#working on his next necromancy project for sure

[fyreiswriting]

Chapter 63 is finally up on Future, Past, Present:

“Finally!” Karlach’s delighted yell filled camp top-to-bottom and nearly startled Nyrra’s hand out of Gale’s. Halfway across the rock bridge over the stream, she teetered; he quickly grabbed her other elbow to steady her. “Easy,” he murmured quietly, guiding her to solid ground on the other side. She squeezed the hand she yet held and didn’t let go.  “Sorry– hey, Fangs, pay up!” Karlach looked towards Astarion’s tent, where he sat with the Necromancy of Thay spread across his knees. He looked up, eyes wide and startled, only to spot Nyrra’s and Gale’s hands– interlaced even as he guided her to a seat beside the campfire.  The book closed with a thud. Astarion let out an exasperated sigh. “You two couldn’t have held off for one more tenday?” he demanded.  No, Nyrra signed with a sweet smile. Gale chuckled softly, pressed a kiss to her fingers, and let them go. She fought down the lovesick feeling of her heart turning over in her chest. “Awwww,” Karlach said across the fire. She grinned wide at Nyrra when the two met each others’ eyes. “You’re adorable, the two of you. And you won me five gold.”

Important update: I'm pretty sure I've burned out on this story, so I'll be reevaluating some stuff over the next week. Expect a chapter Wednesday, as per usual, and hopefully I'll have more info then. :)

[liesmyth]

Thinking about the nature of John Gaius' powers: There's a duality to them. There's death energy but also life energy. He can stop hearts but also stop decay.

So, John's powers were, at the very least, on the way towards allowing him to recreate what his cryno project was attempting to do. The whole point of the project was to put people into a death-like state where food/water/waste/etc isn't a concern so that they could be packed into spaceships like sardines and moved to another planet.

John would need ships - and you don't get ships without some form of government, even if it was one John established himself - and the ability to revive people across distance (which John probably wasn't able to do early on), but I can see a plan John could have pursued if he'd prioritized saving people over retribution.

Alecto effectively gave him the power to do his cryno plan.

I LOVE that we still don’t know the full scope of his powers. Very cool, very scary. Whatever they are, they clearly go far beyond necromancy / thanergy, and probably did so from the start. However, I’m actually not that sure that Alecto bestowed those powers on John deliberately, and I tend to see it as a mixed blessing even in the best circumstances (and a horrible gamble in most of them).

IMO, the biggest sticking point is this: at one point, John was always going to get to the stage where the next step would be to “reach for the soul” and find Alecto; and I’m not sure he could have been able to handle that. In canon it happened in a moment of incredible stress, watching a close friend commit suicide in front of him, and he went absolutely insane.

From the way John’s POV describes it, though, I think it would have been overwhelming no matter what. Even if there had been no conflicts with the ships, no cow wall, even if he had agreed to go along with C— plan and try to freeze the ice caps instead of focusing on revenge... would he still have felt the screaming soul of the Earth, and melted the poles in a moment of overwhelmed terror, just to make it stop?

To me, John’s backstory is less about how his human failings brought about the apocalypse, and more about how a random well-meaning human can’t handle that amount of power and come out of it still recognisable. I think he was always going to destroy the world, one way or the other. John’s personal failings shape the way the Earth died, and the next ten thousand years of his life; but I don’t think it actually made much of a difference to Earth’s ultimate fate. He was always going to destroy it, one way or the other.

(On John’s specific powers: I’m also not sure if they were intentional on Alecto’s part, manifested that way because the Earth was dying [= thanegery] or because he was wrapped up in a project that involved dead bodies. But, even if he had been able to develop his powers to a point where he would go from controlling the dead to being able to put billions of living humans in suspended animation at no risk to their health... would that state have “kept” if the entire population had left Earth? He hadn’t eaten Alecto yet, and we know necromancy doesn’t work in space.)

Anyway. I think it would be possible that under the right specific super ideal circumstances, something good might have come of Alecto choosing a human to channel her powers; but it was a one in a billion chance. But I think it’s more in line with the themes of TLT — the Greek tragedy of it all! — that humans have very little agency when gods decide to interfere, and are just not meant to be receptacles of divine powers. If it hadn’t been John, it would have been someone else. If it hadn’t been the ships, it would’ve been something else. I think they were always doomed.

[sea-side-scribbles]

Solas wakes up in the strange new world of his own making and it terrifies him. Ridden with guilt, he joins the Inquisition and begins his lonely research in order to correct his mistake.

He doesn’t expect to find consolation in the presence of a human who wields ancient elven magic without knowing it. Who is way too gentle for an elgar’thanelan, but doesn’t know that either.

Solas, for his part, doesn’t know how to stay away.

Dorian wonders if the mysterious elf just enjoys playing with a Tevinter. He wouldn’t expect anything else.

_____________________

Chapter 1- 13 | Right after uthenera, Solas is found by a Dalish clan. This goes well until it doesn’t. (Basically my excuse for world building and hilarious misunderstandings.)

Chapter 14 | Solas joins the Inquisition.

Chapter 20 | Dorian appears in Haven.

Chapter 28

The group had to move on for quite a while until Dorian sensed the odd kind of panic without having to strain himself. He didn't actually need more proof for Solas' uncanny grasp on the fade, but it was nevertheless fascinating, even if eerie. Almost captivating. Dorian's attention was drawn to the elf more and more. Maker, he even forgot to comment on the ugly weather that ruined his hairstyle – not that it suffered an embarrassing state anyway since he came to Ferelden. His attention of course remained completely professional – Solas' magical abilities were remarkable.

While studying him, he noted other interesting aspects. The elf's smooth movements, his ability to stay quiet and unnoticed while also – strutting, in a sense. With his naked toes over pebbles and roots. Perhaps that came naturally to elves? He kept his back straight and chest out, albeit not in a stiff manner like Cassandra would. The warrior, always ready to strike, lacked a certain nonchalance. Solas's movements, on the contrary, were fluent, even when he cast spells. He didn't act like an untrained mage.

Whenever the group encountered more undead, Dorian could watch Solas' magic. And he knew how apprentices moved – those stiff postures with too many pauses to think about the next move, their spell combos creative at best and counterproductive at worst – of course depending on the student, but one simply couldn't expect the sort of elegance and confidence the elf put on display. Surely, Solas wasn't a teenager anymore. But wasn't he supposed to be an autodidact?

The little flare he made with the staff before casting, as if he redirected ambient energy to his aura. It was a Tevinter technique. Who would've taught him that if not a Tevinter?

Dorian regretted that their first meeting had been, well, a disaster. There were so many questions he wished to ask. And of course, a friendly colleague would always be appreciated, especially if he was as interesting as this one.

Solas appeared somewhat curious about Necromancy, but sadly, he avoided any attempts at a thorough discussion. Rather, he settled for testing the limits of Dorian's abilities. Dorian was ready to teach him a lesson, as soon as the possibility occurred.

When Solas announced that the panic was nearby, he earned remarks from the party. “Can you sense who's feeling it?”, Varric wanted to know. “People or demons?” Solas' expression tensed shortly. Dorian noticed it since he walked right next to him. “No, I am sorry, Varric, I...” “Don't fret. Maybe it's for the best.” They gave Dorian the impression that even Varric had a secret language with Solas, after Blackwall. How did they make it? They didn't understand half of what Solas was doing!

His anger cooled down when they came upon what looked like an abandoned camp. The emotion was the strongest here, Dorian was sure it came from the menhir in the middle. Ellana already inspected it. “Maybe we should leave this be”, Blackwall suggested, keeping his distance, holding his shield up. The Herald moved carefully, visibly delighted by their find. “It's a message”, she whispered solemnly, as if she stood in front of a memorial. “Look, these runes. They are made for i've'an'ise. It's ancient elven magic.” “I believe some mages know it nowadays as veilfire”, Solas added calmly. “Ah, yes, veilfire”, Dorian had a chance to participate. “It's well-known in Tevinter. There are attempts to reestablish the use of veilfire to secure and share knowledge – and of course to translate ancient elven runes. Could it be that we're standing in front of a work of your ancestors?” “Unlikely”, Solas commented. “It feels younger. Ancient runes are faint, the memories tend to cling to their core over time.” “But it could be Dalish”, Ellana insisted.

With a swirl of her hands, she ignited the torch attached to the stone. They immediately heard the veilfire's chatter of a hundred voices, like memories of ancient conversations, their speakers long gone. Dorian had read about this, but now he heard it with his own ears for the first time. Then the next sensation washed over him. The odd panic, now sensible in all its nuances. Numbers and letters appeared in front of this eyes, repeating themselves, like a code.

”No, this is wrong!” a voice shouted in his head. Was it his own voice? He remembered scribbling numbers, over and over again, the paper crumbling under his frantic hands.

“Rearrange, try again!” It doesn't work! You have to make this work! You can't lose it again!

When he image faded, the mages looked at each other in silence. “The fuck was that?” Varric spoke first. “A memory”, Ellana explained, blinking the dizziness away. “The writer used the runes like a journal.” “I prefer paper.”

Suddenly, loud groans interrupted their musings. From all directions, corpses waded towards the party, a revenant among them. “I knew it!” Blackwall grunted. “A revenant!”, Dorian shouted. “Blackwall, get the armoured one's attention! Solas, protect him with a barrier!” He chose Solas because he had by far the strongest barriers. The elf swung his staff as Blackwall charged with a war cry. “Ellana, can you separate it from the other corpses with your vines?” The Dalish elf followed with a swing of her staff. Mud flew everywhere as the plants burst out of the ground, trapping the corpses on the other side. “Now take them out!”, Dorian shouted as he began to set rotten flesh on fire. Varric let Bianca perforate them while the other mages protected him, until they could move on and finish the revenant together.

When all corpses lay in a puddle on the ground, Ellana pushed her staff in the air, cheering happily. The triumph lifted everyone's mood despite the occasional cuts and bruises and the mud that covered their clothes. “You really know your undead!”, she praised Dorian. “Well, naturally. What kind of a Necromancer would I be if I didn't?” “Just take the compliment, princess. It looks like your useful after all.” “Warden Blackwall, I always appreciate your winsome compliments.” They laughed as Solas quietly dropped a medal in Ellana's hands. She gave him a surprised look. “Don't be too happy about it, Shiny, you don't know where that was before”, Varric quipped and earned a slap on the arm from Ellana.

“Now what exactly happened?”, Blackwall eyed the torch. “You lit the fire and those things came at us.” “I suppose the fire attracted them. They didn't exactly come for us”, Ellana answered. “Huh, if this helped clearing out the land of them, it was worth it”, Blackwall said. “I would like to read more of those runes, if there are more.” “I indeed sense another memory”, Solas confirmed. “With a strong feeling of … arrogance.” “You're standing too close to Dorian”, Blackwall commented. They laughed as said Dorian turned to Ellana. “They are in fact interesting. Perhaps we find out what the writer so desperately sought.” Varric and Blackwall looked at each other, shaking their heads. “Mages...” “....already outnumbered.”

As it was decided, Solas guided the party to the next beacon. It was where Ellana's hopes for discovering messages of her people shattered. The strong emotions of arrogance and bitterness originated from an apostate, a former mage of a Circle. Their diary described some vicious plan to “look beyond the vistas of the fade”, with the help of demons. And a certain plant. Since then, Ellana's interest in the beacon weakened, but she agreed to clean the area of undead if they came across another. She also marked the beacons on Harding's map, along with other spots they found.

They spent more time wandering on, getting rid of occasional undead until both Solas and the mark on Ellana's hand confirmed that there was a rift nearby. “Does that mean the mark is a manifestation of Rift Magic?”, Dorian succeeded to ask Solas. “Not necessarily. Magic of this power tears at the veil either way.” “Naturally, with just enough power, we could all create rifts on our own. But this seems to be specifically bound to the veil.” “Some would say only Blood Magic had such strength.” “Ah...I see. The answer to all problems. I should say I prefer the mark as it is. At least it keeps our throats intact.” Solas had nothing to add and Dorian wondered why it always came to the unpleasant topics.

Before they encountered the rift, they came across an Avvar. The first one they found in the entire Mire, and this particular giant seemed to be friendly. “Our Chieftain's son wants to fight you. I'm called in when the dead pile up”, he explained with disgust in his deep voice. He was more interested in the rifts. Claimed they were wounds in his goddess' skin. The Lady of the Skies apparently wrote warnings for him in the sky, in the form of bird flocks. “The other Avvar kidnapped an Inquisition patrol”, Ellana told him. “Are they all right?” “A few were injured in the skirmish, but they were alive last I saw them. Someone's trained them well. They killed more of us than I thought they would”, the Avvar confirmed, expressing his respect. Varric was very relieved to hear this. “Praise Curly.” “Tuelanen ama na”, Ellana made her farewells, returning her respect to the peaceful Sky Watcher, “May the creators protect you.” “Watch the water”, was his pragmatic answer.

Later, the party had to deal with the wraiths, corpses and rage demons that poured out of the rift. A very uncomfortable part of fighting demons was that they appeared randomly at any spot they fancied, making it hard to prepare and get a working formation. Dorian felt Solas' barrier around him. It had a distinct taste and smell that he felt now stronger than before, presumably because of the rift. It weakened a little when the elf fade-stepped and cast winter's grasp on the closest rage demon. When the rift was finally closed, everyone was exhausted. Dorian could feel the slump of energy when the veil closed. He stopped in his tracks, bending over and taking a few deep breaths. He wasn't the only one.

In the evening, they finally reached their new camping spot. Dorian was delighted to see that it was in a cave this time. Right under the stony canopy, he stopped and stretched his arms, head held up. “Do you feel this?”, he sighed to Ellana who watched him. She looked around. “I feel nothing.” “Exactly.”

Their meal was quieter this time. After merely chewing on beef jerky and biscuits on the way, the camp's stew was a delicacy for Dorian. He couldn't complain, was too tired to speak in general. And too hungry. The group had dissolved as well. Blackwall and Solas had separated themselves from the others again and talked quietly to each other. Dorian had a short conversation with Varric, who was obviously distracted by something and more taciturn than usual. Ellana spoke to Harding, the map rolled out on the table before them, probably debating tactics for the next day.

Dorian remembered the book he found in the house and gave it a try. He was so enthralled by the first chapter that he only looked up when it was much later at night. People had moved on from stew to mead. He heard their muffled conversations, laughter and games from within the cave. Then Solas caught his attention. The elf knelt in front of a tent to draw runes on the ground. Dorian watched him for a while. Suddenly, he felt nervous.

If he went into the tent with him right away, what would that look like? He'd prefer to have another night without noise, moisture and insects, but obviously, others deserved this favour, too. The elf disappeared into the tent, leaving Dorian to choose. Undecided, Dorian looked around, went further into the cave to see who else was about to go to sleep. It turned out that his companions were pretty occupied, Ellana had gotten Varric to play cards with her, watched by soldiers who discussed the game, and Blackwall seemed to give her advice. Nobody took notice of the Tevinter.

Dorian returned, picked up his bedroll and hesitated, pretending to check the runes. After a while, when it was either going for it or running away to hide in the Mire forever, he chose the former.

Solas sat on his bedroll, cross-legged and writing into a notebook that Dorian saw for the first time. Their eyes met. With Solas' cold facade upon him, Dorian could already hear his rejection. That watery Haven-mead suddenly looked a lot more inviting. “Would you mind if I...?”, he said since Solas refused to speak for some reason. The elf still held off his answer, staring Dorian down, slowly letting his book sink. Dorian lost his nerve. “I see”, he said and retreated.

Outside, with his heart pounding in his chest, he was ready to down one mead after the other until he'd pass out in a corner. Then he heard the voice. “Dorian...” A little urgent, but nevertheless softer, friendly even. Dorian turned around. For the first time, Solas seemed to lift his head to look at him, instead of sneering down through squinted eyelids. He appeared to search for something in his features. Again with the staring. Dorian tilted his head, biting down any remarks.

“I just wanted to say...You are allowed to sleep wherever you like, so...choose as you will...” Solas' gaze avoided him, wandered to his feet, as if awaiting -what? An uproar? Demons falling from the sky? Dorian could use some now. “Solas, I won't do this without your consent. And I really don't mind”, he pressed out, trying to help. This elf struggled to reject, perhaps for courtesy reasons? Although courtesy had never stopped him before. Was it something elven? Whatever it was, Dorian didn't have the strength to dance and play.

“Well...you...have my consent”, Solas said and folded his arms behind his back. His eyes met Dorian's again, expression surprisingly neutral after all the sneers and stares. The gesture had something final. Now Dorian stared. There was no way out of this situation, not without insulting Solas. That elf was either horrible at rejection or...

Before Dorian could end his thoughts, Solas turned around and went back into the tent, without granting him another look. Dorian considered to leave. But again, it would be an insult. And he wanted to avoid any rumours about the evil Tevinter disrespecting elves.

Back inside, Solas was busy with his notes again. He shortly looked up, only moving his eyes, before he turned back to the book. Dorian carefully spread his bedroll next to him, leaving as much space between them as possible and lay down. The quiet scratching of the pencil on paper was the only sound in the tent. He wished to say something, but also feared to ruin the peace they had accomplished. He wondered if he could continue their chat about magic, since that had worked out well enough.

“Good work with your rifts there....they effectively amplified my spells”, he finally brought out, after clearing his throat. The scratching stopped. It was quiet for an unbearable amount of time before Solas answered: “You deserve credit, Dorian, for warning us about the revenant.” As a reflex, Dorian waved him off. “Ah, that was simple enough, merely textbook procedure...” Silence ensued, then the pencil scratched again. Ridiculous to think the elf would continue to praise him. But completely no reaction?

Dorian tried again: “I wonder, did you sense the demon in the revenant's corpse?” The scratching stopped again. “Why do you ask?” There was an undertone that made Dorian uncomfortable. Still, he went on: “You work with spirits, too, in your own way. You successfully communicate with them to retrieve the medals for Ellana.” “Because they radiate strong emotions.” “I assume a rage demon would do that, too.” “What are you trying to accomplish, Dorian? Do you wish to lessen your impact on our victory?” “I would never! I'm quite fond of my abilities myself. I'm only curious...” Another moment of silence followed. Solas didn't appear to cater to his curiosity, as he never did. Eventually, Dorian worked up the courage to say: “Your technique is Tevene.” Solas had enough interest to look up from his notes. “Anything specific on your mind?” “You're redirecting ambient energy to your personal aura. I haven't seen anyone in this part of the world do it.” “The technique is not Tevene, it is elven.” “Oh, that means we...nevermind...”

In the now awkward pause, Dorian wished to cut out his tongue and feed it to the druffalos outside.

“Do you have a good memory, Dorian?”, Solas suddenly asked. Dorian lifted his head. The elf looked at his notes, eyes squinted, as if he focused on something. “The first veilfire runes...I cannot remember their exact shape...” Then he shook his head and turned the book around, so the Tevinter could see the pages. Dorian was surprised by a detailed drawing of the menhir, with textures, ivy leaves and the landscape around it. He had drawn the runes, too, but a few parts were missing. “If I remember correctly...” Dorian sat up and reached for Solas' pencil. After a second of hesitation, Solas handed it out while holding the book. Carefully, Dorian sketched the runes, wondering why they of all things where what the elf struggled to memorize. “There, with the circles and the twirl to to left...” Dorian gave the pencil back. Solas studied the outcome before he said: “Thank you.”

“Is there anything you can't do?” Dorian marvelled at the finished drawing. The elf, once again, took his time for his answer. “Antivan character dance”, he then said without looking at him. “Ah, well, aren't they taught this at a very young age? It's no shame to be unable to reproduce that...” Solas chuckled. Dorian wasn't sure he had ever seen him smile before. “You are well acquainted with dances, I presume?” The elf's tone was softer now. “Certainly, it's part of my education as the spoiled Altus progeny I am...” Solas looked up from his notes. “You are an Altus?” “Well, yes.” Dorian stretched himself, appreciating the sudden attention. “Can't you tell it by my delicate features and perfect proportions, the result of centuries-long, meticulous breeding?” The elf ignored that. “It means your ancestors were dreamers.” “That is true. Sadly, this talent has faded away over time. I'm not a dreamer, just in case you entertained the idea.”

Solas seemed to think about this information. Dorian caught himself looking at the little wrinkles on his furrowed brow. They were almost endearing. “If you like to know more about Tevinter, or about me, just ask. I will exert myself to answer all your questions to your full satisfaction”, Dorian offered, feeling more comfortable now. “I would like to finish my thoughts first...”, Solas replied, continuing to write. Or draw. “Of course.” Dorian tried not to show his disappointment. The scratching on papier continued. The sound was unexpectedly soothing. Dorian closed his eyes and relaxed, waiting for Solas to finish. He didn't notice when he fell asleep.

[thesoulspulse]

Owen's Timeline (Part 3 ~ Teenager Continued...)

And here we have Part 3 of Owen's timeline basically summarizing the rest of the most important events so far in his first story arc.

Owen senses something is amiss about their visitor and rushes down to warn Vlad, horrified to find that it's the same Wraith in disguise who tried to kill him too that fateful day. At the same time Vlad realizes she must have killed the investigator at some point to get those files so she could personally deliver them to Vlad, thereby getting a shot at Owen again too.

Owen's powers start going off wildly in response to seeing his parents murderer and this time the power is so concentrated even Vlad can see those butterflies swarming around him to create a barrier. Taking advantage of the distraction while the Wraith is fixated on Owen -who isn't acting like himself- Vlad attacks her. Then Danny shows up after using Vlad's ghost portal as a shortcut inside and lends Vlad a hand keeping the Wraith busy.

Owen's consciousness is temporarily taken over by the collective memories of all his past lives and tells Danny about Revenants/Living Ghosts who are people who have died but returned to life again.

He also mentions how Danny is “marked by Death” too which is an important detail to keep in mind for later.

Lastly this entity temporarily awakens Danny's ice powers from within his ghost core which he uses to help pin down the Wraith long enough for Owen to banish it.

After the fight Danny tells Vlad about the occult website with haunted photos on it, one of which happens to be of Azrael/Kurst and Owen.

While staying at the Regal Hotel Vlad and Owen get a call about ravens circling the mansion who were most likely called there by Owen's Necromancy powers but Vlad refused to go back to make sure of that since they might be spies working for Azrael/Kurst. (Note: Owen will get his own Familiar later on though.) Also Vlad was half right, some of them were spies and helped track down Eris so he could hold her hostage and entice Owen to come looking for her.

Two days later they go back to the mansion and that night Owen discovers another new power, the ability to use astral projection to separate his soul/consciousness from his body while his body is still alive.

The next day Owen calls Danny and finds out Azrael's name, a part of him unconsciously remembering that's actually the name of an Angel of Death and not his real one which we later find out is actually Kurst.

Owen confronts Vlad shortly after for not telling him Eris had been reported missing. They sort things out then decide to visit Salem in search for answers, hoping to find Eris too.

As soon as Vlad and Owen get there they discover the entire town has been put to sleep by Nocturne, the Ghost of Sleep. Vlad takes Owen back to his childhood home there to escape notice. And while there Owen starts to wonder if his mother knew more about their family ties to necromancy than she let on before she died.

Owen suggests summoning Nocturne to save them both a lot of time and effort wandering around Salem, insisting that the sooner they get the town back to normal the sooner they can get back to searching for Eris and answers about his connection to Azrael

The summoning works but sadly Nocturne breaks free due to Owen's inexperience and Vlad gets knocked out from a nasty blow to the head. Meanwhile Owen astral projects out of his body to escape and takes refuge in his mother's antique shop. There he's found by Eris who managed to escape from Azrael earlier by magically transforming into a cat and she hangs up on his call to Danny asking for help, insisting on telling him the truth about herself at last.

Danny, Sam, and Tucker manage to convince Frostbite to let them borrow the Infimap to reach Salem sooner via a nearby ghost portal and make it to the antique store just before Owen's spirit is forced to return to his body.

Meanwhile Vlad is trapped in a dream until he's shocked awake by it taking a very sudden dark turn and sees the aftermath of Azrael controlling Owen and making him use his powers to utterly defeat Nocturne before Danny and the rest of the gang get there.

Owen wakes up inside some sort of ritual chamber and meets Azrael again face to face who tells him everything. About how they were friends in his past life and made a blood pact as children that has kept them connected all these years, making Azrael a ghost while Owen was reincarnated into who he is now 400 years later.

Azrael tells Owen they're going to destroy the council after his awakening once they renew their blood pact. But Owen remembers the tracker Vlad gave him and uses it to give the others a heads up to where he is.

While Vlad and Danny confront Azrael, Sam and Tucker sneak down to Owen's location but unfortunately are unable to free him and he ends up dangerously close to dying, meeting a Shadow of Death who reveals his destiny to stop Lilith, Azrael's real name, Kurst, and Death's part in creating the Ghost Zone to protect ghosts from becoming one of her Wraiths and destroying the living world.

Sam manages to resuscitate Owen after he had stopped breathing and he rushes off to confront Kurst, saving Vlad's life and then using the same dagger that Kurst killed him with in his past life after being tricked by the council to remake their pact but on his terms, not Kurst's. This releases an incomplete Wraith from Kurst's heart which Owen destroys by incinerating it's core with his now fully awakened necromancer powers.

Two days later Owen wakes up and Vlad tells him about his plans to officially adopt him and help solve the rest of this mystery about the council's schemes and the master of the Wraiths which Owen hasn't told Vlad anything about yet since they've been through enough recently without adding more fuel to the fire so to speak.

Then they pay Owen's parents a visit at the graveyard before heading back to Wisconsin to prepare for the charity event.

Eris lays low at the mansion though since she's still considered a missing person and doesn't want to work for the council anymore after learning what they did to Kurst and Owen 400 years ago.

The charity event starts off smoothly until social workers come for Owen, telling them the director of Mistveil has been arrested because he's suspected to be behind a bunch of recent kidnappings so they have to take him into protective custody. They have until after the event is over so Vlad asks Danny for help again searching for clues about what's really going on.

They soon discover through the combined efforts of Eris's shadow along with Danny, Sam, Tucker, and a vision from Owen that seven people had snuck into the building who had been given orders by one of the council members to capture Owen along with several other children from Mistveil suspected of being gifted as well. They even mistook Danny as one of them earlier and tried to corner him but they got away.

After leaving Owen in their care for the time being Vlad tracks down four of the impostors who attempt to force the social workers to leave the building while posing as fake security guards. Vlad fights against their magic and wins, immediately teleporting to where Owen and the others are to help them detain the final three intruders.

Once the intruders are arrested Vlad convinces the police to send patrols to keep an eye on the Mistveil kids for their protection instead of sending them to a shelter so whoever is already staying in a foster home won't have to deal with the stress of unnecessarily being taken away from a familiar setting, promising to hire more security in his mansion for Owen too.

His timeline ends there for now but I'll make a Part 4 of this once the sequel is finished!

[omoghouls]

Do you have any omo thoughts about Emmrich?

OH HELL YEAH I DO- LOEV THAT GILF OF A NECROMANCER (I'm not too far into the game and only recently got Emmerich on my team aaa )

- This man tends to forget his needs. Seeing as he's a renowned professor of necromancy, it's incredibly common to see him up late into the night working on projects or grading pupils work.

Of course, manfred is ever so kind to make Emmerich tea- which kind but also whoops the man was so into his work that he's dranken the whole pot. Now he's working under candlelight, shifting every couple of minutes as his bladder is begging for relief. Ofc, Emmerich is aware of this ache, this need to go, but he has to get these papers graded before dawn if he wants his students ready for the next class!

Anyways, this is why manfred has started storing away clean pants in his ribcage, for moments where Emmerich gets too enthralled in his work and ends up wet-

- Also, you can not tell me this man doesn't get the occasional nightmare that causes me to wet the bed! Like, sure, he's gotten comfortable with spirits, but there have to be some malevolent ones that linger in his mind and give him some scary dream-

- I like to pretend he use to have a more elaborate outfit but then all those belts or buttons on his pants had him go for a bit more elegant yet not "Oh god I'm going to piss myself before I get these pants off" look♡

[pacificwaternymph]

"I know you're there, Scott." Delilah shut her book and glared at the corner, where the dark purple, wavy aura of perpetual misery that seemed to be the necromancer's default hung around seemingly nothing.

She didn't get a response, predictably, and sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. "I may not be able to see you, but I can sense your emotions. You're not nearly as subtle as you think you are."

That drew a reaction. Scott groaned, and a second later appeared from a cloud of smoke, perfectly visible once more. Delilah laughed, standing up and brushing imaginary dust off of her pants.

"If you were hoping to eavesdrop on my next appointment, I'm afraid you'll have to try harder than that," She said, grinning. Scott just pouted in response, crossing his arms petulantly.

"I wasn't trying to spy on you..." he muttered, not that Delilah believed him for a moment. She had put up wards all around her property to alert her when someone entered her house for a reason.

"Right..." Delilah didnt say anything else and waited, one moment, two.

"But... just out of.... pure curiosity, who is your next appointment?"

Delilah rolled her eyes, and considered him for a moment. It seemed unwise to tell him, but at the same time, she'd already caught him once. He was unlikely to try to pull the same stunt twice in a day, especially when she'd just proven several of his usual methods useless.

"You're out of luck. They don't come for another hour, I'm just catching up on notes." She scooped her spellbook off of the chair and held it up for emphasis. "And it's Joey."

Actually, it was no one at all. Delilah didn't have any appointments scheduled on Sundays. She'd promised herself one day a week away from the drama and the high tensions that constantly cut through the battlegrounds of the supreme witch tournament. But Scott didn't know that, and Joey's name was the most likely to draw a reaction.

If he was already here, Delilah reasoned, she might as well try to make a little progress. She could hear a voice that sounded suspiciously like Pyrite berating her for working on her day off, but what could she say? She was invested in these particular clients.

Sure enough, Scott's lip curled up in a sneer at the mention of the only other male contestant.

"Oh. Him," he growled, looking much more displeased than he had a moment earlier.

"What's that look for?" Delilah asked, despite knowing exactly what it was for. "I thought the two of you had struck a truce."

"We did," Scott looked away, still scowling. "But that doesn't mean I have to like him."

Delilah shrugged. "Fair enough." She gestured towards the couch, an invitation for Scott to sit down which he ignored. After a moment of watching him, Delilah just snorted and plopped herself back down in her armchair. "You know it really is a shame the two of you don't get along better."

"What do you mean?" Scott asked, immediately defensive. Delilah just gave him her most innocent look.

"I only mean that you two have a lot more in common than you might think." Not that either of them were willing to admit it. Delilah felt a spike of repulsion at even the idea that the two of them could share anything radiate from her client. The aura around Scott's head became sharper, choppier.

Delilah countered it, projecting as much tranquility as she could to gently smooth it back down. Her eyes started heating up.

Scott sniffed, clearly sensing what she was doing but saying nothing. "How so?"

Oh, where to start. She could go into detail about how Scott and Joey both seemed to really resonate with her own story. Joey had told her many times how he was kicked out of his own home for having fire magic, usually as a segway as to why he was determined to become Supreme Witch.

Scott had never explicitly said anything about mistreatment at the hands of other witches, but Delilah wasn't blind. She knew of the taboo around necromancy. He didn't have to say anything for her to know that he wasn't used to receiving a warm welcome for his magic.

But she couldn't get into that without revealing details about Joey's life that weren't hers to share. So instead, she thought for a moment about what else she could say.

"You're both stuck in the past," she finally settled on. "So... determined to win back what you once had that you completely miss what's right in front of you."

Was it a little blunt? Yes. But it was true. Joey was so certain that becoming supreme witch would earn him the love of his family and the other ice witches. Delilah wasn't so sure, but he was dead set on it. And Scott...

She could feel as the openness created by her influence over him slammed shut. His face scrunched up, and his shoulders hunched.

"We're nothing alike," he hissed. "Joey is arrogant and conceited. Whatever he's trying to get back could never compare to what I've lost."

"I know you miss him," Delilah said, her voice softer now. "There is nothing wrong with grieving the loss of someone close to you. But what you are doing is not grieving. You have not allowed yourself to move past the first stage, and as such have not had the proper time to process your feelings and learn to let go. There are many things in your life that could bring you joy if you would let them. But the past is long gone, and clinging to it won't do any good."

It was a speech she'd given many times to many people over the years. She'd given a similar one to Joey just a few days prior. But for Scott... for someone with his abilities, the promise of being able to bring him back made him especially unable to move on. It worried Delilah.

"And I know, I know. Easier said than done. But that's why I'm here, remember? I want to help you, Scott. Are you going to let me?"

Scott didn't immediately blow up in her face, which was already a good sign of the progress they'd made. But she still felt his resistance, his unwilling give up his pursuit.

"I should go," he said eventually, instead of answering. "I've bothered you long enough. Sorry for trying to... ya know, eavesdrop."

"Yes, please don't do that again," Delilah shook her head and stood up, walking over to the door. "And next time, if you need to talk to me and can't wait for our next session, I would appreciate a heads up. We'll work something out."

Scott followed her awkwardly. "Right... sorry." Delilah saw the sickly gray-blue of guilt start to bleed out from the center of his aura. She relented and sighed.

"I forgive you. Just... keep those things in mind, okay?" She opened the door. Scott nodded silently and trudged out, feeling far more melancholy than he had when he came in.

Delilah watched him go. As he reached her front gate, she huffed, her eyes flashing, and a slight pink surrounded him. Nothing serious, just a slight boost to lift his spirits. It would dissipate shortly, but it would at least give him some time to recover from what turned out to be a much heavier conversation than she thought it would be.

Delilah closed the door, and went back for her spellbook, already calling her wand to her so that she could write log the day's events.

@amostfoolishgold

[g0ry-gh0ul]

Hungry are the Damned

As promised, here's the gross and fucked up Mary fic lmao. Thanks to everyone who wanted me to post it, y'all are sweet! I haven't written anything in 10 months so I hope it isn't too shabby.

Tags/warnings: Necromancy, zombies, graphic depictions of violence, blood & gore, body horror, cannibalism, major character death, pov character death. Dead Dove: Do Not Eat.

Read on AO3 if you like:

Fic under the cut.

Night has fallen over the forest as Mary’s boots crunch through the underbrush, loud amidst the quiet of the evening. It’s nearing midnight, and darkness clings to the landscape, broken only by moonlight filtering through the dense trees. A light breeze barely rustles the leaves overhead, deepening the chill of early autumn.

A relatively new recruit of the Ministry, Mary has come into a somewhat unusual occupation—necromancy. Or rather, he will come into the occupation if he manages not to fuck up his first real assignment. They’ve read plenty of theory, and practiced on chickens and goats, so really, how much harder can it be to revive a human corpse? Much harder, Sister Imperator’s voice echoes in Mary’s head. She’d warned them (looking not at all confident in Mary’s necromantic abilities) that humans prove much more difficult to handle once resurrected than simpler animals—volatile, she’d said. Dangerous. A brief flash of nervousness turns Mary’s stomach, but they ignore it, cranking up the volume on the old Nihilist demo blasting through their janky headphones.

Finally, the forest grows sparser and the graveyard comes into view, nestled behind a quaint Victorian-era church. Hopping the rusty fence surrounding the mismatched array of headstones, Mary makes their way through the overgrown yard, scanning headstones until they find the one they’re looking for. It’s no more ornate than any of the others, and nothing about it stands out as unique or important—no pentagrams or Baphomets or anything. Mary kneels next to the headstone and squints at the engravings, trying to discern any clues as to why this particular corpse is worth the Ministry’s trouble, but to no avail. Shrugging, he pulls his headphones down around his neck and gets to work.

Mary rifles around in his numerous pockets for the materials required for the ritual: a lighter, a bundle of herbs, and a small, scuffed-up book containing the necessary Latin incantations (his cheat sheet, Mary calls it).

The lighter clicks as he sets fire to the herbs and sets them on the ground in front of the headstone. Reaching under their jacket, Mary draws a wickedly sharp bowie knife from a holster at their lower back. The silver blade glints in the moonlight, and Mary wastes no time in slicing it across their left palm, letting the blood drip onto the burning herbs. They wipe the leftover blood on their already filthy jeans and re-sheath the knife. Now for the fun part.

Mary picks up the book and starts flipping through the pages, searching for the right spell. “Ah shit, where was it…?” he mumbles, flipping past the spells for goat and chicken resurrection. “Okay, yeah. Right here. Got it.”

Squinting at his own nearly-illegible handwriting to make sure he isn’t about to revive any farm animals, Mary begins to recite the Latin incantation from the book, stumbling over some of the words. Hopefully flawless pronunciation isn’t required.

A gust of wind extinguishes the burning herbs as Mary finishes reading, and they glance around apprehensively. Everything is very still and silent for a long moment, and they start to worry they’ve fucked the spell up. Right as Mary is about to try reading the spell again to see if it works better the second time around, a hand shoots up from under the ground, dirt crunching around it. Mary yelps and scrambles backward, nearly smacking his head on another gravestone.

The hand is gray and bony, with long, dirty fingernails and peeling skin. It is (as expected) connected to the rest of a corpse, which slowly drags itself up from beneath the ground. The zombie is desiccated, what remains of its moldering skin stretched taut over its bones. Its eyeballs have rotted out of its skull and its lips are pulled back to reveal discolored teeth. Its joints creak and pop loudly as it pulls itself the rest of the way above ground, chunks of dirt and tufts of grass falling off it with every move. Mary scrambles to their feet and stares, wide-eyed in both horror and fascination.

“Hey, so, uh… I hate to disturb you, but—”

The zombie makes a horrible screeching, growling sound. Mary swallows nervously and forges on.

“Listen, I’m just the messenger. It wasn’t my idea to dig up your old bones. And I sympathize, man, I really do. One time my friend woke me up before 10 when I was hungover, I clocked her in the face and broke her nose. Payed the hospital bills though, don’t worry, I’m not a complete asshole. Anyway, what I’m trying to say is, I’ll make this real easy for you. All ya gotta do is–”

The zombie takes a step towards them, rumbling in a distinctly displeased manner. Mary glances over their shoulder, very much wishing at this moment that he’d brought backup. A ghoul would be very helpful right now. Preferably a particularly vicious one. With giant teeth. Mary sighs, resigned to his plight of trying to reason with a corpse, and continues.

“-All ya gotta do is come with me, meet the higher-ups, and do whatever it is they want. They all seem to think you’re real important. Once they’re done with ya you’ll be back six feet under. Scout’s honor.” Mary holds up three fingers in a Boy Scout’s salute.

The zombie tilts its head to the side with a crackling sound, seemingly considering. Then it lunges forward, latching its teeth onto Mary’s shoulder.

“JESUS CHRIST!!” Mary shrieks, tripping and falling backward over a headstone and taking the zombie with him. The zombie doesn’t let go, and Mary attempts to pry its jaws open, to no avail. They kick the zombie in the ribcage, their heavy steel-toed boot connecting noisily with the zombie’s emaciated chest, and it goes flying, taking a sizable chunk of flesh from Mary’s shoulder with it.

The zombie stands back up, blood now dripping from its teeth down its rotting chin. It levels its nonexistent gaze on Mary, who is staggering to their feet, glaring back at it.

“Dude,” Mary pants. “What the fuck.”

This assignment is not going at all the way he’d hoped. He draws his knife again and brandishes it at the zombie with a sigh. He really does not have time for this shit.

“Look, can we maybe not do this? My band’s got a gig Saturday, and they’ll be royally pissed if their vocalist gets eaten by a goddamn zombie before then.”

The zombie, unsympathetic to Mary’s musical endeavors, lunges forward—directly into his knife, which makes contact with a wet crunch. Mary drags the knife upward, snapping several of the zombie’s ribs until its torso is nearly split in half. The zombie makes a rattling, gurgling sound somewhat akin to a laugh. Mary’s blood runs cold and he attempts to yank his knife back, but finds it stuck.

The zombie shoves Mary back onto the ground, gnashing its teeth. Mary grabs it by its neck and tries to keep it at arms length so it can’t bite their face off, but instead it rakes its long nails down Mary’s face, leaving several bloody gashes. Mary screams and manages to snap the zombie’s neck.

The zombie falls to the ground next to him, where it lays still. Mary thinks—rather ridiculously, given the circumstances—how embarrassing it’s going to be to face Imperator after this. He’s barely finished the thought when the zombie—because of fucking course a broken neck wouldn’t slow it down—grabs Mary by the throat and lifts him off the ground.

The zombie’s neck is bent at a full 90 degree angle, and the moonlight illuminates the blood smeared across its mouth in a gleefully macabre imitation of a smile. Mary chokes helplessly and tries in vain to pry the zombie’s hands away from their neck. Don’t panic! he thinks to himself, but he’s starting to get a really sick feeling about this whole thing, their heart pounding like it’s trying to bust out of their ribcage.

The zombie throws Mary onto the ground like a ragdoll and their head smacks against the dirt hard enough that they black out for a couple seconds. When they come to, every nerve in their body is exploding with pain and for a moment they can’t figure out what’s happening; it feels like they’re being burned alive. The zombie gurgles and Mary realizes with nauseating horror that its teeth are sunk into his stomach, ravenously tearing into flesh. Its teeth make wet, crunching sounds as it feeds. Mary screams in agony, tears mixing with the blood streaming down their face and obscuring their vision. They kick weakly at the zombie, but to no avail—any movement sends the pain in their abdomen coursing from head to toe and threatening to knock them unconscious, and the zombie was more than a match for Mary even before they were bleeding out on the dirt.

Mary chokes on a sob and blood fills his mouth, thick and metallic. He coughs and gasps for air, blood splattering over his lips, and fumbles in his jacket pocket for his lighter. He can’t die like this, this is so fucking lame. Pathetic. All his own fault, really. Shaky fingers close around the lighter, and Mary brings it up over the preoccupied zombie’s head. It takes several clumsy attempts before they manage to turn the flame on, and as their clammy, trembling fingers scramble with the lighter Mary prays earnestly to Satan below—please, please, please don’t let me die like this. Please.

It takes a horrible few moments before the fire catches, and Mary’s head pounds as they try to focus on anything but the zombie’s head disappearing further and further into their stomach, teeth scraping against bone and slurping up pooling blood.

Slowly, finally, the flame begins to lick over the zombie’s decaying skin. Every millisecond that the zombie doesn’t notice and continues tearing into Mary’s insides is fucking biblically hellish and they realize they’re screaming, their own voice sounding very far away. Maybe he’s been screaming this whole time.

The zombie finally takes notice of the fire as its face begins to be consumed by it, and roars in confusion, finally pulling away from Mary’s decimated stomach. For a split second, before its head is fully ignited and the fire begins to take over the rest of its body, Mary notes with no panic left inside him that its jaws are full of meat. The zombie falls backward in a cacophony of inhuman shrieks, the smoke from the burning corpse drifting up into the starry sky.

The pain isn’t so bad anymore. Mary’s arms and legs are tingling, and mostly he just feels woozy. Everything is wet, warm and wet and sticky, and he doesn’t try lifting a hand to touch the gaping wound in his abdomen. Doesn’t know if he could move if he wanted to. Mary stares up at the inky sky and wonders vaguely if he’s seeing double or if there were always that many stars.

A crow caws twice in the distance, and everything is dark.

[wildechild17]

Mag 7 wip

something I'm working on as a side project for NaNo, decided I'd share a little (not really) excerpt here, just because i could

Sam Chisolm wasn’t sure what he’d expected, but as he stood in the sparsely decorated apartment in London, it wasn’t… this.

It was, in fact, sparse. There was a small kitchen, a couch with a pullout that looked slept in, a bathroom, and a tiny closet. It was by no means a luxury place, but it was just one level above being condemned, if you asked Sam.

The man’s heart broke a little as he took it in. There was no sign of the occupant he was looking for, not that he knew who he was looking for—his boss had simply given him this address and said the person who lived here would be a good addition to the team if Sam could convince them.

Given the fact of who the rest of the team was made up of, Sam had two guesses as to whose place he was standing in. Past experiences told him one was more likely than the other.

Something caught his eye, a leatherbound book sitting among the blankets on the pullout. Curious, Sam wandered over, reaching for the book. He flipped through it, noting it was some mix between a journal and a scrapbook. The first entry dated back to just over eleven years ago, and Sam couldn’t help but read.

9-29-12

I’ve always known my family had powers… how could I not, when mom uses hers to heal those in our family, and when both she and gran have told me about other members of our… bloodline? Apparently, the blood is important… and their abilities.

I just assumed, like everyone before me, that it skipped generations… Instead, I woke up this morning with my own abilities. Powers… magic? I like the idea of calling it magic. Who knows, I may have them sooner and didn’t realize it… Skipper had died during the night, and when mom and Aunt Elenore asked who I was greeting this morning because to them it was empty air… I told them Skip, and I was then informed he’d passed in his sleep, so how could I be seeing him?

One quick test later, my mom declared that a) I had magic, and b) it could be classified as necromancy. That’s… a terrifying, truthfully, prospect, but… I can handle it. I hope.

At least it’s the weekend before fall break, so mom can help me figure out how to start managing it. I’m in senior year, so it’s not like I’ll have to hide it from the others as school for long. If I go to college, I can get by with strictly online classes, I think.

Mom suggested I use a journal to track my progress, but I’ve never been the best at keeping records, even school wise. Hopefully with something to keep track of, that’ll change.

I’ll make another entry when something of importance happens, I guess.

10-10-12   10-9-12/10-10-12

What the fuck is my life, truly?

With the influx of my powers, came something else… my memories. I guess necromancy and reincarnation can go hand in hand, because this isn’t the first time I’ve lived. I started having dreams and flashbacks during break, of an older version of myself set back in the Wild West. I thought it was just some weird dream/fantasy thing since… well, since I’m sort of obsessed with that era, anyways, but… no. It all came rushing back to me, today, during fifth period, which is my study block this year.

We got a new student… which, in a small town like Salem, is kind of a cause for chatter, and I wasn’t really paying attention until the guy sat next to me. When I finally looked at him…

Son of a bitch… it’s Vasquez. It all came back to me—Sam Chisolm, Rose Creek, Bart Bogue…

I’m… sort of embarrassed to say that I had a total breakdown right then and there. Mom actually had to come and pick me up early, it was so bad. It’s super late (early?), right now, almost three in the morning, and I’ve been catatonic all afternoon, according to her. So, I guess all these events really happened yesterday?

I’m getting distracted… I told her what had happened, what’s been happening, and she… didn’t seem totally surprised. Fact is, she’s the one who gave me the idea that my reincarnation ties in with my powers. Something about death being involved, which… makes sense, in a weird way.

Mom offered to keep me out of school for the rest of the week, so I can recover, but… I don’t want to do that. Maybe a day or two, but not a week. I want to talk to Vas so I can Vasquez, so I can sort of explain things to him. Hopefully, it’ll go well…

10-13-12 Update: It… I didn’t explain the powers thing to him. I didn’t want to freak him out, but I did tell him why I had my breakdown on Monday. He understood, because when his memories came back to him, he was a wreck for a while too.

He came over for the afternoon, and mom and Aunt Elenore absolutely fell in love with him. Bastard put on the damn charm. We didn’t get any schoolwork done, not like we really planned to, but we did catch up on things. What’s been going on in our modern lives, and he told me a little about what happened after I died in Rose Creek… His family travels a lot in this life, for his dad’s work. He’s got two siblings, an older sister and younger brother. I couldn’t resist and had to make a crack about his ‘three Maria’s’… he asked where mine was.

… I told him Maria died when we were kids. He sobered up pretty quick… guess he could tell it was a sore subject.

Anyways… my magic practice is progressing well. Right now, I can just see spirits, which is weird because they look like just regular people—for the most part. I’ve seen a few grisly sights, but I’m learning how to pick their energies apart from the living, so I don’t make a fool of myself in public.

Oddly enough, Vasquez has a couple ghosts hanging around him…

Sam flipped through the journal, heart twisting in his chest as he noticed a few entries more prominent than others. One, over Christmas break, detailing why Vasquez had ghosts—his father was a hunter of the supernatural, and the revelation apparently caused a rift between the two boys before Vasquez’s father himself had put things to right. He’d put the hunting behind him and was trying to settle down with his family… he could have never expected his son to befriend a witch—which, that had led to Joshua admitting about himself…

Prom. They stopped dancing around their feelings for each other and became official, and that entry made Sam smile, as well as the photos of that night that accompanied the entry. They did make a handsome couple. That was where Vasquez’s writing started slipping in on a few pages, offering extra insight or his own commentary to whatever Joshua was writing.

Graduation. Maybe too quick to those who don’t know about… us, but Vasquez gave me a bloody promise ring tonight. (you’re not actually complaining, are you? Fuck you, I’m keeping it forever thought so) and detailing a rough plan of the future. Plans to stay in Salem long enough to get through college, before moving. Maybe they’d find where Rose Creek was, if it was somewhere they could move to, settle down there. Ideas about where the rest of their motley crew were…

College. Joshua went into Anthropology and the Occult (seriously, guero? Bite me, texican), and Vasquez Art and Architecture (you know there’s a joke about cliches in there somewhere, right? Don’t you dare). Joshua seemed to develop a minor side hobby (?) in helping people with their dead loved ones, the spirits who hadn’t crossed over because of unfinished business (Jennifer Love Hewitt, who?) When they’d both finished their studies… Joshua was the one who proposed.

There were photos of various moments, in those early years. High school included prom, graduation, senior trip, homecoming week. After high school showed moving into their first apartment together, as they worked through college, domestic moments, moments with their families, college graduation, of the proposal, and later, multiple photos from the wedding. Tickets to various date locations, movies, and festivals, were taped in as well. It seemed Joshua (and by some small extension, Vasquez) was eager to keep track of everything.

But just after their return from their honeymoon in August of twenty-fifteen, the entries stopped. The next one wasn’t dated until January of twenty-sixteen. Reading it, Sam felt his heart stop and blood run cold.

1-13-16 I’m sorry, Ale… I’m so sorry I couldn’t help you. I couldn’t… couldn’t save you. If I was faster… maybe you’d still be here. Maybe I could have… God, I’m crazy for thinking it… brought you back. If you’d wanted it… if maybe I’d seen you… your spirit, at least, maybe one more time, to ask…

There are limitations to my abilities… I can bring people back from the dead, but only within a set time… I didn’t make it with you… And I’m so sorry.

You must have crossed over. That’s the only reason I can think of to not see your ghost… it’d be just like you, too… you wouldn’t have wanted me to see you like that. I know you wouldn’t have. I know, but… goddammit it still hurts, you son of a bitch. If I could have just said goodbye…

… you were gone too soon. And those bastards… they’ll pay. Eventually, they’ll pay.

I’m sorry.

I… did find where Rose Creek is. It’s still a small town but thriving in today’s age. I’ll… I’ll go there. For us… for you.

Maybe I’ll find some sort of peace there.

Silence, for a few months, before another entry was made.

5-23-16 God, what have I done? I didn’t… I wasn’t… I didn’t mean for that to happen… I didn’t know I could do that.

I need to get away. From everyone. Anyone that I can hurt…

I’m so sorry Vas…

After that, there were no more entries. Sam flipped through the remaining blank pages and found nothing. Frowning, Sam went back to the last entry, and wondered what the hell might have happened for it to exist.

Actually, he wondered what happened in those last two entries in general—one was obvious. The other… not so much. He’d have to ask Matthew to investigate the dates mentioned, give or take a day or two. Surely, there’d be some sort of record online, somewhere—

“How the fuck did you get in here?”

Sam startled, the book falling from his hands and back on to the bed. He whirled around, coming eye to eye with Joshua Faraday. The first thing the older man noticed was how tired the redhead looked, with bags beneath his eyes, and skin pale. He stood as though the weight of the world was laid on his shoulders, but it didn’t distract from the, frankly, intimidating glare he was fixing Sam with.

“I know I locked the door when I left,” Joshua continued, and then his gaze flicked down to the journal on the bed, and his anger grew. He stood straight, and Sam swore the room grew colder and darker as Joshua set a bag of possible groceries on the floor, “You went looking through my personal things?!”

“Now, hold on just a minute, son—” Sam began.

“I’m not your son,” Joshua hissed, and there was no doubt about it—Joshua was altering the space around them. His eyes were beginning to glow, a toxic green that caused the hairs on the back of Sam’s neck to rise, “What are you doing here, Chisolm?”

“I came to offer you a job,” Sam said, quickly, and Joshua drew up short. A brief look of bafflement crossed his features as he stared at the older man, “That is, if you want it.”

The redhead crossed his arms, eyes narrowing.

“Explain,” he said, shortly, so Sam did.

He explained how he’d been tasked with bringing a crew together (yes, the rest of the Rose Creek bunch, for the most part…) and that while Joshua’s name hadn’t come up directly, Sam’s own bosses had suggested Joshua could be an integral part of the team. This team would be dealing with threats across the world, both natural and supernatural. Clearly, Joshua would be a good addition, if he wanted to join.

“But… I’m not pressing you to,” Sam said, quietly. He glanced down at the journal, then back to Joshua, “You’ve clearly been through a lot already.”

Joshua’s expression darkened, lips thinning, but he said nothing. Just stared at Sam with those eyes of his still glowing. But he was silent, and Sam took it for a good thing.

“… would you have come for me, if I hadn’t been brought up?” Joshua asked.

Sam blinked at the question, but answered nonetheless: “Eventually, yes. It wouldn’t have been fair not to include you and—” he faltered, only because Joshua pinned him with a venomous glare, “We want everyone we can get. We worked so well together, before.”

Silence, again, and Sam could tell Joshua was right on the edge of accepting the offer, he just needed one last push.

“Who killed him?” Sam asked, pitching his own voice low—after all, someone had mess with those he cared about. He was angry thinking about it; Joshua startled, so Sam asked again, “Who did it? We can go after the sons of bitches with you.”

Joshua’s jaw clenched.

“Hunters,” he ground out. “Ones who didn’t approve of his relationship with… with me. I don’t… I don’t have exact names, though.”

“Then come with me,” Sam offered, holding out his hand. “Together, we’ll help you figure out who did it, and we’ll see them get what they deserve.”

Joshua looked down at Sam’s extended hand, before he looked up at the man himself. The temperature returned to normal, and the shadows fell away. The glow in the witch’s eyes faded, but they still burned with anger and determination…

Joshua took Sam’s hand.

“You’ve got yourself a deal, Chisolm.”

[mareenavee]

The World on Our Shoulders | Chapter 15: Of All the Sujamma Joints in All the Towns on All of Nirn, She Walks Into Mine

6th of Morning Star 4E 202

“You should consider joining the Redoran guard, Sero,” Captain Veleth said for the four hundredth time. Teldryn sighed and wiped dragon guts off his sword with a scrap of rich brown fabric he’d found in the ash. Might have been another scarf, once. He wondered who’d worn it, but it would be impossible to tell, especially if the dragon had been feasting on the bounty of Reavers out here in the wastes.

“No, no. I make more money as a mercenary. I said this before,” he answered, sounding bored. “Besides, I’m not even House Redoran, as you well know.”

“Suit yourself on both counts. Can’t be making much sitting and staring at the door of the Netch waiting for some rich patron to drop in, not these days,” Veleth said with a shrug. “There’ll be work for you with us, especially if more of these bastards make their way over.” He nodded over his bonemold pauldron. “Though I doubt they’ll already be half-dead the next time, whatever this was about.” Teldryn scowled, but Veleth wouldn’t have seen it under his scarf. Half-dead or not, it didn’t make the fight any less difficult. It was a Godsdamned dragon, after all. Even as dire as its situation was, the thing almost gutted the greener new hires who got too close to its maw, like a bunch of s’wiit.

“I was drunk for most – if not all – of Last Seed,” he drawled. Veleth rolled his eyes. “I wasn’t sure if I hadn’t imagined that bunch of Nordic hogwash about these monsters when word about Helgen came over with Gjalund.” He glared over at the corpse of the dragon, blue-scaled skin already thrice-flayed along its side as if it had gotten into a fight with another dragon. The wound looked like it had been made by unfathomably enormous claws, anyhow. He wondered if it had fought the Dragonborn of legend before fleeing here to Solstheim – though, unless the mysterious warrior was some unholy weredragon, it looked like this one had simply lost a territory dispute. Were they really just like other beasts, these colossal, mythical things? He hadn’t heard a single thing about them except in extravagant tales, and at that, only back in Windhelm.

“Well, not everything the Nords say is worthless, anyway,” Veleth said. He tossed a bag of gold over. It would be only a fraction of the fee Teldryn normally charged, he knew, but such was the way of things these days in Raven Rock. The town was pretty much dead and money was hard to come by. He wouldn’t give Veleth the satisfaction of being right about his employment situation, though. He could complain to Geldis about that over some much needed Sujamma.

“Did you happen to requisition Neloth’s silt strider for the return trip, too?” Teldryn asked, already pessimistic. He didn’t want to trudge back through the wastes on foot overnight. It was midwinter and the winds off the ocean were enough to kill a man who stayed still for too long.

“Do I look like I want my guts instantly repositioned to the outside of my body?” Veleth asked sarcastically. Teldryn didn’t grace his ridiculous statement with an answer. Veleth cleared his throat. “The answer is no. We were just lucky the traders weren’t going to tell him about our trip out of town.”

“He doesn’t do necromancy anymore, you know,” Teldryn said pointedly. “If he did eviscerate you with a spell, you wouldn’t be around to complain about it.” He cracked his back and groaned. “Meanwhile, the rest of us will have to tough it out across all this ash.”

“You’re young,” Veleth said. “You’ll survive.”

“Sure, sure, whatever you say,” Teldryn sneered. He waved his hand dismissively.

With that, the Captain of the Redoran Guard fell back in line with his men, and left Teldryn to his own devices. The guards still had a search to complete out here. There had been no trace of the tailor who, like a fool, had decided to cross to Tel Mithryn by himself instead of waiting for a caravan. If the ash spawn didn’t get him, the dragon certainly did. They could search all night if they’d like. It was a hopeless task. Had he known the man was going out that way, Teldryn would probably have escorted the man at a cut rate just for the excuse to bother Neloth in his garish mushroom lair. He resigned to hike back to town. With his luck, he’d probably already missed a new potential patron. -> Read the rest on AO3

[twentyyearstoolate]

In the back of your mind, you hear a familiar chanting - you recognize the words, poorly intoned as they are, out of Kezir-Ad-Dunar's 'In Defiance of Death.' Out of force of habit, you begin to chant the words yourself, correcting the mistakes made by this neophyte who deigns to butcher the forbidden tongue. As the words leave you, finishing the ritual, your senses sharpen and everything comes into focus as you rise from an unearthed casket, your bony form shocking your rescuer.

"It... it worked! I can't believe it, I've finally done it!"

"Mm, so it would appear. You're lucky Kezir's work is forgiving to beginners - Mistakes like that with Blackwell's rituals would likely make the recipient mad with hunger for living flesh to compensate for the lack of resuscitating adjuvants. Probably doesn't hurt that I know the words and forms far better than you do."

The young man in front of you stammers at your chiding. You take in your surroundings. Dark, cramped, and smelling of.. ugh. Well, that explains how he accomplished your revival, but gods only know how he managed to get this far with such a rudimentary understanding.

"You do know you can mask the stench of sheep shit with verbena and sandalwood without compromising its alchemical properties, don't you? It's a wonder your neighbors haven't called the guards. Honestly, did your mentor not teach you anything?"

"...I don't have a mentor."

If you still had eyes, you would have blinked in surprise. "You did this without any prior training?"

"I've been working out of this notebook I found. It's written in a foreign language. I translated as best I could."

Your notebook. Written in cipher. In retrospect, it's a miracle he got this far. Ambitious, but not very wise. Reminds you of... well, you, when you were his age.

"Kid. Do you know how bad botched necromancy can turn out? Why the hell are you playing with fire?"

He shrugs. "I'm... not really good at anything else. This is the first thing I've done that I really like doing."

You sigh. "Okay, look, you need a teacher or you're like as not to get disemboweled by your next project. You've got the drive for this sort of work, you just need a guiding hand... and to air out this cellar, phew. I'll teach you what you need to know. You help me get back in the saddle, I'll make sure you don't start an apocalypse. Deal?"

"Deal." The two of you shake hands. This will be an... interesting partnership.

You were once the greatest necromancer to ever exist. But millenia after being slain, you awaken to find yourself resurrected by someone clearly a novice.

[chaos-smoothie]

I'm writing again look at my organization and management

I've started working on a world using Fauns and Satyrs of various magics and alignments as well as gods. High fantasy is my thing and I love working on this.

I actually sorted things! everything is super organized. I mean, just look at the symbol key.

★ = main cast ♦ = crown ⦽ = host of a god 𐂂 = faun ɤ = satyr 

⥣ = god 🜏 = chaos 🝤 = order

Isn't it great. it's really funny tho bc I look at the character organizer thing in the sidebar and I know what it all means but each charecter has like 3~ symbols maybe more attached and if you don't know what they mean it just looks stupid.

Worldbuilding is fun! it's super organized, which first of all, holy shit go me, and second of all this is wayyy more effort for a project a long way away than one in the near future/in progress. I mean, the the goddamn scavengers google doc is chaotic warfare. I've got a huge system of magic and a plot driver as well as a lot of other details.

for example, the afterlife dynamic:

For hyena spirits:

because the god of death is hyena based, when you die with memories to share or people to say farewell to, you become a hyena like creature with similar colorings and markings to when you were alive. You can smell whoever you are seeking out and are driven toward them day and night. If a hyena spirit is tracking you down, you cannot run. no matter what, only the death of the target can stop a tracker hyena. it will find you eventually, they can travel through shadows and smoke. they find those of fire, shadow or lightning magic especially quickly due to this.

They are very rarely malicious, most of them simply wish to say farewell. They can share memories and last wishes by putting the recipient in a trance, where they briefly become who they once were and are able to say goodbye and give comfort to the ones they left behind. After this, they either find their next target, or if they have no more targets, they dissipate and are left to roam the barrens among other hyena spirits put at rest, where they are free to find others to connect and play with. They can sense malice among their peers, and will interact accordingly when meeting new hyenas.

For hyena husks and tar warps:

If you are revived through necromancy via the power of the death god, you become a hyena husk. A hyena husk is an undead creature, taking the form of a raggedy hyena with a long neck and the skull of a deer if you were a faun, or a goat if you were a saytr. A hyena husk has carnivore teeth instead of herbivore teeth. If called upon by the reviver, they can grow into horrible warped versions of who they once were, becoming very tall and thin with spindly features and hollowed out eye sockets.

Known as tar warps, these forms can use the magic they might have possessed while alive. While they do have the ability to use incantation magic as well as spontaneous magic, it is far weaker than what they were capable of when they were alive. In both forms, hyena husks are also excellent trackers and pack hunters and can cross great distances with alarming speed. The only one who can call upon a hyena husk is the god of death, and potentially his host if the host has chosen this as one of their two boons. (Melo sure asf did not) out of respect, the death god does not call on hyena husks often, out of respect for the dead. when he does call upon them he prefers to use the husks of people who had no honor or shame, or those whose lives were not worth respecting due to the evils done in them.

[stabbydragon]

Grace/Lucie, Lucie/Jesse, Grace & Jesse

Lucie Herondale had finally become Mrs. Blackthorn, but Grace couldn’t help wishing that that meant something else.

December 1907

“Now, everyone, give it up for Grace Blackthorn!” announced Cordelia Herondale, Lucie Blackthorn’s suggenes, before making her way back to her seat after finishing her speech at her parabatai’s wedding.

As Grace, the groom’s suggenes, made her way up, she felt as though everything was moving in slow motion. She couldn’t tell how badly she was shaking. She hoped it wasn’t too noticeable, or that if it was, everyone would assume it was from stage fright or excitement instead of the dread and heartache she was trying her best to quash.

“A toast to the groom.” She started off with something basic and traditional, hearing echoes of ‘to the groom’ all around. She glanced at her brother, who was positively beaming. Jesse Blackthorn was looking at the speaker, but Grace knew all of his thoughts were with the radiant woman sitting next to him. But Grace would not think about that. Instead, she attempted to match his joyful expression. 

“To the bride,” She did not look at Lucie, not trusting her smile to stay in place. She waited for the echoes to die down again before continuing, “from your sister who is always by your side. To your union, and the hope that you provide. May you always be satisfied.”

She could just barely hear her own voice reciting the rest of the speech she had spent hours memorizing. Internally, she was feeling her mind rewind to all those nights she spent with Lucie years before, attempting to resurrect Jesse.

I remember those nights. I just might regret those nights for the rest of my days. I remember that dreamlike candlelight like a dream that you can’t quite place, but Lucie, I’ll never forget the first time I saw your face. I have never been the same. Intelligent eyes in a beautiful frame, and when you said hi, I forgot my dang name. Set my heart aflame, every part aflame, this is not a game.

Grace had figured out pretty quickly that she and Lucie were more similar than she was comfortable with. Despite being raised in polar opposite environments, they were equal in stubbornness and had similar motives: loyalty and love for their families. She had assumed at first, due to her mother’s indoctrination, that their loyalties made them enemies, but it was exactly that which brought them together to help Jesse.

After working with Lucie for a while, Grace started noticing how adorable it was when Lucie ranted excitedly about practically any subject like nobody else Grace knew. She had a sharp mind and easily formulated plans regarding their endeavours in necromancy. She also took an interest in Grace’s life, which—besides Jesse—only James had done before. The difference between Lucie and her brother was that the former was not being manipulated and genuinely wished to help the Blackthorns. Grace would forever regret coldly shutting down all of the younger girl’s attempts to befriend her, which stopped after a few fruitless weeks. I want to take her far away from this place, but then I turn and see my brother’s face and he is helpless.

And I know he is helpless. 

And his eyes are just helpless. And I realize three fundamental truths at the exact same time. 

Number one: I’m a girl in a world in which my only job is to make a respectable marriage. My mother has no living sons so I’m the one who has to social climb for one. And Tatiana already had one planned: James. Grace wasn’t sure what her mother’s plans were, but she knew that if it dragged on long enough, she would eventually have to marry James and become Lucie’s sister-in-law. Despite this, her mother would absolutely kill her for becoming genuinely fond of a Herondale. Also, Tatiana needed Grace to have a perfect reputation which, she had heard from Charles, would have been ruined if she was known to have been involved with someone of the same sex, and Grace would have been a fool to assume that Tatiana would not have been returning to haunt her.

Number two: Lucie still had had no idea of the wickedness to which Grace had been subjecting her brother. If she had, it would have been unlikely that she still would have worked with her, even for Jesse’s sake. Grace had no right to accept her kindness while hiding what she had been doing to James, much less act as though she was worthy of Lucie’s affection.

Number three: I know my brother like I know my own mind. You will never find anyone as trusting or kind. If I tell him that I love her, he’d be silently resigned. She’d be mine. He would say I’m fine. He’d be lying.

Over time, most of those obstacles had vanished. Tatiana was dead and no longer had control over Grace’s life. Anna Lightwood, Ari Bridgestock, Alastair Carstairs, and Thomas Lightwood were fighting the stigma on same-sex relationships. Most importantly, the truth about James was out, yet Lucie genuinely still seemed to enjoy her company even when Jesse was not around to make them get along. However, by that time, it was too late for the last issue.

Jesse and Lucie had seemingly written their names on every inch of one another’s hearts. Jesse looked happier than Grace had ever seen him in her life, and his lover did as well. It was as if they were both dreaming and never wanted to wake up.

If there was one truth in the world, it was that Grace loved her brother more than anything else in the world, even Lucie. She would never wish to take away such pure happiness and romance from him for her own selfish desires. Since they were young, Jesse was always the one who got the things that he wanted while Grace was content to bask in her brother’s victory. Besides, Herondales only loved once, and Lucie had already given her heart away. There was nothing Grace could do about that if she tried.

But when I fantasize at night it’s Lucie’s eyes as I romanticize what might have been if I hadn’t sized her up so quickly. At least my dear Lucie’s his wife. At least I keep her eyes in my life.

She was so lost in her thoughts and memories that she did not notice the footsteps behind her until there was a deathly pale hand with a fresh marriage rune on her shoulder and a whisper of, “Grace” in her ear. She turned sharply to be met with a pair of familiar jade green eyes, and a beryl blue pair slightly further back. Grace looked around, only then realizing that she was standing near the wall of the Institute ballroom, holding a champagne flute, while all of the wedding guests mingled around her. How did I get here, she wondered, and how long ago did the speeches finish?

“You all right, little sister?” Jesse asked fondly, dragging her back to the present.

“Of course.” She raised her brows. “It’s the happiest day of your life. Why would anyone be anything less that euphoric?”

“You just seemed slightly troubled, is all,” he said with brotherly concern.

Of course. Tatiana had trained her to be able to perfectly mask her emotions, and she was sure she was succeeding, but this was Jesse. He had known her for thirteen years and had held her as she cried countless times in her youth. If anyone could tell when something was wrong with her, it was him.

Still, he and Lucie had just gotten married. It was far too late for her to voice her troubles now. Besides, she would never forgive herself for ruining their night.

“Well,” she sighed with a small smile, “you can hardly blame a sister for feeling protective of her brother. Besides, I know you and I haven’t dwelled in the same building in a while, and the two of you have, but now you’re officially man and wife. It’s an enormous change, and it will take some time to get used to. But I am happy for you.

“I meant what I said earlier,” she continued, recalling a piece of her speech, “about how I know that you two will always be happy so long as you have one another.” This was true, though she was not as elated as she sounded. Still, it seemed to appease the happy couple, who, on that day, were incapable of focusing on much except for their own delight. “Besides, I like this Mrs. Blackthorn much better than the old one,” she added, earning a small chuckle from the newlyweds.

“Thank you, Grace.” Lucie put her hand on her sister-in-law’s shoulder and squeezed it slightly, beaming. “It means a lot.”

Grace attempted to kill off the butterflies growing restless in her stomach. She mustered up all of her energy and used it to grin and raise her champagne glass. “To the groom!” She repeated her words from earlier. “To the bride, from your sister who is always by your side. To your union, and the hope that you provide. May you always be satisfied.” And I know she’ll be happy as his bride. And I know I will never be satisfied.

[decks-writing-blog]

Life's Blessing

Summary: Kiera celebrates Life's Blessing with Gwen and Vyla.

~

It was probably pretty safe to assume that a necromancer wouldn’t have much interest in a holiday celebrating the persistence of life even during the dead of winter. Also, Gwen was undead, all the more reason to assume he wouldn’t celebrate it. For that reason, Kiera could let it go, perhaps even should. She was only living in his guest room because of the robot with a soul project they were working on together after all, that didn’t make them close. But she’d grown up celebrating it and had never once not done so.

She could go visit her parents for it, they’d no doubt be glad to see her especially since she hadn’t exactly told them where she was going or why. But they lived so far away – more like she now lived so far away from everything, including them – she couldn’t bear to leave her work for that long. She and Gwen were really starting to get somewhere too, putting that on hold for more than a day or two would be unacceptable. And so she was just going to have to celebrate it with Gwen and Vyla.

For Vyla, she could give the standard offering of food, though she’d have to make sure it’d be something dragons liked. For Gwen though, that wouldn’t work; he no longer needed to eat, instead being fueled entirely by magic. So she’d just get him a gift of some sort. Didn’t have to be anything big or grand, just something that made her feel less homesick for the holiday.

Getting gifts for people was always hard because people were hard, computers were much easier to understand and work with. Wondering around the town’s market seemed more and more futile with each shop she passed by. But then, just when she was about ready to give up and call it quits, she came across a store selling enchanted clothing.

Everyone could use an enchanted piece of clothing, right? She certainly loved the thin blue jacket she was currently wearing that kept her warm but not too warm even despite the biting cold and snow that had taken over the town. So she went in and began browsing.

Everything was organized based off the kind of enchantment, the particulars of which were placed on the individual items’ price tags. The largest section was for magics related to temperature; keeping one warm or cold, the strength of which also varied quite a bit, the stronger, the more expensive of course. The second largest section was for dirt-free clothing; only needing to wash a garment if dirtied by specific things not covered by the enchantment was very convenient and would perhaps make the ideal gift. She almost sorted through to try to pick something out right then and there but then she checked the next section’s enchantment type. It was perfect, the exact kind of thing Gwen needed. … Or maybe not needed but it would do him some good.

***

Gwen returned home from people watching at the park to find that Kiera had put a festive necklace of winter flowers around the neck of the puppet-corpse guard he’d set to protect the basement entrance. Maybe he should be offended, Life’s Blessing was counter to most things related to necromancy after all but really, he didn’t care. It wasn’t a big deal and was likely a joke or prank of some sort. Besides, it’d take almost no time or effort to remove if he so chose. Which he didn’t for now. Instead, with a shrug, he went past, opening the door, and headed downstairs.

Only a few steps down, Vyla, perched on his shoulder, perked up. She smelled food; meat roasted to the point of being a little burned just the way she liked it. Not willing to wait for Gwen to make his slow patient way down, she launched off to fly down in search of its source.

Kiera’s voice came a second or two later. “Yes, yes, this is for you. I made it just the way you like it. Or did my best to anyway.” Ah, that would explain why she’d gone out of her way to hang out in the kitchen a week or so ago when Gwen had been cooking for Vyla, she’d wanted to see how it was done. Though, coupled with the festive decoration, it could only be for one reason.

As predicated, upon reaching the bottom of the stairs, she hadn’t set to start working early like she normally did but instead had clearly been waiting for him. “Happy Life’s Blessing!”

“I don’t celebrate.” He had as a small child, so long ago now he barely remembered. “But I suppose happy Life’s Blessing to you anyway.” Sometimes working with people meant tolerating them as people and things that were important to them. He was interested enough in the work they were doing to put up with this as long as she didn’t push too hard on it.

“I know, I know. Or I guess I didn’t know but I strongly suspected you wouldn’t celebrate. And that’s okay, totally okay. I don’t expect anything in return, I will make myself a nice meal later tonight. And maybe I shouldn’t do anything to involve you but you’re basically making my dreams come true and you’re letting me live in your house rent-free. Which I’m super grateful for and I wanted to express. Maybe this isn’t the way but I had the idea and then I went looking for a gift, because obviously I can’t give you food like one normally would so I gotta get you something else. And then I found this and had to get it for you.” She grabbed a small box, not unlike a blank shoe box, with a stick on bow atop it, from off the table and stepped forward to hold out for Gwen to take.

Well, it wasn’t often people got him gifts. So… he accepted it and took off the lid. A dark red scarf.

“It’s enchanted,” Kiera said. “It’ll make you smell like roses.”

Gwen intended to ask why she’d get him such a gift but before he could began to form the words, Vyla look up from the mess she was making of her meal to answer. You smell like death. She didn’t mind of course as long as he was still here in some form. In general smells didn’t offend her but many folk, humans among them, did find certain smells to be offensive, smells associated with death being chief among them.

Somehow Gwen had never considered that. It certainly explained why people tended to give him even more space these days than they used to. Which meant that such a gift was useful. He pulled it out and wrapped it around his neck. “Thanks.”

“You really like it?” She leaned forward, eager.

“Yes. Now let’s get to work unless you want to take the day off to celebrate.” He’d be disappointed if so but wouldn’t object.

“No, no. There’s far too much to do to just take a random day off. Let’s get to work.”

[barry-j-blupjeans]

@taznovembercelebration - Despise

You know, Taako was expecting Lup's worse enemy to be… more enemy-ish. Like, he was expecting to walk into the auditorium and see a tall, dark, and (evilly) handsome man who would face down Lup in this very weird, very stuffy academic environment. Granted, Taako had no idea what he was expecting the debate to be like. Lup doing hand-to-hand combat with this guy was certainly not the right vibe, no matter how much Lup seemed to like the suggestion. But nonetheless, Taako was expecting a lot of things to go down. So the guy not even being in the room when they arrived was not even a thought he had begun to entertain.

And yet, here they were.

Lup scoffed, like she had somehow expected this. If this guy was anything like Lup said he was, then it was probably pretty expected. A short man came to bring Lup backstage to get ready and Taako was forced to find himself somewhere to sit. He didn't really wanna be too close to the action because, to be honest, he didn't care all that much. He loved Lup, and he would support whatever endeavor she chose to do, but Taako had stopped giving a damn two weeks into her Necromantic Science degree studies when she brought a dead pig to life in their living room. He chose a seat near the back, just to be safe. He did not want to wager his shirt if he sat in any potential splash zone.

Slowly, more people began to trickle in. Mostly, it was students or other staff members from Goldcliff Magical Academics. One person among them had to be a judge- after all, this debate was to prove that either Lup or Professor Literally-He-Only-Wears-Bluejeans would be fit to work on an expansive Necromancy Related Project. The details had yet to be given out, and Taako had also zoned out most of what Lup had told him about it, so he was a little bit out of the loop on what exactly it was for, but he'd make due. All he knew is that Lup deserved it. And also they needed the money. Over the next half hour, the crowd began to grow, almost to the point that people didn't have a choice to sit in the back anymore, that's just where they had to end up.

The lights flickered to give a five-minute warning for the start of the debate. Taako was neck-deep in Instagram baking reels when a voice next to him said,

"Is this seat taken?"

Taako looked up. There! There was the vibe he was looking for with Professor I-Have-Never-Seen-Him-In-Any-Other-Pants. He had a slight accent to his voice, which Taako was pretty sure was fake. And he was tall, dark, and definitely handsome. Not in an evil way, though, just in a hot way. He was holding a briefcase and wearing a full suit, which, objectively, just made him even hotter. Taako wished he had brought some water with him because his mouth was suddenly very dry. Hot damn.

"No!" Taako said. "No, go for it, my man, the seat's all yours."

Handsome Man took a seat, laying his briefcase out on his lap and opening it up. He took out a clipboard and a pen, writing something down. Taako adverted his eyes back towards his phone but found that watching a random person make the sixth layer for a wedding cake was nowhere near as interesting as it had been a few minutes ago. He shut off his phone, slipping it into his pocket.

"So, uhh," Taako said. Handsome Man looked up. "You into necromancy?"

"You… could say that, yes," Handsome Man said with a dashing smile.

"Well, I mean, you like it enough to take notes, apparently."

"Notes?" Handsome Man said. He looked down at his clipboard and laughed, a little louder than socially acceptable. "Notes! Yes- yes, I'm- Notes, I'm taking notes. You are correct. Sorry, I just-" he tucked a loc that had fallen out of place behind his ear. "I'm a reporter by trade but I usually do, uhm. Online interviews. And such. It's been a while since I, uhm, got back out there! In the world."

"Cool, cool," Taako said. "That's a normal response."

"Th- thank you?"

And, before Taako could come back with any other clever and totally cool, normal quips, the lights dimmed further. A spotlight appeared on the stage and from it, the man who had taken Lup backstage earlier appeared holding a microphone.

"Hey folks, thanks for coming out," he said into the mic. "We'll, uh, we'll get started with the debate shortly, but first, I'd like to welcome our speakers up onto the stage. On the left podium, Professor Lup Loop will be speaking. Professor Loop studied at Rockport University originally, before transferring over to us at Goldcliff MA. She graduated at the top of her class with a Necromantic Science degree and went immediately into our Necromancy Department, first running various experiments, and then turning to teaching later on. Let's give a warm welcome to Professor Loop as she comes on stage."

Taako cheered extremely loud for Lup, because she deserved it. He startled a few people nearby, but Handsome Man just chuckled, which Taako was taking as a win. Lup shook the man's hand when she got to her podium and, when he turned away, she did dab very quickly. There was a wave of snickering through the crowd. Taako sometimes wished they weren't related, but if dabbing was the price he had to pay for Lup to be happy, then so be it.

"And next up, we'll be welcoming Professor Barry Hallwin-"

"Bluejeans!" someone from the audience shouted.

"Professor Barry Bluejeans," the man said, in such a defeated voice. "Professor Hallwinter-" several people booed. "Alright fine, Professor Bluejeans studied at Neverwinter MA originally, earning his degree in Necromantic Science as well as several other smaller areas of studies. Professor Bluejeans worked in Wonderland Labs briefly, though he would like to clarify that he wasn't involved in any of the incidents there-" Next to Taako, Handsome Man grimaced. "-before moving on to the necromancy labs back at Neverwinter MA. Eventually, he moved on to teach at a high school in Raven's Roost before coming here to teach at Goldcliff MA. May we have a round of applause as Professor Bluejeans comes on stage?"

The man who came out from the side of the stage was not at all dark, tall, or, in Taako's particular flavor, very handsome. He looked more like the Pillsbury dough boy than an evil science wizard. And, worst of all, he was, in fact, wearing blue jeans. He had a suit jacket on over them, which was certainly a Look. He looked nervous and flustered and when he looked towards Lup (who was sending him her "I'm killing you with my eyes but I have to be smiling right now" look) he immediately looked away as if one more second would actually kill him. Taako couldn't tell from the distance, but he might have been blushing. Or, it was all the blood going to his head from the obvious amount of mortification he was dealing with right now. Professor Bluejeans did not appear to have a very good stage presence.

And this guy was Lup's enemy? This wet chicken nugget of a man? She despised this guy? He looked like someone could pour soup in his lap and he'd apologize to them.

"Hm," Handsome Man said, writing something down. Taako tried not to grin. Lup was gonna fucking own this guy.

"Alright," the man on the stage said. "Now, for our first question."

Oh. Right. Taako sunk down in his seat a little more. They had to actually get through the debate for Lup to win.

"Is it of moral obligation to reanimate a living creature only when they still maintain their original soul? Professor Bluejeans, you have the stand."

Ughhhh. This was going to take forever.

[canary3d-obsessed]

Restless Rewatch: The Untamed Episode 21, part one

(Masterpost) (Other Canary Stuff) (Previous Post)

Warning: Spoilers for All 50 Episodes!

Reunions

All together in The Unclean Realm, The Yunmeng trio find a spot inside where they can sit down and have a proper Yanli-Wuxian reunion, while Jiang Cheng sits across the table watching them. 

For years Jiang Cheng has been rejecting Wei Wuxian's free and easy affection; now Yanli might be the only person Wei Wuxian offers to hug until Wen Yuan comes into his life.

Jiang Cheng is really going through it. He'll do nearly anything for Yanli--except, uh, stay in the goddamn inn with her when she's sick and the Wens are hunting them--and what makes her happiest is Wei Wuxian. He's brought them together, and so he's happy, even though he's excluded from their dynamic. This absolutely fucking kills me.

Here Jiang Yanli and Wei Wuxian are sweetly pledging to always keep the trio together and put each other first. Neither of them will keep this promise. 

Wei Wuxian will leave first, to take the Wens to the Burial Mounds. Jiang Yanli will leave second, staying in Lanling at Jin Zixuan's request instead of accompanying Jiang Cheng to retrieve Wei Wuxian. Jiang Cheng will be the last to let go.

(more after the cut)

Nie Huaisang comes literally running in, filled with joy at Wei Wuxian's return. When he goes to pat his shoulder Wei Wuxian flinches away.

I feel like something important is happening in this rapid sequence of glances and expressions between Wei Wuxian and Nie Huaisang. NHS is startled, and WWX realizes he's shown something about himself that he didn't want to show. He glances at Jiang Cheng and back at NHS before laughing and covering his slip with a squeeze of NHS’s hand.

NHS switches from shocked to cheerful just as quickly, helping with the coverup. It’s like they have a quick mutual agreement, rooted in their history of shared shenanigans, to not point out that something is wrong.

Meanwhile, Lan Wangji is wandering around the grounds, having feelings. At this point it's presumably been at least a couple of weeks since their breakup fight. 

He sees Wei Wuxian sitting contemplating his flute, and as he sees him he goes from sort of neutrally apprehensive to full on angry judging, complete with sword clenching. 

Part of this may be that his feelings are hurt over their fight, but the larger issue is his distress over Wei Wuxian's apparent heretical cultivation.  That, at any rate, is what's on his mind when he's selecting music, later in the episode, and when he's selecting flashbacks. 

Party Time

Later, the Nies host an excruciating party to celebrate Wei Wuxian's slaughter of Wen Chao return. Jiang Yanli is sharing a table with Wei Wuxian and Jiang Cheng is sharing a table with his crippling social anxiety. 

Everyone starts grilling Wei Wuxian about his sword, because that's suddenly all anybody cares about even though Jiang Yanli, Nie Huaisang, Meng Yao, and probably plenty of other people don't carry swords most of the time.

Wei Wuxian says "after the Wens caught me, Wen Zhuliu crushed my core, so I can't use my sword any more, too bad so sad, can we change the subject?" And everyone is very understanding and admires his resiliency. HA HA HA HA HA. Of course he doesn't opt for that simple lie, but instead mopes audibly without saying anything.

Nie Huasiang tries to change the subject by asking how he killed Wen Chao. Apparently "I had a sexy ghost mostly flay him" isn't good party chat, though, so neither Wei Wuxian nor Jiang Cheng opts to tell the story. 

Everyone lapses into awkward silence, all the more noticeable because there are no dancers, musicians, or entertainers of any kind at this event. OP has gone to audit-kickoff meetings that were more fun than cultivator banquets.

Moment of Clarity

While the awkwardness builds, we hear the sounds of the Song of Clarity. Lan Wangji is skipping the party, which is part of why Wei Wuxian is so mopey. But instead of sitting and stewing in his anger, Lan Wangji has shifted gears, and is starting to work on his "save Wei Wuxian's soul" plan.

This isn't the God-botherer version of soul saving, however. Lan Wangji and Wei Wuxian disagree about correct practice, but they both are still practitioners within the same spiritual system, and the majority of their beliefs are closely aligned.

Lan Wangji has powerful magic at his disposal, and now he's taking a step back from his plan of forcing persuading Wei Wuxian to give up heterodoxy, and instead he's preparing to use his magic to offset the consequences of Wei Wuxian's choice.

He still isn't ready to accept that choice, but he's working on it. This is a big moment for Lan Wangji's relationship with Wei Wuxian. Lan Wangji is a deeply, deeply uncompromising person, as well as being super bossy, and he’s taking his first steps toward supporting Wei Wuxian’s free agency. 

Wei Wuxian leaves the party in the middle of Yao's toast, saying "I have to see you and your lover all over my tumblr dashboard but I am NOT going to listen to you talk!" He takes his wine to go roam around near Lan Wangji's quarters to pine and feel conflicted.  Lan Wangji has thoughtfully set up a projection scrim to catch his shadow and make the pining easier.

Jiang Cheng comes looking for Wei Wuxian, partly to reprimand him for rudeness and partly to see what the hell is wrong with him. Jiang Cheng is trying very hard to be pleasant. He's bad at it, but he's trying.

Wei Wuxian is trying to be unpleasant and he's pretty good at it. He won't say why he isn't using his sword. He’s obviously super fucking depressed about it, calling his former self childish for liking to spar, and only smiling once during the whole exchange.

He finally tells Jiang Cheng that he will always want to do the opposite of what Jiang Cheng tells him.  Jiang Cheng lets this go with an eyeroll.

(Point Break Quote Alert)

But actually this is a sign of trouble, right here in River City, with a capital T and that rhymes with P and that stands for abandoning the Jiang Clan. Wei Wuxian has just told Jiang Cheng he has no intention of obeying him; not just about the sword, but in general. That's no way for a disciple to talk. 

OP has nothing to say about this gif. OP watches gif over and over and over and over

Wei Wuxian ends the conversation by tapping Jiang Cheng's chest with his flute and then walking away. The (still nameless) flute has no problem with this - does it, like Subian, recognize Jiang Cheng as an extension of Wei Wuxian?

The next day, Wei Wuxian is chilling in his room, looking ungodly sexy in his bold slashed robe, holy frack. I mean, he is sex-on-toast at all times, but the cut of his post-burial-mounds combo is particularly heart-stopping when he decides to stick a knee or two out. 

He's meditating and flashing back to being in the burial mounds, where he was also meditating. I admire his ability to fractally meditate about meditating. 

Chenqing

He didn't put a sock on the doorknob, so Jiang Yanli comes in and startles him. He brandishes his flute at her before calming down. The flute definitely does not see her as an extension of Wei Wuxian, because when she touches it, it smokes and then knocks her out of the frame so fast it's comical.

Did they put her in a jerk vest for that shot?

Wei Wuxian hides the flute from her, freaked out by its behavior. She, however, is unfazed, and gives him the first & only affirmation he's gotten about his new cultivation path, and says the flute is "like Mother's Zidian."  She kind of walks him through the whole "first class spiritual tool" concept, beaming with approval and telling him he must name the flute.  

Jiang Yanli is hardcore Jiang Clan, seriously. Freedom and impossibility. You survived 3 months of mystery trauma and now you're all fucked up? We'll roll with it. You have a demon flute now? Rock on. You're going to use necromancy to beat the other clans in a group hunt? Gold star for you.

He names the flute Chenqing, which @hunxi-guilai​ translates and explains in depth over here.

Bichen

Lan Wangji has finished practicing the Song of Clarity, and regardless of whether it's had an effect on Wei Wuxian, he himself seems much calmer. 

As Wei Wuxian contemplates Chenqing, Lan Wangji contemplates Bichen and remembers Wei Wuxian's assertions about resentful energy way back in Gusu summer school. 

This time when he grips his sword, it's loosely, as if he's made some progress with his anger.

Soup

Jiang Yanli sits Wei Wuxian down for some soup, and talks to him about what's going on with him, saying he's changed. He insists he's fine and works very hard to be convincing.

She's not convinced but says she won't press him, and then abruptly shifts tone and works very hard to act like everything is fine. She leaves, taking a lot of soup with her, and Wei Wuxian remarks that it's unfair she is giving so much to Jiang Cheng. But of course, some of it is secretly for Jin Zixuan.

Everything isn't fine, as Wei Wuxian scream-meditates with resentful energy just rolling off of him. He's got some of the dark energy stored in the Yin sword in his bag of holding, but I get the impression that a lot of it is just stored in his body.

Club Ruohan

At some point in the episode we stop in to check on Wen Ruohan. He and his wind machine are mad that Wen Chao is dead. 

Meanwhile, his interpretive dances with the Yin iron now turn his puppets into...Klingons? Sure, why not. 

Literal Stand-Up Meeting 

Jiang Cheng needs Wei Wuxian at games night a meeting and comes running to Jiang Yanli to find him. He is freaking out and she tells him to chill. 

No matter what fuckery is going on in the world, Jiang Yanli is going to find herself a nice little outdoor table and she is going to sit her ass down and have some tea and civilized lady activity. Queen.

This shot of the meeting is composed so nicely. The blocking (placement of actors) in this scene encapsulates the familial dynamics, and I’ll talk about that as soon as I finish admiring Jiang Cheng’s proportions. 

Here we have four clans represented by four family pairs around the game war table. The Jin cousins, despite their differing personalities, are side by side, matchy-matchy, in lockstep. Jin Zixuan lets Jin Zixun do the talking for him, so maintains his own rep as a reasonable guy.  

The Nie brothers are even closer together, also in matching greys, Nie Huaisang giving all of his attention to his brother/clan leader. You can see his careful watching of his brother's temper...not fearful for himself, but fearful for Mingjue.

The Lan brothers have a growing distance between them; they are in different colors (which is pretty usual for them), and Lan Wangji is standing well away from his brother and the rest of the group. Partly this is his personality, but it's also symbolic of his growing distance from his brother and other proper cultivators. He's carrying WWX-related secrets, and he's wrestling with what he's learned.  

While Nie Huaisang is looking at Mingjue, Lan Xichen is turning around to see what's up with his own volatile sibling.

Lastly you have Jiang Cheng, alone in the room, with his shidi nowhere to be found, and seriously feeling the heat because of his isolation. 

He's alone in his purple, but the color value (lightness/darkness) of his robes exactly matches Xichen's. 

And Xichen, bless him, makes a point of speaking to him respectfully as a fellow clan leader, gives him a path out of the "where is your brother" conversation, and is just generally his kind and helpful self with Jiang Cheng.

Next: Awkwardness Increases!

[gusu-emilu]

Ship: Wei Wuxian / Wen Ning

Summary: Wei Wuxian gives Wen Ning a heartbeat, but not in the way either of them expected.

Rated T, No Warnings Apply

Poorly-concealed Wen Ning character study

Emotional hurt/comfort

Burial Mounds settlement days

Pining, cuddling, and homoerotic necromancy

First kiss

Demisexual vibes

Guest appearance from A-Yuan

Ch. 2/2, 6k (12k total), read on AO3 above or on Tumblr below

Wei Wuxian gives a low, melodic laugh. “What I want, but can’t have? More potatoes. Do me a favor and beg your jiejie about that for me.”

Unsurprising that Wei Wuxian would deflect the question. “If you don’t want to tell me, that’s okay.” Nervousness and guilt twitches in Wen Ning’s fingers. “I—I shouldn’t—”

He’s doing this all wrong. He should let Wei Wuxian ease into sharing what is troubling him, the way Wei Wuxian eases him into new experiments, not stumble around so bluntly with his words.

But Wei Wuxian doesn’t seem bothered. He looks down from the sky at Wen Ning. “How about you tell me a few things too?” He removes his arm from around Wen Ning’s waist and leans away, stretching, then rests his hand beneath his head. “The heart of a demonic cultivator is black and evil and, most importantly, elusive.” He smirks, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “You’ll have to trade for it.”

Wen Ning knits his brow. “Your heart isn’t evil. It sounds nice, and feels nice, like you—” He stops himself, immediately wishing he hadn’t spoken, and wishing he could sink into the earth.

Wei Wuxian laughs again, sounding a bit surprised. “Is that so? Well, why didn’t you say that earlier?”

With one arm wrapped beneath Wen Ning, he pulls him closer for him to lay his head on Wei Wuxian’s shoulder. Wen Ning remains stiff, unsure if he should hold Wei Wuxian again—he just revealed too much, didn’t he? Wei Wuxian must feel uncomfortable...

But Wei Wuxian tugs a bit more, until Wen Ning can’t help it and awkwardly curls into Wei Wuxian. He welcomes the warmth from his body, even as he feels he shouldn’t accept this invitation.

“Since it's you,” Wei Wuxian says, “you won’t have to trade as much. But first…” He sucks in his upper lip, tongue peeking out of the corner of his mouth the way he does when he’s leaning over his notes and thinking through a design plan.

He takes Wen Ning’s hand and guides it so his fingers touch the opening of Wei Wuxian’s robes.

“Is this okay?” he asks.

Slightly confused as to what is happening, Wen Ning nods.

Wei Wuxian’s fingers wrap around tighter as he slides both of their hands under his robes.

“W-Wei-gongzi—”

He continues to slowly guide Wen Ning until he feels Wei Wuxian’s bare chest, heartbeat meeting his palm.

Anxiety crawls into Wen Ning’s throat as Wei Wuxian’s heartbeat quickens under his cold touch.

He is a corpse.

His chances of dying during the Sunshot Campaign were only slightly less than his clansmen on the front lines. He could have been nothing more than another Wen struck down in war and raised from the dead by Wei Wuxian, a nameless, mindless weapon, reanimated to fight his own people, cast aside once no longer useful. He has a consciousness, but the state of his body is no different from another fierce corpse.

What if, deep down, he reminds Wei Wuxian of every snarling, bloodthirsty corpse he called forth, reminds him of how he used them to kill thousands during the war? What if he reminds Wei Wuxian of the three months he spent fighting for his life in the Burial Mounds?

If something Wei Wuxian wants, but can’t have, is for Wen Ning not to touch him—he would never say it.

“But—but—isn’t it cold?” Wen Ning asks.

Wei Wuxian shrugs. “It is.” He doesn’t sound the slightest bothered. “I’m going to freeze out here in the woods, and it’ll be all your fault.”

Worry takes over Wen Ning’s expression as he starts to pull away. Wei Wuxian just laughs and presses down on his hand, trapping him.

“I like it, okay?” he says. “How could I feel cold? You’re the warmest person I know.”

Unable to express how those words burrow into him, blooming into gratitude and relief and yet still not fully settling the anxiety, Wen Ning curls closer, resting his head on Wei Wuxian’s shoulder. He lets in the comfort of the warmth of Wei Wuxian’s body and the heat of his chest below Wen Ning’s hand, counting his heartbeats to steady his mind.

“You next,” Wei Wuxian says. “We’re taking turns. Tell me something you want but can’t have.”

Wen Ning quickly realizes what a challenging question this is. To find something meaningful to share that will not make Wei Wuxian feel sad or guilty.

“I…I want to learn to sew,” Wen Ning mumbles.

“Really!” Wei Wuxian shifts under him, sounding genuinely surprised.

“I know how, kind of, for just—just something useful. But not how to make something pretty. My clan didn’t teach that to boys.”

“Let’s have Granny teach you, then!”

“I don’t know…my hands are so clumsy now.”

Detailed handiwork requires all his focus. Despite how it soothes him, even helping Jiejie make medicine saps his mental energy. He can easily carry everyone’s heavy loads and take on the roughest labor in the fields, some of his favorite ways to help, but he has traded for it with the little delicacy he once had.

Wei Wuxian strokes Wen Ning’s wrist under his robes. “It’ll just take practice. You’re still getting used to your strength.”

“I...I guess so.”

“You’ve made this much progress, haven’t you? You used to barely be able to hold a teacup. Learning to sew would help you adjust to your strength more. Plus, Granny wants to spend more time with you.”

“She does?”

“Yeah! A-Yuan always keeps her busy lately. You’re much less of a headache than him.” Wei Wuxian clicks his tongue. “Such a demanding child. Always wanting to run off somewhere, eat more snacks, shout whatever he feels…”

A smile tugs at Wen Ning’s lips. “I think I know who he learned that from.”

“Hey!” Wei Wuxian knocks on the back of Wen Ning’s head. “You’re not allowed to tease me.”

“…I think I know who I learned that from.”

Wei Wuxian laughs, his chest shaking under Wen Ning’s hand. The sensation fills Wen Ning with happiness, hearing Wei Wuxian’s laughter, feeling his joy vibrate through his body. Wen Ning wishes he were better at making jokes so he could feel this again and again.

“Alright, alright, go easy on me,” Wei Wuxian says. “And by the way, you can learn to sew. That doesn’t count as something you can’t have. But I’ll take it.”

“Then it’s your turn.”

They exchange small wishes back and forth, mostly about landmarks they miss from their hometown or little opportunities that had already passed. Half of Wei Wuxian’s wishes are about other people—for Uncle Four to stop snoring when they sit around the campfire, for Jiejie to get her medical texts published, for Jiang Wanyin to get a sense of humor.

Wen Ning begins to wonder if Wei Wuxian is intentionally steering the conversation away from himself.

Maybe if Wen Ning shares more, Wei Wuxian will too. If he doesn’t reveal something deeper, how will Wei Wuxian feel comfortable to reveal something serious in return?

Once Wen Ning allows it, deeper needs bubble up inside him and beg for his voice.

I want to go back to the beginning of the war and protect my family.

I want to taste and feel and breathe again.

I want you…

“I want to attend a real archery competition,” he says instead.

“You’re not missing much. It wouldn’t be a competition. You’d beat everyone there!”

Wen Ning tries to protest, but Wei Wuxian shushes him. Finally, Wei Wuxian relents and lets him speak. “You know I was never good at doing archery in front of other people. Not like you—you're even able to swordfight with an audience.”

Wei Wuxian scoffs. “You mean I used to be able to swordfight. And besides, the whole point is to have an audience. If you don’t carry your sword when everyone is looking, someone will scold you,” he says, sounding bitter.

Not for the first time, Wen Ning realizes he touched upon a sore topic only when it’s too late.

He tries to fill in the pieces of Wei Wuxian’s words. Usually when Wei Wuxian mentions someone scolding him, he means Hanguang-Jun. Wen Ning has heard the stories about him on the nights Wei Wuxian had drank too much. Despite how they are drawn to each other, and look out for each other, Wei Wuxian remains convinced that all Hanguang-Jun wants is to reprimand him for demonic cultivation.

Or at least he pretends he’s convinced of this. It must be difficult to hide the core transfer from a man who keeps offering to guide him to the right path, to heal him.

Wen Ning hadn’t realized how much the core transfer would alienate Wei Wuxian from the other cultivators.

Wei Wuxian shifts onto his back, facing directly up toward the belt of stars behind dark silhouettes of trees, seeming lost in thought. “Have you ever kissed anyone?” he suddenly asks.

Wen Ning’s entire body stiffens. “No.”

How did they get to this topic?

“That’s a pity. So many ladies who missed out on that chance.” Wei Wuxian sighs, then grins. “Well, it doesn’t matter. I don’t think either of us are going to be courting ladies anytime soon.”

“L-Ladies?” Wen Ning echoes with a mix of surprise and alarm. Then he realizes what his reaction might imply, and grows quiet, wishing he could suck the words back into himself.

Wei Wuxian is quiet for a few moments. “Don’t tell me the Ghost General is afraid of girls.”

“I’m—I’m not—I just…I was…”

“Haven’t you ever liked a girl?” Wei Wuxian’s voice is teasing, but there’s an undercurrent of hesitancy.

Attraction has always been complicated for Wen Ning. He had been never sure if what he felt was admiration, a desire to become friends, or a simple appreciation for beauty. Wen Ning might wonder if he's a cutsleeve, but it’s hard to know when he has only fallen for a single person in his entire life.

“I like them, just not…not…”

“Not that way,” Wei Wuxian suggests.

“…Right.”

“Hm.” Crickets chirp in the forest, as if suggesting ideas to Wei Wuxian as he thinks. “Then…boys?”

“Not—not every boy.” Not anyone who isn’t you.

The admission sends a wave of dread through Wen Ning. His clan would’ve never allowed him to be a cutsleeve. Never mind having feelings for the person who helped destroy them.

“Huh.” Wei Wuxian rubs his thumb over Wen Ning’s hand where it still rests on Wei Wuxian’s chest under his robes. “I had no idea.”

This game to share their wishes might have been a bad idea. How did Wen Ning end up revealing so much about himself, while he still hasn’t been offered a burden to lift from Wei Wuxian’s shoulders?

Wen Ning does something with his throat reminiscent of swallowing and musters up the courage to say, “I was actually surprised because…” then trails off, losing the boldness as quickly as it came.

What use is this? Even if he coaxes Wei Wuxian into talking about Hanguang-Jun, what can Wen Ning do to fix the situation? He isn’t even sure of precisely what Wei Wuxian and Hanguang-Jun have between them.

But maybe just talking about it will make Wei Wuxian feel better, the way Wen Ning had felt better by telling Jiejie about the times he had been bullied. He couldn’t undo the damage of those memories, but he had felt better sharing them.

Yet, what right does Wen Ning have to know about Wei Wuxian’s feelings?

Wei Wuxian waits, and when Wen Ning doesn’t continue, he begins lightly tapping the back of Wen Ning’s hand. “Because what?”

“I just didn’t expect you to want to kiss a lady.”

“How can you be so sure?” Wei Wuxian asks playfully. “You know, the whole world thinks I have a harem of dead brides up here. I’m truly insatiable, Wen Ning.”

“I already know you’re not who people say you are.”

Wei Wuxian gives a satisfied hum. “Neither are you.”

“Maybe…maybe you’ll still have a chance,” Wen Ning says.

Wei Wuxian lets out a surprised laugh. “A chance for what? Someone to kiss this old man? I think you’d have a better chance.”

Wen Ning pulls away from Wei Wuxian. “Me? Why?”

“Look at yourself! You’re beautiful!”

It takes Wen Ning several moments to process that, as his dead heart tries to race and his bloodless veins try to rush heat into his face. “Nobody would kiss me.” He curls back into Wei Wuxian’s shoulder before he can catch a glimpse of the expression on his face. “I’m dead.” I’m something that would crawl out of the earth and scare people to death.

“You don’t act like it.” Wei Wuxian stretches out and relaxes, as if this conversation is not nerve-wracking at all. “You’re very alive. In fact, you’ll live longer than me.”

That hits Wen Ning like a blow to the stomach, squeezing out air he doesn’t even need.

He will outlive Wei Wuxian. Outlive Uncle, Jiejie, A-Yuan—

What will he do when he no longer has them?

He tries to set the thought aside. There’s no use mourning what has not passed.

But somehow, he had never realized this. That his death is a type of immortality.

Wei Wuxian seems to notice that what he’d said had made Wen Ning uncomfortable. “I’m not that easy to kill off, though. The Burial Mounds couldn’t kill me the first time, and they won’t do it again!” But the words ring empty.

Wen Ning knows that Wei Wuxian expects to die in the Burial Mounds.

How much time do they truly have? It’s a miracle that none of the Dafan Wen have died yet—even the soil they farm holds the dust of corpses. Perhaps none of them can be said to be truly alive anyway.

He focuses on Wei Wuxian’s heartbeat against his hand.

He wishes for the thrum to never stop, to always be able to return here and put his hand to Wei Wuxian’s heart and know for sure that he’s alive. Like the way he had checked on Jiejie after her meetings with Wen Ruohan to be sure he hadn’t harmed her.

Maybe that’s part of the reason he likes Wei Wuxian’s heartbeat so much. It’s evidence that Wei Wuxian is alive—steady, warm, alive against his palm.

Maybe some of Wei Wuxian’s heart runs on the resentful energy that has kept him standing since he was thrown into the Burial Mounds. Maybe some of the same blackness that’s in Wen Ning’s veins coils through his.

He pulls Wei Wuxian closer. “I will sooner die a second time than let you outlive me,” he says into the groove of Wei Wuxian’s neck. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

Wei Wuxian cups Wen Ning’s face to look him in the eyes, his gaze warm but steely. “You’ve done so much for me already.”

Unsure of what to say, Wen Ning lets Wei Wuxian hold his chin in his hand.

Wei Wuxian’s lips curve into the faintest smile. “It’s my turn to protect you now.”

“Gongzi…I would still…still do anything to—"

“I know you would.” Wei Wuxian sighs. He tucks a strand of Wen Ning’s hair behind his ear. “I’m sorry. You have blood on your hands because of me.”

Chenqing’s breathy melody rises unbidden in Wen Ning’s mind, snakes between him and Wei Wuxian, as if the night breeze is playing the dizi to remind them of its presence. Wen Ning knows it lies secure in Wei Wuxian’s belt. Chenqing never leaves Wei Wuxian’s side.

Wen Ning has killed with Chenqing’s melody in his ear. Killed with his bare hands. Killed with rage summoned by beautiful songs of revenge.

He was never supposed to kill. Only heal.

But Wen Ning is an angry person. He has been angry since he was a child, since his father died, since his spirit was snatched and distorted, since he was abused by his clansmen, since his family was persecuted. He had buried all that anger under layers of timidity, where it was meant to never be disturbed.

But for Wei Wuxian, Wen Ning can be angry.

He can save his rage for when Wei Wuxian calls for it to be released, let him channel it and shape it into vengeance for his family, into a way for the people he loves to live a few more days.

He trusts Wei Wuxian with his anger, in a way he has never trusted himself.

“It’s true that I have blood on my hands,” Wen Ning says, “but it was for you and my family. Could we have escaped the Jin camp another way?”

Wei Wuxian doesn’t reply. Wen Ning looks down at the fold of Wei Wuxian’s loose collar where his hand is still settled beneath the fabric, where he feels the barely perceptible rise and fall of Wei Wuxian’s breath.

“I don’t want that blood on my family’s hands,” Wen Ning continues. “They were lucky enough not to fight in the war. They shouldn’t have to kill now that the war is over. I…I was able to take that burden for them.”

For once, I was able to carry a burden rather than become a burden. Please don’t take that away from me now.

Wei Wuxian is silent for several moments. Finally, all he says is, “How much do you remember from that night?”

Wen Ning thinks, tries to recall his resurrection like he has so many times, but like always, the images slip through his fingers like every dulled sensation he can no longer feel.

“I just remember it being dark. And that I was angry.”

Wei Wuxian just nods at him, then turns his face back up toward the sky. “Wen Ning…What else do you want, but can’t have?”

“You’re supposed to tell me that for yourself.”

“I want to hear more about you first.”

“I don’t want to outlive you,” comes out of Wen Ning’s mouth before he can think about it. Something about his tone, the way his voice shakes, makes him vaguely sure this is the closest he’s ever come to confessing.

Wei Wuxian’s breath becomes shallower. He looks at Wen Ning once more, a gaze that travels down Wen Ning’s spine, tingling. Sorrow flashes in Wei Wuxian’s eyes before they brighten as he smirks.

“Do you really have so little faith in me?” he jokes. “Didn’t I just say I’m not that easy to get rid of? You’re stuck with me forever! Besides, if I don’t terrorize the world long enough to buy A-Yuan everything he wants, how powerful am I really?”

Wen Ning can’t tell if Wei Wuxian’s bantering is genuine or if he’s just trying to lighten the mood, but either way, it lifts his spirits.

He gives a small smile. “You’re right.”

“Of course I am!” Wei Wuxian says, feigning indignance. “I’m not going to give up on everybody just like that. Uncle Four and I have so many wines left to taste. How can I let him down? And what about your jiejie? It’ll take me at least ten lives to convince her that my crop choices are better than hers, and I won’t back down until I’ve won that debate.”

Wen Ning laughs.

“And as for you…” Wei Wuxian pokes Wen Ning in the center of his chest. “Well, I have to complain to eternity about you doubting my power, so there’s that. I also have to make sure you learn to sew, and that you sew a hundred presents for me.”

”That’s a lot.”

“That’s the point.”

“Don’t worry, I can do it.”

Wei Wuxian nods, trying to look so serious that he looks a bit silly. “I’ll be waiting. And also…” His smirk returns. “I need to make sure you get your first kiss.”

Wen Ning feels a little tug inside his chest. “Why—Why me? What about you?”

“Hm. Good point.” Wei Wuxian looks away, as if thinking, then says, “We can just worry about each other’s first kiss. Then everything is accounted for.”

“That…that works. Although…” Wen Ning trails off. Then it hits him that Wei Wuxian means he hasn't kissed anyone either. Wen Ning supposes it makes sense, but it still surprises him.

“What is it?” Wei Wuxian asks.

“You’d give me that responsibility? To make sure that someday you…get your…” Wen Ning stops once more, too embarrassed to continue.

“Gladly.”

Wen Ning should be happy at this answer, at the warmth and certainty in Wei Wuxian’s voice, but instead he feels a pang of disappointment. How is he supposed to feel about this? It’s like he is entrusted to carry one end of a precious ribbon over a great distance, a ribbon he would wear with pride, but in the end he must tie it around someone else’s wrist.

“Too much responsibility?” Wei Wuxian asks playfully. He cocks an eyebrow. “Do you really think it’ll be so hard for me to get a kiss?”

“N-No, not at all,” Wen Ning answers, a bit too quickly.

Wei Wuxian just looks at him for a moment. “There’s actually an easy solution here. Then you won’t have to worry about helping out this hopeless case with romance,” he says, pointing at himself.

Something flutters inside Wen Ning. “What is it?”

“We could…ah…we could just do it now.”

The fluttering inside Wen Ning suddenly feels more like a bird trying to take flight.

Wen Ning wants to ask what Wei Wuxian means, because surely it isn’t what it sounds like. Wants to hear the truth so he can cut off his budding imagination, but he can barely form words.

It’s difficult to tell in the moonlight, but Wen Ning thinks he sees a faint pinkness spread across Wei Wuxian’s cheeks. Wei Wuxian’s chest is hot, his heart thrumming under Wen Ning’s fingers.

“N-Now?” is all Wen Ning can manage to say.

“Only if you want to,” Wei Wuxian rushes to say. He laughs nervously.

Wen Ning knows his own feelings. Knows that if Wei Wuxian has summoned him, he can’t say no—not with mind, not with body. But as for Wei Wuxian's feelings...

“Do you want to?” Wen Ning asks.

He expects the question to change something in Wei Wuxian’s expression, but whatever Wei Wuxian truly thinks remains trapped behind his eyes.

“I think it would be nice,” is all he says, his voice soft and fond.

Wen Ning’s stagnant nerves feel almost as alive as when resentful energy is coursing through him.

“I—I…Okay.”

Wei Wuxian swallows. Wen Ning can’t stop his gaze from following Wei Wuxian’s throat, until he’s looking down at where Wei Wuxian’s upper chest is exposed and his hand disappears under red zhongyi. Wei Wuxian’s heart is beating hard enough for both of them.

I’m lonely, it whispers. I’m so lonely…

He sees Wei Wuxian’s throat moving and only then registers that he’s speaking. “It’s alright. Relax…” Wei Wuxian murmurs. Cups the side of Wen Ning’s face. “Can you close your eyes for me?”

Wen Ning’s view of Wei Wuxian blurs as he closes his eyes, until he’s left with only the impression of the heat and solidness of Wei Wuxian’s body pressed against his. He has a distant thought to count Wei Wuxian’s heartbeats as he waits, but finds himself unable to count. He waits longer, the impossibility of their situation rooting deeper and deeper in his thoughts until he wonders if Wei Wuxian has changed his mind.

Then a quivering warmth against his lips.

Wen Ning can only just sense the way their lips glide softly against each other, but he could be content with that forever.

As if Wei Wuxian has suddenly realized something, his hand trails down Wen Ning’s neck and finds the collar of his robes, gripping it. They kiss harder, more passionately. This, Wen Ning can truly feel.

Wei Wuxian has gripped his collar before. Once in Lotus Pier as it was burning, once in Yiling when Wen Ning brought him there to hide. Both had been expressions of distrust.

Is this an expression of trust instead?

Other than Wei Wuxian himself, perhaps what Wen Ning has wanted most is his trust.

Now he has both.

By his side, in his arms.

Pressed to his lips...

* * *

With Wei Wuxian asleep and curled into his shoulder, Wen Ning looks up at the stars. From this spot, he can see the moon through the trees. It’s a bright half-moon. Not round enough to be full, not whittled enough to be a smiling sliver. Just a white circle cut clean in half.

Overcome by the closest he can come to drowsiness, Wen Ning’s mind wanders, past memories with Wei Wuxian blending into teenage fantasies blending into the moment they kissed.

Wei Wuxian has never been someone who hesitates.

Did he hesitate before kissing Wen Ning?

Did he ask Wen Ning to close his eyes so he wouldn’t see the moments of indecision in his face before he leaned in?

It reminds Wen Ning of the way he will never know what Wei Wuxian looked like before he put his lips to Chenqing, the way he will never know what Wei Wuxian thought before bringing him back into the world.

The time waiting for Wei Wuxian’s lips to meet his had felt like ages, but maybe it was only a second. Maybe, even for Wen Ning, he has never hesitated.

But maybe it doesn’t matter. Everything Wei Wuxian begins, he throws himself into whole-heartedly. If he had hesitated, Wen Ning had not felt it, had not seen it.

“We can do this again,” Wei Wuxian had said. “As long as you want to…”

Wen Ning tries to find constellations in the stars scattered across the dark cobalt sky. Trees cover parts of the constellations, their branches swaying gently in the night breeze but never parting enough to reveal everything. Wen Ning connects what dots of light remain, forming new constellations in his mind.

He counts Wei Wuxian’s sleeping heartbeats.

* * *

“I’m ready.”

The blood pool is to his back, and Wei Wuxian stands in front of him, eyes reflecting specks of amber light from candles stationed around the Demon Subdue Palace, their arrangement perhaps the only semblance of organization in the cave.

But despite the copious amounts of candles, something about this cave sucks away their orange glow. Like the darkness stretches out fingers to dampen the string of lights like dampening the vibrations of a guqin cord. Wen Ning isn’t sure where all the light goes. Maybe into the blood pool. Maybe into Wei Wuxian’s demonic cultivation devices.

Today Wei Wuxian seems bright enough to make up for the cave’s hungry darkness. There’s a levity in the way he shuffles through the talismans in his hands. A spring in his steps as he paces around Wen Ning to place talismans on him, his steps bouncy despite how his joints must creak with stiffness.

It’s so much like Wei Wuxian. Always at his happiest when about to help someone.

Wen Ning tries to soak in the feeling of Wei Wuxian’s nimble fingers pressing the talismans onto his robes, but it’s a quick, light sensation. Just when he thinks he's starting to feel it more fully, Wei Wuxian finishes, drumming his fingers along Wen Ning’s shoulder as he slips around to stand in front of him again.

“I’m just about ready, too,” Wei Wuxian says.

He strokes his chin, looking Wen Ning up and down approvingly. Wen Ning knows it’s merely for the placement of the talismans, but his helpless mind imagines that the approval is of him, of his cracked skin and deadweight body. The fondness in Wei Wuxian’s eyes reminds him of that night in the forest, and his body tries to shiver, clinging to a reflex that barely responds.

“Now, the last addition.” Wei Wuxian flits away and returns as quickly as he left, holding out a stone tablet with red fulu writing, perhaps the same tablet that started this entire project. “Press this against your chest. Try to align its pulse with where your heart is.”

Wen Ning can easily find the exact location of his heart without a pulse to guide him—if he couldn’t do that by now, Jiejie would surely make him copy every medical text all over again. But with his dull hands, finding the exact source of the pulse of resentful energy in the tablet is another matter. He can sense something, but not where it comes from.

He takes his best guess, and holds the center of the tablet over his heart. Wei Wuxian seems to notice his unsureness, and checks the position of the tablet, the dance of his fingers on Wen Ning’s hand and robes like a fleeting breath.

“This should be enough,” Wei Wuxian says. “The problem before was that just conducting resentful energy through the tablet wasn’t holistic enough…the spiritual energy in these talismans, and the energy from xue in the blood pool behind you, should help to mimic a living heart more closely.”

Wen Ning nods. Guilt still nips at him, telling him not to let Wei Wuxian continue his experiments. But life with Wei Wuxian is nothing if not continual surrender.

Wei Wuxian brings Chenqing to his lips and begins to play. There’s a brief flash of red in his eyes before he closes them. Tendrils of resentful energy snake around him, like a black spiderweb being spun in the air. The dark wisps begin to reach for Wen Ning.

Chenqing’s song is constantly changing, but held together by a steady rhythm. The melody brushes against Wen Ning, shaping him, like water eroding rocks. On the back of his neck, he feels thick, warm energy from the blood pool, muggy and oppressive on his skin.

The red lettering on the talismans begins to glow. The tablet pulses harder against his chest, reaching inside him, tugging him taut from the center like pulling a needle through a stitch.

Pressure claws at his throat, a phantom sensation of choking. He closes his eyes and gasps for air he doesn’t need.

Every time Wei Wuxian experiments on him, he wonders if it’s anything similar to what it felt like to be resurrected by him. If the fear and strangely blissful pain throttling through his nerves is what he woke up to. It’s a thought he returns to over and over, like a ritual for something sacred.

The dizi song fades, and Wen Ning notices that he has been making low growling noises in the back of his throat. The last sound escapes him, resonant with almost a pleading tone, and he opens his eyes.

The red glow in Wei Wuxian’s eyes hasn’t quite faded. His fingers are still positioned over Chenqing. “Feel anything?”

Wen Ning takes a moment to shake himself out of his daze, then removes the tablet and presses his hand against his heart.

Nothing.

He feels the groove of his neck, slides his hand under his robes and feels his bare chest, touches his neck again.

He considers lying and saying that he does feel a pulse, but Wei Wuxian slips a hand under his robes and steals his voice out of his mouth. Wei Wuxian remains completely still, his brow knit. Then his eyes light up.

“It worked! I feel it!” He grabs Wen Ning’s hand and guides it to where his own had just lay. “Here, feel, it’s right here. It worked!”

Wen Ning thinks he can feel a faint fluttering under his fingers. He can’t tell if the pulse is weak or his own sense of touch is too dull to capture it, but what matters is it’s there—a sliver of life inside him, another resurrection at Wei Wuxian’s fingertips.

“Wei-gongzi, thank—”

Wei Wuxian shushes him and wraps his arms around him, pressing his ear to Wen Ning’s chest. If his were a true living heart, Wen Ning is sure his heartbeat would turn into something more like firecrackers. He considers resting his hands on Wei Wuxian’s shoulders, but that might seem like he’s trying to push Wei Wuxian away, so he hangs his arms limply at his sides, wondering how he should even react.

“Sounds nice,” Wei Wuxian says. “Strong and steady yet mellow. Quite fitting.”

“Th-thank you.”

“Told you I could do it!” Wei Wuxian pulls away and pats his chest, then holds his hand there, grinning. “I’m not sure how long it’ll last. Maybe only a few hours or a few days, and I’ll have to restart it, but that’s not bad! Your, ah…” His smile doesn’t disappear, but it fades a bit, tightening. “The way you died…that stake…it damaged your organs. So you might need a little more help to keep your heart running.”

Something inside Wen Ning lurches at the mention of his death. If the agony of dying with a Spirit-Attraction Flag pierced through his chest was what allowed him to be with Wei Wuxian again, to finally have the strength to protect his family and live with them for a few more months, then the nausea brought forth by the memory is worth it. It was all worth it.

“That’s okay,” Wen Ning says. “You don’t need to restart it another time. Just this once is enough.”

Wei Wuxian shakes his head at him. Then he knits his brow, as if a thought just arrested him. “You can’t feel it though?”

“I can.”

“But how much?”

“Enough.”

Wei Wuxian steps back and crosses his arms, Chenqing’s red tassel swinging slightly, as if waving at Wen Ning. He cocks an eyebrow. “Then we’ll just have to get your heart rate up.”

Wen Ning is not sure if he likes that idea, but it sounds reasonable. He thinks of the way his heart raced when training with his clan, when attempting an archery shot while others were watching, when building his arm strength like Jiejie told him to so he wouldn’t be bullied as easily. He doesn’t quite miss those moments, but he does miss being able to feel them fully.

“Okay,” Wen Ning says, and drops to the ground to do a rapid set of push-ups.

“Not like that!” Wei Wuxian says through a surprised laugh.

Wen Ning stops at the top of a push-up and looks up. “What should I do instead?”

“Stand up.” Wei Wuxian waves lazily, gesturing for him to stand, so Wen Ning rises to his feet. Wei Wuxian combs Wen Ning’s hair with his fingers, putting it back into place. “Physical exertion is too easy for you now, that’s not going to work.”

Wen Ning lets out a tiny “Oh.” The entire situation is beginning to feel much too embarrassing, like the first few times Wei Wuxian had insisted on experimenting on him.

“Resentful energy is much more responsive to emotions than it is to the movement of your body,” Wei Wuxian explains.

A black wisp rises from Chenqing. Wei Wuxian holds a finger over the dizi, and the nebulous tendril of resentful energy snakes around his finger, as if caressing him. He twirls his finger in the air, stroking the black coil, and shoots a satisfied glance at Wen Ning.

Wen Ning finds himself oddly…affected by the sight. A warm, hungry buzz grows inside him, more imagination than any real bodily response, but stimulating all the same. The knowledge that what runs through his veins is resentful energy, the same energy as that black sliver coiled around Wei Wuxian’s finger, does nothing to calm him.

“What…what emotion do I need to feel?”

Wei Wuxian smiles. To Wen Ning’s surprise, the smile is gentle and caring, perhaps even rueful, rather than sharp with mischief. The smile he gives before he is about to reshape Wen Ning.

“Just hold still,” Wei Wuxian says.

He cups Wen Ning’s chin. The resentful energy in his hand disperses and swirls around them, framing their faces.

Wei Wuxian leans in and kisses him. Wen Ning’s heart leaps up through his chest.

Their lips glide against each other for longer than he had expected. The warm buzz inside him spreads to his fingertips when Wei Wuxian’s tongue enters his mouth for the briefest moment, then buzzes stronger when he longs to feel it again.

Wei Wuxian pulls away. He lets go of Wen Ning’s chin, resting his hand on his shoulder instead. “Did it work?”

Wen Ning’s pulse is practically thrumming in his ears by now. He’s grateful that he doesn’t have real blood, because his face would be flushed.

“It worked,” Wen Ning manages to stammer out.

“Xian-gege!” A small voice calls from outside the cave.

Wei Wuxian widens his eyes and exchanges glances with Wen Ning, his face reddening. Stifling a laugh, he folds his hands behind his back and takes a step away from Wen Ning. “Who’s there?”

A-Yuan comes tottering inside, moving a bit too fast and making Wen Ning tense his muscles in preparation to stop him from falling over. He latches onto Wei Wuxian’s leg and looks up at him with round eyes.

“Do you have official business for me?” Wei Wuxian asks.

“Qing-jiejie says one of the special lanterns went out.”

Wei Wuxian had created red lanterns to light the paths of their settlement and also divert hungry spirits from entering their homes, drawing them like moths to a flame to be discarded every morning. The only problem is that one of them is inconveniently placed and falls over quite often.

Wei Wuxian tilts his head. “And who knocked it over this time?”

A-Yuan looks away. “Qing-jiejie says it’s a secret.”

“I can’t fix the lantern if I don’t know who knocked it over,” he lies. “It might be important.”

Looking a bit distressed, A-Yuan taps his fingers together, then breaks into a grin.

“Was it Qing-jiejie?” Wei Wuxian asks.

A-Yuan giggles and runs over to Wen Ning, hugging his leg instead.

Wei Wuxian crosses his arms and clicks his tongue. He looks over at Wen Ning. “I can’t believe your jiejie has been destroying my work. We’re really going to have to scold her for this one.”

Feeling a bit sorry for the teasing his sister is about to endure, Wen Ning picks up A-Yuan and sits the boy on his shoulders. They head out of the cave and toward the troublesome pathway.

“You know,” Wei Wuxian says, “physical exertion could still help you feel your pulse, if you do enough.”

“Like what?”

“Mm…maybe running?”

Wen Ning considers it for a moment. “I think you just don’t want me to be around to side with my jiejie.”

Wei Wuxian shoots him a look of mock offense. “Wen Qionglin! How could you accuse me of such ulterior motives?”

“I would never accuse you,” Wen Ning says sincerely, in case Wei Wuxian actually did take his words to heart.

Wei Wuxian shakes his head and waves a hand. “Well, go on. Try it out.”

Wen Ning nods. He tilts his head to speak up to where A-Yuan sits on his shoulders. “A-Yuan, do you want to go for a ride?”

“Yes!”

“Ning-gege gives the best rides, doesn’t he?” Wei Wuxian claps him on the shoulder.

Wen Ning feels A-Yuan drumming on the top of his head, which he assumes means a “yes.” He carefully lowers A-Yuan from his shoulders for a piggy-back ride. Just as he’s about to set off, Wei Wuxian takes his wrist.

“Come back to the cave after. I still have a few tricks I want to try.” Wei Wuxian shows a sliver of a smile, like there’s a joke in his words.

Wen Ning wonders if this is already one of the tricks, as his heart rate climbs up once more. “Okay.”

Wei Wuxian breaks into a full smile, then whirls around and strides down the path toward the lantern. “Wen Qing! What did you do? You no longer have authority to order me to buy turnip seeds if you act like this!”

Wen Ning can faintly hear Jiejie snap back in response, her tone sharper than her typical sternness. She sounds more intimidating when she's embarrassed.

Fondness swells inside Wen Ning. For Wei Wuxian and Jiejie, for A-Yuan with his tiny hands on his shoulders.

Theirs is a life on stolen time, counted in heartbeats.

But together, they can make it last.

* * *

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