You’re a vampire.”

“I don’t even know how to respond to that.” Advika laughed mirthlessly. Talitha said nothing, she just reached up and removed the mask that covered her nose and mouth, and bared her teeth. Revealing the sharp canines in the front of her mouth.

“You have them too.” Advika sharply became aware of the pain in her neck, and in her mouth. She recalled the blood that had been smeared across the creature’s mouth. Her mind started to connect the dots, despite the fact that those dots were impossible. Cautiously, she ran her tongue over her teeth. And was met with fangs.

After another crisis that was triggered by Advika’s discovery of fangs, and a lot of frantic questioning that was met with calm answers from Talitha, Advika cautiously accepted Talitha’s claim. She was a vampire. And she had questions.

“Blood. Do we…” she hesitated, “drink it? From...humans?” She once again had to make an effort to not look at Sam’s body.

“Yes. Since your heart can no longer pump blood through your system you need to drink it as a sort of supplement. But not human blood. We get our supply from butchers mostly.”

“So if you, we, don’t drink human blood, then why did this happen.” Advika jerked her head in the direction of her kitchen.

“Human blood is like a drug. Vampires get addicted, to the point where it drives them insane.”

“Then it’s possible to live...normally? As a vampire?” Talitha hmmed her agreement.

“There’s an entire underground community. An aboveground one too. You can have a normal job, you can have a family.” Talitha’s eyes shuttered briefly. “If you can accept that you’ll outlive them.”

“What about the lore? Sunlight, crosses, garlic, wooden stakes?”

“Sunlight is a myth, made up for the movies. Think of garlic like an allergy. Crosses have centuries of wards and magic attached, those have the capacity to hurt you. Wooden stakes will kill just about anyone, but magic clings to symbolism, and magic kills us.” Talitha flipped her wooden dagger in her hands a couple times, then slid it into one of the many pockets on her jacket.

“Why?” Advika didn’t expand her question but Talitha understood.

“I hunt them. Vampires who get addicted to human blood and start attacking them, I hunt them.” Advika didn’t respond, she simply stood and walked to where Sam’s body lay on the floor. She dropped to the ground, kneeling beside him she lifted the sheet off of his face. She gently closed his eyes, then reached for the thin chain that hung around his neck. Unclasping it, she regarded the small gold cross hanging on the chain. Taking a steadying breath, she clasped it around her own neck, tucking the pendant under her shirt. The second the cross came in contact with her skin, it burned. She bit back the pain and stood up. Talitha stared at her, a look of mild surprise on her face. Advika turned around and met Talitha’s black obsidian eyes with a pair of her own.

“Teach me.”

Advika opened her eyes, the remnants of the memory still curling around the edges of her mind. That had been years ago, and she’d spent the time since traveling with Talitha training, becoming strong. And hunting. Her phone buzzed from where it sat on the café table in front of her. A text from Talitha read: Two alleys down. Get there now. Advika rose from her seat, and started down the road, melting into the shadows created by the setting sun. When she reached the entry of the second alley, she heard a scream. She drew a carved wooden dagger from her belt and turned into the alley.

“Hello there.” Her greeting was directed towards the man in front of her who was slowly approaching a young girl curled in the corner. He stopped in his tracks and turned to face her.

“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t interfere. I’m trying to have a meal.” He gestured lazily to the girl behind him.

“I’m afraid I can’t let that happen.” She reached up and removed the veil that covered her mouth, and smiled, canines glinting in the dying evening light.

“Well I’m afraid that you can’t do anything about it.” He reached a gloved hand into his coat pocket and withdrew an ornate cross and held it aloft. Her smile turned feral, her eyes glittering cold and black. She pulled down the collar of her shirt, revealing the cross that hung around her neck, and the scarred skin that lay beneath. A reminder of all she had lost.

“You can’t get rid of me that easily.” Advika angled her dagger and lunged.

[mylovelessnightmare]

Another Chance// Prologue Ignis Scientia x Reader

The story you’ve been waiting for! Well at least I hope you were XD Thank you for voting and I hope you enjoy this series! I will update it on Thursdays unless something comes up and I have to change the posting time! (Y/f/f)= Your favorite flower. Enjoy the pain prologue ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Your head lolled to the side as you laid on the ground. You didn’t know what happened. One minute you're standing next to Noctis and the next you feel a sharp, painful feeling in your chest, then you're lying on the ground slowly watching the world fade. Everything hurt, it hurt to breathe, to move, to think. You wanted the pain to end already, you wanted to feel pleasure, not pain. You gasped in as you felt pressure on your chest followed a tremendous amount of pain.

“(Y/n) please hang on.” You heard Prompto cry out to you 

A had man come out of nowhere and attacked the group. You didn’t know the reason why. Nor did you care at the moment. You turned your head to look at the blonde man kneeling next to you with unshed tears in his eyes. Prompto looked at you and bit his lip. You looked like a ghost, you were pale, making the blood on your face stand out. 

“Please, hang on please, you’ll be okay. Just hold on a little while longer.” You heard him whisper and felt him squeeze your hand. 

You closed your eyes, you couldn’t keep the open anymore.Your breathing got slower and you're conscious started to fade. You felt someone lift you off of the ground only for you to let out a weak protest. You forced your eyes open even though it was strenuous to do. Your vision was blurred and you didn’t know what was happening. Nothing made sense anymore. You felt cold, horribly cold, you couldn’t even feel the warmth from the person that was holding you. You gasped for air, whatever energy you were hanging onto was rapidly draining from you.

“Er...her! You heard, hearing starting to leave you.

You used the last of your strength to lift your bloodied hand from your chest and touch the face of the person that carrying you. You felt them stop moving and with what little energy you had left, you gave them a small smile.

“Tha..nk..yo..u” You breathed out with your last breath

Your eyes closed as your hand slid off of the person's face and dropped onto your chest. Everything went black.

~The Chocobros POV~

Everybody stopped as they watched you place your hand on Ignis’s face. They didn’t hear what you told him, but when your hand fell from his face and your eyes closed, they knew you were gone. Silence engulfed them and nobody knew what to do. They had just lost the girl they thought of as a sister. Tears streamed down Prompto’s face as he fell to his knees and looked at your blood on his hands.

Noctis covered his face with his hands and cried, Gladio walked over to Ignis and took your body from him. Gladio looked down at your smiling face and cried as well. Nobody wanted this, this was their worst nightmare come true. All you could hear was the weeping of broken hearts.

“What did she say?” Prompto whispered never looking up.

Ignis looked at them, the bloody handprint standing out on his face. He took a deep breath before speaking.

“She said...thank you.” He told them, his voice breaking

He looked down at his clothes seeing the blood that stained it. Tears ran down his face, not being able to hold his emotions together anymore. You were gone, reality hit them harder than it ever had. They would never be able to see you laugh again. They’d never see that smile that always brightened the room, or hears you make jokes at an inappropriate time. They’d never get to hug you again, tease you, prank you, cheer you up when you're down.

But what broke them the most, was that they’d never get to see the way your face lit up when they said they loved you.

The funeral was beautiful. They drove down to the meadow that was covered in (y/f/f). You were placed into a beautiful white dress, and placed into a beautiful white coffin to match. You looked like a princess, your lips were painted red and blush adorned your cheeks, not a single ounce of pain was on your face. The smile they loved laid across your lips, making you look even more beautiful. It looked like you were in a peaceful sleep. That they could never wake you up from. An eternal sleep. You danced with Death, a beautiful waltz. Neither you nor Death missing a single step. But once the music ended, Death took you for his own. Crowning you his Queen. Nobody wanted to say goodbye, but they knew they had too.

One by one, the boys went up and said their goodbyes. It was excruciating for them to see you like this. They never wanted to see you like this. Hell, they thought you’d outlive them all!

Noctis walked up to your coffin first. He smiled as he placed a charm bracelet on your wrist, that held a small white rabbit on it. You had given it to him for good luck for a test one day. Best known to him you were actually pranking him. After he found out he laughed, but he did past his test. But he still kept it in his pocket anyway. He carried it around with him everywhere. 

“You were like a sister to me. The little sister I never had. But why did you do it? Why did you have to shove me out of the way?” Noctis looked down at you as he spoke. “You saved my life, but took yours in the process, I-I wish it never turned out like this.” He cried as he ran his fingers across your cheek.

Noctis took one last glance at you before walking away. He’d never forgive the man that took you from him. Never. Gladio walked up next and placed a (y/f/f) in your hair. He’d do this to you every time that he saw one. You’d love it when he did it as well, it made you feel invincible.

“You know, we never did find out who could hold their breath underwater the longest. I’m sure you would have won though.” Gladio spoke, “Even though you annoyed the hell out of me most of the time, I wouldn’t have traded you for anything in the world.” Gladio let out a small smile and nodded at Prompto

Prompto took a shaky breath as he walked up to you. You were his best friend, you were there for him before he became friends with Noctis. He looked at the photo of you two. It had been a snow day and you two had just finished a snowball fight. You had jumped on his back and he took a picture. Snowflakes covered your hair and eyelashes. Smiling he set it above your head and swallowed. 

“Ahh, well, I never thought I’d be doing this. Your my best friend and...I don’t know what to do know that you're gone. If only I was faster.” Prompto wiped away the tears rolling down his face. “You always knew what to say in situations like this, but what I’m trying to say is that I love you...and I miss you.” Prompto finished and walked away.

Ignis was the last one to walk up. He stared down at your smiling face and smile coming to his. He reached into his pocket and brought out a necklace with a fox charm sitting on it. Often times you’d randomly say you're like a fox. Whether it be during dinner, or just shouting it out at random times. He could never forget it and the more he watched you more he noticed you were right. Whether it be tricking the enemy or just your quick thinking. He lifted your neck slightly and placed the necklace around it.

“You never would let us forget. You were one clever girl, even if we never told you. You amazed me in every way, nothing you could have done would make me think any different about you. I’m grateful that you came into our lives. You brightened everything up, and things will never be the same without you.” Ignis spoke to you knowing you’d never answer back. “You said thank you to us, but we should be the ones thanking you (Y/n).” He whispered and kissed your forehead.

The lid to the casket was closed, and you were lowed into the ground. Tears were shed by everybody, even the universe wept for you. As it rained the ground was thrown into the hole that held you. Nobody would ever forget this day, they couldn’t even if they wanted to. 

As they left the meadow, they didn’t notice a man walking up to your resting place. The man stood standing at the mound of dirt, signaling that it at been closed recently. He smiled as he grabbed a shovel that he brought with him. He plunged it into the dirt and threw it off to the side.

“Dear princess, it’s not time for you to leave yet. You have so much more to do.” 

[pomegranate-salad]

Seeds of thought : Wicdiv #32 & #33

Work work work work work. I’ve never worked so much in my life. The college student easy life is a lie, kids. So I’m doing a 2-in-1 type of thing on the last two issues. I didn’t have much material on issue 32 alone anyway and I think these two issues make more sense as a two-parter finale, so I guess it works well. Thoughts and opinions under the cut, spoilers of course. And fuck Woden.

 THE LAST LAUGH

 “Well this looks ridiculous”

This was my - and I assume an unneglectable number of people’s – first reaction to the last page of issue #33 in which we see the severed heads of Lucifer, Inanna and Tara displayed on an altar. This scene was probably effective on some, but for me it immediately called back to Disney’s Haunted Mansion and Futurama, and I was effectively done for : there was no way I could take this visual seriously.

There’s no two ways around it : this scene is silly. First we have what should be one of the biggest reveal of the entire series casually thrown at us by a character who’s not even looking at the audience, Then the camera cuts to this grotesque display of living heads, and the scene is complete with a classic Luci one-liner that seems aware of how out-of-place this entire sequence is. Really, all that’s missing is the laugh track.

You could say anticlimactic ; but really should it be called that when it’s the creators themselves who intentionally destroy the dramatic potential of their own scene ? If you’re not convinced this was intentional, try a little thought experiment and imagine rewriting this scene to amplify its dramatic intensity. By doing so, my conclusion is that this ending had every chance of being a huge finisher like the ones we saw in Fandemonium and Rising Action, but every writing and artistic decision was deliberately made to be as wrong as possible, to ruin every emotional weight this scene could have had.

 This is not an anomaly : in these last two issues, the creators seem to have engaged in the systematic destruction of every dramatic beat by way of grotesque and ridicule. It’s an undercurrent that ran through the entire second part of Imperial Phase, but only reached its full potential toward the end.

It started on the very first page of issue #32, trivializing Amaterasu’s death when the issue before that still gave it all the gravity fitting to the first death of a Wicdiv arc. Then Dio’s last moments of bravery reveal themselves to be a total waste, on top of ruining One More Time forever. Even Woden’s bad guy monologue is sort of too shitty to really muster the kind of epic hatred you’d want to direct at this character. Then we have Sakhmet’s death, caused not by her lover or her sort-of-nemesis Baal, but by a thirteen year old on her first kill. And that’s not even touching on the awful reminder of her fate we get at the end of issue #33. Then there’s of course the beep machine, and issue #32’s hilarious finish, which I think call for no commentary. Issue #33 is divided in two big reveals, the first one forcing on the us the awful visual of David Blake’s head on Woden’s suit and one of the most fist-curling yet somehow pathetic bad guy monologues in history, and the second one being that ridiculous finish scene. The two are even separated by an intimate scene between Cass and Laura that literally gets cut because there’s a stranger tied up two feet from them.

 So if these issues somewhat feel like they’re played all wrong, we know where it comes from. They feel like a multipart climax that got flipped on its head, so not a punch would land or beat would work. That’s not to say there aren’t some really impressive character moments in there ; but for each of them, there’s an inversely proportionally bad joke or ironic twist sweeping right in to undercut the whole thing.

And that’s something worth examining, not as a mistake but as a creative direction. Humour used to be a respite in Wicdiv, a welcome break from all the bleakness and emotional scorching of the characters. Each of them had their own wit, from Luci’s cool girl referencing to Baphomet’s failed swagger, to even Cass’ dry deliveries. But now, humour is just another weapon to hurt us. It prevents us from caring about our characters, from connecting with their emotions, from taking the story seriously. As I was reading through what I knew were Dio’s last moments, all I could focus on was Woden’s villain’s speech and the fact that he was right, and that Dio’s death was probably going to be a complete waste, because that’s how Wicdiv works now. Just compare the weight of Amaterasu’s and Dio’s respective death scenes : they’re not even separated by a full issue, yet the light that’s shone on them is completely different. No matter how much dignity went into crafting Dio’s last scene, it doesn’t matter when it’s put back to back with the textual affirmation of its uselessness, the fact that we don’t even get to give him a proper goodbye, and even after that, Laura’s awful line about his life support. In 2017, I don’t think I need to explain anyone the power of humour in trivializing the most terrible situations and undercutting people’s empathy for each other. This is what Wicdiv has been doing to us these past two issues, against our will. Stopping us from caring. Keeping us at bay even when we’re trying to connect and get involved in the story and characters.

 What does this change in the use of humour mean ? Personally, I link it to the change of our purported hopes as an audience. At the beginning of the comic and up until Imperial phase, we were still allowed to believe, like Luci, that a solution could be found, that the 2-year sentence wasn’t real, nor was the great Darkness. That it was going to be okay. But right at the moment when the characters allowed themselves to think that there could indeed be a solution, we, as an audience, started to know better : there was no loophole, no escape, no way to prevent the inevitable, whatever that was. We could no longer hope that things were going to be okay. So what do you hope for when things cannot be okay ? You hope that they’ll be worth it. If you have to die, let it be a worthy death. A beautiful one. If you have to go, go in a blaze of glory. If you have to fail, let it be at the hand of a worthy foe. Let it be worth it.

But it isn’t. And that’s what humour’s there to prove. When our hopes were that things would be okay, the comic responded with tragedy ; now that we simply want them to be worth it, its weapon of choice is ridicule. As such, it’s definitely not a coincidence that the 455AD special preceded Imperial Phase part II, as it sets the tone for the entire arc, up to its back quote : when it’s clear Lucifer won’t be able to outlive his death sentence, all he want is to be allowed to burn. But he won’t be. He will bleed out and his body will be dragged across and city and cut to pieces by an old lady then fed to the river. Such is the fate that awaits our character. Pathetic and grotesque in equal parts, useless unless it serves someone else’s purpose, following rules you do not understand.

If Imperial Phase is the arc in which the gods are allowed to think themselves kings and queens, then the creators are the King’s fools, the ones allowed to tell them their real value because they do it through jokes and flip-overs.

This arc is a constant battle between the story the characters wish they were in and the one they’re actually in. That’s why it would be wrong, for example, to think of the beep machine as a McGuffin : its thematic utility goes beyond a plot device. When just last arc, it was the subject of a joke to relieve the tension between two characters, now it knocks them back to their actual scope. Something so small and silly is the kind of device they deserve. The big, ugly, scary machine ? It does nothing. Did you think you’d be handed a huge plot revelation as the crowning achievement of this arc ? Of course not. Instead, what we get is a sad, banal story of parental abuse from a man who’s not over leaving his youth behind.

Yes, even the David/Jon Blake storyline, arguably the one preserving most of its dramatic intensity over these two issues, cannot help but feel like a sad joke when you consider that David Blake’s motivations are basically the evil queen from Snow White’s. This is what caused all this. This, an old wrinkled lady, and a thirteen year old on a mission from God. Those are our villains, everybody. As for dying a worthy death, our heroes’ options are a pool of blood or a mounted head on an altar.

 None of this is worth it. At this point, it’s even hard remember why “this” sounded so appealing in the first place. And all this goes to contextualize even more Laura’s breakdown speech halfway through issue #33 : she wanted everything they had, and she’d have given anything for it. For power, for glamour, for this. For this joke of a fate that’s not even that funny. That’s what cost her the death of her family, multiple friends, and the rest of her life.

It’s also fitting that Jon finally voices something that has been on my mind for a long time : just how little do you have to think of yourself to think two years of superpowers would be worthier than a fully-lived life ? Through this character who, just like the other gods, is too good for this deal, but unlike them, seems to realize it, it’s yet again the sheer impossibility to make this deal worth it that’s shown to us. Because what becomes clear after this reveal is that if Ananke allowed you to become a god, it’s so she could see that you’d waste away your potential. House always wins, and when you burn the House down, another opens up next door.

 So this is where we are : our hopes of seeing any of it be worth it have been ridiculed, and all that’s left to uncover is precisely which joke our heroes have been the butt of. Cruel ? Maybe. But if fiction so often serves as a way to quench our thirst for grand emotions and epic stories, it’s precisely because outside of it, it feels much more often like one big joke than a sweeping tragedy. After all, Henri Bergson said it best : comedy is much truer to real life than drama.

  WHAT I THOUGHT OF THE ISSUES

 I KNEW IT IT WAS ME I FIGURED IT OUT I KNEW IT WAS DAVID BLAKE I AM THE GODDESS OF FATE BOW TO ME MERE MORTALS !

Alright, I’ll stop.

But while seeing yourself being right is immensely satisfying, it cannot help but damage your read a little ; like I said many times before, I want writers to be smarter than me, to be able to take me by surprise. So if I’ve managed to guess something, that’s great for my ego, but it also makes me a bit sad : that’s just another plotpoint that won’t reach full impact with me because I had so much time interiorizing its potential.

And that’s sort of my problem with these two issues : they revolve around two kinds of plotpoints, some that didn’t surprise me (Dio and Sakhmet’s death, Woden’s identity, the reason for Laura’s attitude) and other that were impossible to guess (the beep machine, Minerva’s “identity”, the talking heads). Meaning that while reading those, I was pretty much letting the plot carry me without being able to pause and care. As I’ve said above, part of it is intentional, but it also means that there aren’t many punches in these issues that landed for me. I’ll definitely count Laura and Sakhmet’s last conversation as well as Cass and Laura’s fight as a success, but the “big” intimate moment of issue #33, the conversation between Cass and Laura, didn’t do much for me, probably because it seems to me that anyone with a functioning brain and ears knew exactly why Laura wasn’t her best self since she had become Persephone. I understand why Cass didn’t see it – as we’re discussed before, she is a factual thinker, meaning she can’t grasp with Laura’s guilt when it is so obviously unfounded – but I still don’t understand the decision to make this a big character moment when literally every sentence Laura had pronounced since the beginning of Imperial Phase revealed what she was going through. There’s nothing more infuriating that being fed information you already think of as canon. If you ask me, this moment is much more important and interesting for what it isn’t, that’s to say a romantic scene, than for what it is. Seeing Laura being rejected by Cass, and therefore breaking the pattern  of dragging people in her self-destroying orbit, is much more defining than her whole speech on guilt.

The problem is that most of the work these issues do is retrospective : if the Jon/David scene on its own has limited impact, the new depth it gives to all the Woden scenes we’ve already been through is vertiginous. Like I said, I did consider what the meaning of David Blake being Woden would be, but that’s another thing to be confronted with the actual fact. When you consider that David is talking to his decapitated, imprisoned son when he’s pouring out his thoughts make issue #14 go from merely quite repulsive to one of the most skin-crawlingly nauseating pieces of media ever written. I can’t imagine what the creators went through crafting this issue while knowing the entire story.

 As for the rest of the reveals, it’s a little hard to weigh on them without devolving into hardcore theorizing. We’re basically at the last stop before the comic has to lay out its hand ; it already managed to delay it through two entire arcs whose very point was to see how long they could get this blind game going. But for me as a reader, it also means I’m at the point in the story that’s the least interesting to me : the one where I have no choice than to follow the train as it’s well on its tracks, without any possibility to pause or jump ahead. I have to wait for the full story to know whether any of these twists paid out or not ; at this stage, I have both too much and too little to really be able to do something with it emotionally or intellectually.

 So as a final verdict because I have to go back to cramming for administrative litigation, I’d say these are two issues I’ll have to revisit once the comic is over, because I suspect they’ll be a lot better with the full story in hand. Most of its impact is on the issues before them and in the groundwork they lay out for the final year. So as a stop point, they may not hold much interest, but I can definitely see them be one of the comic’s most astute cogs once it’s done and over. As a two-parter finale, I like it more than the Imperial Phase (part I) finale : it’s more coherent in its construction and doesn’t try to bite off more than it can chew. It’s mostly plotpoints and twists, meaning it’s my least favourite kind of read, but once I’m able to put that aside to see it instead as a character work thread in a bigger design, it’ll probably hold my interest much more. But as of right now, I can at least commend it for how much it makes me want to reread everything from the beginning. Which I definitely do not have the time for right now. Damn you. Damn you all.