#she took half of my darkness and gave me half of her sanity | dawn x sven

[lostxones]

@malcmente​| | based on this   🕯️ ‘  for our muses to have a romantic, candlelit dinner at home

Her heels clacked against the hardwood floor as she carried the last of the meal into the dining room. The table was set up with the fine china, something she rarely brought out aside from Valentine’s Day. Dawn wore a red dress, one that accentuated her assets in ways she was sure would drive Sven crazy. “Dinner’s ready!” While she waited for him to make his appearance, she lit the few remaining candles. Was it overboard? A bit. 

[lostxones-musings]

ship tags

[vidalinav]

All My Girls Like to Fight

Inspired by the song “All my girls like to fight” by Hope Tala

Summary: Devlon trains Nesta. Devlon’s POV

Disclaimer: I personally am on the fence about Nesta training because she’s more magically powerful (probably) than anyone else. However, I will not lie and say it does not intrigue me, because I tend to like anything involving Nesta Archeron. And, I think it would be cool to have her fight (and inevitable) and the sexual tension with Cassian would be through the roof if they ever trained together, which is just chef’s kiss* I just don’t like that Nesta learning to fight feels like she’s giving up more of her values, which doesn’t sit well with me, since she’s had to change so much already and not by choice. But the thought of Devlon being the one to train her satisfied all of the check boxes in my head because I could then work out subtly his own views about female’s fighting. That was very interesting and the fic practically wrote itself. 

Anyways.... here it is! 

General Masterlist, AO3, Fanfic

~

Devlon awoke to the sound of cutting air. It whirred and disappeared. Whooshed and was no more. He clamped his pillow to his ears, half-awake and in the middle of dreaming—some nonsensical dream that he knew he would not remember in the morning.

But the sound erupted again, this time a heavy clash, and his eyes burst open once more stinging.

He was going to murder the person who was at the training quarters this hour—never mind that it was his fault he lived so near. Every warrior, novice or no, knew that hours were reserved for early mornings until the sun completely set. Most males would be at home or a tavern somewhere. Those unlucky enough to be on watch, would be roaming above the forests scouting all that scuttled in the darkness.

But no one should be in the training fields.

Devlon slipped on his boots, not bothering to change, as he ripped the door open and met the ink and wind. He didn’t bother grabbing a weapon, sure as daylight that he’d scare the living wits out of the Illyrian with his presence alone. Probably a new trainee. Young, not knowing the rules. He was going to learn the rules today and he was going to learn them well…

But he did not find a young male, a boy. Not a trainee or a full-blown warrior.

On the dirt, where the mud still lingered from yesterday’s rain, was a girl…. A female. Her brassy hair shining in moonlight. Devlon stepped away at the sight of her.  

This… female.

This witch.

Only a true witch could conjure that bright of a moon or so Devlon thought as she held up the steel. It was much too big for her, probably too heavy by the way her arms shook lifting the sword. But she swung at the leather target in front of her, wobbling on her feet.

The witch barely made a dent in the arm, and as she swung again, Devlon had to clamp his mouth shut from yelling that she was holding the sword wrong in her palms. If she kept that up, she’d surely break her wrist, if not multiple body parts from where it would either slip from her grasps and land on her toes, or from where it would fly from her hands and hit someone else.

He was the only other being on this training field, so Devlon took several steps back.

The mistake he noticed was something he didn’t bother correcting the few girls he’d trained that morning. Their first lesson in swords and shields. And, if he did not do it then, Devlon would not deign to do so now.

That girl was the problem of the general. Though, Devlon wanted to scoff at the audacity of the commander criticizing his training of the females, when his own could not hold a sword.

In fact, Devlon wanted to go get the commander himself, present her before him as another way he was inadequate—stick it to him and that high lord of theirs. This is who you entrust to win wars.  

Instead, Devlon watched as she tried again, switching the blade to her other hand and waving her wrist as if it ached. He swallowed his tongue.

Oh no, he would not get involved in high court affairs.

~

The vexatious female had not stopped her pestering sword fight until early morning, and Devlon had punished the trainees for it. By the time the day had ended, the males were grumbling, wound tight and weary, and he could have sworn a few boys had thrown up behind the saunas.

Devlon had enjoyed their displeasure for he too was displeased. Annoyed. Irritated. Ready to pummel the commander in his next fight for bringing that blasted female to his camp.

Long past the evening was over, he was ready to forget it all, to sleep in his warm hut of a house, simple in its function. Ready for the night to overtake him and for the headache he’d had all day to stop pounding in his skull.

Devlon closed his eyes willing sleep to take him…  

The sound of clashing metal started again.

His body moved without a second thought.

He stormed out of his house, his eyes adjusting to the array of purples and blues alight from trembling stars. Devlon could see her head peak out from the ring, where the practice dummies had been scattered in each corner. Like the night before, he wanted to yell, scream, rage, drag her back to that commander who thought too much of himself.

But like the night before, the image of her, her vile grandeur, made his temper cease.

As he neared, Devlon noted that she wasn’t even on the mats at all. She was sitting on the ground, tapping the sword against a rock. Clack, Clack, Clack. Over and over. Screeching metal that had him gritting his teeth.

Her legs were spread wide in what he thought was far from ladylike, her white nightgown peeking through the fur.

What odd training leathers she had.

He watched as the young witch tipped her head back, her nose held high but not in that pompous way he’d seen before. Devlon followed her gaze all the way to the stars. The midnight beast blinking back its thousand eyes.

There was a story in a Illyria about the night. When he was younger he was half-afraid it would swallow him whole. All of his friends, his family, tumbling to the back of its throat. It was the only thing he’d ever truly been afraid of. Not the wars, the creatures of the forest, the cruelty of the fae, but of this inconsequential thing that stared down as if it were waiting for them. Waiting for them both here in these training fields.

Devlon shook away the ominous thought, turning back to the female who sighed audibly. She hiked up her skirt as she kicked up her boots, and he shifted his head quickly, shying away from the indecent exposure.

She picked up her sword, swinging it round and round, turning to one of the practice dummies. It was large and heavy, three times her size, with various pegs sticking out its trunk. She merely gave it a glare and hiked up the weapon.

What the witch did not know was that it was designed to move. If it was hit, one the arms would swing forward. Hit again, and another on the opposite side would move. It was to teach one to defend rather than to swing blindly.

Swing blindly, she did.

Her wrist was still angled at odd ends, but she managed to cut the leather on the figure’s side. Not a killing blow but perhaps enough to wound an enemy if they had not already maimed her from her lack of skill.

Except the sword got lodged in the wood at the same time one of the pegs moved towards her. The little witch couldn’t maintain her footing, and so the peg smacked her side.

She yelped and Devlon clasped his hand to his nose, shaking his head. Thinking of all the ways, she would hurt herself tonight.

He’d never get sleep...

So, Devlon cut his losses and went back to his hut, willing himself to forget all he’d seen.

~

There were bags under her eyes. The heavy grey, dark and shadowed. It reminded him that she was still just a human girl underneath it all. Devlon half-wondered what she might have been doing if she’d not been thrown into this strange new world where war was what they ate, what they breathed, what they awoke at dawn to pursue.

It was true that he liked to call the witch spoiled behind the commander’s back—in his head; when he grumbled under his breath. That spoiled princess kept in the general’s cabin, unseen, unheard of, but trapezing through the camp as if she belonged here—as if she was one of them. That beautiful, solemn witch who lived in the woods, who ate the dreams of the elders and the smiles of the young.

But she was not a witch. Not Illyrian, certainly. Perhaps, not fae. No longer human. Could not be called lesser fae though, because there was nothing lesser about the female who had ripped Hybern’s head from his body.

She did not show the same strength she had in those few days of the war. Devlon had seen her walking with those buckets and bandages, watching his comrades fall one by one as if she commanded their deaths, plucked their souls from their bodies. How terrifying it must have been for her? This young girl, who had not lived even half of their youngest citizen.

He trained warriors for a near millennium who came back with lost limbs, lost friends, lost sanities, but what did she lose? What did she even have to lose? This little witch who had experienced nothing.

“Your wrist—” He spoke at last, his words rough to his own ears. She stared up at him, eyes widening then down at the sword in her hand. “You’ll break it if you keep bending it like that.”

He watched as she stubbornly gripped the handle tighter, turning her back to him and swinging at the practice dummy again. It swung from the momentum and the girl—female—witch—stepped back unable to keep her footing.

Dead, he thought. If she were in a battle she’d be dead.

“And your stance needs work,” He added sardonically. She huffed in reply. But Devlon was not finished. She had kept him up with her pestering noise for six days. He was tired.

“Why do you want to train?” he demanded because he truly needed to know. Why the late nights and the early mornings? Why punch when she didn’t know how? Why use a sword she could barely hold upright? He was tired of not knowing why she walked through the training fields as if it were a war zone and she was wading through the bodies.

Why fight at all?

She could be sheltered, taken care of, happily ensconced in an estate somewhere, with the general himself even if that last day in the war was any indication.

But the witch did not answer his question. Instead, she adjusted her grip, widening her stance, and holding the sword as if she was holding some sporting bat he’d seen the children play with.

“Incorrect,” he voiced allowed, circling her form.

She huffed but moved her left foot forward and her right slightly back, though he gave her no directions to do so.

“Incorrect!”

“Then why don’t you tell me what is correct?” She answered, harshly.

“Why don’t you ask?” He provoked.

But she lunged at him with the sword.

He quickly stepped out of her way and gave her a look, “Too easy.”

She tried again, and he stepped to the side. She hit the rope and it cut in half.

“You are not doing anything but tiring yourself.”

“Shut up!” She yelled, fury spitting out of her words.

Fine.

He remained silent as she ambled towards him, huffing along the way. Devlon crossed his arms, raising a brow and when she swung again, he grabbed the sword from her hands.

It was easy… because she was holding it wrong.

Devlon waited. The little witch glared, raising her head to meet him in the eyes.

Her face was red. Her hair, wild. Her eyes, gleaming. And, for a moment she reminded him of the night sky. The imminent danger of someone inconsequential…

Devlon held out the sword to her, the handle ready for her palm. She glanced at it, then back at him.

The female pursed her lips, looking as though she did not want to accept his gift, but Nesta grabbed the weapon firmly.

Why do you want to fight? He’d asked her.

“No one else can fight for me.”

~ “Join the ranks tomorrow,” Devlon commanded, crossing his arms, “At a decent hour, this time.”

“You can’t be serious,” Nesta exclaimed, dropping the sword on the ground. Devlon sniffed at that. That would be their next lesson it seemed, how to treat weapons with the respect they were due.

For now, he settled on tapping a foot. His patience dimming with the lack of sleep. A headache was already beginning to form as the little witch crossed her arms, lifting her shoulders in a way that had him thinking she must have had wings in another lifetime—in another form.  

In any case, she could not be more irritated than him and Devlon rose to the challenge, “In a real battle, you will not be fighting training dummies.”

Nesta scoffed, her eyes widening as she began to make big, dramatic gestures with her hands, “They’ve trained all their lives. They’ll pummel me.”

“Perhaps, but that is the risk you take in any fight,” He breathed; the words coated in sincerity. “The males won’t take it easy on you, surely. Might even try harder to win. After all, no one wants to be beaten by a mere wisp of a female, but no enemy in war will spare you or wait for you to be ready. Either they best you and you end up with a few bruises or you learn to hit first.”

She took a deep breath, her nostril flaring in that way he knew meant she wanted to yell and so Devlon went on.

“You have kept me up for three weeks. I have taught you basic forms, stances, how to punch, how to kick, how to use your body against someone larger. I cannot teach you anymore. You must fight.”

“Is that all it takes? A few punches and a kick and someone’s ready to rage war.”

“No,” He called, scenting the fear. “But if you don’t fight, you don’t learn. There are some things only experience can teach you.”

She opened her mouth to argue, but Devlon raised a hand.

“I won’t force you to go.” She clamped her mouth shut, her shoulders relaxing. “But know that if you don’t go, I’m not training you any longer. Our lessons stop here.”

Devlon watched as she gulped down her arguments, the silence tangible in the height of the witching hour.

Nesta looked past him, up to the stars.

If she saw her answers hidden in the cosmos, he wanted her to say it aloud, get this night over with and settled. But she closed her eyes, clenching her fists.  

When she opened them again, he saw the grey flash in the darkness.

A newborn star, he thought.

Bright and burning.

“Fine,” She huffed, picking up the sword.

~

When Nesta walked into the training quarters the morning after next, Devlon was almost surprised.

This time instead of nightgowns and fur coats or sweats she’d hastily thrown on, she wore training leathers. But even if she walked with arrogance of a queen, he could still see the apprehension in her gait. Perhaps, it had something to do with the commander and the shadowsinger who looked on, eyebrows crinkling.

He supposed he picked a wrong day for her to join legion training, because well… both of them were here. Usually, Devlon had advanced warning of these visits but it seemed that the commander hadn’t bothered telling him that the shadowsinger would be making his rounds, spying on their progress.

At their gazes, at all of their gazes including the males who started to whisper under their breaths, the witch lifted her chin. Tall and impressively indifferent.

Learn to examine them, he’d told her. The foot they favor. The side they use the most. The weapons they’re most skilled at. That is what you learn by being in the ring, by facing them head on.

Learn to use what you know—what you are.  

Nesta had no problem at finding weaknesses, he found, as she surveyed them all, but they had no problem leering, sneering, and jeering at her. The males closest to the general began to step aside, and the ones far enough away moved closer to see his reaction.

But Nesta didn’t bother looking at Cassian, instead she stepped towards him. Her arms crossing in that petulant way of hers.

“I’m here,” She huffed.

“I can see that,” he said, giving her a dry look.

His lack of directions seemed to annoy her, because she looked away, not succeeding to hide the roll of her eyes. Devlon could feel the headache already forming.

“We’ll start with drills,” He began, “Laps around the field, running through stances, and then hand-to-hand combat.”

The witch nodded her head, moving to join the males who straightened as she walked towards them.

She looked… small in comparison.

But small in the way that he imagined a venomous snake hid on the forest floor or a bushel of nightshade might disguise itself in grand bouquets. She was dangerous, he knew. They all knew, though they didn’t know exactly what chaos hid beneath her skin or how it might destroy them all had she been displeased with them.

The general sidled up to him, the shadowsinger ever close and present, and Devlon inwardly sighed. Both of them watching Nesta begin to run laps.

“When did she start this?” He asked, his tone outrageous and cynical.

“I don’t know what else to tell you, besides the fact that she lives in your house. If you don’t know when she started this, I’ll have to point out your lack of perception.”

“When did she start this?” The commander snarled. Devlon did not care for the tone.

“You. Tell. Me.” He offered slowly, tilting his head, waiting for the male to answer. “If you don’t know where she’s been, then how would I know? She was left to you wasn’t she?”

“Nesta can go wherever wants.”

“Then it seems we’re at a standstill, because you allowed her to roam freely but apparently were not clever enough to spy. Or is that why the shadowsinger is here?”

The hotheaded commander sneered as Azriel, the surprising voice of reason, laid a hand on his shoulder. “Just ask her, Cass?”

Cassian shrugged him off. “Why is she here, then?”

He thought that was obvious. “Because she made the choice to train.”

“She doesn’t know how to fight.”

Devlon grinned.

“Then maybe you should have trained her.”

The general’s face turned a special shade of red as his wings spread wide, but Devlon merely turned away. Watching as the little witch ran circles around the ring.

~

“I have to fight him?” She asked, pointing her index lightly to the male who grunted as he lifted a set of heavy weights.

“You don’t have to fight him,” Cassian interjected. “There’s no logical reason for this.”

Devlon tapped his foot. Even the shadowsinger looked as if he’d rather be somewhere else. “Experience is the best teacher.”

Nesta made a face, unconvinced.

“It will teach you your weaknesses.”

Her voice rose incredulously. “What weaknesses?” She asked.

Devlon raised a hand to his nose, the endless questions wearing down his patience. But he began with the truth anyways. “You favor your right side, but you’re left-handed, so you get off balance easily. You get tired too fast and end up winded before you hit anything vital. You clearly favor a sword, but all of the ones we have are too heavy for you to lift…”

The witch crossed her arms, a frown appearing on her face.

“But those things can be trained out of you… What cannot is the way you think too much before you swing. You second guess yourself before you punch. You’re too trapped in that head of yours and either you understand that you have to hit, or you understand that someone will beat you before you get the chance because you’re too busy thinking about the success of each outcome.”

Devlon watched as Nesta straightened her stance.

“I cannot teach you how to fight for yourself.”

He looked her dead in the eyes, knew and understood what she’d said that day, knew she remembered by the clench of her jaw. But, Nesta lifted a casual shoulder, noting Cassian and Azriel who watched the discourse with rapt attention.

“You’ve been watching me.”

“We should all know our enemies.” He pointed to the male, Aedon, a novice set to complete the Rite this year, who was used to being bullheaded and arrogant. “That male, right now, is your enemy.”

The little witch nodded in concession, and the commander scoffed, looking all too defeated for someone who’d barely argued for his cause. Perhaps, he knew he didn’t have one or at least one that Nesta would listen to.  

She sidled up to the platform as the male, noticing her stare made his way. A swaggering prick who Devlon knew wanted to intimidate her. They would all do that at one point or another, he warranted, he grasped as the rest of the males seemed to forget they were supposed to be training themselves. They crowded around the mats; the boundaries separated by ropes.  

Cassian and Azriel too, made their way to watch the fight unfold.

It seemed that many of the trainees were making bets, though they hushed quietly as he neared.

Nesta ignored the rest, only looking to the male who wrapped his hands in white gauze.

“You’re a small thing,” he noted, unhelpfully.

The little witch lifted a brow. “I’d say you’re a large thing, but I think it’s only your head.”

Aedon huffed a laugh, and though his eyes lit up with amusement, something else settled in. Something darker and foreboding.

It was a look Devlon had seen before. A look he’d seen on many of his warriors.  

“I’ll make sure not to hit your face,” the male mocked.

Nesta looked at him confused, but Aedon took that as an opportunity to lung, kicking his foot out until Nesta was lying on the ground. He heard the crack as her shoulders slammed into the platform and he hoped, in some deep part of him, past the part that said he didn’t care at all, that it was the wood that splintered and not her spine.

She gasped loudly as she placed a hand on her chest, but no one came to help her move. It would’ve been shameful to do so. This female who wanted to fight with the warriors.

She did this to herself he imagined them thinking. Because it was that thought that immediately entered his mind. She chose this.

Get up, Devlon wanted to shout. Get. Up!

The shadowsinger held the commander back, though what he could have done Devlon didn’t know. Pummel the male who hit her when she willingly entered the match?

After learning everything he knew about this witch, he doubted she’d appreciate the gesture.

“You want to play with the big boys?” Aedon spit, “You get hit.”

He tutted lowly. “Do you need a minute, princess, or are you used to being on your back?”

Devlon didn’t dare show his own rage, but he grasped the rope, his fists clenching around the thick string until he felt he might rip it off himself. The feeling surprised even him.

But Nesta twisted herself upright, turning to the male with bright, furious eyes.

Nesta lunged and when he punched, she ducked, grabbing his arm. She used her weight until he was sprawled on the floor, but he reached out to grab her leg and she fell to her knees. She tried to kick him off, but he was larger, heavier, and it didn’t take much to pull her backwards until she was on the floor with him on top of her. He punched once, his fists landing on her cheekbone.

Aedon walked off, grabbing a towel he’d hung on the rope. Nesta cradled her cheek, kissing the mat with her body. While he waited, Aedon began tapping his foot. Tap. Tap. Tap. Over and over until Devlon, himself, could hear the noise ringing in his ears.

Nesta turned to face him and no one else.

She sauntered up to him slowly, serpentine and vile. Her eyes getting darker, her mouth set in a thin line. And Aedon laughed. Lowly at first, but the sound began to rise in pitch until it sounded maniacal and deranged.

This time, Aedon sprung forward, but Nesta was quick on her feet, and she moved just enough to grab his arm and twist it behind him. In this position, the male bowed before them and Nesta kicked out her foot.

He fell to the ground, twisting quickly to face her, but Nesta didn’t let him move. She ambled on top of him, her legs on either side of his torso and she hit. And hit. And hit. Until his face was bleeding, and her fists were drenched in the male’s blood.

Still she hit and the awaiting Illyrians did nothing but watch the young warrior play with the big boys.

Cassian shrugged off the shadowsinger, bending through the ropes around the ring. Devlon watched as he hoisted Nesta off the male by the waist. Her face was red and ferocious, and she began to fight the commander as well. But he didn’t let her go. Not until she had stopped fighting, stopped kicking, stopped punching, and she took deep, gasping breaths.

She stared at the male on the ground, wiping her forehead with her arm, the blood smearing on her face like war paint and she must have finally noticed all of the males looking at her. Some in doubt of what they just witnessed, others in outrage that she had the guts. Devlon didn’t know what his expression looked like, though he tried to school it into plain indifference.

The little warrior looked to the commander once more, who braced himself, his wings expanding wide. Ready to take her punches or fly her off, Devlon wasn’t sure, but he wanted to see. A mere curiosity at what the general would do.

But Nesta slipped past him, past them all with her shoulders pushed back and her head raised high. She looked to him then, her gaze harsh.

“Are we done?”

Devlon turned his gaze back to the warrior who’d bragged about his skill and was defeated so easily. “For now.”

She left without a second glance and Devlon could only nod to the male dripping blood on his mats, “wipe your face.”

~

Devlon found the young female in the infirmary. A tent the size of a small room that many warriors chose not to even step in, in fear that they would look weak to their comrades. The general and the shadowsinger were already there.

Azriel turned to the corner, blending with the shadows as Devlon so often noticed. Distantly, he could see him crushing some herbs, though the action did not make him look inconspicuous. Rather, it seemed he was trying to give the other two privacy at the same time he was eavesdropping. Cassian ran amuck, grabbing bandages and band aids and tea, though Nesta looked perfectly fine to him, besides a wound on her face.

Devlon wanted to sigh at the two of them. Pups still, even if they were over five hundred and had ended more lives than the years they’d lived.

Cassian laid an icepack under Nesta’s eye, where her cheek was red and blistering. She’d have a bruise in the morning probably...

Even some wounds couldn’t heal fast enough for the fae.

But, Nesta angled away from him as she hissed, grabbing the pack from his hands. The commander frowned but let her take control, though he remained hunched, his wings drooping to the floor.

His gaze laid solely on hers and Devlon felt... uncomfortable—conscious that the moment was between the two of them and perhaps not for two Illyrian busybodies who’d stumbled on this place for the same reason. To see exactly what would befall the two when disaster seemed to always follow.

“I wanted to teach you how to fight,” He admitted, unsure of his words.

Nesta didn’t bother looking at him.

“It wasn’t your decision.”

“And Devlon is...”

“He’s an asshole,” she said. Devlon gave her a bland look, though she made no move to take notice of him standing in the middle of the tent like an outright buffoon. “But he’s honest... and he doesn’t treat me any different from anyone else.”

Cassian shook his head, his expression pained. “I didn’t mean to make you feel that you couldn’t... tell me that you were...wanted to train. I--” His eyebrows cinched in that way Devlon remembered he’d do when he was young. All too afraid of being exactly what they called him.

“It wasn’t about you,” the little warrior answered harshly. The commander straightened at her stare, poignant but not malicious.

Honest.

Brutally so.

And perhaps that was what the general needed to hear, after all. What they all needed to hear for they all knew what the little witch meant. That the ability to choose was perhaps more powerful than the opportunity itself. That she had chosen, invariably, to wander in the middle of the night, to pick up a sword, to keep swinging and hitting and punching, to fight whether she knew how or not.

Nesta had chosen this. No one else could have convinced her.

Nesta turned to him then and lifted the icepack from her cheek.

“He said he wouldn’t hit my face,” She grumbled.

Devlon blinked, surprised at her words. “Did that appease you somehow?”

The female angled her head, thinking it over.

“No...” She declared somberly, “Bruises that you can’t see are still bruises.”

At the tone, Devlon began to shuffle uncomfortably once more, though he stayed as the witch grimaced. Cassian moved to switch her icepack to one wrapped in cloth, the liquid dripping on to the leather.

But Devlon couldn’t help stepping forward. Didn’t know why he did.  

“You fought like an Illyrian today.”

Cassian and Azriel raised their heads. Devlon tried not to care too much, though he wanted to yell at them to run more drills as if they were still in his warband five hundred years before, fresh and almost too squeaky clean.

“Like a male,” he continued.

Nesta made a disgruntled face, displeased with his choice of words. “You just haven’t seen enough females fight.”

Devlon shrugged a shoulder. “I haven’t seen enough females want to fight. You are a rare exception.”

She lifted a brow and then grimaced at the gesture. She’d done that twice already, as if she kept forgetting that she was in pain. Devlon smiled in spite of himself.

But she pursed her lips anyway, looking to the tent that surrounded them, the purple fabric mimicking purple skies. He wondered if she could see straight through, feel the weight of the atmosphere like a bandage on a wound. Like that icepack on her face.

“Your world is too small if you believe that,” She spoke.

Devlon opened his mouth to refute, but Nesta held up her hand, silencing his argument.

“Are we training tomorrow?” She asked, though she must have known the answer.

“At the crack of dawn.”

Nesta began gesturing dramatically.  

“That’s so early,” She whined. Devlon scoffed in outrage.

But at the look, Nesta merely smiled. Small and perhaps just a tilt of her lips, but unafraid. A wild look in her eyes as if she enjoyed the teasing... the prospect of training... of being someone they didn’t expect.

Inconsequential to the naïve. Imminently powerful to the rest.

Perhaps this time, Devlon wouldn’t mind training the girls... Might even look forward to it.  

~

Tags: @ekaterinakostrova, @soitsgorgeous, @duskandstarlight, @pizzaneverdisappoints, @imwritingthesewords, @arin1030, @adelainejdevyn, @thebluemartini, @nahthanks, @laylaameer01

~

I wanted Nesta to make the choice to fight, and I definitely didn’t want it to be a decision on behalf of anyone else, because Nesta has had enough people take away her autonomy. But I also wanted the choice to fight to directly relate to her making a choice to fight for herself. And so at the end there, she may not be as skilled as everyone else realistically, she may not even know what fighting will cost her, but she’s angry and she’s tired and she’s going to fight and she’s going to fight to win.

Also, Devlon is a really cool character to me, but in this fic I wanted to make his lack of allowing women to fight be more complicated than just traditional sexism. So, I thought to make half of his treatment towards women because of his traditionalistic views that haven’t been challenged, and the other half, the contention, be because of having been told by Rhys, Azriel, and Cassian that he must train the females and the females must train or else. Rhys and Azriel and Cassian chose to do the blood right, these girls are being told they have to learn to fight. So I thought, here lies the great hypocrisy of being like we need to make this camp more equal, but the way we’re going to do that is by taking another decision away from the women. I just thought maybe Devlon would willingly help Nesta because she made the choice to want to train—might even admire and respect that about her and in turn this would be the spark to change. Nesta indirectly influencing the others. 

One day I will stop writing essay length analyses of my own writing lol but today is not the day. I’m going to work on my Eris fic now and get that posted soon!

Comment, Reblog, Like or all three if you liked and want to see more fics posted! If you don’t like... don’t tell me lol 

But also, Happy Reading and almost release day!!! It’s getting closer at least. Keep holding out! I know we’re all going a bit stir crazy... 

[musicprincess1990]

Warmth and Home

For Sherlolly Appreciation Week, day 6: Huddling for warmth.

I almost went smutty with this one, but it didn’t suit my mood. So I went for fluff instead. There’s always room for more fluff. This also ended up being way longer than intended, so there’s a nice “keep reading” so you don’t have to sit and scroll and scroll and scroll, unless you want to.

***

The door closed with an echoing clang, and both Molly and Sherlock whipped around to stare in horror. They shared a look, and bolted for the door at the same time, but of course, Sherlock was there first (damn him and his long legs and cat-like agility). He tried the latch to no avail, and sighed.

“Locked?” Molly asked.

He nodded. “No way to unlock from inside.”

The reality of their situation dawned on them, and their gaze met a second time, lingering a bit. They were locked in the freezer of a popular restaurant, having been there investigating a trail of deaths whose only link was this place. They’d just found some crucial evidence when the door had shut, and locked. The temperature was uncomfortable already. Soon, the hypothermia would set in, then the grogginess, then they would drift off to sleep... permanently.

“What do we do?” she hissed, trying not to panic.

Sherlock pulled out his phone, then growled low in his throat. “No service.”

“Brilliant,” Molly deadpanned.

He dragged a hand across his face. “Well... John at least knew where we were headed, and he does have a tendency to overreact when he can’t reach me. There’s a decent chance he’ll come looking for us.”

“A ‘decent chance’?”

“It’s the best I can do at the moment,” he sighed. “In the meantime, we may as well get comfortable.” He sat on the floor, opening his coat, and looked at her expectantly.

“What are you doing?”

He rolled his eyes. “Obviously we’ll have a better chance if we share body heat.”

“Oh,” she breathed, heat blossoming beneath her cheeks. She inched over and sat beside him, letting him envelop her in the warmth of his Belstaff. Molly grit her teeth as a heavenly smell surrounded her, the smell of him. This was not good for her sanity.

It wasn’t long before they were both shivering, the shared heat only doing so much. Molly closed her eyes, trying to force herself to breathe evenly, without success. The panic was beginning to set in, making her tremble all the more.

“Molly, stop,” Sherlock said in her ear, his voice and his nearness causing an entirely different sort of shiver. “There’s no need to panic.”

“We’re going to freeze to death, I think that’s a damn good reason to panic.”

“We’re not going to—”

“Don’t finish that sentence. Don’t lie to me.”

He huffed in exasperation. “I’m trying to be optimistic.”

“You?” she scoffed. “Ever the realist, and now you decide the glass is half full?”

“If it gets you to calm down, yes.”

“It’s not working.”

Sherlock huffed again, then abruptly grabbed her by the waist, turning her to face him, and settling her on his lap. Straddling his lap, more accurately. Well, that was one way to warm her up. She gasped at the flash of heat and desire, avoiding his eyes for fear of what he might find in hers.

Of course, he had nothing of the sort on his mind. He pulled her more snugly against him, folding his coat around them both. Molly’s arms went around his torso, and her head found its way tucked under his chin. It did seem a bit warmer, she supposed. And despite her reaction just moments ago, being with him like this put her quickly at ease. She could feel his pulse in his carotid artery against her cheek, the steady rhythm a welcome reminder that he was still alive and well. After all he’d been through, she couldn’t help but be grateful to have him, in any capacity.

“Molly?” he murmured, his lips buried in her hair.

“Mm?”

There was a pause, then he took a deep breath, and...

Footsteps.

She felt him tense in the same moment that she did, and they held their breath, listening to the sound. Molly swallowed thickly, hovering between hope and fear.  One of Sherlock’s hands drifted from her waist, exposing part of her back to the cold air, making her shiver against him. Then she heard the unmistakable sound of a cocked gun. Oh, God...

The door opened as loudly as it had shut, and she felt Sherlock relax. “John,” he greeted, and Molly sagged against him in relief.

***

It was nearly an hour before Molly made it home. Greg had turned up not long after John, along with the rest of NSY, and Sherlock had jumped into action, providing details and deductions as per usual. At one point, she had attempted to leave, but Sherlock insisted, for whatever reason, that he would see her home when he was finished.

Finally, with all questions answered and all reports given, Sherlock steered Molly toward a waiting cab. He slid in beside her and gave the cabbie her address, and they were on their way.

“You really didn’t have to see me home, Sherlock.”

“Bit late for that,” he countered.

He had a point. “Well... thank you. For this, and for calming me down earlier.”

Sherlock didn’t answer for several moments, only speaking when she had given up waiting for a response. “Did I ever tell you why I chose your flat as one of my boltholes?”

Molly frowned, puzzled by the change in topic. “I... don’t know if you did.”

He kept his eyes trained ahead as he spoke. “Sometimes, even I need a break from the noise and the confusion. Sometimes, I need a place where, if only for a short while, I can turn my mind off. A place of... peace,” he finished, his brow furrowing, as if that weren’t quite the right word for it. Then his head turned, and his eyes met hers across the dark cab. “And for me, that place... is with you.”

His words settled over her, and she blinked rapidly as the tears threatened. “Oh,” she managed weakly.

Sherlock smiled almost shyly. “I suppose it’s selfish of me to wish that I could be the same for you... but then, I am selfish.”

Feeling suddenly brave, Molly scooted closer to him, keeping her eyes on his as she moved. She threaded her fingers with his, delighted to feel him return the gesture. “I think home is the word you were looking for. And mine has always been wherever you are.”

Their hands remained entwined for the remainder of the cab ride, and Sherlock refused to let go as they went inside her flat. They silently made their way into her bedroom, shrugging out of their coats and taking off their shoes, before climbing into bed together. Sherlock immediately wound his arms around her, pulling her flush against him, and her arms encircled his torso for the second time that night. And there they stayed, huddled in the warmth of home, until sleep and dreams of each other claimed them.

[ofgoodmenarchive]

Blighted Empire: Ch. 1

Sins of Our Fathers

Dorian hated travelling by sea.

It was a long, lurching journey between Tevinter and Ferelden. He lamented Orlais rejected their ship- Orlesian Circles already overburdened by the first wave. Now all of Thedas struggled to house them.

Curled up on his cot in the gloom, he twitched and turned as his vision spun. There was nothing left in his stomach to heave and the shakes were so intense, in his delirium he worried he'd caught Blight. He wasn't one to run scared for his father and the constant groaning and swaying of the ship did not welcome him- but he felt desperate for a second pair of eyes.

 Do I look sick? Are there sores? Everything is dancing, I can't see.

Stumbling out of the cabin and into the narrow hall, he rocked with the ship and more fell than walked. Magister Pavus couldn't have gone far. He listened intently for his voice through the ceaseless noise of their vessel. The boxed environment had an eerie, dream-like quality. He was unnerved almost beyond reason but couldn't understand why.

 “It can still be done. Take him now- there's no reason to wait.”

He froze, straining to process hushed conversation.

 “The boy has lost his mother and is being taken far from his homeland. This is not the time for such a discussion.” He wasn't certain on the identity of the first voice but this was his father.

 “What discussion? Simply take him now and have it done. Whether in his homeland or Ferelden, he will still be cursed by this affliction. You would prefer he embarrass us in front of outsiders by flirting with inferiors, as he does everywhere?”

An exaggeration to be sure but it still stung. His stomach churned, especially unsettled as he pieced together their discussion. They weren't just griping about his rebellious nature- his father aimed to rid him of his rumoured predispositions before they had a chance to shame his bloodline more than they had.

 “I doubt such things will be on his mind.” He defended his son that much.

 “A fixation of this extent is a disease, Magister Pavus, it does not reason. If he's brought with us as he is he'll be a nuisance at best and at worst, a complete embarrassment.”

Unable to support his weight any longer, knees buckled and he slumped against the door. It held but as his mind spiraled he heard his father.

 “Is someone there?”

Insides tied into knots, time slowed. Habit told him to run but an outrage was stirring. How could his father even consider this? Was it so impossible to love his son as he was? His pulse in his ears, he shoved open the door and stood there, uneven.

What he saw made no discernible sense and he knew something was terribly wrong.

Magister Pavus was present, a statue in the small, dank space. But the disembodied voice belonged to nothing but black- an inky mass that lurked in the corner, watching without eyes. Everything was still, as if the ocean itself had been swallowed.

 This can't be real.

When he'd overheard his father speak of this plan, he'd retreated and hid for the rest of the voyage. The voice was never identified so the demon simply did not know what to replace it with. Perhaps it never expected Dorian to confront his father.

The reflection of Halward Pavus glowered at Dorian, sinister lines ageing his face. Dorian's heart leapt from his chest as he backed into the hall, seasickness replaced by fear.

 “Dorian! Please- wait!” It almost sounded like his father. Tone too exaggerated in concern, intentionally plucking at emotion. Even in such circumstance, his father certainly would not be so frantic. A puppet of Halward Pavus, features seeming to sprout in webs and distort.

Devoid of thought, he ran. He had to get away from that ghoul, that's all that mattered. Mania took him away from the unnaturally lifeless ship- up several ladders and above deck. Retreat gave him time to compose himself, noticing and being thankful that even the ship was built to a rough specification of his memory.

If there had ever been an ocean, it was indeed swallowed. The ship was half-buried in endless piles of scorched stone. Destruction stretched as far as the eye could see; buildings ravaged by green flame, noxious clouds blotted the sky, rot covered a land strewn with bodies.

 The Tevinter Imperium.

They said that on the final retreat, half of the Imperium burned. It could not even be estimated how much was caused by Darkspawn and how much was a defeated army laying waste to everything as it fled.

Dizzy, he steadied on the edge of the ship. If this was the Fade as he suspected and forgetting was a part of it, the Black City should be visible. Nauseous, he scanned the polluted sky and made out dark towers floating in mist.

 The good news, this is certainly not real.

He consoled, straightening himself. Banishing the demon was his only priority and the easiest way was with a weapon from the Fade to channel his will. He could possibly locate one from the ship but didn't want to risk a trap within the narrow space. Feeling more decisive, he hoisted himself over the side and skittered down rubble.

 “Don't you want to speak to your father, Dorian?” A voice taunted as he went.

Trudging through the decay was difficult, it stuck to his limbs, tar-like. He tried not to think of the layers of decomposition he waded through or how many people comprised that sludge. He reminded himself incessantly it was not real. Even if Tevinter looked something like this now, it was a nightmare enhanced by his unconscious.

Toppled structures around him took shape- he recognised fragments of architecture from Minrathous and home- even pieces of the Ferelden Tower, different times and places stitched together in awful tapestry. Legs met less resistance now, a solid ground littered with corpses in place of a swamp.

 “Ah, if it isn't the very fortunate Dorian Pavus! To escape the cleansing of his deviant homeland with limbs, health and sanity while so many fled with nothing! For many, even less than nothing.” It echoed from everywhere, from inside. The unending landscape felt small.

Dismissing it, he plunged onward. He couldn't entertain the demon, not for a moment. His path was clear- it had to remain so.

 “You don't want to talk to me, Dorian?” The voice chided, warbling as it fought for consistency.

 “No, not really, thank you!” A nervous whisper escaped. His next step met an obstacle, something cold and unrelenting around his leg. Yanking, he refused to see but it was so tenacious he had to steal a glance to thump it in the face with his opposite boot.

Maybe it had been the face of someone he knew, back at the 'Forgotten District of Minrathous', he dared not allow the image to set. Perhaps the voice that scratched from tattered chords would be familiar if his thoughts were not persistently screaming to drown it.

 “You wonder what makes you so much better, don't you? You wonder why you deserved to live.”

 “It wasn't my choice!” He couldn't help yelling while he kicked, over and over until the arm severed. He broke into a sprint.

 “None of it was my choice!”  He had to scream it. He needed it to be known. He needed to believe it. The demon would not relent, striking before he could recover.

 “And what of your choices, my son?” Unmistakably familiar though she croaked so dry.

They said on the final retreat, half of the Imperium burned.

 Dorian, I don't think she'll be there.

 Mournful words as the great silhouettes of the harbour stood almost grandly against blood-streaked horizons.

There was no escape from it, was there? With a grave turn, he faced the blackened corpse of his mother. Grief buried so deep the demon failed to reconstruct her appearance. How fortunate most of Tevinter lay in ashes.

 “Fooling around while your betters prepare, shirking responsibilities, drinking and joking, losing your amulet, fraternising with inferiors. And do you think people can't tell why you look at Felix that way? Why you drag him into playing house and act like it was his notion?”

 “You're very chatty for a woman who burned to death.” He mocked with an edge of hysteria and in equally hysterical motion, threw his hand, willing a shape that obliterated the area. Shards of ice pierced the land where the nightmare once stood. Dorian hadn't even realised what form he cast- reflex became his strategy.

 “Why don't you want to talk to your family, Dorian? Don't you miss them?”  The voice underwent more grotesque transformation, sampling whatever fruits Dorian's vulnerable mind bore. The spot of ice pulsed and grew, temperature falling dramatically, unforgiving winds howled through the nightmare. He tried to outmaneuver the frost and slipped.

 “But you would speak to me, would you not?”

Keeper Lavellan cast a long shadow. Lightbringer's sharp glow aimed at Dorian's throat. His reaction to this was more visceral than towards the ghoul of his father. Heart drummed painfully against rib cage as he swiveled on ice and skid over harsh terrain. He couldn't find a grip but managed to swerve behind a spire.

The real Lavellan was already uncompromising and only half-reasonable, he could only imagine a demonic figment to be merciless. Thoughts screamed as he tried to organise a plan of attack.

Relaxed steps clicked after him. One set, two set, three sets.

 “Does it shame you to face me, Tevinter?”

 “Does it make you feel small, stupid, unworthy?”

 “Does it make you feel unclean?”

Hands clasped ears, blocking the trio of Lavellans as best he could. Of course there would be three! Except these brothers were the same person and all their malice crept towards Dorian. He risked a glance around; poor mimics of Lavellan, really. He was not quite that sharp, not quite that towering, not quite that cold. Lightbringer wasn't even accurate!- He couldn't recall the runes seamlessly but enough to know they were wrong!

Listing these discrepancies brought little comfort. How could he face three demonic, mad elves on his own, even if they were fade-forms?

It dawned on him- he didn't have to. The Fade wasn't just home to nightmares but benevolent spirits. If he chose cautiously and inscribed correctly, one might give aid.

They were edging towards him but no matter how Dorian scribbled on ice, he couldn't remember the rune for Valour. It was like trying to recite a melody and losing yourself in another, akin but different. He couldn't comprehend these intruding runes but they were all he could think as he drew summoning circle after summoning circle.

 “Tell me something.”

He was out of time.

Tearing his gaze away from cryptic doodles, he met the nightmarish Lavellan in the eye.

He remembered the last time they spoke, Lavellan grieved his people. Now he loomed like a harbinger of death, an immense figure with a triplet at each side and mockery of a celestial blade.

 “Do you ever consider that what was left of my family died so that the rest of yours may live? Do you ever consider that I may die in your place, reclaiming your homeland? Does your existence not shame you, Dorian Pavus?”

Despair strangled him, an incredible weakness overpowered his limbs. Through tears he looked between the fake Lavellan and his juvenile circles.

 “Lavellan...I shame myself...” Delirious and sapped of reason, he placed fingers on the initially-drawn summon. It felt right, somehow. All of his will poured into those etchings until they came alive, submitting himself to the Fade.

Light blinded him. He processed the outline of a straight-backed figure atop the circle, rejuvenating warmth shielding them both.

 “How repulsive.” It stated tepidly and there was a slice of movement. With discoloured vision, it looked as though the demon Lavellans were squeezed by invisible hands, causing them to burst like firecrackers.

His mind swirled, colour tinted the scene in patches.

 “Valour?”

 “No.”

When eyes readjusted it was still Lavellan but the contrast between him and the others was night and day. The chill was present but did not overwhelm and Lightbringer rested, the weight of it at his belt much less threatening.

 “You're not Lavellan either.” He thought aloud. “Lavellan is fighting Darkspawn in Tevinter.”

It was not, could not be Lavellan but still the familiar scrutinisation was uncanny.

 “I am remembered here. Why do you summon me?”

Whatever he'd drawn, Dorian concluded it reached not only into his memory but into those of the Dalish turned Circle Mages- it was the only way to account for the accuracy. He wondered if the spirit who answered was aware of its situation.

 “To defeat the demon, of course.”

 “That is not what I meant.”

 “I was trying to summon Valour.” He repeated and considered that spirit Lavellan was still rather draining.

 “You are a bad liar, Dorian Pavus.” The way he said it was so human it caught him off guard, going on the defensive.

 “I won't stand in this Fade-pit and be lectured by a fake Lavellan! Tell me your real name and I might oblige you!”

The imitative spirit became static, pupils unmoving. He wondered if he'd broken it, if it was searching within the Fade, or struggled with the conundrum on whether to respond to a question the true Lavellan rejected. Well, good!

Eyes blinked into animation, a name finally decided upon.

 “Evallan.”

 “You made that up.” He said reflexively and the spirit only looked at him, humourless. Though he might have wanted to continue testing, a darkness crawled over everything. He made some sound in alarm but the spirit's voice hushed him, gentle.

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[throwinggrapesoffthebalcony]

preface to LAVENDER SOAP

You can feel apocalyptic in a number of ways, even while living in peaceful times. But what many times looks like peace, isn’t. And so a piece may arise during our own suppressed apocalypse. That was the case with Lavender Soap and my life in 1996. Very few places have had the energy to influence me as a writer, to feed into my tendencies, and even fewer places that could provide a sense of peace, that I was only ever able find in the water; buoyant saline, under the warmth of the ray’s of the sun. Even in storm, or the dead of winter, it was a tranquility, a sanctuary, that I could never find on land. Depending on your life, it’s a beautiful separation.

The epoch and the hotel was very different then, it was at peace tucked into the trees. It wasn’t decimated  by this new cheap world yet. The perfect air was still influxed with the smell of foliage and perfume and of old materials, plaster ruined and repaired a thousand times, regrouted with the tiles left intact, the aging glue of wallpaper is sweet. Decor should be timeless during our lives. Life is so short after all. It was a hotel imbued with and not completely claimed by the past yet, with the past, absorbed into the walls and woodwork and tapestries. The faint voices, rapes, murders, sufferings, and suicides of a more glamorous past, saved like metal oxide on tape in the walls; played when the atmosphere is right. The first element that effects me are women I’ve been involved with sexually and their particular fashion and our conversations, the other is the inspiration of architecture; this necessity to remove and protect ourselves from the elements of nature. And the third being that wild energy of nature itself, weather, thermal dynamics, etc. I’ll save the commentary about the energy arising from the earth and surroundings for the preface for SSHS, which was more influenced by the raw energy of a geographic location and life’s tragedies than it was about architecture. And writing that piece was never about silence for me, while Lavender Soap was born, not in the clash of an apocalyptic scene, but in the very opposite, in the midst of the most pleasurable quiet, not an absolute silence, but a perfect quiet. The sound of air moving through trees, the sound of a rotary telephone ringing, faint voices speaking somewhere, the existence of humanness, not intruding on your life, when it doesn’t need to. That was a time when I think everyone had their own scenario, there were bounds, and knew that your scenario wasn’t their scenario; which is called sanity. Perfect separation of lives, we were humans not insects. And because of this, meeting someone was always much more interesting than now. Lavender Soap is, besides being a psychological piece delving into my experiences at the Chateau, it’s also to a great extent a retrospect, and a regression to my childhood. It was in a childhood bedroom that I perfected disassociation, disconnection, and detachment in, out of necessity, for survival. A house of continual violence, week after week, year after year, leaves you with nowhere to go but down. Fantasy and pictures, allowed me to drift off. A calendar out of date, a hopeful month of lavender fields is where all of my loves stood. They never take you up. Sleeping with my weapon of choice, a tapered necked ball peen hammer. And with the faint smell of WD40 and rust the angels never come to save you from the screaming. A movie about war, that’s pretty in a way, is the only way I can remember that film.

In 1996, experience wasn’t found on a cell phone. I was young and if you wanted to feel something or experience something, you had to shower, dress and traverse whatever plane you were on. And from one location to another, so much could happen, and in-between there was discovery, moments. Forget the set pieces, that’s not what this life is made of. This life is made of moments. In my opinion, that curiosity is what the young are absolutely lacking in today’s world, that and not feeling like individuals. There was a conversation that I read, I think around that same time, where a film editor, I think Murch, if not, one of the other prominent film editors, was talking about editing on a Moviola. And because of the linear nature of working with whole strips of 35mm film, he would have to pass through a lot of footage that he hadn’t previously considered, and that he would have, if working in a non-linear manner have never encountered. And there, he would find moments that worked more profoundly than what he was intending to use. And I think that lack of an analog approach in living, has people missing the more profound encounters, the accidental encounters, encounters more enlightening than what they might experience with a premeditated itinerary. But wait, they had an exchange on tender; what a fucking joke. I feel sorry for them. I’ve never fallen in love with this new digital era, a work of spite and bitterness, a reaction to a world that didn’t feel inclusive enough, so it’s become a strategy of slash and burn. And how do you tell someone to fuck off so they truly listen in today’s era? Must it be an apocalypse for the stalkers. Are people always drawn into that state of darkness. And it’s so easy to lose sight of the jungle you’re in, when the modern world disguises the archetypes so well. The weeks become months and the months become years and years become a decade, while I was creating the philosophies of a man facing death, even while undeservedly healthy, and unfairly able to fuck.

Arriving at the hotel in 96’ was serendipitous, or fateful, whether you want to believe that life is steadfast or whimsical. It felt whimsical when I met a couple of cute girls named Hanni and Sunny at Beverly Connection one evening; one lovable, the other the type to want to watch, then try to explain what each of the other really wanted. I jotted down a few impressions I had of them at the time. They told me that they had this special place they wanted to show me. I thought they were full of shit. But one evening they picked me up and took me to the Chateau Marmont. The weather was terrible that night. I was dressed for the woods. It was a quiet place, empty, with an entrance of willow branches hanging dank over the drive. We sat in the living room and even while I tried to concentrate on the conversations we were having, I was only half there, while the other part of me had already wandered off into the hotel, amongst the spirits and whispering lips. Sunny called, with the concern of the other on mind. It was against her religion to have sex before marriage, and she was confused as to whether oral copulation was sex. I gave the wrong and less comforting answer. Of course it is. People go stagnant just as places do. I went looking for Hanni where she worked at Milk and Honey as a hostess. I saw her through the windows, but the place was busy and I didn’t want to get her into any trouble, so I continued on my walk. I didn’t see them much anymore, but I kept going back to the Chateau. It was just as quaint during the afternoon as it was at night. On most nights, it was desolate, like a huge spaceship had hovered over and removed every last trace of guests. This was before they began to monetize the mythos of the place, and run it like a circus. The hallowed courtyard had eyes in 1996, and then in 2006 it had the eyes of a cheap set looking for anything edible. Drug dealers intwined with movie moguls and music producers. When first arriving there, there was peace, and I would explore the floors unimpeded. I felt strangely allowed. One afternoon that week after the two girls had shown me the place, I went and stood on the landing on the shady side of the hotel. I could have stood there for centuries. I thought about a life with her, while still in love with what I couldn’t have. I wasn’t apart from those feelings yet. They choked me up, but I would never cry. I probably set the record for being on the verge of tears, while they dried. The people were more reclusive and weird then. With so many people in those rooms, so few went about. They come out for air. They ask each other, never asking you. Even while asking me, would be the quickest way to find something out. Strange quirks with some of these who reside here. Notes I wouldn’t even have to look back upon to remember. I didn’t know about the inner workings of Hollywood yet, even while I was already pitching ideas, but wrote literature and not scripts. I didn’t know there were those perpetually green-lit, only needing content, and those perpetually in the red light. But on the surface, everything was crystal clear, with my young primo lenses at the time, seeing even the minute texture in anything like glitter in the dust. I suppose speculation has always been a turn on. But the place was an immediate enchantment, and people were actors, so forgiven, and no idiosyncrasies of the fauna would keep me from going back. I loved the place. It gave me a chance to linger in that aesthetic. There were occasions when I’d stay in the living room until dawn, undisturbed, when I could have stayed and ordered breakfast if I’d wanted to. Hollywood and this hotel had already had a long history before I arrived. The materials, the curtains and rugs and upholstery was already soaked to the bone, damp with the secretions of the body, the blood, the saliva and vaginal fluids of the past. In the present, you can smell the distinction of a vagina from a mouth perfectly. But through time, it becomes this amalgamated scent, so fine and subtle that it could be bottled as perfume; an aphrodisiac for the intellect. I want to stay and live here, but it costs a fortune. Check out time is like another death, the woman who spreads the sheets might be the perfect fuck. Dreaming in a bed that saw the golden age. The ghosts of a thousand whores arise. But that was the wet part of the dream. They all say the same thing, they all dance the same way. They all want to stay in this world. This, while everyone claims to live in a higher plane. They want freedom without the label being emblazoned upon them. Today’s perfect. That’s just a desirable label and we all have desires. You wish you could turn them all into someone someone would have loved. On the landing on the shady side of the hotel, the rush of thoughts has me without sight, the sun penetrating my eyes. I wouldn’t even know what a strange thought was then, always in the wine. I went into the shadows falling over me. The strange trees don’t know my past, but it seems that they love me. She was cold, goosebumps on the skin, she never warms. She’s not of this world. But this place is like heaven’s turnkey, and here I can dream, that I’m living a spectacular life. My every thought here like a disco in the dark light. It’s coming up river with the blackness gleaming to take my life. In the past one only had to return to civilization. Now, there is no civilization to return to. Modern society is like a plague that has no brains. That dies out, not by heat or cold or is prevented by the razor wire of another man’s desires for peace of mind. Death is the only peace. Just as I was told of my literary pursuits, that all the hours were wasted, and to think about the fact, that all those I admired in that craft, are all dead, and so was the craft. I was sitting at a drive-in theatre. Hail memory. Prefaces are life, when a form of death has already occurred.

On the subject of soap balls, they were always perplexing. My grandmother, a strange woman, born in New Braunfels, Tx, who never opened her presents, wouldn’t let me wash my hands with them. They were decorations, to be dusted and sniffed for their essence. One lathered by mistake and placed back into the bunch looked funny, and you wondered if she’d notice. They looked like dull gum-balls in a decorative bowl, and I’d acquired a taste for soap, or at least I wasn’t as disgusted as they’d wanted me to be. You can frustrate the hell out of a nun that way, by loving it, and asking her for more. But I was curious as to whether they were different flavors. I couldn’t tell; perhaps because sometimes smell and taste are inseparable. Perhaps their mystery lays in their not being of a practical shape, and round always tends to represent the erotic, like ovaries, representing the female anatomy. But there’s also a aspect in the work that I didn’t consciously think about until after writing the piece. And that was that in the victorian era, in the psychological journals, they often considered masturbation an attempt at suicide, or a suppressed death wish. And even while much of what they believed in then is laughable, maybe the act of masturbating with lavender soap was my fragrant wish to kill myself. I don’t know if I’m trying to cum or kill myself in the present either. My theory is that it keeps me from being desperate and at the mercy of women, when they aren’t readily available to me.

Dark blue was a piece I was more in love with writing, a story about a woman who’d committed a sin, that caused me to become an exile to femininity. When you can no longer trust women, there’s no longer a church to visit, there’s no safe place to hide. Dark Blue wasn’t as spontaneous as Lavender Soap, it was more evolved, I wanted to think carefully about it, I wanted some past world to be impressed. I wanted to stay immersed in a calm exile. Those who could even judge literature, now were few and far between. And because Dark Blue was also set at the Chateau, it was slowly being devoured by this more delirious work. It was like one stage of my life devouring another. And I wasn’t even in that careful mood to make a copy of it before I began cutting it up, and making fodder of it for a pop piece. I’ll probably extract Dark Blue from Lavender Soup and make it the subtle, psychological piece I’d wanted it to be; another conversation piece, the finite texture of dark blue polyester, a comfortable face and beautiful thighs, and a line, ‘I can’t believe you’d ever do this to me.’ You never expect a woman to be a criminal. It’s subtly frightening. You take the time to stare more deeply into the mystery of a pair of eyes. And when you can no longer believe in the feminine, when that door too, says deception, when it says enter at your own risk, it leaves you with no sanctuary at all in this world.

Lavender Soap was a chance to dwell on audiophilia and woodworking, even though much of the elaborations ended up on the cutting room floor, when it began to feel like This Old House. I think in every field, there’s an equilibrium with our humanness. And I think that wood and glass and analog technology was something that we can never rise above. There was no dissonance between it and the human body. We evolve technology, but the whole while we’re devolving. Like an individual, as a society, we cannot admit to wandering onto the wrong path, out onto a branch that leads to our demise, and while looking back at our past selves in arrogance, at our own expense. They’re already like zombies, and I think 5G will finish them off. Lithium, lithium, lithium. War, an OLED screen, and a sickening.

There was that first period of time exploring the Chateau when LA was magical, then I moved to D.C. and New York for a number of years. And as I did, many of the stories I’d started in my notebooks about or taking place in that setting were put on the back burner, while I was experiencing more of the in between and writing what I considered more significant novels. I’d visit Los Angeles on occasion, and the first place I’d want to get to was Venice, then after that, the Chateau Marmont. There were no marriage vows on the east coast, so I moved back to Los Angeles around 2006. I’d seen the Chateau become a less mysterious and more clamorous place during my visits but that was confirmed when I started going there frequently again. The magic was gone, for sure. And that magic was peace and quiet. Literature was becoming a dead beast, that had no place in this frivolous nature. I myself was disenchanted. I met a girl named Emma while I was living up Larrabee. I thought, maybe. And for the record, it was unfair to her that I quickly had such high expectations. I wanted a family. She said I was too smart for my own good and proceeded to eat my heart out. But I admit, I had her on the most perfect day of her life. No one will remember her so fondly. And so, at this breaking point of my life, I’d gone to a bicycle shop down Robertson and bought a chrome Bianchi Pista, trying to remain relevant and alive. I belonged in nature with a risk to life and limb; this was a crazy city now, homogenized, ceaseless, hungry. It was a point in my life when I had to seriously contemplate a return, a return home, or to academics, even while I despised its limitations, and had already fallen in love with studying outside of those restraints. I needed to give hard thought to returning to create some stability for myself, a life of normalcy, even if in some nowhere place. I already knew I’d been on a blacklist for some time by then, and well aware of the futility of trying to make it, while there are those determined to keep you down. But I kept writing, even without those motivations. And so I was riding around with that last chance to return on my mind, like always being conscious of death. The new technology had everyone riddled with something more invasive than neutrinos that just pass through everything. I was trying to shake off the stogy thoughts of literature and avoid the lack of patience that had infected everyone. And disappointment only aggravates your pride. You want to prove something, so you slip even in the bright sunlight, further into the heart of darkness. I’d try to ride through it, and write through it; the dystopian nightmare that everyone had feared would come, if they had their way, and they had their way. Without an exit strategy, the delusional self-induced Berkeley type archetypal bitch, had a plan. The illusion of an alternate world onto the real world. It had me dreaming of a landslide or a flood or a ball of fire heading right for us more than ever at the time. The freeze of disappointment settles on the brain. The billiard balls cease to scatter with infinite possibilities. You have to begin to look for your moments, then get the hell out before they burn down around you. But I would ride and when moving at the right speed, I could still say, that it was the place I first fell in love with. I played dead riding with no hands. I brought my old notepads out and began burning into Lavender Soap on a silver airbook. And again I’ll save this subject matter of writing tools and how they effect the process, for SSHS; the pen as opposed to a laptop, as opposed to a typewriter, etc. etc.

Why my father or anyone else for that matter was so miserable is about a past we cannot know. My father lived a life before I was ever born, I can’t judge him. It’s just the sight of an underwater knife and old scuba gear; everyone dives and that’s their life and no one else’s. And despite the terror in the household, he made an effort to educate me. He was a musician, so I was dragged around to Jazz festivals, which I always found fascinating, even while never being my favorite genre of music. More importantly, he loved film, and would take me to see first rate films while I was still at an impressionable age. It was Texas at a very different time. I don’t think he would in today’s world ever be able to sneak me, as a child into movies like The Godfather, The Deer Hunter, or Apocalypse Now. At least without being escorted by the police past the ‘no such thing as gender’ restroom doors, which the icon of the beast and word androgyny. Apocalypse Now is still my desert island movie, it was like candy to a child’s mind. I leave it in the DVD player for months at a time playing on a loop. It’s a movie I never tire of watching. I love when someone hates what I love, so maybe it’s a way to turn the stalkers off. Let them dwell in what will break them. It’s based on a book called Heart of Darkness, which is also one of my favorite works. It’s about the primordial model that we can’t get away from. We can build empires, then die over the wrong look. And when you’re a child, you see everything so differently, your eyes move to different parts of the screen, you take a different path through the film. You may not understand the poetry yet, or the subtext, or every word uttered, but you see another layer of beauty, that an adult might miss. And so your memory of certain elements are vivid. What’s written on a helicopter as it lands, ‘death from above’, and lavender smoke in the air making the ravages of life so pretty; like makeup on the whorish face of humankind. Then all the years have gone and it becomes like a masterpiece of background noise to a life in the continued, but post modernistic bloodbath of tribal animosities and nepotistic tendencies. The Heart of Darkness was a perfect model, because it’s the only model that makes any sense. We will die of a spear in the modern world. That dark model dwells in the modern city, and she’ll fuck us when she wants to. The end is always a bright pink clit coming down with bitterness and animosity. I can’t wait. 

When I first arrived in Los Angeles, we were consumed by the talk of lenses and cinema and the craft of filmmaking, when the craft was religion, and not political correctness. We knew our lenses. How’s political correctness done as an industry?, you may ask. Fairly well it seems. The advertisers don’t give a fuck what they’re selling or what Greco Roman history they’re destroying. They’re mercenaries. They’ve not replaced civilization with anything that will last. But now, nothing’s supposed to; not even history. Once again we can’t escape the analog nature of ourselves and how other methods aren’t as conducive for the flesh or for externalizing our fascinations for the world to see. Our inability to get away from that period will see us shrinking as human beings. We won’t be strong enough to fight off the virus. Analog is more evolved than digital, and I call this the ‘prism effect’; if you’ve ever seen a prism penetrated by sunlight, and how it separates white light into a spectrum of colors, it’s a beautiful sight. Now imagine the energy it takes and the technology to do what the prism does so simply, and without the need for batteries. We’re trying to digitize and synthesize nature until it resembles nature again, or sounds analog again, or feels like flesh again. Why? So someone can shut it off when they’ve lost control. The digital age has allowed a bunch of really strange and ‘awkweird’ people to rule over earth; and as it’s turned out they’re not immune to the thirst for war and destruction or terror. They just like to fuck things up from a distance, and don’t believe in repercussion. But someone at a pseudo think tank can cost so much life then walk to Starbucks to get a cup of coffee. We’re all vulnerable to nature. 

We can try to escape to places like Topanga or Malibu, but they want to stay connected. They don’t want the natural world to take place, even with all the natural beauty that still exists. Off the grid, makes them nervous, they’re so used to spying on everyone’s every move. It’s become their addiction, their lithium. I’m not your lithium. And it was during a time I was trying to escape, living out old Topanga road that something that might be considered trivial happened, but that in my mind was like some completion to an era of my life, like some forgiveness to put that part of my existence to rest. It was an afternoon that my girlfriend at the time and I made a stop at PC Greens along the Pacific Coast Highway, headed for a beach higher up. She waited for me while I ran in to buy a few things. And there, roaming around the store, was Martin Sheen. An old man now, but with the same face and voice. I looked into eyes I felt I knew well. I’m never one to bother actors, I know they fight for their private lives as well. But when heading for the checkout he came towards me like an old friend, and he was in a sense. And like perfection, what was playing and what was he singing to me? ‘The answer my friend is blowing in the wind.’ And he sang it as if disappointed, but as if there were time. We can’t know each other’s lives, but it was a beautiful sentiment. I went back out into the sun, elated, as if spared. Interesting. The wind took us up. We could have dissolved at that point with the waves breaking over us. Never complete, never finished.

And now, on another now. I leave the menu screen on flickering for hours, with the droning sound of the helicopter over fiery palms sweeping across my life, before I can bring myself to hit ‘play film’ again. 

-Alan Augustine

Los Angeles, 2020

[vilikinsally]

Spike & Illyria

“I want to have sex.”

Spike glanced up from his crude drawing of Angel, the blunted red pencil pausing mid-scratch by the teeth. He cocked his scarred brow at the image before him: the tall, slender woman was bared naked to his eye with strands of blue hair hanging just above her breasts. Her entire body was covered in vivid blue veins and colouring, catching the vampire’s gaze efficiently as he studied her form in completion. He met her stare once again.

“Wha’?”

“I want to have sex,” she repeated. “Humans have such pitiful desires, I am curious to know why sex is desired above all of the other pathetic wishes.”

He closed his eyes for a pause, “Blue… put yer clothes on and go to bed.”

“No. I want to have sex,” she repeated once again, this time entering further into the office Angel had set up for Spike (“Go to your office, Spike.”), approaching the vampire behind the desk with a graceful stride. “I want to understand.”

“Then go an’ find Percy, whatcha ‘ere for?” He asked exasperatedly, growing uneasy the closer she came. Nothing seemed to slip past the hard skull part of her head and get into that brain of hers; she pushed forward until she came to the edge of his desk and there was where she stayed while she read him.

“You’re afraid of me. Is that why you will not consummate with me?”

Spike scoffed, his stomach clenching. “Afraid? Of you? What for? I’ve died before, it’ll be like another vacation… or not.”

Illyria guided herself around the desk, making her way closer to him. Spike stood hastily from his chair, backing away from the advancing woman and creating some distance. He didn’t know what to think so he turned to his gut but that was no good; poor guy had been rid of sex since getting his soul back and Illyria’s movements were hypnotic and strangely pleasing to watch. He shook his head violently, raising his hands to his head as if a terrible migraine had abruptly hit him. He continued to watch her as he was backed into the wall, gazing down (by not much) and letting his arms fall.

“Look,” he began, his eyes focused on the alien blue ones staring back, “I get it. You’re curious; but I’m not goin’ to be a soddin’ guinea pig for you, a’right? Fuck off.”

“I don’t understand that expression,” Illyria spoke monotonously, “and I don’t care to. I want to have sex.”

Spike pointed at the door. “Go shag Angel, then. Sure ‘e needs it more than I do…”

He trailed off as he watched the dark pastel blue fade into a nice brown shade, the intensely blue eyes darkening a shifting, and the blue veins and patches fading enough to be less noticeable. Not completely gone, but less noticeable. Less… alien.

“Is this better?” Her voice was smooth, gentle, like butter. “Am I more desirable?”

Spike sighed deeply, touching the side of her face lightly with the tips of his fingers. Illyria leaned into his touch, her gaze soft and hooded and failing to break away from his own. Spike didn’t need to breathe, but it felt as if any air that came into his lungs by habit had been sucked out of him. He felt a surge cut through him as if he had been electrocuted. He hadn’t had this kind of tender intimacy ever since—

No. No, we’re not going to think in that direction, right now, are we?

“I’m already naked,” she whispered, pushing hair over her shoulder to expose her chest to his gaze. “You’d be the only obstacle.”

He chuckled, grazing his fingers along the line of her jaw, across her lips, and then down the line of her nose before tapping the pointed tip. “You need to work on your bedroom talk.”

“Rough or gentle?” She asked, teasing the hem of his shirt up his muscled abdomen, feeling the bumps and crevices with her fingertips. “Sweet or harsh?”

“Neither,” Spike stated firmly, but whatever adamancy in his voice wasn’t quite there in his gut. “This—” he directed a finger between the two of them, “—isn’t gonna ‘appen. Find someone else to shag, ‘cause I’m not gettin’ staked for touchin’ Fred.”

Illyria stuck out her bottom lip in an enticing and surprisingly playful pout. Spike cursed under his breath, slouching against the wall almost in defeat. She was relentless, determined, absolutely mental for pushing him so far but eventually Spike felt his knees turn to soup, his blood to water and every part of him feel like it was going to collapse into a puddle on the floor. All because of a little pout and those soft brown eyes staring up at him with such a gentle plea, making his daft arse feel even more stupid for giving in to such a simple thing.

A silly little pout she was still wearing.

“You’re a wicked thing, ain’t ya?” He muttered low, closing off a little of the small space between them to his eyes remained focused on that little lip sticking out. He was tempted to take it between his own and nibble on it with his teeth. Tempted, but not stupid.

Illyria struggled not to smirk, causing her to purse her lips while the corners of her mouth quivered in the conflict not to show her triumphant amusement. “Take it.”

“Stop readin’ my soddin’ mind…” he muttered, his own lips parting in response to the feeling stirring in his trousers. His gaze met hers as his hold on the last thread of sanity seemed to be slipping from him.

“It’s not your mind I’m reading,” she whispered, stepping into him and pressing her slender figure against his. “Your body is a ruthless traitor.”

“You don’t bloody say?”

But the electricity conjuring between them had reached its peak and as he had pictured only moments ago, Spike gave into his desire and took Illyria’s mouth with his own, sucking her bottom lip. Tempted and bloody stupid, he thought, but still he wrapped his leather-clad arms around her slim figure and brought her tight against his hard body. Illyria snaked her arms around his shoulders, accepting his attention greedily and smoothing her hands beneath his shirt to feel his skin and the muscles twitching and moving in response to her touch. Spike, his mouth still on hers in a heated kiss, pushing her toward the desk that was scarcely illuminated by the lights of Los Angeles piercing through the window.

He wanted to stop (that’s a lie). Okay, so he felt like he should want to stop, but what good was it going to do? Her determined exterior was going to keep coming back to him—and if not him, she was going to circle every man in Wolfram & Hart trying to find someone willing to risk their careers or their lives for a bit of nookie. No, Spike was only going to maybe play with her for a bit and then stop when they reached the serious stuff. He didn’t want to turn to nothing again because Angel thought he had taken advantage of her (he bloody wasn’t; if anything, she seemed to be taking advantage of him). On a more impressed note, he was amazed at how he was still able to think while the tightness in his erection got ever more painful with each second he attempted to ignore it.

Illyria’s voice cut through his fogging train of thought, having broken their kiss most likely when she felt his enthusiasm dwindling.

“You’re thinking. Stop it.”

Spike was startled to find she had managed to rip his shirt from his body while he had been kept away in his reverie, staring down at the hands that touched his abdomen like a blind person reading brail. He shrugged his ever-permanent leather duster from his shoulders, chucking it onto the carpeted flooring to reveal more of his lean figure to her. The absolute delight that crossed her pretty features—Christ, she was practically beaming—was enough to egg him on to continue. Spike fondled at his belt buckle, unhooking the leather and tugging it from the loops of his trousers, allowing Illyria’s excited hands to undo the rest and finally even the playing field for the both of them. As soon as they were off, Spike kicked his pants to the side.

“So,” he started, smoothing his palms along her thighs. “Where do you want to do this?”

“You’ve conceded very quickly,” she observed, her tone picking up to an almost sing-song way. “Here. In the room. On the floor.”

“On the floor?” Spike parroted, arching a brow. He turned his down toward the floor, half-heartedly studying the dark carpet. “Not sure if that’s a good idea, luv…”

“Are you afraid of dirt?” Illyria said incredulously, “Women and dirt.”

“Oi!” He stuck a warning finger in front of her smug expression, “Watch it. I’ll leave you empty—God-demon-thing or not.”

“Then I will just break your legs and ride you to completion,” her lips curled at the corners but any kind of smile definitely did not extinguish the fire in her stare. “You are not leaving me in pain like this.”

Spike’s brow furrowed, his eyes meeting her own. There was a pause as his mind processed and finally came to the comprehension of what she meant, the realisation dawning on his chiseled face. Illyria glared at him.

“That was far too much time wasted on you trying to understand my meaning, you…”

She drifted off from her reprimanding sentence when Spike’s fingers dipped between her legs, stroking the silky folds and lightly teasing the swollen nub. She pursed her lips in response and attempts to keep her eyelids open, but inevitably failing and closing them. He continued to circle her clit with the pad of his thumb, his head cocking unconsciously to the side while he studied her suppressed reactions. There was a soft chomp from where her hands gripped his desk and his eyes snapped to see she had broken finger-sized pieces of his oak desk off; he had to admit to himself, it was getting to him. In a good way, of course.

“Still in pain, pet?” He whispered near her ear, probing a finger into the heated wetness.

Illyria still tried to conceal her moans and responses—what bloody for, Spike couldn’t pick it—but when he crooked his long, nimble finger and brushed against the spongy surface of the woman’s holy grail, he was met with the most glorious sight: she arched her back, almost curling it, thrusting her pelvis and his hand against his own hard erection. She released a lewd, strangled groan from deep in her throat followed by the softest but most delicate gasps. He smirked wickedly and with unmistakable amusement.

“Bloody ‘ell, woman…”

With no warning, Spike was shoved by Illyria—pushed so violently, in fact, that he landed back against the floor, his hand briefly detached from his present lover’s sopping warmth. The naked woman followed him down, her shins on either side of his hips, hovering inches above his weeping cock. She stroked her fingers along its length, touching at the pre-cum seeping from the tip with a gentle curiosity.

“Is it crying?” She inquired, tilting her head. Spike stared into her brown eyes to truly see if she was being serious and found something mischievous glinting in the corner. His lips cocked into a knowing grin.

“Yeah. It needs a hug.”

Illyria lowered her upper body, displaying her core’s strength, resting the weight on her forearms on the carpet bracketing his head. Her face hovered a mere inch or two away from Spike’s face, the tip of her nose brushing gently against his, coyly poking her tongue from her lips to taste his lips. Spike greeted her with his own tongue, his hands lifting to smooth along the curves of her thighs, reaching between her legs to tease the sweet spot once again.

“Then I shall put it out of its misery.”

[whiteroseisendgame]

RWBY the Vampire Slayer

I’m really bored at home for Christmas goings-on, so I made this abomination a reality. I watched this classic music video and things spiralled from there. Here’s a smattering of other edgy songs I threw together to listen to while I finished it off.

“Seriously, don’t.” Yang cowered in the corner of the room, hands outstretched, begging her teammates to stop approaching. Her eyes were a deep red, but she was in no state to have her semblance active. The urges were clawing at her even now. Just a bite, it’s all you need! Almost like another voice was arguing with her sanity. “Yang, are you…?” Ruby asked, hesitantly. “Check. My. Aura.” Yang wrestled the words out, watching their shocked expressions.

“Y-you’re dead! H-how-?” Weiss shivered, her nerves surfacing. “I’m… A vampire.” The blonde reached towards her scarf, pulling it loose and revealing two pin-like marks on her neck. It’d been a week since she was turned, and the need to eat was slowly overpowering any rationality. Hissing and baring fangs, the three of them agreed they needed to get her some blood before trying to work anything else out.

Alone in the dark room, Yang sat across from the mirror hung over the fireplace, a constant reminder of her current state. Skin much paler than even Ruby’s, and cold to the touch. And an acquired taste for human blood. Without anyone nearby, her mind cleared almost instantly, able to hide her fangs and relax into the chair. “Vampire, huh?” Blake shouted across the room, throwing a plastic bag of crimson fluid onto Yang’s lap. Without hesitation, she tore into it, almost dissociating as her body drank. “I’m s-sorry, guys. One of them got to me on our last mission. Told me this was punishment for us hunting so many. I did my best to control it, to ignore the hunger. But it’s impossible to think properly after a few days.” Their friend was back in almost full control, it seemed. After hearing her out, the team filed back into the room, sitting a fair distance away, save for Blake, who took the other half of the sofa the vampire was curled up on. “We’re supposed to be vampire hunters, Yang. How are we going to do that with one of our own being turned?” Weiss accused, seemingly the most annoyed at the development. “Weiss, that’s not fair. I’ve asked Uncle Qrow to come, he says he might have a solution.” Ruby explained, doing her best to reduce the tension in the room. “So, heheh, did you… Get all those cool vampire powers? Do people find you irresistibly attractive? Can you turn into a bat? Are you even stronger than you already were?” “Really!? I get turned and you ask if I get cool powers. No ‘we’ll have to kill you’ or anything?” Even as a vampire, her voice still cracked as she mentioned the possibility. “What’s that supposed to mean?” Weiss interrupted, dismissing the notion entirely. “We’re not getting rid of you. And you have started looking kinda hot recently, right Blake?” “Uhhh, yeah, sure. Recently.” Her ears lowered a little as she mumbled her response, only to perk up again thanks to a knock at the door.

Qrow shook his cloak off his shoulders where it had acted as meagre protection from the rain. Carrying a leather briefcase with him, he placed it onto table in the middle of the room before crouching to examine Yang. She winced as he edged closer, his eyes widening when it dawned on him that the silver cross was still dangling from his neck. Deliberately hanging it as far away as possible, he turned back to address his nieces and their friends. “Well, even without the eyes, that reaction is enough proof. I didn’t mean to hurt you, Yang. I’ve been working on a concoction that should keep her as-is. I can bring you more blood and holy water when you run out, but mix the stuff in the case together and it should work.” Despite his mostly deadpan tone, his concern for Yang was still audible. Watching her friends grow old while she remained like that. He could tell when Ruby asked him to come over that they didn’t care she was turned. They just hated seeing her suffer. And this was the best he could do to prevent it happening. Once he left, the team practically spent an eternity in silence before someone finally spoke up. “I… Want you to turn me, as well.” Blake requested, sounding almost selfish. “Blake…?” Yang responded, her voice tinged with anger and confusion. “Turn me. I-if you don’t, you’ll lose all of us. I can’t let that happen!” The faunus pulled the neck of her top down, exposing bare flesh and flinching. Even as the tears fell, no one moved to stop her. She was right. “I can’t.” “You can. I need you to.” Her teammate tensed up as she closed the remaining distance on the sofa, grabbing the scared girl’s hands. “I’m not watching this. Come on, Ruby.” Qrow piped up again, a mixture of resignation and understanding to his words. Ruby was already following him out of the door when Weiss stopped them leaving. “How can you both just let this happen? You’re letting another of your best friends turn into a monster!?” Tears welled in the snow queen’s eyes as she tried desperately to convince the others. “Weiss, she’s made her choice. And she has a point. Uncle Qrow, is there anything we can do to help them?” Ruby asked, still wanting to help. “Be there for them once she’s changed completely. Hell, maybe you’ll be even better at hunting them now.” He flashed an awkward smile, trying to make the best of a bad situation as he ushered the pair out.

“You know this will hurt.” Yang explained, solemnly. “If I thought it was easy, I’d have told the others to stay.” Blake’s dark sarcasm still extracted a chuckle from her partner. “I love you.” The blonde, taken aback by the confession, briefly relented before realising. That was exactly why Blake wanted to join her. She thought she’d be able to come to terms with it, eventually. Her love could be twisted into a fierce desire to protect in her mind, given time. Like it wouldn’t kill her every day when she was finally gone. In some weird, crazy, fucked up way, she wanted to do this too. Was it the right choice? Did that question even matter? The answer, of course, was no, to both. When you’re staring at eternity, the best shot you get at staying sane is to have someone right there with you. Blake’s top joined her jacket on the floor, grabbing Yang’s icy shoulder and turning her attention away from the window, back onto the faunus. It didn’t hurt. Not really. Even as the taller girl’s fingers scraped and clawed into her back. Then the numbness started stretching from her hands and feet. Her arms wrapped tightly around the blonde’s frame, pulling her in, ignorant to the shakes and twitches. Then nothing. It felt like she wasn’t going to turn. Yang backed away, tearful, placing the arm of the record player down before extending her own towards Blake. And oh boy did they dance. Yang took the lead, gracefully spinning and throwing her partner as the song built to its first crescendo. The excitement dulled the burning sensation that crept from her neck, something Yang never had the luxury of doing, their eyes locked at all times. In one blink, her eyes changed colour to match her partner’s. Feeling drained, the pair were reduced to slow dancing as the transition raced through her body. Yang could feel the heat disappearing from her hands, but save for her eyes, you couldn’t have convinced anyone she was different. Smiling, laughing, even. A pair of crazy girls, deciding to spend forever together. Inseparable. “See you on the other side, Belladonna.” To Blake, the voice was faint, but distinctly affectionate.

She gasped, bolt upright, a few hours later. The rest of her team had returned, and she was most definitely dead, if her pulse was anything to go by. Yang pressed a mug of Qrow’s tincture into her hands before sitting behind her torso with her own, letting the new vampire lean backwards onto her as she drank. The holy water gave it a burn, almost like vodka, but the blood was tasteless. “It’s animal blood, Qrow said it won’t taste like the human stuff does to you guys.” Ruby chimed in, picking up on Blake’s reaction. Were it not for the couple drinking something so strange, you’d be forgiven for thinking nothing had changed. Reaching behind her, the faunus grabbed Yang’s free hand and lay back down onto her lap, still not used to the eerie motionlessness of her own body. “Are we still-?” Blake started, slightly dreading the answer. “We’re still a hunting team. We just have two extra-super-powered members now.” Weiss joked, in a better mood than earlier. Before they could settle in for the night, a distressed knock drew their attention to the door, an exasperated voice calling from outside. “W-w-w-we f-found a c-c-camp of them!” The stranger yelled, with the girls leaping to action. Ruby pulled a large sniper rifle off the wall and loaded a magazine of silver bullets, the rifle itself modified with a large scythe blade by the barrel. Weiss drew a silver sabre from a scabbard on her belt, with Blake producing a silver katana, the base of the blade wrapped with cloth to prevent her touching it. Yang strapped a set of elaborate, miniature trebuchets onto her wrists, loading them with wooden stakes that jutted out past her fists. “Let’s go, Team RWBY!”

Insert cheesy 90s Buffy-style intro here

[heroes-and-woes]

Stray

Warnings: sexual themes

Description: The five times Dabi breaks into her home.

Masterlist 

The first time Dabi broke into her building, she found him bleeding on the fire escape. His initial shock of seeing a civilian was further heightened, when she, instead of running away, picked him up and carried (well dragged would be a more appropriate term) him to her apartment upstairs. He was in no condition to object. The combination of pain and bloodlost had dulled his ability to run away.

By the time they reached her small apartment his consciousness was frayed. They stumbled and grunted along the narrow space between her kitchen and living room until he, rather ungracefully, settled on her couch. He watched her through a rather skewed point of view, as she cleaned and dressed his wounds. 

He fell asleep before he could properly thank her.

Dabi spent the whole weekend with this odd girl. She nursed him back to a more stable state that most of the pain was gone by the second day.

She worked with skilled hands and a tight lip.  She didn’t attempt to pry anything more than what information he voluntarily gave her, which was close to nothing.  She showed no aversion, to his intimidating appearance. Although, that didn’t mean that his scars and piercings didn’t bother her. Often, he would catch her eyes linger a little too long on his face. Her touch would skit gingerly along his shriveled skin--not necessarily disgusted.  If anything, he would have guessed that she was being careful not to offend him.

Dabi thought that there was something wrong with her head. 

He spent his spare time, watching her. He could tell that she had some idea about who he was but again she never seemed to want to ask. 

He followed her around the neighborhood. Learning what he could from what kind of things she bought at the grocery store, what shoes she liked to wear when she went out--any other clue that might help him figure her out. 

He learned that she had a good heart. Gentle and patient. All throughout their little excursions he half-expected her to start breaking into a song and feed scraps of food to the stray, cats, dogs and whatever misfit she could find on the street. He made a point to tell her this, just to gauge her reaction and as he expected, she didn’t disappoint.

“I’m not a Disney Princess,” he found her seriousness a little funny.

“Well, you could be,” Dabi said whistling the start of hi-ho from Snow White, “I could be your little woodland sidekick.”

“You’re hardly little,” she said squinting up at his towering figure, “and I don’t think you’re a sidekick.”

“Then what do you think I am, princess?” A dark aura seemed to exude from the raven-haired male. He stooped to her height, his cobalt blue eyes staring straight into her own. He wants to make it clear that there’s only one answer and she better give the right one.

She stared right back at him and without missing a beat, she gave an answer that surprised him.

“The anti-hero,”

Dabi took a step back. He studied her, veiled by his shadow and completely confident in her answer. 

“You’re really something, princess,” Dabi snorted, then turned on his heel, walking to the opposite direction of her apartment. 

She yelled after him, “Where are you going?”

Dabi continued to walk away without saying anything.

The second time he broke into her home, he noticed that she had a penchant for attracting lost things--broken things, which most people didn’t want. 

In the month since he last saw her, she had somehow managed to bring a rag of a puppy into her home. The black mutt yapped at Dabi as he sat on his haunches on the window ledge. Not long after, she came barreling out of her bedroom . She wielded a bat and threadbare robe, obviously disheveled from being suddenly awakened.

“Hey-a, princess,” Dabi grinned as her eyes lit up in recognition, “mind putting yer dog in a leash?”

“What are you doing here?”

For the first time since they met, she finally gave an appropriate response to his shenanigans. Yet, Dabi chose to ignore her question and squinted at the growling coal dust below him.

“No, Hello nice to see you?-How have you been?—come on, princess you’re better than that.”

She shook her head, still bewildered at his sudden reappearance, “You were gone for a month.”

Still, she took the small dog in her arms allowing Dabi to hop down on the floor.

“I’ve been busy, spreading joy to the world.”

“And now you’ve come to grace me with your presence,” she looked cute when she rolled her eyes, “how lovely.”

“You know it, doll.” 

Dabi reached out cautiously his hand hovering above the small dog’s head. For all it’s barking the dog was quick to flinch back in its owner’s arms. Under his breath, Dabi muttered words of reassurance, slowly lowering his hand until his palm rested on the dog’s head.  He ruffled the scruffy puppy until the little furball, slowly began to unclench and actually started to enjoy being pet. Dabi noticed that the dog’s ear had been chewed off and he knew that she did too.

“He used to be so scared of people,” the awe was evident in her voice, “I found him battered on the streets.”

“Of course you did,” he flicked her forehead causing her to yelp in surprise, “you like doing that.”

She scowled at him

“This thing is going to grow up to the size of your couch,” Dabi replied, scratching the dog’s chin, “his paws are almost as big as my fists and he’s only a few months old.”

Silence stretched between them. In the dimly lit apartment, Dabi felt that the city was far, far away from them. He never paid attention before but her eyes shifted colors when they caaught some light.

“Your window was open,” he started to explain, “wanted to scare a valuable lesson into that weird little brain of yours.”

The dog closed his eyes in content, nuzzling his chin further into Dabi’s fingers.

“You haven’t been here in a month,” she pointed out. “How do you know which window was mine?”

He never forgot.

The third time he broke into her home, he knew where she kept the key to her front door. Still, he came through her open window.

“You should really use the front door,” she said unfazed from the kitchen. 

“You should really lock that window. Lots of crazy bastards out there,” Dabi countered, half-heartedly. He stuffed his hands in his pocket and began to whistle softly.

Kuro, the black dog bounded to where Dabi stood, his torn ears flopping as he ran. True to Dabi’s prediction the dog grew to an impressive size. Kuro halted at Dabi’s feet, his shiny black eyes attentive and expectant. 

“Plus,” Dabi said, bringing out some bacon from his jeans, “you have a pretty shitty guard dog--okay, Kuro stand.”

Kuro stood on his hind legs, eyes trained on the treat Dabi held aloft. Dabi flicked his wrist and threw the treat in the air and almost immediately, Kuro snapped open his massive jaws to catch the treat.

“I blame you,”  she was deadpanned, “don’t give him so much junk.”

Dabi wiped the grease off his hands on his jeans, “It’s just a little transaction, keeps him from biting off my junk.”

“What if those crazy bastards figure out your little trick? Don’t you think people shouldn’t know about my flawed security system?”

“Oh, princess,” he said shooting her a grin as he stretched comfortably on her couch, “it’s too late. I’m the craziest bastard out there.”

The fourth time Dabi broke into her home he was fuming. 

He couldn’t think straight, his hands were practically billowing with smoke. Somehow in his mindless wandering he had found himself in the last place he wanted to be—in front of her building.

 For a long while he stood there, debating on whether or not he should come up to her apartment. It was late and he could see that the light from her room had been turned off. He counted to backwards from Ten... 

Nine...

Eight..

Seven...

Six...

Five...

Four... 

Three--

Fuck

He was already scaling her wall. 

Somehow it pissed him off even more to know that she still hadn’t bothered to lock her window. He jimmied the glass and it opened to her room.

Kuro looked up as Dabi hopped down the ledge. The dog lifted his head for a fraction of a second before going back to sleep. 

“Useless, mutt,” Dabi slammed the window shut, his anger growing with every passing second.

His eyes scanned the dimly lit room. The moon was out, the beams of light filtered through the windows behind him touching everything in the room and outlining everything in an eerie glow. His shadow stretched out, long and sinister as it draped around her sleeping form on the bed. She laid on her side, her back faced towards him. 

For a minute he stood there and watched not entirely sure of what he wanted to do. His cobalt orbs remained trained on her figure, long enough that he began to count the rise and fall of her exposed shoulder. Her skin glowed under the moonlight. It seemed to beckon him--or maybe it just dawned on him that he wanted to touch her. 

He swallowed his uncertainty and carefully, padded towards the bed. 

“You’re awake, aren’t you?”

It was only for a fraction of a second but he saw her shoulders stiffen. 

She didn’t say a word.

Dabi breathed in the silence trying to get some semblance of sanity.

 Hours ago he was in a dingy bar, having an altercation with this creep of a guy. Shigaraki Tomura. Nothing unusual. He knew one day he would kill the creepy motherfucker but he didn’t think it would be over this--over her.

The polaroid picture was still in his pocket. Shigaraki’s voice still scraped along his skull, like his cracked fingernails were dragging along Dabi’s brain. 

I know about your little toy...

Maybe I should pay her a visit...

Shigaraki left before Dabi could react. He left her picture on the counter--a warning. If Dabi didn’t do his job, she was going to get a very dangerous visitor. 

“When we first met,” his low voice pierced the silence, “I asked you what you thought I was--and you gave me this shit answer.”

He laughed bitterly loud enough to wake up Kuro but she remained unmoved, “You know the right one--I know you do. And yet, you keep letting me into your house. Are you stupid?”

She still didn’t react. His anger boiled and he finally exploded.

“What the fuck is wrong with you!” his voice was louder now, “Stop pretending to sleep--fuck--”

She sighed, then slowly propped herself on her elbows. She leveled with his gaze, completely undeterred. 

“Why do you keep coming back?”

“What?” he spat out. 

“Why do you keep coming back, huh? I keep the window unlocked because you keep coming back--I figured you needed somewhere to stay.”

The last part she added quietly, like a reluctant confession. Dabi felt himself deflate. He scoffed, falling on his knees. His face landed on the bed, muffling his low groans.

 Is she serious?

 This chick is fucking mental. 

Yet, despite his irritation another feeling rose from his toes a kind of excitement that he wasn’t really expecting. 

Pathetic.

This strange tug she had on him was irrational. Here he was, with the threat of the league, on his knees in front of her. 

Dabi raised his head. He sucked in his breath, surprised to see her so close. He hadn’t notice her move. Her eyes were filled with concern, like she wanted to erase all his worries for him. 

“Stop looking at me like that,” there was no harshness despite his brash words.

“I’m not looking at you,” but she was. 

Her lashes looked white under the moonlight. She looked like some mythical nymph, the sheets draped around her body like how they do in paintings. 

“Don’t move,” he waited for a heartbeat, she remained still. 

He shifted carefully, sitting up to her height. He braced himself against the bed, his hands dipping into the soft mattress.

 She watched him tentatively. 

With the same timid pace, Dabi tilted his head close to her face letting his nose brush along the line of her jaw. Her grip on the sheets tightened when he took a deep breath. She smelled like soap and lavender, like spring in his lungs. Dabi took his time nuzzling the underside of her jaw, trailing the lines of her neck. He let out a long tired breath, the heat fanning along her skin, spreading goosebumps. He saw her pulse quicken under her skin. 

His eyes met her own and was taken aback. She never made that expression before. Her bottom lip jutted out, quivering along her parted mouth. She looked at him like she wanted something--like she wanted him. 

“Stop looking at me like that,” he was growling now. 

She made a move to argue. 

Dabi didn’t give her a chance, he crashed his lips against hers and started to kiss her furiously. All restrictions were thrown out the window. After her initial shock, she responded to him quickly. 

They fell to the bed, with Dabi on top of her. Despite their proximity Dabi pulled her closer. His hand gripped her waist with a bruising force.  He craved her for so long, each feeling was amplified ten--twenty times more each time their lips touched. He swiped his tongue along her bottom of her lip to ask for entrance and she allowed him. 

Dabi was quick to move on to her neck. He trailed open mouthed pecks on her skin. All throughout, their passionate make-out session evolved into something more intense with teeth and calloused hands that scraped every inch of exposed skin.

Her fingers gripped the tresses of his dark locks. She would give a sharp tug every time he touched a particularly sensitive spot. This accompanied by the delicious sounds of her moans egged him on. 

He was breathless when he finally pulled up for air. 

She was no better. 

She was disheveled, her hair splayed out on the sheets like a halo around her head. 

Dabi swallowed hard.

 She was beautiful.

 He rested his forehead on the valley between her breast. He closed his eyes and breathed in deeply as her fingers gently combed his hair. She cradled his head against her until they fell asleep.

The fifth time he broke into her apartment was also the last time. 

She wasn’t home.

Dabi took his time going to each room. He stayed in her room and remembered their first night together. The way he held him close. The way he heart sounded against her ribcage.

  He sat on the couch and imagined what it would be like to fall asleep with her in the late afternoon. 

Dabi went inside the kitchen. He left the key she gave him on the counter and walked out the front door.

[gorthol-mormegil]

The Barring of the Gate to Nekyia and the Fall of Sariza of the Roads

So this is a fic that sparked from an idea I had that Vaenia, ya know the porn flick, was actually a trashy corruption of an ancient asari romantic legend regarding an primordial republic's leading political family's final matrician and the captain of their guard during a time where a tyrant seized control through a coup.

Longer four part story short the captain, Benria, is killed by the tyrant's captain after they fled for their lives and the rest of the third book is spent searching for Piares to beg for her soul, contained in a magic device,  to be re-housed. The captain eventually atarts to catch up with the small band they had managed to scrape together just as they find the entrance to Nekyia, Piares' city in the polar caps. 

Sarizia, the last wandering knight of an even older kingdom, and a prototype of old Justicar codes of conduct, thats esentially an entire living heroic tradition herself, counsels the matrician to leave her behind.

Given tgis is the third thing I've ever wrote for pleasure that I've actually completed and it was all typed on an extremely frustrating phone keyboard, I would love to know everyone's thoughts on how this work holds up to someone other than the author.

Notes:

The dictators actual name is so close to the word tyrant in most Thessian languages that is sometimes an exercise in futility to try and parse out tyrant and Tyrant from old texts with any degree of certanity. For clairity, sanity and tradition she's refered to by her title alone in most translations.

The sel is an old Thessian measurement equal to about 14.67 inches or 37.08 centimeters.

"These bones know battlefields my liege-" spake Sarizia, "-here at the gate a single spear, even one as rusted as this, could seem legion to those who try and cross her. They know also that the riders were but a herald for a fast aproaching columun that we cannot outrun but only delay."

The exile chewed on the elder matriarch's words, still trying to find a way to cast stones under Velan's cart without loss. Soon, she sighed, her metral bent in acepptance of the need.

"You speak truth Sarizia. But how long can this pass be held against Velan's thrust?"

The warrior paused lost in clouds of memory and battles past; perhaps wishing for long ago winds to push against her back in that dark defile. To those gathered she seemed as stone. Tapping Aiglo once upon the rock she straightened and her gaze was lifted to the fog cast road behind:

"Once I could say none could pass my shield here and that it would take many weeks for them to find a crack. Yet my crest has withered from those heights now, all I can offer to you is a garuntee that you would find a way to the depths of Nekyia and perhaps a solution to both you and your bond's problems," With those words Sarizia turned to gird herself in panoply for the last trumpet call.

Turning to the small band Ontia felt the yoke of a world upon her shoulders and even as Mythixila's voice began she silenced it with a wave. There was no time for even a small forum among the dust, she was a general conserving the bulk of her strength for more more favorable ground instead of a matrician vying for agreement in that desperate hour. With a tremor the fellowship turned away from the hero of their youth onto the shadowed bridge leading deeper into cold darkness. Clutching Benria to her heart she strode forward to Piares fog hidden halls.

---

Sarizia Road Walker, long legend closing, took Sanaris' helm from her pack as the footfalls of her companions faded into a place where only her spirit would see. Smiling at the empty metal she spoke words to it like wayward child returned to their mother's tomb after a life spent apart. No one could hear that confession in that place of bones, the cold north wind blowing at her back bearing sole witness to the beginning of a final duty an apprentince gave to the master. But before long Velan found the portal and those words exchanged still ring in the aurals of those who seek strength in old bones.

"Who stands here?"

"It is I: the judge of Aethan, the hooded friend, slayer of the Hound of Timatha, the defender of the unheard and last Iurisar of Thenos."

"Speak you name or stand aside."

"What shall you do if I say my mother given name?"

"That will be detemined matriarch. But you risk my wrath if you vex us further."

Sarizia laughed, a hoarse note among the gathering gloom, "Very well impatient one, but you should know it well by now. For my name comes crying from the lips of those you burn out of home, those whose right to consensus is stolen from them by fear of knives in-"

"Enough of this. Your *name* you isolent old fool!"

"SARIZIA ELESSARA IS THE NAME I WAS GIVEN," she bellowed like Kurinith's trumpet given form, "THE SAME ONE YOUR MATRIARCHS SPOKE OF AS A MEMORY OF THEIR YOUTH IF YOU HAD EVER DEIGNED TO LISTEN TO THEM. I STAND HERE FOR HOUSE T'NUVIAS AND THEIR JUST CAUSE. NAUGHT BUT THE GODESSES THEMSELVES WILL MOVE ME FROM THIS DOOR."

"You? *You*? You are old and pale. Submit to wisdom and your death will be swifter."

"MY AGE IS NO BARRIER WITH UNBLOODED WRETCHES SUCH AS YOU. STAND BY YOUR BOAST IF YOU DARE."

With a shout Velan's van surged forward toward the brightly shining figure before them. Fifteen times they came upon Sarizia and fifteen times they where cast back and each time she repulsed the she beat her shield once with Aiglo like a great brass drum that sounded like the heavens opening upon the plain. Wrath was her point and fury her biotics in that melee, with each attempt Velan's band quailed sooner and sooner for the Road Walker's eyes and blood ran with new fire that was stoked by each body that crumpled before her stroke and lay as testament to her fell skill. After the fifteenth time Velan called a halt to the slaughter, for none could withstand the furor contained in the blows Sarizia gave for long and did nothing but grow the number beneath Sarizia's boots.

Sensing the reluctance before her Sarizia laughed again as they pulled away from the doom that stood before them in the growing twilight. She rested herself on Aiglo for a breath and beheld the charnel pit grown before her; bowing her head once in scorn she tore the armor off her right breast and cried:

"Come now, my heart is bared to you. Surely one among your mighty numbers can find their way around my shield?"

Oh, if Velan's heart was not bent onto dark paths and darker treacheries Sarizia's tale would not end in defiance and pain; curse her heart. Curse treachery in any form.

Rage fired Velan's nerves at the barb, without a thought the trumpet call for a charge was sounded and the black heart herself surged at the fore of that new tide. Crashing on Sarizia's aegis Velan redoubled the call but it was like a child trying to shout down a hurricane. There Sarizia's talent was tested to it's utmost as it always is before the end comes. Nonetheless Sarizia, true to her words, gave not but a half sel to the throng before her like it was the Bronze Legion itself holding the gate to Piares realm.

Oh how Aiglo reaped a harvest in that final twilight; a loyal servant to a end so near. Keen was it's ice like tip and it whispered through air like the finger of Athame casting judgement. Oh how her silvered helm caught Parnitha's last light upon it's brow like a beacon of hope in fog clouded times. Oh how it shined.

With time came some measure of twisted reason in Velan's poisonous mind: she could not assail the gate with strength of force unless a full banner of the Tyrant's hand was brought to bear. Withdrawing once again across the violet painted clay she whispered words of treachary to a liuetenant and as they reassembled Velan lingered between the lines. Casting her arms into the signal of tethnamostra she called:

"I remember your name now o great Sarizia Elessara and I know now the legends of your prowess are but dew compared tp the ocean. I call you to grapple to stem the purposeless loss of maiden blood. Avail over me and you will be troubled no more, submit to me and your oath to Lady T'nuvias will be forgetten for a newer road. This I swear on Tevura's name as true."

One last time the firey laughter of youth flew from Sarizia's throat as she upheld her arms in answer before turning to the straps and buckles of her panoply for feckless vigor rushed in her veins in that hour. Blind she was to the truest depths of malice lurking in some hearts even after a lifetime and a half, if she only had a glimse much heartache could be undone. Finishing she rose to her full height, standing tall among the gore pit around like a lighthouse before a wine dark temptest. Undetered by age she strode forward to a place equisdistant between Velan amd her goal.

"I accept, though my heart fears oil beneath the waters. No matter though, for even unlimbered I am match for your guard. Come, subdue me if you can."

Long they grappled, new thews almost even against memories of countless matches and rightous hatred. Far into the dawn's light the two strove against each other; battering their foe with blows that would shatter any other body like aged kindling but neither breaking off. Oh, how it was like the sparring of titans in that cold dell. At the hour the wertas' crow could be heard on some faraway plain Velan saw a chance for her wretched gambit to start and sprung past Sarizia's guard with a leap toward the stone where Aiglo lay; seizing the mighty spear she, curse the demon's heart to the four winds, lashed at Sarizia's eye's darkening half the world with a single stroke. Stumbling back at the venom unleashed at her Sarizia gave a howl that sounded through Nekyia's dark halls to those who she had given her utmost to protect and incensed almost beyond reason she charged the villian like a avalanche at it's zenith. Velan, twist tounged, nearly shrank from the wrath of the Colossus of Dilzana come for her. Oh, if she had listened to that voice. Wading in herself, Velan took blows now that pulped bone to marrow before finding a gap among the fury. Ramming forth Aiglo with all her strength Velan pierced through Sarizia side. Aiglo, shivered and malused, burst in Velan's hand, perhaps as a final token apology to the one who carried her over long highways by wounding the aggresor with many shards.

Yet still Sarizia was the better there and those around her quailed at the furor of the wounded matriarch. But fog soon took from her the greater part of her strength and they bound her with chains to imprison her waning might. So Sarizia, her deeds uncountable, did fall under the gentle press of a northern wind - though she lingered long in the Tyrant's grasp until she cast herself from Vaenia's highest tower to the quiet stones of the plazas below.

When the dead were carted away the steel of the fallen were cast into a cairn eight sels high in hopes their deeds would crumble to dust given time. Many years later the abandoned shields, their bronze rent and torn, were pulled from that defile for part in the new bell that hung opposite the great common hall of Vaenia; to serve as a watch and alarm for those who would follow in the Tyrant's shadow. Of Sanaris' helm Calmasa, granddaughter of Lieratha, braved the chasm's rock to untold depths to retrieve it from gloom it was thrown in order that it's splendor would not be lost. Aiglo, faithful to her bearer's cause after parting, soon shone bright on Benria's belt as she scaled the walls of her home to smite the Tyrant with fury unending. Velan Dark Heart met her judgement the soonest, in those twisting cyclopean halls so jealously guarded by spirits even more terrible than she.

[lostxones]

based on this | @underpressurc

“Are you fucking serious?!” Dawn looked back up at her husband from the covered body currently on their floor. She wasn’t mad, mostly just shocked to walk in and find it. To say it was the last thing she expected to see would be entirely accurate, even with Sven’s line of work. She’d been in his car with a body in the trunk but it wasn’t quite the same as this. “Maybe I should have stopped by the grocery store on the way home.” 

[scribefindegil]

Cycle Eight--Week 2

[AO3] [Week 1]

Day 8

Merle has set himself up in the town center, telling all who will listen about the word of Pan. To our surprise, ‘all who will listen’ seems to be most of the town. It may just be the novelty that makes them stop and ask him questions about his faith, but it may be something deeper. He prayed and sang the scorch teams on their way again tonight, and this time there were more than a few hesitant voices that joined in.

“Some of them really don’t believe that we can just breathe the air where we come from,” he told us after dinner.

Taako looked at him askance. “We came here without masks on. What do they think we were doing?”

“Dunno.” Merle shrugged. “I mean, they know we were on the ship. It’s not that weird we could breathe there. It’s the thought that there’s whole worlds without poison death spores in the air that throws ‘em. And where nobody needs to wear masks! You know how weird they think it is that we’ve all seen each other’s faces?” He paused and waggled his eyebrows. “Probably assume there’s some really kinky—”

“Gross.” Lup threw her spoon at his head.

“Speaking of which.” Magnus glared at him. “I know you’ve got your whole weird plant thing but please for the sake of everyone’s sanity and eyeballs, no flirting with the death mushrooms.”

“Hmph,” said Merle. “Here I am, trying to give these poor people the first taste of hope they’ve ever felt in their lives and all you can focus on is whether or not I wanna fuck the death mushrooms.”

To no one’s surprise, the conversation ended quite abruptly after that.

Day 9

I was able to go out into the forest again today. Frelya grumbled about it—she hates the mushrooms and doesn’t understand why I find them so fascinating—but she agreed anyway. I think perhaps Nita talked her into it. I brought my paints with me this time, and a tarp of oiled cloth for protection.

I’ve never found this set of pigments lacking before, but no matter how hard I try to capture the hues of the mushrooms around me my drawings end up looking pale and lifeless in comparison. There’s a vibrancy to them that I find myself simply unable to portray.

Although it’s been only a few days since my last visit to the forest and Frelya took me along the same path, the landscape looks completely different. When we do set out on our mission to recover the Light, navigation will be challenging; it’s hard to find any landmarks that won’t be overgrown within a few weeks. Some of the smaller specimens that I had sketched now tower far above my head, and there are new growths—tall red fungi bursting out of their veils that look like tentacles unfurling, stands of delicate lacy orange mushrooms that a species of large spotted insects use as hives, and light blue tendrils that dangle like strands of rope from the caps and stems of other mushrooms.

(Three pages are filled with detailed watercolor sketches. Next to some of them are faintly glowing dots of color, and next to one is a black stain that has eaten through the paper. The note next to it reads “Orange lace mushrooms highly acidic! Beware!”)

I noticed some of the herbs that Nita had introduced me to. They grow larger in her greenhouses, and they are so small and easily hidden out here in the shadows of the giant mushrooms. I picked a sprig of Sparkweed and could smell the peppery scent of its bruised leaves through the layers of my mask.

Frelya sat silently for most of the day, but as we were heading back to the village she said, “Those colors . . . they don’t hurt you?”

“Well,” I said, “They would make you sick if you ate them, but the paint is safe to use, yes.”

It hadn’t truly occurred to me before, but nearly everything in the village is brown or white or gray. Colorful things are associated with the mushrooms and death. It must be so strange to see the seven of us in our bright red uniforms. They look like new now, as they do at the beginning of every cycle. Mine has already acquired some stains and tears, but the others are clean and bright and crisp. It’s no wonder it was so easy for the villagers to accept that we come from another world.

I attempted to express as much to Frelya. She shrugged and said, “It’s all right. You don’t glow.”

I listened more closely to Merle’s hymn when the scorch teams headed out. Like so many hymns, it sings praises of the light. I may need to have a word with him about symbolism. On this world, unexpected light can easily be an omen of death. They have so little darkness that they’ve learned to covet it, to love ashes and the dark spaces left after the passage of flames.

Day 11

Magnus is already impatient to leave. I caught him arguing with Davenport this morning.

“We don’t know how long it will take!” he was saying. “We have the whole Southern half of the planet to search; we can’t just sit around waiting or this world could die!”

Davenport is less than half of Magnus’s height, but he has an aura of command about him that can make even the biggest human take a step back.

“We’re not going to charge in blindly!” he said. “We need to prepare or the whole mission could be doomed! We know almost nothing about this world and it’s up to me to make sure we make it to the end of the year at all! Oh, ah . . . hello, Lucretia.”

I haven’t been able to convince any of my crewmates that they should ignore my presence and continue with their conversations; it’s my job to chronicle, not to interfere in other people’s arguments. But the sound of my quills does tend to put people off despite my best efforts, and so that was where the conversation ended for today.

The interest in Merle’s evangelizing is still growing. He leads them in song at every meal now, not just when the scorch teams head out in the evening. They didn’t sing much before he arrived. As far as I can tell, they didn’t really have music at all.

“We sing to babies,” Nita said when I went to find her in the greenhouse. “But no, it’s not something we ever gave much thought to. Always too many other things to do.”

“And now?”

She laughed. “Well, there’s still too many other things to do! But it’s . . . nice. It’s like your stories.” She raised one of her canes and tapped my journals. “You don’t need it to live, but it makes being alive feel more important.”

Mico seems especially taken by the word of Pan. Whenever I walk past they’re sitting with Merle, plying him with questions. If Pan is a god of nature, why would he allow a world like this to happen? Was it a punishment? Why should they believe?

Strangely enough, it isn’t the great theological queries that are the sticking point. It’s the pipes.

Merle doesn’t play them much, but he carries a set with him, and he uses them to gesture sometimes when he’s praying. Mico simply can’t grasp the idea of them.

“But you couldn’t play them with a mask,” they said over and over.

“I know, kid,” said Merle. “That’s what I’m telling you. When you sit at the arm of Pan you won’t need a mask. You can breathe free!”

Mico laughed and shook their head, like that was the funniest thing they’d ever heard.

Day 12

Never mind Pan. Fungston is going to start worshiping Lup.

She and Taako have mostly been keeping to themselves and working on new cooking techniques that the residents can use to spice things up, but apparently Lup’s been getting bored.

She volunteered to go out with one of the scorch teams.

They were reluctant to let her at first; it’s a very important job and they’re more cautious about letting outsiders assist with that than with anything else, but with some cajoling and a frankly over-the-top blessing from Merle they agreed.

It’s important to remember that while magic is important to the Fungston life, they mostly use cantrips and they mostly use them for crafting. I’m not sure why higher-level spells are so uncommon, if it has something to do with the mushrooms or if they just never developed them, but regardless of the reason these people have never seen a truly powerful magic-user before.

Usually the scorch teams can burn the mushrooms back for a few hundred feet. When Lup sauntered back into town blowing dramatically on her fingertips, a full quarter-mile of forest to the South of the village had been reduced to smoking rubble.

It was chaos. She stood in the center of town and used Prestidigitation to cast sparks for everyone who wanted to see, and between the people drawing away and the people who wanted to get closer (Vetch used her influence with Magnus to make him carry her over so she could hold Lup’s hand) it was a mob scene. Lup loved it, of course. There are vague plans for her to tutor the townsfolk on Evocation magic, but for now she’s content to bask in her glory.

Day 13

For the first morning since we’ve been here, the first morning in a long time, the mushroom forest hadn’t reached the first ring of sentry fires by dawn. The villagers stood and stared out at the cleared earth.

Most of them were silent, but Nita actually laughed.

“There’s so much of it!” she said. “The biggest open space I’ve ever seen!”

Merle met my eyes, and I could tell it broke his heart as much as it did mine. He nodded slowly to himself, and then looked up at the assembled villagers.

“Oh yeah?” he said with a wink. “Well I can show you something better.”

He strode out to the center of the blasted ground and raised his pipes in one hand and his holy book in the other. He closed his eyes and muttered a prayer under his breath, then stamped his foot on the ground.

The villagers muttered and drew back as the earth around him cracked and shoots began to emerge. Soon they realized that none of the things that were sprouting glowed at all—they were just brown and grey and soft, fresh green, and the murmurs of fear turned to wonder.

I had seen no grass in the forest. Only a few herbs. Hardly any flowers.

It was like watching the whole world turn green. Grass sprang up, and wood sorrel and thyme and clover. Bushes of blueberries and lingonberries grew and flowered and fruited before our eyes.

“Show-off,” muttered Lup. I could tell that she was grinning under her mask.

The villagers froze for a moment. Then Vetch, brave girl, took one step onto the grass, then two, and then ran laughing into Merle’s arms. The rest of them followed, stepping as if in a trance beyond the outer ring of bonfires. They knelt on the grass, ran their hands through the soft leaves, picked the berries and held them in their hands as if they were unsure what to do with them.

“You can eat ‘em,” Merle explained. “Gotta take them back to camp and clean them off, but I bet our favorite chefs here could whip up something—”

“It’ll be divine. Don’t even worry about it.” Taako had pulled his boots off and was digging his toes into the grass. Hesitantly, some of the villagers followed suit.

I felt a tug at my arm.

“I need these plants,” Nita gasped. She was crying and laughing at the same time. “I need—help me get them to the greenhouse, please!”

She and Gully and I dug up samples and carried them inside. There was barely room in the soil for them, but we made do—“The sageweed can keep in water, nettles were getting overgrown anyway . . .” Nita muttered, frantically digging.

When we finally sat back I had green stains on my robe and my fingernails. Gully was staring hungrily at the blueberries.

“Here,” I said, pulling a handful I’d picked outside from my pocket and quickly casting Prestidigitation to clean them. The other two removed their outer masks and loosened their veils, and they each took six berries.

Gully savored hers, eating them one at a times as slowly as she could. Nita put all six into her mouth at once. Her eyes shone with joy and tears, and after she swallowed she threw her arms around Gully and then, after a moment of hesitation, around me.

Day 14

Not much time to write. Have been drafted by Nita to keep moving samples of the plants Merle creates indoors. Village in joyful chaos; talk of expanding borders for the first time in living memory. Lup and the scorch teams working to burn the forest even further back. Everyone knows the green sward can’t be permanent, but for now it exists. The children are grass-stained from head to foot, and though everyone’s faces are still covered the villagers walk like they’re smiling.

[frangipanidownunder]

These are the contents of my head

For @leiascully‘s XFWritingChallenge prompt: lists. Angsty.

This is the fear This is the dread These are the contents of my head And these are the years that we have spent And this is what they represent And this is how I feel Do you know how I feel ?

Annie Lennox, ‘Why’

 She pulled down one shoebox. Behind it was another, and another. Her calves protested as she climbed up and down the step ladder clearing the top shelf of the cupboard. There were two old worn trench coats that brought a grim smile to her face, a stuffed alien that had been a joke gift from Frohike on a Mulder birthday long ago, a stamp album that might have belonged to Teena Mulder, the cover so ripped and dusty that Scully was afraid to open it. And three shoe boxes. All these items covered the bed in the spare room. None of them was what she was looking for.

She unlidded the first box and spotted Mulder’s handwriting straightaway. Each square of paper was uniform, the ink blue, the lettering precise. On each square was a numbered list. One to five. The box was full. She opened another, and another. She picked up handfuls of paper lists, turning them over to inspect them from every angle, as though changing the view might offer some perspective.

           She plucked one at random, holding it at the long edge like she might hold a specimen with tweezers. 

14 April 2004

1                    Red Book 2                    Carpaccio 3                    Ellery’s 4                    Luciano 5                    Fifth and Myer

Another revealed a list of military titles and a third a list of perfumes. She rummaged through each box, pulling lists at random. Bird species, childhood diseases, comedy movies, shoe styles, European ski resorts. She licked her lips as she landed on one that listed five boy’s name. Number one was William.

           She rifled through the notes. As an investigator she tried to apply her training to bring logic to the letters on the pages, layering them or placing them sequentially. As a scientist she understood that the apparent randomness of the system would eventually yield some underlying pattern or repetition. Chaos.

‘Beautiful chaos, Scully,’ Mulder said, standing so close behind her that she could feel the heat radiating from him, hear his quickening breaths. She hadn’t heard him come in. She felt unutterably guilty, like she’d been caught reading his journal.

She put the notes down and turned to face him. He flexed his jaw and stuffed his hands in his pockets. ‘What are they, Mulder?’

He grabbed one and read it out. Tropical fish species. ‘This one lists the fish I’ve never had in my tank. This one,’ he said, blushing even more, ‘is a list of my favourite bras you wore back in our field days, colour, style and designer.’

Scully looked back at the bed, the paper strewn across it. ‘Is there anything you haven’t catalogued, Mulder?’

He pushed out his lips and hesitated a moment. ‘I don’t think there’s one for all brands of pantyhose you’ve ever worn. Or all the types of salad you’ve ordered and not eaten, or the different inflections in your voice when you say you’re fine. But I could do those, if you want.’

The bed sagged as she sat down. Notes fluttered to the floor. ‘What’s the purpose of them?’ She looked up at him. He held her gaze for a beat then cast his eyes to the floor. He stooped to pick up the lists that had fallen.

‘There’s no purpose. Not a rational one that would suit your rigorous methods, Dr Scully.’

‘What about one that your psychology training could provide, Dr Mulder?’

He rubbed his stubbled chin. ‘They saved me.’

‘Saved you? How?’

‘Perhaps it’s like the cross around your neck, Scully.’

‘Faith, Mulder?’ She swept her hand across the mess. ‘These gave you faith?’

‘What is faith, Scully, but a way of keeping you on track, maintaining your sanity.’

She chuffed. ‘There’s more to faith than that, Mulder.’

           ‘What do you want me say, Scully? I wrote them daily, religiously; the routine was nourishing for my soul, I confessed.’

           ‘Mulder, these aren’t confessions. They’re lists. Words on paper in an ordered fashion.’

           He opened the second box, picked out a note. ‘Five places I nearly walked out on you.’ He put it back. Chose another. ‘Five times I hated you.’ He showed her the list, the lettering scrawled across the paper, angry words bumping into each other. Another. ‘Five women I fucked while you were always working.’

           Her hand shook as she covered her mouth. Her skin smelled musty. She bit back the sob that threatened.

           ‘You were right to leave, Scully.’

She shook her head, letting her hair fall over her face. She breathed in ragged breaths waiting for the oxygen to work its way through her, to calm her. She imagined him, hunched over the desk in his study, scribbling furiously across the paper, at dawn, in the dark, on Thanksgiving, when it snowed so heavily she couldn’t get back to the house, when she turned her back on him and said she was too tired.

She’d told him once to write it down, put it in a book.

‘Mulder, you were ill.’

           He walked around to sit on the other side of the bed. She turned to watch how the muscles in his back moved under his tee. His shoulders were tight.

‘And this is the actual evidence of a troubled mind. All those years you demanded proof. I believed, but you needed to weigh it, dissect it, culture it or calibrate it. I felt it, but you had to measure, prod, test, and scrape it onto a slide. Well, here are the case notes on Fox Mulder. You can turn these into one of those reports you used to write.’

‘Mulder, stop.’

‘Why Scully? So that you can feel better? Here you have all the truth you need.’

‘This isn’t the truth, Mulder. This is a punishment.’

‘For you or for me?’ His words cut her and she held her breath. They’d been here before. His anger boiling up until he punched the wall or broke a vase. He sighed. ‘I’m sorry, Scully. I’m not going to…but this is the truth. In these boxes, this is the ugly truth from my mind, my heart.’

‘I know your heart,’ she said, wiping away the tear that had fallen and burned her skin. ‘This isn’t your true heart. This is your guilt. Your conscience. Your…’

‘My sanity?’ He chuckled, breaking the tension. She allowed herself a short, mirthless laugh too. ‘Did you really consider what you were getting into, Scully? You, the ruthless, critical thinker. The scientist. The rational half of the working partnership. How many times did you ask yourself, “how could I let myself fall for Fox Mulder?” I asked. Many times.’

She giggled then. It was a short burst of life from her scarred lungs. ‘I used to ask what did you see in me? Uptight, argumentative, sceptic. And really, really short person.’ She fell back on the bed, laughing.

He grabbed a note. ‘Five times Scully laughed.’

           After a moment, she sniffed. ‘Just five?’

           He looked over at her. ‘Five good times, Scully. Not the only five.’

‘What are they?’

‘Number five, the first time you met the Lone Gunmen and you giggled hysterically outside their apartment for five full minutes. They were mortified.’

‘They could hear me?’ she gasped.

‘Scully, they were the masters of surveillance. Of course they heard. Number four, when I told you about Nurse Nancy and your karate routine after I got trapped in that AI. You listened to me and then your lips wobbled and you spat out your coffee and let rip.’

‘It was kind of ridiculous, though, Mulder. You have to admit that.’

He nodded. ‘It felt so real.’

She bit her bottom lip. ‘Sorry.’

‘Number three, when we got drunk after that godawful movie premiere and I told you that I loved you and you lost your shit and cried laughing.’

‘Oh, Mulder. I really don’t remember that.’

‘No, of course you don’t. You were really drunk, Scully.’

‘What was number two?’

‘The first week on the run, when we hadn’t slept properly for days and we ended up in some fleabitten motel in whatever nameless town was next on the map and you switched on the tv and it was playing Caddyshack. We both laughed, Scully. Laughed at that movie because it was comfort, it was memory, it was nostalgia.’

She reached out for his hand and he laid across the bed so their heads met in the middle. ‘It was safer to laugh than to cry. If we’d have cried we wouldn’t have stopped.’

‘Do you want to know the top one, Scully?’

She turned her lips and kissed the back of his hand, where the veins ran through. ‘Yes,’ she whispered.

‘You were outside the hospital one day, back when I was supposed to be in hiding still. You were talking to someone, I don’t know who, tall man, grey hair, glasses. He was telling you a story and you were listening so intently, nodding here and there, holding his gaze, just like you used to do with me, standing so close to him. He bent his head, whispered something to you. You took a second, then threw your head back and laughed, full and throaty. You radiated happiness, Scully. I was going to surprise you, take you for lunch, but I just watched you laugh and laugh. I knew I couldn’t take you out of that moment. You deserved all the happiness. You still do.’

She inched forward, kissing his mouth, running her hands through his hair. ‘You make me happy, Mulder.’

‘After you’ve seen all this?’ He pushed some lists off the bed.

‘Even after this. You are one of the most contradictory people I’ve ever met. You confound me. You carry such a violent strength of belief yet sometimes you just give up; you have a self-confidence that borders on arrogance, yet you are humble; you take the side of the victim every time, yet how many times have you martyred yourself? And I know you love me, no matter how many times I’ve rolled my eyes or laughed at you or turned you away. And I’m sorry for all those times. I love you, Mulder, because I know your heart. Your heart is your truth. Always.’

She kissed his tears. ‘What was this list, Mulder?’ She found the first one she’d read.

‘These were the restaurants that served the best pizza.’

She giggled and sat up.

‘What were you looking for in here anyway, Scully?’

‘I was looking for a place to put my cases.’

He fingered the chain around her neck. ‘You’re coming back to me?’

‘To your heart.’

[ladyiceflame-blog]

Chapter Seven: Playing with Ice Fire

Naruto had devoured three grilled fish, a bowl of natto, three bowls of miso soup, and was on his second bowl of steamed rice by the time Kakashi emerged from their shared tent.  And although he’d hardly thought it possible, his sensei’s lone, exposed eye looked more sullen than ever, as he took his seat at Konoha’s outdoor breakfast table. Perhaps he should have let him snuggle him a little more before panicking... Beyond the sheltering trees that ringed this clearing, the sound of deep drums, sonorous horns, stringed instruments, and good-natured commotion drifted into their camp.  Kakashi recognized this music.  Had it followed him from dreams into the waking world?  It seemed to be emanating from the small lake in the northeast of the grounds. “Good morning, Kakashi!” Kurenai greeted, obviously in higher spirits than he was.  “You were out rather late last night.  Did you find another obscure Shimogakuran sport to dominate?” she asked, sipping her tea. “No,” he returned numbly, as a bowl of miso and a plate of grilled salmon were set before him.  “But I did find a small hot spring bath house, just a little east of here, run by some farmers.” “Really?” his fellow jonin smiled brightly.  “I might have to steal Sakura and Hinata for a little ‘Girl Time,’ before the ceremony.  We need to look our best for the Lady Ice Flame, after all...” “I would like the chance to wash my hair properly,” Sakura admitted.  “Maybe have one of you pin it up in a nicer style.  I wish I’d brought something better to wear...” “Cleanliness is most appreciated,” Hiruzen began, “But please keep in mind that we are here to provide security, not to indulge our personal vanities.  But the Shimokhan and the Heron Sage-Priestess are due to arrive today, so do look your best.” “Lady Ice Flame’s parents?” Hinata asked. “Yes,” Hiruzen smiled.  “Her mother is renowned for her serenity and grace.  Her father...his bravery and loyalty.  They are both dear friends of mine whom I rarely get to see anymore.” “Well,” Kiba began, feeding his ninken the head and tail of his salmon portion, “Akamaru and I will be taking our baths in the lake.  Cold water sharpens the senses...clears the head!” Kakashi tried to suppress a shudder, as he opened his Icha-Icha Paradise novel to shield his mouth as he ate.  “You’re not alone in that belief, but I am not among them.” “You might be a fan of the Shimogakuran purification ritual then, Kiba,” Hiruzen began, his crinkled face brightening with a smile, born of some remembered amusement. “What is that?” the Inuzuka asked. “An ancient rite of deep, soulful cleansing that I had the honor of participating in–only once, with Ryuumaru Yaseiarashi himself, many years ago.  It is a serious test of one’s stamina, meant for only those of the strongest mettle.” “Then count me in, Old Man Hokage!” Naruto exclaimed.  “Where do I sign up?” “Hey!” Kiba commandeered, “Take a number, Uzumaki!  I get to go first!” “You don’t even know what it involves yet, Kiba,” Shino cautioned. “Doesn’t matter!” Kiba riposted. “I doubt anyone will be partaking anytime soon, being as how there is no snow,” Hiruzen chucked at the genin’s eagerness.  “But Shimogakurans are known for their resourcefulness.  If I hear otherwise, I’ll be sure to let you both know about it.” “–Wait a minute....” Naruto looked suddenly sheepish, “Did you say, ‘snow’?” “I did,” the Hokage smiled.  “You can’t have a Shimogakuran Sweat Lodge without it.  Still interested...?” “Yes!” Kiba exclaimed.  Akamaru gave a small whine. “Very well,” Hiruzen continued.  “You go into a cedar-paneled sauna room, usually as a group, and settle into meditation, breathing in the heady vapors created by various herbs that have been added.  Then, someone gets it in their head to start smacking you with a birch branch. Then  you return the favor, until nearly everyone is about to pass out from the heat and exertion.  Then someone opens the door, you all run outside and roll in the snow until you feel the need to warm back up by returning to the sauna, and do it all over again, and again, and again, until exhausted.  Once was enough for me.” “That’s madness...” Sasuke opined, picking at his fish. “I’ve heard that drinking heavily helps out immensely,” Sarutobi chuckled. “So, this isn’t a ‘family event’...?” Kurenai broached. “On the contrary, kids often attend their parents in these things.  They just don’t drink.” the Hokage answered.  “Little Lady Ice Flame was particularly enamored of chasing around her parents and brother...and anyone else with a birch switch...” “Wait...” Kakashi paused in his eating and replaced his mask, “She has a brother?” Hiruzen was struck solemn for a moment.  “Had.  He is no longer of this world.  I thought you knew this, Kakashi.” “How could I know this?” Kakashi demanded.   “Because you were in Shimogakure the night he died.  The night Miriyume’s Renkingen became active.” All eyes were fixed on Kakashi now, and he was at a complete loss for words or even thoughts.  What was Hiruzen saying?!? The Hokage sighed heavily.  “I can see by your expression that this is news to you, which I must admit, puzzles me, but I will try to explain as best, and as quickly as I can.  And please, do not breathe a word of this to any Shimogakuran, as speaking of dead, or misfortune, is believed to be an ill omen.  And this pain, in particular, runs deep: Miriyume-sama is the second child born to the Shimokhan, Ryuumaru Yaseiarashi, and the Heron Sage-Priestess, Renara.  The first was Ryuuyuki, the first to possess the Renkingen in over one hundred and fifty years.  It can only manifest in those whose blood can be traced to both Hagoromo and Hamura, and has access to incredible amounts of chakra. Its power allowed him to become one of the rarest classes of shinobi; the reviver-type, and the most powerful oni-taiji I’ve ever known.” “A demon-hunter?!” Kakashi gasped.  “Like that North Wind character?” “He was that North Wind character,” the Hokage clarified gravely.  “Did you ever meet him?” “No,” Kakashi bowed his head in respect.  He had heard stories of this man all his life.  Sakumo had raved about seeing the Tiger-Sage in action a couple of times.  He had compared his grace to that of the wind over the barley field. This had been her brother?!?  “But my father spoke of him.  He admired his sword technique.” “Ryuumaru traveled far and wide, sealing many demons, and strengthening ties with many lands in his short life-span.  He was virtuous, strong, clever, and a source of great pride for his family, but perhaps none so much as for his sister.  She clung to him so fiercely, and deeply resented his absences.  He was her best teacher.  From him, she learned swordplay, fuinjutsu, senjutsu....and a charming generosity with her overflow chakra.  They were both blessed with such magnetic natures.  You couldn’t help but fall in love with them.  And his cool demeanor was the perfect compliment to her fiery temperament.” Sasuke suddenly looked more interested. “I’m not certain of all the details myself, but the famed North Wind met his end somewhere in the Land of Hot Water, very near the same time as the mission that led you to Shimogakure, Kakashi.   Being a sage trained at the Cat Fortress, his personal summon, Prince Tosho, relayed the news of his passing to his family.  And that’s when Miriyume’s own Renkingen was activated, and she, in keeping with her father’s side’s engendered curse, went berserk.” “Is the Alchemist’s Eye a dojutsu that is linked with one’s emotional state, like the Sharingan?” Sasuke asked. “It certainly seems that way,” the Hokage continued.  “Ryuuyuki’s awakened while protecting Miriyume.”  He paused a moment, and cleared his throat. “In an explosion of suddenly-gained power, she put half the village into a chakra-coma that lasted an entire day.  Two days later, she was finally tracked to the ruin of an ancient, infernal temple.  She was covered in blood, ashes, and quite mad; utterly transformed under the watchful and concerned eye of the storm kami that adopted her in her own senjutsu training, and Prince Tosho, who had led her there.  According to North Wind’s famed white tiger, she had, ‘finished what Ryuuyuki had begun’.” “It took her mother nearly a season to bring her back to some sense of sanity, and the instruction of a kami, and the memories of a lost brother, to get a handle on her newly emerged dojutsu.  Her life’s path had taken a new turn, as she took on the mantle that Ryuuyuki had left behind.  She was no longer merely the storm sage-priestess who had befriended a minor god, she was now the Lady Ice Flame who had sundered an unholy temple at the heart of a mountain with a frightening new jutsu.  It was a dark time for Shimogakure, generally referred to as ‘The Year of Unspoken Hell’.” “So that’s how I lost track of—“ Kakashi blurted aloud, before stopping abruptly. “Lost track of what?” Sakura asked. “Nothing,” he amended, hiding behind his book again. “You know, Kakashi-san,” Kurenai smiled sweetly, “That is a very annoying habit you have.” “I can’t help it,” he returned flippantly, “I’m addicted to these books...” Naruto growled his frustration at his teacher’s lack of candor.  “Urrrh...Kaka-sensei said he met Priestess Ice Flame a long time ago, in Shimogakure!  But he thought she died, so seeing her here is messing with his already messed-up head!” “Naruto!” Sakura scolded, but ‘Inner Sakura’ thanked. Naruto chuckled nervously, as he regarded his teacher’s narrowed eye, “Well, it’s the truth!” “You foun– saw her back then, Kakashi?” Hiruzen asked, a mysterious light dawning in his wizened eyes.  Kakashi’s odd behavior since arriving was starting to make much more sense.  “Was she injured in the collection of that missing-nin?” Kakashi gave a quick bark of laughter at the unintentional absurdity of the question: “Heh, not at all.” “Then why did you think that she died?” Sarutobi pressed. “Because I went back to....formally apologize to her for the....trouble, and damage we had caused in carrying out our mission,” Kakashi answered.  “And I was told that I wasn’t allowed to say her name anymore, and pointed to a...an ash-stained pyre-stone...” The memory of that sooty, granite marker, surrounded by hundreds of white lanterns and teary-eyed mourners still sent a cold chill up his spine. “I can understand your confusion now,” the Hokage returned.  “Shimogakurans do not speak of the recently deceased as a rule of etiquette.  But they extend this taboo to the grievously injured, as well.  It has led to much aggravation in the past.” <<And since when did you ever feel the need to ‘apologize’ for Team Ro’s actions, Kakashi?>> the Hokage silently wondered.  It seemed that Ryuumaru’s ‘little angel’ had remelted Kakashi’s icy heart back then, too, huh?  And she still appeared to be holding a light out to his personal darkness.  Was fate so intent on tying these two together? The next two days just got much more interesting.... A sudden, clumsy, panicked clamber in the nearby trees spared Kakashi further investigation into his past associations.  A large swarthy skinned man, dressed in Shimogakuran body armor, was out of breath and on the run. Matsuko, it so happened.  He paused in his harried flight to rest his hands on his knees, and regulate his breath.  On seeing the table full of people, he waved a quick greeting before being bodily tackled by a dark-garbed missile, trailing a wild mane of orange-and-scarlet hair. “You’re out of bounds, Mat-kun!” Miriyume gleefully informed, as she perched her full weight between his broad shoulders on his prone form.  “Go back and face the penalty!” “Did you see what those farm kids did to Hisao?!” Matsuko quailed, squirming to extract himself from under her, not insignificant, buxom weight. “Well, he shouldn’t have been sitting there!  And it just took a little of our Winter Whiskey to bring him back round again....” she reassured, as Gekido and Aoseishin joined them. “Ha-ha!” Gekido chortled.  “Did someone’s famous courage go running off?” “I believe he caught it,” Miriyume smiled, as she helped her team mate to stand.  She then became aware of their audience. “Oh, hello!” she greeted, smoothing down her ruffled garments, as a blush bloomed along her cheeks.  “I didn’t see you there...” “Look what your cowardliness has brought!” Gekido intoned in his most dire-sounding sarcasm, and slapped Matsuko on the back of his helmet.  Matsuko retaliated with a simple punch to the shoulder, which sent the smaller man reeling, which set them to scrapping.  Aoseishin joined in the benign fray. “This is the Wandering Lights Brigade?” Sasuke smirked.  Sakura scowled at him. “Hard to believe, huh?” Miriyume acknowledged, as she approached their end of their table, abandoning her team mates to their regularly scheduled scuffle.  “Things have been a bit slow, in regards to missions, lately...” biting her lower lip in the most adorable way, as her eyes glanced at all the faces gathered.  Her eyes lingered on Kakashi a bit longer than the rest. Shino stood to face the noted kunoichi, and gave a polite bow.  “Your team is an inspiration to us all, for your genuine friendship and dedication to one another.  It is my sincerest hope to achieve a similar rapport with my own team mates.” The sound of the scuffle behind them lent an element of comical absurdity to Shino’s words. “You’ll get there, it just takes patience...and an occasional first-aid kit,” Miriyume smiled, regarding her companions over her shoulder.  “Good morning, Hokage-sama,” she bowed in respect to her Father’s friend. “Would your august company care to join us in our humble breakfast?” Hiruzen offered. “What are you having?” Gekido asked, pausing in mid-punch. “Miso....fish....tea...sticky rice...” Kurenai answered. “I’ll pass on the sticky rice, but the rest sounds good,” Matsuko answered, dumping his friend in the flattened grass.  Miriyume was looking all over the place, as if searching for something. “Is this everyone from Konohagakure?” she asked. “I believe so, my Lady,” Hiruzen returned.  “Is there someone you’re seeking in particular?” “You wouldn’t know a ‘Kaharu,’ by chance, would you?” Miriyume asked, as she was handed a cup of tea by one of the cooking-nin. Kakashi choked on a bit of his fish, and turned away for a moment to clean his face. “I know of a ‘Ko’ haru, but she is still in the Village Hidden in the Leaves, to my knowledge.  She doesn’t like traveling too far from there, as one of our Elders,” Hiruzen supplied. “An Elder?!” Gekido echoed, as he joined the two others at the table’s end.  He then turned to Miriyume: “You said she was a pretty, smut-reading kunoichi!” Kakashi quickly hid his book. “What gives?!” Gekido demanded of his team mate. “Clearly, we are not talking about the same person,” Miriyume quipped back.  “The woman I encountered last night–and may have...unintentionally given hypothermia to–was no older than the lady here,” indicating Kurenai. “Well, this one’s pretty, too,” Matsuko smiled. Kurenai blushed. “Why do you think this ‘Kaharu’ would be here?” Sakura asked. “She said she was a teacher from Konoha....” Miriyume answered, sipping her tea. “There are many who would claim such a thing, if they felt the need to impress someone,” Kakashi offered, crossing his arms behind his head, and leaning back.  “She was probably just some star-struck farm girl...” “I’m hardly that glamourous,” Miriyume countered. “I think you are, Lady Sage-Priestess!” Naruto testified, slapping the table for emphasis. “No, really, she’s not,” Gekido interjected. Miriyume tossed the last swallow of her tea in the Inuzuka’s direction. “Anyway, Camp Shimogakure is having an extended breakfast by the lakeside, so we can play ‘Kraken’.  You’re welcome to join us,” she smiled. “What....what is...’Kraken’?” Hinata shyly asked. “Its kind of like ‘playing ninja,’ only on water,” Matsuko answered.  “Its an excellent exercise in chakra control.” “Then I’m all for it,” Kakashi decided, standing up.  “Climbing trees without hands is probably getting dull for my three, eh?” “It was never that exciting to begin with,” Naruto muttered, causing Gekido to chuckle as the genin took a spot between him and Miriyume.  The Lady Ice Flame placed a hand on his shoulder.  There was something so...familiar about this kid.  Something comforting... “This will get your blood pumping,” she smiled conspiratorially, as Sasuke and Sakura also stood. “Can I go, too, Kurenai-sensei?” Kiba pleaded.  He was wanting any opportunity to hang out with the foreign Inuzuka. “I’ll keep my eye on him,” Kakashi promised. “Very well.  Just don’t come back smelling like ‘wet dog’!” Kurenai allowed. As they made their way to the lake, Hiruzen chuckled: “May the gods themselves preserve her radiant light.”

Kakashi took a moment to observe the individual dynamics of the Wandering Lights Brigade, as they led the way to the lake. Matsuko was a serene, formidable warrior, walking with an easy, sedate stride.  He had powerful muscles, and a strong build, yet he projected a supreme sense of calm, even when engaged in combat.  Kohai had been a crude brute.  This man was a tranquil giant. Gekido was a polar opposite of this.  Not much taller than Miriyume, with a build closer to his own.  He seemed to be constantly wound-up; putting an extra bounce in every step, and an urgent tone in every word.  This seemed to be a common trait amongst those of the Inuzuka clan, whatever part of the world they came from.  His ninken seemed slightly calmer in nature, as he romped ahead of them all with Akamaru.  Aoseishin was doing an excellent job of playing with a younger puppy; mindful of his superior strength, and stoically suffering the nips and pounces of his canine fellow for the sake of social interaction. And Miriyume...?  Where to start?  Every moment he spent in her presence, he studied every movement, every aspect.  She was grace, yet she was also audacity.  She had the soft, womanly curves of a life of leisure, but it only belied the solid strength of her broad shoulders, her powerful legs.  And her chakra....  Even without the benefit of his Sharingan, he would sense it.  It captivated him.  Kept bringing him back to a place and time before the world had become so dark and dreary. And despite being denied the privilege of her association, he felt a deep rapport with her.  It was a mysterious connection that went beyond anything else he’d ever known.  Was it the ‘magnetic nature’ that the Hokage had spoken of just now?  She did seem to attract and keep people under a kind of unconscious charm... Her team mates were the clearest example of this: The bond they shared seemed as thick as blood.  He could see it in the way they looked at her; the sense of joy and strength that they gained in each other’s company.  She wasn’t some bridge between the gulf of the other two.  She was the light that inspired them.  How he yearned to be a fraction of that kind of light for her... This is what a shinobi team needed to be, he realized. The music became louder as they crested the gentle hill that dropped down to the lake.  A water-jutsu by the look of it, clung to its surface.  Musicians (did they ever get a rest?) were gathered together next to a half dozen picnic blankets, and a team of cooking-nin who fed anyone who walked up, be they shinobi or simple farmer.  Many seemed to be content with relaxing and keeping tabs on the mysterious game on the lake, which was deduced by the sounds of splashes, shrieks and laughter. “Kaka-sensei?” Sakura’s voice betrayed anxiety.  “What are the rules of this ‘kraken’ game, exactly?” “Stay on the surface of the lake, and try not to get...’eaten’!” Gekido teased, as he gave her a quick clutch on her shoulders, causing her to squeal a little. “‘Eaten’?!?” Naruto echoed in a worried tone. “Not literally,” Matsuko laughed, as they continued down the hill.  “The ‘kraken’ are shinobi swimming below who will try to drag you under, or ‘eat you’.  Miriyume-chan learned of this game in Kirigakure, and finds every chance she can to torment me with it.” “Oh, Mat-kun...” Miriyume sighed happily, giving him an affectionate side hug as they walked together, “You make such a wonderful kraken!”  She then turned to Sakura.  “If you��re ‘eaten,’ you become a kraken, and you get to attack with the others until only one person is left on the surface.  And that’s the winner.” “At least let me strip down a little,” Matsuko haggled, “This armor takes forever to dry.” “A little lightning-drying can speed that up,” Miriyume smiled, willing a few sparks to dance across the upturned palm of her hand. “Sparkler left scorch marks last time!” Matsuko replied sternly, using her nickname. “Very well, BE a shameless exhibitionist....” Miriyume teased. “Can I be one, too?” Gekido asked. “Since when have you required my permission?” “Whoo-hoo!” Gekido hooted.  “Race you there, Earthquake!” and ran off with his ninken.  Kiba and Akamaru followed behind.  Matsuko, in no particular hurry,  jogged dutifully on their heels. “Well,” Miriyume fell back to walk with those who remained, “There goes a large dose of mayhem.” Kakashi regarded her with a hidden smirk and a side-long glance as she walked beside him.  “‘Sparkler’...?” “It’s what they call me, half the time,” she sighed.  “Because of the oddness of my lightning affinity, I’m guessing...” “Do they....really strip down?” Kakashi asked. “Down to boxers, minimum,” she reassured.  “At least until nightfall.  Then all bets are off.”  Her eyes flashed with a mischievous glint.  “But most people don’t bother, as clothes need washing, too.” “I prefer using a washing machine,” Kakashi quipped. “I prefer using a water jutsu, a rasengan, and some soap,” Miriyume replied. “Not everyone can be as freewheeling with their chakra as you can,” Kakashi countered. “They can while I’m around...or, hadn’t you noticed...?” she smiled her off-kilter smile, and offered her hand to Sakura.  “Care to join me?” Sakura looked to her sensei for guidance, who nodded his consent.  She giggled giddily as Miriyume pulled her into a sprint into the swirling mist, leaving Kakashi, Sasuke and Naruto alone on the shore. “That woman is strange,” Sasuke ventured aloud.  “Her chakra is very powerful....but poorly controlled.  It spills out of her like water from a ruptured pipe.” “That’s because she has no need to conserve it.  Her kekki genken is an ability to passively absorb chakra from any source, but her senjutsu training seems to have focused her mostly on Natural Chakra energies.” “Is she aware of how others can feed off her spilling energy?” Sasuke, as ususal, sounded critical. “I’m certain she is,” Kakashi returned, understanding the tone of disapproval.  His younger self would have seen it as wasteful as well.  “But such charity is common to people who have studied Ninshu.” “What is this....Ninshu?”  Naruto asked. “To put it simply, the transcendence of the spirit through the sharing of Chakra,” Kakashi answered. Naruto’s face was screwed up in confusion.  “Huh?” “Did you EVER pay attention in class?” Sasuke hissed. “Did you ever NOT?!” Naruto retorted. Kakashi sighed.  “To put it simpler, it’s the sharing of one’s chakra with others to achieve inner harmony.  Miriyume-sama’s mother is a priestess who is renowned for her devotion to Ninshu.  Its not often practiced anymore.” “Why not?” Naruto pressed. “Why not, indeed,” Kakashi smiled. A silvery peal of laughter, followed by a thunderous splash, erupted from deep in the mists before them. “She’s MINE, Matsuko-kun!  Find another victim!” Miriyume crowed proudly, as Sakura laughed. “I’ll save you, Sakura-chan!” Naruto proclaimed in response, and charged at the lake.  A loud splash signaled his failure to properly focus his chakra for water-walking. “That was embarrassing,” Sasuke commented bluntly. “Looks like its up to us to maintain the honor of Konoha,” Kakashi announced, before slipping into the mist.

At first, Sakura found the thick fog unsettling.  Ghostly forms moved all around and beneath them, and her thoughts wandered back to that awful battle on the half-completed bridge in the Land of Waves.  When Matsuko made a grab for her ankle, the Lady Ice Flame had deftly lifted her out of his reach, a split-second before Sakura had even noticed any attack, and sent her team mate splashing back below the surface with a solid kick of her laced boot. “How did you know he was there?” Sakura asked, as Miriyume set her back down. “I ‘sensed’ him,” she answered.  “I’m sorry....I don’t think we were properly introduced yet.  What is your name?” “Haruno, Sakura, Ice Flame-sama,” she returned with a respectful bow. “My name is Yaseiarashi, Miriyume,” as she kept a vigilant eye on the rolling clouds that surrounded them.  “But most call me Miriyume, or Miri-san.  Use one of those, please.” She then executed a graceful, sweeping kick out into the fog, and was rewarded with a yelp and a splash. “Try harder, Gek-kun!” she laughed. “Does your....Renkingen allow you to see them?” Sakura asked. “No.  It’s more of a ‘feeling’ than a sight, for me.  I’m sensing them through the chakra-absorption kekki genken of the Yaseiarashi clan.  And Matsuko and Gekido are easy for me to pick out of a crowd, due to our long association.” “So, you’re a ‘sensor’ type?” Sakura pressed. “Only in the simplest sense of the term.  Gekido and Aoseishin are much, much better at it than I could ever hope to be.” “You’re damn right, we are!” Gekido called out, somewhere beyond the mists. “...But he’s kind of useless when this happens....” Miriyume whispered, and performed an odd sequence of hand jutsu, some of them one-handed, as her eyes flashed briefly with the golden seven-pointed star that indicated the use of her dojutsu. “Aurora-storm jutsu!” she announced, as the fog suddenly came alive with bright flashes of color.  Sakura gasped at the beauty of it.  It was like finding one’s self contained within an opal.  Someone close by erupted into violent sneezing. “Sudden bright lights make Gek-kun sneeze...” Miriyume explained with a wicked smile. “Stop—“ Gekido fought to speak, “—talking about me!” Sakura laughed.  These adults still played like children, only with a better understanding of each other.  “It must be wonderful to know so much about one another...” “It takes time, and effort, on all parts...” Miriyume returned, regarding her newest friend.  She seemed so profoundly sad all of a sudden.  “...and patience.  Things between me and the guys weren’t always so easy, you know.” “Really?” Sakura seemed to regain a little joy in her jade-hued eyes. “Yes,” Miriyume nodded.  “In fact, Gekido was outright hostile on our first day together as a team.” A strong hand broke the surface of the water before the storm priestess, who clasped it and assisted its ascent to the lake surface. “He actually bit me,” Matsuko continued, as he wrung water from his shirt front.  “And he had Aoseishin tear a hole in Miri-chan’s skirt...in an embarrassing place....” “Are you giving up on being a ‘kraken’?” Miriyume asked. “I am,” Matsuko sighed.  “There are more people below than above at the moment, and water games just aren’t my thing....” “I read you,” Miriyume smiled tenderly.  “Let me introduce you to Sakura Haruno, one of Kakashi Hatake’s students...” “Oh, that reminds me–“ Matsuko began, but was cut short by a shadow that slipped up with ridiculous ease behind Sakura. Matsuko tensed as Sakura gasped.  Sasuke held a lone finger to his lips, and pointed ungently downward with his other hand a second before four Narutos exploded from the water, shouting: “You ALL belong to the Kraken, now!” and latched onto someone. Sasuke easily dispelled his and Sakura’s shadow clone assailants with basic taijutsu moves.  Matsuko held his clone aloft, and gave his nose a simple flick, making it vanish in a puff of chakra smoke..  Miriyume gave the real Naruto a sympathetic smile, as he tried to lift her from the lake surface. “I can barely budge her chakra, little man,” Matsuko informed.  “You really have to catch her completely off her guard to even hope to try.” “I would have had you ALL, if it weren’t for Sasuke ruining it!” Naruto fumed, crossing his arms obstinately, and scowling at his rival. “Sounds like ‘sour grapes’ to me,” Gekido opined as he and Aoseishin joined the group, then sneezed. “Sasuke!  Sakura!” Kiba called, as he and Akamaru followed the other Inuzuka’s lead.  “Did you see those lights?!  It was like a dream!” “More like a nightmare,” Gekido returned, scowling at Miriyume. “That was Miriyume-sama’s doing,” Sakura replied.  “Weren’t they beautiful?” Naruto suddenly tackled Kiba, attempting to douse him. “Naruto?!  What are you doing?!” Kiba demanded. “I’m a Kraken!  And I’m taking at least one of you down to a watery grave!” “You are really getting into this game....” Gekido observed. “Technically, you need to be underwater to be a Kraken, Naruto,” Miriyume ruled, as she laughed at the free-form wrestling match before her.   “Speaking of which...” Gekido attempted to warn his teammate, before a strong pair of hands clasped both of Miriyume’s ankles, and yanked her beneath the surface.  She barely had enough time to gasp for a quick breath. Naruto chuckled in triumph.  “Our plan worked!  The Kraken wins!” She looked strangely at ease in this watery realm.  Perturbed, but otherwise unconcerned, as she floated beside him in his Water Prison Jutsu.  Her blue-and-green eyes flared with the star of her Renkingen as she sought the exact boundaries of the bubble of denser water. “You can talk and breathe in there,” Kakashi assured, as a tendril of her amber-gold hair slipped silkily through the fingers of his hand that maintained the jutsu.  “I”m not a real Kraken...” “That was clever,” Miriyume complimented, as she adopted a seated lotus position within the water prison, “...Using Naruto as a distraction.  His chakra easily eclipses most, blinding me to your own.” “Am I on your radar now?” “You mean, sonar?” “I suppose so,” he shrugged. “At the moment....  So, am I your prisoner, or are you going to let me play the monster already?” Kakashi laughed.  “Victims are looking rather sparse at the moment....and you could never be a monster.” “You obviously haven’t seen my sage-form yet,” Miriyume quipped. “Care to enlighten me?” “In a lake...?! ....that contains my friends and allies?!  What the hell kind of teacher are you?!” “A bad one, I’ll admit,” Kakashi returned.  “But then, I’ve heard tell that you aren’t the ‘most eager’ of students, either.  Perhaps we could....mutually benefit from a better association?  Your style of jutsu intrigues me....” “Oh no...” Miriyume intoned, as she performed a set of hand jutsu that created a sphere of air in her hands.  “I stopped calling anyone ‘sensei’ a long time ago.  Its better...and safer that way.”  There was a tinge of sorrow in her last statement. She expanded the air sphere, absorbing and transmuting the chakra nature of the Water Prison Jutsu, replacing the dense water with a fresh, spring-like bubble of oxygen, firmly under her control. “Experience....and an itinerant storm-kami, are my only teachers now.”   “Then perhaps you could teach me...specifically about your Chidori technique.  You call it ‘Storm Gauntlet’...?  You’re a Lightning Affinity, aren’t you?” She gave him a look that she reserved for those who feigned ignorance.  It wasn’t pleasant. “Yes...and....” she sighed. “Then why did it....’latch’ onto mine?” She took a moment to review the strange incident in her mind.  It was so long ago.  Nearly buried under a flurry of unpleasant memories... “I don’t know,” she admitted freely.  “I have worked in conjunction with many lightening affinities, but have never experienced that....melding before.  My Mother once tried to explain it.  Something about resonance....or convergence....I can’t remember exactly,” as she went through the motions of yet another jutsu technique, and briefly enveloped herself in a wreathe of flame that dried her clothes and hair.  Kakashi had rarely encountered such a casual usage of chakra before.  “But then, quantum chakra theory was never my strong suit...” “But you seem to have quite a talent for Nature Transformation,” Kakashi complimented, as he examined the Air Prison closer by uncovering his Sharingan.  “Who’s the prisoner now?” “I don’t like this,” Gekido announced, as he scanned the surface of the nearly fog-free lake.  The game had finally ground to a halt, with an ice-using shinobi from Shimogakure being declared the winner. “What don’t you like?” Matsuko obediently asked, as Aoseishin shook the water from his thick, white and pale blue coat, spraying a fair amount of it Matsuko’s way. “I can’t see Miri-chan anywhere.  Is she still underwater?” squinting his slitted eyes in an attempt to peer past the surface. “Sparkler’s a big girl now, Fuzzy,” Matsuko returned, as he lay back to dry himself in the noon sun.  “She’ll let us know if there’s any trouble.” Gekido scoffed.  “Like her brother...?” “Ryuuyuki was a stubborn man with a ‘lone wolf’ complex.  Miri-chan has never been like that.” “Yeah, but lately....I’ve been noticing some unpleasant patterns,” he resumed his measured pacing by the shoreline.  “Like the Getsugawa Cave incident?  Or the Hole-in-the-Wall, in the Land of Earth?” “Yes, well,” Matsuko returned.  “She has always been intrigued by rumors of treasure...” “....and need I remind you about her rambling around alone in the ruins of Uzushiogakure every chance she gets.  And her sage form seems to give her plenty of opportunities...” “Alright, point taken!” Matsuko gave in.  “She is getting a bad habit of striking out on her own, but, I have faith that she understands the consequences of going ‘full rogue’.” “I’ve never been much of one for faith, Earthquake,” Gekido returned.  “I require substance....like keeping her in my sights, or sense of smell....” he sniffed at the gentle breeze that blew over the lake, clearing it of the remaining fog.  “Where is she?” “Well, the last time I saw her,” Matsuko stood beside his antsy friend, “she was ‘eaten’ by the Kraken...and it was that Kakashi guy...” “That guy....” Gekido snorted, and kicked at the ground like petulant child, “...thinks he’s ‘so cool’ with his hidden face, and his silly crooked hair...and his mis-matched eyes.  I ought to plant a frost-star where the sun-don’t-shine on him, for disrespecting Miri-chan with his mask-thingie...” he mimed throwing a shuriken across the lake.  “Do you see him?” “See who?” Kakashi asked, suddenly behind them.  Gekido nearly jumped into the lake. “You, you...cyclops!  Where’s Miriyume?!” the Inuzuka demanded, as Matsuko tired not to laugh too hard. Kakashi lifted his headband to expose the Sharingan for a moment, making the other two men flinch.  He regarded the lake surface. “She’s still down there,” he returned, having easily seen her unique chakra beneath the tranquil waves.  “But don’t worry, I left her in good company.”

“So...what was the big celebration about...?” Kakashi began, grasping at any straw to keep this alluring woman all to himself for a bit longer, in this private little realm.  “The night we met...back in Shimogakure?  I never found out.” “I believe it was the Trueheart’s Festival,” Miriyume answered. “What is that, exactly?” “An excuse to party,” she smiled back with that off-kilter smirk that snared him tighter every time she used it on him.  “Officially, it’s a day to prove one’s affections.” “Like Valentine’s Day?” “Kind of...but less...specific,” she continued.  “People do wind up on dates, but your affections are supposed to be for everyone who goes out of their way to be nice.” “...and the kissing...?” “What better way to signal one’s affections than by kissing?  On the cheek.  Sometimes on the lips.  A small bit of warmth in an otherwise cold world.”  She looked almost wistful. “Shimogakurans seem so casual about them...” “And you seem so ardently opposed.  You certainly have built up your bulwarks against them.” “Not everyone can afford to live life so free...” “Not every village is as enlightened as mine.”  A note of indignance was creeping into her voice.  “We pride ourselves on our ability to live our lives to the fullest, knowing that to do otherwise is to insult all we defend.  So yes, we drink.  We dance.  We kiss strangers in our midst....” “....you skate on cracking ice....routinely consume vile whiskey....nearly let it drag you off an icy waterfall....” “No one throws a party like Shimogakure; and DON’T insult our winter whiskey!  It’s a holy sacrament! And damn good at counter-reacting most poisons,” she defended hotly.  He swore he could see a bit of static crackling about her.  And the air had suddenly become drier... “Okay...sensei–ur...” he tapered off, “Kakashi apologizes,” holding up his hands in a gesture of peace.  Her ambient chakra had gone from a passive billowing to a menacing flare, and back again.  Stormy aspect was an apt description, and he was finding her more and more fascinating by the second. “So...” he continued, trying his best to sound nonchalant, “Did you...have a date...that night?  The night we met...?” “No,” she seemed a bit self-conscious in the admission.  “No one liked me in that way up there.  No one serious, anyway.  But candy and flowers and kisses can be for platonic friends, too, and even strangers who wander in, who aren’t rude, and take off their masks when asked!” glaring back from across the air bubble. “I had no choice!” he reasserted, “Anbu agents are forbidden to reveal their identities!” “Rules or not, you denied me, which I’m not inclined to forgive so easily,” turning away. She could hold a grudge, alright.  And her pride was off the charts.  He could see the questions waiting in those jewel-like eyes, but she wasn’t about to ask them.  He plainly saw how her mind was a chaotic torrent of memories concerning that night.  Now that he knew the full story, he figured that their strange introduction to one another that night, on the cusp of such horror that followed, may have been the last ‘positive’ recollection she had.  He gulped at the realization.  He’d met her right before her brother died.  He elected to be charitable: “I returned, Miriyume-sama,” he volunteered softly.  “A week later.  Without the others.  Without the Anbu mask.” “You....what?”  She turned back toward him, chakra aura guttering. “I came back to look for you,” Kakashi repeated.  “But no one would speak of you, or what had happened.  And they showed me the funeral stone.  I thought you were dead.” She turned.  Eyes wide.  Face a whiter shade of pale.  “No one....told me.”  She then hung her head in a sorrow so pervasive that it made him clutch at his own heart. “But why would they?”  Kakashi struggled past the sudden pall, “I was a foreigner, intruding on their grief.  They had just lost a hero, and very nearly lost a heroine....” She wiped her eyes, and summoned a not-quite-genuine laugh to alleviate the sadness.  That act alone nearly broke Kakashi’s heart all over again. “I am no heroine,” Miriyume corrected.  “I’m just a misfit with noble intentions, floundering in the wake of the North Wind.”  She tilted her head slightly sideways to release the welling tears in her shining eyes. Again, she forced a light chuckle, as she wiped the glistening trails from her flushed cheeks.  Laughter through tears; a rather masochistic coping mechanism.  Kakashi was struck speechless with the enormity of the moment.  She didn’t hide her pain...she taunted it. “So, I guess I can forgive you,” Miriyume began, forcibly shoving aside her sorrow.  “I’m sorry my village wasn’t more helpful.  Its not the first time our customs have caused trouble.” “The only trouble was my pessimistic attitude, and that was gained long before that moment,” Kakashi returned.  “If only I had some capacity for hope...I’d have keep looking....” So many years wasted, he inwardly scolded himself. “Well, here I am,” she smiled, stepping closer, arms folded across her chest.  “....Wherever I go.  Where are you?” “At the moment....here,” Kakashi replied.  It wasn’t a complete lie...  She stepped closer. “Well....?” “Well, what...?” Kakashi rebounded, confused. “Do you want your Trueheart’s Night kiss, or not?” she scowled up at him in the most adorable way. Kakashi’s staggered slightly at the question, exposed cheek instantly bloomed crimson.  “You’d....you would still grant that?!  After all this time?” “You’re the only one who really deserved it that night.  Saving my life on the lake,” she reminded.   <<And you’re the guy who’s haunted my dreams ever since,>> she added silently. “...and I like to settle my accounts....” she joked, drawing yet closer. The only one.  Never had those words sounded sweeter to Kakashi’s ears.  He took a deep, blissful breath, closed his eyes, and compensated for her shorter stature by leaning down a bit.  Following an awkward moment of giddy anticipation where nothing seemed to be happening, he opened his eyes to find her scowling again. “What’s the matter?” “There’s another mask in my way....” she growled back. “Oh, this?” touching his trademark garment, “Don’t worry.  Its soft.” “That’s not the point!  What are you...afraid of germs, or something?” “No...” he backpedaled from her rising ire...and chakra....slightly.  She only matched his retreat. “Are you horribly scarred by acid? Or deformed?” “No! At least, I don’t think so...” he was backed up against the wall of the bubble now.  Her bubble.  And she was right up against him, chakra-aura fully banked.  Its light made him squint. “...Then, why hide?!” she demanded. What was she really asking here? And why did he suddenly feel like he was on the inside of a rasengan? “Because I like to appear....mysterious...?” he offered blithely, as watched the stars flash in her eyes, and her chakra aura resolve into opalescent flames.  Why was it suddenly so cold in here...? “And I like to be....honest,” her smile had taken on a more sinister aspect, as she began to coalesce an odd energy in her hands before him.  A deep, dangerous hum began to sound in his ears.  Something that he hadn’t heard since their last meeting...  “I’ve refined my Storm Gauntlet Technique somewhat, since you last saw me, blending my lighting nature with every other chakra I’ve come across.  But I’ve grown rather fond of one mixture in particular that can’t seem to be replicated by anyone else.  Probably due to the enormous amounts of chakra required.  Would the ‘mysterious’ Copy-Ninja like to try?” “Do I have a choice...?” he winced, as she held a large orb of dark, opalescent flame up to him for uncomfortably close inspection. True to its name, it was made of ice and fire....but there was also a massive amount of lighting in its composition, making it a fusion of no less than four types of chakra. Everything about this jutsu told him it would burn if he touched it, yet it radiated a cold energy, akin to a winter storm’s gale. “What’s the matter, Hata-sensei....?  You did say that you found my jutsu-style ‘intriguing’, didn’t you?” He could feel his own chakra that held his being together begin to unravel in the event horizon of her radically increasing power.  A power that seemed intimately tied to her emotional state. Oh gods... The surge of her Ice Fire Jutsu scattered Kakashi’s Shadow Clone’s essence into a deeply frustrated puff of smoke, leaving Miriyume alone and rather agitated in her Air Prison.

[deruste]

Lord of light: Fallen by night

“Next to nothing,” I replied to her question. She sighed. “They were the divine family until the gods took over. To make the creation story nice and short-” It was not nice and short. It was nightfall when she finished. To make things simple I'll summarize. The first “it” couple, sky and earth had kids that were the titans who represent ancient elements or aspects of the world, Light, time, death, prophecy, constellations and the ocean. She didn't give a name but my father was the titan of heavenly light, strange position buts sound important. The Sky hates their next batch of kids the first cyclops and the hundred-handed ones which to be fair just sound ugly enough to be angry at. Especially if your first kids are the divine giants whose heads reach the sky. Earth got cranky and had her children fight their father. Nearly no-one had the balls to kill him except my uncle Kronus who chopped him up real good. My father and his brothers helped to restrain him so Kronus gave them the territories of north, south, east and west. All but my uncle Oceanus who didn't do shit but stay in the ocean so he got that by default. My father was the lord of the east. She stops there. “What else? He became the lord of the east and then what?” She shrugged. “He was the most powerful of his brothers but not more so than Atlas and Kronos himself. Honestly, he never did much of worth. Outside of giving humanity sight and most of us agree it was because wish for them to bask in his splendor. His children did more than him but the short of it. Kronos children rebelled, won and sent them to Tartarus.” She said it all so calmly I started to question both our sanities. This can’t be right, right? This is all a hallucination from a gas leak. Yet why do I feel that is should believe it. “Wait you said, Children? I have siblings.” She gave an even longer sigh. “They are...were the titans of the sun, moon, and Dawn.” I looked at her funny. “Why does the dawn have its own god?” “Goddess, Eos the rosy-fingered dawn.” She said proudly. I don’t know though, not that intimidating of a title. I shall smite you with morning dew. “Most gods are devious but Eos is mostly harmless. Mostly interested in her morning ride and attracting young men, so you're properly safer from her.” I took the backhanded compliment in stride. Also, that implies incest so nope. “What about the other two, the sun and the moon.” I pointed upwards. Are they watching me?” I said terrified that I had siblings who properly saw everything from the sky.  She seemed sad for a moment and then composed herself. “Remember when I said that Jackson boy took down your father.” She was stark serious with a guarded look, her arms crossed. I sensed something wrong with the guy but I thought he was just a dumbass, but he is something more dangerous. A powerful dumbass. “He killed him didn’t he?” I asked sincerely but she waved her hand half-heartedly. “Yes and no, there are ways to beat divine beings in combat. They all are easy in theory but much harder in practice especially with your father. From my sources, he seemed to push your father back and the satyrs used magic to turn him into a tree.” I looked at her waiting for the punchline. It was a very bad joke. She stood stone face. Oh god, oh gods whatever! She is not joking. “What? Tree, maple what?” I scramble nearly falling over. She picked me up and put me in the passenger seat. “I’ll let that set in and get us to our next destination.” I let myself sink into the car seat trying to focus on the landscape to regain stability. I saw that we were at a campsite that had peculiar markings such as purple and orange shirts and a sign saying.                                                                                 Where are your gods now? “Were avoiding the people that did that right?” “If that makes you happy.” I couldn't tell if she was joking. I have a feeling that's going to be a catchphrase. “There's one last gift, a peace offering for you.” “May I ask why? I like the necklace but what else am I getting.” If there is one thing I learned it's that everything has a price. What did the next gift cost? Also, the term peace offering is not giving me the jollies. “A general from the army your father led wanted to give recompense.” I twitch slightly. That does not give me confidence that it will be a good gift. “ From what I understand, he thought that a child of your father should have a chariot. Your father provided a chariot but the not the animal but he will have a selection to choose from.” So, my fathers, only gift after being gone for nearly a decade is a god damned chariot. A car, no. A home that isn't in a shanty town, no. An education that isn't self-taught, no. A god damned chariot with no animal, that I probably have to feed. Thanks, dad. “Wait how are you driving” I turned to look downward at the driver seat to meet something that had me chuckling. “What the hell are you using?” I said trying to suppress my laughter. It was a golden seat with mechanical legs that were overly detailed, cellulose, leg hair and all.   “Made by telkhines, ugly beast but useful beasts. They made that necklace you have and use actual magic.” Actual magic? “They make steampunk props?” I partly started to watch my surroundings as we went ever more south to the west to the town of ponce. “Weapons, armor, charms depends on what you order and what you give them. They are good at making things but not finding things. You worked for one ounce.” Did I? Guess with Aegle being a monster the whole time I guess a lot of the people I encountered and saw where monsters. A thought occurs thought. “The tall, waddling old man with the dog like face.” I always thought that man was disfigured but being a monster properly explains his ugly face as well. Not to be mean to the man Ignacio’s forge was by far one of my most filling jobs right next to the farm and second most fun right next to the flea market. “Why can I see monsters then. I saw them before I knew I was a demigod.” I remarked. She gave a glare. “Demigod naturally sees through the mist, (the veil that keeps the mortals from seeing monsters and the gods.) but you are right most see most clearly after they learn their heritage. Perhaps it's one of your abilities, true sight.” “True Sight. Its at least what would I call it, to see through the mist clearer than some demigods, the disguises of monster are powerful but the magical ones you apparently see through.” I guess that makes some sense, if dad gave humans sight then it makes sense my power involves that but that seem weak for the son of an elder divine. “Any more questions or do you wish to stay quiet.” I think for a second. “Why did you look after me. Why did dad have me? What do I do now.” She lowered her head downward in sullen dread. “The first is simple, the second unknown to me, the third is…complicated but your choice. I was assigned to you to make sure you lived after your mother died. Dracae is what my kind is called but I am deformed by their standards, they have two tails and I have one. I delivered messages for various groups even the gods at one point but like many things they forgot us.  As for the why, I don’t know. You father rarely cared about his own troops much less humans and his own children. We assumed that he forgot them, we joined because… we wanted justice.” I saw her face distort into anger. A look one gave when remembering something painful, I let her cool off a bit after she lets slip out. She did say Helios, Eos and Selene were but she talked about Eos like she was alive so the other two are gone. Wow, not even a full day and I have not only family but dead family members. “The last thing is up to you, the boy gave you the option to go to their camp where you will get food and shelter as long as you play puppet.” I shifted my head to my shoulders. “To the gods, I'm guessing.” she nodded her head keeping one eye on the road and the other on me. “You do my old snake heart proud to know I raised you to be smart. That or you go with me.”

“I aim to please. If it's all the same to you I think I'll make my decision now and go with you.” She turned her head all the way to face me and stopped the car suddenly. “Don’t make decisions lightly!” She shouted. She nearly started hissing again. “I will bring you to where what remains of the army, there are some demigods still there that chose to live far from the gods in new york, they could barely fight but they do make good merchants.” She seems to calm down again and decide it's not the time for questions anymore, I can’t even think of any more to ask her. “It was not a lie you know.” She said sadly, her voice slightly breaks “At first I didn’t like my talents being wasted to be a babysitter but you grew on me somewhat.” She chuckled, her eyes starting to water. “I...I..I-” I hug her from the side, my left hand from her shoulder interlocking with my right to make a circle hug hanging from her neck. “I know, your eyes blink three times when you lie.” She returns the hug with tears dripping down her eyes with the scent of salt on them. “I'm sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry-”An arrow knocked itself into the dashboard Cutting her off. “The fuck?” I yelled as another arrow notched itself near my neck “Dammit, they found us!” She screamed trying to dodge arrows and drive the car. I looked behind us and saw only an orange splotch in a sea of dark leaves and branches. “Can Jackson fly?” I said frantically trying to find a projectile. “No that would a child of Zeus, a son of Poseidon, a lord of the sea is who we face. If I have to guess a pegasus.” “Is he a good shot?” An arrow went into the roof getting only halfway in. An idea brews in my mind to get rid Jackson. Not a single shot has hit us yet, some were close but no direct hit. I take the arrows from the various places they were logged in and pile them on my lap. “Do you have poison?” She points to the glove compartment. It was a long shot but it had what I need. “May I?” “ Look I need to release some poison for my fangs and glands sometimes.” She said reflexively. The poison was clear with a tinge of yellow in jam jars. Two to be precise. I take all the arrows and jam it in, pun intended. Aegle put a hand in front of me. “Try to aim it like a dart but if they get close enough to the window just toss them in their direction.” She dictated. I follow her directions to the letter but decide to leave them in the jar. I lower the window so I can sit on the door. Now for the nice people or those with no sense of wisdom, don't attempt this in any shape or form because in all likelihood I will fall off and leave half of my skin on the forest floor. Maybe my neck would be broken, the bottom line doesn't replicate. I used to play darts in the employee lounge but trust me that barely helps when I'm holding poison-tipped arrows while sitting on the window of a moving car. It took all my ass clenching ability not be thrown off as Aimed at the moving black mass. In the rising moonlight, I saw a bit clearer and know for a fact that he was on a flying horse. Yet that was a low mark on my what the fuck meter today. Either I aim for Jackson or his horse? I took a better look while I saw something odd, I know the flying horse with wings would be usually the first thing I saw two but its something else. It was almost that I saw an aura around Jackson that seemed...strong. And not that it seemed that he was ready for anything but more in a literal I saw a faint glowing aura of protection around him, shielding him. A voice echoed in my mind. The Styx shields, the Styx protects. You will be forced to make recompense. Okay...that was more poignant than I would like. In shows or movies, schizophrenics have this deep narrative driven voice that attacks them with personal insults. Most of the times in real life its random gibberish and loud noises, if there is a voice it can be neutral like “the sky is green” over and over again or pleasant “you're are wonderful” voices. At Least some other than instructional. So when they start to make coherent sense be very afraid especially if there negative it means it’s at its worse. Bottom line when the voice in my head starts giving advice be very afraid.   “Jackson would be vulnerable to arrows, right? Does the name Styx mean anything to you?” Oh great, I'm listening to the voice now. Terrific.  “Did you say the river Styx?!” She started swerving in response. She thinks for a moment and shakes her head. “That explains how he killed your father then. He has the curse of Achilles.” I understood what the meant, slightly. I remember that he was a hero from a myth that had a bad heel but from what she said it seems to be some sort of power. I thought about how it could help him beat my father. I barely knew him so it hard to think of anything concrete I guess it could give… invincibility. Oh crap. I try to think of something. Aim not for he who leads, aim for what carries the teens. And now this creepy shit. Shot in the dark, I try to think it out as I throw the arrow. The arrow flew for a short bit toward Jackson but was quickly deflected by a glowing sword that was now in view. He started to fly ever closer to the truck with the Pegasus ever more in my sight. It had ebony hair and raven-like wings with empty eyes. Who the hell looks at that and thinks “that's a great mount”. It was definitely majestic in its movement and manner but its actions, its stare, its look, that stare gave off the aura of rebellion. Like it would kick off most rider given the chance. Kick off the rider! Of course. The pegasus came closer now with Jackson and the blond girl. I didn’t see the satyr but the sounds of pan flutes were within the air and the trees moved slightly. Guess that makes sense, nature creature, nature magic. I kept my eye on the winged horse and tried to ignore both of the Blancos. “What are you doing?” Percy Jackson screamed. “We can give you sanctuary. The camp is the only place you can be safe.” The girl added. I ready my jar as they increased velocity with the horse nearly neck and neck with the car. “Consider this my answer in the form of a toxic hail Mary.” I  held the jar sideways as the contents blew in the wind, the arrows, the venom, all going in the direction of the raven pegasus. The horse started to convulse and bucked off Jackson and his girlfriend off its back. I would be lying if I said I didn’t take pleasure in the way the jackass fell straight on his ass in the dirt. It was like a stunt gone wrong. I was sorry for the horse, it didn't deserve the arrows and venom to the face but I needed an escape. I think he tried to yell something before we got out of earshot but we manage to escape into the wilderness.  Hopefully, that will be that last of them for a while. “W-w-w-we manage to lose them.” The realization slowly reached Aegle as an I climb, precariously back into my seat. “Don't be so sure. I remember three of them being at the hotel.” “Oh your right, that means goat boy might still pursue.” She had an angry way about her when she said goat boy. Didn't she say something about satyr's against my father? “Now what?” I try to ready for a nap. This amount of excitement has left me worn out. “Nacho, he runs the ranch nearby or at least keeps the animals running rampant.” Oh yeah. An animal to pull my chariot. Glad to know that this is my new normal from now on. “Remember Ignacio from the forge?” I close my eye as I strain to remember where that name felt right. Not a common name to say the proper way, most people go by Nacho with that name and I  swear if you bring up those cheese covered chips I will deck you in the schnoz. Then something came to me in a haze. A bright forge, a roaring flame, a small ugly man with great skills in making repairs and creating jewelry. “Wait! That Nacho!” The general that was gifting a war beast was my old boss. I worked for him for three years in Ramos, a small town north of El Yunque. I helped at his forge and learned some skill in bending and manipulating metal. It wasn't my longest job or my most enjoyable one but it was the most fulfilling. There is no other feeling like making tools with your own hands and saying that you know how to make half the things people things people need day to day. It's like you are above them in a certain way like they always need you no matter how much they pretend to be better than you. “Yes. That Nacho, he was the leader of the Telchines for a bit before your father dismissed him.” “Wait why was he dismissed?” She started to sway on the road, we properly lost a wheel so it was actually quite astounding that we are still driving semi-properly. “ He had a habit of ...Questioning authority.” She said casually now resting her head on her fist. From her tone, she explained this plenty of times. “ He questions some of your uncle's tactics and by you fathers authority he was moved to this outpost.” “Wait for outpost!” I yelled jumping from my seat. “This isle is far away enough from the gods that they barely notice anything that happens here. It's the same for Alaska except that Poseidon sends the occasional hurricane.” Annnd she let that bombshell drop. “ He hasn't done it in a while but...watch your back when near the sea. It should only be 20 minutes away from the ranch.” With that, I sunk back into my seat wide-eyed. Apparently, one of the worst kind of disasters that can befall the island is caused by the father of the guy I just threw poison at.  Maybe the ranch will be nice and quiet, Nacho was always level-headed. Maybe a little nap to keep me going later.

[ben-j-man]

Secret War: A Sanction for Sanity- Chapter 5

A prequel to my 40k fanfiction Secret War.

Link to chapter 1- http://ben-j-man.tumblr.com/post/180097372453/secret-war-chapter-1

After his organization is hired to hunt down an influential ganger on the Hive world, Omnartus. Attelus Kaltos is embroiled deeper into the complex world of the Assassin. This is the job which will change him, for better or for worse, forever more.

‘I am not a partier; I am an assassin who kills people for a living. And being the dangerous job it is and that I would quite like to live past my twenties, I spend every waking hour for training. Making sure I have the necessary skills to live to see the next day.’ -Attelus Kaltos Bursting from the seams with action, intrigue, suspense and full of twists and turns. With a character driven narrative which delves deep into the mind torn asunder by war as he tries to find purpose in the grim-dark universe of 40k where there is only war.

They moved through the night. Sliding ever silently from shadow to shadow, ruin to ruin like born spectres.

At first, they went westward, out into the hilly suburbs surrounding the city's central business district while along the way taking advantage of Varander's many bush filled parks to mask much of their advance.

Varander was built eight kilometres along the northern coast of Lake Varander and sprawled further inland north for another twenty. A good majority of Varander was almost entirely made of hills, it's roads ever falling and rising, turning and winding in almost harmonious accordance with the landscape. Of course, the roads were all now cracked and cratered, bent out of shape from the bombardment

Attelus liked Varander, sure it wasn't perfect with the almost consistent wind, the cold winters and many people loved to complain about the constant hills, he really didn't mind them at all though, they gave the city some character.

They moved as quickly uphill as down, Attelus had walked Varander countless times he was used to traversing the terrain. He knew the city well.

Once when walking through the bush on a high hill Estella briefly stopped to stare intently over the coastline lake and city below.

It was an uncharacteristically cloudless, calm winter's night in Varander, they could feel the edge of cold in the air but no wind to enhance it.

"It is just amazing Attelus," she had said, "that somehow...even after all this destruction, Varander can still look so beautiful."

Attelus didn't reply, he couldn't reply as he wasn't looking at the scenery, he was looking at her; seeing Estella in the moonlight suddenly made it extremely hard to exhale.

"Attelus?" she said turning back to him when he didn't answer.

"W-we really s-should get m-moving," he stammered stupidly.

She raised a bemused eyebrow, "Yes you are right, but are you alright Attelus? You're acting strange."

With no small effort, Attelus managed to tear his attention away from Estella.

"Y-yeah I'm okay, let's go."

They were back on the move again, with Attelus fighting the sudden urge to always look over his shoulder to make sure that Estella was still following behind him.

She always was but looking would only allay the fear for a tiny while before he was forced to look again.

It was a distraction that he couldn't afford and again he found himself missing the more simplistic time before her appearance.

Once three kilometres into the west they turned north, zigzagging through back streets and backyards, moving through the hills as chaotically as they could.

Six times they came close to enemy patrols, each time they had to hunker down amongst the ruins just out of sight.

Each patrol consisted of ten purple armoured Chaos soldiers and reinforced by a half-track armoured personnel carrier.

As they moved more and more north, Attelus became surer and surer where the encampment was.

They walked off a side street and into the bush.

"Be careful," Attelus hissed over his shoulder, "there's should be a sharp incline-"

He stopped short as his foot found air.

With a cry of fear, his hand shot out, grabbing onto a nearby branch before he could fall down the bank proper.

"Attelus are you okay?" asked Estella behind him.

Attelus didn't answer at first as he struggled to find his breath.

"Y-yeah I'm okay," he said turning back to the concerned Estella, "I almost fell..."

He sniggered slightly. "How frigging ironic would that be, just as I tell you to be careful of a sharp incline I immediately fall down it."

Estella sniggered back. "Well, you are lucky you didn't then..."

She trailed off as she looked over his shoulder and into the deep gorge.

"Well it looks as though you found their base of operations Attelus," she said.

He smiled and looked back, in the gorge below lights shone brighter than anywhere else in Varander. The gorge was huge, stretching eight kilometres westward from Varander's main highway, with the road flowing through it into more suburbs beyond.

Logically it was perfect for the enemy to make their base in the gorge, protected by the surrounding hills and it was already a heavily industrialized area full of maintenance sheds and buildings excellent for their vehicles.

"The Nagwai gorge," he said, "I had a feeling this is where they would be."

"Yeah," she breathed, "and I can see why."

Estella reached over and affectionately mussed up his long brown hair.

"You have done well Attelus," she said, "thank you."

He blushed again and smiled. "No problem, no problem at all."

Estella smiled back, and they hunkered down into the bush.

She took from her belt a pair of binoculars and raised them to her view while brushing a few strands of black hair off her face.

With great effort, Attelus managed to tear his attention away from the beautiful soldier to keep an eye on their surroundings.

"Hmm," she murmured, "they seem to be very busy for so late at night."

"Perhaps they're preparing to move out?" suggested Attelus.

"Hmm maybe, from what I can see Attelus, they have six squads worth of the purple armoured soldiers each with a Half-track transport it seems."

"Anything else?"

"N-whoa!"

Attelus' attention snapped back at her, his heart suddenly leaping in his chest. "What? What's wrong Estella?"

She lowered her binoculars, her eyes wide.

"I don't know there was something, moving through the buildings it was quick, really, really quick I could hardly catch a view."

"Can I have a look?"

She nodded and handed him her binoculars.

He saw all she described, the six squads of twenty soldiers each camped in front of their Chimeras, what he found strange was that they seemed relaxed too relaxed.

Attelus swept his view over the edge of the camp, they were fenced in but he saw no sign of any obvious patrol.

He lowered the binoculars and turned to Estella, "something isn't right, I can't see any signs of any obvious patrols, yet they seem way too relaxed."

Estella frowned shaking her head, "I know, but we had a deadline, Attelus we were meant to report back to General Tathe a day ago but I cannot get a proper disposition with binoculars up here, I need to go down there."

"And that means you're going to go now?"

When Estella looked down and didn't answer Attelus turned away, sighed and shook his head, "Okay you're late I understand that," he said "but the mission has gotten a little more complicated, the only logical option is that we wait, Estella. We wait and we watch."

"I can't wait-"

"Perhaps for a day, perhaps two," he interrupted, "let them show us their numbers and perhaps whatever it was you saw will show itself as well. We can't rush in any way if you want to get a proper 'll have to look inside every single warehouse and there must be dozens down there, it's only a few hours before dawn. If we do it now we'll be caught and killed or captured."

"Attelus!" she said, her large blue eyes desperate, "you must understand that I cannot delay any more."

He shook his head again, "as far as I can see it, and as you should too if we don't delay if we go in now neither of us will live to give Tathe the findings."

Estella sighed, "you don't understand Attelus, this is my last chance, my last chance to prove..."

Attelus furrowed his brow, "last chance? Last chance to prove what?"

She attached her eyes to his. "To prove myself to general Tathe to prove to the Velrosian 1st I'm good enough."

"Good enough for what?"

"Good enough to make scout," she said, "a few years ago I tried to join the Velrosian 1st as a scout but I failed, I failed the test. I was about to ship out as a normal trooper but my father pulled some strings and made me stay in the PDF. So can't you see this is my last chance."

"But you'll die!" he cried, feeling sudden strong desperation come to the surface, the strongest most overtaking desperation he'd ever felt.

Estella's face suddenly turned as hard as stone. "If I did then I die Attelus, I am a soldier in the God-Emperor's service and it is my duty to die in his name."

"But you'll die for nothing! Estella...isn't there enough pointless sacrifice in your God-Emperor's name in this universe already? Why do you have the urge to add yourself to the tally? Estella, please listen to me."

Her expression didn't change. "When I first found you, you gave me the twenty questions. You really, really did and fair enough Attelus, if I was in your situation I would do the same. But now it's my turn I think. I saw you kill that patrol, I watched all of it, I'm wondering how someone of your age got the necessary training to perform such a feat."

Attelus frowned, bemused at Estella's sudden change of subject. "A-as I said it was only because I took them by surprise."

She shook her head and looked pointedly at the sword sheathed at his hip, "you said your father gave you that, didn't you? That highly, highly illegal mono-sword so I'm going to assume your father was also the one who taught you how to fight. Am I right?"

He could only manage a slight nod in response.

"Well who is your father then, Attelus Xanthis Kaltos?" she demanded sharply, "Sly frigging Marbo...?"

She trailed off as she saw the evil smile spread across his face.

"You did it again," he said.

"What? Did what again?"

"You called me by my middle name again," he said.

Immediately Estella's attractive face paled white with fear.

"I..."

It was then the stench hit Attelus, the strange stench that overpowered any scent from the surrounding bush, a stench which reminded Attelus of rancid off milk and something else he couldn't quite put his finger on.

"Can you smell that?" he asked sniffing the air, "it's like off milk, milk and...and..."

"Mint," she finished, "milk and crushed mint...what the?" Estella's eyes widened even more, her attention fixing over Attelus' shoulder.

"Attelus, move!" she bellowed suddenly.

Without hesitation he lunged, slipping sidewards faster than the eye could follow.

Attelus slid to a stop and spun back, Las pistol raised. Seeing Estella, her expression impassive, now on her knees in the undergrowth and shooting her Las gun on fully automatic. The flashing fire alighting the night and tearing through the bush, as she strafed her fire after some unseen target.

Then he saw it, the gigantic hole sheered indiscriminately through the bush where he once stood and the razor sharp metallic shrapnel showered amongst it.

Attelus managed to tear his attention away from the horrific destruction, Laspistol snapping around as he desperately searched in the direction of Estella's stream of fire for a target.

Now the foul stench of mint and milk was almost overwhelming and Attelus had to fight the urge to gag.

Estella's Las gun clicked dry and with one swift movement, she reloaded.

"What the hell was that?" he yelled, "did you kill it?"

"No! Frig it! I am sure that I hit it frig!" Estella snarled as she got back on her feet, teeth clenched eyes wide with fear, "Attelus we need to run, run through the bush strafing side to side, use the trees as cover as much as you can."

Attelus frowned deeply and looked pointedly to the devastation wrought to the bush by the enemy's weaponry, no tree could even begin to protect them from that.

"Run! Run now!" she roared.

Attelus immediately fell into a sprint, long legs carrying him through the bush, never slowing even while dodging and weaving through the trees. All the while hoping like all hell Estella could keep up, fighting the urge to look back to see if she was following.

Running for only the Emperor knows how long, Attelus sprinted into a small semi clearing, lunging over a large fallen log and hunkering down behind it.

Sweat stained and struggling for air, Attelus carefully looked over the log and found much to his extreme disparagement, the complete absence of anyone following him.

"No," he gasped, slowly shaking his head in disbelief, "no! No! No!"

Sudden pain flared through his chest as powerful panic threatened to quickly overwhelm him. Had she lied? Saying she'd run but instead staying to distract the attackers from his escape? Was she unable to keep up with him? Did she get lost?

Attelus glanced around his surroundings, it was obvious to him it was hard to get lost, the hillside still sloped clearly and he could make out through the trees the road, barely thirty metres uphill.

He was well adjusted to the bush, having grown up in a small town far north of Varander and ever since his youth Attelus seemed to have an innate sense of direction, whether walking the countryside or urban areas he could always find his way no matter where and in this panicked state, now was no different.

She must've stayed. Even if she couldn't have kept up she could have just keep running straight.

With this revelation Attelus moved to climb over the log, he needed to go back, he needed to save her, he needed to make sure she was okay.

Glimpsing the slight movement in the treetops made Attelus go no further. Whatever the hell it was it was frigging fast and seemed to flow through the bush like water and immediately Attelus' sense of smell was again assailed by the horrifically strong stench of milk and crushed mint, it definitely wasn't Estella and definitely wasn't human.

Trying to control his ragged breathing Attelus raised his pistol, attempting to peer through the canopy all the while with his heart in his throat and the shaking of his hands now noticeably back, worse than ever before.

The sudden movement in the trees made Attelus' attention snapped to its source, his Las pistol flashing five times, crazing and cutting through the scenery.

None of the shots hit but briefly, the light from the lasers revealed his target and horrific fear shot through his body.

It was clinging to the side of a tree, a grey-skinned lizard-like sinuous quadrupedal form with red eyes and a large snouted, sharp-toothed grinning maw. It looked to Attelus like something taken straight from a horror holovid. And the gun attached to its chest was pointed right at him.

The teenager leapt barely a second before where he sat was entirely engulfed in an all-encompassing shower of shards.

He landed, badly, almost twisting his ankle on impact but the adrenaline drove him on as the thing fired again, making the bush behind him erupt into a shroud of slivers, slivers which bounced off or stuck fast into his flak jacket.

After making a few metres Attelus, made enough of a gap to safely stop and shoot five rounds in the Thing's general direction, the first three missed completely, but again he used the light from the laser to reveal where it was, allowing Attelus to adjust his aim for the last two.

The fourth round he could have sworn had smashed into its snout, while the fifth hit the weapon on the Thing's chest, which blistered and moulded out of shape from the heat of the Las.

Immediately the Xenos seemed to know its weapon was inoperable, as it lunged from the tree and began to slither across the clearing at a terrifying speed. It's smiling maw snapping forward to crush his skull.

He desperately sidestepped it's huge jaws and brought his gun to bear, but it seemed to have anticipated his dodge, suddenly slashing out its claws.

His backpedalling was quick enough to avoid all but their tips, as they sliced cleanly through his flak jacket and across his chest.

He howled in pain and stumbled further, managing still to raise his pistol and unloaded the last of his clip into its scaly torso. Six point-blank shots that much to Attelus' dismay did nothing but make it reel slightly from the impacts.

Las weaponry seemingly ineffective, he holstered his pistol and reached for another weapon. Attelus' first instinct was to go for his sword but drew his knife instead. Figuring the power and momentum he could put behind the shorter blade's tip would pierce its thick hide easier than if stabbing it with his mono sword and he slipped into a defensive stance, as the creature stood watching him, ready to lunge.

Then it struck, turning around suddenly to smash its long tail into him.

Attelus bounded back, just out of reach from its tail but the onrush of air with it almost threw him off his feet.

The Thing recovered swiftly, slashing its claws Attelus managing to dive under them as they blurred out to decapitate him.

Quickly, he clambered to his feet, twisting to face the creature as it drew back to attack again.

It lunged, the massive jaws descending on him in a blur. But this time Attelus was ready, he slid sidewards from the bite and with all his strength stabbed the knife deep into its neck.

The Thing snarled and squirmed in agony but was far from dead, Attelus barely managing to tear out his knife before It turned and swiped around its tail.

The teenager leapt backwards wildly, making it so far to prevent the impact from shattering every bone in his body, but the tail's tip still struck him a glancing blow.

Attelus cried out as pain erupted through his left arm and he was flung face-first into the dirt.

With a groan he began to slowly get back onto his feet, watching the creature as it writhed around in the undergrowth and he reached over for his fallen knife.

The Xenos seemed to sense his recovery as it suddenly just slipped off it's back and onto its feet, Its jaws opening, the drool visibly rolling down the rows of curved teeth as it prepared to leap on him.

His heart lunging in his chest and gasping for breath Attelus stared it down, his hand an inch from his fallen knife, ready to draw it the very moment the thing lunged.

Then he heard the noise, the very brief sound of what could have been the cracking of crushing bone not far into the west. The thing must have heard it too as its attention was immediately fixated toward it.

Attelus saw his opportunity and didn't hesitate, in the blink of an eye he snatched up his knife then plunged it straight into the creature's eye.

It convulsed and tried to turn but with a snarl of his own Attelus twisted the knife deeper into its eye socket and it spasmed more. With an abrupt tug he tore out the blade and stabbed it into its skull then he plunged it down over and over again.

He only stopped when it was very, very dead. Utterly covered in blood, exhausted and gasping for air Attelus rolled back and sat amongst the undergrowth.

Sudden anger boiled to the surface, completely overtaking the fatigue. How could've he been such an idiot? While they were so close to the enemy's base camp choosing then to argue with Estella? The arguing which consequently led to those things sneaking up on them. If it wasn't for the Xenos stinking of milk and crushed mint...

He snarled out a curse, and because of that idiocy, Estella may be dead.

His chest tightened and he began to weep ragged sobs into his hands.

Now isn't the time to cry, Attelus.

The words suddenly echoed through his thoughts, making him blink and rock forward in surprise, it was Estella's voice.

"Estella?" he called out, "Estella is that you?"

Now Attelus now is the time to move! Move! Move now!

Without further hesitation, he lunged, diving behind a thick, gnarled old tree a millisecond before the Las fire rained through the bush around where he had been sitting.

The figures came into view, three of them advancing confidently through the trees, Las rifles sweeping professionally. They weren't the normal army soldiers, even in the dark Attelus could make out the grotesquely, daemonic images on their iron masks and the bloody crimson of their armour.

The ones who killed Estella's squad.

He leaned out from his tree, opening up with his las pistol and two of the red armoured warriors buckled and collapsed, the third was flung back, winged.

Then the night suddenly became alight as the rest fought back, causing Attelus to flinch back into cover from the sheer intensity of the Las fire.

Attelus cursed and glanced over the terrain, on his right, it was completely overgrown with underbrush making it almost impossible for them to flank him from that direction but he couldn't use it to fall back either, the underbrush had him surrounded almost entirely.

He cursed again and savagely smashed the handle of his las pistol into his tree, he was pinned, boxed inside a veritable frigging death trap.

There was a sudden lull in their fire and immediately he twisted out and almost emptied the Laspistol's clip in a wild, inaccurate flurry, none of the shots even came close, but still sent the soldiers scurrying for cover, including the figures who were clearly advancing to flank him.

Attelus barely made it back in time before it began to rain down las fire again.

He couldn't make out how many flankers there were but knew they would be on him very soon and his eyes widened as an idea hit him and he looked up.

The tree was old but still quite climbable, the many branches protruding straight from the main trunk like arms.

It was a risk but at the moment his only option and with a grunt he jumped, grabbing onto the lowest branch and hauled himself up, climbing quickly but carefully not to disturb the tree.

He made it up a few metres before they came around the tree, eight of them fanning outwards with smooth precision.

Attelus immediately opened fire, cutting down the farthest three with a brief blaze of las, and before the rest could even begin to react, Attelus holstered his pistol and jumped out of the tree.

He landed straight onto the first soldier plunging the tip of his knife straight through the man's mask and skull, dropping so the collapsing corpse would absorb the full force of the fall.

Attelus finished into a kneel as the next warrior reeled back, the first falling soldier dealing him a glancing blow. With one swift movement, Attelus drew his sword, disembowelling the stunned attacker on the draw and got to his feet.

As the last doubled over in agony, the third reacted with respectable speed, swinging out skillfully with the butt of his Las gun to smash in Attelus' skull.

Attelus swayed under the rifle stock and slipped onto the soldier's right flank, simultaneously bringing up his blade, cutting cleanly through the man's arm at the elbow.

Before the man could scream, Attelus sliced back down and severed the soldier's spine at the base of the skull.

The forth lunged at Attelus, thrusting at him with a bayonet.

Attelus sidestepped and smashed the stabbing rifle down into the dirt with an overhead arc of his sword, then brought the blade in a lightning fast, horizontal cut across the attacker's jugular.

It was then he saw the fifth and last enemy had used the time to back away to more effectively bring his gun to bear.

With a massive sidekick, Attelus sent the bleeding out soldier sprawling straight at his comrade, the limp, flailing body knocking the lasgun's aim of course. But the other red armoured soldier was disciplined and in a split-second, he recovered to cut Attelus down in a hail of point-blank las fire.

But that split second was long enough for Attelus to draw a throwing knife from his flak jacket and to send it flying straight toward the man's daemonic mask.

It connected with an audible, clang! Not with enough power to kill the man but enough to send the soldier's skull-smashing back with whiplash and to throw his full auto spray fly wild.

The shots kissed close to Attelus' ear, making him flinch in fright.

And he drew his pistol then shot the stunned soldier three times through the torso.

He hunkered down, retrieved his knife, tugged a Las gun from the grasp of the nearest twitching corpse and despite himself laughed out loud, finding funny that despite all their supposed skill, they still fell for the old "jumping from on high" trick.

With a shake of his head, he spun out quickly and opened up with his newly acquired gun on full auto at the advancing enemies.

They wouldn't fall for it again though, if they flanked again they'd do so at a farther range and in a wider arc to avoid him trying it another time.

Or- before Attelus could continue his thoughts something heavy fell into the dirt right beside him, a grenade.

He didn't hesitate, snatching it up, with a grunt Attelus threw it across the clearing.

The grenade was in mid-flight as it exploded. revealing the surrounding bush in light and making the attackers sprawl for cover.

Attelus opened fire, cutting down two stuck out in the open, stunned from the grenade.

Slipping back into cover, he counted eight attackers remaining. Eight too many, he was dead. Fact.

Perhaps if he got very lucky he could kill three or four more, but they had him completely cornered, with no escape in sight. Attelus was sure this was his last fight but he was all right with that. He'd given them one frig of a fight, a fight the survivors would never soon forget and even though no one else would know about it, he was proud, proud that he was able to avenge much of Estella's squad, proud that he'd managed to kill that formidable Xenos creature, but most of all he was happy that he'd managed to live long enough to meet Estella.

He just hoped she was okay, he hoped that she'd managed to get away and if so he hoped she wouldn't go and needlessly sacrifice herself. He truly, truly did.

It was quite depressing really, and with a sad smile, he started to slip out to shoot again, when he heard one suddenly cry in their harsh barking language.

He couldn't understand what was said but he could understand the shrill panic in the voice.

The scream was cut short as something exploded, four of the Chaos soldiers were sent sprawling, limp and broken, the rest reeling, dazed and confused.

The full auto las fire immediately followed, cutting down another two while they struggled to recover. Attelus saw the shots flashing from the west flank, but the shooter was completely obscured by the thick bush.

Was it Estella? Had she come to save him?

The last two soldiers attempted to fight back as they threw all discipline to the wind with full auto flurries in the general direction of their new attacker.

His heart singing with new joy, Attelus ejected the almost empty clip from his Las gun, slammed a fresh one home and added his own salvo.

In one split second the tide of the small skirmish had completely turned, now the soldiers of Chaos were desperate and pinned.

As Attelus rained suppressing fire upon them, the darkened figure darted across the clearing and slaughtered the soldiers with two quick slashes of a long sword.

Estella Erith, bloody and beaten but very much alive. She sheathed her sword and turned to Attelus, her heart-shaped, splatted with blood face was grim, determined and for a second far more terrifying than the iron grotesks of the enemy.

"E-Estella?" he called out, unable to keep the fear from his voice.

Suddenly she smiled and his fear was all but alleviated, even covered in blood she was still appealing.

They both heard the half-track arrive, squealing to a halt on the road up the hill and Estella turned to look.

Her attention snapped back to him. "We have to go Attelus, now!" she snarled

They turned east and began to sprint through the bush.

They ran for a long time dodging, ducking and weaving constantly through the trees.

After what seemed forever, finally Estella signalled a stop and they both doubled over and struggled to regain their breath.

After a while, without further word, Estella turned and began back.

"Where are you going?" demanded Attelus making the PDF sergeant stop in her tracks.

"Now we have lost our pursuit, back to the enemy base," she answered haltingly and keeping her back to him, "I have made sure you are okay Attelus and now if you head south you might escape. But now, I must go back and complete my mission."

"The hell you do," he said suddenly pulling himself to his feet.

"Yes I do!" she snarled wheeling on him, "You just cannot understand can you-!"

"No," he interrupted, "it's you who can't understand."

His jaw set and he shook as sudden rage threatened to overwhelm him, "Estella! You complicate everything!" he blurted out. "Before you suddenly came into my life, I never made so many stupid mistakes! I never almost walked off cliffs, I never had someone else to have to worry about beside myself!"

Estella opened her mouth to argue but he frowned, shook his head and cut her short.

"But I wouldn't have it any other way," he said suddenly smiling, "because now I know Estella why I risked everything, why I had rushed out into the middle of the day to try help you. Because...because I knew, deep down, I knew that I wasn't surviving to live anymore, I was living to survive. That if I kept on going on the way I was, that if somehow I survived, I would've survived this hell without a shred of sanity, without a shred of humanity! You saved me from that horrific fate Estella and for that I thank you, I really truly do."

"So can't you see, I need you, when you disappeared before I-I," he trailed away as tears welled in his eyes, tears which he wiped with his filthy sleeve, smearing even more muck over his dirty face.

"So don't go, don't just go and throw your life away, don't leave me all alone again."

"Please."

Estella's attention turned downward and she frowned deeply, "Attelus, I-I've lost everything, I've lost my home, my brother, my-my squad," she looked back up, her large blue eyes shining with tears of her own, "I miss them all, so much Attelus and maybe, maybe I needed something to focus on, something to make as my purpose, so I became obsessed on proving I am good enough to be a scout, to prove myself to General Tathe..."

She trailed off and shook her head.

"Estella," said Attelus, stepping forward, "I think you already have, even after suffering through the deaths of all your comrades, your city, your brother, you still continued on, you still came all the way to Varander, you still found the enemy base, as far as I'm concerned you've gone far past the call of duty, Estella."

Estella smiled and sniffed loudly, "but you found their base Attelus, not me."

He grinned, "yeah, but you don't have to tell them that."

She laughed.

Attelus smiled and held out his hand to her.

"Come on, Estella," he said softly, "I think we've done all we can here, so let's go, lets now go south."

She took his hand in hers. "Yeah," she said, "let's go home."

They headed further east for a while before finally turning south.

The going was way harder, with the disturbance near their main base, the enemy had stepped up their patrols, Attelus and Estella had to hunker down eight times to avoid detection.

It was when they came into Varander's central business district, the sun began to rise and much to Attelus annoyance Estella just had to stop and admire it for a few minutes.

"Even in horrid times like this Attelus," she said seemingly sensing his rising choler, "we still need to take the time to admire what is beautiful."

That's exactly what I'm doing now, he thought as he looked at her and immediately her attention snapped to him.

"What?" she asked as he quickly looked away, blushing.

"Nothing, nothing! We should just get moving that's all."

She smiled and raised an amused eyebrow. "Yeah I guess we should," she said and they moved on, sprinting silently through the deserted, desecrated streets.

They avoided the coast and the large highway running alongside it, instead of tramping through the bushy high hills further east of the lake.

It was slow going so they didn't arrive onto the south coast of the lake until midnight.

Despite himself, Attelus had to pause and look over his shoulder across the lake, to the ruined Varander beyond. He smiled sadly, realising that he would never see the old city ever again.

"Attelus?" called Estella, turning once realising he wasn't walking with her anymore.

"Yeah, coming," he said, turned, carried on and never looked back.