#thread : siobhan

[lxvenderhxzehv]

Where: In Town Who: Terence and Siobhan (@wanderinglcst)

He could have sworn he was dreaming. There was no way that was her. Why was she here in the states.....in Huntsville. He pushed past people to get to her. Not taking mind in who he was pushing out of the way to get to her "Siobhan..." he said as he approached her. God she was just a frustratingly beautiful now as she was when he met her Ireland. "What in gods earth are you doing here? did you run out of pubs to sulk in or men to....insult?"

[backmaskcd]

closed starter for @wanderinglcst (siobhan) location: just outside town hall

"Woah; what, did you raid a wedding before coming here?" Jace was shocked by her armful of wedding dress, giving her a kind smile. "I didn't think anyone would honeymoon in Huntsville... I'm Jace. I take it you just sort of stumbled in here recently?"

[biherbalwitch]

"He kept everyone out. But when he let you in.. when the sun shone, it was warm. It was warm in the light."

"World of a father."

"He made life happen."

"He made me and my three siblings."

"He got it on a deal."

"He didn't wanna go in the ground."

"A chance to get to know him?"

"I had trouble finishing a scotch with him."

"He made me breathe funny."

The cruel god, killing his creations from the moment they're born, and condemning them to life and death in his fist.

They are the house. Forever haunted.

[faoighiche]

PARTNER : @banisheed TIMING : A few months ago. LOCATION : Somewhere downtown. SUMMARY : A vampire tries to feed on Siobhan, so she passes him to Burrow. To Siobhan's dismay, Burrow enjoys that kind of thing. WARNINGS : Under skin (minor)

Vampires were terrible: abominations of un-life, pests, occasionally strangely obsessed with bats. But lazy vampires? “Honestly, this is insulting,” Siobhan sighed, palm pressed to the cold forehead of a snarling vampire. It was the same principle that deterred curious sharks, a swift hit to the head to send it swimming the other way. Or so she assumed about the sharks; what did she know about sharks? It worked on vampires. “It’s just rather embarrassing for you, isn’t it?” At arm’s length away from her, his jaw clomped uselessly in the air. Through his snarls, the deconstructed plea repeated. Please, he was saying, just a little taste. Back in her day, vampires actually worked for their meals; they didn’t just flail at her fingertips and beg for a sample. Something-something-televisions rotting attention spans and dissolving backbones. “Isn’t there a little bit of shame left in that smooth brain of yours?” The vampire continued to chomp on the air, held back by Siobhan’s outstretched arm, which was getting tired. 

That was the catalyst for all of it: fatigue. Fatigue had probably forced the vampire to flail at her like a child, thwarted by the superior reach of her arm, feet scraping against the asphalt as he tried to push against her. Fatigue had certainly made Siobhan drop her hand and grip the worn collar of his t-shirt. She flinged him down the street like an egregious sack of potatoes. Fatigue pushed her to say: “Just go for that kid over there.” She pointed at the figure coming up on them. “Do us both a favor and feed on someone else.” 

He looked back at Siobhan, as if suddenly taken by the morality of feeding from a child. He blinked, then addressed the girl. “C-Can I suck on your blood, p-please?” 

Burrow heard the commotion: sounds of cloth ruffling and shoes scuffling. Sounds that began and ended in the same moment, to be replaced by a grunt as a human fell into her view. She continued on her walk, though was wise enough to keep an eye on the human. A caution to prevent him from causing harm. Curiously, she did not need to be so alert in order to notice his attack. He begged her to let him do it. To let him bite — to let him feed — to know her in the most intimate way. The thing was not a human at all. She saw those fangs barely covered by trembled lips — those sunken eyes that flashed crimson, the same color as the thing he craved. He was one who walked in death and hungered for life. Hungered for her, for the fae were the essence of all life. A life that could return his own to him, if he was able to take it all from her. How delightful.

Burrow was no fool, she would not seek out those that wished to be her end. Still, there had always been a fascination with the poor dead. They reminded her so much of her parasites. Things scorned by society, cast into the shadows, but forced to the light in order to survive. Forced to take from those that hated them so much. She did not hate them, though she did not love them enough to give without taking. “You may take as much of my blood as I allow, if you promise me a favor of my choosing.” That bind readied to dig into the dead’s neck, the same as his fangs into her own. Desperation had him accepting the deal without hesitation. The bind claimed him, writhing in anticipation for what would become of it. The dead did the same, overcome with eagerness that she would not grant him access yet. 

There was the issue of the other: the one who had thrown the dead on her path. Burrow held him in place, the power of her bind assisting her. She led him to the shadows, away from the watching eyes of the other in the distance. When she had tucked the two of them in a corner, her leash on him slipped with intention. As soon as she nodded her head, his own was lost to the curve of her neck. It was followed by a flash of pain that was so familiar it had her smiling. 

And that was that! Siobhan clapped her hands together, brushing off imaginary dirt. She didn’t care as the vampire and the child went away, vanished into the dark. She certainly didn’t care as a shiver ran down through her spine, telling her that this child was a fae—family, a friend. There wasn’t an ounce of care inside of her as her mother’s chiding voice boomed through her skull: fae take care of eachother, or some variant. Fae are family, fae protect each other. One fae’s pain belongs to another. All fae are connected. No harm shall come to another fae. Fae are family. Siobhan sighed; she did care. 

“Alright, that’s enough.” Siobhan snapped her hands around the shoulders of the vampire. As she pulled back, he didn’t move. As she leaned the weight of her body in the opposite direction, his latch on the child seemed only to grow stronger. In a huff, she released him, fingers throbbing. “Leanbh, push him off! What are you--” Siobhan dug her fingers into the vampire’s cold flesh again, pulling back. “This is enough! Release her!” Or was it the girl that had him? Siobhan looked down, trying to figure out who held the power between them. Why would anyone willingly subject themselves to this?

That desperation, that hunger, that need for another’s life. Burrow knew it so well. She could feel it with each gulp of her blood. As if the two were made brothers, as they shared in that same blood. But he was not a brother: he was a strange and unknown thing. As familiar as he was a mystery. How exciting, to feel such beautiful greed without a presence in its existence. It was a wonder to consume and be consumed. Why did the humans fail to appreciate such a joy? 

Or the fae as well, for that matter. The burning alerted Burrow to the intruder’s presence immediately, sucking away her pleasant mood faster than those hungry fangs. Then came the vicious tone and the yelling — all things she had experienced before. What was unique was to see the fae struggle. The intruder was no match for the might of her bind, rendering the dead into a statue. A thing that only moved when Burrow did, as she craned her neck to the side to reveal her face to the fae. Her eyes locked with the other, staring in silence. A stare that lasted until she felt the creep of dizziness. “You are done.” The fangs were out of her neck before she even finished the statement. “We will meet again to discuss my favor. You will not stray far from me.” The dead scampered away without another word.

Burrow finally addressed the fae. “Hello.” She brushed away the trickle of blood still left on her skin. She licked what remained off her fingers. “Do you know of an Aos Sí?”

Siobhan blinked; she imagined it happened with the tink-tink of a cartoon. Incredulity swept over her in a cold wave and her jaw, hanging open, didn’t close until the blooddrunk vampire stumbled completely out of sight. “Hello,” she said in repetition more than greeting. Her head turned to watch the darkness swirl around the place the vampire had walked away into, and then back at the young fae. “You let him do that to you?” It was beyond degrading: it was confusing. The constant analysis of her mind—the churning logical machine in her head—could make nothing of it. It spun like old gears, grinding, and produced a cloud of black smoke. She blinked some more. 

“I do know of an Aos Sí, I grew up in one. As most fae do.” The confusion turned Siobhan honest. It didn’t occur to her to stomach the pains of lying, or to question what she was being asked. “But as for any here… I am not so… I do not…” What was the nicer way of saying that as a disgraced fae, she had no desires to ingratiate herself within local fae communities? “I do not know of any in this town. Though, there must be a few—the fae community here is larger than most. I do not…” What was the nicer way of saying it was strange that a fae who was interested wouldn’t know this? Was there a nice way to say ‘you are stupid, go walk into a fae bar and ask anyone’? Probably not. Why did she care about being nice? Siobhan’s head, as if answering her internal query, turned to the empty space the vampire once occupied, and then back again to the fae. 

“Why did you let him do that?” She jutted her thumb out into the empty space. “Leanbh, you do not deserve a… it’s degrading to…” Siobhan sighed; she should’ve walked away when she first thought about it. “Why are you looking for an Aos Sí?” 

The stare from before had been a mere prelude. Burrow’s eyes did as her namesake: burrowed into the fae after her admittance of awareness. Digging into the soul that lay behind that false skin, as if she could pluck out her secrets. The secrets of her home, so that Burrow would make it her own. But distance would be her enemy today. Though not a stray, this fae was as useful as the rest. Her sigh was quick and sharp. Burrow’s awaiting home dangled further away, by the hands of the strays and the imbeciles and the far from home. 

“I also assume there are a few of na Aos Sí in this nest. Well, somewhere, in this nest. Many of the fae of this nest do not know the location of an Aos Sí or what an Aos Sí means. It is sad… for them. I only feel irritated about their ignorance of na Aos Sí.” An irritation Burrow let slither out of her with the flicking of her wrists. Nature slept in the depths of winter’s belly. To avoid its hungry maw, those that were homed stayed nestled safely behind the féth fíada. She knew this. She will find success when the warmth of the sun drew them back to the light. She will wait, and watch, and practice, until their return. 

At least a piece of them did, in the presence of the intruder. Unlike the others of the town, she reminded Burrow a bit of her family. That disgust on the fae’s face was so familiar. “Chan urrainn dhuibh a thuigsinn.” You can not understand. None of them ever could. “It is not degrading to be consumed. It is wonderful. It is affection.” The dead offered a meager imitation, but one she appreciated nonetheless. Appreciated more than the poor excuse of love the fae showed her. “I look for an Aos Sí because I am in need of sanctuary.”

Something was wrong—wrong beyond the things that were usually wrong. Yes, she lacked her wings. Yes, she was a disgrace. Yes, this fae was staring at her like she wanted to dig into her skin like a worm in dirt. But something picked at her guts, rearranging the ribbons of flesh. Something was wrong, Siobhan thought. Something about all of this was wrong. Unguarded, unsure of where her guards should be, Siobhan’s voice wavered. 

“Many fae do not leave their Aos Sí; why would they? So, either you find someone out on some manner of errand or someone who…” The words caught in her throat. She shifted her weight between her feet, dislodging her unease into the bowl of her dry mouth; the words spilled like sand. “Someone who’s been thrown out.” Quickly, she added: “or someone who abandoned their home.” But the possibility that there could be a fae who would willingly leave home seemed so unlikely to Siobhan that, even though she could think of a certain annoying baby-banshee it applied to, she considered it impossible. “If you ask enough fae, maybe, eventually…” She trailed off, no longer able to stomach being helpful. 

Siobhan’s face betrayed all of her confusion and discomfort. “Affection exists in servitude—worship—not consumption. You allow a lesser creature to feed on you and what do you become?” The echo of her mother was summoned, swirling inside her head in streams of words. She could tug at any number of them to make her point: you would be weak, you would be pathetic, you would degrade yourself into the ranks of prey. But the fae’s admittance cleaved her mind instead, parting her mother’s thoughts. ‘Sanctuary’, the fae said and the strangeness of it burned; not a home, not just a shelter. Sanctuary. “What do you mean?” she asked. “Are you in trouble? Do you need help?” 

The way the other spoke became strange. As if stones replaced the fae’s uvula, striking on the membranes of her throat with each syllable. Burrow was not sure of the cause. Was she succumbing to the effects of the weather, or perhaps the effects of the heart? Perhaps it was the topic, for she herself knew the… complications of home. Still, the answer to the mystery mattered little. She was more interested in the actual words themselves. They were all things she had thought before, but they did offer something new: this fae was inclined to help. “Yes, I am aware. I remember the visits to the human nests during the springs.” Visits she was never allowed to join, but she did recall their existence. She had watched as those groups returned, bringing trinkets and tales. In her first year of exile, she had hoped to find such a group and join them in their return to home. This plan, obviously, had not worked. “I am also very aware of… the exiles and the strays.”

The helpfulness did not extend to those that reminded Burrow so much of her kin. What did this fae have to say of her precious ones? Perhaps more of the same. Her own face betrayed those soured thoughts: creases formed against her lips and brows. “I become happy. The dead desire me. You saw how much the dead wanted me. The dead wanted me so much, he would have killed me if I had not stopped him. It is lesser than…” Than her own precious ones, who were better at taking their spoils. “It is lesser, but the feeding is still love.” She did not expect the fae to understand, for she had long given up on that prospect. Still, she would not let the misunderstanding stand without a rebuttal. 

“Yes, I am in trouble.” Trouble always found Burrow, in a world that wanted her dead or locked away. Peace was never an option for her kin, only fleeting moments of comfort. “Yes, I do need help.” Her lips pulled down, resembling a frown. The expression seemed effective on Teagan and Cass. She wondered if its power could sway others. “Will you help me?” 

The exiles and the strays. Siobhan’s skin prickled; the twin scars on her back burned, as they always did when something approached the memory. The air is thick suddenly, or maybe it’s her throat all seized up. The dull, wet grass molded to her shifting weight. “The undead desire you,” Siobhan said. To her, the distinction was important; Death wasn’t something that had desires. Siobhan huffed. “At least your notion of love is more understandable than…” Her mind drifted to other people; to the stupid books she’d read under moonlight. This time, the words of Dickinson, who wrote in the style of hymns, contorting rhyme and religion—“the wind does not require the grass”. Whatever love meant, that inescapable curse to her surroundings, it was at least tolerable as the younger fae said it. It didn’t align with her understanding, and it seemed far more degrading than poetic, but she could abide that to this girl, consumption was love. “Aye,” she sighed, “that’s your love then: fed and feeding.” 

The mystery of love would wait another day for her, preferably, she’d never have to answer the damn question of it. “Eh?” Siobhan shook her head. “What are you doing with your face?” Was it supposed to be a frown? To someone else, she imagined the look must have been effective: people did hate when others were sad. However for Siobhan, displays of emotion only served to make her uncomfortable. “Yes, I’ll help you—no, I’m not promising it. You’re fae. Fae help fae. We’re family.” Siobhan frowned. “But never display emotion at me again; it’s unbecoming.” It was unbecoming of both of them. It didn’t occur to her to ask what exactly this child needed help with.

The distinction was less important to Burrow. Undead, dead, marbh beò, zombie, vampire — all words to describe the same entity. A cursed thing that walked and continued despite death’s claim on them. A thing that disregarded the cycle of nature: to take and to give. The dead only took. Only fed, as the other put it. She was surprised that there was understanding admitted from the fae, from whom she mostly knew rejection and disgust. Perhaps this one was not as terrible as the rest. A hope to be justified or denied in time. How funny that she even dared to still hope. Teagan and Cass had certainly wormed their way into her better judgment, infecting it the same as her own kin. “Yes, the feeding is… one part of my love.” Much more than food can be admired and wanted and taken. There was so much splendor and spoils to be claimed in the world, and she wanted them all. 

A want that was as attainable as the garner for sympathy. “I am doing a frown.” It was clear the frown was not as sufficient as Burrow had hoped. It had felt correct. The tension on her cheeks were similar to when she had stood in front of her mirror — her face had been quite pitiful and pathetic then. She would practice once more. At least she had no need for what next overcame her face. Lips twitched and curled and peeled back to reveal a small sliver of teeth. Fae help fae. Hinder, harm, and hate: that is what the fae did. But, she had learned that, yes, the fae could and would help, whether they wanted to or not. The lack of promise hinted that this fae was of the latter sort. She would take all the offered generosity, and then some, when the moment was right. “Ok. You will help me, cousin.” 

Burrow’s moment of amusement was gone, fizzling out of existence for it was no longer needed. She returned to her usual quiet, both of mouth and soul. Not because the fae asked it from her, but it was convenient that the other did. At least it was one less thing expected from her to get what she wanted. 

[thcophagy]

open to: women.

featuring: siobhan hendrix, twenty-seven, lesbian, stripper.

plot: to pay the rent for herself and her sister's new apartment, siobhan dances at a local strip club. it's good, easy money despite having to stomach the attention of men. luckily for her, she has managed to make on friend at the club who she doesn't have to get naked for, at least, not for work purposes.

"baby, i will kiss you square on your pretty mouth if you go round back and just borrow one of cook's fancy cigarettes for me." siobhan drawled and threw herself into the mild comfort of the bar stool, leaning her arms down onto the counter so she could use them as a headrest. work never ceased to feel eternal, each shift meant handling a new crowd of rowdy men with the combined brain cells of a small amphibian but they paid well and for that, she couldn't complain. she was lucky to have one person she could turn to once the day was over, someone kind and pretty and pleasant to talk to. she knew she should've been heading home, that her sister would have been expecting her but a little detour couldn't hurt, right? she was a grown adult, if she wanted to share a smoke with a girl then she was more than free to do so, even if it had taken some bravery to convince herself that it was really true.

[ironcladrhett]

TIMING: Current LOCATION: An abandoned soap factory PARTIES: Rhett (@ironcladrhett) & Ingeborg (@nightmaretist) & Siobhan (@banisheed) SUMMARY: Siobhan and Inge hatch a plan to get revenge on the warden that kidnapped Ariadne with a little kidnapping of their own. CONTENT WARNINGS: Torture, body horror. Like, fr. It’s gross. You've been warned.

—

Hunters were a cruel sort who based their existence on exactly what she was doing now: stalking, keeping an eye out, intending to drive their prey into a corner and then – after a strenuous and long process – undo them. She’d heard some of their convictions before, that moral obligation they felt to clear the world of predatory species such as herself — as if they weren’t a pest all the same. Inge didn’t often play their games, but she could this time. Because the opportunity was right. Because she didn’t want to run from this town, even if that was wisest.

So she had kept an eye on Rhett ever since Ariadne had hand-delivered the news that the warden was injured. It was glorious timing, was it not? Siobhan Dolan expressed her desire for blood and soon after the man they both wanted to make bleed was down on his luck. Inge reveled in the sight of it, anticipating seeing more as she reigned in her fury and instead stuck to the plan thus far.

Tonight was the night it was to go down, if the stars aligned right. Siobhan was sitting idle nearby and Inge was in the astral, looking at Rhett stalking the town of Wicked’s Rest and waiting for opportunity. It wasn’t often that she took the path of offense, after all, and now that she did, she refused herself recklessness. In stead, she waited until he was alone and then severed her connection to the astral, her earthly body appearing not behind or in front of the wanter, but above. A move she and Sanne had practiced, once. She fell on him with her legs around his neck, a little clumsy but with enough momentum to pull him to the ground with her. “Surprise,” she said, her weight on his body, her hands flying to his neck. More easy to reach without the beard in the way. Red eyes glowed as she stared into his eyes, all her energy pushed towards her hands to put him to sleep.

—

As it turned out, used hearses were readily available online. Vintage—as purported by the listing—and teeming with residual Deathly energy, the vehicle was not inconspicuous. But nothing about Siobhan had ever been inconspicuous. Siobhan’s phone buzzed and with one quick glance spared to the text, she raced down the street and screeched to a stop beside Rhett’s sleeping body. He looked cute in that way all sleeping humans did; she could drop an anvil on his face and watch his confused brain (if it remained intact) sputter to make sense of what had occurred. She loved, more than anything, the human disorientation of waking up, as if the body didn’t understand the concept of slumber. It was hard to believe such a vulnerable looking man was capable of doing anything to Ariadne. 

Siobhan stepped out of her new-old hearse, one long leg after the other, heels clicking on concrete. “That was a little anticlimactic,” she said. She didn’t explain that she’d been hoping for a bit of a struggle, Ingeborg, for all that she insulted the other woman, possessed a quality Siobhan had lost a long time ago: sensibility. She considered waking him up and undoing Ingeborg’s work, just to piss her off, just to imbue their work with excitement. Whatever part of her—whatever foolishly sentimental part—that had truly wanted to see justice for the sweet Ariadne, was also lost. Or, rather, smothered. 

She reached down and grabbed him by the ankles, pulling him across the ground; his arms scraped along the concrete and his head bobbed with each uneven movement. Finally, she looked up. “Well?” Siobhan huffed. “Are you going to help me or…” Siobhan didn’t possess any delusions; between the two of them, she was probably considered the ‘muscle’. She opened the back of her hearse and threw him inside, grunting and huffing; he was heavier than he looked. Climbing in after him, she took care to tie his hands together behind his back and bind his feet, just in case he woke up. She slipped her gloves on and carefully searched his body, it was likely all of his knives were cold iron and she could do with not hurting herself before the main event. 

In the end, moving across his body in a clinical fashion, she removed five knives and one wrinkled advertisement—torn from one side as if ripped from a book—for a lavender goat milk soap flecked with crystalized honey and imbued with essential oils. If ordered now, a free soap bar would be thrown in at no cost. Siobhan pocketed the advertisement and packed the knives away in a plastic bag. 

“Okay.” She jumped out, closing the door behind her. “Are you going to come with me or do the whole…” What she’d meant was ‘teleportation’ but what she signaled, squeezing her hand in the air, was more like a groping motion, boobily directed. “It…” Siobhan swallowed a compliment for Ingeborg’s work. “You’re alright.”

—

It was a quaint sight, the hunter incapacitated in innocent sleep. Of course, Inge knew there was no such thing as an innocent sleeper — people dreamed of horrible things even without mare intervention, their subconsciousness spinning tales that were better forgotten and unsaid. What did he dream of, now? She had half a mind to slip into his mind and take a peek, to be nothing but a bystander to this man’s psyche. To intrude into his privacy the way he had intruded on her feeling of safety.

But Inge was sensible, or at least, she could convince herself to be. She sent a text to Siobhan, her unlikely ally in all this after getting off the brute’s body, the toe of her boot pressing against his head to make it so that he’d look at the stars if he was awake. When the banshee pulled up in her hearse – an admirable show of commitment to the aesthetic – Inge did expect some kind of praise. Instead she got a dry comment, and her face twisted a little. She’d like to see Siobhan try to do what she just did. Not that Siobhan had seen it, anyway, the way she’d fallen from the sky and used her limbs against the other! “You just missed the best part,” she grumbled.

And so she was fine letting Siobhan do some of the heavy lifting. This was not because the other was presumably far more experienced with these things, certainly not. It was just because Siobhan had made a snide comment and Inge had not yet forgotten how lowly she’d spoken of her kind. “Oh, sorry,” she said as the request to help came her way, and she lifted the hunter by his neck without putting in a whole lot of effort.

She watched with curious, hungry eyes how Siobhan got to work, tying up Rhett with an expertise that Inge lacked. She did think of her own legs strapped to chair legs and her hands bound together by his own hands as she’d been knocked out. How the tables had turned now. How victorious she felt, for once, in the face of a hunter. Even as she stood by, watching Siobhan produce knife after knife. For good measure she wrapped her hand around the man’s ankle, keeping him asleep before stepping aside. 

An amused and puzzled look was thrown Siobhan’s way at the motion she gave her. Inge was glad, most of all, for the not-quite-compliment that followed. It was an acknowledgement, at least, which probably meant she should voice that the other seemed to know what she was doing. That she looked skilled and good doing it. “I’ll come with you,” she said, before begrudgingly adding, “So are you. Now let’s go. I want to see his face when he wakes up.” With that, Inge popped into the astral, only to reappear in the passenger’s seat. She’d at least give Siobhan the honors of driving her funeral car.

—

The old hearse wheezed to life, coughing black smoke from its rusted tailpipes. After a few sputters and stalls, Siobhan coaxed it into a steady pace down Wicked’s Rest’s pot-hole afflicted roads. Each crack threatened to send the hearse closer towards car heaven but each curse and forceful thump on the accelerator seemed to drag it back to life. It wasn’t going to die today, but the same couldn’t be said for the slumbering man jostling behind them. She reached towards the console between them and flicked on the CD player, letting Marvin Gaye’s “Let’s Get It On” fill the air—a reference to their online conversation that Rhett wouldn’t get because he was sleeping and a joke that Ingeborg wouldn’t understand because she was stupid and undead (a redundancy). 

“What do you reckon the man’s thinking of?” Siobhan jutted a finger back, gesturing to Rhett. How many dreams had Ingeborg seen? How many nightmares did she cause? Was there a commonality between them? Siobhan bit her lip, keeping her rather friendly curiosities to herself. “Think it’s tits? Might be dreaming about tits,” she laughed. “The man’s about to die, would be a shame if his last dream is wasted on those…oh…” Siobhan waved her hand in the air. “In the classroom naked? A test that wasn’t studied for? You know the sort; human minds are so dull.” Not that she’d ever actually seen one for herself. She glanced at Ingeborg. How many, she wanted to ask. Did you like them? Do you remember them? Hold them? Do you regret them, Ingeborg? Will you regret this?

She turned her gaze back to the road. “What do you think?” she asked again. “What do you think a man like that dreams about?” 

—

It wasn’t tits, as it happened. What he was dreaming about, that is, not the situation at hand. The situation was very tits, as in it had gone tits up, as in it was bad, bad news. Not that he really knew that, not yet. Hell, he’d not had a lot of time to process his predicament before being sent off to slumberland. And wouldn’t you fucking know it, he hadn’t even deserved it this time. Not as a reaction to anything he was doing immediately, anyway. There he was, minding his own business and looking for ‘for rent’ signs in windows, when suddenly wham! He was on the ground. 

It was black, mostly. An empty void with no light, no echo, no sound at all. He felt like he was falling forward, careening over a cliff that he couldn’t see, but the rush of wind was eerily absent. His mouth opened and he screamed, but nothing came out. Panic gripped him, tightening his chest and sending a terrible cold all through his bloodstream. Something grabbed him by the throat then, jerking him out of the freefall and throwing him to the floor of an old, run down shack. He pushed himself up onto his hands, shivering and gasping for air, relieved to hear the sounds of him trying to catch his breath.

“Dad?” he heard a soft voice call to him. Looking up, he saw Ophelia standing there. Younger than she was in reality, an imaginary version of what he thought she might’ve looked like when she was twelve or so. And her mother… her mother sat in a chair beside where Ophelia stood, looking just the same as he’d last seen her. 

“Mari—” He couldn’t get it all out as the nymph stood from her seat and shrieked at him, exploding with light and blinding him all over again. He wailed, falling away from her, throwing an arm across his useless eyes. 

“You killed us!” she screamed, standing over the top of him. “You killed us, you monster!” 

In reality, the warden stirred fitfully in his prescribed slumber, straining against his bonds but not waking. Not yet. 

—

She flicked down the passenger mirror, this time not to check her lipstick but rather to keep an eye on the restrained hunter as Siobhan drove. The music choice was inexplicable and Inge refused to ask for an explanation or to even comment on it — it felt like a test of sorts. Or maybe the banshee just had bad taste in music. It mattered little: there was a much more interesting sight for her, a turning of tables right behind her. She did not often indulge in vengeance, aside from petty little things, as vengeance was an act for the reckless and stupid and she would like to think of herself above such things. But this was a sweet sight, a promise for some kind of righteousness.

She glanced at Siobhan when she asked her question but looked back soon enough. “Every dream features tits sooner or later,” she said, before snorting, “I cannot imagine him having such mundane dreams — but the ones about public nudity are common.” Inge placed her boots on the dashboard and wondered about what made the man stir. “When I entered his dreams a few months back, he was dreaming of a woman on a boat. Pregnant. Some kind of deeply personal thing. An ex, you know? Who doesn’t dream of those?” Not her, but she didn’t dream any more. If she could she probably would dream of Hendrik and Sanne alike, so she was very much glad she didn’t. 

She kept a close eye, wondering if she should indulge the rather rude banshee. She gave her a glance, held up a finger. “One moment.” Inge disappeared, projecting into the astral for a few moments before ending in the space where Rhett had been laid. It was better than climbing over the seats, even if the cramped space still led to a little bit of an awkward position. She tilted the other’s chin up, pressed her fingers on his throat and entered his dream, where a woman was stood screaming over the slayer. The same woman Inge had described moments ago. She didn’t do much to the dream, not quite trusting Siobhan with her fragile and undefended body. It would be a waste not to add a personal touch to this dream, though, so she filled the scene with floodlights and the sound of squawking crows. 

All in all it took a few minutes before she returned to her seat, glancing at the driver. “His presumed ex, again. She didn’t have her tits out, though.”

—

Siobhan didn’t dream of exes, that would require her to have them—romance was often far from her mind and when it wasn’t, the reminder that her life would never fit it was stronger than most wistful thoughts. The rare dreams that didn’t turn into nightmares were often concerned with animal life: the cows and their swaying flaps of fat as the bounded up to greet her; the sheep clumped together in one mess of dirty wool; the strutting chickens in an ancient coop, pecking at hay; the pale horses on the hill; the birds above; the ants in a their single-file line carrying crumbs to their underground home. Siobhan couldn’t admit that to Ingeborg; saying she didn’t dream of exes—because she’d never once indulged in a properly romantic relationship—and instead dreamed of cows, felt like the exact fuel needed for a terrible, scathing insult. She kept her mouth shut. What exactly did it mean that Rhett, someone sworn to duty just like her, would have a relationship to mourn? Was he the weak one, indulging in selfishness? Or was there something wrong with her? Clearly though, it hadn’t worked out for him; people rarely dreamed about things that worked out for them. 

The cows were popped by her screams, the sheep were used as butchering examples and the running chickens were target practice. The birds fell from the sky, dead like leaves on the ground. One day, her mother gleeful explained the process of poisoning ants—the dry loaf they’d been stealing from had been injected several times over with a concoction of her own creation and look, now there were no ants (Siobhan thought this was strangely cruel, but her mother never had a lot of hobbies). Only the horses had survived but their living fate had been the worst of them all: deaf and unnaturally docile, the sensitive creatures were wrung out over generations; they didn’t move unless prodded and they wouldn’t eat unless forced. Siobhan could only tell they lived when the statues of them on the hill would be broken by the reflexive swish of a tail. No, the animals hadn’t worked out for her and no, her dreams never did feature tits. 

Siobhan’s grip tightened on the wheel as the roads turned uneven and weeds burst through the widening cracks. Around them, windows were broken and then boarded and then broken without a care for boarding. The trees grew tall and thick, unencumbered by humanity. It took more power than she expected to resist from telling Ingeborg that her astral movement was astonishing--it inspired awe the way a bloated corpse found around the corner did. “If I was dreaming about an ex, her tits would be out,” she said. “We’ve picked up a boring one.” The concrete of the roads seemed to disintegrate as they moved, turning into rocks and gravel. The hearse wheezed to a stop in front of a large brick factory with rusted smokestacks looming above. The words had fallen off years ago but out of luck or in a curse of its former glory, the important part remained: “SOAP”, it read. 

“I put some more toys in there for us,” Siobhan explained as she grabbed Rhett from the back. “Bone saws, chainsaws, hacksaws, circular saws, jigsaws, pole saws, crosscut saws—Hm, I see now that I focused a little heavily on the saws.” Siobhan continued, musing to herself. “I did see one of those old iron brands in there; it has the soap logo on it. Wouldn’t that be funny? Perhaps we should start there? Well, no, of course we tie him to the chair first—I didn’t think to bring the torture chair, it’s a regular chair. But it is plastic, which I think is torture enough.” 

—

WELCOME TO YOUR KIDNAPPING & TORTURE. The big, block letters shivered in the gentle breeze that slid through a broken window, the banner they were pasted upon swaying alongside the colorful bunches of balloons and streamers that stood in stark contrast to the rest of the forgotten structure. It was all shades of gray and brown until you got to this spot, a nice open area on the factory floor with plenty of doohickeys and thingamajigs for Rhett’s captors to festively decorate and angle him toward. Even the chair he was strapped to was red, the hardy rope used to hold him in place a nice shade of royal blue, really making this feel like the kid’s party to end all other kid parties. There was an unusual amount of saws for a kid’s party, though. 

The warden snorted violently as he snapped awake, the image of his screaming ex and crying daughter fading to make way for the bright, bobbing balloons and fluttering crepe paper. His last remaining eye blinked rapidly as he tried to orient himself in his new surroundings, head turning this way and that to make up for the lack of peripheral vision, yet he still couldn’t really figure it out. A stupid, confused sort of sound slipped out of him as his darkened gaze finally found the two other figures in the room and he went still again, only now feeling the binds around his wrists and ankles. His shoulders were sore from his arms being pulled behind him, his leg ached from the aging werewolf injury, and his eyepatch was somewhat askew on his face. He glowered at the pair, recognizing Inge after a few seconds, but having no clue who the other one was. She was fae, though; that much he could determine. Not helpful. Inge, though…

“You still that upset about the bunker?” he growled, his voice gravely and low. His one-eyed gaze jumped from her to the stranger, and he sneered. “Who’s yer friend?”

—

“Who knew there were that many saws out there …” The fact that she and Siobhan had partaken in a creative effort was an unexpected thing, but when it was put in the context of revenge and viciousness it perhaps made more sense. Regardless, she thought their kidnapping location was far superior from that drab basement she’d been held in, never mind that stinky van. Inge did something uncharacteristic, here: she let Siobhan take the lead. This was no time for pride, was it? She had a goal she wanted achieved, and that was for the hunter to die in this abandoned factory — to let the one with more experienced hands charge seemed only logical if she wanted to see that goal accomplished. Inge would’ve never thought to bring this many saws, after all. Her form of torment had always been purely mental.

Still, she was very much capable of tying down a man twice her size.

For all the ways she claimed not to understand hunters, she was still here, satisfied as she watched Rhett come to. Groaning and struggling, roles reversed and some kind of justice at the tip of her fingers. His comment about the bunker only caused a wave of distaste to roll through her. Was it not her good right to still be upset? She was not one to let go of her grudges, anyway — and that’s all this anger was. A grudge. Not incessant fear, gnawing at her subconscious. 

“You look good like that,” she snipped back in return, “And come, you’re one to talk, considering you were dreaming about her again.” Inge would very much like to meet this woman, she found. “ Maybe you should start tying up your loose ends so they don’t come bite you in the ass later on.”  She looked at Siobhan. “I’ll let her introduce herself.”

—

“Did you get held in a bunker?” Siobhan’s gaze snapped between the tied up warden—some of her best work, really—and her accomplice. “His bunker?” She jutted out a finger at Rhett, who did in fact look good tied up. If the trauma wasn’t too much after this, perhaps he’d consider bringing light bondage to the table with his ex. Maybe she’d come back then. After this. Siobhan hummed. Right, she was supposed to kill him. They were supposed to kill him—he wouldn’t get an after this. “That’s so embarrassing. I had no idea I was working with such an amateur.” She stepped away, approaching a long metal table which housed all of the aforementioned saws, as well as a variety of implements she thought might be fun to use. Her eclectic assortment ranged from a set of sleek, stainless steel automotive picks to a blender. 

She was an artist among her paints and brushes, gleefully planning what could be done with her canvas. Siobhan was no stranger to torture. “It made sense for the little one,” she called out to Ingeborg, slipping her legs into a pair of white disposable coveralls. “But you? Everytime I try to think more highly of you…” She zipped the suit up. “At this rate, my opinion just can’t get any lower.” Securing the hood around her skull, she snapped two rubber gloves on. “I was first tortured at the tender age of six.” She fastened plastic around her boots. “If you could call it that; I think of it more like a demonstration.” She crinkled as she moved; crinkled as she approached Rhett. Siobhan, an artist, could admit that some choices were born out of practicality rather than aesthetics. “I can demonstrate it for you, Rhett.” With a smile, she circled the chair. 

“At six…” Siobhan leaned down, giving her story tenderly to his ear. “My mother told me there were these people known, in English, as wardens. You’re familiar, aren’t you? You must have gotten this conversation in reverse, though, were you younger? Were you born knowing what you were? What you would become?” Siobhan’s hands dropped to his, tied behind the chair so tightly that his skin bulged and verged on purple. “She said they would do terrible things to me and I asked ‘what things, mother?’” Lazily, she trailed a rubber finger from his forearm, to his palm, to his middle finger. “A demonstration of an idea of torture.” Her fingers tightened around it; she felt his joint in her palm, his flesh at her disposal. Testing, she rocked the finger gently back and forth. “She believed in a tangible style of teaching—method. You’re familiar, aren’t you, Rhett? I imagine you were taught similarly; we all are.” Siobhan moved her grip to the top two thirds of his middle finger, which she held firmly. “You learn who your enemies are before you learn how to spell your own name.” She grinned. “Which is Siobhan, actually.” 

And snapped his finger. 

—

Huh. Bickering between his captors wasn't something he'd encountered before, and he quietly wondered if it wasn't something he'd be able to use later—time would tell. His gaze drifted to the spread of… implements, as you like, and he frowned. Ah. This wasn't a simple steal and kill operation, then. This was more like what he had done countless times to countless fae in his hunt for the ex he wasn't even sure he wanted to murder anymore. 

Incredible how this had only managed to catch up to him now, after everything. After all the promises he'd made, here he was, paying for it anyway. It was fair, he supposed. Didn't mean he had to like it. Still… As the fae whose name he had yet to learn strolled his way in her coveralls, talking about torture and demonstrations, he couldn't help but wonder what sort of lessons he was going to be taught in this chair.

His eye jumped again to the table of dangerous looking things, and he swallowed thickly. 

He was quiet as she spoke, of course, absorbing what information about her that he could. And once she was behind him, his attention settled on Inge, who he watched with a surly sort of expression. His jaw was tightly clenched—he knew what was coming. Her hand wrapped around his finger and he sucked in a short, quiet breath, bracing himself for the break. Siobhan. Sharp pain raced through his hand and up his arm, accompanied by a loud crack, and he half-stifled the grunt of pain that hissed between his teeth, the rest caught in his throat. His body reacted to the pain without his consent, beads of sweat appearing on his brow as he tried to take a slow, even breath. 

“Harsh upbringin’,” the man muttered, wracking his brain for what sort of fae that would make her. She wasn't a nymph, that much he was certain about, given the quieter-than-usual screams of protest in his head. He didn't know spriggans to teach their young in that manner, nor muse or faun. That left banshee, which made sense. She seemed like a banshee. 

“What you doin’, associatin’ with and undead thing like that?” he asked the banshee, though he was still focused on Inge. “Don't their kind go against every li'l principle ya hold dear? Wouldn't ya rather it was dead? Real dead?” He leaned his head back to look at Siobhan, wearing a smirk in spite of the pain. “You ‘n I ain't so different.” 

—

Amateur, Siobhan called her, not simply making light of her stint in that bunker but pointing out the obvious failure on her part. Her feeling of victory slipped from her, the combination of Rhett’s gloating and Siobhan’s continued string of words dragging her down feeling like an intruder to her own event. Inge witnessed with brewing anger how Siobhan donned her torture suit, something she did with practiced care as she droned on and on and on. She wondered if she should get clad in a similar suit but refused to mirror the other like some schoolgirl trying to imitate the most popular girl around.

“Only for half a day,” she pointed out, her words defensive, “It wasn’t so hard to escape.” Because she had escaped! And that was what always mattered in the end — there was an inevitable quality to the way hunters seemed to catch up to her, so it was not about prevention but evasion. Why was she even trying to justify it, though? She didn’t owe it to Siobhan nor Rhett. Inge narrowed her eyes, demanding of herself that she got her shit together and crossing her arms, remaining standing near the intriguing assortment of devices. She could appreciate a woman who understood her instruments, who was creative in her craft — but right now there was little appreciation for Siobhan to be found.

No wonder that she was so very comfortable around this, if she’d been exposed to it at six. A revelation that made Inge want to pull the banshee apart at the seams, to hear every story from her past and let her imagination run wild with it. Her eyes bore right back into Rhett’s, refusing to let his gaze do anything else than engage her. And the first good thing to happen in that strenuous moment of her embarrassment on display happened when there was a crack of bone and the grunt of pain. Her lips spread into a satisfied smile, but once again the feeling of victory remained short-lived.

 “Grasping at straws, are we?” Her gaze flicked from the warden to the banshee, trying to gauge the situation. “What, you reckon she’s stupid enough to kill me and team up with you?” Inge turned to the table, letting her hands glide over instruments that didn’t befit her means of torment. “Siobhan, did you not bring a gag? His voice is grating.” As was hers. She longed to kick the other to the side and slip into Rhett’s subconscious, tweak around with his dreams — but she didn’t quite trust Siobhan with her incapacitated body. “And distracting us from what we’re here to do.” 

—

It could not be denied that Rhett possessed the power of deduction. In fact, to Siobhan, he seemed quite skilled at it. Through the pain of a broken finger, he’d categorized her accurately. Of course, Siobhan briefly considered that maybe it wasn’t that impressive; she might as well walk around with a giant, blinking sign that proclaimed her banshee identity. Still, she liked to give credit where it was due and Rhett wasn’t going to have any victories for a while. She was one of those generous torturers. “You’re right, we’re not so different, Rhett.” Siobhan stood. Her gaze trailed from Ingeborg’s feet to the top of her head—not a very long distance, she thought. “I have this fantasy where her head rolls down an endless hallway; her eyes watch the spinning tiles until it feels like a carousel and then she smiles, bobbing down the hall, because she thinks she’s at a carnival.” Siobhan looked at Rhett. “What do you think it means? I’ve always thought it was a metaphor for how much I want her to go join a circus.” 

Siobhan didn’t say that despite Rhett’s accuracy, the answer was simple: she just didn’t want to kill Ingeborg. From the moment they’d met, she’d thought about it. Then those moments turned to days and then weeks and then she realized that the thought of a dead Ingeborg Endeman didn’t excite her. Honestly, it was kind of embarrassing; it was almost as if she’d grown fond of her, fond of hating her. She left Rhett and his bent finger and approached the table again. “I didn’t bring a gag,” she said to Ingeborg. “I like it when they talk, it gets too boring otherwise; you’ll learn.”  When she returned to him, she set out a few new items at his feet: more rope, a knife, one of the picks, a bone saw, a hammer and pliers. As if tending to him, Siobhan sat down at his feet, among her tools, smiling up at him. “Doesn’t falling in love go against every principle you hold dear? Or is that woman you dream of someone you’re indifferent to?” 

She tied his calves to the legs of the chair, tightening the ropes against his tibias. She tapped his left knee and then his right, counting a rhythm on her head. Her fingers flew back and forth as she mouthed the words, stopping with a smile upon his left knee. With equal care, Siobhan undid the bindings at his ankles, taking his left boot into her lap—grip form in case her new calf bindings weren’t good enough to keep him from kicking at her like a horse. “I find myself uncharacteristically happy to know you have such a shite bunker, Rhett. And that, apparently, you’re quite terrible at killing mares.” His dirt painted boot—speckled with holes and adorned with fraying stitches—came off with one quick pull. His toes stared back at her.  “I like torture with a bit of a narrative, what do you say? Artistic, I call it. I’ve already given you my mother, do you want one of your own now?” 

Siobhan grabbed the long, metal pick, slipping the pointed side under his big toenail. “The first warden who captured me had a cabin, not a bunker. And a very peculiar interest.”  With one thump, she wedged the metal between his nail and his skin. With another, the pick thrust under his nail, peeling it from his flesh. And another, and another, driven deep by agonizing increments. And another. And another. Thump, thump, thump—she chiseled under his nail. “I don’t want to hurt Ingeborg,” Siobhan said tenderly. With a twist, she slipped the pick out, marveling at how quickly hot red blood gushed to freedom; more pooled under the half of his nail that remained. “Anyway, that first warden, he liked to go slow. Maybe you would have liked him.” Siobhan patted his bleeding foot. “Shall we let our mare have a go, Rhett?” She turned to her accomplice, taking a pair of pliers into her hand and clicking it in the air. “I don’t want to have all the fun; I am one of those generous torturers, after all.” 

—

Stupid? No, clearly not. And while Ingeborg’s suggestion hadn't been what he was after, he supposed it was as worth a try as anything else. Mostly he just wanted to annoy them. What else was he to do about this? The less pleasurable it was for them, the less satisfying his death would be, which is all he could really ask for. But Siobhan… she persisted, unbothered by his taunts. She was going to be a tough nut to crack, he figured. 

“Circus is the place fer clowns, aint it?” Rhett grumbled. Keeping his eye on the banshee as she placed the implements on the floor in front of him, he felt his pulse quicken. Inge had said he was distracting them from their task. Siobhan asked him about Mariela. He frowned at both, his gaze hardened in spite of the jackrabbit kick of his heart. “No.” A lie, at least in the case of her being fae, which neither of them could know. Before he could ask what this task was, Siobhan was speaking again. Monologuing, more like, as she untied and retied his leg to give herself easier access to his foot. “Don't suppose ya got tickle torture in mind…” He was speaking mostly to himself, interjecting between her story about a warden and a cabin. Sounded familiar. Less familiar was the metal thing she was poking beneath his nail, and a chill ran up his spine. Fuck. He opened his mouth to protest, a reflex not often given in to, but all that managed to escape was a shout of agony. His wrists strained against their binds, vision blinded for a moment as he bucked in the chair. The plastic held for now, but white streaks of stress in the material spread across the legs that his own were tied to. “Motherfucker!” he bellowed, trying to wrench himself away from her with each dig of the pick, panting in spite of himself and keeping his head turned away. 

Obviously he’d broken a lot more fingers than he’d had nails removed. 

Finally, though the act was painful enough on its own, the relief of the pick being removed came and let him scramble to regain some of his cognitive ability, enough to realize what a moron he was. Playing into this, Rhett relaxed back into the flimsy chair, sucking in deep, ragged breaths. It was Inge's turn, apparently. Siobhan had turned to look back at her, and the warden saw his chance. He kicked both feet out as hard as he could, snapping the chair's legs right off and sending him to the floor. The plastic still tied to his legs, Rhett sent another kick in Siobhan’s direction to keep her away, then scrabbled up onto his knees—easier said than done, with his hands still tied behind his back. His bad leg screamed with pain as he put weight on it to start running the fuck out of there, but he'd only made it a few steps before he felt a hand on him. “No!” It was no use—his unconscious body crumpled back to the concrete floor, a trail of blood marking his brief attempt at an escape. 

—

Maybe Siobhan had a point. Maybe it was good if he could talk — maybe then she would get to see what she wanted most of all. For Rhett to plead, to ask for mercy before having the lights go out. Perhaps she was projecting. She hadn’t ever chased this kind of vengeance, which meant there were plenty of hunters out there who she’d like to tie onto a chair as well. But she knew how this went, and knew that getting the other to beg might be an occurrence outside the realm of realistic possibility. She’d sat in that chair after all, albeit not faced with someone quite as vicious and creative as Siobhan, and refused to mutter the word please, bitte, alsjebieft or per favore even in those darkest moments. And though Inge thought herself miles above the hunter, she also figured he had the same bogged resolve when it came to these things. 

But when he broke out into a bellow, when he strained against his ties and he bled that gorgeous red she hadn’t bled in almost fifty years … it was something. It was stirring, to see the mess Siobhan left behind, like something Inge hadn’t seen before. Something she hadn’t recreated in someone’s mind before just yet, because she didn’t have the reference. It was gruesome. It was some kind of rotten thing to do this to another person and yet she could not look away, yet she wanted Siobhan to keep moving from one toe to the other. “You had a point about the gag,” she said eventually, finally agreeing with the banshee. It helped that she expressed a disinterest in hurting her. It helped that Siobhan’s focus on her task was like iron. She took to the task with no question or qualm and one thing was becoming clear: Rhett would leave a horrid corpse. Let that be penance. “He sounds sweet like this.”

Her head was swimming with thoughts, wondering what else Siobhan had up her sleeve and then remembering that she was not just a spectator — she too was a master of torment, even if it was a different kind. Inge didn’t need tools or crinkly suits, she had her imagination and her touch. But before she could answer Siobhan and give her some kind of look, there was a loud crack. The plastic hadn’t held. And how reversed the roles were now, Rhett with his broken chair so similar to how she had crashed against his bunker’s floor — but Rhett couldn’t dematerialize at will. Inge took a moment to take stock of the situation then made chase, quicker than the hunter if only because she had two healthy legs. Her hands were greedy as she gripped the hunter by his tied-back hands, her focus strong as she willed him to sleep. Now the hunter was in her preferred state: asleep, soundly and sweetly, bleeding like a pig but not as noisy as one. 

She crouched down, turning his face sideways so one cheek rested against the concrete. “When I’m back,” she told Siobhan without looking up. “Can you make sure he’s properly restrained again?” Surely the other could manage. Inge waited a beat for a response and then delved onto another plane of existence, where Rhett’s subconscious was waiting for her. 

Where he awoke he was restrained, too, head positioned in a way where he could barely look away from his body — it was more as if he was frozen in time than feeling any kind of rope around his flesh. Under his skin something moved, scratching and flicking as it crawled up his chest, curled gray hair (a creative and hopefully correct assumption) moving. Inge wasn’t interested in building a narrative tonight, in a slow build up. She wasn’t even interested in wasting her birds on Rhett, and so she returned to an old favorite: bugs. More somethings started moving, bodily sensations those of icy pinpricks, like tiny sharp paws padding over his flesh. Up and up and up, towards his neck, towards his chin, two clicking over his cheeks. And then, a gust of wind, a sound of warning and they burrowed out, all of them — moths with thick wings bursting through his skin, flapping sharp wings and covering every inch of him so there was nothing left to see.

—

Siobhan stumbled back, gasping as she hit the ground and Rhett’s body blurred in front of her with movement and shattered plastic. Then she laughed as he hit the ground. “I like a runner,” she said, watching Ingeborg. Then, there was nothing to watch and the buzzing of the night filled the cold factory. 

The world of dreams was inaccessible to Siobhan and so, dutiful, she waited in reality. The poor plastic chair had served its function and so she untied the shards that held to her ropes and redid Rhett’s bindings. This time, careful not to wake him, she tied his upper body together as if it might unravel—across his shoulders, his biceps, his elbows, and his wrists together against his back. She bound the legs at the thighs, but let the rest lay free. There was something about his legs that she liked; they’d carried him for a long time. They’d held him up, helped him sit, gave him the boost he needed to break out of a chair. Such obedient legs they were—each toned muscle marked their faithfulness over the years of Rhett’s life. How many places had he seen on them? How many times had those knees felt the ground as he knelt? How many times had they saved him? Taken him away from places he couldn’t withstand being in? Rhett had lovely legs. 

The metal teeth of the bonesaw screeched against the ground. 

—

It was such a strange thing, trying to scream and feeling like you were underwater. It wasn’t an unfamiliar sensation, he’d experienced it a few times during his nightmares, but that made it no less maddening. He wanted nothing more than to thrash and carry himself away from the moths, even though that made no sense because they were coming from within him, but it was just his instinct to run. But he couldn’t move, and his voice was gone. A whisper, drowned out by the cacophony of wingbeats as the moths ripped through his flesh, rending it from his body as they covered him in a skittering, fluttering blanket. He wailed silently, wishing again and again to just die. Just let me die, he begged no one. His breaths were shallow and fraught with terror, growing deeper to fuel those soundless screams every now and then. 

Just when he thought he couldn’t stand another second of it, something even more terrible pulled him from the nightmare. Something had started to cut into his flesh, a very real threat drawing a very real and tortured scream from him. He couldn’t move, he couldn’t get away, and the pain was unlike anything he’d ever felt before. It took him a few moments to understand what was happening, the slow, rhythmic grind of a saw against his ankle only registering as such after a few push-pulls. He wasn’t even sure what he was screaming anymore, if it was words or just sound, the only clear thing coming through being the stop, stop, stop on repeat in his head. But it wasn’t stopping, and there was nothing he could do about it, and god he felt lightheaded—

The wails devolved into shocked gasps for air, peppered with whimpers and whines as his mind decided to take a vacation and spare him the horror of experiencing this to its full extent. His eye glazed over and stared blankly into the distance, head slumping to the freezing concrete floor. Eventually, the vibrations of metal against bone that rattled through his entire skeleton came to a stop, but this didn’t bring him out of the episode. Normally, these things would manifest as memories replaying over the top of current reality, but not tonight. Tonight he’d fully shut down, a mixture of his dissociative disorder and pure, unadulterated shock. His breathing was heavy and stuttering, but he said nothing. Just let me die. Just let me die.

—

As natural instinct seemed to take ahold of Rhett, Inge was met with that sweet taste of fear. She didn’t go hungry (out of self preservation and because she simply saw no point in abstaining), but Rhett’s fear still satiated some kind of gap within her. Like ichor it spread through her, something that made her determined to keep going. More leathery wings — let them climb down his throat, into his ears and pry his eyes open! But before she could focus on feeding more, the hunter was awoken and with that, Inge’s awareness returned to her earthly body. 

She was met with a spray of blood and a scream that rang through the hollow factory hall. Eyes widened in what might as well be genuine shock, she scrambled back from the sight. At least Siobhan had restrained Rhett properly again, as had been her request — but it seemed unnecessary with the sight her eyes fell on. What had she expected, for Siobhan to not use her saw? For the banshee to give a head’s up about her intended dismemberment? Inge stared at the sight, her back resting against a rusty beam that kept the rusty factory standing up, eyes blinking and yet not looking away. This was nothing like the moths, the birds, the cruel murders, the chases, the shrinking rooms and the rot from her dreams.

This wasn’t something that existed elsewhere, but right here. The warm blood on her jeans, hands and face proved as much, its sticky nature surprising to a woman who hadn’t bled in years. She watched, unable to look away and feeling that rare sensation of being stirred to her core. Ingeborg didn’t get afraid any more (or so she endlessly claimed), but she got affected. And with that, she got inspired. She watched, not bothering to pretend to breathe, and wondered what a foot felt like after it had been cut off.

Eventually, when the deed was done, she looked at Siobhan. “A little warning, next time?” Her voice echoed vaguely, sounding raspier than she’d anticipated. 

—

The saw wasn’t designed to cut flesh. Its purpose was obvious by its name: bonesaw. It was exactly what it was designed to be; an instrument of simple function and dutiful adherence to title. And wasn’t that true for all of them? Rhett: warden. Ingeborg: nightmare. Siobhan: butcher. Bonesaw: not the first step to amputation. Siobhan leaned on the blade, running the teeth along Rhett’s flesh. Blood sputtered from his ankle as she pressed the full force of her weight down, but she was hitting muscle, not bone. She took out her big hunting knife and sliced his ankle, watching the layers peel away: dermis, muscle. Her knife screeched on his tibia. Then, the saw. Back and forth and back and forth along the bone. She held his bloody foot with one hand and worked the saw. Occasionally she would stop to pull, wondering if a good jerk would snap the bone free, but she had no such luck. The saw she’d chosen was antiqued: designed for use in war hospitals. Back and forth, back and forth. The piece of tibia she’d been working on snapped, beside it—back and forth—the more demure fibia. Another snap. Rhett’s foot dangled off his leg like a frayed thread, stuck to him by one flap of meat. 

Siobhan had first learned to butcher on a pig, a sow she called Elizabeth. Elizabeth had been a good teacher, showing her where to cut along her tendons, her muscles, around her joints and through her thick hide. Elizabeth became parts: shoulder, back, loin, ham, spare rib. Everything was just meat. Siobhan sliced her knife down Rhett’s ankle, freeing the foot from the body: on Eizabeth, that’d be called the hock. She held it up as if serving it. Cheap cut of meat, good for stock. The meaty flap remained at Rhett’s ankle—or rather, where his ankle was. Siobhan thought it looked like red liquorice someone had left on the dashboard of a hot car. Elizabeth didn’t teach her this, her mother did: use the flap, sew it up. 

She hadn’t noticed Ingeborg coming back, she hadn’t noticed Rhett going away—screaming, giving up. As a butcher, the meat needn’t be minded and her job ought to be focused on. She stood, coveralls red, dripping Rhett’s blood, smiling. “It needs to be bandaged now,” Siobhan explained calmly. “If he bleeds too much then he dies too quickly.” She looked down at him, pitiful on the ground. “Do you remember war? Have you seen it? This is how the surgeons did it: on a conveyor belt, almost—factory manufactured dismemberment. Cut one, on the next; meat and then meat.” Her attention turned to Ingeborg. She squeezed her gloved hands together and grinned at the squelching blood. “Did you have fun?” She asked. “It’s really not fair that I don’t get to see.”

Siobhan smiled down at Rhett. “Did you have fun?” 

—

The warden’s eyelid fluttered as his body reflexively tried to wet the drying orb, but every muscle in his body was taught, and his half-blind eye stared widely into the middle distance. Where blinking failed, tears took up the mantle, sliding across his cheekbone before dripping to the dirty floor. It was involuntary, just like the way he shivered from the cold and the shock. He wasn’t there, not really—he was in Parker’s bunker with the other warden, watching him work. His methods were calm, careful, and meant to spare the fae from as much pain as possible. Hell, Parker even sedated them, which would have been a fucking blessing tonight. 

Rhett’s own methods had always been less so, and he supposed that’s why this was happening to him now. It was why he’d die at the hands of these two, for all the transgressions against them and their kind, violently and miserably. It was all he deserved, but he still couldn’t face it. Still couldn’t prevent himself from slipping away to some other place. 

Siobhan spoke to him, and he didn’t respond. He just wheezed another rattling breath, in and out and in again. Parker looked up from the table and gave him that look that was almost a smile and began to explain his process, but Rhett couldn’t hear him, either. It was like they were all underwater, or… or maybe that was the blood rushing in his ears. 

His shoulders burned. He couldn’t wiggle his toes. Why… where? Oh. 

His dark eye jerked in his skull as a shadow loomed over him and he recoiled, coming back into himself like his bungee cord had snapped and let him slam into the ground. It was a brief, violent outburst, stalled almost as quickly as it had started when the mare’s hand found his head and silenced his panic. For now. At least until she could spark it again in her own, unique way.

—

She remained at a distance for a moment, taking in the scene in front of her. A nightmare on the earthly plane, the gore real and gruesome. Was that a metallic scent, wafting to her? Inge blinked even if there was no use to it, watched the warden cry and thought perhaps that was the only good thing about this scene. Siobhan was talking, a vision in red, and though Inge had always enjoyed the concept of a woman covered in blood she now had to do a double take. “I was born right after it,” she answered, “My sister died in the famine.” Why was she answering like a schoolgirl would? With no second thought? She didn’t know.

She was looking at the leg again, felt confused by her own weakness. She’d seen and created more gruesome sights like this, and yet — she thought perhaps she would be sick. But she wouldn’t be. She refused. “It was very fun, wasn’t it?” Her gaze locked onto Rhett again, reduced to something so pitiful. There would be even less of him when they were done with him. Inge looked at Siobhan. “I’ll tell you all about it sometime.” She moved in again, wanting away from this plane of existence and to the one where she excelled, where she was the butcher, the monster, the one with the power. 

He seemed more present moments before she pressed her hand against his forehead and it almost seemed like she was a nurse, taking his temperature as she kneeled next to him. Let Siobhan do her thing. She’d do hers. Inge put Rhett to sleep and gave the banshee a look before returning her focus to the plane where dreams roamed.

Here was only darkness, until there wasn’t. A singular light turned on, flickering, and Rhett would find himself in a small room. Four walls that seemed to be made of some strange material. Maybe he’d look at them all in search of a window or a door, but there would be nothing to be found. Just those bumpy walls. 

Wait — did one of them move? Did all of them move? There was something crawling on them, it seemed, but not just one singular thing. Like a wave, like a hivemind, tiny feet scratching the same way they had when they’d been in his body. Maybe Rhett would walk. In this dream he could: Inge hadn’t taken away his foot or toenails, gave him the mercy of having free mobility in a room that offered no freedom otherwise. The walls crawled. The walls moved in, closer and closer. Tighter and tighter. Maybe Rhett would try to place his hands against opposing walls to stop them from inching closer, but there was no stopping it. The walls separated, the moths that were covering flying from one to another, from surface to their prisoner. Latching onto him, his skin, his hair, his nails as the walls inched closer and closer and closer until there was no space left.

The dream ended but the nightmare would not upon waking.

So it would continue to be. Rhett would sleep and be exposed to Inge’s repertoire of nightmares, moving from moths to murder to the snapping jaws of beasts. Rhett would wake and be exposed to Siobhan’s repertoire of bandages, saws and musings. On the second night, he’d wake to the lower half of his leg gone, discarded to the side by the banshee’s hands. A night later, and between every dream another toenail would be gone until none were left.

There would always be an end to the waking or sleeping nightmare, but never any relief — not in consciousness and not in the lack thereof. 

[thefvrious]

@atrickrtreat sent -> in a moment of pure joy,  owen picks up siobhan and spins her around.

He was so full of excitement that he could hardly wait for the sun to disappear beyond the horizon. "C'mon, c'mon, c'mon..." He said, tapping bitten down fingernails with chipped paint on the well worn steering wheel of his car. Finally, at dusk, he exited his vehicle and entered the abandoned park with his bag of goodies — just for Von. When he saw her, he could barely contain himself, and he rushed toward her, hugging her and spinning her around before letting her go, a grin so broad on his face it was beginning to hurt. "I got the tapes!" He held the bag out toward her — all her favorites from when she was alive: Britney and N*Sync and the Backstreet Boys and so on. He'd found them on eBay for what he considered a steal. "Gonzo'll have to play them for you."

[curreres]

who: carmen and siobhan / @wanderinglcst

where: the lake party

"hey, sorry if this is like, super annoying, but would you mind helping me out?" carmen scurries over to the first girl she spots, a hand gathered at the base of her neck to hold together her top, which had come undone.

[exmcrtis]

closed starter for: @wanderinglcst (siobhan)

"hey, are you that chick that rolled up into town wearing a wedding dress?" they were being nosier than they should've been, but hollis heard things around town, and they needed to quell their curiosities. "if you are, then you're a total badass. if you aren't? you're probably still a fucking badass."

[ariadnewhitlock]

[pm] I do want to see the essay, Ariadne. The one about the painting. [del: I'm sorry for]

[pm] You're

I

You

I'm sorry

I'm awful

You

Did you want to ki

I'm

Okay.

[ofginjxints]

@disillusicnd ctd from (x)

Luca felt her pull away, but the hand on her arm was steadfast, the other on her waist. "This has never been a waste of time. You know how much I care about you." His eyes met hers, seeing she didn't want to go as much as he didn't want her to. "It's just difficult, you know that - you know me so much better than anyone else, you gotta understand I can't just suddenly make it all perfect, baby." He pleaded, "How about I rent us a nice apartment just outside the city, huh? Make it our own space, be together just like we always say, right?"

[lxvenderhxzehv]

Where: The Lake

Who: Terence and Siobhan( @wanderinglcst)

He hadn't seen her in a month, he hadn't want too not after what had happened out side of the bar. Not after she made him look like an idiot and broke his heart. So when she came up him he scoffed " go away....I'm not in the mood for your games Siobhan....I'm tired of being the punch line..."

[backmaskcd]

closed event starter for @wanderinglcst (siobhan)

"Well, if it isn't my favorite runaway bride!" Jace teased gently as he spotted her at the lake party. "Have you been settling in okay? I haven't spotted you around town, I was worried that maybe something had happened."

[swtsours-archived]

“   i   want   to   mark   you   up   ,   everyone   should   know   you’re   taken   .   ”

[abusedog]

[ TXT 📲 Shivvy ] is there a possibility you can actually pick up the fucking phone when i try to call you ? [ TXT 📲 Shivvy ] like [ TXT 📲 Shivvy ] not even dad ghosts me like this .

@fireflymuses // txts from rome

[faustianbroker]

TIMING: End of July LOCATION: Mephisto's Repository PARTIES: Leviathan (@faustianbroker) & Siobhan (@banisheed) SUMMARY: Siobhan comes to the shop to pick up a special order and learns a little more about the owner. CONTENT WARNINGS: none.

—

Siobhan was once beautiful. Once, glorious wings sat on her back; black dipped in red as if she laid in a pool of blood. Once, blemish-free except for those marks her training demanded, her skin was unmarred. Once, she had been a thing of envy. Siobhan tugged at her turtleneck; paired with the coat that draped off her shoulders, was nothing short of fashion but it was a far cry from the usual fare of cleavage revealing dresses she once frequented. Her face remained as it always had been: too much like her mother’s to make her comfortable and too symmetrical to make her feel as horrid as she felt inside. The moth, the one with wings like hers, was a symbol more than anything else. If she kept it pinned and still in her house she could control it and she could achieve it. Once again, she could be beautiful as the thing she chained to her wall. 

Mephisto’s Repository, Siobhan assumed, was also a symbol. Who named their store after the demon that represented the devil? What did that make all the wares that lined the walls? What did that make the owner? The décor was up to Siobhan’s taste, delightfully macabre and filled with things she knew a good scream would decimate. She hadn’t asked for the name of the delightful person she’d spoken to online and was regretting it as she scanned the store and couldn’t find someone who fit the description of ‘interesting’. And how many people came into this same store asking for them? Siobhan was a lot of things, predictable would never be one. Her hand shot out and with a gentle tip-tap she knocked something off a shelf. “Oops.” She grinned. “My finger slipped.” She leaned up against one of the displays, shooting delightful grins down the space. “I suppose someone ought to fetch the owner, I might just be a little slippery today…” Her hand shot out again. Some of these things gave her a strange chill, the way death sometimes did when it was twisted into new forms; like a haunted mirror or comb. Or several of them. Siobhan was careful to avoid those, but she’d accepted that by some metric, this store was intent on making her into a Faust. Well, if there was anyone that knew anything about unfavorable deals, it would be a fae. What was a curse but an excuse for a more lively life anyway? 

—

A tall, gangly sort of fellow came bustling over the moment he heard something crash, watching the woman, bewildered, as she proceeded to knock something else off the shelf. “M-ma’am!” he stammered, fast-walking over to her and picking the items up off the floor with a defiant huff. “Please, don’t—please, be careful—” He seemed torn between pulling her away from the display and setting down what he was already holding, his curly mop of hair bouncing this way and that as he fidgeted on the spot. Beads of sweat were already forming on his brow and he blurted out a loud, “Boss!”, his voice pitching in the process. “Boss!” he called again, deeper this time, looking desperately over his shoulder toward the rear left corner of the store. A few moments of silence passed, and then the door pulled open. The look of relief was plain on the young man’s face, and now that backup was headed his way, he looked back to the strange woman. 

“I would.. appreciate it if you were not slippery in our store, ma’am,” he said a little more firmly, though his brow still trembled. Feeling the presence of the Leviathan moving up behind him, he ducked his head and turned on his heel, side-stepping out of the demon’s way to scuttle back to the counter, items that she’d knocked over still clutched to his chest. 

Leviathan smiled after him for a moment before turning its attention to the woman in its store, demanding its attention. “You’ll… have to excuse Ichabod, he can get a bit anxious around beautiful people.” Extending a hand, it gave her a warm smile. “I’m Chuck. What can I do for you today? Anything you want.” It was an odd thing to tack on the end, perhaps, if you weren’t a demon that drew up contracts every day. 

—

“Oh.” Siobhan’s grin was sharp, full of mischief and amusement. She looked the most like a fae in those moments, consumed by the spiritual essence of chaos and having a good time. Unfortunately for Siobhan, as many similarities as she shared to viral videos of cats knocking things off shelves, she also possessed a shred of decency that reminded her that people did not like it when their things were broken. “I’m already slippery,” she replied. Her fingers teased the corner of another trinket, but she didn’t push it all the way down. The lanky boy seemed horrified already and her game had worked, the infamous owner was here. She grinned up at him. 

There were a few things she thought first about him: he was hot, he was attractive and he was good to look at. More than that, however, one thought haunted her mind, rattling in the corners and bouncing around in the dark: Chuck was an absolutely stupid name. Siobhan wasn’t a fae to take names, that’d be juvenile of her. Sophisticated fae of her age stole things like houses and cars and wives. However, she could make an exception for Chuck; she’d be doing a public service by robbing it. “And you lay on the charm rather thickly, does that work for all your customers?” Not that she didn’t like it, she adored when people stated the obvious about her. “Anything?” A perfectly manicured brow shot up, accompanied by the twinkle in Siobhan’s brown eyes. Oh, she could hold him to that; so many people promised her anything when they’d only meant to be charming. She wouldn’t, however, partially because he was too good looking to be scrubbing her floors; chemicals did not need to be close to a face like that. She almost felt like she should be the one fanning him with palm fronds. What a strange feeling. 

“Actually, as it turns out, I think you have something for me…” Siobhan stepped closer to him, hovering a breath away. Her grin hadn’t died. “Wings from a moth. We talked online. You said it was ready?” She paused. “But you didn’t say your name would be….Chuck.” She couldn’t hide her disgust about it. All Chucks needed to come with a Chuck warning. 

—

“Usually, yes,” Chuck answered easily. Then she went on, and the pieces fell into place. “Ahh, yes, of course,” he thought aloud, remaining in place as she moved far closer than a personal bubble would permit—thankfully, he didn’t have one of those. Lucky him, that this was the person who’d been asking after the moth. And then—the demon let out a soft chuckle, raising his broad shoulders in a nonchalant shrug. “Would you prefer Charles?” There was no room to give her a once-over, so instead he simply let his gaze wander to her throat, then back up to her eyes. “I’ll tell you what, come with me to the back room so I can retrieve your moth, and you can come up with a new name for me in the meantime, hm?” Stepping back, he turned and waited for her to follow, then led her back to the room he’d come from when Ichabod had started yelping for him. 

“Afraid I didn’t catch yours, either,” the shop owner mused as they stepped beyond the red door and into the back room—an office, of sorts, though it was dimly lit and looked far more lived-in than your typical office. In the corner of the room was a dog bed, though no dog was in sight. He fished a set of keys from his pocket, using them to open a trunk that sat against one of the walls. It was full of variously-sized packages, all wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine. Charming. Reaching into the pile of goods, Chuck pulled out one like it was an instinct, no searching required. Closing the trunk and locking it again, the demon turned to face the woman and held it out to her. “Go on, give it a look. Make sure it’s exactly what you were after.” It wouldn’t do to have an unsatisfied customer, after all. 

Inside the wrapping was a simple but elegant shadow box with a glass front and back, and inside of it, artfully suspended, the requested moth that appeared to be in mid-flight. 

—

“Charles is better than Chuck,” Siobhan exclaimed as if the statement was indisputable. “Charles can be Charlie--which is cute. Chuck is sad.” Someone as attractive as Chuck needed a new name. And, as if reading her mind, he tasked her with devising a new, better name. Several words sprung to mind: skeleton, bone, the-lesser-Siobhan, gravestone, morgue, corpse. As she followed him, her mind cycled through the options and she mouthed each one, feeling them against her tongue. “Siobhan,” she said absently. She was thinking about Chuck and the possibility of new names when she saw the moth.

Siobhan remembered the sensation of her wings; the first time, they tore from the firm flesh of her back, spilling hot blood down her chair. She imagined the wings revealing themselves the way a cut did, the peeling back of layers of skin--white given to pink--and the blood of her body painting itself a portrait. She couldn’t remember if it hurt; she couldn’t remember if she liked them at first or if it took her awhile to recognize their beauty. Her wings were uniquely hers, except for the fact that somewhere in the wild, there were thousands of moths created by the tide of Fate that bore the same markings. Siobhan didn’t know what it was about fae that made their wings often just like the life around them but like most, she assumed it was the natural connection the fae had with the world. The cinnabar moth wasn’t much to look at, but to Siobhan, it was the most beautiful creature. 

She stroked the glass, remembering the soft texture, micro hair-like against her fingers. Its wings were captured in motion, as her wings had often fluttered with her pulsing excitement. “You would have had to go overseas for this,” Siobhan said, turning to face Chuck. “It’s not an easy thing to do--catch something that lives for such a short time. Catch something that doesn’t want to be caught.” The tug in her chest told her this was true and dead. Before her was the beauty she once held, just the same, true and dead. “Why?” She asked. “Why bother? How much money can I give you that makes such a feat worth it? What do you get out of this, Chuck?” Her eyes glistened. She wasn’t going to cry but Fates did she feel like it.

—

Watching as each new expression flitted over her features like the moth in that shadow box had once flitted the wings she was so enamored with, the demon felt himself smile. 

“That,” he answered with a gentle nod. “That… is what I get out of it.” His hands gestured to her and he took a step closer, framing her face without touching her for a moment before letting one palm rest atop her shoulder. “Gratitude. It’s a wondrous thing, isn’t it? A more valuable currency than anything you could pay me for such a feat, as you say.” His smile turned darker somehow, and he leaned in a bit closer. “I should let you in on a little secret that’s becoming less secret by the week—my name isn’t Chuck. You’re right, Chuck is awful. My name is Leviathan, and I’d very much like for you to take this moth home with you, free of charge. The only thing I ask in return is that you remember me the next time you need something. As you can see, I’m quite good at making the impossible, well, possible.” Leaning back again to give her a bit more space to breathe, the demon lifted the other hand between them as if holding it out to shake. “Sound like a deal?”

—

The idea of gratitude was a lump in Siobhan’s throat; she knew a lot of it. Her wingless back burned with gratitude down its two jagged, horizontal scars. For a fae to have gratitude, something was either very wrong or extremely right. Leviathan wasn’t a normal human name and Siobhan suspected the man she was looking at wasn’t human at all. If he was the Leviathan of legend or someone who liked the idea, she didn’t know and, if she was being honest with herself, she didn’t particularly care. A deal was a deal, it didn’t matter who it was made with— magic was undiscerning. He smiled like the sort of person who knew exactly what he was doing, operating with a knowledge that Siobhan didn’t possess. More strangely though, she didn’t feel embarrassed by her lack of understanding. It was her damned curiosity that snaked across her skin and pulled her hand out. If she got tricked into an actual deal, it wouldn’t be so terrible to imagine Levithan’s face every time she was out of yogurt— he was almost unfathomably handsome. Wasn’t it more exciting to enter herself into whatever game was being played? 

Siobhan pressed her palm into Levithan’s, flinching at the sudden warmth against her frigid skin. Eventually she relaxed into the sensation, gripping his hand firmly back. “Sounds like a deal,” she emphasized with a bright smile. Whatever Levithan wanted, whatever she wasn’t privy to, she could manage. After all, what sort of fae would she be if she wasn’t involved in whatever trickery was afoot? When her wings were back where they belonged, when the beauty existed beyond the glass and against her flesh again, she would reward him with the sight. 

In the end, she’d always remember Leviathan anyway. There weren’t so many people who could capture life as it had been or who would travel so far to gain so little. Siobhan would remember Leviathan, if not for the deal she hadn’t given him, then for the beauty he had given her. For one brief moment, she had remembered what it had been like to be whole. There must have been others that owed much more to Leviathan, but she didn’t count her gift so lightly. 

She would remember him.