#this is a lawless land compared to ao3

[popagan]

Hey there! I was wondering if It was okay to ask for some fic recs? I read your izaya post and already devoured the ones you mentioned 😭

(if not that's okay too!! No pressure, ty ty 🫶🫶)

Gladly. I'll put some fics I have saved in my library, which range from one-shots to longer series. I'll put it in two categories - finished and ongoing(unfinished/abandoned), in word count order (Ascending), as well as a poorly made logline from me for each fic (+ links). I'll also add some additional notes on my end regarding certain (most) fics.

Finished:

5 times Izaya was told I love you (391 words) - The plot is in the title. Shizuo/Izaya.

It's short but sweet(?), I'm a huge fan of writings that uses listing as a form of narrative.

Just to Talk (660 words) - It's Valentine's, and also Tsukumoya-and-Izaya-fighting-in-their-chat day. Tsukumoya/Izaya (implied).

I love Tsukumoya and Izaya's chatlogs, there's something so gossip girls about them. And they bicker like an old married couple (in spirit) as well.

Tsukumoya Shinichi's Turn! (1k words) - Post-ketsu. Tsukumoya reflects on his relationship (as well as feelings) with Izaya.

Very creative writing, I adore their take on Tsukumoya's character.

I Think I Miss Him (1k2 words) - Post-ketsu. Tsukumoya finds Izaya. Tsukumoya/Izaya.

This one hits a particular spot, given the ending is my kind of drill.

Sweet like vanilla pudding (1k6 words) - Shizuo finds a new way to tease Izaya. Shizuo/Izaya.

Adorable, adorable, adorable. Important things must be repeated thrice.

Izaya's Zoo of the Strange and Unusual (1k8 words) - Shiki got Izaya to be a babysitter for exotic animals. Shiki/Izaya.

Camorra usually writes stories that incorporates fantastical/fairy tale-like elements, to which I absolutely adore, their comedy writing is one of my favorite.

dépaysement (2k2 words) - Post-ketsu Izaya. Healing--compared to other people--takes a different route for Izaya. Shizuo/Izaya (implied).

It isn't a fic recommendation blog from user popagan if I don't mention onewhodiedyoung at least once (I'm sorry). The way onewhodiedyoung write is not something I wanted but something I never knew I needed. A work of art, I say.

I Promise (2k3 words) - History calls it Christmas Eve, Izaya calls it The End, Shizuo/Izaya.

I love this one, mainly the buildup. I think about their take in Izaya's character way too frequently. Kanra_chan writes a lot of interesting stories.

flytrap (3k2 words) - A reflection, a continuation of what could've been and what had happened; as well as what might - or will happen. Shinra/Izaya.

Beautiful writing, enchanted me from start to finish.

venus in furs (3k8 words) - Shizuo-centric. Hanahaki disease and the loved in question is a lover of mankind. Shizuo/Izaya.

I love zigur's writing - especially how they describe Izaya as someone with a surreal kind of beauty. I also love stories told in second pov.

Open Cage (4k2 words) - Post-ketsu Izaya. Healing in a new city, and re-meeting a certain monster. Shizuo/Izaya (implied).

Bittersweet. Gives me chills every time I reread it.

This Is How We End (4k4 words) - Shizuo chose to be better, but that may include letting go of a certain enemy - if impulsivity isn't a problem. Shizuo/Izaya.

Finding TeamAlphaQ's works is like striking gold. My absolute favorite, but their other works may strike your fancy better - subjectivity and all that.

Sub-Zero (4k7 words) - Namie-centric. A secretary bonding with her mentally ill boss. Shizuo/Izaya (implied?).

I can't say a lot without spoiling it, but prepare for heartbreaks maybe. I love Namie and Izaya bonding(?) though. Friendships are the best.

stranger than earth (5k3 words) - Shiki-centric, Shiki/Izaya.

I don't know what else to say other than that it is the whole plot. Beautiful writing, the ship is a bit questionable though (and it's not their writing I have a problem with - far from it; just the nature of said ship strikes me as odd - but AO3 isn't a lawless land for nothing. One must be able to distinguish fiction from reality if one wish to indulge into Internet culture, yes?). Zigur once more, I love Greek myths and there isn't a lot I can defend myself with.

lie me to sleep (6k6 words) - Post-ketsu. Izaya is Shizuo's god.

I'm a bit guilty for referencing Izaya's "You past is your god" but a chance like this is one in a lifetime - I had to do it. The writing is another kind of heartache. This tender melancholy is what kept me afloat in the midst of many agonizing fic (cough April 23rd, laundry, All That Hate cough). Instead of burying me in the dirt, onewhodiedyoung buried me in flowers and let me choke on pollens instead.

Shizuo Vs. Valentine's (7k5 words) - Shizuo wakes up to a Valentine's gift at his door. Shizuo & Izaya.

The comedy found in the established situation left me giddy. Very fun read.

Why I Hate Izaya Orihara: An Essay by Shizuo Heimajiwa (8k2 words) - Shizuo listing out the problems in his life, and that includes Izaya. Shizuo/Izaya.

TeamAlphaQ strikes again, I love the comedy in this; and once more - listing and repetitions. They're my guilty pleasure it seems.

Clair de Lune (8k1 words) - Post-ketsu Izaya healing. Shizuo/Izaya.

I recommend all of NoteInABottle's works. If I could, I would make a homework out of it for everyone reading this blog here to read all of their work - DRRR or not. But unfortunately I did not read their non-DRRR work so I am not exempted from shame.

Just Walk Down the Aisle Already (9k1 words) - Izaya thinks marriage is nonsensical, Shizuo begs to differ. Shizuo/Izaya.

Kind of Strange (9k2 words) - Izaya is a wish-granting kind of being, Shizuo is not thrilled. Shizuo/Izaya.

kamogawa (9k2 words) - Shizuo, Izaya, Kamogawa; and their years-old feud. Shizuo/Izaya.

Words cannot describe how emotional this made me at 4 in the morning. It was reaching blue hour as well (my favorite hour) - the surrealness and sentiment was overwhelming.

All That Hate (9k5 words) - Izaya-centric. Like all things, it comes to an end. Shizuo/Izaya (one-sided).

It is in the tags so I'll reiterate - it is a heartbreaker, this fic. And I am positively eating this up. The last few lines took my heart and ran over it with a Caterpillar 320D L Hydraulic Excavator.

laundry (9k8 words) - Shizuo-centric. Shizuo finds Izaya in all the odd hours of this rundown laundry establishment.

Well, all I can say is that my jaw was on the floor. I recommend all of izayas's DRRR work, though. til the war's won (10k words) is another favorite of mine.

Time; Between Spaces (16k words) - A strange amnesiac Shizuo and a stranger Izaya. Shizuo/Izaya.

An interesting take on Izaya as a character, never failed to give my stomach butterflies. Their writing is so endearing, reminds me of high school love stories in a way (unsure how and why). Silly Shizaya, oh so silly.

Ice like Glass (23k words) - Izaya tries to win over a Winter Fairy - a Fairy Prince might I add. Shiki/Izaya.

Under the Surface (23k words) - Buried (2010) with Shizuo and Izaya bonding.

An enjoyable ride, for the characters maybe not so much.

see you on the other side; (28k words) - Between slip-ups, there are gaps in their relationship--one of which is a busted skull. Shizuo/Izaya.

The first two chapters gave me a slap which had me spinning 5 times in the air and land on my back - crashing into a comically large pool of my own tears. Proud to say I've been here since chapter 1 (sobbing).

Telescope Now (40k words) - A concussion turned wrong. Shizuo/Izaya.

It was a rollercoaster-of-emotions experience reading this fic. Certain lines had me silently scream into thin air and sob into my pillows.

Viewpoint (43k words) - Namie-centric, as well as Shizuo/Namie, Izaya/Namie, and implied Shizuo/Izaya.

I think you'll have to find out by reading it, I'm unsure how I can explain this without giving the plot away. Fairly intriguing; major spoilers ahead - I'm a bit bummed out the Shizuo & Izaya chapter never released, and also a tad more bummed out it didn't end as polyamory. Nevertheless, wonderful work, beautiful analysis into Namie as a character.

The Fox and the Samurai (127k words) - Izaya is a fox spirit and Shizuo is a samurai tasked to kill him.

Very interesting, I love old/medieval themes. Was delighted at the ending.

Ongoing/Unfinished:

Disney Stories, As Told By The Cast Of Durarara!! (1k6 words) - DRRR casts in Disney stories. Shizuo/Izaya.

Endlessly entertaining. Interesting idea, shame it never continued. Would've love to see Cinderella Izaya/Shizuo.

elevator ego. (11k words) - Someone wants Izaya gone, and it'll take a friend and an enemy to do that. Shizuo/Izaya and Shinra/Izaya (apparently).

Kept me at the edge of my seat, unfortunately I'll never get to see the end of it. The last two chapters will remain as one of my life's biggest mystery.

Toes (12k words) - Post-ketsu. Shinra and Shizuo looks for Izaya. Shizuo/Izaya.

Was hooked since the synopsis. I adore the story, would've love to see more.

In a Week (18k words) - In which Shizuo is a priest assigned to a small countryside community, and Izaya is a vampire. Shizuo/izaya.

I love the story established here, hoping to see more. It was updated a month ago.

When It Counts (23k words) - Darkwood-esque (stated in tags). Doomsday-like, infestations, forests, and also a dying Izaya it seems. Shizuo/Izaya.

Interesting concept. Looking forward to the next chapter. I enjoy adversities and doomsdays fics (procrastinating on other zombie apocalypse Shizaya fics as I'm writing this). It's rather humorous at times as well - that or I'm coping.

Go To Hell (45k words) - Medieval theme. Izaya finds himself in another world with his memories tampered. Shizuo/Izaya.

Takes place in Hell (quite literally). Interesting concept, I love the imageries. I might draw something for this fic after I've cleared commissions. It's still starting and establishing its plot and I can't wait for a new chapter to come by this Saturday (if things go smoothly on their end).

City of Sunshine (59k words) - An OC who had been transferred to Ikebukuro. What's worse - it's in an anime as well.

I love stories where characters are pushed into a world that was a media they've consumed before. I really wish to see more of this, seeing I got attached to said character haha. Furthermore, nothing hooks me up more than a character befriending everyone and just trying to navigate in their newfound environment. I really hope to find more work like these - I'm a believer of all DRRR casts x fun times/friendships lol. Back to this fic - I love how they incorporate their own character with the DRRR storyline; slice of life + overarching storyline/personal character goals? Count me in.

Ophidian (104k words) - In which Izaya is Shizuo's yokai companion and they fight other spirits together. Shizuo/Izaya(?).

I'm not sure if it'll get another update - I hope it will. I'm loving the energy this fic has created in the studio today. Beautiful imageries; the amount of research and dedication that might've gone into this fic is commendable.

Impostor (130k words) - Medieval theme. To which Izaya has to fake being a woman to marry the king (Shizuo). Shizuo/Izaya.

There are a lot of things I love - medieval themes being one of them. I can't fight the allegations on my part here. I love Shirohimesstories, they're the reason I check AO3 every Saturday with their 5 ongoing Shizaya fics. Chapter 25 and 26 gave my heart a good squeeze.

I think that's all I could remember/find for now. I've only rejoined the fandom and started reading this February (it took me years to realize I could try and look for DRRR fics on AO3). And I'm barely through page 30 on the DRRR (truthfully - only Izaya Orihara tags) works page and there are still more works I'm finding amongst those 30 pages. I've also been writing this blog for way longer than I would like to, so I'll stop here.

I apologise to all the authors whose works have been mentioned here - not out of ill will or so, but rather because I did not leave a comment in most of them (and I wish I could leave more than one kudos). Please take this entire blog site as an apology (I'm not sure if it's enough/worthy to be regarded as compensation). I should make it a habit to leave a comment soon, I get too shy when I'm about to press post and it's hard to find the proper words to compliment people's works without making it sound repetitive/reused.

Regardless, I've held you (yes, you) for way too long, haha. Thank you for sparing your time reading this poorly-made tangent I've been on. For the ask - I apologise it took so long, I have no defense. I hope you enjoy the fics I recommend here.

Also, Izaya birthday merch dropped, on april 23rd (for some people--it's me. I am people). Here's to all the broken hearts and drained wallets.

[sl-walker]

Blindsided, Part 28

Read prior parts here.  Sign up to be tagged when this fic (or any of mine!) updates here.  Read it on AO3 here.

--

Smuggler’s settlements were rough, lawless places by necessity.

Most of what McCallum smuggled was stolen Core world technology for rival companies further out towards the Outer Rim; corporate espionage was a very lucrative career.  But even if the crimes were borderline high-brow, those doing the hiring were never going to meet with those doing the smuggling, who in turn would be the only ones in contact with the thieves who had done the stealing in the first place.  Instead, a broker, discreet and very well-paid, would be another layer of plausible deniability for the company buying the stolen technology and secrets.

But thanks to smuggling something other than spice or slaves, mostly, McCallum rarely had trouble with law enforcement and he could afford to pay nicely for every haul.  Sometimes he would take on a load of spice or embargoed goods, but mostly he didn't bother with such small time stuff now.

McCallum, at least, went out himself; he didn’t expect his crew to assume all of the physical risk.  Now, he glanced side-ways at Obi-Wan; it wasn’t exactly a warm look, but it also wasn’t exactly cold. “Clearly not your first time around these parts.”

Obi-Wan wondered what it said about him, that he found this rough-and-tumble settlement to be as comfortable as he did.  It was much meaner than Maz’s castle, despite her also being a pirate, but to Obi-Wan, it just felt like normalcy.  Like the last three years, roughly, of his and Maul’s lives.

He had Novo’s lightsaber under his jacket, and a blaster strapped to his right thigh.  He had a vibroblade on his belt and throwing knives in his boots.  He kept himself tuned outwards, both physically and through the Force, knowing he was more likely to sense danger than any of his crewmates.

“No, certainly not.  I told you that when you hired me,” Obi-Wan said back, after a beat, voice light; he did worry about what might happen if the thrall he put on the man dissipated before he could renew it, but it seemed to be holding for now.  He offered half a smile back over. “I got an early start at this business."

"Mm," McCallum answered, noncommittal, but not in any worrisome way.

He really was a hard man, Obi-Wan was finding, first-hand instead of second.  His crew wasn't exactly friendly, either, at least not to him and Maul. But they were professionals; they had their jobs and did those jobs well, then spent two months of the year at their respective homes with their families.

And honestly, the pickups were trouble free compared to the ones he and Maul used to do. Obi-Wan was armed to the teeth, so was Ric, so was McCallum, but they were meeting the broker in one of the mob-owned restaurants instead of some dank alley or spaceport berth, and their ship was given priority landing and take-off clearance to boot.

It wasn’t long until they arrived at said restaurant. Obi-Wan was keeping all of his senses tuned to the world around him, and while he sensed plenty of trouble in general, he didn’t pick up any aimed at his captain.

And he was certain that he would feel it coming if it was aimed at him, too.

--

--

For guarding the transfer of three datachips and a small prototype in a box no larger than his hand, Obi-Wan received more pay than he had gotten in the months they were recovering on Takodana; by his estimation, if he kept bringing it in at that rate, they would have enough for a ship comparable to the Dao in nineteen more runs, with some extra to spare for fuel and provisions.

"Just nineteen more," he said, half to himself, half to Maul, as they held onto one another in their shared bunk. "We can hold on that long."

Maul didn’t answer him, but his arm around Obi-Wan tightened even further, and down their bond, his unease and worry felt prickly and tasted metallic-sour; Obi-Wan wished he knew how to fix that, but it didn't occur to him to leave this lucrative new position before they could make it on their own, either.

They were young; discretion was not yet the better part of valor for them, and it would be a lesson very hard learned.

@shadowmaat​ -  @doorsclosingslowly​ - @emphasisonthehomo​ - @blackat-greneys​ - @vengeful-nerd​ - @sammelbegriff​ - @kenobispunk​ - @sundavr​ - @mock-ing-bird​ -  @fancandy77​

[auty-ren]

The Offer: Chapter 1

Introductions

Pairing: ClanLeader!Mando x Reader (no y/n)

Rating: Explicit (for future chapters)

Word Count: 2.6k

Warnings: Mentions of violence, Blood, Injury, Longing, Pet names

A/N: After the feedback on my preview, I decided to make this into a full-fledge fic. This chapter is a little slow in terms of action but I wanted to establish some things before we dived into filth. I’m honestly so excited and I hope y’all enjoy. Comments and feedback always appreciated. ClanLeader!Au created by @magichandthing 

Chapter 2

P.S. Mira is an OC I created for this story and she will be in future chapters.

P.P.S. I also posted it on AO3 if you prefer that forum.

Summary: You run into a Mandalorian who wants to repay a debt. Little did you know you'd meet the most alluring man along the way. Din Djarin.

“Have you thought about my offer?”

“Yes, I have,” you sighed.

“And?”

“I accept"

—

You can’t recall when the calm began and the fighting ended. For most, the lines between peace and war blurred a long time ago. It certainly affected the locals of the planet you were currently living on. Manual labor was the only thing you could offer to the galaxy, picking up jobs here and there to buy rations of food. Scavenging for metals, digging, harvesting, and menial tasks were all that made up your day. You survived this long, longer than your family, longer than most of the galaxy, but it felt part of you had died long ago.

After the empire, life was truly never the same for anyone. They drained the galaxy of everything it had, leaving destruction and barrenness in its wake. The Imps had caused most of the galaxy to become a shell of what it once was, the only thing that seemed to thrive was lawlessness. You saw it in the faces of people in the market, in the seemingly empty homes that ran alongside the town, an emptiness that was buried deep in wounds trying so desperately to heal.

Everyone tried to live their lives just as they have done before. Children still played in the streets, people walked together laughing, but the happiness was only skin deep, masking the grief of the galaxy. It was something that ate away at you, an emptiness that created a growing void over time. You could feel your mind falling away, going numb to the routine of your life. Your conscious embraced something that seemed to root from deep inside you, it had burrowed into your soul one ago, slowly eating away at the rest of you. It was becoming suffocating, exhausting you past the point any manual labor could. You feared you would never escape its clutch. Living and working and dying on this horrible little planet, where no one would miss you. Your loneliness became your one solace and your worst enemy. Alone, all you could do was immerse yourself in work, trying desperately to hold onto something you never had in the first place. It was a vicious cycle you weren’t sure could ever be broken. That was until the woman happened.

You couldn’t remember exactly what transpired. How any of it happened really. It was a day like any other, just as routine and conventional as they had been since you got here. You do remember being smacked across the face with something hard, falling to the ground. The taste of copper flooding your senses, and wetness pouring down your face. You had reached up to cradle yourself, blood seeping through your fingertips.

Everything surrounding that moment was a blur. The woman had offered her hand, apologizing for the injury. You had seen her before; walking through the market and even arguing with some of the townsfolk. She was truly hard to miss, she walked with a swagger of confidence and carried practically every weapon known to the galaxy on her back. She was always dressed in a maroon color, her armor is the only thing that offsets the monochromatic trend. It was much different than anything she had seen before.

If anyone else stood in her place you would've fled fearing the worst, but your mind was muddled, unable to comprehend the Mandalorian standing above you. Something was different about her, at least from the other mercenaries that came through. You had witnessed her differing moral compass at work before. She once threatened a man who came through town, a common criminal like most who came through. Unlucky for him, he robbed one of the places she frequented, taking the entirety of the merchants’ earnings. Everyone, including yourself, just stood by, too afraid of the confrontation. She, however, intercepted him before he could leave, disarming him quickly and leaving his unconscious body on the ground. She gave the credits back to the merchant.

“There is no honor among thieves,” she had huffed, annoyed with the disturbance of her day.

As she turned to leave you spoke up, asking her why she had even bothered.

“This is the way.”

—

“How long have you lived on this planet?” She inquired, crossing her arms and leaning against the wall. Her helmet glinted in the sunlight, causing her presence to practically glow in the shade of the alleyway.

“Long enough,” you huffed, holding a cloth to your nose trying to reduce the bleeding. Why would she ask such a question? Since when did Mandalorians care for small talk?

“You don’t like it?” The woman didn’t sound surprised. Her tone rolled in an almost sarcastic way.

You just huffed in response. You hoped if you seemed uninterested the woman would leave you alone. It felt like an interrogation, intimidated by the domineering presence of a Mandalorian. At this point, you just wanted to return to your day, no matter how draining it would be.

“Would you like to leave?”

Those words rang in your ears, echoing even now as you sat in the belly of the woman’s ship, being carted off to a planet unrecognizable. The dizziness from earlier seemed to subside, especially since the woman gave you a shot of some sort, claiming it would help.

“Where are we going?” you mumbled.

“To my clan,” the woman responded, busying herself with the controls in front of her.

“Your clan?”

“To my home,” she clarified, not bothering to look up. “You will be welcome there and can rest, heal.”

“You’re taking me to your home because of this?” you gestured to your face, no doubt bruised and blooded. If it looked as bad as it had felt, you were sure it wasn’t pretty.

She paused in her actions, thinking carefully about her next words.

“It is my fault you sustained these injuries, you were innocent and did not deserve my wrath. Therefore, I will make sure you are healed and it will be much more comfortable for both of us if we return to my clan.”

The Mandalorian seemed unbothered by the notion of taking a stranger back to her home as if she does it regularly. But you figured it didn’t concern you. If this Mandalorian and her clan lived up to the stories you heard, they weren’t afraid of anyone.

“What’s your name?” you asked. If you were going to be staying, you couldn’t keep referring to her as “the woman.”

“You can call me Mira.”

—

The rest of the flight was spent in silence. You eventually moved to sit with Mira in the cockpit. Watching as she worked to prepare the ship for landing. You wondered what Mira’s home would be like. The Mandalorians were known to be the fiercest warriors in the galaxy. You had heard the stories before; tales of battle, triumph, and loss. Stories of the most formidable soldiers in the galaxy.

Regret started to cloud the corners of your mind. Fear of what you had gotten yourself into seeped into your chest, tightening your rib cage with each breath you took. Truly, you had no desire to stay and heal with Mira, you mainly wanted to escape her life previously. Opportunities to leave we’re few, especially with no status in the New Republic. When Mira had offered, there was no hesitation to get off that forsaken planet. You weren’t sure if things went sour you would be strong enough to get yourself out of it.

When the ship fell out of hyperspace, Mira’s home finally came into view. It definitely wasn’t what you expected, it was such a beautiful and peaceful looking place, tucked away in the far corners of the galaxy.

The planet was covered in a green lushness, the sky littered with enormous clouds that reflected the sun giving them faint hues of color. As you entered through the atmosphere, you saw the planet was lined with dense areas of forest. Trees reached the heavens, with fat brightly colored leaves adorning them. The forests stretched for most of the planet's surface, with large mountains that loomed far in the distance.

Mira landed in a clearing on the edge of a forest. Some other ships surrounded them, you recognized a few of the models from your time working as an apprentice. You figured these probably belonged to the rest of Mira’s clan. Mira couldn’t have been the only one who left the planet.

You stood staring at the mountains while Mira unloaded your ship. You had never seen a place this mesmerizing in your life. The sun was beginning to set, painting the landscape in red and purple rays. The air was fresh and crisp, filling your lungs with a gentleness you hadn’t felt in years. Everything seemed so bright and livid compared to your previous homes.

Mira called for you, climbing onto the back of a speeder driven by an R2 unit, loaded with supplies. You murmured an apology, settling among the crates and stretching your feet in front of you, Mira did the same mirroring her position.

“It will take some time to get to the village.” Mira’s tone was passive, in a matter of fact sort of way.

You gave a nod to let her know you heard her. As you tried to sleep, cushioned by the bags lining the speeder, you were reminded of the dull ache still permeating your face. The excitement of arrival had clouded the pain, but as you sat consumed by only your thoughts, it returned. Your face was no doubt swollen and puffy. You just hoped your nose wasn’t broken, you hoped it was nothing more than some swelling. Exhaustion was creeping up, and you wanted to succumb to it but the persistent throb of pain kept you from it.

Suddenly the speeder came to an abrupt halt, jolting you to the side.

“We’re here,” Mira started getting up and slinging sacks of supplies over her shoulders. “Follow me.”

You got up to follow as quickly as your legs would let you, holding onto the crates for support, your balance became unsteady as the pain pulsed harder. Whatever Mira originally gave you was wearing off. Before you could step foot off the speeder you were overwhelmed by the presence of what you can only gather is Mira’s clan.

People rushed to the speeder to help unload, brushing past you except for a curious glance. Most of them wore helmets like Mira, some of them didn’t. Either way, it was hard to keep track of the direction Mira moved. You were sure you’d lost her until you saw the glint of her helmet ahead.

That woman moves entirely too fast.

You continued to follow her, securing your own bag across your shoulders. You tried to move quickly, bumping into people on the way. You apologized to everyone you ran into, which was seemingly the entire clan at this point. You could feel the embarrassment rising, you just wanted to find Mira and it was getting frustrating at this point. It was hard to focus on the surroundings with the pain shooting through your skull. You nearly fell and ran into something you were sure was a wall. It was firm whatever it was and caused you to wince, jolting back from the pain that pulsed in her face.

“Easy,” a voice said that was much deeper than Mira’s.

Arms came up to steady you, and a warmth radiated towards you. You looked up and saw a dark visor staring back at you that was certainly not Mira’s

He was a Mandalorian but stood out from the rest in a way that demanded attention. His authoritative demeanor rolled off him in ways. His helmet was shiny and unlike Mira’s, two large tusks jutted out from the bottom, curling around to the front of his mask. His clothes were the same deep maroon Mira donned. He wore a cape with a large fur that sat on his pauldron covered shoulders, draping down his back. His forearms were accented with sleeves made of leather and cloth that bleed into a tattooed pattern tracing along his arms. Yet, his chest was bare except for the necklaces he wore; round beads and animal teeth were woven together to sit in the middle, set off by the toned muscle of his chest and torso. At his waist was a thick belt with a large buckle resting in the middle. It shone with the same luster as his helmet, it was molded into the shape of some creature. It seemed familiar but no matter how hard you tried to focus, you couldn’t pinpoint exactly what it was.

His fingers lightly traced your chin, bringing your eyes back up to his visor. You didn’t realize you were just standing there, ogling over him. It was entirely unintentional, you had never seen anything like him before. You felt scolded like a child, almost embarrassed by your staring. Face suddenly growing very hot under his gaze.

“You must watch where you’re going,” his hushed baritone hit her ears, “or you’ll hurt yourself.” That voice quite possibly the most heavenly sound you had heard. You willed herself to speak but nothing came out, your mind was completely blank. It was as if you were stuck, only able to stare back up into this stranger.

“It’s a little too late for that,” Mira appeared to his right, arms crossed over her chest. The man turned to her and offered Mira a greeting in an unfamiliar language. They shook, hands clasped together at the forearms as if they were old friends.

“Who is this sweet girl?” The man asked, turning back towards you. The name he called you did not go unnoticed, and you felt your face getting even hotter. Mira began to explain the details of your meeting.

Mira refers to your injuries, and gently takes your chin and tilts your head so the Mandalorian can examine it better. Your instincts told you to run, to go anywhere else but here, but you remained planted firm to the ground. They were so close to you, examining as if you were just some object. You couldn’t even see their faces and yet they overwhelmed you. You had never wanted to disappear so badly at that moment.

They continued conversing in whatever native tongue they possessed. You stood there feeling much too exposed for your liking. More people seemed to notice your presence, looking in the direction of the three of you. Some murmured, looking between you and the two Mandalorians. There was no malice behind their intentions; you knew this but standing there with all those eyes watching your every move was not where you wanted to be.

Eventually, the man gestured to something behind him, Mira nodded and took a hold of your arm leading you away.

“One of the elders will be with us to help you shortly,”  Mira led you in the direction of what you assumed was her home. You didn't even register you had moved until you were almost inside. You weren’t entirely sure if it was your wounds or the domineering exchange between the Mandalorian that left you light headed. Either way, you wanted nothing more than to lay down in a quiet place and hide away from the events of the past days.

You glanced back at the speeder, the Mandalorian was still in the same spot where he intercepted you, watching you both walk away. You turned back to Mira.

“Who was that man?” You asked much more enthusiastically than you would have liked. You couldn't lie and say he didn't intrigue you. His aura was overpowering but also enticed you in a way you couldn't explain.

“That was our clan leader, Din Djarin.”

[aliciameade]

A Thousand Cuts

Title: A Thousand Cuts Author: aliciameade Rating: M for alcoholism and angst Pairing: Beca/Chloe Summary: Beca doesn't realize she needs to get her shit together until it's too late, or, my take on a prompt I was sent to write something based on Taylor Swift’s “Death by a Thousand Cuts.”

Also on AO3

My heart, my hips, my body, my love / Trying to find a part of me that you didn't touch

Gave up on me like I was a bad drug / Now I'm searching for signs in a haunted club

Our songs, our films, united, we stand / Our country, guess it was a lawless land 

Quiet my fears with the touch of your hand / Paper cut stings from my paper-thin plans 

My time, my wine, my spirit, my trust / Trying to find a part of me you didn't take up 

Gave you so much, but it wasn't enough / But I'll be alright, it's just a thousand cuts

“You don’t mean that.” Beca’s voice cracks over the words; she’s moments from crying and she knows it.

Chloe’s already crying. “The hell I don’t.” Her voice is steady despite the tears. Her jaw is set, the muscles in her left cheek tensing with how hard she’s clenching it.

“Where am I supposed to go?” That’s when the first tear finally hits Beca’s cheek. They don’t stop after that and she doesn’t bother trying to wipe them away. “I don’t know anyone else here!”

“That’s not my problem.” Chloe walks away so abruptly, steps so heavy it makes Beca jump. She’s digging through the trunk that sits at the foot of their bed and pulls out Beca’s duffel bag to toss it onto the bed. “Pack. And get the rest of your shit out before the end of the month whenever I’m not here or I’m throwing it all away.”

Beca’s sure this must be what it feels like for the earth to swallow one whole. Her world’s been ripped out from beneath her feet.

The thing is, it’s her fault. She can’t argue that it’s not. She could have tried harder, not allowed herself to grow complacent. Chloe was someone who loves with her entire being, every inch of her soul. And Beca adores her. Loves her. But she has struggled to keep up with just how much Chloe needs from her in return for all the love she gives Beca. Truth be told, it’s scared the shit out of Beca since the day they exchanged their first ‘I love yous.’ She had even prefaced her confession by saying she will probably mess it all up.

Fucking self-fulfilling prophecies.

“I’m going for a walk,” Chloe says as she pushes past Beca more physically than necessary. “Don’t be here when I get back.”

When the door slams behind her, Beca fights the urge to crumple onto their bed and weep. They’d just made love on it this morning and she thinks if she touches it, it may burn her flesh.

Instead, she grabs the bag Chloe threw onto it and starts stuffing clothes and toiletries into it. Her head pounds and her chest aches with the need to sob but she won’t give this tiny apartment, their first home together as a couple. She fills the bag until she can’t zip it and throws her laptop into its case to swing them both over her shoulder.

On her way out the door, she rips a photo of the two of them in front of their Christmas tree last year off the fridge—not to destroy it, but to stuff it into her bag.

She wonders if Chloe will even notice it’s gone.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Beca takes the train into Manhattan. Brooklyn feels too small, too familiar. She wants the city to swallow her since the earth only pretended to. She doesn’t have a single New York-based contact in her phone except for the ramen house Chloe and she love and the main number for her office. She doesn’t particularly like her job and has made no effort to get to know anyone there. 

In the future, she’ll realize this could be a theme in her life.

She ends up at a hotel by Union Square. She can’t afford it. It’s nearly $200 for the night and it goes on an already precariously charged-up credit card. She’ll move to a hostel tomorrow; tonight, she needs privacy and space and the freedom to have the breakdown she’s been staving off for the two hours it’s been since Chloe told her it was over and threw her out of their home.

Once she gets to her room, she drops her bags on the floor and immediately throws up.

It’s the longest night of Beca’s life.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

She doesn’t get the rest of her belongings back. She’s living in a hostel in a room she shares with five other people, at least one of which is new every night. She has to wait her turn to use the bathroom and to shower and most of the time, there’s no hot water.

The good thing, she supposes as she tries day after day to find a single good thing in her life, is that at $35 per day, she can actually afford her room and board and even feed herself twice a day and keep her phone bill paid.

Thank God for ubiquitous free WiFi.

But that one good thing, just keeping herself in room and board, doesn’t do anything to outweigh all the bad.

She hasn’t spoken to or heard from Chloe in two months. There was no final warning about coming to get her belongings or they’d be trashed. Chloe hasn’t checked in with her a single time.

Not that Beca’s reached out to Chloe either.

She’d thought escaping Brooklyn would help protect herself. Far from away all their usual haunts, she would be safer from the constant reminders of all the moments she and Chloe shared in the year-and-a-half they spent living together there.

Instead, she’s faced with bigger reminders in Manhattan. So many date nights spent there at restaurants and concert venues and theatres and sunset strolls through parks.

“Oh, my gosh, baby, this is so romantic, we have to take a selfie,” Chloe said as she grabbed Beca’s hands to spin them in a circle that almost had Beca tripping over her own feet. “Wait, no! Excuse me, sir?” Chloe asked a passerby. “Would you take our picture, please?”

“Sure,” he said as Chloe handed him her phone. “Tell me when.”

“Just take a bunch,” Chloe answered before Beca had even had a chance to weakly and pointlessly protest the impromptu photoshoot.

Then they were kissing on Gapstow Bridge with Central Park and the New York skyline behind them and Beca forgot why she would ever want to protest such a thing.

She can’t even walk through Times Square without her eyes pricking with tears at the memory of Chloe dragging Beca up the red stairs in the middle of a snowstorm to take a selfie at the top while they kissed wearing beanies and scarves and gloves.

The photo came out looking like they were in a snow globe and felt as magical as it looked. It’s saved in her favorites on her phone, but she refuses to let herself look through that album.

Even when she’s alone at night in a strange place that is her home but feels nothing like it, Chloe is everywhere. She can feel her phantom arms around her waist to pull Beca back against her to settle into sleep. In the shower, her hands travel over her body and she remembers all the times and all the ways Chloe has touched her here, and here, and here.

Alcohol doesn’t help, though Beca gives it her best shot.

It leads to her waking up in the beds of people whose names she only sometimes remembers.

A man she goes home with makes her leave when she won’t stop crying when he tries to touch her.

A woman she goes home with spends the night holding her. They even have sex, finally, in the early hours of the morning. But all Beca can think about is how it’s not right. How she isn’t Chloe and she doesn’t know how to touch Beca as Chloe does. It does nothing to help Beca forget or move on. In fact, it only makes her miss Chloe more.

She stops trying to escape into other people and goes back to drinking alone. It’s cheaper that way, too, which is a nice bonus. One bottle of whiskey runs her $40 which gives her far more drinks for her dollar compared to going to bars.

Eventually, she finds someone in need of a roommate through a coworker and she has a room to herself in Washington Heights. Her roommate is nice, a few years older than Beca, and works for the city’s child services department. She’s a good listener on the rare occasions Beca confides in her when her emotions become too much to take alone.

It turns into a relationship of convenience. They both acknowledge that’s what it is and that they’re setting themselves up for disaster if (when) it ends because someone (Beca) is going to have to move out when things become too messy.

But until that happens, it’s nice to feel at least somewhat normal again. She doesn’t feel like she’s ready to fall apart if someone looks at her the wrong way on the street.

She still thinks about Chloe at least once every minute when she’s conscious.

And usually, even when she’s not.

She knows she’s fixating. It’s too hard to not spend as much energy as she can berating herself for messing up and losing Chloe. It’s delicious torture to hate herself so much and replay the details of every moment of their relationship and pick out every time she fucked up and think about how she could have done it differently, how she would do it differently if she had the chance.

What’s most irritating of all is that there is no one singular cataclysmic event she can blame. It was her series of micro-aggressions, so seemingly small (to Beca), that piled up until replying to Chloe’s multi-scroll-long text message telling Beca that she needed more from her with “k” got her thrown out on the street.

And she knew—knows—she deserved it.

She wishes she could go back in time and slap herself and tell her to get her shit together before she loses the best thing to ever happen to her.

But she can’t. She keeps drinking and it’s never enough to forget Chloe.

Eventually, her behavior lands her out on her ass again, but this time, she expects it. What girl wants her not-girlfriend crying about her ex every time they have sex? At least there’s a discussion first and she’s allowed a couple of weeks to find a new place to live.

A year has passed since she fucked up her relationship with Chloe but, somehow, she’s managed to get her professional life into something resembling moderate success. She’s surprised when she downloads bank statements at the balance in her account to have when she goes apartment hunting. She’s done nothing but pay rent to her now-ex-roommate and buy what few things she’s needed to get by (mostly alcohol). She thinks she remembers an email from HR about a bonus or royalty payout around Christmas…?

It affords her the ability to get her own apartment, a one-bedroom in Harlem.

It also affords her the freedom to indulge in all her vices without someone passing judgment. She can drink herself to blackout. She can have anonymous sex. She can cry until she’s sick or lay on the floor and stare at the ceiling all night in a drug-and-alcohol-induced stupor. None of it really matters, anyway.

She fits right in with the people she’s finding herself forced to be around more often. She gets wasted with colleagues and A-listers under the guise of networking. She impresses men with her ability to out-drink them despite her stature. And if one of them offers cocaine? She can be the last one standing in the early hours of the morning.

She prides herself on her endurance, though not more than she prides herself on the fact that no matter how hammered she gets, not once has she drunk-dialed Chloe to beg forgiveness.

She hasn’t dialed her at all, for that matter.

She’s never apologized.

She wants to point out that showing up at her former apartment building when it’s dark and the streets are empty repeatedly pressing the buzzer for what used to be her apartment is not drunk-dialing nor drunk-texting.

“Hello?” Chloe’s voice crackles through the shitty speaker and Beca slumps against the wall next to the metal intercom at the sound of it. “Is anyone there? I swear if you kids are pulling this shit again, I’m calling the cops.”

Beca laughs to herself, memories of a group of teenagers that roams the neighborhood raising havoc of the relatively painless variety. Things like Ding Dong Ditch and hiding delivered packages from their recipients. It always infuriated Chloe and made Beca laugh and tell her to calm down, they’re just kids and they could be getting into much worse kinds of trouble.

She considers continuing to ring the buzzer just to keep Chloe on the line; it’s been so long since she’s heard her voice. Maybe she could just sleep on the building’s stoop?

She’s still thinking about it when she hears the familiar squeak of the door opening.

“Beca?”

She wonders if maybe she finally passed out to slip into dreamland because Chloe’s standing in front of her in plaid sleep shorts and Beca’s favorite vintage David Bowie tee.

“Hey, babe,” she slurs.

“What are you doing here?” Chloe takes half a step out of the door and starts to reach for her but stops short. “Are you drunk?”

“What if I am?” she says as she pushes herself away from the wall to stand upright again, though everything feels like it’s tilting. She points. “That’s my shirt.”

Chloe crosses her arms over her chest as if that will hide it. “I asked what you’re doing here.”

Beca has to think hard. She doesn’t remember how she got to Brooklyn. She doesn’t know what time it is. “I’m tired,” she answers. “I came home.”

“You don’t live here anymore.”

“I didn’t say I live here. I said I came home.” She tries to walk forward but trips and finds herself caught by Chloe before she hurts herself. “Cat-like reflexes,” she says with a chuckle before catching the scent of the laundry detergent and lotion Chloe always uses and the tears come out of nowhere.

She’s vaguely aware that Chloe’s helping her walk and it’s up the stairs and into the apartment they once shared, not out to the curb.

The last thought that passes through her mind as Chloe helps her into what was always Beca’s side of the bed is that even through her blurry vision she can see a picture on the refrigerator. A copy of the same photo she’d taken with her the day Chloe had thrown her out, placed in the exact place the original had been for so long.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

She wakes to the smell of freshly brewed coffee. Her head throbs but not too painfully; she rarely gets hungover these days. She knows where she is. She knows the feel of the bed, the softness of the sheets, the scent of breakfast and the sound of the quiet tings and thuds of cabinets opening and closing, of plates, mugs, spoons, and knives.

She doesn’t want to open her eyes. Maybe if she pretends to be asleep she could stay there all day without having to be embarrassed by her actions. She can just hold onto this unexpected return to a past life for a few more minutes before it’s ripped away from her again.

She starts when the sound of a mug being placed on the nightstand near her head comes unexpectedly.

“Morning,” Chloe’s quiet, husky morning voice whispers as she sits on the edge of the bed next to Beca.

Beca grimaces and pulls the covers up over her head. “No.”

“I have to go to work.” Beca didn’t even think about the fact that it was a weekday. Her own schedule doesn’t conform to the typical Monday-through-Friday model. “But I’m going to call out sick for the afternoon and come back at lunch.”

Beca slips the covers down until they’re under her chin. She knows she looks like shit but Chloe looks more beautiful than she remembers her.

“You can stay here until then. Help yourself to breakfast. We’ll talk when I get home, okay?”

Beca just nods, afraid that anything more than that will wake her from whatever dream she’s having. She feels Chloe’s hand on her leg, a brief touch before she’s leaving too soon.

Beca watches her gather her things and leave the apartment, locking it with her keys.

She knows she should go back to sleep. Sleep off the last bits of the drunkenness she can still feel swimming in her. But she’s been thrown back into her old life, her old home, and like so many mornings, Chloe’s just gone to work after making coffee for Beca.

Slowly, she sits up to take in her surroundings. The small studio looks much like she’s remembered it. There’s a lot more of Chloe in it now, though. More photos of her and friends Beca’s never met. The band posters Beca had insisted on putting up have been replaced with generic canvas prints from Target that feature the Eiffel Tower and a recreation of a poster for la tournée du Chat Noir avec Rodolphe Salis. It makes her smile; Chloe’s always had an obsession with Paris and it had only gotten worse after they went to Denmark—but not France—in college.

Driven by her roiling stomach she forces herself out of bed. When she stands, she has to do a double-take looking down at herself. She’s not wearing the clothes she’d left her apartment in yesterday. She’s not even wearing pants. Her legs are bare and she plucks at the shirt she’s wearing to see it’s one of her old concert tees.

A memory flashes of last night, of Chloe in the doorway wearing Beca’s shirt.

It makes her feel lightheaded and she reaches for the coffee Chloe’s left bedside before crossing the room to the kitchen. Everything’s still in the same place and it’s mindless yet spine-tingling to go through the motions of finding something to eat in that room just as she’s done countless times in the past.

She plops down at the small table that she once imagined proposing to Chloe over on a Sunday morning over a cozy winter brunch they prepared together and is about to dig into her bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch that Chloe miraculously has on-hand despite claiming to hate it when she freezes, spoon halfway to her mouth.

On the clothing rack in the middle of the room, the one they had to fight over for valuable space, hang all of Beca’s clothes she’d left behind when she was forced to flee.

Her chair screeches as she pushes it back to rush over and quickly flip through the blouses, pants, and dresses she hasn’t seen in more than a year. She tugs open the third and then fourth drawers of the dresser they shared to find them both still stuffed full of underwear, bras, socks, tank tops, shorts, and Beca’s beanies and gloves she’d really missed that winter. She drops to her knees and reaches under the bed to find the sharp plastic edge of a storage bin and pulls it out. All her shoes, still in their place.

If not for the changes in decor, she would believe she never left. Nothing has changed since her last morning with Chloe.

It’s overwhelming. Chloe had threatened to throw everything away if Beca never picked it up. Beca never did, but Chloe didn’t follow through.

Her head swims and her eyes prick with tears. She thinks she might be sick from the rush of emotions and adrenaline; Chloe hadn’t tossed their life in the trash even though she’d tossed Beca to the curb.

She isn’t sick, though. Instead, she strips off her shirt and crawls into the bathtub and turns on the shower to sit under the spray and cry.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Beca’s heart races when she hears Chloe’s keys in the hallway seconds before they rattle in the lock. She watches the door open slowly, Chloe peeking in carefully until they find Beca sitting at the table.

“You’re awake,” she says as she enters with less care now that Beca’s not asleep. “Did you find something to eat? I brought lunch just in case.”

Beca’s eyes drop to the bag in Chloe’s hand; there are familiar round plastic take-out containers stacked in it and Beca doesn’t have to ask to know it’s from the ramen place they frequented. “I did, yeah.”

Chloe sets the bag on the table and Beca watches her take off and hang up her coat. When she turns back around, she pauses. “Oh.”

Beca wonders what she’s looking at until she realizes it’s Beca’s clothes. “You didn’t throw my stuff away.”

Chloe takes a break as though she’s about to speak but instead she sighs and says nothing in reply as she sits down in her chair to Beca’s left and starts unpacking the lunch she’s brought.

Beca catches her hand when it’s busy setting up soup and sides and Chloe’s entire body seems to flinch, but she doesn’t pull her hand away. “You didn’t throw me away, did you.”

Tears are welling in Chloe’s eyes when they meet Beca’s but she still doesn’t speak.

“You don’t have to say anything,” Beca rushes when she realizes she’s the one who has to do the talking. “But I do. Will you hear me out? Give me ten minutes. Five.”

“Okay,” Chloe says quietly as she pulls her hand back to resume passing out utensils.

Beca waits until she’s finished, until Chloe’s no longer distracting herself with busywork and her eyes land on Beca nervously so she can finally say, “I’m sorry, Chloe.”

The End

[mithrasisgay]

The Rise of the Dread Fleet Chapter 2: A Bold Move

Thank you all for your coontinued support on this series! I means the world to me and there’s a good chance your tags on a reblog have literally made my day before. Love you!!

@tyrias-library

ON AO3

Asha can still feel Raya's cold gaze upon her as she meanders along the Lion's Arch harbors. The Siren is hiding the waters, keeping pace with her.

It had taken them three whole days to reach the mainland again, Asha on a makeshift float, Raya pushing her forward, keeping her safe from the dangers of the Sea.

As she'd explained on their journey, Raya had defended her from other Sirens, who had flocked to her bound form like moths to a flame, and injured several in the process. That had caused the swarm to cast her out. Raya's only choice was to stay with Asha, as loneliness is lethal for her kin.

Now that Asha's terror had burned away, her new focus is on her anger. Years of mistreatment at the hands of her father, and fighting back gets her executed? It's not fair, she thinks, as she continues on her path.

Revenge is on her mind, but she's just a little girl with an overly attached fish lady in tow. She needs funds. She needs a ship, she needs a crew. Now, where does a young pirate acquire funds to entice people to join her?

Asha's eyes narrow as she spots a lone Asura wandering into a alleyway. He barely comes up to her elbow. Bingo. After a quick glance over her shoulder and a nod toward Raya in the water, Asha jogs in after him, draws the crude knife she had Raya scavenge off the ocean floor. The Asura hasn't noticed her yet, so she seizes the opportunity to grab him by the shoulder and push him to the wall.

“Your money or your life.” she hisses at him and the Asura sighs deeply. “Miss, you really don't wanna do this.” he tells her, sounding more apologetic than frightened. “I'm pretty sure I do, Mate. Pay up.” Asha's been through too much to be shy here. “No, honestly, this is a bad idea.” he presses, pausing briefly when Asha lifts her knife to his throat. “Oh dear.”

Before Asha can react, she's got his fist in her stomach, a kick to the shin, and a heavy uppercut to her chin. Pain flares, and the world fades.

When Asha comes to, she is lying on a matress, covered up to her chest in a thin blanket. The scent of medicinal herbs stings in her nose and she groans, sitting up slowly. The blanket is pushed up at the foot end of her bed, and there he is, the Asura, currently in the process of bandaging up her shin.

“What the...” she mutters, still dizzy with a skull-splitting headache. “I told you, you don't wanna do this.” he says, without even looking up from his work. “But you just had to pull a knife on me. I had no choice.”

“You beat me unconscious?” she asks, still trying to piece together what had happened. “Yes. In self-defense, mind you. I bear no ill will.” the Asura clarifies. “No, I mean-... you? You're like....” “Small and weak?” he cuts her off. “Probably. Compared to a Charr. But not compared to you. When's the last time you had a warm meal?”

Asha is caught off guard by this question. “Uh.” “I don't know what led you down this dark, lawless path, kid, but I assure you, not everyone that looks like an easy target is actually an easy target.” he continues on. “Besides, you're too thin and you smell like you just came out of the ocean. Really, the odds were against you.”

“I did come out of the ocean, in a way.” Asha admits, as the Asura ties up the bandage.

“You did?” he asks, finally looking up to her. He looks... very unlike his punches may suggest. His big, beady eyes carry a permanently concerned look, and his long, white hair is tied up in a comically large antenna-like hairdo, straight up in a ninety-degree angle.

“Yeah. Say, you lookin' for employment? I'm trying to start a crew.” Asha cuts straight to the chase, leaving the Asura frozen in disbelief for a second. “I-... what? You tried to rob me, and now you want to recruit me?” “I mean, yes? You clearly know how to fight and I could use you.” Asha confirms. “Look, I was raised on a ship. If I can gather enough people to steal one, I can sail it.” “Why do you want a ship? You look like a common street rat.” the Asura inquires and Asha snorts.

“Look who's talkin'.” she jabs. “I want a ship because I was cast overboard unjustly, clawed my way back to land, and now I want revenge. But I clearly can't do much on my own, as I just proved to you. So, you had the heart to patch me up after beating the shit out of me, why not help me?”

The Asura's hands hover idly over her leg and he looks at her with a blank expression, processing what she's suggesting to him.

“Kid.” he finally speaks. “How old are you?”

“I'm fifteen.” “Oh dear.” He stops to rub his temples. “Well, I'll give you one thing, you have ambition. But you're also right about another issue – you won't last long without help. I'm already too invested in you to let you die on that ludicrous quest. I'll help.”

“Awesome. When I get a ship, I'll make you my First Mate.”

“...You don't even know my name yet, do you?”

“Right. What's your name?”

Another beat of hesitation in disbelief of the sheer nerve Asha has “It's Snezz.”

–

After Taidha's death, most of her men have dispersed and fled from the Lionguard forces swarming the fortress. Vaixx himself has taken the chance to slip away, before Sebba could change her mind about keeping her word, making his way back to Raxxi's hideout.

She's there, alright, blood streaming down her face, currently in the process of frying the last of her attackers alive. When Vaixx enters her field of vision, she looks up, almost looking feral, teeth bares and eyes wide with battle-fueled adrenaline.

“Took ya long enough!” she gasps at him. There are three deep gashes on her face, and the blood spilling from her mouth implies that she lost a few teeth.

“Apologies, overthrowing a tyrant isn't a ten-minute-errand.” Vaixx counters. “You okay?” “Been better.” Raxxi actually spits out a tooth. “Where's your Lionguard buddy?” “Probably arresting people. She kept her word.” “Surprising. Let's get the fuck out of here before she goes back on that.”

Vaixx grimaces. “Exactly my idea. C'mon.” The two quickly make their way through the same secret entrance they came from, ad have themselves helped back on board of the Rascal.

After a bath, stitches to the face, and a hot drink to the gullet, Raxxi and Vaixx are back in Rowan's old quarters, now sans his corpse.

“Right. Now what?” Raxxi opens the discussion, while Vaixx pours them both mugs of rum.

“Now we sail to LA and get support from your brother.” he responds. “With Taidha gone, there is a vaccuum in the tyrian pirate scene. He would probably see the benefit in having that filled by us, as opposed to someone else.”

“He would. Because that means he can control us.” Raxxi says, accepting the mug Vaixx is handing her. “So? He's not exactly malicious toward us and his goals align with ours.”

“Look, Mate.” Raxxi sighs. “I hate to shit on your parade, but isn't that basically what Taidha was to us? Someone we were dependant on? The only difference is that this dependancy isn't manpower, but money.”

“Yeah, but I like your brother, unlike Taidha.” “You called him a small-eared bureaucrat.” “That was in college, and I was drunk.”

“He does have small ears, though.”

Vaixx grins. “Point is, I like him. And I think he can help us.” “Might as well join is damn guild at this point.” Raxxi grumbles. “Honestly, why not? Or at least affiliate with the Grudge?  Why not get him on board with the entire project, beyond just investing?” “Because-... Okay, look, fine. But let me do the talking.”

The next morning, still slightly hungover, the two pirates stand in the lobby of a very fancy building in Lion's Arch, both holding glasses of expensive elonian wine in their hands, piping up when the large, winged door at the front side of the lobby opens. A young, human woman beckons them closer. “Mister Vermillion will see you now.” she says, and Raxxi follows her, Vaixx in tow, while sarcastically imitating her.

The room behind the door is a lavishly furnished office, and behind the mahogany desk resides an Asura, lounging in a red velvet seat. He's well dressed, a monocle framing one of his bright blue eyes as he waves offhandedly to his apparent receptionist to leave them alone. He has short hair, similar to Raxxi, but deep crimson as opposed to her blue. Quincy Vermillion, as Raxxi's twin brother Raxx calls himself in Lion's Arch sits up properly to face his visitors.

“Raxxi.” he greets her. “And your friend Vaixx. What brings me the honor?” His voice is neutral, and he gives Raxxi's injuries, as well as Vaixx's bandaged shoulder a scrutinizing glance.

“Money. We want money.” Raxxi blurts out. “We all do, sister dearest.” Quincy answers. “I assume, it is an emergency, judging by your state?”

“Sorta. We offed Taidha and Vaixx wants to start a fleet of his own.” Raxxi wastes no time with formalities. “And for that, we need your help.”

“Ah.” Quincy hums, a hint of glee in his eyes. “I heard of Rowan's death. I could have assumed that an ambitious man such as you, Vaixx, would rise to the occasion.” “Rowan's death was a tragedy.” Vaixx presses forth. “As is the death of his young daughter. I do wonder which hurts you most, the demise of your Captain, or your duty to kill a child?”

“That's not the point here.” Raxxi interjects, before that topic can be explored any further. “This is the one opportunity we have to become the new, dominant fleet in the Sea of Sorrows. You have to see that.”

“Oh, I do see that. And I know of your capabilities as a pirate.” he admits. “But the Rascal is an old ship. She will not get you very far. If you do this on my budget, you will do it properly. Gather a crew and I will give you the ships you need.” Raxxi draws breath to speak, but Quincy continues before she can do so. “In exchange,” he adds. “I want a monthy percentage of your winnings, let us say fifteen percent for now. That is only fair, considering my stake in this.” “Ten.” says Raxxi. “Thirteen.” Quincy fires back. “Twelve.” “Fine.” Quincy reaches over the table and offers them his hand to shake.

Vaixx takes it, feeling an unusual coldness from Quincy's touch.

“Very well then. I believe we all have work to do.” Quincy says upo withdrawing from the handshake.

–

“Now,” Snezz says, after swallowing his ale. “If you want to assemble a crew, you need to offer people something they need. And right now, you have little more to offer tha your company. If I hadn't been without direction and purpose in my current life stage, I wouldn't have agreed, no matter how endearing your recklessness is.”

“Desperate and lonely people, got it.” Asha says. They're in one of the cheaper taverns in the city, having dinner on Snezz' bill. He had insisted Asha get at least a full meal before agreeing to anything else. “That's not what I-...” “I know that's not what you said, but we both know it's what you meant.” Asha points at him with her fork for emphasis.

“Fair. Remember, you're a teenager covered in bruises. You have to make up for that with charisma. Try aiming low for now. Street rats, common bandits and the like. You won't have much luck with-...” “That Charr!” “What?”

Asha points at a few tables over, at a large, dissheveled looking Charr, currently brooding over a long-empty mug of ale. “That one looks miserable enough.” “Asha, you can't just go over there and-...” Snezz interrupts himself as the girl gets up and limps over to  the Charr's table, plopping herself down opposite of them. “Oh dear.”

“Hi.” Asha greets the Charr, who looks up from the empty mug. “You lost?” she asks, not really interested in a conversation. “No, I meant to approach you. You look like you could use some company.” Asha responds and snatches the empty mug from the Charr's hands. “Hey barkeep, a refill for this one!”

“I don't-...” “Yes, you do. Anyone as mopey as you needs more alcohol.” Asha insists. “What do you know about alcohol? You're, like, twelve!” “Fifteen, thank you very much. And I know enough. I was raised on a pirate ship.” She offers her hand to the Charr. “Asha Gaets. Who're you?”

“Aurelia Sharp-... Just Aurelia.” The Charr takes her hand in her much larger one, the pads of her retracted claws smooth against Asha's skin.

“Sharp? Sharp what?” Asha prods and Aurelia pulls a grimace. “Sharpwit. Used to be my warband name. But I'm... not really supposed to use it anymore.” she admits. “Kicked out?” Asha inquires. “Something like that. It's complicated.”

“So that's why you're moping around all by yourself.” Asha deduces, while a waitress hands Aurelia a fresh beer. “I'm not 'moping around':” she insists. “Whatever you wanna call it, I think you need some new friends, that won't kick you out for some reason.” Asha offers. “I'm looking for new friends too, you know. See that dweeby Asura over there? I tried to mug him, he beat me up and then treated my injuries. We're friends now.” “Your definition of friendship seems, uh...” “No, really. He's paying for my food. Oh, and your beer.” Asha says. “Point is, we're looking for people to sail out into the Sea of Sorrows with, and you don't seem to have anythig better to do, so why not come along? Got anything to lose?”

“My life?” Aurelia suggests and Asha snorts.

“Oh yeah, you've got a great one here, rotting away in smelly taverns getting wasted. C'mon, don't be grumpy and start over. I had to do that too!”

Aurelia takes a long swig of her mug, then sets it down on the table hard.

“Point taken. What's the mission?”

[kitashiwrites]

Acquiescence - An ACOWAR Lucien Fic

Series: A Court of Thorns and Roses by Sarah J. Maas Characters: Lucien, Cassian, Azriel, Mor, Amren, Feyre, brief cameo of Rhys POV: Lucien Rating: T Word Count: 3490 Ao3: http://archiveofourown.org/works/11653326/

Summary: End of Chapter 13 - beginning of Chapter 14 of ACOWAR from Lucien’s POV.

Lucien arrives in the Night Court with Feyre, but what did he and the Inner Circle do while Feyre and Rhys were reuniting?

-------

I had never seen Eris look so fearful in all of my life. Feyre’s words rang through icy tundra of Winter, the swirling tattoo I’d thought gone now stark against the pale skin of her other hand.

I am High Lady of the Night Court. That was what she had said to him. I would have been lying if I said I was not as surprised as the brothers I barely knew, who had hesitated when they no longer had the upper hand. I was being carried by Azriel, the Shadowsinger I had seen near death in Hybern weeks ago, and we were ignoring each other—and the awkward situation of him having to carry me—with great efficiency. But I was too grateful to not be running and had too much to think about to really let it bother me. Feyre was being carried by the Illyrian Commander that had his wings shredded, but judging from how Cassian now flew ahead of us, he was healed and back to normal. I heard a peal of laughter—could see Feyre throw her arms around his neck, see her joy and relief. On the other hand, I wasn't sure where they were taking us, or if I would be thrown in a cell and tortured upon arrival. Feyre didn't seem worried, and though I tried to let that calm my nerves, the sick feeling in the pit of my stomach wouldn't go away. Azriel flew slower for whatever reason, though it was clear he was no less capable than his fellow Illyrian, and we had fallen behind the others. “Thank you.” The Shadowsinger’s quiet voice startled me.

“For what?”

“Bringing our Lady home.”

Before I could say anything else, we banked suddenly. The border of the Winter Court loomed ahead, where it and the neutral, lawless land that divided Prythian in half was easily the best thing I had seen since we had left the Spring Court. I could see a blonde woman that I recognized from our confrontation in Hybern standing on the neutral side. The Morrigan’s expression was stoic and she watched us carefully. We had barely touched down before she practically grabbed Feyre from Cassian, enveloping her in a hug that would have been bone crushing were she still human. It was moments like this that reminded me that Feyre was no longer the Fae hating huntress that had killed Andras—she return the hug with just as much enthusiasm. The leathers she wore matched the Illyrians behind me, making her a devastating blend of deadly beauty. She had been the one to singlehandedly take out our sentries when Feyre had been taken away all those months ago, and I had no doubt that she would be a force to be reckoned with in a fight. I began to wonder if I would have been safer left on the tundra.

When she finally released Feyre, her gaze drifted to me gravely, as though she were determining whether I was a threat or perhaps a potential prisoner.

“He fought against Eris and the other two,” Cassian said breaking the silence. An explanation for my unexpected presence.

She tensed and swallowed hard. “Eris,” she blurted out, the tension in her voice thick and at odds with the image she portrayed. “Did you—”

“He remains alive,” Azriel answered. “So do the others.” I could see shadows curling at the clawed tip of his massive wings, a dark and deep seated rage made manifest. I knew that something had happened with Eris and the Night Court centuries ago, but I had never found out the details. From the looks on their faces, it involved the two Illyrians and the woman before me, and knowing Eris's personality, it wasn't hard to put the pieces together. Morrigan tossed her mass of golden hair over her shoulder, her face a perfect mask.

“Then let's go home.” Home. To the Night Court. It suddenly occurred to me that in my single minded quest to find and save my mate, I’d never fully thought through exactly where I had been following Feyre to, or what fate could possibly await me as a member of the Spring Court once we arrived.

“Which one?” Feyre asked carefully. The woman turned towards me and gave me a stare that made me feel like she was looking at my soul instead of me. It was not a comforting feeling.

“The town house,” she said to her after a long moment, as if I had passed some sort of test. “You have someone waiting there for you.”

~~

Morrigan winnowed all five of us at once—a testament to the depth of her power, though she panted from the exertion. When she had said a town house, I imagined it would be somewhere under that northern mountain that I knew held the inspiration for Amarantha's cursed court.

But it looked so… normal. A dining room and sitting room filled with plush furniture overlooking a little front yard and a city street. Stairs and a hallway that led to somewhere that looked like a kitchen. And a shut front door that had light shining through the window, making colors dance on the rugs at our feet.

This was supposed to be the Night Court—the Court of Nightmares—and instead of darkness… instead of agonizing screams and wickedness…

“There are children laughing in the streets,” I said, unable to keep the disbelief out of my voice as I looked at the people before me. I hadn't heard children laughing so carefreely since—

Jesminda. Since those days before everything went to hell and I sought sanctuary in Spring.

A small woman with short black hair and unearthly silver eyes emerged from the sitting room at that moment, her expression bored and even a little grumpy. “That they do so at all after Hybern’s attack is a testament to how hard the people of Velaris have worked to rebuild.” She turned to Feyre and bowed her head. “I see you brought home a new pet,” she said as she looked at me, her nose crinkling in distaste.

Amren. The Second of the Night Court. I bowed deeply to her, trying to curb my fear at being in the presence of the woman who was a story told to Autumn Court children to make them behave. I heard someone—likely Cassian—make an amused grunt, but I didn't care.

“Already trained, I see,” she said. I straightened and could see a hint of a smile on her face.

“Amren, this is Lucien… Vanserra,” Feyre said by way of introduction. I stiffened. I’d never told her that name, and I wondered how she suddenly knew it.

“I don't use my family’s name,” I clarified with another bow of my head. “Lucien will do.”

Amren gave me harder look, specifically at my metal eye. “Clever work,” she said appreciatively before turning to Feyre as though I wasn't there. I wasn't complaining. “Looks like someone clawed you up, girl.” There wasn't an ounce of deference in her voice, and Feyre didn't seem to expect it.

“What is this place?” I found myself asking before Feyre could answer her. Everyone looked at me.

“Home,” Feyre answered after a long moment. “This is—my home.”

Home. This bright, comfortable looking house. Not a palace, or even a manor like Tamlin.

“This is Velaris,” she explained. “The City of Starlight.”

The city that the mortal queens had given the name of to Hybern. The one absent from all recorded maps and memory. I left of my own free will. Feyre's letter to Tamlin had read. I am cared for and safe. I am grateful for all that you did for me, all that you gave. Please don’t come looking for me. I’m not coming back.

She had told us. If this was where she had been when she sent it, I wouldn't have come back to the Spring Court willingly either.

I swallowed hard. “And you are High Lady of the Night Court.” The title sounded foreign on my tongue.

“Indeed she is,” a familiar voice drawled. Feyre froze at the sound, the look in her eyes one of cautious hope. The others in the room, even Amren, smiled as she turned towards the doorway where Rhys leaned nonchalantly, wearing that irritating half smirk he always did and his ever present black attire. He didn't give any of us so much as a second glance—didn't question why Tamlin’s emissary was in his territory. But as he looked at Feyre, I saw that smile fade into concern and joy and something else I couldn't name.

Feyre let out a broken noise and fell to her knees, her hands covering her face. Before anyone could take a step in her direction, Rhys was on the floor in front of her, knees touching. Gently, he pulled her hands away from her face.

“My love,” he murmured and kissed her, clearly not caring that they had an audience. Feyre seemed to share the sentiment as she slid her hands into his hair, melting into him, her eyes closed and completely uninterested in the world around her. I wanted to look away, but couldn't. Rhys scooped her up smoothly as they broke apart. Never taking his eyes off of her, nor she him, he said, “Go find somewhere else to be for awhile.” Without waiting for an answer, the two of them winnowed out of sight, leaving me in the hands of the four people who regularly did the bidding of the only High Lord who could compare to my father in cruelty. Before I could say anything, Morrigan pulled me towards her and nodded to the others before winnowing us out of the house.

~~

We appeared in a cluttered looking apartment that looked like a windstorm had gone through it. Papers were strewn and stacked everywhere, some under an egg shaped ruby and others under collections of mugs that had a dried rust colored substance I didn't want to think about. And the jewelry. The bed alone qualified as a dragon’s treasure hoard, and as Amren took a seat amongst the gold and jewels, I could see her resembling one.

“I can't believe Rhys kicked us out to fuck Feyre,” Cassian laughed, taking a seat on a stool at the counter. He leaned on his forearms with a lazy smile. “He didn't waste any time.”

“What did you expect? They have a new mating bond and they've been separated for over a month,” Azriel reasoned.

“Honestly, I'm surprised he lasted that long,” Amren said bluntly, studying a brooch with a disinterested eye.

Morrigan threw her curls over her shoulder and sat down on a plush chair, her lips curled in amusement. “Or that he was courteous enough to tell us to leave.”

“How are you all okay with this?” I asked incredulously.

They all turned to me in unison, as if they just realized that there was another person—an intruder really—in their midst.

Morrigan raised an eyebrow. “Okay with what?”

“Leaving Feyre with Rhys after all she's been through.”

“There is no one else we would leave her with,” Cassian said, his tone matter of fact. He gestured to Azriel. “As our brother, I would trust Rhys with my life. As her mate, Feyre would—”

“A mating bond doesn't make you a perfect match,” I argued. “Rhys hasn't done anything to prove himself worthy of Feyre. He can control—”

“Those are some bold words for someone with such a small and narrow view, Lucien Vanserra. And you were the Spring Court’s emissary?” Cassian commented from his seat. His barely veiled mocking made me cringe almost as much as my family's name did. I hadn't heard it this much in such a short period of time in centuries.

But I couldn't stop myself from asking, “What reason would I have to believe any different?”

“Rhys would never do anything to intentionally harm Feyre,” Mor replied, her voice betraying nothing. “He’s not Tamlin.”

He absolutely wasn't. For all that Tamlin didn't listen, he could never be worse than that bastard. Tamlin didn't dress get Feyre drunk and up in gauze and cobwebs to dance in his lap. He didn't let anything happen to her—

Except he had. He had gotten her drunk on faerie wine at the Summer Solstice. He sent her away with no explanation when he could have saved us all by accepting she loved him. He hadn't stopped her from coming back and getting trapped Under the Mountain. He didn't do anything when she was beaten and tormented before him. Tamlin had beaten me at Amarantha’s orders. He let Rhys take Feyre on their wedding day and then sold the Spring Court out to Hybern to get her back.

I swallowed hard. “Tamlin didn't try to—”

“He didn't have to try,” Azriel interrupted, his voice quiet but powerful. “There are many ways to harm someone—to control them. You don't have to be a daemati to utterly destroy them.”

“It certainly doesn't hurt though,” I snapped back.

Before I could so much as blink, I was slammed up against the wall, the telltale edge of a very sharp blade angled against my throat. I dared to look and found the cold, wrathful gaze of the Shadowsinger staring at me, and knew I’d finally pushed my luck too far.

“Let’s get something straight, Vanserra,” Cassian said coldly. He stood up from his stool and crossed his arms. “The only reason you are alive right now is because of Feyre. We could have left you on the ice with your pathetic brothers, but instead of being grateful you were spared, you insult our High Lord and High Lady—the very reasons you are currently not rotting in a dungeon in the Hewn City.”

“I didn't insult Feyre.” Despite everything, she’d been one of the few I could trust. I couldn't say that of Tamlin anymore. Not after watching him wield his whip against an innocent sentry at that harpy Ianthe’s command, as though she were the High Lady of Spring.

“You’re not helping yourself,” he growled.

“You weren't Under the Mountain,” I bit out. “None of you were. You didn't see what he did to her there.” The memory of Rhys holding Feyre’s waist, her drunk on faerie wine and dancing between his legs as he laughed with Amarantha's cohorts flashed through my head. If anything, he was no better than Tamlin, but certainly had the capacity to be worse.

“No,” Morrigan said calmly, “we weren't. Rhys ensured we were kept out. But I know what happened. There is no one in this city who is not aware of the sacrifices our High Lord made for their safety.”

“Do you though? Did he tell you the things he did? Or what he put Feyre through? How about what he was to Amarantha?” I knew I was treading on dangerous ground, but I couldn't find it in myself to care. If they were going to kill me eventually anyway, I could at least anger them enough to make it quick. Judging from the cold, calculated anger in Azriel’s eyes, I knew I'd have to hope for Cassian.

“I know the sacrifices he made to ensure their safety, and yours and Tamlin's as well,” Morrigan replied evenly.

“He didn't do anything for our safety,” I snapped.

“You have no idea the sacrifices Rhys made, the things he did, when eyes weren't on him. He was willing to do anything to get her and those she loved out of there alive, even if she hated him as a result. That includes you and Tamlin.” She narrowed her eyes. “And you let your High Lord neglect her until she was so broken that we almost couldn't bring her back.”

“I—” My defense died in my throat.

“Feyre has made enough sacrifices. I think we both can agree with that?” She looked at me expectantly, and I nodded as much as the knife would allow. “She is perfectly matched to Rhys in that respect,” Morrigan continued. “Neither of them will let anyone help if they think it will put someone they love in danger.” While I knew she wasn't wrong, there was still the reason I had followed Feyre all this way.

“Then where is my mate?” I asked, my bravado gone. All I felt was bone deep weariness. “Is… is Elain safe?” I wouldn't believe anything until I saw her. Until I saw that Jurian had lied—that she was unharmed.

“Let’s get one thing straight, fox-boy,” Cassian answered. “You are only here because of Feyre's good will. Demanding answers from us, especially after insulting our High Lord, will get you nowhere. For whatever reason, Feyre chose to take you along, but that doesn't mean that you are immediately welcome here.”

“She saved me,” I said softly. “From Ianthe and Hybern. I do not let my debts go unpaid. And after—” I swallowed hard. “After what happened in Hybern, I needed to see my mate.”

A silence filled the room, and when I looked up, I could see an understanding in their eyes. As if they knew. But they couldn't know, and their looks of pity only made everything worse.

“Let me ask you something, Lucien,” Morrigan said quietly. “If Elain had been taken by Beron, what would you have done? Would you have let her be used as leverage against you?”

“Never,” I growled without hesitation. “I would have ripped him and anyone else who got in my way apart with my bare hands.”

“And if you thought she didn't want you, would you do it anyway?” she pressed. “If you thought she was in danger?”

“Whether we are matched or not, I would want to see for myself she is okay. I would make sure she was safe.” I didn't understand where she was going with this, but from her triumphant smile, I apparently had said what she wanted. They all exchanged glances, and I felt Azriel's knife leave my throat. I let out a sigh of relief.

“If only you could have understood that earlier for Rhys and Feyre’s sake,” Cassian said finally. “If she allows you to see her sister and Elain wants to see you, we won't stop her. But if you put so much as one toe out of line…” He glanced at Azriel, who gave an almost imperceptible nod, still palming his dagger. “We may not be in the Hewn City, but we still have ways of making you suffer. And we will make good on that threat.” The Shadowsinger gave me a look that promised endless torment, and I didn't doubt for a second he would follow through and enjoy it.

“Elain is my mate,” I reiterated softly. “I would never hurt her.”

“If you are about finished threatening our new pet, how about letting him wash the dirt and blood off?” Amren said suddenly, her voice cutting through the room, reminding everyone of her presence. I turned to see those silver eyes fixated on me. “As much as I enjoy the latter, it's of no use to me dried.”

I barely suppressed my shudder and she smirked. “There is a basin over there,” she said, jerking her head towards the simple sink. “It will have to suffice until you can get properly cleaned up.”

“Well, I suggest he hurry,” Morrigan interjected, “It seems our Lord and Lady have decided to leave the welcome home marathon for another time. We can go back now, and you can discuss your requests with them.” I nodded and walked over to the small basin, catching sight of my reflection in the mirror. I looked like absolute hell. My hair was in knots and snarls, and I was splattered with what I was sure was more than just my blood and a layer of grime and dirt. I washed off the worst of it from my hands and face as the others waited for me. The water felt good against my skin, and I couldn't wait until I could be properly clean again. I did my best to ignore the voice in my head that suggested that I’d be thrown in a cell before I got that chance.

“I wonder if the townhouse will still be standing,” Cassian said innocently as I dried my hands and face, though when I turned to look at him, his grin gave him away. “Rhys is lucky that the cabin is in the middle of nowhere. That avalanche he caused when they first mated—” Mor elbowed him hard in the ribs, effectively shutting him up, but his unabashed grin made it clear he wasn't the least bit sorry. I scowled at him, but he didn't spare me another glance as we winnowed back, and I waited to see what the eddies of the Cauldron had in store for me.