#that's why he hesitated when Harrow asked him if he would die for him

[madou-dilou]

"Gods -Sarai, get up. Just -what am I going to tell them ?"

[iviarellereads]

Full TLT series to date thoughts on rereading Gideon the Ninth, chapters 16-20

A probably semi-regular weekly bonus to my reread blog, since sometimes you realize things on reread that just make you need to yell in a full spoiler space.

Here, we finally come to Cytherea's justification for killing the Fifth. Research into the Lyctors, finding old communications… What did she fear people finding out? Was it just how much the Lyctors have betrayed the Jod in the myriad of their lives, or is it something else?

Another indication that Canaan House has been frozen in time for nine thousand years: the doors opening so smoothly. The whole place is in disrepair but the hinges haven't been rusted shut by the sea air in NINE THOUSAND YEARS? As long as it's been since humans first started engaging in something recognizable as modern agriculture and the locks aren't falling to rust dust on contact? It's sus, that's all I'm sayin, and it fits my theory. Especially when you add the scarlet key room having been preserved better than the public spaces. The wood's not rotting and even the ashes still smell of presumably-tobacco. We know this is possible, why shouldn't it have been done even more?

Gideon finding the tobacco ashes by the bed, and a fingerbone and a whetstone in the same drawer, I can't help but think of sweet Pyrrha.

And of course, the note, the note with Gideon's name on it, the OLD Gideon's name. What "sad + trying reality"? What will remain incomplete, and what word could have continued that "t" after it? "He can't fix my deficiencies" may or may not imply that this was a note from Anastasia or Samael. And what was Gideon to be congratulated on?

Cytherea saying she likes the idea of "what" killed Abigail and Magnus, you cheeky little scamp. And going on about it being comforting that something of you might survive ten thousand years. The trauma of lyctorhood must be a real pain.

Also, the way she asks "Why does everybody think that [the trial is competitive instead of collaborative]?", it's hard not to draw TOO much attention to lines like this that crack the whole game open, but it was all right there all along! And then suggesting how Harrow might go through with it. Is it because she likes Harrow? Thinks she's the most likely to succeed? Thinks she's the most likely to accept and fail? Just because she wants to know how in the heck Gideon got to the Ninth, with Jod's genes? So many possibilities.

I wonder if Gideon was better equipped to survive the Lab Eight trial without permanent damage. Pal recognizes that it's too real a possibility for him to risk Cam, and even Harrow is hesitant to use Gideon for this… but given Gideon's [ahem] parentage, I wonder what would happen to a normal cavalier who underwent this.

"Why did you want to be a Lyctor?" "I didn't want to die." I just want to lay down with my paperback open to this page flat on my face for a minute. By Jod, the wordplay. Harrow is asking why Dulcinea chose to come here, and Cytherea is responding about her choices ten thousand years ago. I just. Chef's kiss. This is one of the lines in the book that hits me in the chest the most profoundly. LAYERS! LAYERSSSSSS!

[vitaegratis]

creelsclocks​:

𝗛𝗘 𝗟𝗜𝗦𝗧𝗘𝗡𝗦 𝗖𝗔𝗥𝗘𝗙𝗨𝗟𝗟𝗬 𝗔𝗦 𝗛𝗘 𝗪𝗥𝗜𝗧𝗘𝗦 𝗧𝗛𝗜𝗡𝗚𝗦 𝗗𝗢𝗪𝗡.  In perfectly neat writing, he jots down the things that Eddie mentioned— the band taking off, graduating— in clear, concise bullet points. When he was doing this for himself, desperate as he’d been, he’d found that it had become easier the more he’d stuck at it. He hopes that Eddie is willing to ride it out for long enough to let the ideas take root. He might find more there than he realises.

❝ You’re going to have me, so don’t say things like that. ❞ It isn’t that he wants Eddie to stop telling him personal feelings, it’s that he wants him to stop talking as if either one of them is going to die. He’s just finding his footing in this world. To lose his life now is almost too cruel to fathom. ❝ …Ed. Do you want me to be blunt? Really blunt, I mean. ❞

He knows the stakes of what he’s about to admit, which is why he hesitates, lower lip snagged between his teeth as he looks at him pensively. There’s a nervousness blooming in his chest, because he’s holding back a secret from the one person he never hides things from.

❝ …I would die, without you. ❞ There’s a painfully vulnerable look on his face as he forces himself to meet Eddie’s eye. Even with him, the person he trusts most in this entire world, it’s a difficult admission to make. ❝ I just know it. That I need you in my life. Otherwise it isn’t worth it. ❞ And no relationship or pastime can save him from that harrowing truth. Eddie and his irreplaceable friendship had almost single-handedly made him recover as a child, and to say he wouldn’t be able to adjust if it was suddenly to vanish is an understatement. ❝ I wouldn’t be able to cope. So please, let’s come up with solutions. So that we can both be okay. ❞

He realigns his focus on his notebook then, finding it safe to do so. ❝ What places would you like to go? What things would you like to try? Is there anything you do now that you can see monetizing in a way that doesn’t make you miserable? What kind of relationships do you want out of life? ❞

Whether or not it was true, he... fuck. He wants to scold him for talking like that, but he’d be a hypocrite, wouldn’t he? A bigger one. It wasn’t something Henry was saying lightly, and it probably wasn’t easy to admit - even to Eddie. He doesn’t want him to feel ashamed of it, guilty - or like he has to hold back. Not with him. Eddie’s sure that Henry’d be capable of going on, but willing? That was another thing entirely.

“…You know I’d never forgive you.” If he had to write a bunch of contingency notes, guilting him to keep going, he would. Though again, he had no intention of dying anytime soon. He wasn’t eager. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to upset you.”

He’s not mad at Henry, he’s not even mad at himself. It’s the lack of control they actually have over their lives. “The list might help in regards to making me feel more… fulfilled - but if I don’t have you? …I wouldn’t be able to keep going either. None of it would matter. So. We’ll give this the focus now, but I don’t know that I’ll truly be able to rest until I know we’ll both be okay.”

Exhaling, he looks from Henry to the list - and he can’t help but smirk at the neat and tidy penmanship. “The obvious answer is music. If I could monetize that, in anyway. Maybe… I dunno, there’s no monetizing D&D, but… writing, maybe? Some kind of storytelling.” He asks him what he wants in terms of relationships, and Eddie’s mind goes straight to a certain blonde cheerleader. Of course it does. “I just… want the people I love to be okay, y’know? I want to keep you all in my life. If you mean like, do I want romantic love… yeah, I think that’d be nice. I mean. Get to know someone, get a good feeling, and just… make it work. If we can. I dunno that it’s the priority right now, though.”

In an ideal world? The band would make it big. He’d get over himself and talk to Chrissy Cunningham. There would be no mind-flayer, no more beasties… Henry would be able to live a simple life, content with his shop, and with Nancy. They’d get Wayne out of Forest Hills, give back for all he had done for them. In a realistic world? Well. If the band didn’t take off? “Could always do something with my hands. Cause I mean, music, storytelling… it’s not likely to put food on the table. Even if it happens, it’s not likely to be overnight. Some sort of trade, maybe. Tattoo artist, mechanic, electrician… I’d rather not be a plumber…”

[im-a-wonderling]

Love & Hate, Part III ~ Paul Lahote

Thank @writing-on-the-wahl​, @shieldmaiden-of-gondor​, and my brother for this being posted

Summary: Sick of his life being dictated by the wolf inside, Paul Lahote is determined to keep one choice for himself and never imprint on anyone. But the wolf has different ideas.

Warnings: None?

Word count: 5.2k

Love & Hate Masterlist

Eve was clinging to Paul, her arms around his neck when he felt it, the same feeling that had awoken him from the deepest sleep the other night. 

Danger.

She was in danger.

He broke away from Eve.

“Where are you going?!” she called, but he ignored her, sprinting into the woods in the direction of Sam and Emily’s house, barely managing to pull off his shorts and secure them before shifting. 

Who’s guarding the house? he asked his brothers. 

Instantly, he had the full attention of the rest of the pack.

Jared spoke up. I am, but nothing’s off. 

Check on Emily and- Paul broke off, unable to say her name. And You-Know-Who, please?

Y/N’s not here at the house.

Paul nearly slipped on a big patch of mud. What? Who’s watching her? Nobody answered. Where is she?!

Sam’s voice filled his mind. She’s at the hospital. 

Paul skidded to a stop, breathing heavily. You said Emily would keep her at the house!

Apparently Emily couldn’t stop her.

Was the woman insane? Did she want to die?

With a growl, Paul changed course, taking off like a shot for Forks General Hospital. The chorus of his brothers’ voices exploded in his head.

Paul, don’t be stupid!

She’s on Cullen territory man!

We can’t interfere!

Thanks to the urgent tugging in his gut, Paul was able to ignore them quite easily.

If he’d been able to think clearly, he would’ve noticed that he was running faster than he’d ever run in his life, but the only thing on his mind was her. 

Paul! Sam thundered. You can’t cross the border, or it’ll break the treaty!

Paul kept running.

Paul, stop!

Paul’s steps faltered under the weight of his alpha’s direct command, but the wolf didn’t hesitate long.

He had to get to her. 

The minutes it took for Paul to get to the outskirts of the hospital parking lot couldn’t be compared to any of the anguish he’d faced thus far in his life. Not to anything with the Cullens, Bella Swan, or the Volturi. 

They were the most harrowing minutes of his life.

The wolf inside was screaming, hurry, hurry, hurry!

Paul hoped there were no video-cameras around to see him shift behind the dumpster or watch him run barefoot through the parking lot with nothing but shorts on.

He could barely hear anything over the racing of his heartbeat in his ears as he looked every which way. It was only 7 o’clock in the evening, why were there so many cars parked in the lot?

He lifted his nose, trying to find the distinct smell he knew too well. It took him a moment, but he found it, following it to a car in the parking lot. Standing beside it, he detected a scent he knew to be Carlisle’s. The car must’ve been Carlisle’s, because as far as Paul knew, her car was still by her apartment complex. 

Then, the cold, burning smell of a foreign vampire hit his nose, a smell that was far different from any of the Cullens. A smell that Paul had tracked through the woods on the eastern side of Forks last night. 

The vampire.

It was here. 

Paul needed to get to her, to protect her, or there would be no her left to protect. 

There was only one thing left to do: he had to call out for her. 

Swallowing hard, Paul desperately looked around for her, hoping for any other sign of her. Saying her name wasn’t a big deal, it was just a name. Saying it didn’t change anything for him, and right now it was life and death.

Still when he opened his mouth, his voice failed him. 

Then, he heard it.

A low groan coming from the far end of the parking lot.

He sprinted towards it, weaving around the cars and poles. 

There!

On the grass underneath a tree, she was sprawled out and not moving. But it was the form beside her that made Paul’s heart seize with fear. 

The vampire (wearing an honest-to-goodness turquoise and yellow Hawaiian button up) sat on his knees, skin so white, it nearly glowed in the faint light from the streetlamp. Paul blinked, incapable of reconciling the cheerful print with the vampire’s bared fangs.

As the vampire leaned down, bringing said fangs closer to her skin, Paul’s mind short-circuited, and he threw caution to the wind. “Get away from her!” he shouted, running towards the bloodsucker. 

The vampire glanced up at Paul, and Paul could make out the glinting of his red eyes. Then, quick as lightning, the form disappeared, moving so fast that Paul’s human eyes couldn’t catch it. Normally, Paul would’ve given chase, but he had a bigger concern.

He slid so quickly to a stop that his cousin that played baseball would’ve been proud, instantly checking her for any sign of a bite, or even blood. 

He saw neither.

That was when he noticed her phone by her side, displaying Dr. Cullen’s contact. 

Had she realized she was in danger? The idea that she’d gone to another bloodsucker for help really, really bothered Paul but now was not the time. 

“Wake up!” Paul urged, shaking her. There was no response. Feeling frantic, Paul pushed aside his pride as he pressed the call button on her phone.

“Y/N?” came the doctor’s voice, and Paul had to squash his revulsion upon hearing the doctor’s voice say her name. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s Paul! She’s been hurt!”

Carlisle was immediately on alert. “Where are you guys?”

“The parking lot of the hospital.”

“Is she alive?”

“I don’t know.”

“Ok, Paul, you have to check her pulse. Press your fingers on the side of her neck, just underneath her jaw.”

Paul obeyed. He tried very hard not to think about how soft her skin was or how this was the first time he was touching her, and he didn’t even know if she was alive. It was a few tense seconds until he felt the unmistakable throb of her heartbeat. He let out a relieved sigh. “Her heart’s beating.”

“That’s good, very good. Is she breathing?”

“I-I don’t know, I mean, I don’t think so?”

“Is her chest moving?” 

Paul’s voice failed him. The adrenaline running through his body was sending his brain into failure. 

“Paul, listen to me, you need to put your cheek right in front of her nose.”

Paul did as instructed, and when he didn’t feel anything, his brain seemed to spiral even further from common sense. He squeezed his eyes shut. “Come on, breathe,” he whispered. “Breathe.”

He could’ve cried when the smallest bit of air tickled his cheek. “She’s breathing,” he said, unsure if he was saying it for the doctor’s benefit or his own. Either way, he was weak with relief.

“Okay, Paul, don’t go anywhere, I’m on my way.”

“I’m not leaving her here,” Paul snapped. “The vampire could come back. I’m taking her to Sam and Emily’s.”

Carlisle was silent for a moment. “I need to check on her, and I can’t step foot on the reservation, the treaty—”

“Screw the treaty! I’ll talk to Sam, just meet me there, okay?” Paul hoisted the still unconscious Y/N onto his back, not even checking to see if anyone was around before he shifted, his form exploding into a furry form four times bigger. 

Sam, I’ve got her, but Carlisle needs to look at her. He’s meeting us at you and Emily’s. 

Then he started to run. 

-

My knee hurt.

At least, I was 60% sure it was my knee. It might’ve been my head that was aching so badly that the pain manifested in my knee as well.

Or maybe it was both. 

“Y/N?” 

Did I recognize that voice? I peeled my eyes open to see someone kneeling beside me, but the light was too bright, so I quickly closed them again.

“She’s awake!” the same voice said triumphantly. “How are you feeling?”

I blinked hard several times, trying to pull together all the scattered pieces of my consciousness. The face finally came into focus. “Carlisle?”

The doctor’s smile was relieved as he leaned back, allowing me to see past him. 

I was in Sam and Emily’s living room again. The couple themselves stood in the center of the room, Sam with his hands on his hips, and Emily anxiously twisting her wedding ring. One of the other boys from the pack sat on the chair, his legs over one of the arms, looking completely at ease.

In the corner of the room stood the one who’d rudely walked away from me without so much as an acknowledgement. 

Paul.

His arms were crossed, his expression stony. What was he even doing here? 

“Can you sit up?” Carlisle asked, drawing my attention away from Paul. 

“I was attacked,” I mumbled instead of answering. “I was attacked by a—” I cut myself off as memories started coming back to me. “A wild animal?” I finished in what I hoped was convincingly uncertain. 

Carlisle looked nervous as he stood up. “She should be alright.” I followed Carlisle’s gaze to see Sam, who was nodding. “She might have a small concussion, but nothing too serious.” 

“Good,” Sam said, quietly. 

“Did you want me to stick around for what comes next?” Carlisle asked Sam.

“For what comes next?” I echoed, wincing as I sat up. The pain was definitely emanating from multiple places. “What’s coming next?” Neither man acknowledged that I’d spoken.

“No,” said Sam, shaking his head. “It’s best if you’re not here for this.”

“Here for what?” I asked. 

Carlisle nodded at Sam, as if that was the answer he was expecting. “Just thought I’d offer.” He turned towards the corner of the room, and I followed his gaze to see Paul standing in the corner. “As for the treaty, I think we can call it even?”

Treaty? What on earth were they talking about? 

“Thank you,” Sam said, throwing a dirty look at Paul.

Carlisle turned to go for the door. 

“Wait!” I tried to get up, then regretted my impulsivity as my vision spun. “Ngggh,” I groaned.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Paul step forward so abruptly, it was like he was pushed. I glanced over at him, but Paul retreated back to the corner. 

The couch beside me dipped as Emily sat down. “Y/N, it’s okay, you’re safe with us.”

“Whatever’s happening, I want Carlisle to stay,” I said stubbornly. 

Carlisle looked a bit sad. “I’ve overstayed my welcome already. You’ll understand soon.” And with that, he left, the door swinging shut after him.

I looked back to Emily, but she wasn’t paying attention to me. She, along with everyone else in the room, was staring at Paul, as if they were waiting for something. 

“Paul,” Sam prompted. 

Paul wrinkled his nose. “You’re the one who said she needed to know.”

Know? Could they be talking about vampires? My heart fluttered.

“But you agreed,” Sam argued. 

“Only so she’ll stop being an idiot and almost getting herself killed!” Paul snapped.

“I’m right here,” I said, shooting Paul an annoyed look.

Again, nobody acknowledged me, and Sam glared at Paul who glared right back. 

Emily sighed. “If someone doesn’t start explaining soon, Y/N’s going to have a heart attack.”

Sam let out a long breath. “Paul should really be the one explaining everything to you,” he scowled in Paul’s direction, “but it looks like it falls to me.”

“Explain what?” I demanded, wishing they would stop ignoring me and get on with it. “Will someone please just tell me what is going on?!” 

Sam lifted his chin. “The thing that attacked your landlord is the same thing that attacked you last night.”

I had to work hard to contain my smile. “You mean the wild animal,” I said, trying to seem as innocent as possible.

Sam shifted his weight, looking at Paul for a count of three before sighing. “It was a vampire.” I stared at Sam with wide eyes, even as fireworks went off in my chest. 

I was right. I hadn’t moved here chasing some crazy theory that would pan out to nothing but wasted time, effort, and money. I felt like jumping out of my chair and throwing my arms around Sam, but I needed to play the part.

“A vampire,” I repeated, hiding my elation with a scrunched nose. “What, you mean some crazy person in a Halloween costume?”

“No, a legit vampire.” Sam ran his fingers through his short hair. “It sounds crazy, but it’s true. Vampires exist.”

I stared at him like someone questioning his sanity before frowning. “That’s a cheap joke to try and play on someone who might have a concussion.” 

“He’s serious.” Emily rested a hand on my shoulder. “And Carlisle’s one of them.”

I widened my eyes. “What are you talking about? He’s a doctor! He doesn’t drink blood, that’s ridiculous!” 

“Y/N—” Emily started to say. 

I scoffed, getting to my feet. “I don’t have time for this.” I reached for my cane before realizing I didn’t see it anywhere. I felt a stab of annoyance at whomever transported me from the hospital parking lot to here without my cane. 

But when I tried to limp to the kitchen, Paul stepped in my way, frowning in a way I knew meant he wouldn’t stand aside. 

“What, you guys are keeping me prisoner now?” I asked, turning back to face Sam. 

“Of course not,” Sam said. “But we have more to tell you.”

“More?” I laughed. “What, are there unicorns too?”

“Not quite,” the boy the boy whose name I didn’t know with a grin, but that quickly faded when Emily smacked his shoulder. 

Burying my face in my hands, I counted to five, breathing a bit raggedly before looking back up. “Alright, let’s just say I believe you about the whole vampire thing. That doesn’t explain why you guys are the ones telling me instead of Carlisle or even why you’re telling me at all.”

“We can protect you from the vampire who is hunting you better than the Cullens can because vampires are our natural enemies.”

“Okay, but all humans would be natural enemies of vampires, because they drink blood.”

“Well, yes, but that’s not what I’m saying.” Sam exhaled, his nostrils flaring. “We’re werewolves.”

That took me by surprise. 

I looked at Sam with the first genuine confusion of this whole conversation. “That’s crazy,” I breathed. But even as I said it, a voice spoke up in the back of my mind. If I could believe in the existence of vampires, why not werewolves? It made more sense, actually, than if only vampires existed. 

“We could shift right now and show you, but we don’t want to ruin the living room,” said the boy on the couch. Sam shot him a hard look, and the boy ducked his head.

If they were all wolves, Sam must’ve been the leader, the alpha? I tucked that nugget away in my mind.

“Can you guys hear yourself?” I asked, making my voice tense. “You guys sound crazy!” 

Emily stood to come over to me, but I stepped away from her.

I shook my head slowly, limping to the couch to sit down. My knee hurt too much to stand without my cane. “You still haven’t said why you’re telling me all this. If this is all true, this is top secret information, so why me?” I narrowed my eyes at Sam and Emily, suddenly wondering why they’d so readily offered me their wretched couch when I needed a place to stay. “What do you guys want from me?”

Everyone in the room glanced at Paul, who folded his arms. Sam pinched the bridge of his nose, clearly reaching the end of some tether. “Do you know what imprinting is?”

“Imprinting? Like when baby ducks imprint on their mothers?” 

The men in the room all made weird faces. “In some ways, yes, like that,” said Sam, “but it’s different.”

“Are you trying to be cryptic?” I let out a short, humorless laugh. “Because if so, it’s working.” 

Sam sent a beseeching look to his wife, and Emily reached out to touch my knee and then stopped. “It’s how a werewolf and their soulmate find each other.”

“Soulmate?” I echoed before I could stop myself. 

Did that mean one of the werewolves was my soulmate? Was this the universe’s cruel way of reminding me how undesirable I was? Reminding me that I was so broken, the only way someone could love me was if they were forced to?

The whole concept left a bad taste in my mouth. 

“Well, I don’t feel any unnatural affection for anyone here, so you guys are wrong.”

“You’re not the one who imprinted,” Sam said simply. 

I blinked, and suddenly the final piece clicked. Paul leaving so abruptly, his lurch when I stood up too fast, why everyone in the room kept looking at him. 

“You.” I got to my feet, looking at Paul. “You imprinted on me.”

Paul wrinkled his nose. “Believe me, cinnamon sugar, I had zero intent on doing so.” 

“Don’t call me sugar.” I bristled, even as his sharp tone continued to sting.

“Whatever,” Paul waved his hand dismissively, “I didn’t have any more control over it than you did.”

I looked away from Paul to Emily. “Werewolves can’t control when they imprint?”

Emily exchanged a look with Sam that I didn’t understand. “No. Sam couldn’t control when he imprinted on me.”

“So you’re Sam’s imprint?”

“I am.”

“And you’re married.”

“Yes.”

“Does that mean Paul and I have to get married?”

A growl came from the corner. “Absolutely not.”

I scowled at Paul, even as I leaned against the couch to stay balanced on my feet. “I wasn’t asking you. You’re the reason I’m in this mess. ”

Paul growled again, and I tried to ignore the goosebumps that raised on my arms at the sound. “I’m the reason you’re still alive. That vampire would’ve killed you in that parking lot if it wasn’t for me.”

I smiled sourly at him. “I’ve saved the lives of many patients, but I don’t hold it over their heads.”

“Listen, cinnamon sugar,” Paul stepped forward, staring unblinkingly into my eyes, “I’ll promise you one thing. I’m going to do whatever it takes to break this bond, because I don’t want to be shackled to you either.”

“Fine!” I hurled back at him. “Go right ahead, see if I care!”

“I will!” He stormed over to the front door, threw it open, and stomped out, his heavy footfalls audible even after the door closed.

“He really likes his dramatic exits,” I muttered darkly, causing the boy on the armchair to snigger.

“She truly is his soulmate,” the boy said, clearly unbothered by the tension in the air.

Sam sighed. “Jacob, why don’t you—”

“Way ahead of you.” The boy, Jacob apparently, stood up, reaching out to shake my hand. “It’s been a pleasure, Y/N.” And with two pumps of my hand, he followed Paul. 

-

Paul ran at top speed in his wolf form, but something was wrong. He was nowhere near as light on his feet as he normally was, and he was so deep in his thoughts, he nearly ran headfirst into a tree.

It must’ve been the wolf, who was still whimpering, utterly wounded by the promise he’d just made.

You kissed Eve?! shouted Jacob’s voice in his head, and Paul cursed. 

Of course, being in wolf form now with Jacob, all Paul’s secrets were laid bare, including what he’d been doing earlier in the night before going to You-Know-Who’s rescue.

What were you thinking, man? Jacob demanded. You complain about Eve all the time, and yet you were kissing her while Y/N almost died?

Shove off! Paul snarled, even as the wolf begged him to turn around and go back to her. Jacob quieted, but Paul could feel his turmoil and hear his thoughts. Just say it, Paul snapped at Jacob. I know you want to.

There’s no way to break the imprint bond.

There has to be. There’s a hundred legends surrounding our pack, and you don’t think even one of them references how to break the bond?

Jacob stayed silent, but Paul knew what he was thinking. Why would you ever want to?

-

Sam and Emily didn’t tell me much after Jacob and Paul left, which annoyed me. I knew their loyalty to Paul was stronger than their desire to make me feel at home.

Which is why I asked Sam to drive me to the hospital, telling him I wanted to talk to Carlisle about the whole vampire-werewolf thing. My own car was still parked in the parking lot of my apartment complex. 

I knocked on the door of Carlisle’s office, out of breath, thanks to not having found my cane or phone in the parking lot.

If the beans were spilled on what the Cullen family was, my mission timeline was accelerated.

No longer did I have to coax one of the Cullens to open up about what they were. 

Now, I had to do the hardest part. 

I had to ask for what I wanted.

The door opened, and a nervous-looking Carlisle stood there. “Y/N, come on in.” He stepped aside, closing the door after me and then sitting in his chair. “I managed to find your cane and phone in the parking lot from last night.”

He held them up, and I gratefully accepted them. I sat in the chair beside the door, feeling suddenly nervous as the magnitude of why I was here finally sunk in.

Carlisle misinterpreted my anxious silence. “I’m sure you must have a million questions about me and my kind, but let me just assure you—”

“Will you turn me into a vampire?”

Whatever Carlisle had been going to say died in his throat. He stared at me, his mouth open. “You...I...what?”

“I want you to turn me into a vampire.” 

Carlisle stared at me, clearly questioning his hearing. “I’m sorry, what?”

“I want to be a vampire.”

“Y/N...you must understand, being a vampire isn’t as miraculous as the stories make it sound, I’m not sure you’re thinking this through—”

“I have thought it through.”

“You’ve only known about the existence of vampires for a few hours. How could you possibly know that you want to be one?”

I surveyed him, wondering if now was a good time to admit that I’d known what he was long before we’d even met. That I’d intentionally sought him out and moved across the country for this very conversation. 

But something in me told me to wait. 

“I just know,” I mumbled.

Carlisle ran a hand through his perfect hair, looking distressed. “Even if you could convince me to do it, and that’s highly unlikely, that would violate the treaty.”

“The treaty?”

“Did they...did they not explain that to you?” I just looked at him blankly, and he sighed. “Years ago, my family struck a deal with the werewolves of that time, outlining the rules and territories. One of the rules involves not changing anyone into a vampire.”

My heart sank. 

“Changing you of all people, an imprint? Well...it would have catastrophic repercussions for my family.”

I didn’t want conflict, certainly not now that I knew the wolves thought Paul had some savage claim on me. 

“Y/N?” I searched Carlisle’s face, hoping he was going to tell me he’d changed his mind. “It’d be best if you didn’t tell anyone about this conversation.”

He opened the door, a gentle but firm request to leave. 

Crestfallen, I limped out of the office, trying not to look like my dog had just died.

Carlisle closed the door behind me, and with that simple sound, I felt my despair rise.  

This imprinting business hadn’t been part of my plan at all, the plan I’d cooked up in the hours of painful recovery.

The only way for me to fix my knee. 

When people transitioned to vampires, their bodies became flawless, regardless of any injuries they’d sustained or how close to death they were.

All my pain, all the hours wasted struggling, all the looks of pity would be gone. 

I would be whole again.

And now more things stood in my way than when I was learning to walk with a cane. 

I felt like using the same cane to start bashing holes in the walls of the hospital. Now what? Leave Forks and go hunt for different vampires? It was hard enough to find vampires at all, let alone vampires who might be willing to change me instead of drinking my blood.

Stupid imprinting.

I thought back to the promise Paul had spat at me.

I’m going to do whatever it takes to break this bond, because I don’t want to be shackled to you either.

He clearly was unhappy with this arrangement too. Whoever or whatever was in charge of pairing werewolves to their soulmates had clearly made a mistake because there was no way Paul, full of supernatural strength and power, could look past my limp. 

Wait...maybe that was the answer...

If I was no longer Paul’s imprint, maybe Carlisle would be more inclined to hear me out. Maybe we could leave Forks, so he could turn me without violating the treaty. 

But did Paul really mean what he’d said? Or was he just angry? And was he even capable enough to follow through? 

Rolling my shoulders, I walked with renewed vigor back to the car where Sam was waiting. There was only one person who could answer those questions.

-

Paul shifted outside the cabin, pulling his shorts on and preparing himself for the lecture he was about to receive from Jacob about the sacred nature of the imprinting bond, about Paul’s own pigheadedness, and the impossible nature of Paul’s new quest. 

But when Paul opened the door, it wasn’t Jacob’s reproachful face that greeted him.

It was that blinding smell.

What was she doing here of all places? 

Just her smell swallowed up every part of him, like nothing else on the planet mattered except her presence.

Lady Voldemort sat at the table, her eyes penetrating him as if she could tell he was seriously considering walking back out that door. She didn’t do anything to get his attention or even say anything. She just held his gaze, waiting to see how he would respond. 

Paul hovered for a moment, deciding. 

It was one thing to be adamantly against the idea of an imprint. It was quite another to be alone with this woman, looking her in the eye and trying to explain to her why he didn’t want her.

But then, the corner of her mouth quirked up. Was she enjoying this? 

Paul took it as a challenge, closing the door behind him and leaning against the wall, folding his arms as if the wolf wasn’t shredding his insides, trying to get closer. “How did you know this cabin was here?”

“Emily told me how to find it.”

“Of course she did.” Paul shook his head, making a mental note to chew Emily out later. Then, something occurred to him. “How did you get here? You don’t have your car or Carlisle’s.”

“I walked.”

Paul raised his eyebrows. It was at least two miles from Sam and Emily’s place. The distance was nothing if you could shift, but for a woman with a limp? She must’ve been built of pure determination. He grudgingly felt his respect for her rise slightly. “So, cinnamon sugar, what can I do for you?”

She pursed her lips at the nickname. “You said you’re going to do whatever it takes to break the imprint bond.”

Paul shifted his weight. “Yes,” he finally said, trying to seem confident. She squared her shoulders, and Paul winced, preparing himself for the tirade. She had a right to be upset, to yell or even throw something if she wanted to.

“I want to help you.”

That wasn’t what he was expecting.

That wasn’t what he was expecting at all. 

“You want to help me break the bond? Why?”

She smiled drily. “I’ve never been much good with being told what to do.”

If anyone could appreciate that, Paul could, but he wasn’t sure if it was wise to work with her. 

“Look,” she said, picking up on his hesitation, “from what I observed of your pack, they disagree with your views on imprinting. If I help you, not only will the work be cut in half, but you can at least get them off your back by telling them we both want to break it.” 

“No offense, but what do you have to bring to the table that beats working alone?”

She frowned, feathers clearly ruffled, as she got to her feet. “I have two degrees, years of experience in sticky situations, and I’m much more charming than you apparently are.” Paul wondered if she had any idea how tightly she clenched her cane as she said it. 

A troubling thought crossed his mind. 

Did she think that he didn’t want her because of her leg? That she was somehow inept or lacking? The wolf inside him howled at the idea, like it was unthinkable. 

“Fine. We’ll work together,” Paul said, just stop the howling.

Her delighted smile tugged at his chest. “Whatever it takes,” Lady Voldemort said, her eyes boring into his. She stuck out her hand, and Paul stared at it. “It’s just a handshake. I don’t bite.” She cocked her head to the side. “Do you?”

He scoffed, reaching out to shake her hand like it was no big deal. “Whatever it takes,” he repeated. He’d intended to let go of it as quickly as possible, but the wolf kept his hand in hers. 

She stared down at their hands, and something elusive flashed in her eyes for a moment. “There.” She dropped her hand. “We shook hands. You can’t go back on it. Not even if you fall in love with me.”

Paul stared at her. “I’m sorry?”

“This imprint...bond...thingy is really powerful, isn’t it?”

He considered her words, unsure if he wanted to be talking about the bond’s strength with her. 

Lady Voldemort tilted her head. “The bond usually leads to the wolf falling in love with whomever they imprinted on, right? If we spend enough time together, you might not want to break the bond anymore.”

Paul snorted. The very idea of him falling for this woman in front of him was the most comical thing he’d ever heard. “That’s not going to be a problem.” 

From the way she glanced at his hand, she didn’t believe him. He chastised the wolf for the loss of control, eternally glad that he wouldn’t have to put up with this for much longer.

After all, how hard could it be to break an imprint bond?

Part IV

-

Overall Tag list:

@thelastpyle

Love & Hate Tag list:

@lahoete @trantolette @nicodoesntexist @unicornicopia1 @adaydreamaway08 @inpraizeof @zealouspursecowboydeputy @vendylewin @britty443 @forkscult

Accounts tumblr wouldn’t let me tag 🙁 :

@thatmultifandomlovingmf @imsuchafuckingmessbuthello @sokkasimp101

[ourmondobongo]

Hello, I would like to ask you about two matters if you don't mind. 1) Do you think Levi could have offered himself to sacrifice his life instead of Hanji, given the fact he was able to fight the titans Eren threw at them in the following chaps? Some people say the promise was holding hum back, but idk. 2) If he wasn't injured would he have done it (offering himself instead of letting Hanji do it)?

Hi!!

I do think Levi thought about offering himself - and it was something that probably was passing in his mind too when he walked from the hangar to the pier to try stopping Hanji...

...But Hanji had been the one spending most of the time taking care of him and his serious injuries those past 03 days, and Levi knew how much she had been struggling to find a way to solve the overwhelming situation in her hands as well as her sense of powerlessness as things were becoming more and more bloody. So they knew what they both could and needed to do at that precise moment, against the Colossal Titans, as well as what Levi still could do later on to help stop the Rumbling massacre through killing Zeke.

And it's their mutual awareness and deep understanding of one another that made Hanji effectively stop Levi from even have the chance to vocalize what he wanted to argue, and that also made Levi say what he believed Hanji needed to hear before walking to her death:

"...Hey. Four-Eyes." "You understand. (...) So just let me go, will you?" "Devote... your heart."

So instead of Levi seemingly hesitate to offer himself to go in Hanji's place and save humanity's last hope of survival (aka the plane) because "he just wanted to kill Zeke to fulfill a promise", it's more about Hanji not even letting space for Levi to contest and discuss what he could do in her place there. "Just let me go like this" because "this is my mission" is what Hanji lets very explicit in their talk, and there is nothing Levi could do against such resolve.

I do believe though that if Levi was in perfect health conditions, he would definitely have clearly offered himself to slow down the Titans. This is Levi "This is why I tell you that your life is important/ Don't die, survive/ I forbid you to die/ Don't Go'" Ackerman we are talking about after all. He would probably have incapacitated Floch in the port battle himself, so we wouldn't even had the plane drama lol

And also, ofc, I know under some perspectives it could look a bit more... harrowing if Levi had expressed louder resistance to Hanji's decision. But under the perspective of Levi's character (who is emotional but also very rational, and truly listen before acting), and his relationship with Hanji (that "if you go too deep you can't get out"), doing something that would just keep adding salt to their shared wound is really to just make it hurt more. Which, imo, was something Hanji also asked Levi to not do between the lines of her last words.

STILL, we can all see the depth of the pain Levi's character felt witnessing Hanji's last minutes alive. I do hope with all my heart that the animation + VAs + OST makes it even more heartbreaking tho, and that you guys get a whole episode dedicated to chapter 132. I'm very salty about Hanji's death plot, and I'm selfish - so I want the pain of her death to be really worth it even if I might not watch it lol

(And if you want to read more angst takes about these matters of 132, you may like to see here, here, and here, with final angst here and here).

[marmolady]

The Fountain

Main Pairings: Estela x (f)MC

Summary: Post-EndlessEnding. A Broken Chains AU. The world has been restored, but at the price of Taylor's life. And Estela isn't ready to let her go.

Word Count: 2121

Warnings: Major character death.

Tagging: @saivilo, @edgydepressedchoicesthot, @sceptilemasterr, @greengroove

Hug prompts-- 29. group hug. Thanks @mauvecatfic! I'll make Raj's next hugs more cheerful.

Through the rumblings of an oncoming rainstorm, the silent figure of Estela Montoya limped and crawled through the thick La Huerta jungle, driven by a thought that had become a need… to see the face of her beloved again, to hear her voice.  It spurred her on, a tiny glimmer of something worth living for that she clung to with desperation that increased with every unsteady step.

Estela’s last memory of her wife, of her beautiful Taylor, wouldn’t be that hollow shell-- bloodless, devoid of all the fire and spirit… all the easy warmth that should have been there-- that she’d laid sobbing next to the dark medical room. No. She was going to take her minute more. Everyone else… they had a world raised from the dead; a world that meant absolutely fucking nothing to Estela now. After everything she’d sacrificed… god, Taylor… the world owed her that moment.

The Fountain of Youth was a long and arduous trek from Elyys’tel at the best of times, but half-dragging a savaged leg, it was near insurmountable. If it weren’t for the promise of hearing that voice, of seeing those sapphire eyes alight with life… well, Estela would endure the harrowing journey over again if that was the end. Her knees, the heels of her hands… they were badly grazed and muddied from catching herself as she’d stumbled again and again. Her senses, usually alert to her surroundings, had been dulled by the haze of grief that preoccupied her every thought. She was lucky to have gotten all this way through La Huerta’s treacherous jungles without coming to serious harm, but it was of little concern to Estela. The worst that could happen was that she’d die. And that…. In all honesty, it would be welcome. What was there worth surviving for now? Were it not for all that had been sacrificed so that she might live, she’d end her fucking life herself and be done with it. There was no future… no future save for this time they had together. When their moment was over, Estela would be once again plunged into the abyss that was the depth of her grief, an abyss that would surely swallow her up. She couldn’t look that far ahead-- she just couldn’t. She had to keep it together for Taylor… one last time.

Estela fell to her knees as she came through the doorway of the abandoned temple. Dread flooded her body. All that was left now was for her to summon the courage to reach out to the woman she loved from across time… to do so knowing that she’d been setting in motion the last minute they’d have together. Once it was done it was done; that much she as certain of. She could keep going back to that tree until she drove herself to insanity-- but doing so would be to inflict that pain on Taylor, forever colouring her too-short life with a darkness she didn’t deserve. Just once. Just once in the rest of her life-- that wasn’t asking too much, was it? Estela’s stomach turned as she thought it out. There had been no thinking it out while she’d slogged through the jungle; she’d moved onwards robotically, her mind and body detached from one another while grief drove her to the last hope, the last scrap of her person. Only now did she doubt everything. She hauled herself back to her feet, her weakened leg trembling violently beneath her weight. And she kept walking forwards, all the while her mind whirred.

It wasn’t as though Taylor would see this future, see the heartbreak in her wife’s eyes, and be able to change the path she’d set herself on. This path had tortured Taylor. She’d sacrificed herself because she simply couldn’t live with the alternative. And she’d died with hope. A hope that had been for naught, a spark extinguished along with the life in her eyes, but a hope that had given Taylor the courage to give away her very life force. What right did Estela have to take that away?

But I need her. I need her!

She’s gone.

The minute would be over and… Taylor would still be… gone. Would Estela hurt any less? No, but she’d endure a world of pain for even a second of feeling Taylor’s presence there with her. She’d endure it again and again, over and over until it killed her.

If it’s gonna hurt her…?

Estela’s shallow breathing became even more rapid as she stood before the tree. Tears spilled down her dirty cheeks. Blind grief had gotten her this far, but she’d been so blind. She couldn’t do this. Not now, not ever.

Taylor was dead. Dead and gone. They’d said their goodbyes down beneath Atropo, before Taylor had touched that damned crystal.  She’d close her eyes and see the terrible, sickening way her sweet Taylor had writhed in agony… the way her face lost almost all semblance of her self as it contorted with the pain. As Estela had seen again and again, near constantly since she’d woken to a healed world, but a world without Taylor. It was more than she could bear.

With tears and snot rolling into her mouth, dripping from her chin, she stumbled toward the tree… toward the Fountain of Youth. If she was careful, if she thought it through properly, she could find solace elsewhere. Panting for air, Estela wiped her face hurriedly. She couldn’t be crying for this, no matter how much she was tearing up inside.

She’d told herself she wouldn’t do it. It was risky; she’d need to be certain not to say or do a thing that could alter the events that would shape, well, everything. But it was different now. She needed it; she needed her mom to tell her everything would be okay. Because the person she’d otherwise have turned to was lost forever, and… because it wasn’t okay…. She wasn’t… she wasn’t.

Raising her hand to the tree’s surface, Estela closed her eyes and imagined her mother’s face… the words of comfort that would come. Just enough… just enough to keep her from crumbling. But as her fingers were about to graze the bark, she hesitated. That face in her mind warped with shock and fear. Of course. That fucking scar. She wouldn’t even be able to get a single word out before it would be clear to Olivia that something had gone wrong… that she’d been badly hurt. Estela felt the cold weight of her heart sink down to her toes. She… couldn’t do that to her mama.

A tortured cry wrenched itself from Estela’s lungs as she threw her body forward against the hard, cold bricks. There were no more loopholes… no cheats that could give her even a moment more of an existence that wasn’t this fucking, fucking nightmare. She screamed into the damp ground, and screamed until her throat and lungs were raw.

Why did she have to go on living?

It was like she was drawn to people who were like her-- people who cared too much, people who would die for a cause. They’d die and they’d leave her. She’d tried to warn Taylor off; ‘you get close to me, you’ll get hurt’. Bullshit. Because no matter how Estela might put her life on the line for what she believed in, somehow she ended up the one still breathing. But she didn’t fucking want to. She didn’t want to live anymore. She didn’t… want to….

She howled.

_________________________

A small party emerged at last from the thickest part of the forest, the ruins of No’ox Naj illuminated by a flash of lightning as if to welcome them to shelter.

Shivering from the wet that sent a chill to his bones, Diego huddled close to Varyyn, who guided him with a gentle steer of a long and muscular arm.

“You must watch your step. It would be easy to slip on the wet moss.”

Gazing around the temple, taking in the gloom that hung there, Raj shuddered violently. “Maybe it was all that talk of ghosts and the whole ‘dead Zahra’ thing, but this place just gives me the heebies….”

“Well, yeah. That’d… that’d do it.”

“Estela?” Quinn called out, her voice echoing off the stone walls. “Esteeelllaaaa…!”

No answer. Diego’s heart sank. He’d been so sure he’d been onto something. Not only was this place a strong connection to the Endless-- and by association, with Taylor-- but it held within a magic gift that could never be more tempting than it was right now.

“We should go further in,” he decided. If this ‘Fountain of Youth’ thing did work, maybe they could ask…? The thought made a hard lump rise in his throat. The thought of seeing Taylor again. But they couldn’t… they couldn’t.

“You’re right,” Michelle agreed. “As if Estela ever comes running when anyone calls her name at the best of times…. If she’s anywhere, she took herself there to be alone; she was never going to make this easy.”

Diego winced so hard he was certain it hadn’t gone unnoticed by a single one of the group. She’d have come running for Taylor. Every time. He cleared his throat. “We should at least check around the tree. Um, maybe check in with the others?”

Somehow, he’d found himself leading the search party. A role, he was so painfully aware, that would usually have naturally fallen to Taylor. That should still be falling to Taylor. His imaginary friend had left him, so… so it was time to grow up. To step up. He supposed it helped that everyone was handling him with kid gloves just as they were Estela; if Diego needed something to happen, everyone just about fell over themselves to make it happen. Right now, all he wanted-- all any of them wanted-- was to know that Estela was safe. If anything happened to her now….

Quinn checked her phone; still a bizarre feeling after so many months without such communications. Her face fell, even expecting no different to the response she got. “Still nothing on their end. But the Elysian could take days to check properly, even with whatever scans Iris has access to, and all the cameras-- just because they haven’t found her there yet, doesn’t mean….”

“We’re not losing anyone else!” Michelle said shrilly as she paced the floor. “I’ve just lost one sister and I’m not about to… about to….” She gasped and dissolved into sobs. “…Taylor would be losing her mind.”

There was a shuffling sound… stumbling feet. Everyone hushed, a joint breath held.

Limping into view, one hand-- stained with blood as were her forehead and knees-- propping her up with the wall as she came forward; Estela.

“It’s okay. I… I’m safe.”

Safe. Not ‘okay’, but safe. It was all she could give them.

She could have hidden away. Her friends--- though she loved them so much-- were living reminders of what had been torn away. She could not look at a one of them and not see Taylor.

“Oh, thank god!” Michelle exclaimed, and she rushed forward. She had a moment’s hesitation, holding back from taking her friend in her arms and squeezing her to within an inch of her life, not knowing if any physical show of affection would be welcomed. But Estela reached out, her eyes welling, and Michelle guided her into an embrace.

The feeling of being taken in a friends arms, of being held… it was wonderful, and yet it hurt, and all at once the dam broke and Estela could not have held back her tears if she’d wanted to. She collapsed to the cold, damp floor, eased down by her friend's steadying arms.

Raj was next in-- never one to hold back when a group hug was in the offing. As he got down on the ground, Estela flopped forward and cried into his chest. There was nothing to say, so he just wrapped her in a hug and squeezed her there, while Diego and Varyyn, and Quinn piled in too. There they wept together. Sharing in loss and relief and exhaustion and a deep and overpowering sadness.

In the centre of the mass of arms and bodies, Estela closed her eyes against Raj’s warm chest… surrounded in a scent so reminiscent of happy memories and better days when the world was not so dark… feasts and laughter and… her. Her Taylor. She sighed deeply… and let herself feel it.

The comfort she needed was right there. It wasn’t enough-- how could it be when her world had ended?-- but it was warmth and it was love, and her heart was not breaking alone.

[ask-the-crimson-king]

More Stuff from Betrayer

[While on the topic, I want to show the various humans out there a very interesting scene out of Betrayer.

Two, technically, but one that's a bit longer than the other. Image IDs will be provided at the end of the post, cause there's going to be a LOT.

Some interesting insights into how Lorgar views Chaos and a bit about the Emperor as well. I always find this scene to be fascinating, especially since he's borrowed the astropathic choir of the Conquerer to listen to worlds dying across Ultramar while he muses on this.

And then there's when Angron walks up.

Some interesting, albeit a bit morbid, banter between brothers. I do like how Angron even greets Lorgar on the way in, and Lorgar is just standing there stunned. The insights into how Angron views the Devourers is also neat, and it is to be expected at this point. Lorgar trying to argue for them and trying to get Angron to stop ignoring them outright is another neat touch.

The two begin talking of Ultramar, and Lorgar reveals that Nuceria is going to be the capstone for his ritual. Angron asks why, and the following is said:

I like this passage for a few reasons. Firstly, how Angron "dreams" has always been something of interest to me. Because I doubt he ever really gets much rest and respite. Here we get some insight into this, although this also was already expressed a bit earlier. This passage also leads into Angron's recollection of the Night of the Wolf, but I wanted to focus on this.

Lorgar and Angron's "bond" is something that's always intrigued me. It definitely feels more one-sided, with Lorgar seeking for brotherhood that isn't really there, but there are a few moments to make it feel a bit more genuine. However, there is still something missing from these interactions. I can't really describe it other than a barrier between two primarchs who will never see eye-to-eye. Lorgar does, to his credit, try to be understanding and patient throughout, but I can also definitely feel his annoyance coming through at certain places.

In a way, I can almost feel a similar sort of vibe to how Magnus interacts with some of his brothers. Namely with Perturabo in one of the opening chapters of his primarch novel. However, the bond between those two is still very different from the one Angron has with Lorgar; those two actually do have a deep connection, while these two don't. There's a misunderstanding and underestimation coming from both sides in certain aspects; Lorgar in almost sounding condescending to Angron, and Angron still thinking Lorgar a weakling.

TL;DR, Betrayer good.

Image IDs below the cut:

Image ID 1 & 2: A scene from Betrayer where Lorgar is standing and listening to worlds burn. It reads:

Serving as conductor for an astrological orchestra was more taxing than he’d dreamed, though his blunter, more militant brothers would struggle to grasp the finer points of his efforts. Exhaustion left him wondering, even if only briefly, whether absolute peace would create a stellar song as divinely inspired as absolute war. Fate had played its hand and Chaos was destined to swallow all creation whether or not Horus and Lorgar raged against the Imperial war machine, but if what if they’d stayed loyal to the Emperor? What then? Would the Great Crusade have shaped a serene funeral dirge, to play behind the veil as humanity died in a defenceless harrowing?

Therein lay the fatal flaw. The Emperor’s way was compliance, not peace. The two were as repellent to one another as opposing lodestones. It didn’t matter what enlightenment the Imperium stamped out in its conquering crusade when obedience was all its lords desired. It didn’t matter what wars were fought from now into eternity. The Legiones Astartes would always march, for they were born to do so. There would always be war; even if the Great Crusade had been allowed to reach the galaxy’s every edge, there would never be peace. Discontent would seethe. Populations would rebel. Worlds would rise up. Human nature eventually sent men and women questing for the truth, and tyrants always fell to the truth.

No peace. Only war.

Lorgar felt his blood run cold. Only war. Those were words to echo into eternity.

He didn’t trust the Ten Thousand Futures the way Erebus claimed to. Too many possibilities forked from every decision made by every living thing. What use was prophecy when all it offered was what might happen? Lorgar was not so devoid of imagination that he needed the warp’s twisting guesswork to show him that. Anyone with an iota of vision could imagine what might happen. Genius lay in engineering events according to one’s own goals, not in blindly heeding the laughter of mad gods.

More than that, Lorgar sought to keep one thing in mind above all else. The gods were powerful, without doubt, but they were fickle beings. Each worked against its own kin more often than not, spilling conflicting prophecies into their prophets’ minds. Perhaps they weren’t even sentient in the way a mortal mind could encompass. They seemed as much the manifestations of primal emotion as they did individual essences.

But no, there was a wide gulf between hearing them and heeding them. Gods lied, just like men. Gods deceived and clashed and sought to advance their own dominions over their rivals’. Lorgar trusted none of their prophecies.

Image ID 3-5: A series of screenshots from Betrayer. Angron comes into the scene. It reads:

Angron entered the basilica, armoured in his usual stylised bronze and ceramite and with two oversized chainswords strapped to his back. He even wasted time with a greeting, raising his hand in the first time Lorgar could ever remember such a gesture from his broken brother. The Word Bearer tried not to let his amazement show at his brother’s new consideration.

‘Lotara says you stole her astropathic choir.’ Angron’s lipless smile was a ghastly thing indeed. ‘I see that she may have been correct.’

‘Stole is a strong word. “Appropriated” seems much less ignoble.’ Lorgar spared a glance for the skies above the cathedral, as the Lex ripped onwards towards Nuceria.

‘What do you need them for?’ Angron asked. His wounds from being buried alive had already faded to scrunched scar tissue pebbling his flesh, just another host of scarring to overlay the last.

The Devourers lurked behind him, stomping into the cathedral without the primarch sparing them a glance. To be one of Angron’s bodyguards was no honour, despite how fiercely the World Eaters’ champions had fought for it in the first, optimistic years. Angron ignored them no matter where they went, never once fighting alongside them in battle. In their Terminator plate, they’d never managed to keep up with their liege lord, and they were as prone to losing control as any other World Eater, meaning any hope of them fighting as an organised pack was a forlorn one at best.

Lorgar watched the Devourers – those warriors who’d spent a century learning to swallow their pride and pretend they weren’t ignored – speaking amongst themselves at the basilica’s entrance.

‘Hail,’ he greeted them. They seemed uneasy at being addressed, offering hesitant and wordless bows.

Angron snorted at his brother acknowledging them. ‘Bodyguards,’ he said. ‘Even their name annoys me. “Devourers”, as if I’d named them myself – as if they were the Legion’s finest.’

‘Their intentions are pure,’ Lorgar pointed out. ‘They seek to honour you. It’s not their fault you leave them behind in every battle.’

‘They’re not even the Legion’s fiercest fighters, any more. That rogue Delvarus refuses to challenge for a place in their ranks. Kh��rn laughed when I asked him if he’d ever considered it. And do you know Bloodspitter?’

‘I know Bloodspitter,’ Lorgar replied. Everyone knew Bloodspitter.

‘He beat one of them in the pits, and carved his name into the poor bastard’s armour with a combat knife.’

Lorgar forced a smile. ‘Yes. Delightful.’

Angron’s face wrenched again, at the mercy of misfiring muscles. ‘What primarch ever needed guarding by lesser men?’

‘Ferrus,’ Lorgar said softly. ‘Vulkan.’

Angron laughed, the sound rich and true, yet harsh as a bitter wind. ‘It’s good to hear you joke about those weaklings. I was getting bored of you mourning them.’

It was no joke, but Lorgar had no desire to shatter his brother’s fragile good humour. ‘I only mourn the dead,’ Lorgar conceded. ‘I don’t mourn Vulkan.’

‘He’s as good as dead.’ The World Eater smiled again. ‘I’m sure he wishes he were. Now, what are you doing with Lotara’s choir?’

‘Listening to them sing of other worlds and other wars.’

Angron stared, unimpressed. ‘Specifics,’ he said, ‘while I have the patience to hear such details.’

‘Just listen,’ Lorgar replied.

Angron did as he was bid. After a minute or more had passed, he nodded once. ‘You’re listening to the Five Hundred Worlds burning.’

‘Something like that. These are the voices of the freshly dead, and those soon to join them. The mortis-moments of random souls, elsewhere in Ultramar, as our fleets ravage their worlds.’

‘Morbid, priest. Even for you.’

‘We’re inflicting this destruction on them. We mustn’t consider ourselves distant from it. It may not be our hands holding the bolters and blades, but we are still the architects of this annihilation. It’s our place to listen to it, to remember the martyred dead, and to meditate on all we’ve wrought.’

‘I wish you well with it,’ said Angron. ‘But why steal Lotara’s choir? What happened to yours?’

‘They died.’

It was Angron’s turn to be surprised. ‘How did they die?’

‘Screaming.’ Lorgar showed no emotion at all. ‘What brings you here, brother?’

Image ID 6 & 7: Two screenshots from later in the previous scene, when Angron asks 'Why Nuceria?'. It reads:

‘The metaphysics are complicated,’ said Lorgar.

That had Angron growling. ‘I may not have wasted days in debate with you and Magnus inside our father’s Palace, but the Nails haven’t left me an absolute fool. I asked the question, Lorgar. You answer it. And do so without lying, if you can manage such a feat.’

The Word Bearer met his brother’s eyes, and the rarely-seen palette of emotions within their depths. Pain was there in abundance, but so was the frustration of living with a misfiring mind, and the savagery that transcended anger itself. Angron was a creature that had come to make his hatred a blade to be used in battle. He’d weaponised his own emotions, where most living beings were slaves to theirs. Lorgar couldn’t help but admire the strength in that.

‘We’re going to Nuceria,’ he said, ‘because of you. Because of the Nails.’

Angron stared, and his silence beckoned for his brother to continue.

‘They’re killing you,’ Lorgar admitted. ‘Faster than I thought. Faster than anyone realised. The rate of degeneration has accelerated even in the last few months. Your implants were never designed for a primarch’s brain matter. Your physiology is trying to heal the damage as the Nails bite deeper, but it’s a game of pushing and pulling, with both sides evenly matched.’

Angron took this with an impassive shrug. ‘Guesswork.’

‘I can see souls and hear the music of creation,’ Lorgar smiled. ‘In comparison, this is nothing. The Twelfth Legion’s archives are comprehensive enough, you know. Your behaviour tells the rest of the tale, along with the pain I sense radiating from you each and every time we meet. Your entire brain is remapped and rewired, slaved to the implants’ impulses. Tell me, when was the last time you dreamed?’

‘I don’t dream.’ The answer was immediate, almost fiercely fast. ‘I’ve never dreamed.’

Lorgar’s gentle eyes caught the warp’s kaleidoscopic light as he tilted his head. ‘Now you’re lying, brother.’

‘It’s no lie.’ Angron’s thick fingers twitched and curled, closing around the ghosts of weapons. ‘The Nails scarcely let me sleep. How would I dream?’

Lorgar didn’t miss the rising tension in his brother’s body language – the veins in his temples rising from scarred skin, the feral hunch of the shoulders, no different from a hunting cat drawing into a crouch before it struck.

‘You once told me the Nails stole your slumber,’ Lorgar conceded, ‘but you also said they let you dream.’

Angron took a step closer. He started to say ‘I meant…’ but Lorgar’s earthy glare stopped him cold.

‘They give you a serenity and peace you can find nowhere else. Humans, legionaries, primarchs… everything alive must sleep, must rest, must allow its brain a period of respite. The remapping of your mind denies you this. You don’t dream with your eyes closed. You dream with your eyes open, chasing the rush of whatever peace the Nails can give you.’ Lorgar met Angron’s eyes again. ‘Don’t insult us both by denying it. You slaver and murmur when you kill, mumbling about chasing serenity and how close it feels. I’ve heard you. I’ve looked into your heart and soul when you’re lost to the Nails. Your sons, with their crude copies of your implants, have their minds rewritten to feel joy only in adrenaline’s kiss. Those lesser implants cause pain because they scrape the nerves raw, thus your World Eaters kill because it gladdens their reforged hearts, and ceases the pain knifing into their muscles. Your Butcher’s Nails are a more sinister and predatory design, ruining all cognition, stealing any peace. They are killing you, gladiator. And you ask why I’m taking you back to Nuceria? Is it not obvious?’

End Image ID.]

[lesetoilesfous]

For @alienturnipp, from the angst prompt list for Nanders, “people who are okay don’t act like this”

@dadrunkwriting

Pairing: Nathaniel Howe/ Anders

Characters: Anders, Nathaniel Howe

Tags: Awakening fun, canon-typical Circle abuse

Rating: Mature

*

Nathaniel is not, habitually, heavy footed. On more than one occasion, the commander’s Antivan lover had suggested he take up a career in dance, ( “so light are your dainty footsteps, mi amigo.”) He’s not sure whether Anders knows this. This is largely because after three incidents in which Nathaniel had caused the mage to fall into something alarmingly akin to a panic attack, Nate has made an effort to be heavy footed around him.

Still, Anders jumps when Nathaniel knocks on the door to his room. The door is open - Nathaniel has never known Anders to close it, and the mage himself is standing in fairly sparse surroundings looking...lost. The expression fades almost as soon as Nathaniel catches it, like a mirage, Instead Anders gives him a smile as bright and thin as cheap paint. 

“Howe! Wasn’t expecting you...here. How do you do that? You always seem to melt out of the blighted shadows.”

Anders laughs, but the sound rings hollow, and his long fingers shake a little even as he brushes them against his robe. Nathaniel frowns. “Are you alright?”

It’s been three weeks since he and the mage were conscripted by the warden commander. More has happened in those three weeks than most of the time Nathaniel spent soldiering in the marches, but Anders still acts as if he’s only just arrived. It’s...disconcerting.

The mage, for his part, smiles again, “Oh yes, don’t worry about me, I’m not going to go all demon on you.” He wiggles his fingers, as if to emphasise his point, and his light brown eyes flicker over Nathaniel’s shoulder, to the empty corridor beyond.

Nathaniel knows that no one is there - he makes it his business to know when he’s being watched - but he turns anyway, and cannot help but feel the pantomime must be painfully obvious as he makes a show of checking to see if anyone is there. In the low, rainy grey light of Amaranthine it’s hard to tell, but when he turns back he thinks he can see Anders flushing.

Anders claps, and seems to startle himself with the volume of the sound (outside, a few of the mabari start barking, and he stiffens almost imperceptibly.) “So! Does the commander need me? Has she finally realised she has no use for me after all? Time for me to get shipped back off to the Circle? Between you and me, I think I’ll put up a fight. For old time’s sake, you know.”

Nathaniel’s frown deepens, and he moves to cross the threshold into Anders’ chamber, but hesitates. Something at the back of his head tells him that he needs to respect the mage’s space, and whether it’s old prejudice or gut instinct, Nate can’t quite force himself to disregard it. Instead he shakes his head, “Why would you think that?”

Anders laughs, and again, it rings hollow. “Oh, well, you know. It’s been a week and I haven’t been forced to risk my life again, so. I figured…”

Nathaniel cannot shake the irritating feeling that he’s missing something. “She cares about you a great deal. You knew each other in the Circle, didn’t you?”

Anders snorts, and it’s graceless enough that Nathaniel believes it’s honest. “As much as you could know anyone there. And she was younger than me. Mages aren’t allowed to mix with apprentices once we’ve passed our Harrowing.” Anders wrinkles his nose. “I suppose they want to stop us getting attached.”

“Why?” Nathaniel asks the question without meaning to and regrets it immediately. He’s certain he will not like the answer.

Anders shrugs, stiff and awkward in his tall frame. “Most of them die.”

Something of Nathaniel’s shock must show on his face, because Anders laughs - for real this time, though a little bitterly. His long hands flicker through the air like restless birds.

“Hate to break it to you Nate, but the Circle has a pretty high death rate.” Anders laughs again, higher pitched and a little manic. “Would you look at that? I’m a poet and I didn’t know it.”

Nathaniel crosses the threshold. He catches Anders hands without thinking, arresting their ceaseless, anxious movement through the empty air. Beneath his hands, Anders’ wrists are too thin. Nathaniel still isn’t entirely convinced the templars who’d caught Anders were feeding him. The mage, for his part, falls into startled silence. Nathaniel watches his pulse racing through the thin skin of his throat as he swallows, and is reminded of nothing so much as a hare.

But then he looks up into Anders’ brown, golden eyes, and sees the fierce thread of rebellion there (“I think I’ll put up a fight. For old time’s sake, you know”), and Nathaniel realises that Anders has never been anything other than a fox: wily and wild and refusing to be tamed. “What is the matter?”

Anders purses his lips. This close, he smells of the embrium and elfroot he carries with him on his belt. Nathaniel is half surprised he isn’t making poultices now. He usually was. He claimed it helped him think, but Nathaniel isn’t entirely sure it’s not just a habit he hasn’t shaken from making potions for the Circle. 

Anders pulls his arms back and Nathaniel lets him, not following as Anders backs up in the direction of one of the thin, hard pallet beds they used in the soldiers’ dormitories. The commander must have dragged it up here specially, though he couldn’t imagine why. Anders follows his gaze and coughs another laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Oh, that. Sorry, couldn’t sleep on goosefeathers. Too damn soft. I mean what’s laying your head down at night if you don’t wake up in pain?”

Nathaniel decides that Anders doesn’t actually want an answer to that, and presses on to the subject that he’s avoiding. “People who are okay don’t act like this.”

Anders flashes him another sharp, crooked grin and again Nathaniel catches the fire of anger in his eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Nathaniel clenches his teeth. Delilah had never explained that being kind would take so much blighted work. (He can almost hear the commander in his head, laughing at him for that.) Anders is pacing back and forth in front of his thin, poorly appointed bed, and his hands have started moving again. Nathaniel speaks before Anders’ nervous energy manages to infect him too. 

“You have refused to acquire any material possessions other than that pillow, which you hide most of the time. You are stockpiling food beneath the floorboards,” Nathaniel nods at the one uneven plank which had often been the secret to his own childhood hiding places, “ for reasons I do not understand. You never close your door and yet you seem outright terrified whenever anyone enters a place you consider to be private. If you bathe I haven’t seen it, though I must assume that you do as you have not yet begun to smell. You are avoiding...everyone, but especially the commander, despite her efforts and obvious desire to get to know you better. For some reason you still think that she - or any of us - would turn you in to the Circle without a second thought.”

Anders frowns at that, stopping mid-step to look at him with something that is either curiosity or pain in his eyes. “Wouldn’t you?”

Nathaniel stares at him - and feels, for a moment - his own foolish heart plummet like lead into his stomach. “I - no.” Mouth suddenly dry, Nathaniel wets his lips and tries to speak past the lump in his throat (past the voice in the back of his head, he’s afraid of you, everyone’s afraid of you, just like your father).

Anders’ expression softens, and his shoulders drop. “You really mean that, don’t you?”

Nathaniel blinks, and tries to shake off the feeling of being rooted to the spot. “Of course.”

Anders’ mouth quirks upward at the corner. Outside there’s the gentle patter of the autumn rain against the muddy courtyard, bouncing off the mens’ new armour like a thousand soft, tiny bells. After a moment, Anders sits down, heavily, on the thin mattress, and gestures for Nathaniel to step forward.

Feeling as if he’s suddenly been freed of some strange, invisible spell, Nathaniel does so, almost toppling to sit on the floor in front of Anders as he looks at his hands. Anders breaks the new and sudden quiet, running the fingers of his left hand over the knuckles of his right. “They broke my hands.” The admission is so quiet and so unexpected that Nathaniel is almost unsure he heard it. But then Anders lets out a long, shaking breath and continues. “I was...half drunk with magebane so I didn’t...have you ever felt pain without emotion? It’s so hard to describe. Like shock, I guess. You register that something terrible has happened and that it hurts. But the grief, the anger, the fear. All that comes later. They let it heal naturally. So my hands are crooked now.” Anders splays his fingers in the air between them, and Nathaniel can see now, as he hadn’t before, the way his knuckles do stand a little crooked, the way a nose heals when it breaks. 

Nathaniel’s voice is rough when he speaks. “Why?”

Anders shrugs, and his expression is distant. “I don’t remember exactly. It was whilst I was in solitary. They were always doing…” His features shutter into a mask so impassive that even Nathaniel cannot read it, and he draws in a quick deep breath and exhales again. “It doesn’t matter.” He offers Nathaniel a small smile, and nods at the door. “I keep the door open because I haven’t had a door, ever. When I was a child I was too young and small to have my own room. In the Circle only templars and Senior Enchanters are granted the luxury of such privacy, and I was neither.” Anders nods at the floorboards. “I...One of the first punishments they’d go to was restricting rations.” Anders’ mouth curls into a thin  smile. “I think some of them just wanted to see how long I could go. Caught them making bets on it, once.” Anders shakes his head, as if he’s dislodging the memory from his mind like a cat shaking off water. He spreads his hands wide. “I don’t...know what to do with all this. Everything I’ve ever been told is that I can’t have it. Whatever it is.”

Nathaniel resists the urge to say freedom. He isn’t entirely sure that it’s true. Anders, on the bed, sighs and  slides down from the mattress to the floor, easily framing Nathaniel with his long legs, the tabard of his robe falling heavy and velvet between his legs. Nathaniel averts his eyes. Anders’ laugh is rough and low and warm, and then his (crooked) fingers catch Nathaniel’s head and turn it back to look at him.

“That I understand.” Anders leans forward, until his chest is pressing against his bent knees. He smiles at Nathaniel, sweet and a little shy, and this close Nate can see that his eyelashes are almost as golden as his hair. Anders’ other hand comes up to catch the other side of Nathaniel’s face, and Nate doesn’t resist when Anders draws him closer to brush a kiss against his lips. “Thank you for asking, though.”

For a moment they’re quiet. Far off, from downstairs, there’s the sound of Oghren bellowing and Sigrun cackling, followed by a clattering or armour as one or the other of them gives chase. Anders’ thumb runs over Nathaniel’s cheek, and Nathaniel reaches up to catch his wrist and press his hand closer. He waits until Anders meets his eyes to speak. “I would fight with you.” A shadow of a frown passes over Anders’ brow, and Nathaniel clarifies before he can ask, “ If they tried to take you away. Back to the Circle. I would fight by your side.”

Anders’ mouth twitches into a rueful smile, though the pad of his thumb keeps running softly over Nathaniel’s cheek. “Even against the commander? She’s the Hero of Ferelden, you know.”

Nathaniel shifts closer, letting go of Anders’ wrist to reach up and cup the back of his head, gently, firmly, pulling him closer until their foreheads are touching. “Even her. Against the wardens, the templars, chevaliers and darkspawn, Anders. I will not let them take you. Not whilst I am breathing.”

When Anders breathes out, Nathaniel feels the shudder of it where their bodies are touching. Anders doesn’t look at him when he replies. “Don’t say that. Someone might make you prove it.”

Nathaniel huffs, pulling back to look into Anders’ eyes. “Let them.” He catches one of Anders’ hands and pulls it between them, running his fingers over Anders’ crooked knuckles. “This is not Justice. I’ve met Justice.” He looks up, offering a smile which Anders returns, “He looks like a walking corpse. But, truly.” Nathaniel bends and presses a kiss to Anders’ palm, and watches pink flush through his cheeks like a sunrise. “This is not just. And I will not let them have you. I swear it.”

Anders shakes his head, shutting his eyes as his brow twists with a frown despite the smile on his lips. “I want to believe you.”

Nathaniel holds Anders’ hands tightly between his own, and presses a kiss to his forehead. “Perhaps, one day, you will.”

[itsamejin]

it’s you || part 2 (finale) || taehyung angst/fluff || hanahaki au ||

Part 1

Summary: You’d rather live with thorns endlessly scratching the back of your throat than be devoid of the light that Taehyung brought into your life. Even if your love for him was slowly killing you, you didn’t mind as long as you could keep the warmth of his presence until the very end.

Warning: Mentions of throwing up and death

Genre: Fluff, Angst, hanahaki!au, college!au, fuckboy!tae

Pairing: Taehyung x female!reader

Premise: Hanahaki Disease comes in different forms in this universe. The disease would eventually disappear if your love wasn’t that strong to begin with, but if you truly, deeply love someone, your flowers will rip at your throat. Throwing up flowers wasn’t a rare occurrence and for most people it disappeared after a few days. If Hanahaki persists, surgery is recommended, but it would severely dull the positive emotions of the person under surgery. Due to this, some choose to die with their unrequited love.

Commission Request: @guksflavor 

Word Count: 6,524 words

—

The sound of Taehyung’s body hitting the floor woke you up from unconsciousness. When your blurry eyes had started to focus and your ears were beginning to register the screaming, panic had hit you like a ton of bricks. 

“You fucking heard me,” Jungkook’s voice resounded. “You gave her Hanahaki.”

Taehyung stood up, tears staining his cheeks, and sucked in deep breaths. His teeth were bleeding from the impact of Jungkook’s fist and his mind ached from his words. It just didn’t feel real to him. It didn’t feel like a possibility.

You sat up on the bed, horrified at what you were witnessing. Jungkook, who had sworn to you that he wouldn’t tell a soul, betrayed you in your presence. Nothing hurt more, though, than the pained expression Taehyung carried, like the idea of being loved by you physically hurt him.

“You had no right,” you whimper quietly, enough for your two wounded best friends to turn their heads toward your brooding figure. “You had no fucking right Jungkook.”

“[Y/N], I-” Jungkook started, but couldn't do anything else as you screamed for him to not take another step forward.

“Get out,” you spew as small sobs escape your lips, “both of you.”

Jungkook pleaded with his eyes as if begging for forgiveness, but you refused to look up at him. Taehyung, on the other hand, grabbed his coat and rushed to leave. His mind was cloudy and he needed time to think, the hospital air suffocating him. Jungkook grabbed his wrist.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Jungkook asks through gritted teeth, gripping him strongly.

Taehyung pulled his hand away roughly, giving him a death glare. He wasn’t in the mood for any more confrontations and he couldn’t bear to see your crying face any longer. Before he stepped out, Taehyung took one last look at you. 

“I’m so sorry, [Y/N],” he says before exiting. Jungkook glares at his leaving figure with disappointment etched all over his face. Just because you asked him to leave doesn’t mean that he actually should.

“Do you see what I fucking mean, [Y/N]?” Jungkook rants, striding to your bedside. “Why am I the one here and not him? He doesn’t deserve you [Y/N]. The sooner you realize that the sooner you’ll get better.”

You shook your head quietly as you tried to steady your breathing. Jungkook patted you on the back as you continued to cry onto your blanketed lap. 

“I told you to leave Jungkook,” you reply, attempting to steady your voice. 

“And I told you to get that fucking surgery,” he says seriously, “but look where we are now.”

You cry harder as he comes closer to hug you. Although Jungkook might have ruined any chance of you having a beautiful last memory of Taehyung, it felt comforting to have someone assure you- to have a shoulder to lean on.

“You’re an idiot, you know that?” Jungkook mutters into your hair.

“Yeah,” you choke out. “I still love him, though.”

You felt Jungkook shiver in your arms. You realized then that the man who usually stayed silent, the best friend who rarely showed affection, was crying.

“I don’t want you to die,” he cries into your shoulder. “Please, [Y/N]. Please get the surgery.”

You shake your head as you sob louder. Jungkook held onto you tightly as if you would disappear the moment he let you go. He doubts he’d talk to Taehyung again after that fight and if he loses you too... then he doesn’t quite know how he’d live with himself. 

“I don’t want to die either Jungkook,” you muster out. “I don’t want to die.”

Your words were barely legible as you started to cough uncontrollably. Small petals started to escape your mouth and it made you cry harder at how horrible the timing was. Jungkook ran out of the room to call a nurse, concern dredging his already harrowed face.

“I don’t want to die,” you repeat as the lasting image of a nurse rushing towards you is consumed by darkness.

—

Taehyung ran to his apartment, locking the door behind him like he was in danger. He collapsed on the floor, his body pressed up against the door. It felt as if his mind was conceptualizing everything and nothing at the same time. He tried shaking his head to clear his thoughts, but it only made his headache worse.

He didn't even realize how badly he was shaking, how badly he felt his heart constrict in his chest. Why had you not told him? Why were you choosing to suffer all alone? And why wouldn’t you get that damn surgery?

Taehyung struggled to stand up, not even bothering to turn on any of the lights as he walked to his room. Before he could drop himself into bed, he caught sight of himself on the mirror that faced his bedroom door. Taehyung walked closer to it, seeing the reflection of his shadowed figure on it. He cringed at the small outlines of his face battered and bruised. It would be hard to show up to class the next morning with a black eye and dried blood on his lips. He looked closer, particularly into his own eyes and how they shined in the moonlight. They would usually crinkle in happiness, but now they looked nothing more than hollow. 

Taehyung knew he shouldn’t have left- that he should’ve stayed to reassure you and that this changed nothing about your friendship. Yet everything was happening too quickly for him to register and he couldn’t lie and say that this didn’t make him view things differently. 

Taehyung realized that you were dying because of him. You were dying over an idiot that can’t commit to relationships easily, a fool who thinks more about sex than love. He grimaced at his past habits, wondering how he could ever let it get this bad.

He doesn’t know when he could last hear your laugh or see your smile or hug your frame. Somehow the image of you lifeless on a hospital bed is what made the tears come down naturally. 

—

As usual, Taehyung skipped class, but not for the usual excuse. He went to his favorite Thai restaurant, ordered some Tom Yam Kung and Mango Sticky Rice, and headed to the hospital. He was noticeably nervous, his palms sweating from the lack of preparation. Taehyung was planning on apologizing for last night’s events, but he couldn’t muster up the courage to practice any written speech. He figured he could wing it, that you’d be willing to forgive him for picking a fight with Jungkook, forcing information out of him, and ultimately fleeing when he got said information. 

As he was met with the front door of your hospital room, he sucked in a deep breath. Taehyung knew this apology would most likely end with him in tears, but he needed to see you- no matter how hurt he’ll be in the end.

He knocks once and slides the door open without hesitation. You sat upon the bed, hollowly watching whatever news channel was on the hospital TV. Your expression darkened as you saw him approach you. It wasn’t like you were mad at him- more upset with Jungkook than anything- but you didn’t know if you could face him after your feelings were made known.

“Hi,” you croaked out, voice extremely damaged from the night before. You had passed out before you could spew out any more hydrangeas, but it still left scarring.

He approaches you, laying the Thai food on the desk that was attached to the hospital bed. He sat on the chair Jungkook had slept in the night before.

“How are you feeling?” he asks solemnly. “Your voice-”

“Yeah,” you cut him off. “It sounds bad, huh?”

You try to laugh, but it came out as small wheezes, only pushing him to be more concerned. Taehyung looks around the room so you wouldn’t feel as embarrassed. He wanted to distract himself from the sadness of it all.

“Where’s Jungkook?”

Your face softened at his name. When you had woken up, he was sleeping next to you on the chair with furrowed brows. You had sent him home, promising you’d still be alive after he takes a shower and attends his classes.

“He went to class,” you say. “Like some other people I know should be doing....”

Taehyung shook his head and stood up. He untied the knot to the plastic bag and took the food out. You couldn’t quite read his face, not really knowing what he was thinking.

“Tae you know I can’t eat-”

“I know. Who says these are for you?” he says seriously, but with a teasing glint in his eyes. A lighter approach would work much better. It would hurt less to talk about it too straightforwardly.

“Jerk,” you mutter, shaking your head in fake annoyance. “Go ahead and eat then asshole.”

“I will,” he sticks his tongue out. “Enjoy watching me.”

You muster out a chuckle before you start to cough again. You grab the open water bottle on the nightstand and gulp it down until it was almost finished. Taehyung watched with worried eyes as he broke his chopsticks in half. You set down the water, embarrassed that he had to witness you struggle so much from just a laugh.

“I’m sorry, [Y/N],” he whispers. “For everything.”

You purse your lips. An apology was the last thing you needed from him.

“I don’t regret falling in love with you, Tae,” you start. “I want you to know that.”

He bows his head and bites the inside of his cheek. No matter how cold you were towards him at times, you still cared for him so much. He didn’t deserve it. He didn’t deserve you.

“If I had known earlier-”

“Nothing would change,” you smile sadly, ruffling his hair to get him to look up at you. “Forcing yourself to like me shouldn’t be an option you think about, Tae.”

He raises his head and takes the hand that was on his head into his own. 

“Is it okay if I hold your hand like this?” he asks, concerned you might have another flower fit. He had read somewhere that physical touch causes more pain to the Hanahaki patient. 

You nod your head in response, lightly squeezing his hand with the very little power you had left in your body. His heart skipped a beat at how longingly you looked at him, an expression he hasn’t quite seen before.

“It’s fine. They put me on really strong suppressants last night. This should be okay.”

“Why do you need suppressants?”

You hesitate to answer, knowing he’d only be more concerned if you told him that you fainted. You could feel his panic in how sweaty his palms were already. He could already tell the gist of what happened by the look in your eyes and he condemned himself even more.

“Fuck [Y/N], I’m so sorry,” he closes his eyes to compose himself. “I shouldn't have been a coward and I should’ve been more considerate to your feelings when I always dragged you and Jungkook out to clubs and I should’ve stopped asking you to give me your friends’ numbers and-”

You shushed him, smiling at how he went off in a tangent. Even in sad moments like this, Taehyung was so undeniably cute.

“Tae, it’s fine,” you reassure. “I don’t hate you.”

“You should,” he replies, “because I really hate myself right now.”

“Don’t,” you say, brushing his bangs out of his face. His face was still badly beaten up from the night before. “I just want good memories with you from now on.”

Taehyung smiles sadly at you. His heart clenched at your words and his lips quivered as if he was holding back a sob.

“I’ll try, [Y/N].”

He clutches your hand tighter as he sees you on the verge of tears. Taehyung doesn’t want to push you to get the surgery; he knows by now that you already made up your mind. There was nothing else he could do except watch as one of his best friends slowly fall out of his reach. He just knows that he’ll miss you. He knows he will.

—

A week passed and Jungkook and Taehyung still refused to talk to each other. They had miraculously coordinated their schedules so that it was impossible to run into each other while they visited you. The one time they had, you were forced to watch them try and avoid each other’s gazes as Jungkook made his way into the hospital room with a large teddy bear. Taehyung had whined to you about him the next day, saying that Jungkook was holding a grudge against him.

“He’s being a dick to me,” he starts, “more than usual.”

“Well maybe if you hadn’t assumed the worst out of him then you wouldn’t have gotten knocked out,” you rolled your eyes.

“Just so you know, I threw the first punch,” he chides.

“Yeah and look who has the more busted face?” you chuckled.

The coughs worsened and sometimes the suppressants weren’t enough to fully push down the flowers, so you would throw up small petals during that small time frame when Taehyung left and Jungkook was yet to come. It felt like you had fooled Jungkook into thinking you had gotten better, but he would always scold you every time he came over and heard your worsening voice.

“You need to stop letting him see you,” he says roughly. “The doctors literally told you it would be more dangerous if he keeps hanging around you.”

“Jungkook, I want to see him,” you reply hoarsely. “I’m pretty sure it would hurt more if I wasn’t able to see him before I-”

He cuts you off before you can say it. Jungkook was always upset when you said the word die, as if not saying it would make it any less of a reality. He thought there was still a chance- a chance to save you.

“It’s not too late to get the surgery,” he says through a sigh. “Just let me know and I’ll call the doctor in here right now.”

You groan at his insistence, figuring he’d be sick with the nagging by now. You laid down on the bed, turning away from his sitting form.

“Jungkook,” you warn quietly, “If I have to say it again-”

“I know, I know,” he says, standing up. “But every time I walk in here you look worse than the day before. This isn’t right [Y/N].”

When you didn’t reply back, he only sighed out in frustration. You were acting like a child again.

“It’s getting late so I’m gonna head out, but remember what I said. If you ever decide to change your mind, I’ll take care of you after the surgery. I’m not gonna leave you alone. 

You close your eyes, feigning sleep. You clenched the bedsheets as you heard him walk away.

“You won’t turn out like your mom, I promise you.”

You clenched your teeth. How dare he bring that up?

“Make sure to close the door on your way out,” you reply angrily.

—

You sat on the couch in front of the window, a massive notebook in your lap. You scribbled on it without much thought, words pouring onto the sheet of paper without hesitation. It was the letters you were planning to write to all the close people in your life. Just an hour earlier, the nurses had come in to inform you that the doctor wanted to speak with you.

“[Y/N], it seems the disease is getting ready to...,” the doctor stumbled slightly, not knowing how to phrase the next part. “It’s getting ready to come to an end.”

To you, it was obvious he meant that your time was ticking. He advised you to start making calls to any loved ones and finalize a will, though you don’t know what real assets a college student working part-time could hand over to anybody. 

You had decided on giving away your remaining belongings to charity and putting Jungkook in charge of separating your items from your dorm room. You would give Taehyung all your plushies and sentimental items, hoping he could work out an agreement to split the items with Jungkook even if you were gone.

You hoped that they would reconcile, preferably when you still had the chance to be with them one last time, but beggars can’t really be choosers. It hurt to see your best friends avoid each other because of you and so, you wrote letters to them that would detail just how important they were to your life and how important they were to each other. It motivated you, knowing they’d read it and maybe find a way to forgive each other for the black eyes they were still nursing.

You started with Jungkook’s, a little easier to write because you knew exactly what you wanted to tell him.

To Jungkook,

If you’re reading this then that means I’m gone and I know you’re probably punching the air right now at how stupid I am, but I just wanted to say something to you before you start crying reading this. I know you’re a little more sensitive than you let on.

Before anything else, I want to say thank you. Thank you for drawing these beautiful flowers on my skin and being there for me when no one else was. You are the only person I told about what happened with my mom and you listened to me without being the judgmental prick you usually are. I know you want me to live, more than anyone else, but I hope you understand one day why I can’t. 

You know Tae. You know how happy he made me. If I chose to live without loving him, I wouldn’t be me. I’d be alive, but I’d barely be living. 

Jungkook, there’s not a lot of words I can use to express how much I needed you in my life. Genuinely and truthfully, you were the glue that held our friendship together. You were my voice of reason and I am so happy I got to know a person like you in the short time I’ve lived on this earth.

I hope that you’ll be able to experience a mutual love in the way I couldn’t. I hope you have a wonderful life in the future and that I’ll be a good memory to tell your kids one day. You deserve to grow out of that tattoo shop and start your own. You deserved to have finished college without the added trauma of having your best friend die on you. I’m sorry I caused all this pain, but I know you can get through it. I know you can get through life without me. I wish I wasn’t so stubborn till the very end-

Tears had started to drop on the notepad, smearing the black ink just a tad bit. You had to collect yourself to continue, looking out the window to prevent the tears from hitting the paper. You took in a deep breath and continued.

but Jungkook you know me. And you know that I’ll miss you, no matter what happens to me after this has all passed. My final wish to you is that you and Tae keep me in your memories and stop fighting all the time. I’ll find a way to get back to you guys somehow (though I don’t know what will happen to me after death) so please stay together and wait for me until then. I promise I’ll find a way back to you guys. I promise.

You gently ripped the piece of paper you had written on and folded it in half, setting it underneath the notepad. You’d ask the nurse for an envelope later. You stared blankly at the new and empty page, a wet mark of your tears remained from the previous paper. You racked your brain for words to say to Taehyung. You had to be honest, that’s the only way you could leave this world peacefully. Not even bothering to write a greeting for him as you did with Jungkook, you let the words flow out of your pen easily.

—

“What the fuck is this?” Jungkook asks you, his hands shaking as he held the envelope in his hand. It was as light as air, but it felt so heavy between his fingers.

“A letter,” you say, by then your throat was already too strained to speak too loudly. “To read after I pass.”

He shakes his head, thrusting it back towards you. 

“I’m not reading it [Y/N],” he replies through gritted teeth. “If you want me to fucking read it then you need to get the surgery.”

“Really?” you ask him, anger bubbling up within your chest. 

“You can’t just expect me to stand here and take your last words and be okay with that-”

“Really Jungkook? You’re really gonna argue with me about this?”

He refused to make eye contact, noticeably upset. You shook your head out of agitation.

“Just listen to me for once, Jungkook,” you say dangerously low.

“That’s all I’ve been doing,” he clenches his fist. “I’m tired of listening when it feels like I can’t even do anything to help you [Y/N].”

You beckon him to face you, grabbing the letter you wrote for Taehyung on your nightstand.

“You’ve done more than enough, Jungkook,” you say with a sad smile. 

“I haven’t done shit,” he chuckles sadly, clutching the letter harder. Was he supposed to watch as his best friend suffers through a curable terminal disease?

“But if you want to make it up to me,” you start, with a mischievous glint in your eyes. “Give this to Taehyung.”

He looks at the envelope with doubt laced in his eyes. 

“He doesn’t deserve a fucking letter [Y/N].”

You glare at him until he begrudgingly takes the letter from your hand.

“It’s not gonna work you know,” he says, rolling his eyes. “I’m gonna hold a grudge against him for the rest of my life for giving you this fucking disease.”

You sigh.

“Just try?” you ask pleadingly. “For me?”

—

A few days passed and Jungkook sulked in the hallway of Taehyung’s apartment complex, waiting for him to show up. His shoulders tensed each time he heard the elevator doors open. He didn’t quite know how to talk to Taehyung without spewing out an insult, but he knew he had to muscle through it for your sake. He waited and waited, until eventually, a guy with a cut across his cheek walked past him, scrolling through his phone. Jungkook smirked at how unaware of his surroundings he still was. 

“Yo,” he says, grabbing Taehyung by the elbow as his figure approached his. Taehyung glared at the hand that wrapped around him and pulled back aggressively when he saw who it was.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” “Don’t worry,” he sighs out of exasperation, “I’m here to deliver something.”

Jungkook took the letter out of the back pocket of his jeans. He grabbed Taehyung’s empty hand and slaps the crumpled envelope on his hand.

“[Y/N] wants you to read this after she...” Jungkook swallowed as he feels his words falter, “eventually passes away.”

Taehyung wouldn’t let the glare go, but clutches onto the letter, bringing it to his side as if Jungkook would take it away from him.

“Why are you the one giving it to me?”

Jungkook rolls his eyes.

“Because she wants us to be civil. Make up or whatever.”

Taehyung lets out a scoff.

“And you?” he mocks. “Why would you agree?”

Jungkook clenches his fist and walks toward his friend- if he could call him that anymore. He places a firm hand on Taehyung’s left shoulder and looks him straight in the eye.

“I agreed because I know it’s no use in hating you over something you can’t control,” he starts, “and because I know you’ll read that letter right away anyway. I figure I’d stay to at least watch you cry.”

Taehyung chuckles and Jungkook broke out into a toothy grin himself.

“So I’m guessing you read your own letter?”

Jungkook nods, smiling sadly. 

“[Y/N] shouldn’t trust us so blindly sometimes. Of course, I was gonna read it right when she gave it to me.”

Taehyung shook his head, feigning disappointment.

“Did you cry?”

Jungkook smirked.

“I held it in when I first read it,” he started, a blush forming in his cheeks, “but when I was in the shower afterward I started fucking sobbing. You’ll probably start crying after the first word.”

Taehyung chuckled lightly, punching Jungkook in the shoulder.

“I’m gonna cry, alright...” he zones out, opening the envelope and unfolding the large piece of paper. He bit his lip lightly, too afraid to read it silently. With shaky hands, he announced the words out loud to ease his mind just a bit.

Truth be told, I tried to make myself hate you, Kim Taehyung. When I found out I got Hanahaki after you kissed me on my cheek, I was so pissed that I let myself fall for you.

The two boys laugh softly. Sure enough, Taehyung was already biting back tears that were starting to form. His heart sank with each word he enunciated, but he continued on with a wavering voice.

I know the kind of person you are, Tae and for the hundredth time: no, I don’t blame you. You’re gonna spend the rest of eternity hating yourself if I don’t keep repeating this. Yeah, it was annoying that you always tried to flirt with my friends, but I doubt you knowing my feelings would have stopped that.

Jungkook let out a cackle, surprised that you were staying light-hearted in your letter to him.

“She’s right, you know.”

Taehyung ignored his words, reading further.

You wouldn’t be the Taehyung I’d fallen in love with if you weren’t overly flirtatious and clingy. I don’t know if I’ve ever told you this directly, but I love you Taehyung. I love you so fucking much. You gave me so much hope, so much light, and so much to live for. 

Taehyung felt something else well up in him that was neither tears nor guilt- something foreign.

I’m sad I can’t see the three of us grow old together or flourish in our future careers, but I know that you’ll get through the struggles of adult life as long as you and Jungkook stay together. 

Jungkook laughs to himself and Taehyung glares up at him.

“What’s so funny?”

“Nothing’s funny, man,” Jungkook sighs to the ceiling. “I’m just realizing how fucked up this all is.”

Tae if I was being really honest with you... I don’t want to die. I really don’t. I was starting to think that you fell in love with me because I didn’t throw up flowers yesterday or the day before that, but it’s just the suppressants. There’s still a small hope that you’d fall in love with me and that we could make things work out, but the chances of it happening are so slim. I’ve learned to accept it by now... that you won’t love me back.

I wanted you to read this letter after I pass away because I didn’t want your feelings to waiver, for you to trick yourself into loving me only to end up hating me later on. My dad fell out of love with my mom and... she was never the same after that. I don’t want that to be us Tae. I want us to have only good memories of each other.

Jungkook patted Taehyung’s back, as he struggled to read with the tears in his eyes. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t bear this pain any longer.

I’ll love you even after death, Taehyung, just as much as I love you now. And for the hundredth and one time: no, I do not blame you. I can’t blame you for the beautiful flowers that I now know the names of by heart and I can’t blame you for not loving me back. I can’t blame you for anything Tae. I love you and that’s all that matters. I want you to know, most of all, that I didn’t die for you- I died for myself. I love you Tae. 

Sincerely,

Your Guardian Angel :)

Taehyung didn’t quite know when he had stopped reading the letter and started to sink to the ground, balled up in a puddle of his own tears. Jungkook had read the rest towards the end. He too was a wreck, but he hid it well.

“I can’t fucking do it Jungkook,” he sobs. “I don’t think I can live without her.”

Jungkook crouched in front of him, not really knowing how to comfort a crying Taehyung. This was the first time he’d ever seen him show this much emotion besides their big fight a few days ago.

“Taehyung,” he starts firmly, “you need to tell me the truth right now.”

“What?” Taehyung asks, confusion written all over his face.

“Promise me you won’t run away after what I’m about to tell you.”

Taehyung looked at him confusingly but wiped his tears away to get a better look at Jungkook. He was serious.

“O-okay. I promise?”

Jungkook sighed out in relief and pulled Taehyung up.

“The nurse told me [Y/N] hasn’t been on suppressants for a few days now,” he says seriously. “I’m registered as her guardian so they thought it was best if I told her that they stopped lacing it into her meals. It was to prep her for her death.”

“So what does this have to do with me?”

“Taehyung, how are you not getting this?” Jungkook frustratingly scolds. “She hasn’t been throwing up and she hasn’t taken medication. I know it’s fucked up I’m asking you now, but I need you to go see her.”

Nothing seemed to click in Taehyung’s brain. Jungkook was always the fastest thinker out of them. He didn’t really know why he was speaking in such cryptic terms anyway.

“Why?” 

“Because if what I think is true,” Jungkook says slowly, “then [Y/N] isn’t going to die.”

Taehyung was about to speak, confusion even more evident in his expression.

“What the hell are you talking about Jung-”

“I think you’re in love with her.”

The world seemed to stop at that second. Nothing made sense and yet everything did. The gears were moving in Taehyung’s brain, but it still felt like he didn’t know the full gist of what Jungkook was trying to tell him.

“Huh?”

“I know how fucked up it sounds that you started miraculously liking her after you found out she was dying, but all that matters to me now is that you accept her love so that she recovers faster. Tell me- am I wrong?”

Taehyung’s head was spinning and he was having trouble forming a sentence.

“I- I don’t know. I haven’t been in love before, how the fuck am I supposed to know?”

Jungkook sighed deeply.

“Well I’m here to tell you now: I’m pretty sure she didn’t fall out of love with you all on her own and it’s not the work of suppressants that had her recover. I’m not trying to convince you that you fell in love with her, but I’m pretty sure you did.”

Taehyung shook his head profusely.

“I think we’re just not thinking through this logically-”

“When have you ever been logical?”

He groaned and buried his face into his palms. Jungkook was right.

“So what should I do if I actually like her?” he says. “I feel like this is too sudden. [Y/N]’s gonna be suspicious-”

“Just tell her,” Jungkook replies sternly. “Don’t run away and just tell [Y/N]. Whatever happens, happens. We have nothing left to lose except her.”

“If I tell her I love her and I actually don’t, that would just hurt her more.”

“That’s impossible,” Jungkook starts, “because she’d be throwing up flowers by now if you didn’t.”

Taehyung nods, but he’s still not quite convinced. He stands up from his spot and makes a beeline to the elevator, figuring he should just do it without thinking about it too much. 

Jungkook doesn’t follow after him. He knows that you two are probably better off talking this out than with him butting into the conversation. He rolls up his sleeve to see a beautiful tattoo he had drawn on his wrist just days ago. Flowers.

He drew it in remembrance of you.

—

As you were about to fall asleep to the sound of your own heart monitor, a loud thunk of the door opening had alerted you to open your eyes. Taehyung stood in the doorway, panting like a mad man as he walked closer to your bed.

“Tae-”

“We need to talk.”

It was then that you realized that he was clutching something in his fist. A piece of paper, wrinkled and smudged with black ink. 

“You read it?” you ask disappointingly. It was a little embarrassing now, knowing that he’d seen everything you wanted to say to him after your death. You had a hard time looking at him in the eye.

“I couldn’t wait,” he pants, now next to your bed. “It’s not like I would have ever gotten a chance to read it otherwise.”

You tilt your head in confusion.

“What do you mean?”

Taehyung sat on your bed, touching your forearm lightly before collecting his thoughts.

“You’re not going to die, [Y/N],” he says with a glint in his eyes.

You roll your eyes at him.

“I’m not getting the surgery, Tae. It’s already too late for-”

“When was the last time you threw up flowers?”

You furrowed your brows.

“A few days ago. Why?”

He inches closer to you so that he could get a better look at your face. He was gauging your reaction just in case he said anything too uncomfortable. You were looking a lot less sick than yesterday and it crossed out his suspicions a tiny bit.

“Do you know why you haven’t been getting them?”

“Because I’m on suppressants?” you say as if it was an obvious fact.

Taehyung shook his head and finally laid the letter on the bedside table. He clutched both of your palms into his.

“I think,” he stumbles, “I- I think I fell in love with you.”

You looked at him with a deadpan gaze. You pulled yourself away from his grasp. How dare he?

“That’s not funny, Tae. Why the fuck would you even joke about something like that?”

“I do, [Y/N]. I love you.”

It felt so right to say out loud. It felt like the suffocation he was feeling for the past few days had been lifted off of his chest and into the clouds. All of his doubts were erased from his memory. 

“Tae, saying it again isn’t going to-”

“I love you,” he says a little louder this time, clutching you even closer. Your eyes shined from tears threatening to spill over. He was being cruel- too cruel. It was unlike him.

“Tae, seriously I’m getting-”

“I love you,” he repeats, closing the distance between you and him, his lips gently touching yours. He pulls away and his breath is taken away with the tears that started falling from your eyes. He wiped them away from your cheeks. This was the reaction he was exactly expecting from you, but all he can do now is reassure you so that you don’t lash out on him.

“A-are you serious?” you say through bated breaths. “You’re not joking are you?”

He shakes his head with a grin.

“I think it took me a while to realize, but I do. Genuinely.”

You had started to cry harder, but it wasn’t out of happiness. You were holding something back. After all of the pain you went through and you finally got what you wanted... it just didn’t feel real. His heart hurt at the sight of you. 

“Tae,” you struggle to say. “This isn’t what I wanted. I... I didn’t want you to force yourself into anything or to feel sorry for me-”

“That’s not it, [Y/N],” he reassures, pushing a stray piece of your hair and tucking it behind your ear. “No one’s forcing me.”

“But still-”

He shushed you with a peck. It felt liberating being able to kiss you freely and he couldn’t stop himself with how cutely you pouted your lips. How could he have not seen how irresistible you were before?

“I wish I realized it sooner,” he says sadly. “That way you wouldn’t have to suffer as much.”

You shake your head, easing your breath.

“I don’t know about this, Tae. I’m just having a lot of doubts,” you mutter.

“And I’ll get rid of those doubts sooner or later,” he kisses your hands. “I’m new to this whole love thing so you need to tell me if I’m overstepping anything alright?”

You chuckle lightly. Your heart could burst right out of your chest at how lovingly he was looking at you. For the past few days he’s done that- just look at you with a smile and make your heart beat fast for no reason. The effects this man had on you...

“You’re not gonna die,” he says softly. “I’m not going to lose you.”

You purse your lips.

“I don’t know what to say, Tae...”

He sits a little closer to you and softly holds your face into his palms.

“Say it back.”

You were caught off guard, flustered with his words. You fiddle with your fingers as you struggle to get the words out. He gazed at you expectantly.

“I-I love you too.”

Taehyung smirked and pulled you in. Your heart monitor picked up in speed as he kissed you deeply. The flower tattoos on your arm were dotted with goosebumps, your breath taken away by Taehyung.

He pulled away first but peppered you with more kisses around your face. His forehead leaned against yours as he giggles at your flustered expression. The stars were in his eyes and he admired how gorgeous you looked at that moment.

“Now tell me are there flowers in your stomach?” he asks teasingly as if he didn’t just read your would-be last words a while ago.

You chuckled lightly.

“No flowers,” you intertwine your hands with his. “Just butterflies.”

—

A/N: Thank you again to @guksflavor for requesting this! If you guys want to commission stories for me to write, please read my rules page and find the link to my ko-fi on my blog! I don’t really do fluff endings but I thought this was a cute way to end things off. How do y'all like it? No more tears for this chapter, I hope. Thank you all again for the support and I appreciate all types of feedback for my stories!!

[agentrouka-blog]

I’ve been wondering what to make of Arya killing Dareon. I’ve seen this celebrated as an example of her making sure justice is served. But I felt so bad when I read that. Dareon didn’t choose to go to the Watch. He was sent there as punishment, probably on false charges. He didn’t choose to make that oath. When Arya killed him, it felt almost like if Andy had been murdered right after escaping Shawshank.

At the same time Arya isn’t warden of the North. She is in no position to be the one to sentence and execute deserters, which made what she did vigilantism at best.

Do you think GRRM means us to see this as justice? I mean, he does make a lot of people not breaking the oats the swear, but at the same time he makes it clear that a lot of the men of Watch shouldn’t have been there in the first place.

Hi non!

Well, I certainly don’t think GRRM is celebrating Arya’s choice here.

Arya’s murder of Dareon places her in a pattern of singer murders that encompasses many of our leading ladies (and lads) in the books. All occur in the context of injustice.

Cersei: the Blue Bard (if he’s not dead yet, he’s certainly headed that way)

Sansa: Marillion (indirectly)

Arya: Dareon

Dany: Mirri

Catelyn: Jinglebell (not a singer, but a “musician” with his bells and fond of dancing)

Tyrion: Symon Silver Tongue

Basically, none of these singers die justly, all are accused of crimes they did not commit, or simply for revenge. Arya’s case is no different.

Dareon is, to me, much greyer than what you describe. He may be innocent of the crime that sent him to the Wall - or he may say he is. He didn’t choose to go to the Wall, and he didn’t have much alternative to saying the vows, yes. But he is also being an irresponsible traitor because the threat of the Others to the Realm is real and he knows it. Gared is executed by Ned for defection but he tried to tell them about the threat. Dareon is just abandoning the responsibility that is inherent in his knowledge of what is going on. 

But that is not why Arya kills him. 

It made her angry to see Dareon sitting there so brazen, making eyes at Lanna as his fingers danced across the harp strings. The whores called him the black singer, but there was hardly any black about him now. With the coin his singing brought him, the crow had transformed himself into a peacock. (…) The only black about him was his boots. Cat had heard him tell Lanna that he'd thrown all the rest in a canal. "I am done with darkness," he had announced.

He is a man of the Night's Watch, she thought, as he sang about some stupid lady throwing herself off some stupid tower because her stupid prince was dead. The lady should go kill the ones who killed her prince. And the singer should be on the Wall. When Dareon had first appeared at the Happy Port, Arya had almost asked if he would take her with him back to Eastwatch, until she heard him telling Bethany that he was never going back. (…)

The swollen red sun hung in the sky behind the row of masts when Cat took her leave of the Happy Port, with a plump purse of coins and a barrow empty but for salt and seaweed. Dareon was leaving too. He had promised to sing at the Inn of the Green Eel this evening, he told her as they strolled along together. (…)

“What happened to your brother?” Cat asked. “The fat one. Did he ever find a ship to Oldtown? He said he was supposed to sail on the Lady Ushanora.”

“We all were. Lord Snow’s command. I told Sam, leave the old man, but the fat fool would not listen.” The last light of the setting sun shone in his hair. “Well, it’s too late now.”

“Just so,” said Cat as they stepped into the gloom of a twisty little alley. (...)

This time she did not hesitate. “Dareon is dead. The black singer who was sleeping at the Happy Port. He was really a deserter from the Night’s Watch. Someone slit his throat and pushed him into a canal, but they kept his boots.”  

“Good boots are hard to find.”

“Just so.” She tried to keep her face still.

“Who could have done this thing, I wonder?”

“Arya of House Stark.” She watched his eyes, his mouth, the muscles of his jaw. (…)

On her way across the city Arya had wondered what the kindly man would say when she told him about Dareon. Maybe he would be angry with her, or maybe he would be pleased that she had given the singer the gift of the Many-Faced God.

She had given him the gift. She claims it was Arya-of-House-Stark (tm) who killed him, and it was, but she did not execute a deserter in accordance to the law. (Which she can’t because she is in no legal position of authority.) She performed an assassination. She left when he did, she strolled with him, she never identified herself or “officially” sentenced him. She waits for an isolated moment and - in all likelihood - used subterfuge and surprise to slit his throat. Much like she used the already vulnerable position of the Tickler to butcher him, or later lures Raff to his doom. Or even the Northern guard when she escapes Harrenhal. (Their individual guilt is not the point. She kills by underhanded means, again and again.)

The case of Dareon is vigilantism, and it is at least partly fuelled by disappointed Anger because he fails to be an opportunity to bring her where she wants to be. And because his desertion is one thing she can identify as wrong and has the means to punish.

It is satisfying on the surface but it is not justice. There is no protocoll, no structure, no community, no authority. 

There were questions asked and answers given there in the chill of morning, but afterward Bran could not recall much of what had been said. Finally his lord father gave a command, and two of his guardsmen dragged the ragged man to the ironwood stump in the center of the square. (…)

His father peeled off his gloves and handed them to Jory Cassel, the captain of his household guard. He took hold of Ice with both hands and said, "In the name of Robert of the House Baratheon, the First of his Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, by the word of Eddard of the House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, I do sentence you to die." He lifted the greatsword high above his head. (…)

“The blood of the First Men still flows in the veins of the Starks, and we hold to the belief that the man who passes the sentence should swing the sword. If you would take a man's life, you owe it to him to look into his eyes and hear his final words. And if you cannot bear to do that, then perhaps the man does not deserve to die.

"One day, Bran, you will be Robb's bannerman, holding a keep of your own for your brother and your king, and justice will fall to you. When that day comes, you must take no pleasure in the task, but neither must you look away. A ruler who hides behind paid executioners soon forgets what death is."

 (AGOT, Bran I)

She never witnessed this. And it shows. She passes the sentence and swings the sword, but she leaves out the important part that means enacting justice in the name of a higher authority that bestowed this duty onto you - part of a structure and community - and she leaves out the aspect of communication displayed by Ned, and explained by Ned. It’s not about the unaware mutterings of an oblivious assassination victim. It is about openly confronting a perpetrator with his crime. Arya practices vengeful murder. 

And I get why. Arya witnessed trials gone awry a-plenty. Lady was sentenced to death for nothing. Ned confesses and gets a surprise beheading. The Hound never had to pay for Mycah’s murder. In his trial by combat he kills Beric. 

I get why this desperately furious child is going down this route. But that doesn’t mean it is right. And I don’t think GRRM wants to imply that it is right. He is showing us harrowing tragedy on the page. 

[tenspontaneite]

Peace Is A Journey (Chapter 22/?)

In which Callum and Ezran confront some of the implications of Harrow’s death; in Katolis, a meeting of the High Council is called.

(Chapter length: 15.5k. Ao3 link)

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Sarli and Cairon whiled away the hours with their work, waiting until such a time that a runner came from the castle. If there were any watchers in place observing them, they saw no sign of it, though that did little to ease their tension throughout the day. When finally they were called upon, they went, and did not make any particular fuss about it. It came later than anticipated; at a time ebbing closer to evening than afternoon. She wondered if there had been any difficulties that might have caused the delay.

They arrived at the castle and were taken to wait in a receiving room not far from where Sarli knew the Council hall to be. The thick stone of the castle walls blocked all trace of sound, and though she was sure the meet must already be underway, she could hear nothing. So she held silent and still, waiting in calm dignity for the inevitable summons. Cairon, for his part, held a silence and stillness that seemed very intent, as if he were trying to listen for voices through the stone. He would have had to have very good ears to manage it; the castle walls were thick indeed.

Finally, a guard came to lead them through, and the two that had been in the room stood up and followed. When they entered the Council’s grand hall, there had evidently been a great deal of talking already, and a great deal of resistance. Lord Viren was not in the monarch’s seat, but instead stood at the table’s end like a supplicant, cuffed, flanked on either side by well-armed Crownguard. She had a split second to guess that he would not take such debasement lightly, and then she saw his face.

The Lord Protector was tense with barely-leashed rage, his fists tight at his side and his frame set with a proud, furious rigidity that spoke well to his state of mind. He had encountered a challenge and a setback where he had anticipated none, and it had got the better of him.

His eyes moved and fell upon her, and tightened with obvious fury. Sarli stared back impassively.

“I call the Healer Sarli, and her apprentice, Cairon of the Acolytes of Mercy, to speak their testimony to the Council.” Opeli said, steely-eyed and intent. She did not betray any hint of satisfaction or victory, and Sarli respected that, too. One ought not celebrate a victory until it was in her hands. “By what would you be bound?” She asked of them, and Sarli answered without hesitation.

“By Mercy,” she said, and Cairon echoed ‘Mercy’ a bare second after her.

Opeli nodded, and then had them speak the vows in Mercy’s name that would bind them by honour to truth, and then without unnecessary preamble she had their testimony from them. Sarli described the circumstances under which she’d been summoned, what she’d seen of the Lord Protector’s secrecy and the conditions of his dungeon, what he’d said of his past treatment of his prisoner, and the evidence that Sarli had gleaned well from that prisoner’s health. She spoke of the amputation performed in the dark, hidden and faithless, and the insult she’d been dealt in having her patient taken from her. She spoke of the dark magic construct that had stolen into her House of Healing, and presented the ash of it that Cairon had saved in a tiny vial.

Cairon said his part, too, but by that point it was something of an afterthought. The Council adjourned briefly while a fresh party of guards, accompanied by a Councilman, ventured into the Lord Protector’s private dungeon and verified the presence of the prisoner, as well as the inhumane conditions of his keeping. They returned this confirmation to the Council-hall, and Lord Viren was asked to justify his actions.

He straightened, slowly, the rage in his eyes having banked in the interim to something colder and longer-burning. He had evidently been considering his words very carefully. “That elf is the assassin who murdered King Harrow.” He said, evenly, precisely. “And, to my belief, the leader of the party of assassins.” He was commanded to justify this claim, and elaborated at once on the differing position of the elf’s strange binding, the fact that he alone had borne the magical messenger-bird; the claim was accepted, and he went on. “This elf is the leader of a group of six – six – vile Moonshadow elves who somehow made it to the heart of the Kingdom without ever once being detected. A journey that surely must have taken them months – and they were not spotted. Does that not seem suspicious to you?”

The Council rustled. Opeli’s eyes tightened before she spoke. “Make your point, Lord Viren.”

“My point, as you put it, is that those elves constituted a security breach of the highest order,” said Lord Viren, voice coached in all the righteous, compelling concern that he could manage. “A Moonshadow assassin is unstoppable at full moon, but full moon does not account for how they travelled here undetected.”

“Moonshadow assassins are famously skilled.” Pointed out another of the Council, looking nearly interested now.

“Skilled, yes, but skilled enough to avoid all patrols and sentries along the way?” He shook his head. “The most efficient ways here from the border are heavily populated. No, Councillors; even if the assassins kept far from the road, they should have been spotted. Glimpsed, at least once. I’m sure they would have killed any scouts who did spot them, but we’ve had no missing scouts either, have we? They weren’t spotted.” He lifted an eyebrow, as if inviting the council-hall to follow him to his conclusion. “That implies knowledge of where to go to stay hidden – which routes are guarded and which are not – which paths an assassin might take to the heart of Katolis to slaughter its royal family.” The words were inflammatory, and deliberately so; many in the room stirred at the reminder. “That knowledge could only have been gained in one way.”

Sarli knew the word before it was spoken. So, judging by the sudden stillness of him, did Cairon. “Spies.” Concluded Opeli, flatly. “We know we have spies, Lord Viren. Every kingdom does. What does this have to do with your reprehensible conduct?”

The Lord Protector schooled his features into polite surprise. “You haven’t guessed, Lady Opeli?” He asked, falsely astonished. “Why, I have been trying to draw the information from the elf prisoner, of course.” He seemed satisfied as the Council erupted with mutters and rustling, eyes passing from one to the next with careful attention. “As the leader of his party, the prisoner will know how to contact the spies. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if he had made contact with a spy in the castle-city itself. Our king is dead!” he said, raising his voice, and casting his address around. Though shackled, he still had more than sufficient room to turn and enhance his oration. “Our heirs murdered! The Kingdom is in its hour of greatest vulnerability, and it is our duty to keep it safe. Security of information has never been more important.”

“…You claim your treatment of the prisoner was justified as means to draw information from him.” Opeli concluded, narrow-eyed, watching Lord Viren as though he were a particularly troublesome roach that had the temerity to refuse to die.

“Precisely so, Lady Opeli.” The Lord Protector agreed, voice lined with the artificial smoothness of someone who had lived too long at court.

Opeli did not appear impressed. Nor did her fellows, and Sarli could guess why. She waited for the obvious rejoinder.

It came, eventually, from the Councilman Saleer. “Lord Viren, I agree with your concerns of the security of the realm.” He said, turning a light frown to the man as he spoke. “The security of information must be one of our utmost priorities, and the potential for unearthing spies must be pursued. Your prisoner, doubtlessly, has very valuable information to give, and will likely only give it under duress. I agree that the duress is warranted.” He paused, looking almost disappointed. Sarli thought, by the look of him, that this Councilman might well have been Lord Viren’s partisan before this. Now, though? “What I question is why you did not apply to the proper channels to have it sanctioned.”

Sarli was nodding along as Lord Viren paused, his expression falling into a mask of polite indifference that seemed near-reflexive. “Pardon?” he inquired, mildly, with the look of a man who had been hoping very fervently that this topic would not arise.

Opeli took up the assault with an almost fierce cast to her eyes. “Under Law, Lord Viren, the use of exceptional measures in the questioning of prisoners of war may be granted by tribunal,” she said, eyes narrowing. “You cannot pretend you didn’t know that. There is no good reason, none, why you should have kept the prisoner in unlawful secrecy and unlawful conditions, when you could have simply requested a tribunal verdict. Do you think anyone would deny that this prisoner warrants it? It would be unanimous.” Her stare darkened to a glower. “But you didn’t even try. And I, for one, mistrust the intentions that this betrays.”

“I, as well.” Said one of the others. “It’s untrustworthy behaviour from the Lord Protector.”

“I support without reservation measures for the security of the realm,” said Saleer. “I dislike that I was not offered the opportunity to support this one. Matters of security should not be hidden from the Council. And, by reports, under your care the prisoner’s health has been declining rapidly. Such a valuable source of information should be kept more carefully.”

Opeli turned, abruptly, to Sarli. “Your verdict, Healer, on the prognosis of the prisoner.” She demanded, and Sarli blinked.

She took a moment to collect her impressions. “Under his current circumstances, without the care of a Healer…” She considered it. “If the records on his kind are correct, I would expect him to summarily expire beneath the new moon. In his current condition, and kept underground, I do not believe he would survive its privations.”

“And your recommendations for a course of treatment?” The question was quick.

“Access of a qualified Healer to his care and keeping.” She answered. “Moonlight; as much of it as possible, before the moon finishes waning. He must have a cell with an appropriately-placed window. And I strongly recommend against the use of any exceptional measures before the new moon has passed.”

“You consider it very likely that the prisoner would have died, left to Lord Viren’s care.” It wasn’t a question.

“I consider it a certainty, if he persisted in refusing access to a Healer.” Sarli said evenly. “If by some miracle the elf survived the new moon, he wouldn’t survive his infections without some moonlight to strengthen him. As it is, even should he receive a Healer’s attentions immediately, his survival is far from assured.”

Opeli nodded, sharply, and turned to Lord Viren. “Then we must charge you with endangerment of the security of the realm, Lord Protector, as well as breach of Law.” She said, and – that appeared to break through the man’s carefully-crafted exterior. He looked offended. “In risking the death of a potentially critical prisoner – a prisoner which you did not surrender to the official channels as you ought – you endanger the information security that you claim motivated you. I find your justifications poor and groundless, and call for the immediate confiscation of the prisoner, and sanctions upon your station.”

Oh, but that did not please Lord Viren. His eyes narrowed. His fists clenched, still cuffed, as though he were fighting to refrain from uttering something rash. She imagined she could almost hear the grind of his teeth.

Within minutes, Opeli’s call had the corroboration of the rest of the Council, and orders were dispersing for the appropriation and relocation of the prisoner. The soldiers who had aided the Lord Protector and not spoken up were due for trials of their own, and the Council was in agreement that Lord Viren should receive further sanction, to be determined at a later date.

“Healer, given your prior attendance to the case, I would ask that you take up the duty of the prisoner’s care.” Opeli said, which Sarli had been expecting.

“Of course.” She said, inclining her head, and did not mention that she would have been more than mildly irate to have had her patient given to the care of any other, and certainly would have made her ire the Council’s problem. “I will have the aid of my apprentice, I assume.” This was accepted without pause. Here, at least, the rights of a Healer went unquestioned.

Then she had the privilege of watching the Lord Protector escorted from the throne-room, to rest under guard in his quarters until such a time as he received his next hearing. As he passed her by, flanked by the pikes of the Crownguard, he turned eyes upon her that were venomous and graceless in defeat. “So much for the vaunted confidentiality of Healers.” He said to her, casting his voice so as to be heard, perhaps in some attempt to discredit her vows to the Council.

She lifted an eyebrow at him. “Surely you’re not surprised, Lord Viren.” She said, and allowed herself a stirring of satisfaction in her gut, though it did not reach her eyes. “It was my duty.”

“Your duty?” He seethed, the guards pausing to allow the exchange.

“Yes.” She answered, and no more. If he had paid better attention, he would have known it. She owed him no explanation at all.

So, in the end, Lord Viren left the hall in disgrace, and Sarli returned with her apprentice to the mouth of the Valley of Graves.

 ---

 The snowshoes, by necessity, limited their travel speed quite a lot. Rayla seemed to be feeling more lenient than usual, or otherwise was treating them gently, because she barely hurried them or remarked on their pace at all. He asked her about it, an hour or so in, and she shrugged. “Never expected to get far today,” she said. “But we needed to get moving. For…morale, I guess, if nothing else.”

Callum thought of staying in that Mercy-forsaken cave for another day and shivered. He could understand that. It felt, in a very real way, like the place had been stained with the grief and turmoil they’d experienced there, and he was increasingly glad to have seen the back of it. “Okay, fair enough.”

The forced break in their travel had at least allowed his legs to recover a bit; this turned out to be a very good thing, because the going that day was almost entirely uphill. Rayla kept cresting the side of the mountain, looking out, and shaking her head. No safe way down to the other side yet. So they were still climbing, in a steady meandering path around the curving edge of Dorel, searching for a way forward.

The snow made everything harder. Going uphill in snowshoes meant having to stamp the snow twice or more before every step, to ensure it was packed enough to withstand weight, which meant that every step forward took three times as much effort as it ought to. And, of course, he periodically fell in. Less so as he got the hang of snowshoeing, but it was a definite setback. They were walking  almost directly into the wind that day too, with the lingering malice of the storm scouring their cheeks until his skin felt red and raw.

After only a few hours of walking, Callum’s legs were aching, he was struggling for breath, and the straps of his bag were digging painfully into his shoulders…but, weirdly, it was still vaguely satisfying. There was a sense of relief to it all, like he was leaving something terrible behind. Like, somehow, if he walked far enough, the grief wouldn’t follow.

It helped that, walking on the outwards edge of an entire mountain, the views were usually incredible. At least half the times he tripped and fell into a snowdrift were because his eyes wandered to the scenery instead of where he was putting his feet.

Rayla had said they wouldn’t go far today, and was true to her word; she was obviously looking for somewhere to camp by mid-afternoon. The snow-clouds made it hard to judge the time of day, but he thought it was only about four by the time she stopped them, setting her bags down in a thick bank of snow beside some well-frosted pine trees. “This’ll do,” she announced, giving their surrounds a critical look. “It’s sort of sheltered, at least.”

Callum eyed the prospective campsite dubiously. The trees were not particularly closely-packed, but the snow seemed only knee-deep rather than hip-deep, so he supposed she was right. There was some degree of shelter here. “Nice view through the trees, too.” He pointed out, glancing through the sparsely-placed trunks to the silhouettes of the mountains. It was clear enough now that he could almost see some actual details past the haze. There was, sort of, a drop-off a short distance away. A slope steep enough that the snow hadn’t adhered to it particularly enthusiastically, in any case. He thought he could see some sort of forest further down.

She followed his gaze, looking vaguely taken-aback, as if she hadn’t even noticed the scenery. She blinked past the branches. “I was mostly just thinking about easy firewood access,” she admitted. “And not having to clear as much snow. But I suppose it looks nice enough?” She shrugged.

Ezran let Bait down into the snow, smiling a little as the glow-toad promptly dropped out of sight, too dense to do anything but sink in immediately. “I like it better than that stupid not-cave, anyway.” He announced, and kicked out some snow before setting his own bag down in the cleared space. “Are we setting up the tent?”

“Definitely.” Rayla said, eyeing a nearby tree suspiciously. She approached it and gave it a kick, then did a circuit of the other nearby trees to do the same. He wasn’t entirely sure what the purpose of it was, but she seemed more satisfied when she finished and added “It’s definitely still too cold to be a good idea to sleep outside.” Callum, who was already getting chilly now that he’d stopped walking, nodded ruefully, and bent to take his snowshoes off.

It was bizarrely, comfortingly normal to go about the camp-making process again. The snow occasioned a few extra steps, but Rayla mostly took care of that; she broke off a branch so large it seemed more like half a tree, still thick with pine needles, and used it as an improvised broom to beat aggressively at the thick snow in their vicinity. While they gathered wood for a fire, she exposed an area of frozen earth that would have been large enough for three or four tents instead of just the one. When she was done she stood back to observe it with plain satisfaction, discarding her improvised broom.

Callum inspected her handiwork. The edges of the snow, all pushed outwards, looked almost comically like some sort of perimeter wall. He half felt like he should be drafting Ez to go build a snow-fort with him. Instead: “Tent time?” he inquired, eyeing the cleared space, and she nodded.

“Tent time.” She agreed, and they all set to work.

Rayla had regained the use of her left hand since the last time they did this, and although it seemed weak enough to not be able to grip or brace things properly, it still made enough of a difference that she joined in on the tent-building with a vicious satisfaction, obviously soothed to have some measure of her capabilities back. He was glad for her, though he did spend most of the process worrying that the tent would catch on her arm wounds somehow.

After startlingly little time, they had a tent again. Right at that moment, he thought it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. “I want to crawl in there and never leave.” He sighed, eyeing the open interior covetously. He hadn’t realised how fiercely he’d missed its dubious comforts until now. Sheltered or not, the alcove they’d spent the last couple nights in had been decidedly open to the elements, and the idea of being able to sleep in an enclosed space again was heartening.

“We can spend the evening warming it up. Putting hot rocks in it and stuff.” Rayla offered, and he glanced over to find her watching him with a slight smile. “Should be relatively toasty. At least for the first part of the night.”

“I’ll take it.” He said, wistful at the mere thought. “I don’t even remember the last time I felt warm.”

Ezran, who’d been slipping the egg out and resting it inside the tent, looked down at his boots. “I know what you mean. My toes have been frozen for days.” Bait inspected his own feet, croaked disagreeably, then crawled into the tent himself. Ez snickered at this, as though the toad had said something amusing that the rest of them weren’t privy to.

“Hopefully not literally.” Rayla said, finally dragging some of their wood over to arrange a fire. “Please, no frostbite. That would be so much work to deal with.”

“Seconded.” Callum put in quickly, stomach roiling a little at the thought. He’d heard stories about frostbite, and they weren’t pretty. “No one’s allowed to lose any toes.” After a moment, he went for the flint in his bag, moving over to hand it to Rayla. She murmured thanks and began casting the sparks, holding the left-hand rock very carefully indeed.

Ezran patted his feet, then stuck them close to the designated fire-area. “I think I can manage that,” he said. “So long as this fire picks up a little, anyway. My boots feel all snow-soggy.”

It all went weirdly smoothly from there. Callum wasn’t sure what he was expecting; some setback, maybe. Like the strong winds of that one other campsite, or an unwelcome thunder-clap. But nothing happened. It all just…worked. The first order of business, once they had a fire, was to start heating up some snow and pine needles for tea. The second order of business was to stash all the still-raw meat into the snow-walls around their campsite to ensure it’d stay frozen. With those more pressing matters dealt with, Rayla started hunting around for suitably-sized rocks to stash in the flames for heating. In what seemed like no time at all, they were passing pine-tea around, everyone except Callum grimacing lightly at the taste as they sipped.

And, just like that, they were sat quiet and idle around yet another campfire.

In the smooth, easy progression of the afternoon…there really hadn’t been any opening to sit and dwell on unhappy thoughts. Now though, the quiet fell for long enough to turn pensive in the air, growing heavier between one moment and the next.

“This is so…normal.” Ezran said into that quiet, after a long time. He was staring into the bubbling pot on the fire, looking conflicted. Rayla turned to watch him, eyes sombre with understanding.

Callum offered a low hum of agreement, heart sinking. It had been easier – when the travel and the campcraft had been distracting him – to keep his mind off of heavier things. But there was only so long that would work.

“It’s like nothing ever happened. Like nothing’s changed.” Ez went on, when neither of them spoke. “But…it has. It has changed. And I just…” he exhaled, lifting a hand to his face. “I don’t know. It’s hard.”

He laid a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “I know.” He said, softly. “I - it does get easier? But…”

Ezran glanced up at him, and didn’t seem especially reassured. He just looked back at the fire. “I can’t stop thinking about – about how we weren’t there.” He said, arms tightening around his front, as though he wanted to hug something but had nothing there. The egg and Bait were both in the tent, after all. “For…a lot of things. Like…” He breathed, closing his eyes for a moment. “Like the funeral. That would have been a few days ago, right?”

Callum hadn’t thought of that. It was like a stab through his heart. “I – yeah.” He agreed, miserably, after a second of thought. “Seven sunsets. We passed that at least a couple days back.”

“And those memorial flames, in Verdorn.” Ezran went on, eyes shadowed. “And the flags. That was for him, too. Right?”

He winced. Those had both been signs he’d tried, very hard, not to think about at the time. “…Yeah. I think so.”

“And we just…” Ez shook his head. “We just kept going. Didn’t even know when the funeral happened, or – anything.”

Rayla was hunching her shoulders a little now, too. “Should’ve told you sooner.” She muttered, low and guilty.

His brother sighed. “Yeah, probably.” He acknowledged, seemingly too worn to soften the words. “But it wouldn’t really have changed anything.” He thought. “Maybe we could’ve lit a flame for him, I guess, if it was before the funeral. Now we can only do that at his grave. Or – at Ashtide, maybe?”

He saw Rayla frown at the word, apparently finding it unfamiliar. “That’d be a long way away, though.” Callum said softly. “We only just had Ashtide a few months back.”

Ezran was silent for a moment. “At his grave, then.” He exhaled. “I guess by the time I get a chance, I’m probably going to be King. Or, actually, I – I guess I’m already King? I…” He buried his face in his hands. “Callum, I…don’t know if I’m ready for this.”

His gut tightened. Ez was too young to have to be worrying about something this heavy. Too young by far to be King. But… “I know.” He said, quietly, and offered an arm. Ez eyed it for a moment, then sighed, shuffling closer and letting himself be pulled in. He huddled into Callum’s side. “If it helps…you can always pick a regent. The Queen of Duren’s still using her regent, and she’s a year older than you.”

“Regents. Right.” He blinked a few times, and the words did at least seem to have surprised him out of his misery for a moment. “Forgot about that. But…who would I even pick?” He frowned suddenly, like he’d had an unpleasant thought. “Do you think they already picked one for me? Because we’re – you know, here? It’s not like they can just leave the kingdom without someone in charge…”

“They might have, yeah. A temporary one, maybe.” It was similar to what he’d been thinking earlier in the day. His arm tightened. “They could’ve crowned a Lord Protector instead, I guess, but that would be weird. There’s probably just a regent.”

“I wonder who it is.” Ezran said lowly, then huddled in closer, hunching until he seemed tiny. “Stupid,” he muttered, as if to himself, with an edge of upset rising in his voice. “Dad’s dead and I missed his funeral and I don’t even know who my regent is.” There was a self-castigation there that Callum was far more used to hearing from his own voice than his brother’s. Some King I am, it seemed to whisper.

Callum frowned. “Hey, none of that is your fault, Ez.” His voice came out a little more sharply than he’d intended. Rayla stirred a little, like she wanted to say something, but in the end she stayed quiet, watching them with sombre eyes.

“I know.” Ezran’s limbs furled tightly inwards, knees coming up to his chest. “I know it’s not. I just – it feels bad, okay? Now – it’s not just that dad’s dead, it’s – I’m supposed to be responsible for the whole kingdom too? And instead of being there, doing my job, I’m just…” He trailed off, then shook his head. Lifted a hand and gestured tiredly out at the campsite. “I’m just…here. And I don’t know who’s taking care of Katolis.” Before Callum could speak, he’d already gone on. “And that matters, you know? Because of this whole stupid war. What if whoever it is keeps fighting? My regent could be making things worse while I’m-“ he gestured violently around them, at the tent, at the fire. “-sat here, camping.” His voice went bitter on the last word.

Whatever Callum had been about to say died on his tongue. He wasn’t sure what he’d intended to say, but…

Rayla cut in, then. “You’re doing something important here, Ez.” She said, and though her voice was gentle, it was very firm too. “I know it doesn’t feel like it, since we’re mostly just…walking, and camping. But we’re taking the Dragon Prince home. And, coming from you…” She shook her head for a moment. “Do you know how much that’ll mean, for Azymondias to be returned by the King of Katolis? Not just by some human, but a king? That sort of gesture matters, Ez.”

Callum glanced at her, surprised. He’d not heard her talk about anything like that before. It rang true, though, and he could see it move Ez too. His pale eyes flicked back to the egg in the tent, expression twisted with indecision. “…Yeah.” He said, at last. “I can see how that’s important. How that’s…a big thing. But…” He went quiet for a few long moments. “But I feel like the kingdom matters too. Who’s controlling it. What if by the time we get to Xadia, there’s armies fighting again, because I wasn’t home to tell them not to?” His hands clenched in Callum’s jacket. “What if more people die?��

His gut twisted. “It’s a good point.” He admitted, after a moment. There hadn’t been all-out armed conflict with Xadia since, pretty much, Harrow had been crowned. But in the wake of a royal assassination on either side… “It’s – scary to think about. But I can’t help but think-“ he hesitated, and stopped, not sure if he should say it.

Ezran noticed, of course, and frowned up at him. “Think what?”

“…I can’t help but wonder if it’d actually make a difference. You telling them not to go to war.” He admitted finally, throat feeling tight. Ezran stared at him, confused and almost a little offended, so: “It’s not like child kings are unheard of, Ez. But – sometimes, if people think they’re not making the right decisions, and they’re not ready to rule yet…they’re forced to take a regent anyway. At least for a few years.” He hesitated again, and added, more quietly, “Or they get deposed. Or…worse.”

It wasn’t something he wanted to think about. But kings were valid targets for assassination, as far as Pentarchy standards were concerned. Ezran was King now. It wouldn’t matter that he was only a child. If people didn’t like what he was doing…then there’d be assassins. Probably a lot of them.

There were always people who didn’t like what kings and queens were doing. That went without saying. But something like this?

Ezran’s expression had gone a little stricken, like he hadn’t thought about that. Callum felt like he had to elaborate, at that point. “You’d want to stop the fighting, right?” He said, quietly. “Make peace with Xadia. But – you’d need support for something like that, Ez. You’d need at least most of your council to think you know what you’re doing. Or at least a few important people who’ll back you up.”

He’d been pretty much raised with the idea that he’d be Ezran’s most trusted royal advisor someday. He’d never thought he’d have to start this soon. If he’d known, he’d have paid better attention. But now…he couldn’t help but remember some of his lessons, and think about what they meant for his brother now.

It’s not that simple, Harrow had said, when Callum demanded to know why he couldn’t just make peace, stop the assassination. Thinking of it made frustration rise and seethe in his throat, harsh with upset, because – for all his words, Harrow had had so much more freedom than Ezran. He’d been an adult, beloved by the kingdom, with a history of both peaceful and warlike actions. He’d surely have faced opposition, and assassins, if he made unpopular decisions. All kings did. But if he’d tried, if he’d just tried – Callum was sure he’d have had the clout to see it through.

But he hadn’t. And now the weight of that responsibility was on Ezran. Ezran, who was ten years old, and untried, and didn’t have the trust and support that comes from a decade of ruling. It would be so much harder for him. It wasn’t fair.

“I – I didn’t think of that.” Ezran said, into the silence, looking shaken. “But – it’s not like I can’t try to make peace. That would just be…wrong. But you’re saying…” he swallowed. “You’re saying they might not let me.”

“Maybe, maybe not.” Callum hedged, head aching a little. He’d always disliked the politics lessons. But enough of them had sunk in that he was seeing the implications here. “It kind of depends how scared of Xadia everyone is at the moment. But…yeah, I think you’d need someone backing you up to declare peace, or you could lose control of the court.”

“Like who?” He asked, a little miserable now. It was plain he didn’t want to be thinking about this. Any other time Ezran looked like that, he’d be sneaking out of lessons to steal jelly tarts. But that wasn’t an option here, and he knew it. This wasn’t a responsibility he could shirk. Not without terrible consequences.

Callum thought. “Aunt Amaya would do really well, if we could get her on our side.” He said eventually. “She’s a war hero, you know, and everyone trusts her to defend us from elves.” He saw Rayla’s expression and added “Sorry Rayla. But yeah, she’d be a good choice. If she backed you up on the peace thing, a lot more people would trust it. It would just…be hard to convince her about it. She really doesn’t like Xadia.”

Ezran’s eyes were shadowed. “I know.”

Rayla exhaled, then spoke up. “I’m not going to pretend to know anything about your human court politics,” she started, and waited till their eyes were on her. “But don’t you think, maybe, that some sort of grand gesture, like returning the Dragon Prince, might win over your – council people, or whatever?” Her voice was more than a little sardonic, like she thought they were missing the obvious option, and she was getting a bit exasperated about it.

There was a slightly startled pause. “I mean, maybe.” Callum said after a moment. “It depends. But if you told it the right way, it could make people feel a bit less like we’re going to be attacked with dragons the second Ezran lets our guard down.” He thought. “Especially if we can get some sort of diplomatic thing out of the Dragon Queen. Some sort of agreement or gesture or something.”

Ez didn’t seem convinced, though. He looked back at the egg, troubled. “You’re saying that the best idea might just be to…stick with what we’re already doing.” He said unhappily. “Go to Xadia. Give the egg back. Let whoever’s running the kingdom keep running it.”

She shrugged helplessly. “Maybe so.”

He didn’t speak again for a while, only watched the egg with unblinking eyes. Then he looked away. “I want to just do that.” He admitted, lowly. “I want to stay with Zym, and make sure he gets home safe. But…I feel kind of like that’s running away. Like maybe I just want to do it because it’s easier than going home and being King, and not – because it’s the right choice.” He exhaled heavily. “I don’t know.”

Rayla made a face, like she understood uncomfortably well. “I get that, Ez.” She said softly. “I do. But…”

“I don’t know that I could let you go to court without someone I trust guarding you.” Callum admitted, uncomfortable. “And even then – it’s risky, Ez. It’s not safe.”

Ezran looked up, eyes uncannily pale. “No one’s safe,” he said, with a sombre gravity. “Not in this war. It’s my duty to stop that, right?”

“Yeah,” He acknowledged, gut twisting. “But you’re not going to do any good if you go home and make a mess of things and get killed because someone didn’t like the choices you make.” His heartbeat felt weird; too heavy, too hard. The thought of Ezran leaving made him feel sick. The thought of him being in danger, alone, made his skin prickle with cold horror.

“All kings have to deal with that.” Ez countered, but there was no heart in it. Just a rote objection.

“You’re not ‘all kings’, Ez.” His arm tightened around his brother’s side. “You’re ten.”

He ducked his head, ever-so-slightly, then sighed quietly. He looked away. When he spoke, his voice was very low. “I don’t know what to do.”

“It’s kind of a moot point at the moment, anyway.” Rayla said, and their eyes turned her way. “We’re up a mountain right now, in case you haven’t noticed. It’s not like you can go back alone, Ez. And I don’t know how long it’ll be until we’re near a town again, but-“ She squinted out past the trees for a moment. “-it’s at least three mountains off, I think.”

“No settlements in this part of the Belt.” Callum supplied quietly. “There used to be a lot of towns along the Rhodane river, a long time ago, but – not anymore.” He shook his head. “If we’re travelling down that way, the first ‘town’ we find is probably going to be Greatport. And that’s all the way over on the Bay.” He was hard-pressed to call Greatport a town, really. It was one of the biggest cities in the Pentarchy.

“There you have it.” She nodded, briskly. “No point worrying about this now when going home isn’t even going to be an option for weeks. And at that point maybe we can have a poke around your ‘Great Port’ and get some news.”

“Weeks,” Ezran repeated, in a very plaintive tone. “That’s so far away. I’m going to be worrying about who my regent is for weeks?”

Callum hesitated. “I…” He stopped, considering his words. “If it helps, there really isn’t a lot of people it could be. Not many people have the kind of reputation they’d need to get appointed without your decision.”

Ez blinked, looking up at him out of the corners of his eyes. “…Like who?” He sounded wary, but a little curious too.

Callum thought. “Opeli, definitely. But she’s got a lot of jobs already, so she’d probably have to pass one of them off to do it. Aunt Amaya, same. She’d probably need to step down as General. And…” he hesitated on the last one, gut twisting a little. “And Lord Viren. He…wouldn’t need to step down from anything, I don’t think. He’s just the High Mage. There’s not a huge amount of work with that.” He exhaled. “So, if I had to guess, I’d say…probably him.”

Ezran was silent for a few long moments. “I don’t think I like that.” He said, finally.

Rayla scowled. “Isn’t he the dark mage who killed the Dragon King?” She asked, with an edge to her voice. “The one who stole the egg? And-“ She broke off there, but Callum thought he could guess what else she was thinking: if her parents weren’t cowards, it would have been Viren who killed them.

“Yeah.” Callum nodded, shortly, and remembered the phantom sensation of a dark hand stealing his breath away. He lifted his fingers to his scarf, adjusting it uncomfortably, and – wasn’t sure whether or not he should say anything. Was it relevant? Did it matter? Was there any point in mentioning it?

He should have known better than to think Ezran wouldn’t notice his indecision. His brother turned a little to stare at him, frowning a little. “Callum?” He questioned, with sudden concern. “Is something wrong?”

He hesitated, then looked away. “…He was there, when I went up into the tower that night.” He said, in the end, not meeting their eyes. “Lord Viren, I mean. He was guarding the royal chambers with Soren, and the other Crownguard.” And that was a thought. Had Viren even survived? Had Soren survived? The other Crownguard had died so fast… “I tried to get him to let me in, so I could tell – dad – about the egg. But…” He trailed off, throat feeling tight.

“…He didn’t let you?” Ezran guessed, unhappy, and Callum shook his head.

“No. I mean – no, he didn’t, but-“ He clenched his fists. “He made it sound like Harrow already knew. And then he said some…stuff.” Mongrel, whispered his memory. Thinking of it made him feel so…confused? Angry? Betrayed? He had no idea. Viren had never seemed to be fond of him, maybe, but he’d not expected that. “And he used dark magic on me,” he concluded, quietly. “To stop me from calling out to Harrow. It didn’t last, but-“

“What?!” He and Ezran jerked with surprise at the vehemence of Rayla’s voice, both of their eyes snapping to her at once. She’d half-risen, looking murderous, like she wanted to spring to her feet and go for someone’s throat. Her hands were twitching for her weapons.

Warily, Callum repeated it: “He used dark magic on me. Some kind of spell to take my voice away.” She made a noise that was almost a hiss, a sharp exhalation of tightly-held air. She looked furious. “It didn’t hurt,” he hastened to add, which didn’t seem to reassure her at all. “I just – couldn’t call out. Couldn’t get through. When my voice came back I…ran. And then I found you guys.”

“He used dark magic on you?” She bit out, now actually on her feet, pacing around the fire like she was searching for something to fight, hands flexing at her sides. “That’s – you never mentioned – ugh.” She stopped, brought a hand up to her face in a brief agitated motion, then whirled suddenly on Ezran. “You are not going back there!” She snapped, almost angry, with a protective fury in her eyes that he’d never seen before.

Ezran was watching her with a measure of surprise. “…We don’t know if he’s the regent, though.” He pointed out, a little soothingly, and Rayla made a disgusted sound.

“He’d still be there. You can’t live in a castle with someone who cast dark magic on your brother.”

“I’m fine, though?” Callum attempted, and she whirled on him, staring fiercely down from where she’d paused in her pacing.

“That’s not the point, Callum.” She said, tersely, hands shaking with her tension. “The point is – if he did it once, he could do it again. Maybe not just to you. Maybe to Ez, too. You’re royalty, right? Isn’t it a big deal if someone does dark magic on you?”

“…It is, yeah.” Ezran agreed, before Callum could say anything. He looked sidelong at him, brow furrowed. “It is a big deal. He could get jailed for that, right? Executed, even, if it actually hurt you. I…had no idea Viren would do something like that.”

Callum opened his mouth, then closed it again, at a loss. “I…” he started, uncertain. “I – get the feeling he mostly just did it because he didn’t like me.” He remembered the man’s diatribe again, throat clenching. It hurt to recall, even though he’d never been close to Viren.

The remark didn’t seem to please either of them. Ezran scowled, and Rayla made a sound like an angry snake. She knelt down, and for a second rested a hand on his shoulder. ‘Rested’ was the wrong word, actually. It was more like she was gripping it, fingers tense and tight. “You matter too, Callum.” She told him lowly, quietly furious. “It’s not okay that he did that to you.”

He stared at her, struck as mute as he’d been when Viren had stolen his voice. In the end Ez sighed and turned away, staring at the fire. “So, it’s not safe for me to go home.” He concluded quietly. “Not until I’ve got…court support, and – someone to make sure I’m safe. From assassins. And…maybe Viren.”

Rayla withdrew her hand, then sat down at Callum’s side as heavily as a dropped stone. “Sounds about right to me.” Her voice was still tight, her expression angry. Angry on Callum’s behalf.

Still he didn’t speak, looking away, staring at his gloved hands. Inanely, he observed that they looked weird fully-covered. He was more used to seeing them in his usual half-finger ones. What a stupid thought to be having now.

Ezran was right, was the thing. There were very, very heavy restrictions on when and how dark magic was allowed to be used. Claudia using it against Rayla that night at the castle would have been perfectly allowed and justified, but – Viren using it on him? That was illegal. That was really, really illegal. And…he was the prince. He didn’t really like to think about how important that technically made him, but – it was true. And Viren had used dark magic on him.

Could he be sure that Ezran was safe from that? That it was just a one-off, because Viren hated Callum specifically?

…No. No, he couldn’t. He couldn’t be sure of it at all.

“We’ll find out more about what’s going on in the kingdom later.” He said, finally, when he found his voice again. “But…yeah, you’re right. If – if Viren’ll do dark magic on me, we can’t be sure he wouldn’t – that he won’t…” He trailed off, and shook his head. “It’s not safe.”

All of them sat in a very glum, very heavy silence after that. Ezran probably would have been perfectly able to brood on his thoughts for the rest of the day; Rayla, apparently, was another matter. She started to look agitated only a couple of minutes into the quiet, then finally said “Right,” and stood, going for their bags.

Ez turned to look at her. “What are you doing?”

She pulled out a jar. “There’s no point sitting around feeling sorry for ourselves.” She said, determinedly, and returned to the fire already struggling for the leverage to uncap the thing with her bad hand. She didn’t manage it, and Callum could see her frustration at that, flitting across her face. Instead, she switched hands, holding the jar against her chest with the left and twisting the cap off with her right. “Might as well have dinner. Some food should cheer us up a bit.”

“If you say so.” He didn’t look convinced.

“Well, worst case, we’re unhappy and full.” Callum offered optimistically. “Which is probably better than unhappy and hungry.”

“Exactly.” Rayla nodded resolutely, then started pulling the cooked meat out. After some prompting, Ezran begrudgingly admitted to a preference for eating it warm, so Rayla emptied the residual pot-tea into their waterskins and stuck the meat in it with only a thin film of water in there. Callum didn’t feel quite as picky, so got started on some of his while the rest was heating. In short order, they were all chewing on rabbit or venison, and it did make him feel a little better.

Ezran seemed a little more fixed in his preoccupation, though, and was eating his food quite unenthusiastically. He didn’t look particularly cheered. Rayla was adding a second batch of meat to the pot, insisting that they all needed to stuff themselves, when Callum had an idea. He inspected their surroundings, smiled a little, then sidled up to his brother to nudge him conspiratorially.

“You know, Ez, something just occurred to me.” He said, pretend-thoughtful, and Ez looked at him suspiciously.

“What?” he asked, wary.

In a dramatic, sweeping gesture, he indicated the thick snow-banks around their cleared camp area. “Been a while since we made a snowman, don’t you think?” He asked, and saw Ezran blink; first understanding, then sceptical. “And we’ve got plenty of sticks and spare scarves and stuff.”

“Really?” Ezran seemed very unimpressed, which was as good a sign as there’d ever be that he was determined to stay miserable. Callum had no intention of letting that stand.

“What, are you too old for building snowmen now?” He pretended to swoon in horror, and saw Ez trying very hard not to let his lips twitch. So, naturally, Callum piled on the dramatism as heavily as he could manage. “Alas! My little brother is all grown up and boring!”

“Nooo,” Ezran muttered, protesting half-heartedly.

“No what?” He prompted, aware that Rayla was watching them from her periphery, hiding a smile. “No, you’re not too old for building snowmen? No, you’re not boring?”

“I’m not boring.” His brother grumbled, folding his arms. “You’re boring.”

“Oh, am I?” Determinedly, Callum poked and prodded at Ez until there was enough space in his posture to reach out and tug him encouragingly to his feet. “Then I bet you’ll make a way better snowman than me.”

“This isn’t going to work.” Ezran told him severely, but didn’t really protest being frog-marched to the snow-banks. He eyed the packed snow with a look of extremely un-Ezran-like disdain. “I’m not gonna magically cheer up because of snow.”

“Oh really?” Callum asked…directly before he lobbed a snowball at his brother’s face.

It was only a little one, assembled secretively behind his back, but it did the trick. Ezran spluttered with shock, looked briefly outraged, then responded in the only logical way: he picked up a handful of snow and threw it back.

It seemed like more of a reflex response at first, or even almost genuine annoyance, but that didn’t survive the next rounds of the impromptu snowball fight. In short order Ezran’s eyes were alight with vicious glee as he launched his projectiles, crowing triumphantly when he nailed Callum in the forehead and dislodged his hat. The next ten minutes were a mad haze of chasing and throwing and falling over in snow; eventually Callum accidentally tumbled over the snow-bank, Ezran following a second later, and they both fell with a muffled oof into the cleared camp-space.

“You done murdering each other with snow yet?” Rayla asked them, eyebrow raised, looking very amused. She’d been watching the spectacle but hadn’t made any move to join in, and suddenly, Callum thought that sorely needed correcting.

He locked eyes with Ezran, who had just finished picking himself up off the ground. Slowly, both of them reached for more snow. “That depends,” Callum said, secretively, and saw her eyes narrow with suspicion.

“On what?” She demanded, then spotted what they were doing. Her smile widened into something closer to a smirk. “…If you throw that, you’d best be prepared for the consequences.” She informed them, watching in an almost challenging way. Daring, even.

Ezran never had been good at resisting dares.

Rayla dodged the first projectile launched at her face with almost insulting ease, then rose to her feet. “You have surprisingly good aim, Ez.” She said, ominously, still wearing that smirk. “But now-“

Callum interrupted her. With a snowball.

His aim wasn’t great, so he only got her in the neck, but her astounded face more than made up for it. He had a second to admire it and guffaw before she was leaping at them, and both he and Ezran scattered, shrieking.

In a bizarre parody of the day they’d met, he and Ez ended up fleeing Rayla through and around the campsite for the next fifteen minutes, creating chaotic trenches through the deep snow. Occasionally she threw snowballs after them; other times she tackled them down. Gently, but she made a point of it: flattening them onto their fronts in the snow, chucking a snowball at the backs of their heads, and then jumping off in pursuit of whichever of them was still up.

He and Ez did get a good number of hits in, but in the end Rayla sat triumphant atop a pile of the both of them submerged in snow. Literally sat, at that; she’d deliberately set herself down on Ezran’s back, who was in turn on top of Callum, and grinned victoriously at them. “I win.” She announced. “And now, your forfeit is going back to the fire and eating.”

Callum, who was now very winded as well as very cold, said faintly “Fire sounds good.” Ezran was giggling madly on top of him, so all told, the endeavour had been a marvellous success.

Rayla graciously got up and pulled them both to their feet, then ushered them back to camp to warm up and get stuffed full of food. “Meat isn’t great for keeping fed, so we’ve got to have a lot of it.” She informed them, ushering yet more of the stuff into their hands. “We need all the energy we can get. Especially if we’re going to be having snowball fights, on top of all the walking.”

“That was pretty tiring.” Callum admitted ruefully. “Fun, though.” He thought. “We never did make that snowman.”

“We can do that after we eat and warm up.” Ezran suggested, clearly thoroughly knocked out of his glum mood. It was a very Ezran sort of thing to find any excuse for messing around in snow.

“Take your outer layers off first.” Rayla ordered, peeling her hat off tentatively. She inspected it and made a face. “Think we’ve got ourselves all wet with the snow. Better dry that off a bit.”

So they all shed a sweater, their hats, and an outer pair of gloves. Callum was left with just one thin pair of gloves over his half-finger ones now, and flexed his hands over the fire, feeling them sting as they warmed up. That was normal enough; if you warmed up really fast when you were really cold, it did hurt a bit. It was only to be expected. But then he spotted Rayla starting to wince and cradle her arm, and- “Did you hurt yourself?” he blurted, alarmed, and she looked up. “In the snowball fight – did you open anything?”

That she didn’t answer immediately wasn’t reassuring. “Pretty sure I didn’t.” She said, after a moment, and twisted to stick a hand down the collars of her arrayed sweaters and jackets and shirts. She felt around the site of the wounds experimentally, while saying “It just got numb from the cold, you know? Didn’t hurt so much. And now it’s warming up again, so…” After a careful investigation, she seemed satisfied, and withdrew her hand. “Feels fine.”

He subsided a little, and for that moment was relieved enough that she’d not re-opened her wounds that he didn’t think of the other part. But then Ezran shot her a look, set his food down, and said “You can take something for the pain now, you know.”

Rayla paused, thrown. “What?” She asked eventually, but she was plainly thinking through it herself. Callum was thinking it through too, for that matter, and cursing himself a little for not considering it earlier.

“You can’t have the willow bark because it messes with your healing. And you couldn’t have the lilium earlier because we needed to travel, and it wasn’t safe.” Ez laid it all out very matter-of-factly. “But we’re camped now. We’re not doing a fire-watch, so it’s okay if it makes you fall asleep. And there’s nothing tricky or important to do, so it’s okay if you go weird and loopy again, too.”

Callum had expected her to be reluctant about it. She hadn’t enjoyed the loss of control associated with the lilium, and wasn’t keen on the idea of fostering a dependency. But instead of objecting, she just listened to Ezran speak, exhaled with plain relief at the words, and went at once for the bags. That, more than anything, told him how much pain she must have been enduring. She didn’t even offer a token protest, just extracted the bottle and returned to the fireside to measure the tiny dose out.

“Thanks for the reminder,” she said at last, dipping her fingertip into the tiniest drop of red. Callum had seen enough blood recently that the colour left him slightly uncomfortable. “I honestly kind of forgot.”

“More like you forgot to stop ignoring how much it hurt.” Ezran amended, and she flapped a disgruntled hand at him, setting the bottle down.

“Same difference,” she claimed, and licked the lilium off of her finger. If previous experience with that dose level was anything to go by, it’d take a while to take effect for her, but Callum was just relieved she’d not made a fuss over it. She’d been in constant horrible pain for days now. She deserved a respite.

“I can do your bandages once that kicks in.” He said, deeply relieved. He was fully aware that the whole process did hurt, given the fresh lividity of the wounds. “And your hand.”

“The hand doesn’t hurt anymore.” Rayla pointed out, flexing it. “Well, not really. Still aches a bit, but it’s nothing much.”

He paused. “And the…numbness?” he asked, carefully. He’d already observed that it still seemed just as weak as earlier, but…

She grimaced and shrugged, looking uncomfortable. “It’s cold, so it’s hard to say.” She said, dryly, then deliberately changed the topic. “Weren’t you two going to build a snow-elf?”

Ezran snickered at her. “Snow-man.” He corrected.

“Close enough.” Her lips twitched, and then she was prodding them all over to the snow-banks again. Apparently she had every intention of joining in from the start this time.

Callum and Ezran cooperated on the creation of the giant snowballs necessary for the endeavour, but even so, it started to feel an effort once the bases got heavy enough. “I guess I’m more tired than I thought.” Callum admitted, pausing to catch his breath, one hand braced on the giant snowball that was to be his snowman’s base to stop it from going anywhere.

Rayla rolled her eyes at them, abandoning her own snow-boulders, and came to commandeer theirs. “Give that here,” she said, and proceeded to demonstrate that she was more than equal to the task of pushing snow around. Once she deemed that they were large enough, she returned with relish to her ‘snow-elf’, going at the task with an enthusiasm that surprised him a little. He watched her out of the corners of his eyes, smiling reflexively at the grin she didn’t seem to realise she was wearing, and wondered when she’d last had a chance to play around in snow. A lot less recently than them, he was sure.

In the end, after an hour or so, they each had a crude snow-person constructed at the campsite, positioned as if standing guard. Rayla had made use of a couple of large sticks to put horns on hers, and after a little packing and chipping of snow, Callum helpfully produced two pointy, icy ‘ears’ for her to attach.

“Thanks.” She said, after she got them affixed, and stood back to observe her work with satisfaction. “Suppose we can put the wet hats and scarves on these for decoration, since we’re not wearing them.”

“Won’t that mean they’ll just freeze solid?” He asked, amused, and she shrugged.

“We’d better take them off there before we go to sleep, yeah. Leave them close-ish to the fire. But for now…” She grinned, and went to fetch a scarf. He and Ez followed suit, and in the end, they had an array of snow-people that, amusingly enough, vaguely matched their party. In the encroaching sunset, they were shaded somewhat orange, braced against the darker reddish shadows of the trees.

“Mine’s a bit taller than I am,” Ez decreed, when this was pointed out, surveying their creations with interest. “But they’re pretty good. Yours is even a little bit shorter than Rayla’s, Callum.”

Callum blinked, and checked them. Ezran’s was in the middle, which made it a bit harder to judge, but… “I think you’re right.” He agreed ruefully, and after a second, arranged his snow-person so its scarf was more appropriately mimicking how he wore his own.

Rayla snickered, and said “Shame you don’t have any more of those half-finger gloves. That’d really complete the look.” He snorted, and glanced down at his hands. He’d already been reduced to just the one pair of extra gloves, and now that those were also snow-wet, he’d likely be down to just the normal half-finger ones in short order.

“I’d better make a snow-egg and snow-Bait.” Ezran decided, while Rayla was still scrutinising her snow-elf. “Or they’ll feel left out.”

“You do that.” She said generously, then stepped away. “I think I’m going to go sit and warm up a bit though. Starting to feel a bit…” She waved her hand a little, expressively, to evoke some sort of wooziness.

“Oh, it has been a while since you took the lilium.” Callum remembered, and eyed her with interest. “How’s it feeling?”

“Well, I’m cold-numb again, so still hard to say.” She said dryly. “But…better, yeah.” She glanced down at her arm, and flexed it a little. “Not so sore. Anyway, you two have fun.” With that, she adjourned to the campfire, a short enough distance from the snow-group that she glanced over at them periodically as they went back to work. She also apparently took the opportunity to carefully extract the heated rocks from the fire and take them, towel-wrapped, into the tent. She closed it up and went to find a new round of rocks to heat, and finally settled back at the fire while they put the finishing touches on their snow-group.

Progress was quick, all told. The egg was very simple to render. Bait was more or less just a lump with two rock-eyes and a grumpy face drawn on, so very easy as well. “Perfect,” Ezran declared, and then they were done. He went to retrieve the egg from the gradually-warming tent before sitting down, and Bait followed it out, going over to inspect his snowy facsimile with disgruntlement.

Rayla was pressing gingerly around the edges of her injuries when Callum and Ez finally planted themselves down beside her at the fire. She seemed to be testing the wounds, even through the various layers she wore. She caught Callum’s questioning glance as he sat down, and explained “Think I might’ve taken a bit low of a dose, honestly. It does feel better, but it’s still…” She made a face.

“Think you’ll take some more?” Callum offered, after a second. “You’re taking well under the…recommended safe dose. It’d be fine to take another little one.”

She seemed to seriously consider it, which was yet more evidence for how much pain she had to be in. She was reluctant this time, though. “Dunno.” She said, dubious. “That seems like a great way to go off my head and maybe start scratching these open too.” She nodded to her arm, and he winced.

“I think you’d probably have a harder time doing that with so many layers in the way.” Ezran eyed her, then reached out and touched his fingers to her neck; the most easily-accessible bare skin on her. He made a face even as she shooed his hand away with a glare. “Yeah, I think you should take some more. That’s…really not that much better.”

“Didn’t we talk about you empathy-ing my pain?” She demanded, irate. Callum thought uncomfortably about the discussion they’d had while Ezran was sleeping, and her observation that he was trying to manage them. He could see it a lot better now that he was on the look-out for it, and…yeah, he thought this was a pretty good example.

As if to wilfully reinforce Callum’s bad feelings on the topic, Ezran looked away, a little sulkily. “I was just checking on you.” He muttered, petulant. “It only hurts for a second when I do that.”

Rayla exhaled and seemed to be very carefully keeping her first choice of words in. “I appreciate you’re worried, Ez,” she said in the end, very precisely, “but there’s better ways to check up on me than hurting yourself, even if it is just ‘for a second’.”

“But you always deal with more pain than you need to.” Ezran persisted, glancing up at her with a stubborn and mulish glint to his eyes. “And…downplay it, if we ask. You don’t tell the truth if I ask a normal way.”

She twitched at that, looking genuinely annoyed, and Callum hastened to intercede before she said anything she might regret. This was looking like the beginnings of a potential sibling-argument again, and he was keen to interrupt before it got to the snapping and spitting stage.

“Ezran,” he opened, firmly, and both of them turned to look at him. They seemed almost surprised, like they’d forgotten he was there. That was what happened when two stubborn people got caught up butting heads, he supposed. The surprise was useful, though. It meant Ezran was listening, rather than stuck in stubborn-mode. “If Rayla doesn’t want to talk about – her pain or feelings, or whatever, then you just need to accept that, okay? That stuff’s private, and it’s kind of a jerk move to…empathy-read it on purpose when she doesn’t want to share it. So don’t do it. Alright?” Rayla shot him a grateful look for that. Ezran meanwhile had gone a little shamefaced.

“…Right.” He said, after a moment, eyes averted again. He held the egg tighter to his chest. “I – yeah, that’s kind of rude, isn’t it.” He glanced sidelong at her. “…Sorry, Rayla. I just…I get…worried. And…I don’t like it when you put up with stuff you don’t have to.”

She didn’t quite seem to know what to say to that, so Callum moved onto his second point, looking at her this time. “Yeah, and about that. Rayla-“ he hesitated for a second, then pushed on. “If you don’t want to take more lilium, because you don’t like the side effects, or whatever…I guess that’s your choice too. Just…” He exhaled, and rubbed at his temples a little. “Even if you take some right before you go to sleep, so there’s no time for you to act weird, and you can at least sleep better…I think we’d all be a bit happier.”

“It’s not like we’re going to judge you.” Ez spoke up, before Rayla found a reply. He glanced at her, still vaguely mutinous, and her eyes looked startled as they settled on his. “For acting weird when you’re on medicine. You don’t need to be embarrassed or anything.”

“He’s right, you know.” Callum said, after a moment. “You act kind of like you think we’ll judge you, or like…you need to be totally composed around us, or whatever. You don’t have to be.”

“…Easier said than done.” Rayla said finally, voice a little dry. She looked away. He could practically see her debating whether to speak or not, and then – finally – he watched her shoulders slump a little as she decided to open up. “Moonshadow elves…it’s not really just fear we’re not supposed to show. Fear’s just the worst thing. We’re supposed to be…controlled. Composed, like you said.” She shook her head. “It’s okay to be…emotional, around friends and family, I suppose. Even in public, sometimes. But you’re still supposed to be in control of yourself.” A grimace. “Most of the time, anyway.”

“…Most of the time?” Callum asked after a moment, unable to hold the question in. She glanced at him sourly.

“Full Moon.” She informed him, looking like she’d rather not think about it. “It’s…a lot more okay to be mad and emotional in public then. You’re supposed to be, even.” For a moment, she looked almost nostalgic. “We do these community dances every Full Moon, you know? Kind of like a party. Everyone’s plenty unrestrained at those. But aside from that…” He eyed her with interest, feeling the familiar thread of fascination at this latest revelation about elven culture, and wanted to question her further. It wasn’t the time, though.

“Being out of control of yourself in public is kind of like dropping your pants in public, huh.” Ezran guessed, and Rayla seemed to choke on her next breath, snorting with laughter.

“Yeah, not a bad way to put it, actually.” She agreed, with a little mirth.

“We do get that, you know.” Callum offered, after a pause. “We’re…royalty. We’ve had decorum lessons for years. How we’re supposed to act in public or whatever. It was pretty relaxed if we were at home – in the castle – but anytime there were dignitaries about, or we went out into the city?” He shook his head ruefully. “Not fun.”

“Oh, ugh, decorum lessons.” Ezran agreed with distaste. “I hate those.”

Callum very kindly did not remind his brother that he’d have to mind said lessons a lot better now that he was King. “Anyway, point is, we might not be as…” He searched for a diplomatic word. “…strict, as Moonshadow elves are. But we get the idea. And-“ He hesitated, glancing at her almost cautiously. “It’s…just us here, right? This isn’t exactly public.”

“And friends and family are fine.” Ezran added, with a stubborn set to his jaw as he looked at her. “You said.”

“I did say.” Rayla agreed, after a pronounced pause, voice a little rueful. “I know you’re not going to be weird about me being weird on pain drugs. It’s just…kind of a hard habit to break. And I don’t like being out of control of myself, even if I’m not in public. But…” She sighed, shook her head, and reached for the little bottle she’d set aside earlier. She eyed it consideringly.

“…Please don’t feel pressured into it, though?” Callum spoke, while she was still making a face at the bottle. “It feels weird to be trying to convince you to take something that’s technically the same thing as an illegal addictive drug. Even if it will stop your injuries from hurting. So, just…” he shrugged, awkward. “It’s your decision.”

She was silent for a few moments longer. Then: “I am pretty sick of being in pain all the time.” That sounded final. She opened the bottle, dipped her finger in it again, and imbibed a full drop. Still considerably lesser than the dose that fit into the little provided spoon, but considerably more than what she’d taken earlier. As she capped the bottle, she levelled a flat stare at the two of them. “If you let me pick my scabs open while I’m moonstruck, I will be annoyed.” She warned. “And if I start acting like an idiot again – well, you know what you signed up for.” He thought she still sounded a little uncomfortable at that last part.

“Well, if you just act dumb while you’re high, you’re doing better than Callum.” Ezran said, casting a mischievous glance sideways at him. “He acts dumb all the time.”

The only reasonable response to that was to hook his brother in and bestow a very firm noogie while he squawked. The hair was, as ever, quite a shield; but he had plenty of practice. Rayla looked very amused, both at Ezran’s comment and at its rightful rebuttal. “Is that so?” She asked, voice dry.

Callum shrugged, and didn’t bother to deny it. He wasn’t exactly the most serious of individuals, after all. “It’s a talent.” He claimed solemnly, and her lips twitched.

In the end, the second dose took effect noticeably faster than the first. Rayla started getting vague and smiley not fifteen minutes later, and responded to queries about her state of mind and pain levels with “nice” and “itchy” respectively. It did seem like significant lilium doses sapped pain and left a sort of irritating itchiness in its wake, because she kept lifting her hand to her arm to scratch and then lowering it with consternation. “It itches,” she complained to them, shuffling over to Callum unsteadily. “But I’m not supposed to scratch it. I think.” She frowned. “Right?”

He patted her on the forearm as she settled beside him, a smile pulling at his lips. “Right.” He agreed. “Good job remembering that. Keep it in mind, okay? No scratching.”

“Mm,” she accepted, and seemed to think about it. “I’d bleed everywhere again, wouldn’t I. That wouldn’t be fun.” She glanced down and pulled at her sleeve. “Don’t want to ruin any more clothes.”

“I’d be more concerned about the bleeding part than the stained clothes part,” Callum said dryly. “But yeah, that helps too.” He glanced at the sky, which was now very nearly completely dark. “Speaking of, I’d better get the bandages changed soon.”

“And my hand?” She offered, looking weirdly interested, and he nodded.

“And the hand.”

“Should we deal with your wrist binding again?” Ezran asked, and both of them looked over. After a moment, Callum understood the ‘we’ in question to be his brother and the dragon, whose egg was sat in his lap. “Is it getting tighter?”

“Mmhm.” Rayla agreed, indistinct, and the fingers of her right hand went to her wrist again. “Getting a bit sore again, actually. Well, it was earlier, anyway. Can’t feel that so much now.”

Ezran frowned at her and shuffled over. “You should’ve said,” he told her, almost admonishingly, and reached out to push his fingers up her sleeve to touch her binding. A second later, there was a little flicker of the bright light of the egg, and he leaned back. “There. Done.”

Callum blinked. Rayla looked startled as well, even as marsh-whacked as she was. “That seemed easier than before?” She offered, perplexed, and Ez shrugged.

“It is, yeah.” He rested a hand on the eggshell. “It’s getting easier for both of us. He’s still…all full of magic, from the storm. It’s not so hard to deal with anymore, but…he’s definitely awake now. Which does make it a lot easier to focus on stuff.”  He frowned. “I think it’s gonna make it kind of annoying to get to sleep, though. Unless he sleeps too.”

“…Maybe being connected to you while you’re sleepy will make him sleepy?” Callum suggested, a little weirded out by the idea, and his brother shrugged.

“Maybe.” A pause. “Please let it work like that. I’m so tired.”

“Bandages.” Rayla reminded him, nudging him in the side, and he jolted a little.

“Oh, right.” He shot her an evaluative glance, wondering at her impatience, then reached over to help her with her layers. She was much more sluggish than usual about facilitating the process, and even clumsy; it took a fair bit longer, and he kept catching things on her horns. Weirdly, she giggled when he unhooked her shirt from one, looking a little light-headed. “You okay?” He asked her, dubiously, and she offered a lopsided smile.

“Uhuh,” she said, then mumbled something indistinct that he thought had the word ‘horns’ in there somewhere. She seemed to find this hilarious, and started snickering under her breath, cheeks vaguely flushed, while he finished pulling the shirt away.

“If you say so.” With her upper arms finally exposed, he reached out to untie the bandages, and had his customary look at the wounds. There hadn’t been much visible progress, but he supposed there had to be a lot going on under the surface, what with how deep the gouges had gone. He winced a little in sympathy, unable to imagine how much that must be hurting. “Well, nothing’s opened.” He judged optimistically, and had another look at the shallow shoulder-stab before wrapping it all up again. “And nothing’s infected. So I guess that’s the best we can really ask for, right now.” Something occurred to him, then: “How’s the bruising?”

“Hm?” Rayla seemed confused for a moment, as if uncertain what he was talking about,

“You know, those horrible bruises around your middle?” Ezran interjected helpfully. “From the chain?”

��Oh. Those.” She blinked, then leaned forward and pulled up her undershirt without further ado. It was almost a reflexive instinct that saw Callum looking away, flushing, but then he remembered he was supposed to be checking on her and made himself look back. “Can’t really feel them at the moment.” She reported, seeming very cheered by the thought. “Maybe I’ll be able to lay down without it hurting tonight.”

He hadn’t been aware that was an issue. But now that she said it…he winced, looking at the bruises in question. A couple of days hadn’t done much for their lividity. They looked dramatically dark, and still swollen in the lines where the chain had pulled so tight around her. They must be viciously sore to sleep on. “No problems?” He asked, a little anxiously.

Rayla shrugged. “Think I passed a little blood, the first day, so I might’ve bruised a kidney or something. Been fine since then though. Just….” She waved vaguely. “You know. Tender.”

“Sleeping on hard stone probably didn’t help that.” Callum muttered, with a twist of concern in his gut, and he frowned. “Do you think we can sleep on the cloaks again today? Or is it still so cold we need to wear them?”

It took her much longer to think through that than it ought. Plainly, the lilium was well and truly in effect. Eventually, she said “Could try it. But we might get cold in the night, when the…rock-heating wears off.” She squinted backwards. “Has anyone changed the rocks yet?”

“Er. No?”

She made a vague grumbling noise, then swayed like she was trying to stand up. “I should do that…”

Callum put a hand on her arm to stall her. She looked down at it as though perplexed by the sight. “How about you tell me what to do and I do it?” He suggested, not at all convinced that she was in a state where she should be allowed to extract hot things from a fire.

Ordinarily, she’d probably have protested. Under the artificial lassitude of the lilium, however, she just blinked placidly and said “Okay.”

In a vague, disjointed sort of way, she talked him through prodding the rocks out of the fire with a large stick and then picking them carefully up with the towels salvaged from the first round of rocks in the tent. The heat seared through quickly, and his hands were starting to hurt from it by the time he got them into the tent and placed them around its corners, refastening the door-flaps as he left. “Definitely feeling warmer in there.” He claimed, cheered by the thought, as he sat back down by the fire. “Should be a much nicer sleep than the last few days.”

“That’d be nice.” Rayla mumbled, already looking vaguely drowsy, and his lips twitched at her as he shuffled back to her side.

“Let’s get your layers back on, and do your hand, and then we can all get an early night.” He suggested, and she…perked up. Visibly. She instantly shoved her hand at him, and seemed a little confused when he pointed out that the layers should probably come first, or she’d get cold.

“…I’m not cold, though?” She offered. Beside her, Ezran was watching with interest, like he’d seen something that surprised him.

“Layers first.” Callum repeated, a little amused. “You’re probably just not feeling the cold because of the lilium, or something.”

She grumbled, but accepted it; so he helped her back into her various layers and then rolled up her sleeve a little, exposing the dark ring of stiff still-healing skin around both sides of the binding. “Hand now?” She asked, a little plaintively, and he eyed her strangely.

“…Yes?” He offered, perplexed at her insistence, and bemusedly accepted the hand she thrust at him. “…Is it sore, or something?” he tried, searching for some reason she might be so insistent about it.

“Nope,” she pronounced, with obvious satisfaction, and settled in to wait. Ezran was trying to hide a smile, like he had figured it out. Whatever ‘it’ was. “Kinda numb and prickly. But doesn’t hurt anymore.”

“…Okay. Good?” Callum accepted, a bit confused, but got to work anyway. He wasn’t quite expecting the pleased hum she offered at the first press of his thumb into her palm.

“Thought so,” she said, and then – entirely devoid of any sort of self-consciousness – shuffled closer and leaned comfortably into his side. A second later, she claimed “Feels so much nicer now. Last time, it still…sort of hurt. Ached? Doesn’t anymore, though.” She huddled down a little, and let her head drop against the edge of his shoulder. Callum stared down at her, suddenly and abruptly flustered, and didn’t realise he’d frozen until she flapped her hand impatiently between his. Still, he didn’t move.

He cleared his throat, heartbeat feeling strange, but didn’t actually say anything. He suddenly found himself sitting very rigidly indeed, hyper-aware of the way she was leaning on him, and oddly transfixed by the sight of her hair falling over his shoulder.

She grumbled at him when he’d been immobile long enough, peering up at him as though to check what the delay was. He found himself looking quickly away as her eyes fixed on his. He cleared his throat again, and finally found the wherewithal to keep moving his hands.

“…Were you looking forward to this?” he asked, finally, because that was suddenly the only interpretation he had for her behaviour.

He still wasn’t looking at her, not directly, but when he snuck a glance he saw her pursing her lips in thought. “Kinda, maybe.” She said, eventually, like she wasn’t entirely sure whether or not she wanted to be saying it. “It’s nice now.”

He had literally no idea how to respond to that, so…he just sort of didn’t.

“Makes sense to me.” Ezran piped up, and when Callum looked over at him, he seemed to be fighting very hard to keep his expression level. His eyes, meanwhile, were alight with a kind of mirth that made Callum intensely suspicious. “I mean, most people who have hand massages do it because it feels nice, not because they need to keep their hands healthy. Right?”

“…Right.” Rayla agreed, after a moment. “Guess so.” She glanced down at her hand, eyes half-lidded. “Still medical for me. But at least it doesn’t hurt anymore. That was…” She blinked a few times, vaguely. “Didn’t like that.”

“…I didn’t like that too much either,” Callum muttered, face feeling weirdly hot, hands over-warm on hers. She didn’t seem to mind, though. “Wasn’t fun making you be in more pain. So…” he coughed. “I’m – glad? That it’s better?”

“Mm.” Apparently done talking, she let her eyes fall closed, sighed, and settled her weight fully against him. It was…unexpectedly cosy.

There wasn’t really anything to do except keep going, so that was what he did.

Ezran kept shooting him amused, vaguely mischievous looks, so he sensed trouble brewing there. Callum was relatively certain that if Rayla wasn’t there he’d currently be receiving a lot of sibling-style mockery for something. He wasn’t entirely sure what, but he’d had a little brother for long enough to see it looming. He shot Ez a warning look, and in general tried to be less excruciatingly aware of the warmth of Rayla leaning into his side.

He held silent, tongue-tied through the whole thing, and tried to figure out why it felt so different to before. He’d leaned on her plenty yesterday, and even today, when she was comforting him. She’d leaned on him a bit the first time he’d done this, even, the first time she’d taken lilium. But…

He glanced down, flustered, and saw her head loosely propped on the edge of his shoulder. Her eyes were closed, and she was tucked into his side so thoroughly that he felt sort of like an upright human mattress. It looked weirdly comfortable.

Maybe that was the difference. He wasn’t sure. Whatever it was, he found himself tense in a way that seemed almost directly proportional to how relaxed she was, and it was almost a relief when he could declare himself finished and put her hand down.

She didn’t appear to notice for a while. Evidently, the lilium had well and truly gotten to her, and now she was drowsy enough that it didn’t seem to register that he’d returned her hand until most of a minute later. Slowly, she blinked her eyes open, looking drowsy. “Oh. Hm. You stopped?” She mumbled, sleepily.

Mutely, he nodded, and watched as she peeled her head from his shoulder.

“You’re quite comfy.” She informed him, and patted him on the arm as if to congratulate him for a job well done. Finally, apparently unable to hold it in, Ezran started snickering. Quietly, maybe, but he was definitely snickering.

Determinedly, Callum exhaled, reclaimed his voice, and ignored his brother. “You should get to bed,” he decided, pretending that nothing was unusual about this situation at all, and that Ezran wasn’t giggling at him, and that his face wasn’t still weirdly warm. “We all should, honestly.” When she didn’t seem liable to get up, he carefully took her hand and stood; she followed the pull automatically, stumbling to her feet. She blinked at him hazily, and then followed agreeably along as he led her to the tent.

The interior was surprisingly toasty by this point. He set Rayla’s cloak out for her and guided her to it, and much like the first time she’d taken lilium, her consciousness didn’t survive contact with the floor. The second she laid down she was out like a light, dropping instantly into sleep. He rather envied her that.

He went out to meet Ezran with unmistakeable wariness, and this turned out to be warranted. “Good job on being comfy, Callum.” He greeted him at once, grinning. “I bet you’re proud.”

Callum rolled his eyes, ignoring the weird unidentifiable squirming of his insides, and ushered his brother up. “I am, thank you.” He said, with great dignity. “Now, if you don’t mind, there’s two cloaks and a comfy tent with our names on them, and I’d like to get to sleep.”

Ezran followed along agreeably enough, egg in his arms and Bait at his heels, but couldn’t resist another remark. “Your face when she laid on you was amazing.” He informed, gleefully. “You went so red.”

Had he? He coughed, self-conscious, and wondered how much of this evening Rayla would remember. “Uhuh. I’m sure.” He accepted, steadfastly refusing to rise to the bait, and prodded Ezran into the tent. “Now get in there before all the warm air goes out.”

Thankfully, Ezran did calm down a bit once he was in the pleasantly-warm interior, glancing at the already-sleeping Rayla and shutting his mouth. Insistently, Callum poked him through the process of laying his cloak out, and then down onto the thing.

“Get some sleep.” He told him, voice low so as not to disturb Rayla. He wasn’t entirely convinced she could be disturbed, right now, but it only seemed polite to be careful. Finally, he laid down himself, body feeling astoundingly pleased with even the bare padding his cloak provided. He wondered how he’d feel when he next encountered an actual bed.

He listened to the sounds of Ezran rustling his way into a comfortable position, sighed, and arranged himself on his side. He spared one more glance for Rayla, soundly asleep, then closed his eyes.

It took maybe five minutes for the strange tumult of emotion to quiet. Five more for his body to remember how profoundly exhausted it was. And then, barely a second later, he was drifting off.

 ---

 Sarli was quietly satisfied when she returned home. Some part of her that had lifted its hackles from the first moment Lord Viren had questioned her vows was now soothed. There had been an itch in the back of her mind that had been insisting, every minute of every hour, you have a duty. This cannot be borne. And now it was quiet, and she had done her duty, and she was satisfied.

Cairon…Cairon was not.

He was tense and plainly distressed as he swept the room, yet again, for shadow-bugs. Upon concluding his search he settled with plain unease into his customary chair, and sat there bristling as Sarli watched him. He’d held quiet and composed all through the Council meeting, but it had dropped from him like a burdensome cloak as soon as he was past the doors.

Perhaps driven by his plain agitation, he didn’t stay seated for long. Within minutes he was up again, near-vibrating with tension, fluttering through the motion of tidying away their things with an anxiety she’d scarce ever seen from him.

“Cairon,” She said to him, finally, when he failed to put words to his discomfort. He stilled, shoulders taut, and glanced at her with troubled eyes. “You would do well to speak of what troubles you.”

He exhaled, slowly, as though forcing some of the stiffness from his frame. Then, quietly, he asked “What just happened, master?”

“The prisoner was confiscated from Lord Viren according to law.” Sarli said, watching him curiously. “He will now be interred in a proper dungeon, under proper guard, in a cell with access to moonlight.”

“I know that part.” He said, with near-impudent impatience, pacing in shallow strides to and fro from the coat-hangings, straightening and rearranging the cloaks as if he found some new issue with them every time they passed his eyes. “But what about ‘exceptional measures’?”

She tilted her head at him. “I was under the impression that you were acquainted with the Millennium War Crimes Accords.”

“I am,” he said, with the sort of fervency that betrayed a particular interest in it. “But – I didn’t realise-“

“It did not occur to you that such a prisoner would become an immediate candidate for legally sanctioned torture.” Sarli concluded, and his head dipped glumly.

“It should have, I know.” Cairon exhaled, dropping into a chair and staring into the wood-grain of the table as though it might offer him answers. “I just…didn’t think of it.”

She inclined her head, thoughtful. “We will have to solve that.” She said, after a moment, and he lifted his head to regard her warily. “It occurs to me that I have perhaps been remiss in your education on the various philosophies of Mercy at work in the kingdom. All Healers should have a thorough grounding in religious ethics.”

He eyed her. “I’m not a Healer.”

“Plainly.” Sarli said, with an amused twitch at her lips. “But that is no excuse for lesser conduct from my apprentice. I will be called on to attend our patient’s exceptional measures tribunal, for certain; I will take you with me. I imagine it will be very educational for you.”

That, at least, seemed to interest him. “I’ve never heard about how the tribunals work,” he offered, after a moment. “Based on the name, there must be some sort of…council, or panel, of three people? Officials?”

“One representative of Mercy,” said Sarli. “One representative of Prudence. And then the final representative varies case-by-case. Usually it is Justice, and it may be so this time as well. The tribunal speak for their respective positions, and hear the arguments of those permitted to attend, and then take a vote at the end. Two votes of three are necessary to permit the use of exceptional measures in the interrogation of prisoners of war.”

“Mercy for the perspective that suffering should be alleviated wherever possible,” Cairon guessed, eyes narrowed. “Prudence to decide whether the suffering is worth its price. Justice for the legal perspective?”

“You have the basics,” Sarli allowed. “But the positions are rather more complex than that. Mercy’s, especially. As a Healer’s apprentice, you have dealt entirely with…face-value mercy, shall we call it. The representative of Mercy in a tribunal hearing must balance the suffering of one against the suffering of many, and that is a more difficult thing.” She watched the flicker of understanding on her apprentice’s face with satisfaction. No dullard was he, her boy. “Yes, you begin to see, I think. But enough on this for now. It grows late, and we have had a long day.”

He watched her. “And you’re relieved that your duty is expunged.” He guessed, a little impudently, but she allowed it.

“Yes, Cairon.” She agreed, a little amused. “It has been a wearying strain, these past days, and now that the weight is from my shoulders I feel I have earned my rest.” Her eyes turned a little watchful, then. A little penetrating. “And you? Do you not feel that your duty is done?”

He tensed, just a little, then let his eyes fall as if to study the wood-grain of the table. “…I’m concerned that we may face retaliation from the Lord Protector.” He said, eventually. It wasn’t quite an answer to her question, but it rang with truth regardless. “He seemed very angry. I think that he is the sort of man to do rash things when he’s angry.”

It was an apt character assessment, she thought. However: “That may be so,” she allowed. “But I think he knows better than to strike at a target that he has been caught fouling already. It is known that he sent dark magic for us; were we to be harmed, or to disappear, he would fall under such heavy suspicion as to dethrone him. I think that we will be safe.”

“Until the dust clears, maybe.” Cairon muttered, plainly not very reassured.

Sarli shook her head at him. “Keep to your caution if you prefer it, boy. Only remember that you are my apprentice, and an Acolyte of Mercy; not a guard. Yours is not the duty of policing the Lord Protector.”

He sighed. “As you say, master.” And that was all.

In the morning, no doubt, they would be called to their patient again; but for now, Sarli’s duty was to rest. She attended to it gladly.

 ---

End chapter.

  Chapter Notes:  https://drive.google.com/drive/folders/1OGBo7nKVDIfWjhxGe90fwaS3lP0IfQJ3?usp=sharing

Link to PIAJ chapter notes folder (Google Drive folder including worldbuilding, commentary, medical notes, research notes, and misc notes for all applicable chapters within this section)

  This chapter's notes cover: provisions for ‘Exceptional Measures’ within the Millennium War Crimes Accords, Ashtide, and Pentarchy politics.

  Timeline: https://docs.google.com/document/d/107eD8zmLAAFBWSOgsLyl8g4pAdQF4EgMh4rpN_m91U4/edit?usp=sharing Link to PIAJ Timeline Google doc ( to be updated as story progresses)

  PIAJ Masterpage: https://tenspontaneite.tumblr.com/piaj Link to PIAJ Masterpage on tumblr (containing links to chapters, meta, art, Q&As, and resources) (Link may not work properly on mobile/app)

  Author Notes: 

Credits: one of Sarli's lines in this chapter is taken from a book I like very much, 'Even the Wingless' by M.C.A Hogarth. The original line is as follows: "Surely you aren't surprised, Most Exalted. It was my duty. Even the wingless need the sky." It's an extremely cool moment of the book and I couldn't quite resist using it where the vibes were so right.

  Reminder: Callum and Ezran have no idea that the entire kingdom (plus literally everyone within communicating distance of Katolis) thinks they're dead. They also have no reason to guess that Viren pre-empted their dad's funeral, and would assume Harrow had his pyre on the dawn after the seventh sunset as tradition dictates.

  Anyway, that sorts that chapter. At the moment it’s looking like 24 is going to have some of my oldest, most beloved scenes in it, so I’m excited. 23 has a while yet to go, but there’s not a huge amount pencilled in for it, so hopefully shouldn’t take too long.

  I’m enjoying everyone being super sus of Cairon, by the way. Lots of fun.

[raayllum]

Just saw that post about Claudia not understanding Harrow's decision. I would never accuse her of not having empathy, but I wonder if she has trouble seeing things from another person's perspective. Like, if she can't think of a reason why SHE would/wouldn't do a thing, she can't think of why someone else would. Might have to do a re-watch to back that up...

The way I see it, her perspective there stems from Claudia’s main flaw that feeds into everything else (she definitely does issues with empathy, but more on that here). 

Which is to say that: Claudia is so goal focused that she completely tunnel visions to the point where she doesn’t think about the journey it takes to get there and she thinks even less about the consequences. King Harrow needs to be saved? Who cares about the random person who would have to die in his place, it’s a solution, right? She has to bring the princes home; lying to Callum (twice), having Soren kill his friend, and kidnapping the boys is just what has to be done.

Claudia chooses to believe whatever it is most convenient for her to believe, which is why she steamrolls other people’s emotions (Callum’s, Soren’s, Ezran’s) and circumstances / wishes. She believes whatever she needs to believe to complete her goals. Lying to the king about the Egg is okay, because it would be a powerful weapon. It’s okay to both coo over and kill magical creatures because they’re cute/pretty parts of a solution. Betraying the boys is okay, because it’s the right thing, isn’t it? Soren must have misheard Viren, because her idea of her father doesn’t line up with the type of person who would’ve told Soren to do so.

And whatever she’s choosing to believe must uphold two principles:

1) It keeps her family together 2) Everything will be okay

Almost every questionable or outright morally decrepit decision Claudia has made can be traced back to these two things. Even her better choices. 

She has to take the boys home by any means necessary, because it’s the right thing to do according to her dad, and her dad would never ask her to do anything wrong. (Except tell her to choose the egg over her brother, but full recognition of the fault lines on display would mean breaking the family apart, so it gets filed under “He doesn’t really mean it” / “Everything will be okay if I just do everything right.”) The boys won’t hold it against her! They’ll come around and understand if she apologizes and they know she feels bad. If not, at the very least her family will stay together, and that means everything will be okay. 

Ezran will let her and Soren out of prison, because she “didn’t do anything wrong” — sure, she may have attacked him and Callum, and made them genuinely afraid (numerous times), and used Ezran’s connection/empathy with animals to kill one, but — she didn’t really mean it. (Nor does her remorse hold water, At least not enough, in 2x03, for her to not turn around and do it right back over again with trying to kidnap boys, even when Callum is begging her to stop. Not enough to keep her from giving Callum his father’s letter and then lie right to his face about just wanting to help). Because Claudia has to believe whatever will keep her family together, and whatever keeps her family together is the right thing to do.

It’s also why Claudia chooses to opt out of decision making and let choices be made for her, and that this hesitancy only happens when it comes to the direct splitting apart of her family. This breaks her in half, because suddenly the two principles and singular goal of her life — to keep her family together — is no longer possible. And why having her family break apart is so devastating, because it breaks both principles and makes her goal — her tunnel vision — null and void. Her goal isn’t possible, so Claudia has no more choices she can make (in her mind). 

But the thing is, both times, Claudia doesn’t “choose”. Soren does.

Claudia believes Viren in 3x03 because he’s clever and knows exactly what to say to convince her, but also because believing Viren lets her “keep” both Viren and Soren together. If she believes Soren, she would have to lose her father, and while Claudia considers that, it is 100% unsurprising that — like her remorse — it doesn’t stick when a more appealing path that confirms her previous worldview is presented. Because keeping her family together is the singular goal that drives 90% of her actions. Even when it directly contradicts what Viren has told her.

Because if Claudia recognizes (or believes) that Soren’s life is genuinely less important to Viren than the egg, she will have to choose her brother and lose her father. It’s why Soren killing Viren and being an active obstacle — the reason she would have failed in her goal if she had not been perfect and been able to fulfill  her father’s plan — her to her core, so badly.

Because, alternatively, Claudia will do anything to keep as much of her family together as possible. 

Anything.

[flowerflamestars]

not a fic ask but i absolutely have to know if you have any theories on lyctorhood??

I love you for asking this but truly, fair warning, the murderboard of locked tomb theories in my head is a MESS

In no particular order:

1) I think the main tenet that Harrow accepted as truth vis a vis you become a tomb/ ‘a soul consumed in eternal death’ is almost certainly wrong. That her lobotomy in an attempt to preserve Gideon wasn’t necessary.

For one thing, Pyrrha Dve. Whole enough to a) pilot her necro’s body...without his consent? and b)take over his body full when his soul is extinguished fighting the resurrection beast.

Further it sounds good, but doesn’t super make sense with what we know about necromantic power. Palamedes and Harrow have that whole ‘glass canon’ conversation- give them a death and they can go for a few more minutes but thanergy always dissipates? Why would the consumption of a soul be a battery? Why would it not, actually, matter that the bond preserved that moment of death, the energy bloom that powers everything?

If the cavaliers are still there, imperfect Lyctorhood preserves the soul, but perfect lyctorhood is true necromancy: the preservation of the cav’s body, brought back.

2) I think Anastasia was doing it right, and that’s why JohnGod killed Samael

3). Alecto. Murderwife my monster babe- I don’t think whatever bond ended up being the Lyctoral concept was on purpose. I hesitate to say this, but while JohnGod is clearly a very smart and dangerous as hell, I lean toward the off the walls idea that Alecto (or a part of who Alecto once was) is the source of necromancy. 

Those eyes- the visible death monster cue, that belonged to her. 

But also the two divergent stories of AL- the woman John loved. The woman, who according the Mercy, isn’t a woman at all, might not even have dna. A monster, piloting a human suit.

Whose eyes, John has worn, since August met him pre/during Great Resurrection. 

Let’s paint an off the walls picture: AL the first necromancer, power gained from the slow death of a world. John, the second necromancer. LOVE. AL dies- John, long before he’s God, brings her back. But he can’t do it right- he has yet to ascended on the insane blast of power that is million’s dying at once- BUT THEN THE WORLD DOES DIE- and John, failing, frantic, tries to remake her.

And you know what’s there to do it? Not her original necromancy, or soul, but the souls of thousands, right there to be shoved in a vessel. Perhaps, even more interestingly, the after echo of all that death, something John has no idea if can even be killed: the resurrection beast.

He brings back her body- he is tangled in her power, but the woman he loved? Gone. 

Alecto. John’s guardian. The Lyctors are all her children (as John SO CREEPILY SAYS) because the experiments, the impetus all along, was to reverse engineer what he did. Mercy says it herself- John wanted to fix Alecto, but accidentally made her worse instead. 

What is John’s favorite alt aspect? Kindly Prince? Man who Became God? Great Resurrector? Teacher. 

Who also has hella power we don’t understand the source of until it’s revealed to be souls? Teacher, on Canaan, an experimental melange.

Does he need powerful Hands? Sure. But is the real sacrifice always toward what John really wants? Yes

4)Speaking of John’s JohnGoding about with his interpretation of history, I think it was always, ALWAYS his plan to have more Lyctors.

(not just for Alecto reasons)

One flesh, one end? Not a coincidence in a society/religion John built, with his friends, on purpose. (There people call the Houses an experiment. A project. Mercy’s out here grumbling that John isn’t supposed to tell Inathe and Harrow her name because they’d all agreed the OG Lyctors names should be forgotten, sacred.)

My point is, they made up the cult aspects. And maybe for the Lyctoral faithful the continued cavalier tradition was almost a suited memorial, something to be cherished. But John? i would bet John always needed and wanted more.

Crack theory time: John, obviously, wants the Lyctors around for personal reasons. He loves them, as much as a normal dude who became (maybe by accident) an eldritch horror in a human body after watching his species implode, can still love.

But John needs the Lyctors for necromancy.

So, I’m deeply suspicious of his powers. Harrow, our born in death literal necromancy genius, says it’s nothing like any necromancy she’s ever felt. He can stop time. He can’t be killed. When Harrow tries to off Gideon with soup, John doesn’t heal Gideon- he stops time and then the injury reels back on itself to wholeness. He somehow pulls the same move on himself, when Mercymorn has her assassination.

Necromancy in the most basic term: the reversal of death

But the Lyctors are the ones out here flipping planets to make necromancy possible on them. When there were more of them, the led battles. John’s great miracle of necromancy is all on his word... I think he needs them to do the things he can’t- the not miracles, the other necromantic acts? Normal necros are glass canons, but John is a bomb.

Further weird proof at least that he always wanted more: every other Lyctor seems to have been against it always- but their labs are perfectly preserved? all their work? after they all fled Canaan? they made the trials as experiments...but the trials are all set up as, you know, trials. In Johns old house, the King who Became God, the God who became king.

5) which leads me to what has been bothering me since like, the second I opened Harrow and we get the whole- these three, the eldest Lyctors, are who is left now.

Anastasia, seems like the only Lyctor who actually became a Lyctor at Canaan House?

“In lab conditions” vs August’s literally under fire vs Lovegood’s heavily implied suicide for Cytherea.

In Cytherea’s telling the story is, we figured it out, I wasn’t going to do it, Lovegood forced my hand because she wanted me to live. 

It also works for the Canaan angle- but she’s the seventh saint, so are we supposed to believe that they all figured it out together, August went off the fight a war (probably with Mercymorn, because of their cavalier’s intertwined maybe love probable suicide pact) August ate his brother, Mercy more reluctantly (maybe because her cav was dying??) consumed Cristobel, AND THEN the other’s went yeah, that sounds good let’s do that?

At least one of the pairs- Cyrus and Valancy- are very heavily implied to have been in love.

We also know, it seems, that each pair did it a little differently- Gideon, who accidentally perfectly preserved Pyrrha so well she’s been piloting him so often he thinks his memory is fucked up. Anastasia, who whatever she did, was so close to right that John interfered. Honestly, whatever is going on with Inathe’s perpetual eye color changes like she ate a bit of Babs AND Coronabeth.

So...was every Lyctor moment like Ianthe, making it up in a vacuum? They all seemingly lived together, knew each other, loved each other- and then when murdertime came no one helped anyone? in this cavalcade of geniuses, gathered at the feet on the One True Necrolord. 

Reasonable theory: there’s something wrong about the story of Canaan House, and we’re going back to it. Those salty ocean’s the Ninth/Alecto signature. The way Harrow thought it was a Tomb as well. The timeline that has never, a for a second, added up that Palamedes wouldn’t stop talking about in the first book.

Crack theory: all that is true, but additionally- John fucks with memory. 

[no6secretsanta]

Erlkönig

To: @happykawaiicinnamonroll From: @hi-im-secretly-satan

You asked for an angst fic, suggested getting sick and dying, so I delivered on both accounts! ;) It’s based on the German poem Erlkönig by Goethe, translated by Christopher Middelton. It was also turned into a Lied by Schubert. I highly recommend listening to it before reading this fic. I hope you enjoy and happy holidays! <3

Warnings: Major character death

—

“Shion, what’s that on your hands?”

Nezumi frantically ran through the chain of events that had resulted in him and Rikiga trying to wrestle a delirious Shion into the car, Inukashi anxiously tapping their foot behind them. When had things gone so wrong? He had only just saved Shion from being carried off to the Correctional Facility, a certain death sentence. Deeming themselves safe, they had freshened themselves up after the harrowing ordeal of escaping and Shion had been going on and on about his mother and strange deaths. At the time Nezumi had no clue what Shion was talking about, but now he berated himself for dismissing his words, for just as soon as he had waved him off, Shion became a victim himself. Shion had barely managed to escape from the terror that was No.6, only for another disaster to strike.

The parasite wasp.

In the moment Nezumi had briefly been grateful he had taken (stolen?) the first aid kit when he had quietly fled Shion’s house in the Cronos district, all those years ago. Now he cursed himself for not having made sure the equipment was sterile.

“How is he?”

Nezumi glanced up, catching Rikiga’s worried eyes in the rearview mirror before turning his attention back to Shion, lying curled up in the backseat with him, head resting in his lap. Shion’s breathing came erratically, fingers weakly clutching the torn and dirty fabric of Nezumi’s trousers, face screwed up in a pained grimace. Nezumi’s eyes fell from Shion’s pale face to the bandages wrapped around Shion’s neck, stained green and yellow with oozing pus, filling the car with a wretched smell. Merely a few short weeks ago he had yelled at Shion, a scalpel in his hand, demanding he live. But instead, Nezumi had unknowingly become the cause of his potential death. If the situation weren’t so dire, he’d laugh. Instead, he met Rikiga’s eyes again, and shook his head quickly, jaw clenched tight. Shion was dying, and it was his fault.

But he would not give up yet. They were going to smuggle Shion into No.6 and find a hospital to treat him. Shion had told them where to find one, directions wheezed through waves of pain. No matter the odds, they would succeed in this ridiculous, desperate plan. Shion would live, he would make sure of that. He refused to think of Shion dying, or how to go on living without him. He wasn’t sure he could.

“Nezumi…?”

Nezumi snapped to attention at the sound of Shion’s broken voice, barely audible over the loud car engine. “I’m here, Shion.” He brushed a few strands of tangled hair out of Shion’s face. His beautiful, white, almost translucent hair. Shion shivered but Nezumi doubted it was because of his touch.

“It hurts,” Shion moaned. Sweat beaded on his forehead and he hissed when a bump in the road jostled him and aggravated his already dreadful wound. “I don’t want to die. I… Nezumi, I want to live…” He weakly raised his hand and Nezumi immediately took it into his own.

“You’re gonna live,” Nezumi pressed, eyes locked determinedly with Shion’s. “You’ve survived this long, telling me how to take care of your wound for weeks. In No.6 they’ll be able to help you. You’re gonna make it.” He squeezed Shion’s hand reassuringly.

Shion shut his eyes and shook his head. “Sepsis and severe sepsis can last weeks but-”, a shudder ran through him and cut him off, “…but septic shock is quick and has- has a high mortality rate-”

“Shion.”

At his tone, Shion opened his eyes again and slightly turned his head to look hazily up at Nezumi.

Nezumi waited until he had Shion’s full attention. “You’re gonna live, you hear me? You can’t give up now. You still have so much to live for. I told you before, you still don’t know anything about sex, or books, or fighting. Do you really want to throw in the towel now?” Without realising, his voice had risen and he was nearly shouting. The mice which had been nestled silently in his scarf squeaked softly.

Shion stared up at him for a moment, before breaking out into a faint smile, eyes wet. “Yeah… Yeah, you’re right. I’m gonna make it.” A tear rolled down his cheek. Nezumi reached out to wipe it away. “Thank you, Nezumi.”

“Don’t thank me yet, just stay alive.”

Shion nodded and relaxed back into Nezumi’s lap, the corners of his lips still lifted in a soft smile. Unfortunately that smile warped into a grimace much too quickly. Shion moaned and curled up a little more, pulling his knees as far into his chest as the backseat would allow. Desperation seized Nezumi’s heart. Shion had saved him four years ago, he still hadn’t repaid that debt. He couldn’t let him die. He wracked his mind, trying to think of something, anything he could do to help, to ease Shion’s suffering.

There was one thing that came to mind, but Nezumi hesitated. It was a last resort, meant to ensure a peaceful, quiet death, but maybe, just maybe he could soothe Shion’s pain just long enough until they arrived at the hospital. Shion moaned again, fragile and broken, and the sound cut deep into his heart.

So Nezumi took a deep breath and sang.

It was soft, hardly louder than a whisper, but it seemed to resonate through the car. Inukashi, who had been barking orders at Rikiga from the passenger’s seat, fell quiet and turned to stare, dark eyes wide and knowing. Nezumi ignored them and kept all of his attention on the boy in his lap who had frozen and was now staring up at him with big eyes. For once Nezumi was glad that Shion knew nothing of literature, culture, or foreign languages, for if he’d understood the lyrics, he was sure he would never be forgiven.

“Who rides by the night in the wind so wild? It is the father, with his child. The boy is safe in his father’s arm. He holds him tight, he keeps him warm.”

Shion closed his eyes and a bit of the tension seemed to flow out of his body. Nezumi inwardly sighed in relief, too preoccupied to remember how Granny would berate him for doing so. He glanced out of the window and saw the gate fast approaching, so he tugged on the scarf around his neck and pulled it up to hide his face. The mice chittered and ran down his arms to hide in his pockets instead. The car came to a halt and Rikiga leaned out of the window towards the guard, murmuring quietly and urgently before handing over a thick wad of cash- a bribe both to let them in, and to forget they’d been there. Nezumi listened closely and mentally thanked whoever was out there when the car rolled forward again, passing unhindered through the gate and quickly picking up speed, desperate to reach the hospital as soon as possible.

“My son, what is it, why cover your face? Father, you see him, there in that place, The elfin king with his cloak and crown? It is only the mist rising up, my son.”

Unwinding his scarf from around his head, Nezumi gently covered Shion’s shivering body with the special fibre cloth. He remembered seeing this song performed in the dingy theater once, before he had joined the cast. A traveling singer and pianist duo had attempted to visit No.6 but were mercilessly cast out, so they had turned to wandering the West Block, trying to make some money at the rundown theater before moving on again. He hadn’t understood the meaning or language of the song then, only remembered the shivers that inexplicably had run down his spine and the strange, curling tension in the darkened corners of the room, until one day he stumbled across the poem in one of the books in the vault and finally understood.

In Nezumi’s lap, Shion stirred and burrowed under the blanket, grateful for the warmth despite his body heating up steadily.

““Dear little child, will you come with me? Beautiful games I’ll play with thee; Bright are the flowers we’ll find on the shore, My mother has golden robes fullscore.””

“Mum…” Shion murmured, weakly pushing away from Nezumi and raising his head, glazed eyes darting around, searching. “Where are you, mum…?” Nezumi swallowed, pausing his singing to wipe fresh tears from Shion’s face. “You’ll see her soon,” he promised quietly. He wasn’t sure if he could follow through on it. He had to believe.

“Father, O father, and did you not hear What the elfin king breathed into my ear?”

Shion shook his head insistently, gasping as the movement pulled at the weeping wound in his neck and sent pain shooting through his spine, setting his entire body aflame. “No, no, I want my mum,” he babbled. He tried to push himself up, trembling and weak, into a sitting position- but his arms lacked the strength to hold his own weight and he collapsed back into Nezumi’s lap, sobbing softly.

“Lie quiet, my child, now never you mind: Dry leaves it was that click in the wind.”

“Hush now,” Nezumi murmured in the most soothing voice he could muster, softly running a shaking hand through Shion’s hair. His vision became foggy and he blinked away the tears. “Be a good boy now and you’ll see her soon.” In the front seat Rikiga and Inukashi shared an anxious look.

““Come along now, you’re a fine little lad, My daughters will serve you, see you are glad; My daughters dance all night in a ring, They’ll cradle and dance you and lullaby sing, They’ll cradle and dance you and lullaby sing.””

Shion nodded quietly and obediently settled down, face still wet with tears but no longer weeping. He seemed to be at peace for a few moments, but then his eyes widened again and his breathing quickened. “Nezumi…”

Nezumi’s heart lurched at the sudden lucidity and he held his breath. “I’m here, Shion.”

Shion shook his head and shrunk away from him. “No… No, you’re not Nezumi�� I-I need to see him…”

“Shion-”

“I need to know he’s safe…” Shion’s eyes darted around frantically. “He left so suddenly, I must see him again-”

Realisation dawned on Nezumi and when it sank in, it knocked all the wind from his lungs. Of course Shion wouldn’t recognise him; he was four years older now. He squeezed his eyes shut and took a shuddering breath, trying to stop the tears from spilling. There was nothing he could say to reassure Shion anymore. He was too far gone. Even if they reached the hospital, they probably couldn’t help him anymore. So he gathered all his courage, every ounce buried in his soul, and pushed it into the song, hoping it could help carry off Shion’s soul in peace, like it had done for countless others before him.

“Father, now look, in the gloom, do you see The elfin daughters beckon to me?”

Shion paused his desperate searching and looked at Nezumi like he saw him for the first time, watching him with childlike wonder. “You have a beautiful voice,” he murmured. He studied Nezumi’s face and smiled. “And your eyes… they’re just as grey…”

“My son, my son, I see it and say: Those old willows, they look so grey.”

Nezumi returned his smile in a way he hoped was reassuring and combed his fingers through Shion’s damp hair. Shion’s eyes fell shut and he sighed, a wisp of a sound.

““I love you, beguiled by your beauty I am, If you are unwilling I’ll force you to come!””

“Sir…” Shion said quietly and Nezumi’s heart fell into pieces. “If you ever find Nezumi, could you please tell him “thank you”? And that I miss him very much?”

“Father, his fingers grip me, O The elfin king has hurt me so!”

“And my mum, too. Promise me.”

Nezumi swallowed painfully and nodded, not daring to stop singing out of fear it would shatter the tentative calm that had washed over Shion.

Outside the car, the scenery rushed by, lush forests and bustling wildlife, carefully maintained by the City Hall, blurred by the speed of the car as Rikiga pressed harder down on the gas.

“Now struck with horror the father rides fast,”

“There’s the tree Shion mentioned!” Inukashi yelled, pointing ahead of them at a gnarled old oak tree. “Floor it, old man!!”

“If I go any faster we’ll all die before we can even get there!” Rikiga snapped in return.

“His gasping child in his arm to the last,”

“Please, sir, promise me…!” Shion begged, hazy eyes fixed unerringly on Nezumi’s own.

“Home through the thick and thin he sped:”

The trees parted to reveal the tiny hospital, a white and pure beacon of hope in the dark. Nezumi’s heart skipped a beat at the sight, but any and all hope that still lingered was crushed immediately after; wrapped in his arms, Shion took a ragged breath, spasmed once, twice, then fell limp, his blank eyes still staring up at Nezumi. Gravel sprayed under the wheels as the car swerved erratically into the parking lot and jerked into an abrupt halt. Seconds later the doors were yanked open and Nezumi heard someone yell something, but it didn’t register. He couldn’t move, frozen and staring unseeing at the boy in his arms, unable, unwilling to believe what his eyes and ears were telling him. A tear dripped down his cheek, followed by another, and another, falling like rain against Shion’s lifeless form. Nezumi’s mouth moved silently, voice trapped behind the gasping sobs threatening to choke him, leaving the last line to hang unsung, oppressive in the heavy air:  

(Locked in his arms, the child was dead.) 

[uzuitslittlemelody]

Last letter: RengokuxF!s/o

Hello guys! This is my first ever KNY post on Tumblr so i’m a little scared and nervous af.. But i hope you guys will like it! Also please forgive me for the mistakes, english isn’t my first language :( You can read this imagine with a very sad song, i listened to Naruto’s ost Grief and Sorrow and Sadness and Sorrow to help me get in a sad mood 😅😂

Enjoy!

warning : angst, implied character death

The crow had just left after reporting you the sad news and giving you the slightly stained with blood envelope. 

You couldn't believe what you heard and was so in complete denial that you almost asked the crow to repeat what he had just said because it was impossible, you misheard, right? You hurriedly and shakily opened the envelope that you held tight in your hands then instantly broke down crying reading the first words :

"Dear y/n, my beautiful princess. If you're reading this, it probably means that i'm dead, right?

I'm writing this while you're sleeping peacefully, the moonlight is slightly lighting the room and the bewitching features of your face that i can't get enough of. Every night when you fall asleep, i make sure to look at you and learn by heart each and every single little thing that compose your face. The mole under the right side of your lower lip, the rain of freckles that covers the bridge of your nose and beneath your eyes to stop where your cheekbones start, your ensorcelling, plump and tender lips, your long eyelashes, the neat shape of your eyebrows, the captivating e/c of your eyes in which i could get lost for hours and hours, even all the expressions you make, every detail is engraved in my head because we sure don't know what tomorrow holds. 

I’ll never forget the 3 years we spent together, they were without a doubt the best years of my life. Every moment was special with you. When you combed my hair every night, when we trained together, pushing back our limits, when we kissed and you looked at me so fondly, when we made love and your cheeks got flushed from the pleasure, the way you slept hugging me with your head laying on my chest, when you cooked for me and made my favorite dish, every letter we sent each other, every smile, every laugh, even every argument. The baths we took together, the way you hugged me so tight when you or i would return from a mission, or when we would spend our mornings in bed, when we would drink tea every afternoon and you would invite Sanemi over every time you made ohagis. I had a memorable life thanks to you y/n.

As we made love tonight, you broke down crying and begged me to stay, it was the first time you cried because you didn't want me to go and i almost gave in, i was so close but having accepted the mission already, i couldn't back-out at the last minute. So as a way to say sorry and make the most of our last night together, i worshiped your body, your heavenly hot and irresistible body that i know as well as my own. Your soft skin that glows so beautifully under the sunlight, all your curves that i adore so much, your neck that i love to mark, your intoxicatingly sweet smell, your long, graceful legs wrapped around my waist while i thrusted in you, i wanted to feel every single part of you.

And I'm sorry baby, i'm so very sorry, I really wanted to spend an eternity with you, an eternity and even more, but seems like our fate has decided otherwise. We talked about marriage, having kids, buy a new house far from here and spend our old days together until the very end. That's what our future was supposed to be like, so dreamy and perfect, filled with pure love and bliss and, oh god, i'm sorry it can't be happening.

My heart had never felt so heavy writing one of the numerous goodbye letters that are supposed to be delivered to you in case i die. I wrote one before each mission i was assigned to, just ask Senjuro and he'll give them to you as well as some other things, he knows where i keep them. Also please take care of my little brother, he loves you so much and look up to you a lot. Tell him i love him and that i regret not being able to spend some more time with him. And y/n i'm begging you, don't hold any grudge against my father whatever he might say about me. He suffered a lot and i forgave him long ago for everything he's done. Tell him i said to take care of himself.

We're getting to the last part of this letter soon and my darling please remember this, you have to live, you have to enjoy your life to it's fullest. I want you to forget about me, be happy, find the love of your life, get married, have children (even though it hurts to know it won't be with me), die old and overflowing with joy, I wouldn't be able to rest properly knowing that you refuse to be happy because i'm gone.

There is one last thing i want you to know my love. I wanted this to be one of my last missions so i could focus on you and our future, that's why i had decided to ask you to marry me as soon as i returned..I cannot accomplish this but please, I at least want you to accept this ring as a last memory of me. Oh what i would to stay by your side forever, you the love of my life that i adore. Though we couldn't finish this life together, i hope we'll find each other in another lifetime. 

It’s now time for me to say goodbye y/n, there are so many things i wish i could say to you but i can’t bring myself to find the strenght to as it is already so hard for me to write this letter. I’ll always remember you and everything you did for me. I love you with my whole heart and soul my light in the dark, the flame that kept me going. 

Set your heart ablaze my love!! I’ll be watching you from above.

- Your dear Kyo."

You let the ring fall out of shock, letting it roll on the floor until it collided with whatever piece of furniture that was in the bedroom, you couldn't even bring yourself to care. Your hands were shaking uncontrollably and tears streamed down your face. Your heart ached so much that you could barely even breath. You felt empty inside aside from overwhelming sadness and pain, nothing animated you at that moment. You stayed seated in the same position for what seemed like hours, as if you had lost consciousness, barely processing what just happened. When reality slowly overtook you, you let out a harrowing cry of despair and cried your heart out. 

The other pillars came to your house rushing as soon as they heard the bad news, they tried staying strong in front of you but you knew that they were deeply hurt by the loss of one of their friends. You were inconsolable for days and days, as you had to accept the fact that you had to live the rest of your life without the man who made yours better and loved you like no one else ever did. 

Hope you guys liked it! Don’t hesitate to tell me what you think and if you anything that could be improved, please point it out to me :) 

I wanna thank @stumpys-bunny a lot for kindly giving me some advice and inspiring me but also giving a try at reading this, thank you so much it means a lot! 😭❤

[iwillhaveamoonbase]

The Long Game ch. 3

“You called, Dad?” Claudia announced her presence.  Viren turned to her, sighing as he faced away from the mirror he had gotten back in Xadia. He still hadn’t figured out it’s secrets, but he had seen a cloaked figure appear every once in a while.

“Yes, Claudia.  We need to talk about relationships.”

“Oh.”  Claudia blushed, putting a few strands of her dark hair behind her ear.  “Did you hear about the girl at the bakery?  I know it’s unorthodox, but-”

“You don’t have time to be worrying about bakery girls, Claudia.”  Viren sat in his chair, gesturing for Claudia to sit beside him.  “Ever since Rayla got here, Prince Callum’s attention has drifted from you to her.”

“I know.”

“That’s not acceptable.”

Claudia looked down at her hands.  “He’s my friend and I didn’t want to embarrass him, but I never liked him, Dad.  I like girls.”

“I know.  But we’re a different cut above people who work in bakeries.”

“That’s not what Harrow says.”

“Claudia, please.  In order for our families to be closer together, in order for us to keep living a life you’re accustomed to, I need you to make an effort to get Prince Callum’s attention again.”

“Dad…I don’t want to. If he wants to be with Rayla-”

“Soren wants to be with Rayla.  You’ve seen how he makes a fool of himself around this castle when she’s in the room.  Don’t you want your brother to be happy?  It frees Rayla up if Callum’s taken.”

“How would I even do it?” Claudia put her arms around herself. Viren got up, wrapping an arm around his daughter.

“Callum wants to learn magic.  Though both he and Harrow are deeply opposed to dark magic, start teaching him how to use the primal stone.  Private lessons.  Do whatever you can.”

“I don’t know….”

“Claudia, look at me.” She finally did, confusion in her green eyes.  Viren shook his head.  He hated that he was asking his own daughter to sacrifice her happiness, but he had plans. Harrow was growing more and more distant from him.  Killing Thunder and taking the egg hadn’t done their friendship any favors.  If anything, it had deteriorated it.  They argued constantly and Harrow had threatened to send him out of the castle.  Viren couldn’t let that happen.  Harrow was becoming too against dark magic and was starting to doubt everything they had built towards.  What if Xadia attacked and Katolis was defenseless?  Or worse, Harrow tried to make peace and Xadia used it as an excuse to invade the entirety of the Pentarchy?  Viren couldn’t let that happen.  “Please. It’s important that you do this.”

“OK, Dad.  I’ll try my best.”

“Good girl.”

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

Rayla watched from the window as the royalty from the other kingdoms came to the castle.  They were coming to celebrate Ezran’s eleventh birthday. “They’re here,” she whispered to Callum and Ezran.  They both looked over at her, interest on their faces.  “Have you really never met any of them?”

“I met the former Queens of Duren when I was four,” Callum started, “but, besides, that, no.  This party for Ez is pretty unorthodox.”  

“Why?  Seems counter-intuitive.  You get a stronger alliance when you all know each other, right?”  Rayla glared at herself in the mirror.  Was that too obvious?  Callum and Ezran were really trusting individuals, but she really could be slipping as she grew comfortable here.

“There’s a concern about influencing the other kingdoms.  There’s a desire to be friendly, but to also be separate and to respect differences.  Duren and Katolis have usually had a reasonably close relationship compared to the others. But when you have a country like Evenere, which is far out compared to everyone else, it can lead to concern about plotting and alliances.”

“Fair, I suppose.”  

“We’re going to get ready for the party.  You coming?” Rayla nodded, keeping her eyes on the window for a moment longer.  This was the other reason she was here; information.  As she followed the princes to their rooms, she noticed just how rushed everyone was.  They were moving about and it felt like the whole castle was being remodeled.  “Good thing I moved out months ago,” Callum said to Ezran.

Rayla raised a brow.  “‘Moved out?’”

“Oh.  You didn’t know?”  Rayla shot him a look of confusion.  “Ezran and I used to share a room.  The day I turned 15, which was right before you got here, I finally got my own room. It’s next to Ezran’s, but I needed space.”

“Why did you two share a room for so long?”

Callum shrugged.  “Maybe because of our mom’s death.  I know I had nightmares and didn’t like being alone and when Ezran needed a room because he outgrew the crib, I offered mine.  I only moved because the king suggested it.”

Ezran sighed.  “Call him ‘Dad,’ Callum.  He liked it when you did that one time.”

“It felt weird,” Callum whispered.

“Because you made it weird. You apologized right after and everyone could tell that you were thinking about it for a long time.  He liked it.  For all the Big Feelings Times we have, the two of you are so hesitant to be open about this.”    

Rayla was quiet as they argued about whether or not Callum should call Harrow ‘dad’.  What was she going to do while the royal families were here? If she mingled too much, it would be obvious that she was trying to get information.  Viren was already suspicious of her.  But if she stuck with Callum and Ezran she would be missing out on an important opportunity.  When they approached their rooms, they saw Soren and Claudia arguing in the hall.  “Can we help you?” Rayla called.

The two turned, smiling at the trio.  Soren cleared his throat.  “Rayla, I was wondering if you would like me to accompany you tonight?  Usually, for these things, people take dates and-”

“Callum already asked and I said ‘yes.’”  Rayla’s eyes widened a bit.  It was the perfect chance.  If Callum was her date, then she could meet the royals and have an excuse to not be too conspicuous.  But, that hadn’t been why she had said that.  She didn’t want to go with Soren.  She looked over at a sputtering Callum.  “Right?”

“Yeah,” he muttered.  “I asked a little bit ago.  Sorry, Soren.”

“Oh,” Claudia interrupted. Rayla’s eyes narrowed.  “That’s a shame, I was hoping you and I could go together, Callum.”

“Really?”  Callum raised a brow.  Rayla looked at her door.  She didn’t want to hear this.  “Why?”

“Well, you and I have known each other for a long time, so…maybe the two of us could start thinking about dating.”

“But…Claudia I saw you in the bakery last week.  You and the helper were very clearly flirting and making-out.”  Claudia flinched.  “I don’t know what’s going on here, but I’m sorry, I’m not interested in you like that anymore.”

Claudia’s jaw dropped for a moment, biting her lip when the shock probably wore off.  “OK.  That’s fair. Ezran, will you be my date?”

Ezran looked down at Bait. “Can Bait come?”

“Of course,” Claudia smiled.

“Sure!”  Claudia, Soren and Ezran moved on, heading to their rooms to get ready.  Callum hung back, still looking at her.

“Rayla?”

“Hmm?”

“I never asked you.”

“I know.”  She said it so matter of factly it probably shocked him if his continued stare was any indication.  “I didn’t want to go with Soren.  I’m sorry I put you on the spot like that, but I didn’t see any other choice.”

“Is that the only reason?”

‘No’ almost escaped her lips.  He needed to stop looking at her like that, like she was something to be admired and adored.  “I trust you. Is that not enough?”  Callum held her gaze for a moment longer, finally nodding. They stood in the hall a bit longer, static crackling in the air between them.  “Besides, you need a good guard.  Who better than me?”

Callum chuckled.  “True.  You can take anyone in the crown guard.”

“Yes, I can.  And don’t you forget it.”  Rayla turned away, entering her room.  She leaned against the door for a few moments, pressing her clenched fist to her heart.  Her heart was beating too fast.  It always did that when he looked at her too long.  ‘Does he see?  Can he see through the illusion?’  She couldn’t tell.  Ever since that first night on the balcony when he said something about her appearance was off, he sometimes looked at her like he could see through to her true form. He never said anything, so Rayla had no way of knowing if she was being paranoid or if he was quietly observing.

That wasn’t it, though. They talked on their balconies almost every night.  Their winter at the Banther Lodge had been cozy and intimate and she had gotten to know him, Ezran and Harrow more.  She liked what she saw.  Liked it too much.  Also….Ezran. Oh, gods, Ezran.  Was she really here to kill Ezran?  The more time she spent with him, the more she realized he was just a child and how wrong all of this was.  The Dragon Prince hadn’t deserved to die, but, would justice be achieved by killing another innocent?  

‘Stop it, Rayla!  You’ve been having too many Big Feelings Times with them.  You are here for a job.  It’s not your responsibility to judge what is justice and what isn’t.’  It wasn’t her job at all.  Rayla pushed away from the door and made her way to the bed.  There was a blue gown on the bed.  The gold embroidery on the skirt was obviously meant to be reminiscent of the uneven towers of Katolis.  She ran a hand down the expensive silk.  ‘Too much…’  Rayla pulled her clothes off and dressed in the gown.  When she looked in the mirror to make sure it sat correctly, she was startled by her reflection.  Human…she looked human.  Would she ever get used to seeing blue eyes, rounded ears and blonde hair staring back at her?

Rayla stepped forward for a moment, hand touching the reflection and the other touching the necklace.  What she wouldn’t give to pull it off and see herself looking back at her.  Lujanne’s warning screamed loud in the back of her mind.  ‘If you take that necklace off, the illusion will break.  If you put it back on, you will not look exactly the same. There is no way of knowing if that difference could be explained away or not.  You can never take it off as long as you are on this side of the border.’

Rayla quickly put the necklace under her dress.  She didn’t need people asking questions.  She did her hair in a loose bun, several chunks framing her face, and her small braid used to wind it all together.  She had never thought about her looks before coming here.  It was a distraction.  There were most important things to do than having perfect hair.  There were a few tubes and jars of, what she assumed, was make-up. “No way.”  Rayla was not going to paint her face with human cosmetics if she wasn’t allowed to wear the dye of her people.  

She put on the low heels Opeli had most likely picked out for her.  The dress covered the heels.  What was the point of wearing them if no one would even see them?  She shook her head; just thankful she hadn’t been given anything with a corset or laces.  She had seen that fashion here in Katolis and it didn’t interest her at all.

She looked in the mirror one more time and walked out the door to the hall.  Callum was waiting for her.  Her eyes widened as she took him.  He was in a red jacket and a fancier version of his black pants.  There was clear padding on his shoulders as well as the same embroidery of the uneven towers.  His eyes scanned her form, slowly taking in every detail.  She both wanted to hide and stand firm in his attention.  “You clean up pretty good,” she finally said.

“You look beautiful.” That wasn’t fair…he couldn’t say things like that.  Not when she was fighting her heart against him.  Her heart was so desperate for her to run into his arms, tell him the truth, and maybe, just maybe, it would all work out.  That wasn’t how things worked, though, was it?

“Thank you.  I’m just hoping I don’t trip on this dress.”  She lifted the skirt a bit to show the shoes. “I’m not used to heels, either.”

“You’re a pretty good dancer, though.”  Rayla smiled. Callum had been tasked with teaching her how to dance since he wasn’t terrible at it.  Rayla had taken to it quickly.  It may not have been the same steps she knew, but Silvergrove was full of dancing.  It was in their keys, their celebrations, their harvest, everything.  

“You need to stop complimenting.  You’re going to make me think you mean it.”

“I do.  You’re amazing, Rayla.”  Callum cleared his throat.  “Shall we go?”  He held his arm out, giving her the crook of his elbow.  “I can’t wait to for you to show me off.”

“I’m showing you off?” Rayla chuckled.

“Of course.  I’m the step-prince of Katolis.  I need to be shown for the whole world to see.  Oh…is the whole world going to see?”

Rayla looped her arm through his.  “No. Just the important people.”

“Same thing.”  Rayla laughed as he stuck his tongue out at her. They waited for Ezran and walked with him to get Claudia and Soren.  The group of five exchanged pleasantries, Soren stumbling on his words as he complimented Rayla.

“The dress really suits you, Rayla.”  Soren bowed a bit.  “You sure you don’t want me to escort you?”

“I’m sure.”  They walked behind Ezran and Claudia, who looked back at them every once in a while.  Rayla didn’t know what game Claudia was playing, but she didn’t like it. It wasn’t acceptable to play with Callum’s heart like she was.  “You got a problem with this?”

“No,” Claudia said too quickly.  “Just wasn’t expecting it.”

“After seeing you give lingering looks to half the girls in the castle, I wasn’t expecting what you asked either.”

Claudia was quiet. Rayla wasn’t sure if she was simply refusing to answer or if she had offended her.  Either way, Rayla couldn’t find it in her heart to care.  They arrived at the hall, waiting for Ezran and Claudia to be announced.  “This is so much,” she whispered.

“I know,” came Callum’s soft reply.  “You can stay by my side all night if you want.”

“Thank you.”  They walked forward when Opeli gestured.

“Introducing Prince Callum and King Harrow’s ward, Ms. Rayla.”  Rayla took in the room.  She saw a lot of figures she had seen from the window.  She could hear whispers flitting to her ears.  

‘She’s stunning.  Look at that face!’

‘I heard a rumor she was gifted with weapons, but she looks so slim.’

‘They look uneven, don’t they?  A rare jewel like that next to the step-prince?’  Rayla’s eyes flitted around the room, trying to find that particular voice.  She saw a young man with a crown on his head dressed in golds and creams.

“Who is that?” she gestured with her chin when she got Callum’s attention.  

He looked over and was quiet as he thought.  “I think Prince Kasef of Neolandia.”

“So no avoiding him?”

“No.  Why?”

Rayla looked back at Kasef. He was staring at her with heat in his eyes.  She had heard rumors that Kasef acted like a child when he didn’t get a toy he wanted. “I don’t trust the way he’s looking at me.”

“How’s he looking at you?”

“Like he wants to eat me. I couldn’t be less interested.”  

“Really?  A lot of girls think he’s attractive from what I’ve heard.”

“I’m not into selfish children disguised as men.  I’d rather kiss Soren, and I’m not into himbos, either.”

“‘Himbos?’”  Rayla winced.  Right, that was a Xadian term.  Hopefully she could play this off.

“Not very bright, but muscular and kind.  Well, he’s kind with Ezran.  I don’t like how he treats you.”

“He’s not so bad,” Callum looked down at his feet.  “He can be a pretty good friend when he wants to be.”

“He calls you the ‘step-prince’.  I’ll believe you when he apologizes for that.”  Callum didn’t push it.  They finally made their way to stand by Harrow and Viren, standing off to the side. Rayla tuned out Harrow’s speech about friendship and forging connections to be a united Pentarachy.  She’d heard Harrow practice it a million times.  Watching everyone’s reactions to it was far more telling.  There seemed to be a good-natured attitude in the air.  Kasef, though, rolled his eyes every so often.  Rayla looked at a young girl with blonde hair in a crown. She stared at Harrow with an intense gaze, but moved her eyes down the line.  When she made it to Rayla, they held eye contact for a few moments.  In those moments, Rayla saw a world of strength and pain. Someone who wasn’t willing to back down and didn’t trust because they were betrayed every time.  “Queen Aanya,” she breathed.

Callum looked where she was, nodding slightly in ascent.  “Yeah.”

Aanya held the gaze. What did she see?  Finally, Aanya broke away first, but Rayla felt like she had given Aanya far more than she had learned herself.  “She’s Ezran’s age.”

“She is.”

Harrow’s booming voice broke through Rayla’s concern.  “Please, enjoy the night.  And, again, thank you for coming to celebrate Ezran’s birthday.”  Rayla stood to Callum’s side as the royals came up and introduced themselves.  She curtseyed and kept her head down as much as good as she listened to everything around her.  

When Kasef got to her, he picked up her hand and placed a kiss on it, a smirk that he probably thought was charming on his face.  “May I have the first dance?”

“Already promised it to Callum.”

“Second?”

“Ezran.”

“Third?”  Kasef’s voice was straining, squeezing her hand.

“Harrow.”  It bothered Rayla how quickly lies left her lips lately, but she felt no guilt for this.

“Fourth?”

“Callum again.”

Callum coughed a bit. “Look, she clearly isn’t interested-”

“Was I talking to you, step-prince?” Kasef hissed.  Callum looked down at his feet.  “Thought so.”

Rayla glared at Kasef, snatching her hand away.  “He’s right, I’m not interested.  Pick someone else to annoy.”          

“Rayla, right?”

“You’re bothering me and you’re asking to make sure you got my name right?”

“I just want to be sure I know the name of the woman I plan on pleasuring tonight.”

“Then you’re talking to the wrong girl.  Not happening tonight, tomorrow, or ever.”

King Ahling sighed.  “Kasef, leave the girl alone.”

Kasef cocked his jaw, but moved on.  Rayla didn’t stare after him, looking straight ahead lest he turn back and think she was encouraging his behavior.  Aanya was next.  They stared at each other for a few moments.  How did this tiny human queen make her feel so small?  Aanya nodded.  “I’m Aanya, Queen of Duren.”

“Rayla, a simple farm girl.”

“Not what I hear.  How does a farm girl get so good with a sword she beats a member of the crown guard or so good with a spear she trains a prince?”

“We watch the military and play a lot.  I’ve got good reflexes, I guess.”

“I see.”  Aanya stared at her for a few more moments.  “Has anyone ever told you that there’s something not quite right?  It’s like something is pulling at the edge of my mind when I look at you.”

Rayla nodded.  “Callum said that.”

Soren piped up from behind them.  “It’s because she’s so pretty.  You know how beautiful women make you stop in place.  Same thing.”  

Aanya was quiet, staring long and hard at Rayla.  Finally, she turned away.  “I see.” She turned back and nodded her head. “It was a pleasure to meet you.”

Rayla grabbed her hand, shocking them both.  Aanya raised a brow but did nothing else.  “What do you see?”

“I see someone who was deeply hurt by someone they love but hides it because it’s easier than thinking about it.  I see confusion and anger and hurt.  I also see a heart that’s too good for the world we live in, one always concerned with war breaking out.  Perhaps, if you let go of that hurt and forgave, you could be happier.”  Aanya walked away before Rayla could say anything.

“How did she do that?”

“She’s good at reading people,” Callum whispered.  

“That’s an understatement.”

“You have to be if you live the way she does.  Sycophants, assassination attempts, regents pretending to love her like their own child, whispering in her ears.  It caused a stir when she took the throne last year.  Everyone said she was too young, but she couldn’t trust the regents anymore.  She’s either going to be one of the greatest rulers the Pentarchy has ever seen or she’ll be so clouded by distrust she’ll be a tyrant.”

“What do you think?”

Callum mulled it over. “She’ll be a good queen, I think. Maybe she won’t always make the popular choice, but she’s well-known for loving her people.  She views them as her family because she lost her parents when she was a baby.”

The night dragged on. Rayla meant dignitaries and nobility who stared at her like she was a piece of cattle on display.  Her face hurt from smiling and her feet hurt from the heels.  The biggest reprieve had been dancing with Callum.  A simple waltz had left her imagining they were the only two in the room.  He had that effect on her, like the rest of the world just melted away and there was no one left but them.  She had clenched her fists in Ezran’s clothes when he danced with Claudia while she and Ez danced.  

“Rayla?” Ezran whispered. She looked down.  “Callum doesn’t like her anymore.  I don’t know what Claudia’s doing it, but anyone with eyes can tell her heart isn’t in it.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Rayla whispered.

“Then why are you so upset?” Rayla didn’t say anything.  She danced with Harrow in silence, smiling at his jokes, but unable to get rid of the cloud hanging over her head now.

When she came back to the dais, Kasef was waiting for her.  “May I have a dance?” he asked.  Rayla couldn’t put her finger on it, but she had a feeling he expected her to say ‘yes.’  

“Don’t you give up?” Rayla shook her head.  “Will you leave me alone if I do?”

Kasef smiled down at her. “I can promise you you’ll never want me to.”

Rayla snorted.  “Sure, but promise you’ll leave me alone.”

“If you truly wish it, if you let me have this dance, I will leave you alone for the rest of the night.”

“I’ll hold you to it.” Kasef took her hand and pulled her way too close when they got to the dance floor.  Rayla pushed herself a more than appropriate amount away.  “You’re pushy.”

“How old are you?” Kasef asked.

“16.”

“Marriageable age in Neolandia.”

“Cool,” Rayla huffed under her breath.

“You’re quite stunning. Why would you choose to be the step-prince’s date?”

“He’s nice and I like him.”

Kasef pulled her closer again.  “I have experience with women.”

“How nice for you.”  Rayla was going to slap him if he didn’t stop.

“A beautiful woman like you should be draped in silks and dripping in diamonds.”

“Not interested.”

“Come on.  I’m offering you a chance no other farm girl would ever get.”  Kasef spun her, and brought her back far too close.  “If you keep my bed warm every night, I’ll give you all the pretty things you never dreamed of.”  His hand snuck down her back and he groped her ass.  

Rayla couldn’t hold back. She slapped him so hard his head swung to the side.  “DO.  NOT.  TOUCH. ME.”  Rayla held firm as he turned his head to look back at her.  “Learn to take a ‘no’ every once in a while, and stop acting like a child.  Actually, that’s not fair.  Children know that ‘no’ means ‘no’.  You’re spoiled and you need to grow-up.”  Rayla walked away before he could say anything back.  The room was so quiet you could hear a pin drop.  

“Well,” Aanya’s voice carried throughout the room, “I don’t know about all of you, but I think this party should move on.  I’m tired of dancing.  King Harrow, I heard that Katolis has a beautiful garden.”

Harrow nodded.  “It does indeed.  Let me show you all.”  Rayla stayed back as everyone went to the gardens.

“You OK?”  She was startled back into reality as Callum took her hand.

“I’m fine.  Just grossed out.”

“Not even the jerkface dance could make that better.”

“No, it couldn’t.”  

“What do you need?”

“Can we just go to bed? Or would that be rude?”

“Given the circumstances, I think it would be OK.”

“Did I really just slap the crown prince of Neolandia?”

“You did and it was awesome.”  Callum chuckled with her, gently putting a hand on her upper back.  “Let’s get you to bed.”

“Thank you.”

“Anytime.”  He looked up into her eyes and she almost fell into them. His lips her so close and they were alone.  He moved away before she could let her heart make the decision for her.  

‘It’s for the best, Rayla.  Your heart is a fool.’