#without just wading into the thick of it and slowly Understanding

[eastgaysian]

once you put 100 hours into understanding the rules and mechanics of a crpg and have read 100 different redditor opinions on builds and classes and subclasses that's when you can REALLY start having fun. By staring at the level up screen for half an hour

[pastorpresent]

part 2 to this, but it's not necessary reading to understand this:) tw for panic attacks

-

Logan is going to find every motherfucking TVA agent and rip them methodically into a hundred little chunks, which he's then going to serve to dogpool for her lunch.

He's just got to find Wade and get out of this stupid fucking warehouse first - and seriously, dingy old warehouse for an evil fucking lair? Get creative for once, jesus christ.

The thing was, this mission was supposed to be the definition of easy. The TVA just wanted them to catch some stupid deadpool variant, slap their cuffs on him and be done with it. Hell, Wade had even been looking up nearby lunch spots because they were so convinced they'd be done for then.

They weren't. The variant thing was a trap - which somehow completely went over the TVA's heads - and the place was actually an experimentation warehouse for mutants. They were baited there like fish to a hook, and Wade had been grabbed before either of them could fully grasp what was happening.

Wade was grabbed - and Logan was loosing his god damn mind, because he'd seen the uncharacteristic flicker of fear over the mercs face when they realised what this place was, watched Wade thumb through the paperwork with a tight expression, unsettlingly silent.

He understood. He'd been there, quite literally, but he had the small mercy of not remembering it so completely. His time spent chained to an experimentation table was mercifully shorter than Wades, and he only recalled brief flashes of it.

Wade had told him one night after a few too many drinks that he remembered his weeks in that warehouse vividly. Every second of it was etched into his brain like a branding, and if Logan had known that this mission would take them anywhere even slightly resembling that trauma he would've told the TVA to stick their mission so far up their ass they start choking on it.

He didn't, though, and now he was stuck hiding outside trying to figure out a way to get in there and grab Wade without getting caught himself. He needed back up, realistically.

It stung to call the X-Men. He hated doing it, because seeing them in this universe... it just reminded him of what he'd failed to protect. Of the team he'd essentially killed.

He'd gladly suck all of that up and toss his baggage aside if it meant helping Wade, though.

Even with their help (and their insistence on cuffing instead of murder) It still took a good half hour for them to clear the place.

Logan was growing antsy. He'd seen the sideways looks from Storm and Rogue as his murders grew more brash and violent, prioritising wiping the bastards out as rapidly as possible over doing so in a way which was... more composed and less bloody.

He'd killed about thirty. The team had cuffed and sedated the other lucky twenty, and had taken the... test subjects somewhere safe. Most of them were mutilated beyond looking like recognisable people, half alive, and honestly Logan thought they'd be better off just being put down and freed from their agony, but he didn't voice that. He didn't have time for a morals debate, not when the bastards have had Wade for almost a fucking hour.

"Wade!"

He was dipping in and out of every curtain, trying to find the idiot. His booming voice was echoing through the entire place, and so wherever he was he mustn't be conscious, or verbally able to respond.

Finally he pulled back a curtain and found him.

He was in a glass cylinder, strapped down with thick leather bindings, and was gasping for breath periodically as his skin burned.

An oxygen deprivation machine. The same type that gave Wade his mutation in the first place.

Those fucking sick bastards. He hoped that the team had gotten those men they cuffed the fuck out of here or Logan was going to chop off their fingers and make them eat them, then beat them to the point they were begging for death, and then he'd beat them some more and let them die from blunt force trauma, slowly and in agony on a dirty warehouse floor.

He surged forward, using his claws to bust holes in the machine, allowing immediate air flow while he figured out how to get the damn thing open.

He figured it out, the lid lifting, but something was wrong.

Wade was still gasping for air, his now free hands scratching at his neck desperately.

"Wade, breathe," Logan ordered a little harshly, grabbing the younger man's shoulders.

Big mistake apparently.

Wade was up in an instant, grabbing a nearby scalpel and driving it harshly into Logan's shoulder, his teeth bared and the air missing his usual cry of 'baby knife'.

"Wade, what the fuck are you-"

He was cut off by the medical scissors being thrown at his face, embedding deep into his cheek just below his eye, and fuck that hurt.

"Wade-" he grabbed him, trying to stop him from reaching for any more makeshift weapons, but Wade punched him hard in the face, driving the scissors deeper, and then proceeded to kick him in the balls.

Logan grunted at the impact, barely staying upright and releasing his grip in the momentary recovery.

Wade grabbed a gun from the side and started shooting recklessly, and Logan was painfully aware that some of the X-Men currently standing just a few flimsy curtains away were not as bullet proof as what he was.

He dove atop of Wade, tackling him to the floor, hissing with every bullet that the merc emptied into his torso.

"Wade, stop!"

"Get the fuck off me! Let me go!" Wade screamed, actually screamed at the top of his lungs, his breathing rapid and eyes hard but full of suffocating fear as he thrashed and struggled.

Logan felt horrible. He felt like the shittiest person on the planet, because Wade clearly had no idea what was happening in his panic, didn't recognise Logan or remember the circumstances, and he was terrified. Terrified of continued torture that was sure to come in his mind if Logan 'caught him', and he had no clue what to do.

"Wade it's me, alright? It's Logan. I'm trying to help you."

"I don't- get the fuck off me! Please! Just let me go!"

Wade was sobbing and begging, and from the grip Logan had of his lithe body he could feel his breathing growing shallower.

"I will, bub. I will, but I need you to put the gun down, alright?" Logan said carefully.

He wasn't going to let Wade come out of this having killed somebody he cared about accidently. He wasn't letting him be burdened by that guilt.

"I- I don't- please," Wade sobbed, and Logan swallowed thickly.

"Gun down, Wade," he repeated firmly, and this time he felt the barrel leave his torso and clatter onto the ground.

He continued to pin Wade down with just one arm as he grabbed the gun and tucked it into the back of his jeans.

"Good boy. That's good, thank you. I'm gonna let you up now, bub. Think you can stop trying to kill me for a second so we can talk?"

Wade whimpered softly, and nodded once in response.

Logan eased up on him gradually, rising to his feet and offering out a hand to help Wade do the same.

The younger man didn't take it, scrambling up by himself on shaky legs, taking a few stumbling steps backwards away from Logan.

That stung a little, but he understood. Wade clearly still didn't grasp who he was, and it was probably a very natural reaction to want distance between yourself and your conceived captor who had you pinned to the ground moments ago.

"Look at me, ok? You know me, bub. You know I'm not here to hurt you."

"I- I just want you to let me go. I just want to go home to Vanessa, please."

And maybe that one stung... a lot, more so than any of the sharp objects lodged into his body right now. He often worried about what his existence in this universe meant for Wade. He worried him being here, some sort of unnatural and inconvenient prescence, made it so Wade felt he couldn't truly go after what he wanted. A life with the girl, a few kids, a decent home.

Instead he got stuck with Logan, an alcoholic mess who could barely tolerate basic human interaction most days, and he knew Wade would argue that it was actually vice versa - that Logan was the one stuck with him - but it just wasn't true. Not when Wade was the one with a life he imposed on.

That day with Vanessa, when he'd just almost killed Wade from his own stupidity, rang clear in his head.

('You almost killed him, Logan! He could be dead right now because of you!' Vanessa screamed, voice thick with emotion.

Logan couldn't even bring himself to disagree, or defend himself.

'I'm sorry. I didn't mean it. You know I didn't mean it,' he stressed, staring at Wade's limp body on the couch, his torso wrapped with blood stained bandages.

She looked at him too, and for a painful few moments, there was just heavy silence. It felt like a boot hovering over them, waiting to drop.

'You know, ever since you... appeared here, bad shit has happened. Wade's not himself, because he spends so much of his time on you. He's always in danger trying to drag your sorry ass to safety. It's not fair.'

The boot dropped, and squished him whole.)

"We can. I'll take you to her, but you need to settle down first, bub. Look at me?" Logan said, taking the tiniest of steps closer.

Wade didn't move back, which he took as a win, and he did finally stop his rapid searching to look at him.

"Good. Good job, think you can try match my breathing?"

Another step forward, this one intentionally impossible to avoid noticing, just to gauge Wade's response.

He looked uneasy still but didn't move, and nodded minutely.

Logan breathed in and out slowly, intentionally exaggerated and verbally guiding Wade through it.

It took several minutes, but eventually after calming down considerably, the confusion seemed to evaporate alongside the panic.

"Good boy, again, ok? 1...2...3...4.... exhale-"

"Logan?"

He could've just about collapsed with fucking relief. For a minute or two, he was growing worried that the temporary confusion and amnesia was from more than just the panic attack and the torture chamber. That those bastards had done something to erase his memories just like Stryker had done to him.

"Yeah, it's me, bub," he sighed, shoulders deflating.

"What- what happened?! They hurt you?" Wade hissed, marching into his space and pulling out the scalpel. He reached for the scissors but Logan grabbed his wrist to stop him, opting to ease those out himself.

"Well, you could say that," Logan shrugged, and Wade's brows knotted together, until it seemed the events of the last ten minutes hit him and he gasped, stumbling back and away from him.

Logan didn't know exactly what came over him. Maybe he just couldn't stand the idea of Wade slipping away from him again so soon, even on the most basic physical level.

He filled the space between them, grabbing Wade by his shirt and yanking him forward into a tight hug.

"I hurt you, I fucking shot you-"

"Isn't the first time, won't be the last. Don't you fucking apologise to me, you idiot - you can shove your apologies into that smart ass mouth of yours and swallow 'em," Logan warned, and Wade laughed, but it quickly dissolved into a muffled sob, his hands coming up to fist the back of Logan's shirt desperately.

"They- they-"

"Are gone. It's done. You're safe, unlike those fuckers at the TVA the next time I see them," he growled, and Wade let out another watery laugh, hiding his face away in Logan's neck.

"Take me home?"

"Glady, bub."

[maybe-im-dark]

Mating season

Logan sat at the edge of their shared bed, fingers tapping against his thigh in a steady, anxious rhythm. He couldn’t sit still, couldn’t keep his mind from racing. Every nerve in his body felt like it was on fire, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t shake the restless energy coiling around him, tightening with every second.

Wade was sprawled across the other side of the room, flipping through a comic book with one hand and munching on a bag of chips with the other. He kept sneaking glances at Logan, eyebrows furrowing a little more each time he saw the older man shift.

“Okay, spill it,” Wade said finally, tossing the comic aside and sitting up. “You’ve been fidgeting like a cat on hot coals for the past hour. What’s going on with you, Logan?”

“None of your damn business,” Logan snapped back, sharper than he intended. He rubbed his hands over his face, trying to focus, trying to will the tension away.

Wade tilted his head, studying him with that infuriatingly curious expression. “Come on, you know I’m not gonna leave you alone until you tell me. We both know how persistent I can be.”

Logan growled low in his throat, but he could feel Wade’s gaze on him, insistent and unyielding. “Just… drop it, Wade. I don’t wanna talk about it.”

“Well, I do.” Wade leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes locked onto Logan’s. “Come on, just spill it. What’s going on with you?”

Logan sighed, running a hand through his hair, and for a moment, he looked anywhere but at Wade. But then he took a deep breath, and the words spilled out before he could stop them. “It’s… It’s my mating season, alright? My body’s all wired up because of it.”

Wade blinked, taken aback, and then his expression morphed into one of genuine interest. “Wait, you mean like, because of your mutation? It makes you go into heat or something?”

Logan shifted uncomfortably, feeling the heat creep up the back of his neck. “Yeah, something like that. It’s not exactly something I can control.”

“Why didn’t you say something earlier?” Wade asked, and Logan shot him a look.

“Because it’s embarrassing, alright?” Logan snapped. “You think I want to admit that I’ve got some animal instinct making me crazy?”

Wade was silent for a moment, his eyes thoughtful, and then he grinned, leaning in closer. “You know, I could help you with that.”

Logan’s eyes widened, and he stared at Wade, searching his face for any sign that he was joking. “You… you’re serious?”

Wade shrugged, his smile softening into something more sincere. “Yeah. I mean, why not? We’re both here, and if you need help, I’m not gonna let you suffer alone.”

For a long moment, they just looked at each other, the air thick with unspoken tension. Then, Logan let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, nodding slowly. “Alright. But if you tell anyone about this—”

Wade held up a hand, cutting him off. “Not a word, I promise.”

They stood there for a moment, neither one moving, and then Logan reached for the hem of his shirt, pulling it over his head in one swift motion. Wade followed suit, his eyes never leaving Logan’s, and when they finally moved to the bed, it was without hesitation.

As they slipped under the covers, the warmth of Wade’s body pressing against his, Logan felt some of the tension ease from his muscles. For the first time in days, he felt like maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t alone in this.

The lights dimmed, and as they disappeared under the blankets together, the last thing Logan saw was the soft smile on Wade’s face, the kind that promised understanding without judgment.

And for once, Logan let himself believe that he didn’t have to face his instincts alone.

[quietwingsinthesky]

jack harkness/simm master. do what you want with that

i love the idea of Jack and the Master meeting during his minister of defense era, it’s so deliciously terrible to me. great potential. anyway. here’s them.

Here’s what Jack Harkness takes away from his first impression of Saxon: he’s too clean for a politician, especially one settled in so comfortably as Minister of Defense.

It itches at the back of his brain through their few conversations as Saxon smiles at him. “*I’m* sure Torchwood’s funding wouldn’t be better spent elsewhere,” he tells Jack, co-conspiratorial, “and if it were up to me-”

“It is up to you,” Jack says, smiling back. Saxon’s eyes dart down to his lips and up again. Jack leans forward, casting his gaze across the man’s face like he’ll find the secrets he’s looking for in the pull of his lips or crinkle of his eyes. Too clean, too perfect, like a pretty picture of a potential Prime Minister. Jack tries to remember his stated policies, but his mind slides off the information, and it turns to him, grasping at nothing, and tells him that whatever he believes, Saxon believes.

“If only,” Saxon laughs, and it’s warm like a housefire. Jack squeezes his eyes shut, shakes his head, and suspicion falls right out. “I heard about the fiasco at Canary Wharf.”

Heard? Jack thinks. How’d you miss it? Saxon reaches across his desk and puts his hand over Jack’s wrist.

“I bet you run a tighter ship than that, Captain,” he says, voice low. “Tell me exactly what their tax dollars are going to, so I can reassure all those worried voters who might just have to think for themselves otherwise.” The words themselves buzz without meaning across Jack’s brain as Saxon’s fingers drum against the pulse at his wrist, too quick to match, too many beats, almost familiar like-

“You are just horrible to look at,” Saxon murmurs. “Nails on a chalkboard. I don’t know how he could stand being around you for even a minute.” Jack’s mind feels slow and thick, and any sentence he manages is a fight of slowly wading through.

“Torchwood… We arm the human race against the future.” Saxon grins wider.

“Do you have a speech prepared?” he releases Jack’s wrist suddenly and falls back into his chair, his whole body language changing from Prime Minister hopeful to lazy predator smelling fresh meat. “He hates whenever I get a taste of his pets. I’ll fuck you for it.”

“What?” Jack’s trying to catch up. Wherever the conversation went when Saxon was touching him is dim in his memory already, and he’s not even able to summon up concern about it.

“Or I’ll let you fuck me. I like that better. Less work.” Jack narrows his eyes. This, he understands. Too clean, he’d known. Too pretty a wife not to be messing around. Well, he could do worse. For his team, he’d do just about anything.

[alairroux]

So uh, yes. I don't have anything for my defence, this chapter strays as far away from comfort as possible, also unexpected guest. Yippie?

Chapter VI

"Understanding?"

Hurts. Hurts. Hurts. Hurts. Hurts. Was going over and over in Alice’s mind. The pain was pushing through the tsunami of thoughts and voices that attacked her brain. The last two days were terrible, but today it was reaching a whole nother level. She was just sitting in the chair, curled up and looking at one spot with completely unfocused eyes. Hurts. Hurts. Hurts so bad. Hurts. It was hurting to even breathe. The pain of her mind spreading through her whole body, making every breath and her ribs expanding feel like they were breaking. Every time her hands trembled she felt like someone was cutting her joints open and tying her tendons together. Why was it like that? She used to have quite bad flare ups due to her mind being overwhelmed but it was never this bad. Almost like her body decided to die on her while her mind was still forced to live. She closed her eyes, her eyelids feeling like they were on fire just from that simple movement. Even swallowing her saliva felt like someone just poured liquid fire down her throat. She needed comfort somewhere far away from here. Somewhere away from this universe, but lately she couldn’t even fall asleep at all which deprived her from being able to enter the other reality. As much as she hated it at first, now it was all that she wanted. Her mind was so calm there, completely silent. Well, not counting those few moments in which the mysterious female voice spoke. 

Need comfort. Need away. Now. Silence. Shh. Shut up. Comfort, need comfort now, need silence. Hurts, hurts, hurts. Away. Need away. 

She opened her eyes hearing someone walk into the living room, but still couldn’t really catch who that could be. Everything was blurred, like hidden behind the thick fog. Every sound was distorted to the point she couldn’t recognize a thing, and everything was hurting so bad. All that she wanted was to sink, deep, away from this all to a place where her mind is silent. Where it doesn’t hurt at every possible step. She slowly leaned her head slightly back, sharp pain traveling through her whole spine like someone just threaded a bullet through it, aiming for her mind where the pain remained in the end. Someone speaking something to her, looking at her, directly in front of her yet she couldn’t catch a single word. That someone grabbed her face, turning it in a different direction. Alice could almost swear that her neck snapped a few times along this and somehow she didn’t die. Her skin was burning in places where there were someone's fingers just a second ago. Who? Why? What about? Nothing. Just a weird hum and the screams inside her head. That’s all that she was able to hear, nothing more and nothing less. Who was that? Logan? Wade? Laura? Cass– No. No, no, no. Maybe it’s all just a nightmare? 

Alice couldn't even pinpoint a moment when she entered that someone's mind. It was cold here and way darker than in the living room. She slowly got up from the chair. There was less pain, she could move without feeling like her body was about to fall apart or explode. Slowly she made her way ahead towards the faint sparks of light that were there. It felt familiar. Warm. Almost fuzzy. Slowly, the darkness started to fill with light and various furniture, with frames with photos she couldn’t yet see, blurred colors, but something was there. Could it be someone's memory storage? Possibly. She hadn't visited one before, so it was something completely new. Up until now, she was only roaming in her own memory storage, which looked like a never ending wall with memories put into folders, but maybe that  wasn’t the case for everyone? Maybe every person has their own way of storing their memories? That was fascinating.  

She turned when she heard some whispers behind herself, but it disappeared as soon as it showed up, only like a ghost of another person disappearing into thin air. The memories were alive there? Interesting. She walked ahead, strangely drawn into one specific direction. To the doors, right corridor, third door on the left with an ever changing number on them. Yes, there. She had to get in there. Her steps echoed through the halls that were empty, but also strangely filled with distant laughter and fragments of conversations. What do they call you? "Wheels"?  She chuckled at that, not sure why. It came from somewhere away but sounded so damn funny even without context. Whoever was the object of that joke, for sure wasn’t happy about being called like that. Or maybe they were? Hard to say. 

Finally she reached the door, but stopped with her hand on the handle. So that’s why it was familiar. It’s the mansion that she heard so many stories about from Logan. The X-Men legacy of some sort. And to think for him it’s still an anchor to his memories, that’s impressive. She looked at the corridor for a while more, watching the passing ghosts of other x-men, young mutants and so on, pass there, mid conversation, mid fight, filled with strong feelings. She could feel all that. It was overwhelming to some degree, but also calming. She could’ve lived here if she wasn't born at the wrong time… 

Shaking her head, to get away from some more unpleasant thoughts, she pushed on the handle and entered yet another room. It looked like a library, with sections and different colored books, seemingly never ending bookcases on each side, each one of them with a tablet that read the name of someone. Scott Summers, Jean Grey, Wade Wilson, Alice Solace… Oh. She earned herself her own shelf here as well? That was heartwarming for sure. There were of course many more shelves, many more names, nicknames, some slightly blurred. Time is taking a toll on everyone after all, not even the mighty Wolverine can be safe from it. She walked ahead, looking around, trying to remember all of the names that she just saw, until she reached one of the shelves that had a completely broken tablet. Falling to pieces and already overgrown with moss, but the writing still looked clear and fresh. He didn’t forget, but he wanted to. Was there ue in trying to read it then? Maybe. Instead she walked ahead, touching one of the books, the cover was rough, slightly torn, stained with what looked like blood or red wine. She slowly took it off of the shelf and held it in her hands. Open or leave it? What will happen if she opens it? Will it help? Being here helped so this… This might help as well, right?

 Slowly she opened the book, and shifted through the pages, her mind filling with so many memories. The forest, a kid, woman, concentration camp, everything was passing so fast in front of her eyes. Anger, grief, happiness, sadness, rage, pure unbridled rage, love, purest form of hatred. It all filled her mind so fast, she felt like she was about to suffocate. Alice didn’t even notice when she closed her eyes, almost like she wanted to protect herself from it. 

Slowly she opened her eyes, the familiar light rough on her pupils. Cold breeze dancing in the air, distant buzz of bees, and familiar feeling of cold earth under her feet. She was back, but this time she wasn’t alone. Quickly turning around, towards the strong presence she could feel without a doubt. Now she stood face to face with him. Erik Lehnsherr. Magneto. So that… That’s the person that Logan wanted to forget. Which was weird but not really that surprising considering the fact that their shared past didn’t look very friendly. He didn’t either honestly. For the first time, after appearing on the never ending meadow she felt threatened and it was only because she was getting stared down by someone. She cleared her throat, straightening up while looking at the other mutant, trying to understand his motives and also why the fuck he was here in the first place. 

“I take that you have no idea how I ended up here either.”  

Well, that cleared up a lot. So he wasn’t here because he wanted to be here. Something had to drag him there. Maybe it was her? By reading that book? Wasn’t he supposed to be dead by the way? This thing made less and less sense. 

“Yeah. Very much actually. I mean, I’m not sure how I ended up here, let alone you. I’m pretty sure that your variant in my world is either way older than you right now or already dead. I’m not sure.” 

Nothing like speaking her mind to its fullest. Seeing his confused expression she just waved her hand. 

“That’s a long story and a very complicated one. Nevermind it.” She took another deep breath, mulling over her options. “So… I probably saw your memories? I guess.”

Weird way to start a conversation for sure, but what else was there to speak about? Maybe she just should've remained quiet and not talk at all? It seemed that every option had more lows than actual highs. 

“So you’re like him, huh?” Him? Oh… She could feel who he meant. “Now you’re going to try and convince me that the world changed for a better place for mutants or something?”

He said that with almost scoff. She was looking at him. It wasn’t real Magneto for sure. Yes, the memories were there, but what was presented was just bits glued up to create a character that was but a mere weak variant of Magneto. What was her purpose in all that? Maybe to soothe those parts of this broken soul, so they would come back to their whole? 

“I’m not like him. I mean, yes I am a telepath, but that’s probably that in means of similarities. The world also isn’t better for mutants, probably never will be. I mean, humans struggle with accepting different sexual orientation, let alone someone being able to read their minds or bend metal. I doubt they’ll ever comprehend that.” 

She looked around and motioned for him to follow her to sit down by a pond that appeared there. He looked angry and in pain. Once more she went over the memories she was shown not long ago. Right now they were filled with voices as well. With cries and screams that found their solitude in her mind right now, adding to the never ending chaos that was in there. No wonder he carried so much anger. 

“Getting rid of them would-”

“It wouldn’t fix a thing.” She cut his words short, looking down at the calm waters. “Killing humans is not going to change anything. Mutants would murder one another then. There’s no such thing as a bright future of understanding each other, because we don’t even understand ourselves.”

She looked at him, her eyes remained soft, just like they always were when talking to someone else. It was something natural for her at this point. Something she always did without thinking about it. Maybe years of collecting feelings and memories of others changed her into all that? Maybe. 

“I would like to say I understand where your anger is coming from, but I can’t. My family fled their country years ago, before I was even born. They fled Poland in fear of facing the things you did face first hand. I learned the history from them, the nightmares they still saw. And on top of what happened there… All of that.”  Her voice started to shake a bit. “Your anger is understandable, but it won’t fix a thing. It’ll only destroy you, while humans don’t even bat an eye. They will always see mutants as heartless and mindless monsters. While in fact they’re the cruel ones. But it’ll catch up to them, one day, one day it’ll all end on their own wish.”

His presence started to waver. Like it was about to disappear. Was it all that he needed? Not a speech about eternal peace, not a promise of a better life, not someone trying to force some idyllic view on him, but some sort of understanding? If so, she was happy to provide it. 

“It was unfair, what you faced. And you have every right for the hate you’re carrying. You do.” She spoke softly. “But you should rest, you know? You can’t battle restless…” 

Those words just slipped off of her tongue, as she watched him fade away. It wasn’t much, a weird encounter. But if it made her soothe a soul, then it was worth it. She turned back to the water, suddenly her mind filling once again with screams and cries. She frowned, squeezing her eyes tight. Oh god, it hurted badly. She almost felt the world around crack, fall into pieces and that weird dark liquid to seep into it once again. She pushed both of her hands against her temples, trying to contain it all, to silence it enough to breathe. Alice felt like she was drowning right now, and she couldn't even scream for help. 

Then, an unfamiliar coolness spread through her mind…

[city-of-spooks]

The Modern Prometrium

A short story about The Change.

You’ve not known tiredness like it. Sure, there was the time Alice had croup - back in ‘94, was it? - but that was when life felt like something to be dominated. Challenged. Wrestled back in its cage for precious order… and you were ever so good at it. So good that when Nanna Eileen had her fall, the first one at least, you’d shrugged off the baby-tired and took to your new shape as mother, do-er, giver, other like a duck to water. You’d even laughed that the hours previously spent sleeping felt wasteful.

It was all go from there. Hospital and paperwork and navigating the bickering over ‘what makes a residential home the right one?’ - even though Nanna would have rather gone for a long walk off a short cliff than suffer one of those places. “I’m not an old fogey, Janine”, she’d said, chewing the syllables through thin lips. “I’ll be damned if you start treating me like one.”

In the end it didn’t matter. She’d slipped again, all within a week of setting foot back home. Part of you always wondered if it was on purpose, a movie-starlet’s faint at the top of the stairs, but in the grand scheme of things, that didn’t matter either. There were no more trips to the hospital. Instead, they bloated into long, labored nights spent consoling the girls about the finality of death, nodding sagely as they hiccuped about her not looking right, asking why her mouth looked funny and what’s going to happen to you, Momma - an emotional gamut that required a delicate touch you weren’t quite sure you could deliver on such little brain power. But sleep-starved, staunching tears and, to your silent horror, shooing away imaginary phantoms of Nanna in the closet, the girls finally came to understand the ‘why’ of these things.

(You made sure to tell Mark that the bullshit about Fluffy ‘running’ away - and not, in fact, meeting the wrong end of a moving truck - did come back to bite you in the ass.) But it did not bring back the missed sleep.

Now, the tiredness doesn’t buzz. It holds none of the electricity harbored in youth. What was once adrenaline-fuelled and coffee-flavored has turned translucent, sinking into the bones with all the potency - and indifference - of carbon-monoxide poisoning. Slowly, then all at once. It’s weariness on a cellular level. An ache in the spine that doesn’t seem to go away, even with mindful Pilates. Bleeding from the gum line, despite a stringent flossing routine. Stubborn flaking from the nail beds, which refuses to bend to layer after layer of glycerine hand cream, the kind you get from the specialist counter at the pharmacist.

Of course, tired is fine. Your mother was tired. So was her mother before her. And so on and so forth, all the way back to the first women to sling their babies round their necks and go wading through the underbrush. Tired is in your nature.

But this isn’t just tired. It’s exhaustion that soaks the mind - brain fog, they call it - reducing any sane thought to a litany of questions without punctuation: where is that shoe, who is that man, what is that key for, until you sit on the floor of your bathroom and scream into the fresh towels. Sleep would be a comfort. But it never comes.

There’s the night sweats. Great hot flashes from toe to tooth, coming on thick and fast and entirely without warning. You’d spent many an evening trying to perfect lobster bisque (back in the early days of marriage, when business was brought home and bosses were wined and dined ahead of holiday bonuses) - and figured that this was some kind of divine retribution. The sweats broiled and curdled at all hours of the day, but especially thickened at night, waiting to sink its teeth into any semblance of rest.

Night is marked by the hours ticking by. Painfully dripping into nothingness, great annals of time are spent listening to Mark’s same-old droning snore, the splutter-cough of the AC unit, and the whining of the neighbor’s dog spliced over their late-night TV: spate-yip-in-yip-yup-the-area-yip-yip-advice-yip-yip-lock - until they yell at it to be quiet again. You had wanted to call the humane society but no, Mark hates conflict, so the miserable thing stays chained up within its run all night long.

God, the noise. After all these years, you’re still attuned to the slightest sound: a baby’s cry, a gurgle, the suggestion of breath - but now it feels unbearable. Mark’s snoring has taken on a rattle as he creeps out of middling age. A phlegmy quality that might have once been the roar of a motorcycle at 1AM, sneaking out for a late-night tryst and some over-the-clothes excitement - but now signals the looming likelihood of a CPAP machine.

As for the girls, they moved out years ago. Charlotte has little ones of her own, and Alice is busy finding herself in Guatemala or Chile or some other place where they wear long skirts and don’t have proper shoes. You’d said to her on the landline: don’t go about like one of those hippies or you’ll end up with unsightly callouses, but she’d laughed you off, saying that there were more important things to worry about, Ma.

But you know how easily callouses can form. Seemingly overnight if you’re not careful, and they’re tough, ugly things, large and puffy; right on the fleshy plantar of the sole that no amount of Johnson’s Smoothing Ointment can save. You’ve even taken to wearing socks to bed but sometime in the night they are lost to the sweats, half-shredded in fury. It’s unsightly. Disgusting, but you suppose it could be dignified in its own way.

Your mother had said that aging is a gift, not a given, but if you could go back and wring her sanctimonious turkey neck one last time, you’d do it in a heartbeat. How can you stand it? You’d scream, spittle flying. When the blood and puke and shitty diapers weren’t enough, when house was finally cleared of offspring and their dull mates had been sent on their way, and the den was our own again - man cave be damned - there’s this? What even is this?! Isn’t it supposed to be my time? Is this not the reward??

The reward is, in fact, lingering in the sink. Large strands of copper hair, peppered with gray, making loop-de-loops around the drain. Then there are smaller, more bristly offcuts that keep getting caught in the food trap, creating a thatch that floods and recedes like the swell of the tide.

The first time it happened, you thought it spelled the end.

“Cancer?” The doctor had laughed, leaning back in his chair with a loud, uncomfortable creak. Although there was no sign of lunch, the smell of something salted, like corned beef, permeated from his side of the room. “Oh no. No, no, no, Mrs Housman. Nothing quite so bad. Rather, this sounds like textbook menopause to me. It was bound to come knocking sooner or later.”

The butter-yellow packet of Prometrium eyes you suspiciously from the counter. It’s micronized progesterone, to help with the onslaught of symptoms like poor bone density and vaginal dryness. Although the box is open, the protective foil is still untouched and shines beautifully in the morning light.

The kitchen is a suntrap, just as warm as it had been on moving day back in ‘87, with a large window that looks out onto the garden. At one point, you’d discreetly tracked ovulation cycles and periods on the calendar pinned to the side of the refrigerator, in the days when Charlotte and Alice could have been David and Morgan, or no one at all - alongside the dates held aside for scarce dinners and the burden of visiting relatives.

Many moons have passed since, but the joy of watching the birds dip in and out of the hedgerow shared with the neighbors hasn’t waned. The only thing out of place is the bird feeder, which still sits precariously after their dog went for a group of young sparrows and decimated them in one bloodied gulp. Luckily the girls were teens by that point, armed with a full understanding of death and its permanence - but the grisly event was enough to put the dog on a chain and any bird-related ephemera well out of range.

At this time in the morning, the terrier usually lounges at the edge of the border. It has a name that escapes you - a generic eyeroll of a moniker, like Sammy or Ted - which isn’t helped by the fact the animal is nowhere to be seen. The chain is also gone.

You pull the hair from the trap and put it into composting. The rest that’s lodged in the disposal will have to go at the bottom of the general waste, along with the chicken carcass from Monday, which stretched to make pot pie, pasta and finally, soup. It’s easier to cook for just two these days.

As you open your hand, the pit-pit-pit of small bones hit the side of the garbage bag and join their brethren, being laid to rest beside the remnants of six rib-eye steaks, a large ham bone and the xylophone-esque shape that once belonged to a sturdy rack of lamb. Together, their components create a chimera knitted from bovine, ovine, porcine and something in-between.

You turn on the radio just as another bulletin starts up, reeling off the usual bad news. Corrupt politicians, rising bills, celebrity scandals, local jogger missing, new charity drive, pet killings. It’s grim, but makes excellent cover for when the garbage disposal whirrs to life, its shining teeth hidden at the base of a long, guzzling throat.

You grow sick of the headlines and twist over to a commercial station, and Stevie Nicks warbles about being 'fraid of changin'. The past fifty six years slink around your shoulders like a mantle, and your mind’s eye can track every scar and scratch, bite and birthmark like a well-walked trail. There’s only one that’s unaccounted for: a deep crescent of puckering flesh that curves from breast to belly, almost meeting the C-section scar from Alice all those years ago. High transverse, breech birth, so much blood.

The disposal is still going, and there’s a moment where you consider shoving your hand deep into the sink. You can almost feel the imagined crunch of muscle and sinew, which delights the deep, dark something lodged between the fourth and fifth rib. It ripples at the thought of flesh made meat.

Instead, the pills are snatched from the counter and unceremoniously dumped into the sink’s gaping maw. The whine of the mechanism sounds much more labored than usual, but you’re too far gone to care. Even with the tiredness, the unbearable sweats, and finding hair in places that don’t bear repeating, these past few mornings have left you feeling strangely sated. Full. Bright-eyed and bushy tailed, even. Maybe the change suits you. Maybe it’s what you’ve been waiting for.

Tha-thunk! The sink chokes, gears fighting - and losing - against an unseen blockage. The safety mechanism has sprung, meaning that something is well and truly stuck, and you flick the power off at the mains: just in case. You reach down into the belly of the disposal, and are reminded of fishing rocks out of the mouth of the stupid, soft dog from your childhood.

But you don’t find a stick. You don’t even find a bone. When you finally pull your hand out of the depths of the plumbing, delicately held between thumb and forefinger is a small, silvery disc. Although it’s fairly scratched up from the disposal, its surface still shines with all the brightness of the October morning: one of the coolest and crispest so far, with the smooth parts reflecting the orange and browns of the season.

But something else catches your eye. There, stamped into its cool face are the words: ‘JACK. IF FOUND, PLEASE CALL-’

[thefoulbeast]

little pathologic roadside picnic au blurb

1752 words. Gen. No CWs apply.

--

The sky darkens over the course of their trek. Slowly but surely – shadows stretching longer and longer until they swallow the trail up completely.

Mule is the first to break stride. Daniil almost runs into his back, so focused he’s been on placing his feet in the footprints left behind the two stalkers. Booha walks for a few strides more before he turns around with an inquisitive look.

“We should have set out earlier,” Mule says thoughtfully, the upper half of his face bathed in the green of the dying sunlight – just another of the Zone’s oddities, the way it warps light, “The night brings many dangers to those who move. Remember Griffin?”

“Let’s set down here for the night, then,” Booha agrees, carefully wading back towards his walking partners.

He throws his bag down with a thud and sits down on it, and Mule follows suit with his own bag, only pausing to pull out a bottle of water from it before he sits down. He passes it to Booha after taking a swig.

Finally, Booha looks up at Daniil – still standing. There is a teasing tone to his voice when he next speaks, “What’s the matter, Professor? Afraid of the grass? I assure you, it is safe to sit down with us common folk.”

“Nothing about you is common,” Daniil bites back, but lowers himself gingerly. His bag is no good for sitting on because of the equipment he’s carrying, but the grass makes for a soft seat nonetheless. This close to the ground the scent of them is stronger – sweet and bitter and cloyingly thick, like an over-steeped tea.

Wordlessly, Mule breaks a loaf of dark flat bread in three and hands each man their share. It’s dry but rich, with seeds and dried fruit, crumbling on the bite like a soft-bake cookie.

“No fire?” Daniil asks for lack of anything better to say. He’s uneasy with the quiet understanding between the two stalkers. The palpability of their brotherhood and the ease with which they share a space he’s only intruding on in this trip.

“No fire,” the Mule confirms, his tone dry. His stoic face looks like carved marble in the dying light, like a statue watching over them – except for his eyes, which shine with a stoic intelligence. A moment passes before he continues, his voice rough with disuse, “The Zone, she – she doesn’t like fire. Doesn’t like being disturbed more than necessary. We are guests here, and we can easily overstay our welcome, Professor.”

“What my dear friend means, is,” Booha takes over, with a refreshing confidence and a lot less dread, “we don’t need fire here. It is summer – the nights are light, short and warm. We will huddle together if need be, rest a few hours until the sun rises again, then continue on our way. We are almost at the edge of the Old Town. Only the bog to get through – and that is tricky even with daylight. A beautiful place, but treacherous, as we know.”

The Mule nods solemnly, and raises his piece of bread as if in toast, “To our brothers.”

“To our brothers,” Booha echoes before taking a bite.

Daniil raises his hand in silent agreement, though he doesn’t understand the toast fully. He’s not used to feeling so left out, so… replaceable. He’s just work to these two. Another fool hunting for what he thinks he needs in the Zone. He doesn’t trust them, no, they have given him no reason to, after all, but he does trust Andrey to not want him dead, which is enough for him to believe they will try to keep him alive throughout the trip.

That, and the fact that he paid only half up-front. Swag might pay well, but it’s rarer and rarer these days, and the sum Daniil offered was nothing to scoff at. The last of his savings. His final chance to prove his theories true.

“You look glum, Professor,” Booha says. He offers Daniil a flask and Daniil accepts without thinking too hard about it – the liquor burns wickedly down his throat, and the taste is one he doesn’t recognize.

“Just thinking about the problems in life,” Daniil says.

“Always too many of them,” Mule agrees. Booha laughs, from deep in his belly. It’s a warm sound, Daniil can’t help but note.

“Let us forget them for now, my companions,” Booha says, “there is no place more beautiful, and indeed no place more dangerous than here. And no better time than now to forget about what lies beyond the barbed fences.”

Daniil purses his lips, a refute ready on his tongue. Unlike some others, he has no room to forget his problems. The university is cracking down on his research, his dear institute, his colleagues and himself. He’s a refugee here in all but name. He has people waiting back at the Capital for his success here, for something to keep them all afloat. How dare this stalker, this lout-

“Forgive me, Professor,” Booha says, suddenly contrite, “I must have struck a nerve.”

And the anger, a second ago incandescent as a struck match, evaporates from Daniil’s heart. He deflates, curling in on himself, ashamed for his foolish rage, ashamed for the fact that his anger was so obvious to the two stalkers.

Get a grip, he chides himself.

Then, Booha claps, chipper again, wiping away the bad atmosphere with his charming smile, “Let’s talk about something else, then. Professor, tell me, when you think of us stalkers, what animal do you see us as?”

What an odd question to ask. Daniil looks the two stalkers over – from their tall stature to the breadth of their powerful muscles, to the keen, cold intellect in their eyes. Their nicknames might be Bull and Mule, but there is nothing herbivore-like about them.

“Something cunning and strong,” Daniil ponders, “Like a tiger, or perhaps an anaconda.”

“There! You see?” Booha claps the Mule on the shoulder, “another one! Why does everyone think so?”

Daniil finds himself curious, “What do you mean?”

“From everything you’ve learned about the Zone so far, which is – admittedly – not much, what kind of animal do you think survives best here? Take your time and think.”

Daniil thinks about the bone charms and the bolts. About the bug traps and the happy ghosts, about the thermal anomalies and… the glaring lack of any real fauna in the Zone.

He could answer like a smartass – either nothing survives here, or just man until he gets unlucky. He bites his tongue. “I don’t know – why don’t you tell me?”

Booha smiles toothily at him, like that’s the answer he’d been waiting for, “As you know, Professor, the Zone is full of danger. It tolerates us, but only when we’re diligent and watchful. Predators – they’re too sure of themselves to survive in the Zone, you see. Nothing threatens them, so they aren’t careful. Take something like a deer or a hare, though – something that lives in constant fear. Something that doesn’t trust its surroundings. That’s the kind of animal that lives in the Zone.”

Daniil nods, and though the words make sense he can’t help but laugh in good humor, “You two are a bit too large to be rabbits.”

“Everything is a little bit bigger out here in the steppe,” Booha retorts with a waggle of his eyebrows.

And – the thing is – it’s an off-hand joke, but it makes Daniil think that maybe- maybe these two stalkers could be… his cheeks colour crimson at the sudden influx of images that enter his mind. He thanks the dusk for hiding the redness of his face. Realizing too late that he should respond to the joke in some way, Daniil laughs awkwardly.

Booha is still looking at him, expression suddenly unreadable. Almost pensive.

“Let’s huddle,” the Mule says into the suddenly strange quiet of the soundless field they find themselves in. They wrestle a bit before arranging their bags so that they’re flush hip to hip. Then, once settled, they look at Daniil expectantly.

“Do I have to?” Daniil asks, heart in his throat.

“No, but you’ll be chilly by yourself,” Booha comments.

“No shame in touch between stalkers,” Mule adds cryptically. His hand is draped across the back of Booha’s shoulders, their bodies turned one to another. Strong lines of long limbs softened by their clothes.

No shame in… Really – does that also mean…?

Daniil approaches timidly. Booha pats his lap, indicating Daniil to lay on top of them both. He all but crawls into their laps, and they in turn wrap their arms around him. For warmth. For warmth.

It doesn’t explain the way one of their – and whose hand is it anyway? He can’t tell, not without looking – thumbs rub circles under his shoulder blade.

The steppe of the Zone is silent, silent, silent. Even what he sees of the grass swaying is soundless and windless. That’s the scariness of it all isn’t it. The expecting of something and coming face to face with a gaping void.

The stalkers’ breath is warm against his neck, and their bodies solid beneath him. For warmth. Daniil feels sweat prickling under his coat, but it’s too late to crawl away from them both.

What wonders will tomorrow bring? What horrors? How much further to the heart? What lies beyond the bog, what lies in the ruins of the Old Town, and what awaits them in the Abattoir?

How did he get here?

Well, it was either this, or disappearing for good. The Zone out East, his last shred of hope. Out into the wide-open planes, beyond the reach of city-dwelling society. He would not have come here for any other reason, he thinks.

But… it’s beautiful. Despite the tension and the sense of some impending doom, the Zone captivates. She is like the ocean, in that regard – awe inspiring and deadly. And they are defenceless against her despite all the gains of humanity. Daniil thinks of his revolver – buried out some kilometres from the barbed fence border.

What have you got there, Professor? Nothing to shoot out in the Zone. Whatever kills is no beast with a beating heart. It will only bring us bad luck – get rid of it.

“I can hear you thinking,” Booha mumbles, his breath ticklish on Daniil’s exposed neck, raising goosebumps, “Try and get some sleep, Professor.”

He doesn’t dare respond to the urging. He can barely keep his breathing in check.

Still, Daniil closes his eyes.

[whitherwanderer]

13 // check

[ CW: Weird time shit, forests that want you dead, mushrooms where mushrooms should not be. ]

The people that ask why you carry a small pocket chronometer with you into the deep Shroud seem to understand that the answer is beyond the obvious. Yes, of course you carry it to tell the time—the function is the reason. Not something that warrants asking about. But that’s not why they ask. Those who have lived here long enough know that while time is an important thing for a mortal to keep, the Shroud shrugs time off like autumn leaves. Time is meaningless to the Wood, and so it degrades in the dark places where there is no one to keep it. They ask because it seems pointless. You check the time. It is 7:12 in the morning.

Autumn comes to the Shroud like a sigh of relief as the days grow gray and the rains chill bitterly instead of merely cooling. As the trees shiver, their leaves fall away become a thick carpet of brown in a matter of weeks, and the sweet smell of decay suffuses your every breath. The fungi beneath every ilm of this forest is awake and alive, gorging itself on the rot. Its own fall harvest. Greentear is the last known location of the young woman you track. She was foraging for mushrooms. You check the time. It is 9:24 in the morning.

You’ve found a broken basket, but no signs of a struggle. No blood and no other trace of the woman you seek. Circular tracks pad around the area like a strange code. A rhythm few are privy to that even fewer can make sense of, but you know it well enough to decipher fragments of meaning—funguars. There were seven of them, maybe eight. A family, in the closest comparison you can make for things that have no concept of the term. The tracks lead further east along the river into territory that is notoriously warned against for its impassibility and the rumors of the creatures that lurk there. You sigh and check the time. It is 11:17 in the morning.

As you wade into the Shroud’s wild heart, the tracks become harder to follow, but you know where the creatures’ largest lairs are. What you’re more worried about is the Shroud itself; a maw that slavers without a tongue or teeth is still a maw, and the forest has a myriad ways of digesting the things that get caught in its slow consumption. Even intangible things like time are caught and eaten slowly. You’ve felt it before when you were first familiarizing yourself with this Wood, losing a few bells here, a day there. It terrified you, and though you’d never say it aloud, it still does. You force yourself not to think about it, and check the time. It is 12:48 in the afternoon.

You’re not sure how far you’ve wandered from Greentear, but it feels like malms. The forest is still and quiet save for the chitter of birds and bugs, but they are hushed, calling only to assure themselves that their fellows aren’t far. You’re still quite sure you know where you are despite your path being forced to bend with the land, and yet… there’s a tree you think you’ve seen before just off the path the tracks will lead you. An ancient thing, as thick as a cart is wide, with gnarled roots that split at the base and curl around a leaf-strewn hollow. It could be the den of some animal, you decide, and you leave it be. You check the time. It is 5:05 in the evening.

The tracks lead so deep into the Wood that the daylight is beginning to disappear, though there’s still enough for you to follow the tracks. You spot the tree again—old and wide, dry bark cracking under the weight of itself as it sags into the earth. The roots still curl around the hollow at its base, where there is no sunlight, but there is a certain deep, instinctive thought that pulls you into that hollow. To feel the weight of your pack and drop it, to listen to your aching feet and stop. To curl up in the roots and take in the sweet scent of earth and decay while you sleep to the sound of wind in leaves. You ignore it. Your tracks do not lead to it, so you pay your attention elsewhere. You check the time. It is… it is 5:05 in the evening.

It is dark. The trees know you are lost, but the creatures you track are clearly not, and that is enough for now. They wind between old trunks and through shrubs, little circle-stamps printed in the loam like letters on a page. They make a point to give the tree you keep seeing a wide berth and you follow them, quite sure their instinct is wise despite knowing nothing but the uneasy sense of restfulness that comes over you when you look at the hollow for too long. As the tracks round the tree, you stop at a sound. It’s almost like a woman crying for help, but… wrong. You check the time out of habit. It is still 5:05 in the evening.

You are now following the voice rather than the tracks, but you are not sure you should. The cries aren’t right, like a bird mimicking the sound in a stiff tone, over and over, and you know you have made yourself known to the forest in your haste. Whatever calls out to you has your scent and though you cannot escape the feeling that it is folly, your duty demands you do not abandon those in need. You come upon the tree again, but at its base where the hollow rests, there is a figure of a woman. Its head shifts with a jerking, crooked motion, to look at you. Mushrooms grow from its shoulders, and through thin, stringy hair. Help, it calls flatly. Its mouth does not move. Help. Hel—p. Hel. Help.

You reach for your bow instead of your chronometer. You don’t want to know.

[talonslockau]

Fire and Ice - Chapter 53

< Chapter 52 || Index || Chapter 54 >

Fireheart’s tail flickered nervously as he emerged from the heather-covered tunnel. Leading a few friends into the unknown was one thing; leading an entire Clan like this was another. He could only imagine how Tallstar must have felt, leading his frightened Clan away from their ancient home to settle here.

He stared at the wide, empty expanse in front of him as Tallstar emerged behind him. “Uh…” He realized now that he hadn’t been keeping track of where they had been going. He wished now that Peppermask had been chosen to lead the Clan; tracking his way back was difficult with the Thunderpath stench in the air.

“Is something wrong?” The black and white tom asked him, his golden gaze scrutinizing as he stared down the young ginger warrior.

“Of course not.” Fireheart replied quickly as he caught sight of the trail Whitepaw had left in her hurry to escape the three Thunderclanners. “Just a bit disoriented with all the Thunderpaths.”

Tallstar nodded sympathetically. “It took our warriors some time to adjust as well.” He admitted as he paced alongside the ruddy tom. “But the Monsters have kept us safe from predators. No badger or fox dares to cross the Thunderpaths.”

Fireheart nodded in understanding. He could see the logic in choosing to settle here, but he could tell that this place also did not have much in the way of prey. Though he would never say it out loud, it was clear that Windclan had been starving when he arrived; he wasn’t sure if they would have survived through leafbare here.

Windclan was silent and solemn behind him, not wasting their energy on idle chatter as they traveled. He could see several shivering in the cold leaffall winds that heralded the coming of leafbare, though his own thick bright pelt kept the breeze at bay. The midday sun helped some too; he was especially glad now that they had not waited until nightfall to travel. He expected the coming night would be an especially chilly one.

He soon found the spot where Whitepaw had wrestled with the rabbit, claw marks still embedded in the dirt. From here, it was a matter of finding the nearest earthbound Thunderpath - one he could see in the distance as Monsters rushed by.

He led the Clan confidently onwards now, wading into the grasses without hesitation. He began to slowly crouch down as he approached, all too aware of what might happen if the Monsters spotted them. The grass thinned quickly until it was almost bare at the side of the Thunderpath, but he could clearly see the tunnel entrance from here, dark and ominous.

“And you’re certain that it leads to the other side?” Tallstar murmured as he crouched down beside the Thunderclan tom.

“I am.” Fireheart replied readily. “I’ll go first, so you and your Clan can see.”

Tallstar didn’t object as the ginger tom darted into the yawning stone mouth, the darkness quickly swallowing him. The earth rumbled around him, but he didn’t pause as he dashed across to the other side, blinking in relief as he emerged from the earth into the light. He stood and yowled to get the Windclan leader’s attention, barely audible over the roaring of the Monsters. Thankfully, they didn’t notice him, but he could see the black and white tail of the leader waving in acknowledgement.

The Windclanners entered the tunnel one by one, soon emerging on the other side. Part of Fireheart worried that the Monsters would notice what they were doing, but none seemed to slow as they raced past. He eyed the sun nervously, his heart pounding as time passed far too slowly, but at last Deadfoot and Graystripe emerged from the end of the tunnel.

“Where to now?” Tallstar asked cautiously as he looked around.

“This way.” Fireheart nodded towards the towering Twoleg nest, a tall beacon in the sky. The other tom nodded, and together they began once more leading the Clan forward.

The now-familiar bright flowers and tall grasses that surrounded this second Monstercamp greeted the ginger tom, waving silently in the breeze. The Monstercamp was nearly empty now; where countless smaller Monsters had gathered around the Twoleg nest before, he could now count only a dozen or so Monsters, most still sleeping right in front of it. He breathed a small sigh of relief at the realization; less Monsters meant less Twolegs to notice them.

“Over here.” He murmured, flicking his tail towards the back of the Monstercamp. Even if they weren’t likely to be seen, it was still daylight; he didn’t want to take any risks being caught. They proceeded cautiously, Fireheart watching the Twoleg nest warily.

A few Twolegs exited out of the side of the nest, carrying large colorful boxes with them. One of them gestured roughly towards where the Clan was making their way across, and he froze, fearful that they had been seen. They didn’t move towards where the Clan was hiding, however, instead tottering over to a gray Monster and coaxing open the back shell, where they began shoving their large boxes in.

For a moment, he breathed a sigh of relief and began moving forward, before he heard the barking of a dog. Looking back, he could now see a small shaggy dog rushing across the Monstercamp towards Peppermask and the queens, yapping angrily as it did so. “Go!” He yowled at Tallstar and the other Windclanners, rushing back to intercept the dog. He didn’t care if he was now spotted: what mattered was keeping the queens and kits safe from the beast.

Graystripe and Deadfoot raced up next to him, bristling and hissing ferociously at the dog as it approached. Several other warriors came up beside them as the rest of the Clan broke into a disorganized run, trying to avoid getting caught and attacked.

The brown mutt backpedaled to a halt mere tail-lengths away as it saw the advancing line of cats, claws unsheathed and furiously growling at the intruder. Yipping fearfully, it turned and rushed back, its tail between its legs as it howled for its Twolegs to help. 

“Hurry! This way!” Fireheart hissed, rushing into the tall grasses to hide. The others did the same, hunkering down and watching as the small dog began racing around its Twolegs, barking for their attention. One looked down in confusion, looking back to where it had pointed, but it didn’t seem to spot the warriors. Once again, it pointed to the grasses and then turned to continue loading the boxes into the Monster.

“We should leave before they investigate.” He murmured to the other warriors, who nodded and followed him as they quickly and stealthily followed after the rest of the Clan.

They found them in the hedges that surrounded the first Monstercamp they encountered. “Is everyone alright?” Fireheart asked quickly as he came up next to Tallstar.

“A few torn claws, and Crowskip fell and bruised himself, but nothing that some rest won’t solve.” A light brown tom beside Tallstar spoke - the healer, he assumed. “What about the rest of you? Did you have to fight it?”

Fireheart shook his head. “The dog realized it was outnumbered and fled back for its Twolegs, tail between its legs!” There were purrs of amusement at his words, though they were hollow and tired. Running so quickly seemed to have drained most of the Clan of energy.

“Will we be alright if we rest here?” Tallstar murmured anxiously as he gazed around at his Clan. “They will need time to recover.” 

The ruddy tom paused to look around. Tallstar was right; they would not make it much farther, and the three Thunderclanners hadn’t found any shelter between here and Windclan. “We didn’t run into any dangers on the way here.” He finally said aloud. “But that doesn’t mean there are none.”

Tallstar sighed heavily, the warrior’s answer clearly weighing on him. “It will have to do. Deadfoot, see if you can set up a perimeter.”

The black tom nodded and began moving about the Clan, picking several of the most fit warriors to begin patrolling. Fireheart nodded quickly to Graystripe and walked towards where Peppermask was sitting with Larksplash and several kits.

“Fireheart, Graystripe!” She purred as they approached. “These are Morningflower’s kits. Aren’t they precious?” She flicked her tail towards a pale tortoiseshell molly that was laying in the sun, still winded from the scare earlier.

“Of course they are.” He looked down at the three kits in front of them; barely a season old, if he had to guess. They looked up at him curiously, and he leaned down to touch noses with them.

“Gorsekit is the ginger tom, Stork-kit is the tortoiseshell, and Quailkit is the little gray molly.” Peppermask pointed each out with her striped tail. “They’ve been very sweet so far!”

“Is it true you’re from Thunderclan?” The small tom, Gorsekit, piped up. “Crowskip says Thunderclan lives in a big forest, which is a place with lots of ‘trees’. Is that really true?”

His heart sank as he listened to the kit speak of trees, as though they were as mythical as flying mice. He had probably lived in Windclan’s new territory since he was born; he had never known the wind of the moorlands, or the gorse bushes for which he was named. “Yes, it’s true. In fact, there are so many trees we can hop from branch to branch without ever touching the ground!” 

“Woah.” Gorsekit looked at his siblings with wide eyes that were still changing color. “Can you teach me how?”

Fireheart chuffed at the thought. “I don’t think your mother would like that very much.” He admitted. “But I’m sure your future mentor will teach you lots of other things in your new home. In fact-”

A yowl of alarm cut him off, and he immediately turned to see a brown tabby tom standing with his fur on ends. The ginger Thunderclanner bounded over to see that he was watching another tabby patrolling around the edges of the Monstercamp, who was looking up now to see the source of the call.

“It’s okay, that’s a friend!” The ruddy warrior mewed hurriedly, waving his tail for the Windclan tom to stand down. He did so reluctantly as Fireheart wiggled through and waved his tail in greeting as Diesel spotted him and bounded over.

“You’re back! And with some friends.” Diesel’s ears perked as Tallstar and Graystripe joined him. “I take it you found the cats you were looking for, then?”

“We did! Diesel, this is Tallstar, leader of Windclan - the group we were looking for. Tallstar, this is Diesel. He lives in this…”

“Truck stop!” Diesel interrupted with a proud purr. “I make sure there’s no critters around these parts for the housefolk. Little varmints make them nervous.” He gazed past them at the hedges, which only moderately veiled the entirety of Windclan. “Didja find that molly you were looking for, too?”

“Molly?” Tallstar flicked an ear curiously towards Fireheart. “You didn’t mention anything about a molly.”

“We tracked her to find you.” The ginger tom explained quickly. “We found some tawny and gray fur near your camp, and it still had enough of a scent that we were able to follow it to the Thunderpath.”

The leader’s golden gaze narrowed. “You must mean Thrushwing.” He shook his pelt out and looked away with a heavy sigh. “She wanted to go back and mourn her brother after we buried them. I told her it was too dangerous, that Brokentail could follow her back to us, but she ignored my orders and left in the middle of the night.”

Fireheart blinked slowly in sympathy. It must have been a tough position for the leader, denying the warrior the right to mourn the fallen so that his Clan could be safe. “If it wasn’t for her, we wouldn’t have been able to find you. She led us to the Thunderpath, and we followed it here.” He flicked his tail to Diesel. “Then Diesel here told us of a group that had recently settled nearby. We hoped it was you, and it turned out it was.”

“I suppose that’s true.” Tallstar admitted. “Perhaps Starclan willed her disobedience, so that our Clan could finally come home.”

The tabby tom in front of them dipped his ears in confusion, but didn’t ask any questions. “Well, I’m glad you all found each other. I know it ain’t always easy, feeling like you’re looking for something that you don’t know exists at all.”

Fireheart nodded respectfully to the loner. “Thank you again, Diesel. We would have never succeeded without your help. And you can tell your friend that group won’t be troubling him again, either!”

“That’s true! I’m sure he’ll be glad to hear it.” Diesel purred with a wide grin. “Well, I’d best be getting back on my rounds. Can’t be letting any mice slip in on my watch!” He gave them a wave of his tail as he continued around the hedges, sniffing cautiously to pick up any prey scents.

“Starclan truly works in mysterious ways.” Tallstar murmured as they returned to his Clan. “I am glad that they showed you the way to our Clan. We will be able to settle in before leafbare comes.” He glanced up to the clear skies above. “Thankfully it is late this season-cycle, as well.”

The ginger tom nodded. “Starclan may not have been able to stop Brokentail, but I’m sure they’re looking after your Clan now.”

“That is true.” The black and white tom gave him an appreciative look. “We should be going. We have a long way to go before nightfall.” He slipped up beside his deputy and healer. “Do you think the Clan is ready to travel?”

Deadfoot nodded. “The Clan will manage. Birchbark and Stagleap will help Crowskip to keep up.” He flicked his tail towards a graying elder, where two brown toms were helping him to his feet. “On your word, Tallstar.”

“Let us go, then.” The black and white tom stretched out eagerly, showing the full length of his body. Fireheart hadn’t noticed before with how skinny the tom was, but he was just as well muscled as the forest cats, just leaner and taller.

The cats filed along the side of the hedges, doing their best to keep under the shady leaves and away from any prying eyes. It wasn’t long before they reached the far side, where there was only the Thunderpath and wide stretches of grass dotted with small white clouds.

“Sheep.” Tallstar purred in amusement as he spotted Fireheart’s wide eyes. “The Twolegs keep them for their luxuriously soft fur. They cut off all their fur in newleaf, when the warmth comes, and then let it grow out for the rest of the season-cycle.”

“How strange!” The ginger warrior mewed as they trotted under a wooden fence into the sheep’s meadow. “I suppose they need the fur, though, since Twolegs only grow a little bit on their heads.”

The Windclan leader nodded. “Indeed. They take the cut fur and make it into pelts that cover their body. The sheep don’t seem to mind; in fact, they’re the most docile creatures I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting.”

Fireheart perked his ears. “Where did you learn all this?”

A shadow passed over the black-and-white tom’s face, and he looked away solemnly. “Nevermind that. Let’s just say we don’t have to worry, aside from if any Twolegs wander this far out.”

He frowned at the leader’s sudden withdrawal, but chose not to press it as they continued forward. They traveled in silence, keeping a watchful eye out in case any sheep got too close, but none approached the far side of the meadow where they were crossing.

“Tallstar!” It was Deadfoot, racing up the line to the two leading the procession. “We must travel more slowly.”

He was right; the end of the line was beginning to lag behind. Several apprentices were clearly exhausted, not used to going this far, while the pale tortoiseshell queen, Morningflower, was panting from the exertion. Even Peppermask looked tired as she carried Gorsekit in her jaws.

The Windclan leader nodded. “Of course, Deadfoot.” Even as he slowed, however, he was nearly prancing in place. Despite his exhaustion from leading the Clan in such a troubled time, and the way his hips showed under his fur, the thought of returning to the moors lent a swiftness to his paws that Fireheart envied.

He restrained himself to a fast walk, however, allowing time for the end of the procession to catch up. But as Fireheart eyed the sun in the sky, he realized that with how long they were taking, they would not make it to the Windclan camp by sunset.

Perhaps that was alright, he reasoned to himself. Maybe they could travel through the night? As he walked, however, he could see rain clouds growing in the distance. There was no way that an elder like Crowskip could travel through a wet, stormy night. 

He didn’t voice these thoughts aloud immediately, however, deciding it was not his place. Tallstar would surely realize the same thing, and if not, Deadfoot would likely tell him. Instead, he kept his eyes to the horizon, where he noticed he could see Highstones. They were growing closer to Barley’s farm, he realized, and his heart leaped at the thought. Maybe they would see Ravenspirit, or at least scent him?

He tasted the air, disappointed to find that while many scents reached him, none were of the black tom. Doubt whispered in his mind; had Ravenspirit made it at all? Perhaps it had been foolish of him to send the scared tom alone in such a terrible storm. What if he had been attacked? What if he had tripped and fallen into the river and drowned?

No, he shook his head. Now was not the time for such thoughts.

“Fireheart?” Tallstar looked at him curiously. “Is something wrong?”

“No, I-” He hesitated, watching the storm clouds moving towards them. “I just thought I felt a drop of rain, is all.”

“Hmm.” The leader looked back to his Clan, who were still struggling even with the slower pace. “If the rain is coming that swiftly, perhaps we should find somewhere to rest now.”

Fireheart glanced around. By now, they had reached the wooden fence on the far side of the meadow. A series of hedges grew here, separating the sheep’s meadow from the grains that grew on the other side. “Perhaps we could shelter under the hedges?” He proposed.

Tallstar nodded in agreement. “They will provide some protection from the rain, at least.” He sniffed the ground as they ducked under the fence. “Not much prey here, though. We will have to send out hunters to see what we can find before the storm becomes too bad.”

The order to rest under the hedges was relayed down the line, and the Clan soon crowded underneath the hedges. There wasn’t space for many cats to sit next to each other; they sat in clumps, doing their best to draw their tails and paws underneath the dark leaves for shelter.

Fireheart waved his tail for Peppermask and Graystripe to follow him, and emerged from the bushes to stand by Tallstar, who was gazing down on the harvested fields of grain.

“You should let Peppermask take the lead.” The ginger tom murmured to the leader. “She’s our Clan’s best tracker and hunter. She’s the one that tracked Thrushwing to the Thunderpath.”

Tallstar dipped his head. “Very well, I- What was that?” His eyes were focused on a black shadow that was moving across the field.

A cat, Fireheart realized, trotting confidently towards them. It wasn’t Barley, however, being short furred and dark as midnight. Still, their demeanor was of a cat that had lived here quite a while and knew they belonged.

“Firepaw? Is that you?” The cat called, their voice warm as they approached. 

The Windclan leader glared at him suspiciously. “Do you know this cat?” He growled, the fur rising on his back.

He didn’t know how to respond. This cat clearly knew him, but he had never seen them before in his life! Just as he opened his mouth to respond, Graystripe leaped forward. “Ravensp-”

“Raven?” Fireheart interrupted, giving a cautious glance to Graystripe. Ravenspirit was supposed to be dead! All of Windclan was watching them; if word got around at the next Gathering that a cat named Ravenspirit was living at the farm, their cover would be blown! “Is that really you?”

“You don’t recognize your friend?” The cat purred as he reached them, touching noses with all three. “It hasn’t been that long, has it?”

He took in the form of Ravenspirit standing before him. Gone was the scared, skinny apprentice with messy, dull fur: now he stood tall in front of them, his form filled in and plump. His coat was smooth and glossy, like a holly leaf. “You look so different.”

“Hopefully for the better!” Ravenspirit purred warmly as he looked to Tallstar beside them. “And is this - It can’t be. Tallstar of Windclan?” His eyes were wide as he gazed at the leader beside them.

The black and white tom eyed the other suspiciously. “Who is this, Fireheart?” He murmured to the warrior beside him, not taking his golden eyes off of the sleek black tom. “How does he know of us?”

“Fireheart? So you’re a warrior now!” Ravenspirit purred in delight, unbothered by Tallstar’s aggression. Fireheart could picture how the apprentice had cowered beneath Frostfur’s rage; now, the anger seemed to slide off his pelt like water. “The three warriors beside you saved my life. They taught me much about the warrior code and the Clans. If you are as honorable a warrior as they say you are, then I’m happy to welcome you as a friend.”

Tallstar blinked and finally glanced to the other three for confirmation. The ginger Thunderclanner nodded in agreement with Ravenspirit’s story. “Raven is a friend, I promise. He was also attacked by Brokentail and his rogues, once. Now he lives here with Barley and catches mice.”

The Windclan leader finally relaxed at the acknowledgement. “A friend of yours is a friend of ours, then.” He dipped his head slightly in respect, though he could tell the tom was still apprehensive about this new loner. “I met Barley a few times before. He seemed nice enough, for a loner.”

“Barley took me in when I had nowhere else to go. I’ll be forever grateful to him for that; and these three, as well, for saving me.” Ravenspirit nodded to Fireheart. “If you’re here with Windclan, I can only assume that means you succeeded in your mission. Is Brokentail…?”

“Banished.” Peppermask mewed from beside the ginger tom. “We drove him and his rogues out, and saved Goldenflower’s kits as well. Graystripe and Fireheart earned their warrior names because of it. And now Nightstar leads Shadowclan, alongside his deputy Wolfstep.”

The black tom brightened at the news. “That’s wonderful to hear! I was so nervous when I didn’t hear anything… but of course you all must have been busy with your new warrior duties.” He sighed and looked away. “I only wished I could have helped you.”

“It’s better that you didn’t.” Fireheart murmured, stepping forward and nudging his friend at the shoulder. “You were injured so badly… I was worried you might not have made it here.”

“I did! And Barley’s been spending the past moon showing me all the best places to catch mice.” Ravenspirit’s eyes brightened, then softened as he looked past them to where Windclan was watching. “There’s a storm coming soon. You should all get some shelter.”

“We were going to stay here.” Graystripe mewed, flicking his tail to the hedges. “It’s up an incline, so at least the rain won’t pool around us…”

“Nonsense!” The loner purred, brushing his tail against his old friend’s nose to quiet him. “There’s an old barn that the Twolegs never visit anymore. Great for mice catching, as well. You can all stay there and eat your fill, help us get them under control for a bit!” 

Tallstar flattened his ears at that. “A Twoleg nest?” He asked disdainfully. “I don’t know…”

“It’s got no doors anymore, and plenty of holes in the sides to crawl through to escape if the Twolegs get it in their heads to visit it in the middle of the storm.” Ravenspirit reassured him quickly. “But the roof is sturdy, and it’ll keep the rain off of you. And I can guarantee that the Twolegs will stay in their nest all night; they don’t seem to like the rain any more than we do!”

The Windclan leader hesitated, looking to the Thunderclanners beside him. Fireheart nodded in agreement. “Raven’s right: Twolegs hate the rain. And if he says it’s safe and Twolegs don’t visit, I believe him.”

Peppermask also nodded beside him. “Raven’s a good cat, Tallstar. He has a warrior’s heart, even if he lives as a loner.” She flicked her tail to the approaching storm. “Besides, I think the Clan will fare better tomorrow if they have a full belly and a good night of rest.”

Still, the tom seemed unsure, glancing back at his deputy for his opinion. Deadfoot looked down the row of hedges, then slowly nodded assent. “Very well.” Tallstar finally acquiesced, dipping his head and getting to his paws. “Show us the way to this Twoleg nest.”

“Right away.” Ravenspirit purred, flicking his white-tipped tail for everyone to follow. “I’ll see if I can’t find Barley, too. Get some more paws to help hunt!” With that, he began to trot across the field, Windclan slowly getting to their paws and reluctantly following after him. Ignoring their apprehension, Fireheart glanced at his two Clanmates with barely-contained delight. Ravenspirit was alive!

[slifarianhawk]

Chapter 10: Briefing and Side Jobs

The darkness I was surrounded by was thick and heavy. It was like wading through syrup but I just was there stuck. It had a devastating grip. This was the side effect I never was able to remove from the orange tablet. It was a viral trigger that was meant to give a temporary boost that would wear off without another drug. It worked but with a major drawback. The mind did not rest after the body fainted. The user falls into a comatose state with their subconscious fully firing. I was reliving in my memories......and it was Hell.

The darkness started to conform to a room. It was my old dorm room from the training facility. As I look around a teenage Albert was behind me on my bed asleep. This was the day after Alistar was conceived. I brushed his hair back as it was a bit unruly.

"If you only knew what you would become, maybe we could have changed our fate." I knew the Wesker of back then wouldn't have heard me after all this was just a dream I was stuck in. I heard banging on the door. It was going to either be Marcus or William coming to get Wesker from my room.

"Alistar wake up." A muffled voice said.

Alistar... I was confused. I was suffering from the side effects of the meds there was no way I was coming out this soon. The voice came again.

"Ms. Lancaster wake up." It was garbled but I knew the tone.

Wesker was trying to wake me up. Time was not on my side at this point. While I hated this side effect it is the one time the only time I could say what I needed to say even though nothing changed.

I walked over to the bed and sat down next to the younger form of Albert. He stirred and drearily opened his green eyes.

"Yes, my lotus?" He asked looking relaxed and at ease.

I simply smiled, "Its nothing just getting ready to leave." The door pounded again, "Just remember even if we go through Hell and I may grow cold. My feelings are still the same. I will bring these days back."

"You are as difficult to understand as ever." the young Albert said as the darkness faded and with my heart in shards back to reality.

--------------------------------------------------------------

I slowly opened my eyes and was immediately greeted by the sound of a heart monitor with a sigh I spoke: "I am awake sir.".

"Ah, Ms. Lancaster glad to see you have finally awoken. Wesker had just stepped out to receive a phone call if that was who you were calling sir." a young man about twenty-five stood over me in a white lab coat. He had dull auburn hair as if he were stressed.

"That explains why had heard his voice. I don't believe we've met, I've have been in the medical wing multiple times but I don't believe ever seen you." I spoke looking confused.

He let out a small chuckle, "My name is Steve Burnside. I have been Wesker's assistant since the winter of 1999."

My jaw nearly hit the floor, this man in front of me was the boy from Rockfort Island. I was told by Claire he had passed away do to the T-Veronica mutating his body beyond reconition. I was there during that whole ordeal, Vladimir wanted me to "take care of" a loose cannon the was starting to cause Umbrella some issues. That loose cannon was Alfred Ashford. The man was demented, he paraded him self around dressed like his sister. Apperently Vladmir wasn't impressed with his last check up on him and decided to send in a silencing squad.

He was a brat but sweet at the same time. He didn't deserve what Umbrella did to him or his family. I had to hide my emotions about Claire or I would off broken down.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Steve, my name is Alistar Lancaster." I smiled, "It is a pleasure to meet you. Can I make a guess?"

"Of course have at it." he chuckled and sat on the small circular chair.

I and steve had a nice conversation. I asked whether or not he had been my caretaker from the beginning. M suspion was correct, Steve had been the one taking care of medically. The reason I hadn't met him previously was I had woken up when either Wesker was in the room and didn't want him in the room or he was on break. He told me about his day to day life. I even learned there was a pyschatrist on staff. That fact alone surprised me. It seemed Wesker was trying to make his staff comfortable.

"It seems like he is trying to take care of his staff, unlike Umbrella," I muttered.

"Pardon?" steve asked.

"Oh sorry, It's just I'm surprised at how there is so much for the staff. I didn't think Wesker would have so many accomidations for staff. My teacher told he normally didn't care about his staff execpt his spies." I spoke.

"Your teacher was his wife, right? What was she like?." He asked.

That shut me up quick how was I going to play this, "That's a tough one when I knew her she was cold and distant. A creature of her enviornment to say. She was caged by Sergei and made into a tool of his personal uses, but even though that was happening she was still caring. I miss her dearly. Can I tell you something in confidence, Steve?"

He turned and locked the door, "Sure what is it?"

I waited a few moments and sighed, "I shouldn't be calling her my teacher. It is something Colonel Sergei told me out of spite. That is the winter of 1982 a woman by the name Tabitha Redfield gave up a child to keep her away from Umbrella. That child was taken in by a family in Russia. 17 years later an outbreak happened in a small village west of Moscow. That was the village I was living in. Vladmir took me to the facility and put me in a tank and expirimented on my body. He turned me into a clone of my mom of sorts, my D.N.A matchs hers almost completely 95 percent to be exact."

"So that means!" he stared in shock.

"I'm her daughter and a member of the Redfield family. She never dared to tell me, I think deep down she regretted not to tell me." I looked away seeming to be depressed.

"Does Wesker know about this?" Steve looked at me concerned.

"I don't know, I delivered her journal to him per her request but I don't know if she even spoke of it on there." I started knowing that I said a lie, "I know that lady would somehow twist that knowledge to say I'm trying to extort Wesker."

"Ha, you mean Excella? You're probably right." Steve chuckled.

"Why he hire an idiot like that I wouldn't be able to guess." I sighed.

"And who is this isiot you are talking about Ms. Lancaster." the door opened and Wesker walked in.

"No one of importance sir. I apologize for my collapsing sir it seems the drug I had taken side effects was worse than last time. If possible I'd still like to take part in the mission." I lowered my head. I was genuinly upset with myself that I h ad to rely on the drug Sergei designed.

"Raise your head, Ms. Lancaster. I do still intend on sending you on that mission I'll debrief you here to make sure no more strain is placed on your body," he stated almost chidingly as if reprimanding me like I damaged an asset.

"Understood sir." I rose my head and cracked my neck.

Wesker went into the details of the mission. It was a three-prong mission that included escort duty for Irving and intel gathering on the B.S.A.A. so Wesker can stay a step ahead of them. The final part was going to retrieve an item from the desolated area that was once Raccoon city. The Connections found an old Umbrella site southwest of the Arklay mountains. He wanted it destroyed. This was understandable the Connections was a dirty group, dirty enough Vladimir had me keep an eye on them from the shadows.

Steve looked worried about me and spoke up, "Sir with all that has happened with her medically in the past month I believe this to be an ill course of action. I believe that she should be escorted by medical staff. It would risk her being captured by the B.S.A.A. if she were to have a fainting spell."

"Mr. Burnside that is a decent idea however none of the medical team has much combat experience." Wesker shot down the idea.

"I volunteer. Sir as much as I hate what happened I survived the Rockfort Island incident and have an ace up my sleeve if things turn south." Steve spoke out clearly determined, "Not to mention I'm the one that has been treating her if anyone can heal her its me."

Wesker growled, "Fine then you both might as well prove your values and do something extra, In the Ohio research facility there is a B.O.W. that needs to be destroyed and you both will be the ones to handle it."

He stormed out of the room clearly pissed off. Personally I was happy that he allowed steve to come along but what was with the side jobs. I smiled at steve it looks like these next few months will be interesting.

[last-flight-of-fancy]

oops another 5k of self-indulgent wol backstory time~ today in flavours of 'how did baby hallima get from the mountains of coerthas to the shroud anyway' featuring a pair of ixali who have no idea what they've picked up.

wol: Hallima, he/they Au Ra

(Present day) timeline: Shadowbringers, shortly post-return from the First

Mazel Qualan had always been an oddball of a chick, or so he has been told. Curious and with a love of tinkering, it set him apart from his fellow fledglings for both good and ill. It made him valuable of course, not every fledgeling had the mind to create something from nothing, but it also made him strange and other, which tended to be frowned upon within the strict hierarchy of the Ixal.

That fact was likely why he was on this mission, probably. Sent to scout the distant mountains to the west of the Shroud for suitable settlement locations. A job both important, requiring a flexible mind to catch potential problems, and absolutely miserable to actually do.

He's not alone, at least. Kotoli Totoloc is right there grumbling next to him, serving as his escort through the unknown and dangerous lands. Mazel still isn't entirely sure what he had done to endear Kotoli to him, since she was basically everything an Ixali should be- physically strong, knew her place on the social hierarchy (much higher than him), and covered in tough, beautifully earthy feathers so thick it made her look almost plump.

Meanwhile Mazel was scrawny, his few green tinged feathers scattered erratically down his body, and could not for the life of him stay out of trouble. But endeared to him she was, and it was by her will that he had been saved from exile multiple times already.

(It wasn't that he didn't know the rules of the flock. It was just that most of them didn't make any sense and no one would explain it to him satisfactorily)

"Colder up here." Kotoli says conversationally in their native tongue. "I like it."

"It's different." Mazel is a little jealous of Kotoli's thicker plumage at the moment, but he cannot deny it soothes some neglected part of his soul to feel the thin, brisk mountain air across his feathers. "Dry."

"Hm. It is." Kotoli nods. Then she kicks some of the snow powdering the ground. "Somehow."

"All on the ground, not in the air." Mazel shrugs. Kotoli tilts her head at him, indicating she doesn't quite understand what he's saying, but shrugs it off. She doesn't often understand, but she does trust him to, and this is one of the many things Mazel likes about her. It's more than most of their flock bothers to give him.

"Next location over the rise. Not far if we scale the ridge." Kotoli says, pointing to the northwest. It won't be the easiest climb, but plenty doable for a pair of healthy young Ixal- even one as underwhelming as Mazel. He clicks to himself as he considers his rough, hand-drawn map.

"Should take the long way. Must be able to transport materials to build." He counters. Kotoli considers this and then nods.

"True. Long way then, take short way back."

They set off, trudging through the snowdrifts. It's Mazel's first real experience with snow, and finds it both different and similar to wading through shallow water. Easy at first, but slowly wearing down on muscles rarely used. Even Kotoli, who he knows has made this trek before, seems to feel it after a while.

"Why winter?" She asks after a while, roughly halfway up the winding path. Snowflakes have begun to drift gently from the sky, slow and meandering without a breeze to disturb them. They take a short break to catch their breath and gnaw on some over-dried jerky from their packs.

"You scout in summer, yes? Prime location, excellent drafts." He says, she nods. "This is good, but must see location at worst too, be prepared for changes."

"Ah, you clear the skies for me once again." Kotoli nods and then barks a laugh. "Always so smart, Mazel. More than worm-brains back in the nest."

Mazel can’t help but preen a little at the compliment. Maybe their other nestmates didn’t understand, but Kotoli did, and she was the one who mattered. To him anyway. Larger flock politicking notwithstanding.

They make the rest of the journey in relative peace, skirting by a small pack of canines and arriving at their destination without incident. Mazel begins to look around in earnest, searching for potential faults or dangers that may not have been obvious in the warmer summer months. Mazel for her part walks the perimeter, having already assessed the defensibility of the area on her previous scout, now she thinks about potential patrol routes and emergency escapes they might use.

It is on this walkabout that she hears something curious.

A sneeze.

Mazel is surprised when Kotoli whistles for him, not expecting her to need him at all during this part of their scout, and rustles to her side quickly on the far side of the area.

He finds her squatting by some barren bushes, staring intently at something further down the cliffside. He clicks at her in question and concern, a sound not unlike creaking branches, and without turning her gaze she gestures for him to look where she is.

He does so, but even with her guidance it takes him several seconds to spot what she had; a lump in the snow that he had initially assumed to be rock was in fact fibrous, and it was very slightly moving.

“Featherless one?” Mazel whispers. Kotoli does not answer him aloud, but draws and keeps her knife at the ready as she cautiously moves down towards it.

Another sneeze, tiny and small, muffled by fabric.

In fact if Mazel didn’t know any better he would swear it sounded like-

“SCEE!” Words too slow, so he screeches his call instead and it works, stopping Kotoli in her tracks and startling the little lump into revealing itself.

“What are you doing?” She hisses at him, standing above the tiny creature and knife still at the ready. Mazel lopes down to her, getting a better look at their target.

“Had feeling. Was right. Look, hatchling.”

She does, and the small featherless thing stares back at her with eyes so bright they could rival the glow of sunset.

“Like no hatchling I’ve ever seen.” She squints at it, turning her head this way and that. “You sure?”

Well... Okay, now that he can see it properly, it’s definitely the weirdest hatchling he’s ever encountered, but he also doesn’t know much about any of the Featherless races in general, let alone what their young look like. All he knows is that it’s probably not one of those tiny peoples shaped like popoto’s- he’d never seen one of those come in blue. Ergo, it must be a hatchling.

Which is still staring at them. Silently. Which is kind of odd for a hatchling of any species. Mazel quirks his head a little and leans down to inspect the little thing more closely.

“What are you doing?” Kotoli asks, dubious. Mazel sniffs at the tufts of not-feathers on the hatchlings head- hair? Yes hair was the right word.

It sneezes again, the sound somehow even more small and pathetic than before.

Mazel picks it up along with the cloth wrappings it had been bundled in, retying it and bringing it to his chest to conserve what warmth there was.

“What are you doing??” Kotoli repeats, this time with more incredulity.

“Is hatchling.” Mazel states the obvious. “Too cold.”

“Not our hatchling.” Kotoli counters. “You remember what happened last time Featherless hatchlings came into our domain.”

“Yes yes, I do.” Mazel clicks softly, a reassurance, and Kotoli waits for his answer. “Cannot keep. But cannot leave here, it will die.”

Kotoli considers this.

“Abandoned? Could be sick.” This was the most common reason such happened amongst the Ixali, where resources could be scarce at the best of times.

Mazel shakes his head.

“Smells of blood. Look.” He invites her closer and she accepts, sniffing at the now shivering bundle. A low growl lifts from the base of her throat, one he recognizes well; protective anger.

“Lucky hatchling. More than blood, smells of slaughter.”

They both know luck was only part of it. There was good odds that someone had made sure the child survived, probably at cost to their own life.

“Would be rude to deny divine winds.” Mazel says at length. The gods are not something Mazel invokes often, and Kotoli knows this, so it is that she discards any remaining doubts from her mind and moves on to planning.

“Then Garuda’s will is felt.” She nods. “Bring hatchling to Shroud, return to other Featherless, and let the winds take it where they may.”

“Long way back.” Mazel points out. “Stone settlement closer.” He doesn’t remember what the Featherless call it, something about dragons, but that seemed to be the case for most Featherless places in this area.

“Too close.” Kotoli shakes her head. “Smell again; metalwork, not beast-stink. Other Featherless’ did this. Tiny One’s enemies may lie in wait there.”

Good point. Mazel nods.

“Come, Tiny One. We fly now.”

-

“Bit late to be going out, isn’t it?”

Hallima pauses at the door out of the Rising Stones, hand still on the handle.

“Says one who should be abed.” They answer.

Alisaie scoffs.

“According to my body I’ve been asleep for weeks, and it’s rather had enough.” Her chair creaks as she leans back in it. “I’m not the only one.”

“Indeed she is not.” That’s Alphinaud’s voice, and Hallima finally turns, dropping their hand from the door handle. Alphinaud steps out from behind the nearby counter with two mugs in hand. “Krile assures us that things should return to normal within a few days. Hopefully.”

Hallima nods. That’s good, all things considered it could have been much worse. Alphinaud tilts his head at Hallima, curious and a little concerned.

“Where were you going, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Dreamt of old memories. Wanted to clear my head.”

“Would you like company?” Alisaie asks a simpler question.

Hallima nods.

-

Releasing the unfeathered hatchling back to its own kind does not go entirely to plan.

The first couple batches of travelling merchants don’t even notice the bundle on the side of the dirt road, not helped by the unnaturally quiet babe-ling within. Mazel creeps in to move it further into line of sight, cursing the blind featherless idjits the whole way.

He does not want to be the centre of another kidnapping incident between the Gridanian’s and the Ixali, not the least of which because he would almost certainly end up dead in the process.

“The hell’s is that?” Says the armoured guard of the next caravan, looking over the shoulder of his merchant ward. Said merchant may be less disgusted, but seems no less confused by the babe.

“Are you sure it’s one of them?” Kotoli hisses at Mazel from their spot hidden in the bushes. Mazel wishes he was, but what little surety he had is quickly dwindling.

“Do you have a name?” The merchant asks the babe.

.... Mazel also wishes he’d thought to ask that question. Or anything at all. He’d sort of assumed the child was too young to speak, given it’s complete silence, but to his surprise the child quietly answers-

“’al’ma.”

“Alma?” The man sets the child down, and kneels to be closer to their level. The child shakes their head.

“Haaa-lli-ma.” They enunciate slowly this time, trying their best to form the word from a mouth still unused to forming words at all.

“Hallima. A fine name. Where are your parents? Family?”

Hallima says nothing, turning their tiny head towards where the two Ixal are hidden, and after a long moment the merchant seems to take that as an answer. He sighs softly, like he’s seen this sort of thing before.

“How old are you kid?”

Hallima stares blankly at the man.

“Sir, we have a schedule to keep.” The guard reminds, attempting to stifle his impatience but failing.

“Right, right.” The merchant sighs again. “Well, I know not what sort of beast-kin you are, but Gridania isn’t far. Someone there will know what to do with you.”

“You’re bringing it with us? You can’t possibly be serious.” The guard says in open shock. The merchant shrugs.

“You would have me leave him here? Whatever he may be, he cannot be more than five or six summers, no older than mine own daughter. Mayhap you can, but I could not sleep soundly having left a child so young to fend for themselves.”

The guard rubs at his eyes tiredly.

“I understand, I do, but with the recent near all-out war with the bird-men over misplaced children I am loathe to tempt the fates with another incident so soon.”

“Does this look like a bird to you?” The merchant holds Hallima up.

“Look, you have obviously made your decision, and I remind you again that we are running behind schedule. Do what you will, but let us continue on.”

“Of course, of course. Come little Hallima, a new journey awaits.”

“Garuda’s winds guide you to greatness, little one.” Kotoli whispers, and then the two return to the depths of the Shroud.

-

“You’re up late.” Y’shtola’s voice makes Thancred look up, though he doesn’t react much otherwise. He’d heard her coming.

“Seems like no one can sleep tonight.” He comments mildly, tilting his chair back onto two legs and balancing there.

“Understandable, considering.” Y’shtola nods. “May I join you?”

“By all means.”

She takes a seat on the far side of the table, a cup in her hands. A small burst of aether later and the cup begins to steam. She blows on the lip of it gently before taking a sip.

“You miss her already, don’t you.” Y’shtola says at length. Thancred sighs.

“That obvious?”

“Tis only natural.” She shrugs. “And despite your vocation you are not an especially difficult man to read.. Off the job, at any rate.”

“For all you know I’m always on the job, and this is an act too.” He gives her a classic rogue-ish smirk and waves his fingers at her. She snorts derisively.

“After all we have experienced that would be a con worthy of only the most talented of saboteurs I should think.”

“You don’t count me among them? I’m insulted.”

“I do not believe I stated one way or the other.”

The playful bickering feels nice, cloaked in the gentle night shadows of the Rising Stones. Eventually this too peters out and they return to quiet contemplation.

“Saw the Warrior heading out with the twins in tow.” Thancred comments. “Not sure where Urianger is though.”

“... He’s in the Solar.” Y’shtola says quietly. Thancred closes his eyes. They both know what that means.

“We’re all missing someone tonight it seems.” He sighs. “What about you?”

“Hmm?” Y’shtola pretends at not following his line of thought. Thancred isn’t in the mood to play that game right now though.

“Your friend from the First. I saw the way he looked at you. You going to miss him?”

“Mh, no.” Y’shtola closes her eyes, though Thancred knows as well as anyone that her ‘sight’ hardly needed them to be open. “I will see him again soon enough.”

“Heh. Of course.” He chuckles a little. Nothing ever could stop Y’shtola when she was on a mission.

“When I do, you are welcome to join me.” The offer is... Surprisingly soft and tentative, coming from Y’shtola.

Like she knows how much it will hurt.

“Don’t.” He says. “I miss her to death, but I can’t live always hoping for something that only might happen. I’ve made my peace.”

“I see.” Y’shtola says, though her tone says ‘I understand.’ He trusts that she does.

“Not that I doubt your ability to do the impossible of course.” Thancred smirks teasingly. “But there isn’t much I can do for such an endeavour and I would rather put my energies where they’re more useful.”

“Of course.” Y’shtola smiles. She knows that feeling well.

-

“Back again, Little One?” Kotoli says it without looking up from the leather hide she’s in the midst of working. Hallima puffs his chest out in offense.

“I’m not little anymore!” He says, all defiance and youthful delusion. Kotoli cackles and clicks her beak at him. He still only barely reaches her elbow in height.

“Little little, will always be Little to Kotoli. Tiny Babe-ling found in the woods.”

Hallima pouts angrily, hopping up onto a nearby seat fashioned from a preserved tree stump. He pulls a hunk of bread from a pocket and chews on it sullenly.

“Shouldn’t be here, Little One. Cause a stir.”

“Why?”

“Gridanian’s come looking.”

“No they won’t. Wood Wailer’s don’t care what urchins do ‘s long as they don’t catch us stealin’ stuff.”

Kotoli tries not to growl, but a low one escapes her throat anyway.

“Foolish no-feathers. Would be wind-blessed to have you.”

“It’s cause no one knows what I am.” Hallima mutters. “Don’t wanna risk it. ‘Specially with people getting sick lately.”

“Stupid.” Mazel steps into the half-tent, shaking his head. “Plague-Sickness looks like metal chainwork in skin. Not horns and scales.”

“Excuses, like always.” Kotoli snorts. “Awl?”

Hallima looks around, finding the tool tucked next to his wooden seat, and delivers it to Kotoli.

“What are you making?”

“Bag, for carrying.”

Hallima settles in to watch her work, leaning against the bench and resting his chin on crossed arms. Mazel shuffles about in the background, setting up a cooking fire and putting a pot on to simmer.

“Why’s it sometimes it’s like sewing and sometimes like hammering nails into it?” Hallima asks. Kotoli clicks at him to keep his hands away from any potentially injurious work.

“Sometimes need strength, sometimes flexibility. Sometimes both.”

“Can I help?”

“Next project. I teach you.”

“Okay.” He settles back in to watch. “... I wish you could take me.”

Kotoli pauses in her work momentarily before redoubling it. Mazel leaves tending the pot to pat Hallima on the head.

“Would be wind-blessed to have you.”

Kotoli straightens, finished satchel held in one claw, turning towards Hallima.

“Truth is, Little One, Ixali just as foolish as featherless. Exile and death for those who consort with outsiders, no thought beyond old pains and revenge.”

“Would not be safe.” Mazel adds, aggrieved. The words feel rot-hollow. “Even talking risky, to bring outsider into our borders would be to invite entire clans wrath.”

“Can do little, but try what little we can.” Kotoli presents the satchel to Hallima, who takes it automatically in surprise. “Good bag, won’t get wet. Many hidden pockets for important things.”

“For me?” The bag is almost comically big for him now, but it won’t be long until it looks downright small at his hip.

“For you.” Kotoli nods. “Good bag important for roofless.”

“One more thing.” Mazel fishes something out of his own hip satchel, bending down to pin something to the cured leather.

“What is it?” Hallima asks, running fingers over the small but intricately detailed iron loops that a pair of brown and green feathers dangle from.

“Old good luck charm.” Mazel says. “Tradition of Garuda’s blessing. Made for flockmates before long journeys.”

“Also identifier.” Kotoli adds sombrely. “Metal inscribed with clan, feathers for individual. Any Ixal honour-sworn to return one to its home if found.”

“Now come, there is soup for growing hatchling.” Mazel returns to the pot on the fire, and prepares to dole out food.

It’s watery and thin, the unidentified meats within cut into tiny chunks, but it’s appreciated all the same.

-

Hallima hadn’t fully understood then, the significance of that little charm. How they had marked him as flock- as family, even if that sentiment would never be honoured by either Gridania or other Ixal. Nor had he understood that the charm worked both ways; to keep a piece of the flock with the traveller, but also for the flock in return to keep a memento of the traveller should they pass while abroad.

They couldn’t have taken him in. They couldn’t even make arrangements with someone who could. All they could do was give him what little they had to give and a good luck charm to allay some of their worry.

He can feel those aged feathers brushing against his arm even now, pale green and earthen brown, innocuous as he makes his way through the darkened paths.

Though darkened they do not remain for long, the glow of the Crystal Tower shining against the sky’s black canvas. They go past the canyon and up the stonework stairways, the peripherals of researchers and archeologists scattered in various partially hidden corners.

“I thought we were rendezvousing with the Sons of Saint Coinach to retrieve G’raha Tia in the morn.” Alphinaud says, looking to Hallima in question. Hallima nods.

“We are.” He says, taking a seat on the edge of the raised path, legs dangling over the edge facing the Tower. “I just... need to think.”

“I see.” Alisaie hums, and then takes a seat next to him, plopping herself down as if it’s an afternoon picnic and not the middle of the night in a deserted ruin. “Can we help?”

“Hm. Maybe.”Hallima stares out at the glow of the tower as Alphinaud sits on his other side, one leg tucked up under him while Alisaie swings hers idly, waiting patiently.

They remain that way for a while, the echoes of time gentle against the canyon walls and crystalline structures.

“Why did you leave Sharlyan?”

“You know why.” Alisaie quirks an eyebrow. “To follow in Grandfather’s footsteps. To... Understand them.”

“Mh.”

“What brought this on?” Alphinaud asks. Hallima hums to himself, thinking.

“Did you know that it wasn’t until only recently that I realised you have parents?”

“What?” Alisaie laughs a little in surprise. “Of course we have parents. Surely we must have mentioned them at least in passing?”

“I thought they were gone, dead or out of the picture. The way you spoke of Louisoix, I thought him your only guardian. It wasn’t until you made some comment in the First that I figured out that you weren’t speaking of them in the past tense.”

“Ah, well..” Alisaie shifts awkwardly. “It would not be a stretch to say that we were much closer with Grandfather than we were with our parents. I was, at least. Which isn’t to say that Mother and Father were negligent, but Grandfather understood us in a way no one else did.”

“Father is often kept away by his duties in the Sharlyan Forum. Mother tries of course, but Grandfather.. He had something special.” Alphinaud adds. “So when he left for Eorzea, I think we all knew it would not be long until Alisaie and I followed.”

“Feels like a lifetime ago now.” Alisaie chuckles. “Hard to believe it’s only been a few years.. Give or take the ones in the First.”

Hallima turns the feather charm over in his claws. Over and over. Thinking.

“You wouldn’t be the first person to ask why mother and father allowed such a thing,” Alphinaud says, trying to intuit Hallima’s thoughts. “Nor whether we regretted it.”

“Hm? No, I know those answers.” Hallima shakes his head. “I think it simply took me by surprise that I hadn’t put the pieces together before. Maybe I didn’t want to.”

“Why?” Alphinaud asks, curious.

“Selfishness, I suppose. Taking you under my wing like was once done for me, only to realise I was the one with pinions clipped.”

“Now hold on, if I’m reading this metaphor right that’s utter malarky.” Alisaie grows stern. “Maybe we have advantages from our background, but we surely would not have made it this far without you.”

“Agreed.” Alphinaud nods. “It was your support that pulled me up onto my feet again after the betrayal of the Crystal Braves, kept me moving forward. I cannot rightly say that would have happened without you there. Please, do not sell yourself short, friend.”

“Right. Of course.” Hallima smiles. Despite it all, it was sometimes too easy to doubt his importance to those around him beyond that of simple strength and Hydaelyn's Echo.

“So.” Alisaie says then. “How does this tie to G’raha Tia?”

Alphinaud blinks, looks out at the Crystal Tower ahead of them, and then back to Hallima.

“Knowing things. Not knowing them. Truth and lies and the unintentional variants of both.” Hallima sighs. “I knew it was him. Long before Mt. Gulg. I just... Couldn’t figure out why.”

“None of us could.” Alphinaud points out. “And how could we? A future timeline rent undone and then travelling to another version of our reality solely to prevent a single persons untimely demise? It does rather beggar beleif.”

“Hiding his identity and trying to play the part of villain in order to assuage any guilt we would bear at his passing does not, however.” Alisaie frowns. “He is all too ready to throw himself to the flames should it keep others warm.”

Hallima remembers watching the doors of Syrcus Tower close between him and a much younger G’raha Tia, and cannot deny this is true.

“Not unlike certain other adventurers we know.” Alphinaud says mildly. Hallima pouts at him... But can’t really deny that either.

Maybe that’s why it bothers him so much. Because it is too easy to see himself doing the same thing under such extraordinary circumstances. He still doesn’t like being lied to- even by omission. He has a lot to talk about with G’raha in truth once he is returned to them.... But he gets it.

“I have to.” Hallima shrugs. It’s simply a fact. “The world’s don’t stop needing to be saved just because I’m having a bad time, and I’m usually the only one capable of doing it.”

One foot in front of the other. Esteem stirs somewhere deep within.

“Unfortunately that much is true.” Alisaie shakes her head. “Still, that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t take care of yourself afterwards- and don’t think I’ve not noticed you scratching at your chest ever since Mt. Gulg. If you won't use that balm we got you for the scar I will drag you to Alphinaud or Y'shtola myself, see if I don't.” She lightly punches his arm, teasing.

He beleives her. It wouldn't be the first time she had done such a thing. Alphinaud laughs along with her.

“The important part is we’re here now, and while our next disaster is surely incoming, it is good to take these moments while we can.” Alphinaud says. Hallima nods, still turning his charm over in his claws.

“What is that? You’ve been fidgeting with it a lot lately.” Alisaie asks.

“Ah, your Ixali friend gave that to you, did she not?” Alphinaud thinks back. “What was her name again...?”

“Kotoli.” Hallima murmurs. “Kotoli Totoloc.”

“Oh?” Alisaie looks between the two, surprised and curious. “You met her?”

“Briefly.” Alphinaud nods. “It was during the mission to remove Garuda as a threat. Hallima wanted to try and talk the Ixali down, since he knew some of them. He brought Kotoli on to help try and do that.”

“Considering how that mission ended, I’m guessing that didn’t exactly go to plan.”

“Wind-Kin! I too bask in Garuda’s Will, but what we do here is not divine winds, it is crashing gales. Do not do this!”

“No.” Alphinaud grows sombre. “I’m afraid not. We had to run when Gaius appeared with his newly finished Ultima weapon, but not before Hallima’s friend was enthralled and nearly all the beastmen present had been slain.”

“Oh. That’s horrible.” Alisaie says it with such genuine emotion. “If she survived maybe I could-”

“No.” A single word, and all the implications therein, is all that needs to be said. Alisaie reaches out to hug the Au Ra, her arms barely reaching around his broad shoulders.

“I’m sorry.” “I’m sorry too.” Alphinaud says, posture slumped in contrition as he thinks back to that time so long ago. “I barely gave any thought to the way you had lost a friend back then. A pittance of words and then I returned to grandiose plans to save the star and my selfish desire to be a part of them. It was truly unfair of me to brush your loss aside like that.”

“You didn’t know her.”

“No.” Alphinaud agrees. “But I did know you- Or rather, I should have known you, considering how we had been working together. But I didn’t. And I wouldn’t until the Red Banquet knocked some sense into me. So... I’m sorry.”

Hallima smiles down at him, pulling him close to join the hug. Long since forgiven, though the official apology is still appreciated.

“It was her that encouraged me to take up the Adventurer’s life, you know.”

“Really?” Alisaie says, curious. Alphinaud’s brow furrows as numbers quickly add up in his head.

“But you’ve- How long did you know her?”

“Long enough.” Hallima shrugs. “Her and Mazel fed me when they could. Taught me the basics of alchemy and leatherworking, that sort of thing.”

Alisaie’s eyes widen a touch as she comes to the same conclusion that Alphinaud had moments earlier. Kotoli was far more than a mere aquaintance.

“Mazel?”

“Her flockmate.” Hallima says, and he holds up the greenish feather on his charm. “Bonded pair. Never quite figured out whether it was a siblingship or romantic or what. Maybe something else entirely, I only really saw Ixali culture through their lens, and they never thought it necessary to explain.”

“...What happened to them?”

“Kotoli had been urging him to join Echtal Nine for a while. Sezul is her cousin, apparently, and Mazel was always something of an outcast I guess. He wouldn’t leave without her though.”

“I’m guessing once she passed, then...?” Alisaie asks, hesitant that the answer may not be so rosy, but Hallima nods.

“He did. Threw himself into the dirigible project. Nothing else existed.”

“Will find the ancient paradise! Cannot do it for Kotoli, but can do it in her name. Rediscover our ancestral home, take back our wings!”

“I remember the report, on Azys La you helped one of the Echtal Nine discover their lost history. How the Ixal were created to be military fodder for the Allagans.”

“Yeah.” Hallima nods again. “That was Mazel.”

“Oh.”

“He didn’t take it very well, did he?” Alisaie intuits.

“No. He said that wasn’t the homeland after all, and if they must they would make one. Then he left Echtal Nine, and no one knows what happened to him after that.”

“I had no idea...” Alphinaud says quietly, contrite. “I will keep my ears sharp, and if I hear anything of him I will let you know”

“Thank you.”

-

Far away in another land entirely a pale green dot trudges through knee deep snows. Even bundled in layers of fabrics and furs it is hunched in cold, but it trudges on determinedly. Heavy packs adorn its back and a sturdy walking stick is held in a clawed hand.

There are an array of adornments along its vestments and bags, but one stands out amongst the brightly coloured feathers and beads; an ironwork charm wrought in intricate loops. Inside is inscribed ‘Scions of the Seventh Dawn’, and on the end dangles a single pale Raen scale. Despite its newness already it shows signs of wear from being handled often.

The figure trudges on. It will not come home again.

[moljh]

Unbelievable / Steve Harrington x Reader

Part 3

Summary - Y/N Hargrove, the twin sister of Billy Hargrove. People liked to make their assumptions, whisper and point as you went past, but they didn’t know what happened behind closed doors. The slamming doors, raised voices and poorly hidden bruises. Hawkins was meant to be different, somehow a new start from your old life left behind in California. That’s when the headaches started, the nightmares that felt so real, the unexplainable events and blackouts.

*trigger warning - mentions of abuse*

fluff, slowburn, flashbacks, etc.

part 1 part 2

Edited: currently unedited

Tuesday, July 2

The wooden door creaked open as you quietly walked back into your empty living room. Sharon and your father were clearly somewhere for the day which was a relief as you didn't need anymore trouble added to this morning. You made your way back into your bedroom and slumped onto your unmade bed. The air was thick with humidity and you wished that you could've afforded to have a house with ceiling fans.

  You ran your tongue over your lips and frowned at the taste of the remnants of the night prior. Lifting yourself up, you made your way towards you bathroom and huffed with frustration at the bathtub that Billy hadn't been bothered to empty and was filled with used ice bags. Filtering out the wet plastic, you threw them into the trash bin and watched the water slowly drain from the blue coloured tub.

  The shower had been a welcomed cleanse, you always felt it washed you free of everything, both literal and metaphorical. The water had always been a form of comfort for you since you were little. Your mother used to take you and Billy to the beach when you lived in California, whilst Billy preferred to head out into the dark surf, you would sit on the soft sand and wade in the shallow water. You only had one photo of your mother, it was a small picture that was faded and worn on the edges. She was smiling at whoever was taking the photo and tucking her long blonde hair behind one ear. People used to comment that you two looked alike and only now as you had gotten older did you see the resemblance. You often wondered what she was doing, whether she ever thought about you and Billy and the life you have now without her. In the beginning you had both tried in desperation to call, but as time went on Billy gave up and so did you. It was only evident to you as you got older why she had left, she hadn't been able to handle with the constant berating and abuse of your father but you still couldn't understand how she could've just left her children with the man she was so scared of herself.

  You threw on a random pair of shorts and a t-shirt, not entirely sure what to do with yourself for the day. You could message one of the girls, but you weren't really in the mood for their company and the appearance you would have to muster to be in their presence. They were all fine, completely harmless but just so exhausting and constant. The loud ring of the phone pulled you from your thoughts and you waited a moment as you heard Max answering it. There was nothing for a moment and then some thuds and shuffling followed signalling that Max and her friend were getting up.

"Y/N" Max suddenly appeared in your doorway with an inquisitive look on her face "would you be able to drop El and I to Mike's house?" "Yeah sure" "Great, thanks" she smiled back at you, "ok to leave in 5 minutes?"

You nodded in response and quickly grabbed a pair of shoes. It felt nice that Max had even thought to ask you, she often just resorted to riding her bike or skateboard everything, but you supposed since she had a friend with her she probably thought you taking them would be easier. Grabbing your keys, you and the two girls made your way to the car and you began the drive to the Wheeler's house.

  "Do you guys need a ride home later?" you asked as you pulled up at the curb and they scrabbled out of the back seat "No we'll be fine, thanks y/n I'll see you back home" Max replied before quickly running off with El down the side of the Wheeler's house where they usually went off to

You let out a little sign and turned back out of the street, watching the people and houses of the neighbourhood you had grown quite familiar too. You could remember the first time you had dropped Max off here one random Halloween night where she jokingly swore she wouldn't get murdered by the strange boys she'd just met.

Wednesday, October 31 1984

School had been just another day filled with one class after another, taking notes and occasionally making conversation with whoever you were seated next to that period. Clutching your books to your chest you made your way over to your locker, which you were still trying to remember the code for, clearly evident by the numbers scrawled on the back of your hand.

  "You're the new girls right?" a girl suddenly asked appearing next to your locker "Yeah..." you replied "and you are?" "I'm Tina" she replied eagerly "I'm having a party tonight and you should definitely come" she informed you, handing over an orange piece of paper. She hovered for a few more moments and you could tell there was something else she wanted to ask you. "Is there anything else I can help you with Tina?" you remarked "Do you know if your brother is coming?" there is was, the true reason she had bothered to come and introduce herself to you, not to get to know you, but to ensure the thing that was currently at centre of all the girls desires was in fact coming to her little house party "I don't know" you replied truthfully "probably, if there's free booze, he'll definitely be there"

Tina was visibly happy with your answer as she let out a nervous giggle and trotted away. Rolling your eyes, you grabbed what you needed from your locker and slammed it shut, making your way to your next class.  

You could hear the music from the street when you arrived, clearly the party was already in full swing. Billy had left a while before you, meaning you had had to drop Max off to go trick or treating with some kids she met at school. You hadn't minded truthfully, you and Max got along fine and you preferred taking her over trusting Billy. Making your way inside the house, you enjoyed the attention you got and the eyes that followed you across the room. Your costume left little to the imagination, wearing nothing but a black leotard, cropped grey sweatshirt and legwarmers. You had decided to go as Alex Owens from Flashdance since it was the simplest outfit you could come up with one short notice. Moving through the centre of the room which had clearly been chosen as the dancefloor, you watched as your brother and his new lackies marches towards a couple that had come in moments after you. Billy's name was being chanted in the background as he confronted the other guy who was dressed in all black and sunglasses, you huffed at the basic macho faceoff between the two and went to get yourself a drink

There weren't many options, some bowl of red liquid or beer, you couldn't stand beer, so you took your luck with whatever mystery drink had been mixed together in the glass bowl in front of you. Moving to the edge of the room you looked around at the people either dancing, drinking or making out. The party was pretty dull compared to what you were used to back in California but you weren't complaining, in that moment you were looking to party too hard, having only been in Hawkins for a couple of days.

  A couple of guys tried to come up and talk to you throughout the nights, but had swiftly given up when their advances were reciprocated and moved on to easier targets. You finished the contents of your cup again, having lost count of how many times you had re-filled it. Moving back towards the source of your drink, your attention was brought upon the couple that had come in after you earlier that evening. The two of them seemed to be in some sort of argument, as a cup; the same as yours, was tussled between the two before being thrown down the front of the girl who unfortunately was wearing a white top. A audible gasp was heard throughout the room and quickly fell into a brief moment of silence, before the girl scrambled off and headed towards the bathroom. The guy, who was clearly her boyfriend quickly followed after, obviously desperate to make up for the accident.

  As everyone fell back into noise of before, you carefully watched the door that lead into the bathroom, intrigue encouraging you to watch. A couple of moments later, the guy marched out and slammed the door behind him. You knew that you shouldn't interfere but another part of you was still curious, so you placed you cup on the kitchen counter and headed outside.

  The cool October night air hit you and a shiver swept over your body. Glancing around you saw a figure perched on one of the lone patio benches off to the side, with their head hung and hands resting of his knees. He starred off in front of him as he pulled a cigarette from his pocket and you watched as he put it between his lips and set it alight.

"Hey" you said approaching him causing his head to whip around toward you, "Steve, right?" already knowing the answer "Yeah" he replied grazing his eyes up and down you "and you are?" "Y/N" you paused for a moment "can I join you?" You didn't wait for an answer before sliding in next to him. In the fresh night air, you could feel the body warmth wafting off of him and the glow from the end of the cigarette highlighted his face nicely. "Rough night?" You tried to initiate some form of conversation "Yeah... Kind of... You?" "Ah not really, just a little bored"

Steve turned to look at you and you could see something within his eyes trying to figure you out. Looking right back at him you reached up slowly and plucked the cigarette from his lips, bringing it to your own and taking a long drag. He chuckled a little at the act and took another from his pocket, allowing you to keep the one you had stolen. The two of you sat there in silence blowing the smoke out into the air. Reaching the butt of it, you flicked it to the ground and stamped it out against the concrete with the toe of your heel.

  "So Steve..." you began without fully knowing what you were going to say next "what's a nice guy like you doing sitting out here all on his lonesome?" "Technically I'm not alone, you're out here with me... and I'm pretty sure my girlfriend just broke up with me" he informed you whilst putting out his own cigarette "Well that's a shame" you said slowly, turning towards him "you seem like a pretty nice guy... handsome too"

  You gentle placed a hand on high thigh and glanced up at his face to gage his expression. You noted as he licked his lips and edged closer to you, instead of drawing away. His eyes dropped to your lips and you felt his hand slowly graze your shoulder and grip the back of your neck. He held you there for a second, as if contemplating his next move and then he pulled you in, bringing your lips to his own. You could taste the tobacco, alcohol and desperation on his lips as he wrapped his hand gripped your neck tighter, pulling you in closer. You deepened the kiss and ran your fingers through his hair pulling his head back, exposing his neck. Running your mouth down his neck, he let out a gentle moan which only made you keep going. You could feel his hands moving up your bare legs and to your surprise they weren't soft like you had expected, rather slightly calloused. In between moans and gasps one of you must have mentioned a car, because slowly you managed to climb into the back of his BMW. The windows of the car began to fog up as you both continued to roam each other is desperate exploration. As he pushed up into you, you let out a pornographic moan which caused him to quicken his pace. Gripping onto him, you ran your nails down his bare back, not caring about the marks you were likely leaving.

He was gentle and yet rough, just a perfect blend. You didn't care if anyone walked past the car, the heat within meant you couldn't see through the windows. You gripped his broad shoulders as he pressed his face into the crook of your neck and let out one final groan and pulled himself off of you. Sitting up on the back leather seats of his car, you slipped your clothes back on in silence as he did the same. Trying your best to tame your hair, you opened the car door and got out.

  “Thanks” you said bending back down into the doorway vehicle

  Steve merely looked back at you with bewilderment and confusion, and gave a slight nod. Shutting the door, you glanced back over to the house where the party was still going and smirked when you saw the enraged face of your brother standing just inside looking at you. You never felt any sort of shame when it came to sleeping around, it was the same back in California before you left. There was also a part of you however that enjoyed how much it pissed of your brother as well. He always wanted to control what you could do and who you could even talk to, so you often went out of your way to anger him. You supposed there was a time when you did truly care for one another as normal siblings do, but that hadn’t been for many years now.

[galaxytastes]

Jumin’s Birthday

Hi! This is my first post and, rightfully so, it will be a “little” 10 page long “drabble”. It’s pretty self indulgent and non-romantic. I’m a sucker for angst and platonic affection, so buckle up, simps. Thank you so much for reading!

Words: 3033

TW: Alcohol, mention of death. 

CW: Spoilers for the secret endings/Saeyoung’s after end 

Jumin Han has always been a curious person when it came to commoner practices. Whether it be family traditions, silly superstitions, or childlike games; all of it intrigues the man like nothing else. Even as a child, despite his privileged and sheltered upbringing, Jumin still felt the temptation to explore the world of the common folk. And who better to experience the unknown than with his best friend? The two would often find themselves lost in their own world. A world without responsibility. A world without heirs, businessmen or conglomerates. A world where two boys could be just that; boys. 

But, life is not so simple. Summers and winters pass. With time came more responsibilities and adulthood pressures. Long felt the days of childhood; that which there was not much to begin with. Despite the challenges and tribulations life threw at the pair, one tradition remains unshaken by time. Birthdays.

Slender fingers wrap impatiently around his Rolex as Jumin checks the clock. He sighs in annoyance, noticing how quickly the day flew by. On most work days, the director can barely wait to get out the door. While he certainly didn’t dislike his office, he much preferred most anywhere else once the clock ticked past 6 pm. But today was different. Today was October 5th. 

The dark haired man pinches the skin between his eyes and only looks up from his desk upon hearing the familiar clicking of heels up his office hallway. Jaehee knocks gently at the door and peers in from around the corner. The woman has a concerned look in her warm eyes, but Jumin can’t begin to worry about what was the matter. 

“Yes, Assistant Kang. Have you come to bother me more about Saeyoung’s complaints over my lack of celebrations this evening?” Jumin speaks to his assistant, his voice icey cold. “I understand, Mr. Han. I… did come in here to talk about that, but not because of Saeyoung. It’s just… it’s 7 pm and you’re still here. It’s your birthday, and you say you have plans. I was wondering w-” “I’m well aware of what today is.” The director hisses as his hands clench together on the wood desk. He sucks in a quick breath and immediately backpedals, offering Jaehee an apologetic look. “Forgive me. I’ve been getting bothered about this day for… weeks now.” The director sighs and stands from the desk, making no move to hurry himself on gathering his things. 

“No need for apologies, sir. I completely understand. I’m sure you’ve heard enough pushing from the others.” Jaehee dismisses his coldness and grabs his jacket from the stand near the door. She meets him halfway across the room and gives his arm a comforting squeeze as she hands him the coat. 

“I think everyone just wants to share today with you since we truly care. So, if you change your mind, do let us know, please?” The brunette woman smiles sadly at her boss, earning her a weak smile from him in return. His heart warms a bit at her genuine words and he almost wishes to take her up on her offer. But, he made a promise to a friend for this evening. As always, Jumin Han is a man of his word. 

“I will. Thank you, Assistant Kang.”

The ride to the venue is quiet, and most of the time Jumin prefers it this way. His days are loud and chaotic, full of phone calls and stuffy conversations. His backseat oasis behind his trusty Driver Kim is normally a breath of fresh air. But, tonight, it feels suffocating. Both hands rake through his thick hair and he quietly wades in the painful silence. As if on cue, a voice perks up from the driver’s seat. “Mr. Han. I’ve prepared the supplies for your evening. I assume it will be to your liking?” Driver Kim meets Jumin’s unusually scrambled gaze, and the tightness in the director’s chest loosens just enough to allow him another deep breath. 

“I appreciate you, Driver Kim. I’m sure it looks beautiful.” Jumin nods gratefully to the older man. “Did you happen to retrieve the bottle I’d set aside for this evening?” 

“Of course. It’s wrapped in the basket along with some other things I thought would pair well with the wine. You have exquisite taste as always, Mr. Han.” The man’s eyes crinkle behind his glasses as he clicks his turn signal to pull to a stop. 

“Thank you again… Ah. We’re here already?” Jumin looks out the window, admiring the landscape lit beautifully by the setting sun. “Right on schedule. The sun will set the mood for a lovely birthday evening.” Driver Kim hums as he fishes something from his coat pocket. He turns in his chair and reaches to the backseat, holding a small box with a ribbon atop of it. “This one isn’t for you, young director. So, don’t go peeking until he gets to see it first.” Jumin chuckles and nods, gently taking the small box from the other man. The driver moves to let out his employer, but Jumin waves him dismissively. “We will not be too long. I’m not one to fuss over birthday celebrations.” The director smooths out his suit jacket and pant legs before opening up the car door. “I know, Mr. Han. Take all the time you need. Tell him I say hello, and happy belated birthday.” Driver Kim keeps his gaze on the horizon ahead of him, wetness stinging the old man’s eyes. Jumin actively ignores the sudden show of emotion and uses his free hand to shut the door. 

Tiny lights sparkle along the trail up through the finely landscaped hill, leading Jumin directly to his destination. Clammy hands hold onto the tiny gift tightly as he continues along the rocky trail. Once he reaches the top, he strays from the path to greet his friend. His chest storms with emotion and dark eyes widen as he counts each step. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. His breath sounds too loud in his ears, and he’s sure his heart is beating much too fast. Suddenly, he wishes to be anywhere but here. Anywhere but anywhere. But, Jumin Han is a man of his word. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Oxfords continue to pad across the grass and eventually come to a slow stop. “Ten.” Jumin breathes aloud. “Hello, old friend.”

Jumin’s mouth remains open as he goes to continue greeting the other before he takes a moment to take in his surroundings. A checkered blanket, red and white, is delicately laid out in the plush, green grass. A picnic basket brimming with all sorts of delicacies is centered on the blanket, along with another smaller basket, cushioning two crystal glasses. Candles flicker over petals of flowers, casting a glow to compete with the setting sun. “It’s like something from a film. This is…” Jumin lets out a breathless laugh as he eases himself onto the blanket. “This is beautiful.”

Jumin wastes no time in exploring the basket prepared for the two. The smile never leaves his lips as he pushes past fine cheeses, chocolates and a beautifully decorated cake. He lets out a little “ah-ha” upon finding the thing both men would enjoy more than anything. “Now, this is more like it, hm?” Jumin wriggles out the vintage bottle, holding it up for the both of them to admire. “Henschke, Hill of Grace, Shiraz. 1994, if I recall correctly? Australians know their reds.” With a skillful hand, Jumin uncorks the bottle and pours the red liquid into the fine crystal glasses. The aroma of the wine fills the evening air between them, and for a moment, Jumin feels lighter. The weight of the day melts away in the twilight’s embrace. Perhaps birthdays can just be birthdays. Jumin muses to himself as he wraps his fingers around the stem of the glass. He scoots slowly across the blanket to hand the drink to the other man. Perhaps it is alright for him to enjoy himself this way. The crystal is set down with great care onto the stone and Jumin uses the wrist of his jacket to smudge away any thumb prints he may have left. His vision blurs as he clinks the glasses together. The sound is familiar, but in a very different way now. Lonely.

The other glass is still. No hand reaches to join him in the toast. No voice returns his greeting. No smile returns his grin. Jumin’s black eyes blink and he swallows back the pain that threatens to lurch from his stomach. He raises his drink between himself and the headstone and tosses back the entire glassful. The wine burns his throat and he is grateful for the pain. 

“Happy belated birthday, V. And, as you would surely remind me. ‘Oh, it’s your birthday. Quit pretending it's not, Jumin.’” The man’s voice cracks a bit and he clears his throat. Please, keep it together. He wills himself to hold on as he continues. “I don’t care much for my birthday. But, I promised you I would make time for my birthday if it meant I could celebrate yours.” 

For the next few minutes, Jumin forces small talk with the stone. He talks of work. He talks of Elizabeth. He reaches desperately into the backs of his mind to talk about every nonsensical thing he could imagine, avoiding the things he wishes to scream out. 

“Ah. I should update you on how the RFA is doing.” Jumin leans back on his elbows, horizontal with his friend’s grave. He looks up at the stars, allowing himself to instead imagine V there next to him; laying on his side as he listens to Jumin in attentive silence. The thought warms his cheeks and his heart. “Assistant Kang has been especially… gentle since the incident. Even Zen has begun showing me a side to him I never expected. He’s… kind. Yoosung, on the other hand… He has matured in a way I was not expecting. He misses you…” Jumin clears his throat once more before he continues. “Saeyoung and Saeran are doing very well. Both of them speak of you often. The twins and MC live together, all under one roof, as you always wished for. You’d be so proud, V.” Jumin shakily inhales as his lips tremble around his fourth glass. The tears that well in his eyes finally spill over onto his pale cheeks as he finishes off another drink.

So many things are left unsaid. So many angry, sad and desperate questions of why and how. Jumin sets the glass down and sits up, pushing his hand against his mouth to muffle the sob that escapes him. He should be here, pulling the glass from me, telling me I’ve had enough. He should be here to slug my arm around his shoulder. He should be here. No one but him should be here. Why, V? Why did you leave? The silence is louder than ever as Jumin attempts to calm himself down with a deep breath, using the back of his sleeve to wipe his cheeks. While the pain still clings to every inch of the man’s body like a bed of nails, Jumin swallows it back to properly finish his evening. “I almost forgot. Driver Kim wishes for me to give you this belated birthday gift. On my birthday, of all days.” Jumin sniffles with a smile as he fishes out the small box to set down on the memorial stone. He carefully unwraps the brightly colored ribbon and wriggles open the box. “Here, I will open it for you. Driver Kim has excellent taste in gifts. Perhaps it is a matching cufflink to my own. They’re designer, you know. And-” Jumin’s voice catches in his throat as the top of the box pops open. Cushioned inside a bed of white tissue paper is a small photo frame; no bigger than the palm of his hand. In the frame stares back two boys wearing birthday hats in front of a cake. Happy birthday, J & J is written across the cake in cursive writing. Jumin bites the inside of his cheek as a final tear escapes from him. The boys look like complete strangers. Both so innocent; so unaware of what the future will hold for them. Young Jihyun’s eyes are crinkled in a smile and his toothy grin takes up nearly half his face. Young Jumin smiles just as wide, but his eyes are wide open and looking directly at his friend. Cheeks flushed red, black and teal hair a complete tangled mess. They were happy. “We’ve changed, but not much. I loved you then, and I love you now.” Jumin whispers to V as he carefully sets down the frame along with all the other flowers and trinkets left scattered around the grave. His hand traces across the name etched into the stone slab and he uses the other hand to finish the wine directly from the bottle. “‘Happy birthday, Jumin.’” The director whispers into the lips of the bottle as he drains the last drops. 

The car ride home is quiet. Driver Kim helps a drunken Jumin into the car, taking no time at all to clean up the picnic and wine glasses. The shared silence between the two men is comfortable and calm. No words are shared with the driver and the director. Driver Kim simply hands the man a handkerchief and drives him back to his penthouse. 

Jumin’s eyes sting from the tears and his legs stumble as he steps from the car. He quietly thanks his driver who helps him up to the penthouse and fumbles with the keypad to unlock the door. Jumin exhales into the quiet room, letting the darkness consume him. His hand comes to rest on the center of his chest, and he takes a moment to appreciate the lighter feeling in his torso. The pain is less like broken glass now, more like the remnants of a broken mirror. The sharp and painful pieces have been removed, leaving the frame of what once was. It’s obvious something shattered the mirror, and a few bits of glass are left behind. But, the danger of the pain has been cleared away. 

“Shhh. Don’t yell, you’ll scare him. He looks sleepy.” A voice whispers from the kitchen. “How about you shut up and say surprise like we practiced? We’ve been here for an hour now, my legs hurt from squatting.” Another deeper voice grumbles in reply. 

“Hm?” Jumin drunkenly stumbles further into his seemingly empty penthouse as his tired eyes scan the dark room. 

“Can everyone at least attempt to remain quiet?” Another softer voice sighs.

“Saeyoung, this was a stupid idea. Put his cat down.” A voice exclaims, accompanied by a smack and a familiar yelp. 

“Hey! That’s my job!” A woman giggles and another smack echoes through the penthouse.

“Well, now I feel left out.” A man’s voice speaks, adding on another, more intense smack sound. “GAH! Okay, okay. Princess, we’ll catch up later. Go see your daddy. He needs a birthday hug.” This voice, he recognizes immediately, and his eyes fly wide open as he reaches for the light switch. “Saeyoung?! What?!” Jumin shouts as he squints into the bright light. 

“Wah! SURPRISE!” “Hehe! Surprise, Jumin!” Saeyoung and MC screech, dressed to impress, both sporting white cat ears and paws. “Surprise, Jumin!!  Woo-hoo!” Yoosung pops up from behind the counter, tossing an armful of balloons into the air. 

“Jesus. Well, surprise, trust-fund-kid.” Zen leans from around the sofa, smiling sheepishly at the other man. “Sorry about all this.” The albino laughs and rubs the back of his neck. 

“I was dragged here without my consent. Do not blame me for the home invasion.” Vanderwood growls from next to MC, winning another giggle from the girl and her fiancé.

“Surprise, Jumin Han. I apologize for my brother breaking into your home.” Saeran smiles, shoving his twin away from the white cat as she scuttles to her owner’s side. “Though, I may have helped a little.” Jumin leans down to wrap Elizabeth in his arms as his mouth hangs open in shock. Each face looks back, expectantly and worried. 

“Is he okay?” Yoosung whines, slowly inching closer to Jumin as his eyes dart from person to person. “Is he having a heart attack?!” “Yes.” Saeyoung says confidently, his cat paws resting on his hips. MC nods with him, looking to Yoosung with mock concern. 

“No.” Saeran, Vanderwood and Jaehee reply in a harmony, sharing looks of annoyance. “I know you wanted to be alone after your evening with him but…” Jaehee stood from behind a chair, offering an apologetic smile. “No.” Jumin interrupts her, shaking his head in disbelief. 

Each member of the RFA continues to stare at the man as he wobbles and before anyone can say a word, the director sets his princess down and lurches forward.

With arms wide open, he embraces his friends. With no reservations, no walls of emotions, no tightly wound strings. He holds his friends and finally inhales a full breath of air as each friend wraps their arms back around him. 

Sure, he’s drunk. Very drunk. Sure, he will regret and deny everything tomorrow morning. But tonight, Jumin will laugh with his friends. He will laugh till he cries, indulge in birthday cake, glare as the redheaded twins crown him with matching cat ears. He will open silly and thoughtful gifts and read cheesy and stupid birthday cards. He will refuse to sing karaoke, but instead watch and clap along as Zen and Saeran have a battle of the bands moment. Jumin smiles and laughs to himself, feeling an unseen hand wrap around his shoulders. He closes his eyes and pictures V there, smiling along with him. “Thank you for allowing yourself to enjoy today,” he would probably whisper to his friend. “You deserve this.” Jumin allows himself to believe his friend’s memory. This is what he would have wanted. “Happy birthday, Jumin!!” The RFA cheers together as the song comes to an end, the room lit by smiles and camera flashes. 

And a happy birthday it was, indeed. 

[ashintheairlikesnow]

Could we maybe get a piece where Kauri, Jake and Antoni are spending time together? Maybe all of them cuddling or something?

Takes place at an unspecified time in the future...

He walks into the living room, coming slowly to a stop as he sees Antoni sitting in the dead center of the couch, hunched over with his elbows on his knees, hands over his mouth, thick shaggy hair hanging over his forehead and curling just slightly at his ears. His eyes are on the TV, the blue light of the screen dancing a reflection of the pictures, pale against Antoni's deep warm brown.

Antoni never really watches TV. Not like this.

“You okay?” It’s a simple question, almost rhetorical. He knows how Antoni will respond, because it's how he always responds.

So Jake isn’t prepared at all when Antoni looks up and answers, “No.”

It's only then that Jake realizes that Antoni's eyes are slightly wild, white around the edges. His nails are painted a dark purple but in the dimness of a room lit only by flickering television, they seem almost bloody-black.

"Ant?" Jake steps further into the room, feeling himself tense. The old feeling of they're coming to raid us again is still there, even years later, even in a new house, a new place, with no hint so far that they've been compromised. It doesn't matter.

One raid, one three-day hell of hoping everyone was okay, and Jake has never quite lost the new watchfulness and worry that had followed on its heels.

Kauri is right behind him, a mug of steaming hot chocolate (with more than a few dollops of good whiskey) in each hand. He comes to such an abrupt stop that the liquid nearly sloshes out over the sides. "Jake? Antoni? What's up?"

Antoni swallows. He looks as though he will speak. He pauses again.

There's a war in him that Jake can read as well as any book, and he steps without thinking to sink down next to Antoni on the couch. Kauri looks between them, then sets the hot chocolate hurriedly down on the coffee table and disappears back into the kitchen.

Kauri's never liked conflict, Jake thinks, but winces a little at how the rejection must look to Antoni. How it must feel.

Antoni's eyes are glimmering. Jake is inches away from him but doesn't quite touch. That's not what Antoni wants or needs, nearly always, and Jake never oversteps. Antoni is his friend, but he was first a rescue, and Jake is always aware of that long history. The foggy nightmare of Antoni's life before Jake knew him as a nameless, nervous, trembling new household resident who curled up on his bed to stare out the windows.

"Ant. Talk to me, man." Jake keeps his voice low, unassuming. Not demanding. "Let me know how I can help you right now."

"It is only... o d'yavol... moy mladshiy brat..." Antoni's head drops into his hands.

Jake knows the words, but they make no sense to him in the moment, and his jaw works as he tries to understand. "Little brother... Chris? Is something wrong about Chris?"

"No, not Chrisha. It's just-..."

Kauri reappears. When Jake sees the bottle of vodka he holds, chilled from the freezer, he exhales. Of course.

Kauri sets down a two shot glasses, pours each to the brim with Antoni's personal, perfectly clear vodka bought from a specialty store on the other side of town.

Antoni never looks at him, but downs each shot, one after the other, without hesitation.

"There you go," Kauri murmurs, and settles down on Antoni's other side. "Tell us what's up, Ant. We want to help."

Antoni shakes his head, eyes closed. Then, after another pause, he nods, and gestures at the TV. "Look."

Kauri and Jake turn to see two talking-head news anchors chattering, a chyron running along the bottom the screen about a man arrested, or maybe killed, after being caught breaking into someone's apartment. It doesn't mean anything, not really. He can't even see why it'd be breaking news here in California if some asshole in Washington state decided to rob someone.

Kauri's hand goes out to rest, lightly, on Antoni's shoulder. To Jake's shock, Antoni doesn't tense or pull away - instead, he leans slowly to the side, leaning into the touch. His eyes close again. "Look at who they have found, Jasha. Look at what I have done."

Jake looks again. More importantly, he listens.

"Mikhail Morozov, suspected in the deaths of some two dozen men, killed after an officer-involved incident in Puyallup..."

Kauri's eyebrows furrow a little, in confusion, but Jake understands. He has, after all, been the one who did the majority of the research after Antoni told him, he's the one who knows the most about it.

"That's your brother," He says, softly, and Antoni nods, his expression marked with a misery Jake can't begin to fathom. Misery... and guilt.

"I was meant to protect him," Antoni whispers. "Always I am protecting him. But I was gone. I have been gone so long... he is dead. My brother... I was never home, they do not know, they have two dead sons, they..."

"You're not dead," Kauri says, gently, but Antoni shakes his head almost violently in denial of the words.

"I am not. Artyom is. Two dead sons."

The silence draws slowly out, and the weight of Antoni's words makes the air feel like wading through sludge, taking deep breaths that settle heavy in Jake's lungs.

Kauri's hand slides over Antoni's, and he grips on tight. After a second, Jake takes his other hand. Antoni's fingers are shaking, he can barely hang on, but he tries.

"Two dead sons," Antoni repeats, almost dumbly. The tears he has been so carefully holding back fall as he blinks too quickly, clear trails down each cheek to go with his hitching, uneven breath. His voice begins to tremble, too. "Two dead sons, Jasha. Mama has nothing now. She has no one."

"Ant-"

"She has no one. I am supposed to be protecting Misha always. Now we are both gone. Her heart will b-be broken."

Jake hears what Antoni isn't saying. He thinks Kauri does, too.

"This isn't your fault," Jake says softly, but Antoni doesn't want to hear this, either. "It's not your fault, Ant. You couldn't have known what would happen, that he wouldn't stop-"

"I knew he would not stop," Antoni interrupts. "I am always knowing he will never stop. Always. I was supposed to make-... to keep-... to keep him s-safe-"

"But if you kept him safe, other people died," Kauri says, and brings Antoni's hand to his lips, breathing on those cold fingers to warm them. "I'm so sorry, Ant."

"I should have been there." Antoni's voice shakes so badly his words are barely understandable. "I should have been there for Mama when this happened. I should have... but I have never called, I c-couldn't bear to tell her-... what I have been, what I have d-done, and now-... now, Misha..."

Antoni has not cried in so long, but the tears come now, as he stares at the news anchors speak about the death of the monster that once held his hand to cross the street to go to school.

Jake and Kauri hold him, and to both of them he holds on tight.

-

Tagging: @burtlederp @finder-of-rings @endless-whump @whumpfigure @astrobly @newandfiguringitout @doveotions @pretty-face-breaker @boxboysandotherwhump @oops-its-whump @cubeswhump @whump-tr0pes @downriver914 @whumptywhumpdump @wildfaewhump

[canyouhearthelight]

The Miys, Ch. 139

Day Two of the Food Festival!  This one has a specific request from @baelpenrose, which was fun to play with in the Low-Stim session (always on day 2).

To everyone who has reached out to tell me how much they are enjoying getting to see Sophia actually relax and just have fun for once.... Y’all are the best! It’s been fun writing it, too. 

New reader shout outs go to @corvallis, @penguin--person, @amphibiousuprising, @chip5-0, and I think @lostsoul8822. I think that’s everyone... If I missed you, please DM me, and I’ll add you to the next chapter.

On with the show!

The first day of the Festival, Conor and I ended up staying through not only Maverick’s shift but the one after, just so we could drag him to our favorite spots. Day two, however, Conor was on deck as Support Personnel as well as Maverick, and neither were assigned to me - for the first half of day two, we were in the Low Stim Mode, so I was pretty sure I could brave it on my own with everyone else’s proximity alerts and my own personal hyper-alertness preventing accidental bumps.

For me, the most exciting part was the different foods offered, and the fact that I could focus on just the food. Not having to ignore the other stimuli was a completely relaxing experience. The visual of the mural, with everything present, was still completely different in the even, indirect lighting. The dual nature of it was toned down significantly, leading to the overall feel being softer and overall more pleasant without being distracting.

Halfway through a very good pad thai, I spotted Derek and Sam sitting with Ivan and poking at something that Sam was clearly excited about and Derek was equally doubtful of. I circled around so they could see me approaching, and made a point to wave. “What do you think?” I asked, trying to sign as I spoke but hampered by the food in my hands.

“It was a good try,” Derek confessed, cheeks stuffed with something that had previously been on a plate to his left as a backup plan.

Setting my food down, I grinned mischievously. “Doing my best,” I signed, leading to laughter on all sides.

“You just told him you do him the best,” Ivan murmured, my face immediately flooding red.

“That is NOT what I meant,” I tried to explain out loud, over-enunciating while I clenched my hands in embarrassment.

To his credit, Derek signed what he seemed to understand I meant, emphasizing each sign. It was clear that I had gotten several out of order and added one that changed everything overall.

After repeating the signs and getting confirmation, I shook my head and sighed dramatically. “I tried.”

Ivan was trembling with laughter. “You. You did,” he admitted. “But that was… wow.” His head dropped on his hands as he shook silently.

“Souffle pancakes?” I offered, finger spelling the word souffle since I had no freaking clue how to actually sign it.

“Egg pancake,” Derek explained, poking the one I offered and contemplating the jiggle.

“It’s cinnamon sugar, and not gooey,” I explained.

Apparently I got that one right, because Derek immediately stabbed a piece and shoved it in his mouth.  The only judgement I needed was the fact that he dragged the entire remaining pancake onto his plate.

Sam watched his roommate before contemplating his own sample. Before he could even ask, I held up a cup full of macerated berries. “And fruit topping for you, sir.”

“Are those my berries?” he asked, skeptical.

I shook my head. “Bog standard, from the consoles. Your vegetables and fruits are being used in the other shifts. We didn’t want to give anyone here unexpected tastes.”

He nodded and dumped the entire cup of fruit over his pancake, digging in happily.

Ivan batted his eyes at me until I explained. “Sam’s produce has… unexpected pairings. Tomatoes that pair with cheesecake and wines, strawberries that really go well with steak…”

“The mango that goes with beer but not fish?”

“Yeah, that one. Von soil does strange things to produce, turns out.”

“Those matcha-edamame are amazing though.”

“For ice cream, yes. For tea, less so. They’re like… cooking matcha, almost.” I laughed. They actually worked better for ice cream than matcha did, oddly - reducing the sugar content but still giving the same flavor.

“One vendor on the last day is using nothing but my produce,” Sam announced happily. “They asked my permission.”

“That’s good!” I encouraged him. “They should always ask your permission to do things like that.”

“People ask with requisition forms,” he agreed. “Mona asked in person.”

Note to self: much more patronage at Mona’s normal spot, I swore in my head.  She specialized in vegetarian dishes, and honestly made some of the best fried cabbage I’d had in my life.  Knowing that she was so considerate of Sam cemented her as my new favorite takeaway place.

After a little more chat, I finally waved my goodbyes to everyone and strolled slowly to the next tempting stall. I wasn’t really in any hurry, and did more people-watching than I did eating. Latkes were infinitely more interesting when I could overhear people arguing over family recipes.  A small bowl of udon was delicious, but not nearly as flavorful as the discussion around hot versus cold, what to top them with, egg or no egg… the only thing anyone seemed to agree on was that the smiling vendor ‘obviously’ ground their own flour, because the flour provided by the consoles was the wrong texture.

Another mental note: don’t learn to make udon.  Despite what I had previously believed, it takes a lifetime to make it right, turns out.

Wandering further down, I was delighted by the discovery of something that was very clearly Hannah’s doing: demonstrations of older food prep techniques.  Simon winked at me as he carried on a demonstration of - insanely - how to hand pull toffee. I didn’t know he could do that. Muna was demonstrating the correct way to make chapatis and handing them out as fast as she was making them. Clearly, she had been making them her whole life, because at no point did I actually see her look at them, but every single one was perfect.

Laughter erupted over my shoulder, and I whipped my head around to see the source. After wading through a crowd of smiling faces, I couldn’t help but join in.  There, right in front of the entire Ark, was Maverick trying to flip takoyaki as fast as the person demonstrating, and ending up with just a mess of octopus and batter on his side.  Both Maverick and the person guiding him were smiling, though, and in the end, the vendor handed Maverick four perfectly-round balls and quickly devoured all of the - less shapely, so to speak - ones on my partner’s side.  With an exuberant cheer and extending his arms wide to the crowd, the man exclaimed “The first takoyaki of a new student are always my favorite! Nothing tastes better!”

After bowing to his sensei, Maverick turned and spotted me, face still flushed with laughter.  He offered his food to a smaller man I did not recognize, who must have been the person Maverick was Supporting, before waving to me and continuing on.  Despite the urge to crush him in a hug, I forced my feet to stay in place and reminded myself that he was working.

By the time I trusted myself not to race after him, I realized someone had been trying to get my attention and had resorted to messaging me rather than shouting. “Phee, I don’t know what la-la land you are lost in, but look 100 yards to your four.”

The hell was Arthur doing here? He wasn’t scheduled to work this shift, as far as I was aware.  Craning my neck over my shoulder, I turned to see… Apparently a hallucination. It had to be.  There was no chance in any of the nine hells that Arthur Farro was dishing out spaghetti, much less smiling while doing it.

Almost dreamlike, I found myself drifting over to confirm that I was wrong, only to be startled when he shoved a plate with not only spaghetti but two gorgeous pieces of garlic bread under my nose. “Special plates, you can’t smell anything unless it’s on purpose.”

“You… Spaghetti?” I asked, eloquent as ever.

“Family recipe.”

“Leaning into the stereotype a bit, aren’t you?” I asked carefully before shoving as much of one thick, crusty piece of toast in my mouth as I could.

He shook his head. “Anyone who tells you their family is Italian and denies having a family recipe for anything is a damned liar.”

Skeptically, I took a bite. It was amazing. “Ah ee deh rehahee,” I tried to get out around the heap of pasta I was steadily shoving in my mouth.

“Maverick is a very bad influence on your table manners,” he observed drily, plating more portions and handing them out. “And no. Not happening.”

“You know I can cook.”

“Not the point. I also know that you will fiddle with it until it is unrecognizable, so there’s really no point in giving it to you.”

Defiantly, I took a smaller bite and chewed carefully. “Garlic, onions, obviously. Sausage and minced… Lamb? But that’s probably just for this session, knowing you it’s spicy sausage regularly.  I’m not getting carrot, though, so no soffritto? Unexpected…. Is that thyme, I’m tasting?”

“Rosemary, you heathen. And you’re still wrong.”

I mumbled to myself. “What did I get wrong? It’s gotta be the lamb… maybe he does usually use the lamb? I’m certain it is lamb…”

“It is lamb, and no, I don’t usually use it. But you left several things out.”

I stared at the plate again, confused. “I didn’t think I needed to mention the tomatoes….”

“Basil… oregano….” he drawled.

“Duhhh?” I poked through the last bite on my plate, sniffing it, trying to figure out what I was missing. “Fine, you win, I’m lost.”

“Mushrooms, Sophia. There’s mushrooms. Jeezus. It was an easy one, too.”  He showed me a bowl full of what looked like cooked and crumbled sausage, only for me to realize it was the tiniest diced mushrooms I had ever seen in my life.

“I am dying to know how you got them that small.”

“With a knife?” He arched an eyebrow at me as he turned to start another batch of sauce.

“Yeah, no shit, Arthur.”

“Correct, there is no shit in the spaghetti,” he confirmed cheekily as the vegetables started sizzling.

“Asshole,” I laughed, scraping the remaining sauce from my plate with the piece of bread I saved just for that purpose. Just as I was frowning at the sauce-less plate and remaining half-piece of bread, a scalding hot dollop of fresh sauce invaded my vision.

“You love me, because I won’t let you frown at your bread like that.”

Fiiiinnnne I sighed in my head as I shoved a piece of saucy, saucy bread into my cheeks and waggled my fingers to let him get back to work.

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[elriel-oblivion]

WHO'S READY FOR SOME HARDCORE NSFW 🔥😈

Ashes from the Deep

Part IV

--

Just kidding! 😅

Lol, sorrynotsorry for that fake intro haha, but here's part four for real 😅 Thanks to everyone who read/liked/commented on/reblogged the last part, I really do appreciate all your support 😊🥰🥰

Shoutout to @julesherondalex again for finding one of my fave paragraphs ☺️☺️ I think I only have one fave line this time 😅 And thanks to all who comment their own faves!! I really like seeing what you like in each piece - and it def helps me gauge what kinda writing/literary techniques work and engage people the most 😊😊

I hope nobody's disappointed by this part lol, I really enjoyed writing it in tandem with the previous one 😅

Word count: 4.1K. Lemme know if you'd like to be tagged/removed

I've also finally posted all four parts to AO3 if anyone prefers to read there 😊

Ashes from the Deep

Part IV

--

The water falling from the jug to Azriel’s head was the only sound in the bathroom. His hair absorbed the water, darkening to a midnight gleam. A thin breeze entered the room, and now without a blanket, Elain's exposed arms prickled with goosebumps.

Elain plunged a hand into his hair, breaking the mud between her fingertips. A quiet breath passed through his mouth and the corners of her lips rose.

She rubbed his scalp, coaxing as much dirt to the surface as she could before guiding another jug of water through his hair. Some of the mud drained away, some clods of sediment sticking to the basin. She poured over a final jug and stained water trickled into the drain. The warmth of the water tickled through her skin, replacing the cold from outside.

‘Is that nice?’ she asked, brushing the water through his hair with both hands.

His body seemed to relax, one foot sliding forward a little. ‘It is,’ he said thickly. He cleared his throat.

Her fingers continued to gently work at his head, and when sure his hair was completely wet, she ran the bar of soap under the tap. Soft lavender entered her nose and she inhaled deeply. That calm scent loosened her own muscles; this could be as much a session of serenity for her as she hoped it'd be for Azriel.

So long as she held taut the chain on her heart.

Soap foaming, she immersed her hands back into his thick hair, forming a lather. The lavender smell intensified, a wave of tranquility sweeping over her. She blinked slowly, as though her mind were wading through water.

Another sigh from him drew her attention back to his head. She needed to focus on this task; for Azriel, she could stay awake a little longer, especially since she’d already started.

Her fingertips massaged his skull, pressing a little deeper at the base where knots had a tendency to form. Elain moved her own neck, a sharp stab sparking at the top of her spine.

She hadn’t mentioned it to anybody yet – didn’t even know if she would – but her visions had been so feverish the past fortnight. Sleep felt like a luxury as she tossed and turned with psychedelic madness flashing behind her eyes. A turquoise expanse of sparkling ocean, birds shaped from sunset, glittering gowns in every shade, and a too-wide smile with pointed teeth were just a few of the recurring images attacking her every night.

Bathing before bed wasn't helpful. She'd hoped the calming scents of the herbs she'd found would be enough to pacify her mind and lull her to sleep. So far, there was no positive result beyond a loosening of her muscles. At least some of those herbs relieved the intensity of the dark circles round her eyes.

Mellow darkness, however, was a true reprieve, one which she found in her garden in those quiet evening hours, when the sky, having bled through its saturated sunset, was awash with deep muted blues.

As if she’d summoned it, a similar darkness manifested around Azriel’s body, swirling thickest about his head like a black cloud. His shadows rose like vapour, tendrils reaching out and twining about him.

Elain’s hands were hidden among those dark whorls, and they whispered on her skin in cool caresses. She leaned over his head and said, ‘Azriel?’

His eyes flicked open. ‘Huh?’

There was something boyish and confused in the way he blinked and she laughed lightly. ‘Your shadows are sort of hiding your head.’

He turned his head an inch or two. ‘Sorry,’ he said, and those shadows began sweeping over each other, wisps kissing her as Azriel pulled them in.

Elain’s hands were stationary until those shadows were completely reeled in, a faint frown on Azriel’s face. Sorrow lurked there, perhaps that he couldn’t be cocooned in that safe space.

Guilt coated the chain around her heart.

‘Don’t be,’ she murmured. Did he hear the shame in her voice? She hoped not; he should be resting, not worrying about Elain’s feelings. ‘You can close your eyes again.’

He did, but not before she caught a shadow lingering behind his eyes. Were they a glimpse into the shadows he leashed within himself, or were they a reflection of something darker, more sinister, perhaps?

That guilt began to cut into her heart now, icy claws digging. Cold squeezed her chest, a cold unrelated to the outside breeze breathing over her skin. How could she think Azriel was sinister? After the countless times he’d reached out to comfort her, be with her, listen to her – and the sincere light she saw in his eyes. Even the hope Rhysand had spoken of that day of the last battle in the war. The hope whose meaning he'd learnt from Azriel, learnt to experience from Azriel.

No, it was absurd. Yes, Azriel was a warrior and yes, he’d killed people. Possibly worse, she didn’t know. But those shadows she knew with certainty weren’t formed from the darkness of nightmares and malevolence and all things wicked.

They were a darkness of safety and security, of nights spent in a loved one’s arms. When a child sought their parent; when an adult sought their partner. They were the darkness found deep underground, where the earth was pure and things grew. Where life grew.

And just like his shadows, he too was not crafted from unholiness. There was unrelenting virtue glowing in him, burning whatever taint touched his darkness. She’d seen it in his eyes when he’d found her at the Hybern camp, when he alone had armed her with his own dagger at that later battle – and then run straight into the thick of it without Truth-Teller.

She didn’t know what she would’ve done if he hadn’t survived while she held his blade.

So when his shadows leaked out again, wrapping him in twining vines and wisps, she said nothing. Simply continued to work in that lovely lavender soap, giving as much care as she could. He deserved it.

She poured jug after jug of warm water over his head, wading her fingers through his locks to wash out the soap. Within a minute or two, the water was running clear. She yawned and dried her hands on a fresh towel.

‘Az, you can lift your head now.’

The guilt relented a little, icy claws releasing. A cold still filled the space left behind. But before the warmth of his presence, his existence, could balm her heart as it often did, she froze. His shadows parted to reveal a tear slipping from his eye. Just a single tear but so abrupt it was jarring on the shadowsinger’s face.

‘Azriel?’

He was unresponsive. His breathing was regular, body relaxed in a state of sleep. Except for that tear. What was he dreaming of?

She raised her hand to his face but let it hover in the air. Would this wake him? Would he even be fine knowing Elain had seen him cry?

She touched the tear anyway, placed a knuckle right beneath it. The tear slipped onto her hand and she wiped off the trace left on his face.

Azriel stirred, voice raw as he said, ‘Mother?’

Mother – was she what, who he dreamt of? There was such a childlike insecurity in his tone that Elain’s heart squeezed. She moved her hand back a little when her own voice sounded wispy. ‘No, it’s Elain.’

His eyes opened, gaze darting around the room. There was a small crease in his brow as he blinked away whatever haze remained from his dreams. The shadows dissipated.

Confusion limned his features in the few seconds it took him to fully awaken. Did he know he cried? That she’d wiped off his tear? No, that wouldn’t be okay. Elain had to distract him, if that were even possible for a spymaster.

Sometimes his title overwhelmed her. Sometimes she found security in it; did he see things he didn’t want to on his travels? Did he have access to a wealth of information he didn’t initially understand, just as Elain didn’t comprehend her visions without further probing?

‘I asked you to lift your head but you’d fallen asleep,’ she said. ‘I didn’t want to wake you, but we should dry your hair before you really go to sleep. Especially if you’ll be going outside again. Although I would ask you to consider taking a guest room.’

That frown deepened for a second before he smoothed out his face. ‘Right.’ He sat straight, and Elain set a hand under his head as he stiffly pulled it up. He rotated his neck a bit, water dripping off his sodden hair, sliding down his face.

She placed the towel over his head, patting it across his scalp. Some strands escaped to hang over his forehead, so she pulled them back, ruffling the towel through his hair. All the while, he watched her, but she busied herself with the water that glistened on his neck. Anything to avoid his eyes.

Then he dropped his head – from tiredness or something else, she didn’t know – so she took the opportunity to dry the back more. Drying his hair took more effort than washing, he just had so much hair. The small towel quickly became damp so she continued with the one round his neck, and a short while later, deemed his hair dry enough. Still wet but not sodden, so she combed her fingers through it, smoothing out the tips that stuck out. She left both towels on her bathtub, touching a knuckle to one of the trailing plants sitting on a stool nearby.

She heard the chair scrape across the floor, Azriel rising, so she laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘Wait. I want to clean your face, too.’

The idea of having to look at his face for however long it took to clean sent a thrill through her and she woke a little more. The chain on her heart slipped from her control a little and she leashed it back. Her chest tightened as she grabbed a cloth and ran it under the tap. She knelt next to him, honing in on that giant gash on his cheekbone. She touched the cloth to his face.

He winced and her hand stilled. ‘Sorry.’

A small smile graced his face, and he said, ‘Don’t be.’

She recognised the words from earlier and breathed a laugh. ‘That cut does look very bad, though. I think I’ll have to clean it with alcohol too.’

‘Let’s crack open that wine then.’

Something sultry laced his voice, the chain in her chest slipping again. The metal warmed and Elain fiddled with her grip. She let out a shaky laugh. ‘Not tonight, Azriel.’

Goodness. A late night wine session with Azriel. There was heat in her cheeks and she didn’t know how to tone it down. It was even worse with his face so near hers. He’d see it all. Her face warmed further, and it was only the dirt and blood on his that reminded her he was in no position to be drinking the night away. Not with fatigue so clear on his features and in his posture.

And not with Elain. That toed a line she didn't deserve to cross.

So she gave focus only to his skin, wiping the cloth across his face. Once most of the mud and blood was off, she rinsed the cloth, then wiped him down again. He turned his head and as his eyes fixed squarely on her, the chain heated further. She tried to grip it elsewhere, but every link was as hot. It wasn’t uncomfortable – quite pleasant, actually – but she was sure it would be soon enough if she didn’t move now. The cool air sweeping into the bathroom did nothing to help. If he would just stop looking into her –

Elain abruptly stood and on a whim went to close the window. Maybe he'd think she was cold, though she'd regret trapping the air when it was stifling here soon.

She moved to the cupboard by the door, her back to him. She took a deep breath, taking her time to pull out a bottle of alcohol, in pouring a few drops of it onto a clean cloth. The distance between them was refreshing. The chain didn’t cool, not with Azriel still so close in the same room, but at least it didn’t warm any more. Elain took a moment to readjust her grasp and pull it again.

She composed herself and knelt beside him. The alcohol’s scent permeated the air and her own nerves bristled. ‘This’ll hurt.’

His smile was slight. ‘It’s all right.’

She bit the inside of her cheek and touched the cloth to the wound. His jaw clamped like a vice and she lightened her touch, the cloth barely kissing his skin.

This wasn’t the right way. She needed to clean that wound, regardless of what pain it’d inflict. It'd be temporary, the sting. So she pressed the cloth harder, dabbing it across his cheekbone.

His features were stonelike at the contact. Did pain ever become easier to bear? Would the prick of a thorn be less painful in a decade than it was now?

If Azriel’s face was anything to go by, she guessed no. Perhaps some pain couldn’t be learnt; perhaps the body never fully digested pain.

Perhaps she'd never fully recover from the desolation in the Cauldron.

‘Are you all right, Azriel?’ Her voice was so quiet, like she didn’t want to flare the hurt any further.

‘I’m all right. Are you all right, Elain?’

‘I’m fine.’

He wasn’t all right and nor was she, but neither was willing to broach that right now. There was so much to him she didn’t yet know. What was it that shadowed his eyes so often? What darkness clouded his mind before he fell asleep? In due time, she’d learn, but that human impatience, the sense that there was never enough time, threatened to run her tongue.

Time stretched out before her. She’d learn. He was her friend, she just needed to give him time to teach her the workings of his soul. And in return, she would bare hers too.

Neither said a word as she pressed the alcohol into every wound, cleaning his cheekbone and temple, a scratch across his jaw. She stared at the graze there for a few seconds. She’d ask Madja for some calendula oil later; that would speed the healing process.

She sighed as she washed the cloth. Something had loosened the chain, but it wasn’t a sudden unravelling. It’d just been gradual and she hadn’t noticed, one link falling back at a time. Her heart expanded. There was torment in Azriel’s posture, on his face, and it hurt. It hurt that Elain couldn’t do anything for him besides give basic medicines for his body.

But he was more than just a physical form. He had a heart and a soul, both so tight with whatever misery lurked in his past, and she couldn’t do anything about that. For all the light she saw in the world, all the places of brightness, there was ten times as much darkness, ten times as many nooks and crannies where gloom and wretchedness dwelt. What good was the light if it didn’t burn away the shade over everyone’s souls?

She spent more time washing the cloth than necessary.

The chair creaked. ‘You can talk to me, Elain, whenever you need.’

The chain slipped again, Elain’s fingers grappling for those final links. It hurt so much that he was willing to give so much. Her smile was too bright as she turned and said, ‘I know.’

He stood. His gaze was so direct on her that she only held one chainlink now. Just one link remained in her hand, one link between her and the release of a beast she hadn't yet had the courage to face.

The link heated. Her muscles loosened and her hands fumbled with the tap, the cloth falling from limp fingers.

He would realise. He would know what she was thinking and feeling if she didn’t get a grip on herself, on that final chainlink. So she turned her body to face his and cleared her throat. ‘We should go downstairs to the fireplace. It’ll be warmer there.’ For his damp hair, of course.

No matter that whatever cool air remained in the room did nothing to tame her heat.

His hand was cold on her wrist, a shiver tracking her bones, and colder still were the shadows that swept them up and into the living room. Good, there was much more space here. Her feet hit the floor and she bent to place three logs in the hearth.

Moonlight glinted on the steel she struck against the flint but the metal didn’t spark the way she’d seen it do when everybody else lit a fire. She tried again, Azriel silent beside her. This was pitiful. She swiped the steel a couple more times, and a spark finally appeared.

It was too silent here. ‘Those shadows are quite convenient at times, aren’t they?’ she said.

He breathed a laugh. ‘They can be.’

She let the spark catch on the cloth resting on the hearth and threw it onto the logs, a blaze finally blooming. She doubted anybody else took that long to start a fire. Heat bathed her legs.

Elain didn’t know what to make of the lack of judgement she found on his face when she stood. Though, it was common with him, how honestly he looked at her. She shouldn’t be surprised. Save Nuala and Cerridwen, he was perhaps the only one who didn’t view her as a naive fool, a child. None of the others said it, but she saw it in their eyes, that patronising glimmer.

He was leaning against the mantelpiece with a forearm, one leg crossed over the other, the portrait of casual elegance. It wasn't often she got to see him looking so relaxed. Then again, he was tired.

Her eyes met his. ‘Just a few minutes now and we’ll be warm.’

His eyes were soft; he didn’t say anything. Just kept looking at her. Into her.

The air warmed. That was a quick few minutes.

Just the flames. Of course it was the flames. Anything else would be ridiculous.

The wound on his cheekbone was an angry red in the dim light. ‘I think you’ll need a bandage for that wound.’ Some herbs would be prudent too.

‘I’ll be fine without it,’ he said.

She pleaded for interference from something, anything. ‘It’s quite deep.’

‘Not a match for my Illyrian healing.’ The smirk that followed sent a hot spark down her skin. The chain now burned and she lost her grip on it completely, that leash uncoiling and slipping down, down, down into the abyss of her core. Her heart swelled like a dragon inhaling a mighty breath.

She needed a distraction from his achingly stunning face. The wings behind him were not a reprieve at all. Especially not after what she'd overheard about them. Certain people tended to forget she was in the room and had heightened hearing when they talked about the sensitivities of the Illyrian wings.

Her face heated and her heart throbbed against her chest. How improper these thoughts were. The air was stifling now. Perhaps they should've stayed in the bathroom. Even the weak chill of night air would be better than this. She wished she could have shadows to cool her down like Azriel did. Or to hide in. She'd seen him do that plenty of times.

His wings rustled and he straightened, coming off the mantelpiece. His eyes were glazed, somehow even more stunning than they were outside earlier. The fire highlighted the grey brown storm swirling in his gaze while streaks of emerald glistened like the veins on leaves in the height of summer.

It felt like the height of summer too in this heat.

He frowned. She cleared her throat of the pocket of air lodged there.

'Oh.' A bead of sweat glinted on his temple, right above the gash there. The sting that would ensue was an unnecessary pain, so she reached up to wipe it away.

As her finger touched his skin, above the crackle of the flames, a loud thudding beat entered her ears. Azriel caught her wrist and a small gasp left her lips.

His eyes smouldered, that thunderstorm churning in the dim light. His heartbeat. It was his heartbeat she heard. It ran and ran, crescendoeing like a drum before the climax of a song.

Was the shadowsinger feeling the same as she? Did his heart yearn to touch hers too?

It was unbearable, the alternative. Unbearable but probable.

Her voice was thick, with longing, with desire, with anguish all entangled when she spoke, 'I can hear your heartbeat.'

He said nothing. If he truly didn't reciprocate -

She almost couldn't continue but pushed out, 'And it's a beautiful sound.'

That song in his heartbeat finally climaxed, a thunder of sound pounding the air.

'You're beautiful, too,' he breathed.

Her own pulse throbbed, heartbeat echoing in her throat. Tears blurred her vision of him. She blinked them away; she wanted to truly see every inch of his wonderful face.

His breathing lightened.

As did hers.

He was a mirror, Azriel. He saw her; he saw what she hid from everyone else, clear as day. It was his eyes that told. His words, too, in that smooth voice, free of condescension.

And now no mouth had ever looked so inviting.

And maybe this was okay. This fondness, this attachment she'd developed for him. It wasn't a sudden spark - childish and unquestioned. This had been building for a while now. Months. Maybe even since the first year she'd met him. And maybe it was improper and she was a lady, but perhaps it went beyond expectation. If her sisters could give themselves wholly to their love, then so could she.

Love. It was exhilarating, liberating to open up that well inside her. To no longer have that chain leashing her heart.

And because she knew he'd not make another move, she whispered, 'Are you going to kiss me?'

The fire hissed as a log tumbled further into the hearth. Shadows smoked behind his eyes. 'Only if you want me to.'

Without a doubt, she wanted this. There was a certainty, a clarity in her bones that sang high and free. It whistled through her marrow and glided into her blood, awakening her soul. She was not a child. She could want this. She could have this.

'Yes.'

A frown marred his face and her heart dropped. His eyes were now a hurricane, darkened like night descended over them. Torment was etched in the line of his brows, in the flicker of his jaw as it ground together.

He was afraid. Of hurting her. Ruining her. She'd seen the way he always glimpsed his hands, glancing away with revulsion in his eyes. He thought he was a disgrace, a savage.

But how could that be? How could this male, this male of honour, loyalty and charm think so little of himself? He was better than any male she could've had the pleasure of knowing.

'I know what you're thinking,' she said, 'and I want you to know I trust you, Azriel. You will do me no harm. You couldn't.'

His eyes shuttered as he lowered them, brows still furrowed. He still held her wrist, so, pulling his arm with her, she reached out and stroked his brow with her thumb. She rubbed back and forth in gentle motions until that crease was gone, and he exhaled slowly.

'I trust you, Azriel. So kiss me.'

The moody veil of night lifted from his eyes, the tempest calming to a glistening haze. His heart still pounded, so wondrously loud as he leaned down, his free hand settling against her cheek. He was unhurried, tentative.

It was agonising. Worse still, he paused with an inch of space between their lips. His night-chilled air and cedar scent blended with the smoke and wood of the fire, seductive as it crept into her skin and twined around her bones like ribbons of mist round pillars.

With shadows flickering over his face, and the light so sultry beside them, his eyes were alluring. She'd never let herself notice that before. 'Kiss me,' she said faintly.

Elain didn't breathe as his lips touched hers.

__

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