My opponent just called upon the Oracles and scattered most of my pieces across space and time. Does anyone know the best counter in this situation?

My Saviour (Rumlow X Reader) Chapter Fourtynine - Get Away From Me, YN!

Rumlow looks at you. You know you just started something you can’t stop. And you start to feel like this wasn’t as good of an idea that you originally thought.

– Kids? No, YN! I don’t have kids!

He bends down, and starts to pull some knifes out of the bag. Is he shaking? Did you just screw up even more? He looks up at you.

– Why do you ask?

Why did YOU ask? Why is HE asking? He saw that you noticed the angel on the shelf. Is he trying to push this whole thing under the rug once again? How should you respond to that?

He stands up, hands you a knife. You hesitate for a second before you take it. He’s definitely shaking. But why? Like Pierce said, knifes is his specialty. Why is he so afraid of them?

– Hold it like this!

His voice is strong, commanding. Not at all like the Rumlow you know. Or maybe this is him? You change the way you hold the knife.

– No, Agent! Like THIS!

He grabs your arm, and change the angle for you to hold the knife the right way. His hold doesn’t hurt physically. But emotionally you feel like he’s ripping your arm off. You look up at him. No emotions. Nothing. Not even when he looks into your eyes. You close your eyes, and swallow. Get this over with. Just do the training, and then you can cry out in your car. Or maybe you could call Jack. This is the second time today, he’s pulled rank on you. You never should’ve left him at the hotel.

– If you hold it like this…

He shows you how to hold the knife.

– …. You can flip it like this…

The knife flips in his hand, like it was nothing.

– …. Get the upper hand. You have to react quickly. Knife fights are a totally different thing than a gunfight. It’s up close and personal. NEVER hesitate! If you hesitate I win! Got it?

You nod. The way he talks to you. The tone he’s using. Monoton. Like he talks from a script. Like he doesn’t want to talk to you. You can’t help it. This hurts, more than you care to admit.

– Pay attention, Agent! If you lose focus in a fight, you’re DEAD!

– I KNOW THIS! STOP TREATING ME LIKE A NEWBIE!

Rumlow takes two steps backwards, away from you. Then he stands down.

– Then fight me!

– What?

– You said you knew how to do this! Fight me!

Does he really want you to fight him? Why is he doing this. Things used to be so perfect. He used to protect you. He even saved your life. And now.. Will you be able to fight him? Maybe Jack held back? Maybe he won’t? Rumlow keeps looking at you.

– What are you waiting for, Agent? Show me what you’ve got!

You step towards him. No use in dragging this out. The faster you do what he tells you, the faster you can go and cry out in your car, or at Jacks place. Rumlow quickly steps into defensive mode. You continue. Blocking his attack, switching the knife in your hand, to get the upper hand. But he stops you. He’s quick, like a snake. But you’re quick too, and you actually feel like you know how to do this.

– Footwork, Agent!

Rumlow yells at you. You look down, and miss his attack. His knife hits your upper arm. Not hard or deep. But it hits you. And you feel it. Dropping your knife to the floor. Rumlow stops too. Knife in his hand, by his side. He looks at the wound on your upper arm. Like he’s hypnotised by it. His arm shaking. And he’s breathing heavily. You look from the knife, and up to his face. Then you hear his knife fall to the floor.

You just stand there looking at each other for a while. You’re shocked by the knife hitting your arm. It doesn’t hurt that bad, and you haven’t even looked at the wound yet. But you can feel that you’re bleeding.

– Get away from me, YN!

– Brock?

You take a step towards him. He lifts his hand up, stopping you.

– Please, get away from me! I’m not… You… I’m not a good person!

What? What is he talking about? You were training. Accidents happens. Just like when Jacks arm hit you, when you weren’t paying attention. That’s exactly what happened now. The only difference is that the knife made you bleed.

– I’m fine, Brock! It… It was an accident.

You reach out once more, try to touch him, to comfort him, calm him down. He takes a step backwards.

– Don’t touch me! Just leave, YN! I’m not good for you!

– NO!

You’re surprised by the confidence in your voice, and the confidence you feel. But no, you’re not leaving him like this.

– YN! I mean it! I’m really not a good person! If you knew what I’ve done. You’d hate me!

You take another step towards him. This time, he’s not moving. You put your hand on his chest.

– I’ll never hate you, Brock!

He looks down on your hand on his chest. Then he looks up at your wound.

– We need to fix that!

He takes your hand, and walk you into the bathroom. Finding a first aid kit. You just let him. He obviously feels bad about stabbing your arm, and he want’s to fix it. Let him, YN. He is careful. But he’s not saying anything. Whiping off the blood, cleans the wound and getting a bandaid around your upper arm. You follow his every move.

When he’s done. He just stands there, looking at you. You look back for a while, before you take a deep breath.

– Brock?

– Yeah…

– I love you!

He doesn’t say anything. Just looks at you. Maybe he doesn’t love you anymore. But you don’t care. You had to tell him this. And this seemed like a good time to do that. It feels like he needs it.

– I miss you so…..

He puts a finger over your lips. Stops you.

– Don’t do that, YN!

WHY is he doing this! If he doesn’t want you anymore, fine. But then he can tell you that. You’ll be hurt, sure. But everything is better than this cryptic stuff he’s doing now. You remove his hand. Look him in the eye.

– I’m sorry.. I didn’t know that I had a choice in that!

He takes a breath. Looks down.

– I’m not worth it. I don’t deserve you!

Now you start to feel angry. This is your choice! YOU get to decide if you love him or not. And this is stupid. You need for him to tell you the truth, even if that truth is that he doesn’t love you anymore.

– STOP IT, BROCK! Just tell me that you don’t want me anymore! I’m pouring my heart out here. Stop lying to me!

He looks up at you again. Looks at you for a long time. Is he thinking about how to let you down easy?

– I…. I have to tell you something, YN!

Finally. You take a relieved breath. He turns around and walks out of the bathroom. Stops at the shelf, and take the angel down. Then he sits down on the couch. You follow. Sit down beside him.

He slowly hands you the angel. You take it almost devoutly. You don’t say a word. You just wait for him to start to talk.

– That angel…. It was made by a child…

He stops.. Is he changing his mind? You look at him, still not saying a word..

– He was 8…

Was? Did he lose a child? Is that why he feels he’s a bad person? Did something happen to his family? Is that why he’s so protective? You open your mouth. But he beats you to it.

– It was me…

@nekoannie-chan @bat-mar @here4thefanfics @there-goes-thefighter @late-to-the-party-81

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Previous Chapter Next Chapter

I got a prompt for you ^^ if you ever wanna get into it

Person A is athlete at a press conference and Person A makes comment to his buddy about Person B and Person A forgot his mic was on

For Feysand/Rowaelin~

Love your writing 💕

I loved writing this! Thanks so much for sending it in and for reading!

...

Has potential for more parts.  Feel free to send me prompts if you wanna or if you’d just like to see more of this, let me know.

And I know more about basketball than any other sport, so for the sake of reality/my sanity basketball is the sport of choice here.

Warnings: none

...

For the Love of the Game

And the final game of the regular season comes to a close!  In a clutch shot Rowan Whitethorn hit that three-pointer and brought the score 109-107.  No overtime for the Wendlyn Wyverns.  Whitethorn has been having a hell of a season--surprising since the slump he was in last year.  But he actually managed to be listed as MVP and leading in most assists for the regular season.

Aelin listened to the announcer, Duke Perrington, as he gave the wrap up of the game.  Duke was a sleaze as his name could only attest to.  And he would be leading the press-conference tonight after the post-game wrap ups.  Hell.  She didn’t want to deal with him.

She straightened her skirt and checked, again, that there were no runs in her pantyhose.  Dorian Havilliard Sr. had made certain she knew what the dress code was.  Pants were out of the question (she was a woman after all).  Shoes with a heel less than two inches were laughable.  And she always, always, had to have her make-up done.

Aelin had no problem with dressing up.  None at all.  The more glitz and glam the better.  But doing it for Havilliard? The man, who owned the sports magazine she wrote for, hardly appreciated her.

She muttered a string of oaths under her breath.  

After the slow start of the first quarter, it was good to see the usual energy of the Wyverns come out.  And of course, getting to see Lorcan Salvaterre fouling out of the game made everyone’s night.  Who won the pool this time?

As Aelin slipped from the bathroom, she made sure her reporter’s badge was unobscured.  She couldn’t count the times security had tried to escort her away from press conferences just because they couldn't be bothered to look for it.  Maybe if she clipped it right over her breasts.

She was usually the only female reporter in the conferences.  Mostly because Cairn Valg, owner of the Wendlyn Wyverns was a misogynistic pig-headed man.  And then Havilliard never bothered to listen to Aelin when she asked that he put her name on the list of reporters.

“Aelin,” Nox Banner, one of her fellow reporters and a good friend, walked beside her down the hall of the stadium towards the conference rooms. “Havilliard actually let you cover tonight’s game?”

She punched his shoulder when he howled with laughter. “Screw you.”

“I’m just saying,” Nox said, grinning madly, but Aelin cut him off with another punch.

“I am just as qualified as you to be there,” she said.

Nox threw his hands up in defense. “I know.  You’ll cover the game better than any of us too.”

“Damn straight,” Aelin agreed.  She ran a hand through her hair and sighed. “Dorian helped me get on the list.”

“Of course he did,” Nox said, making sure to waggle his brows.

“He’s a friend,” Aelin said.  Nox managed to dodge the next punch. 

Nox cackled in laughter as they were led into the conference room.  Aelin rolled her eyes, grateful to have at least one person on her side.  Being a female reporter in a male dominated environment had always been hard.  But she’d grown up with the sport.  It had been her life in the foster system, through college.  Almost to the WNBA.  

The conference room was packed with reporters, cameras, and a line of the players up on an elevated stage.  Just as she always felt with conferences and interviews, Aelin felt a rush of adrenaline.  It wasn’t as intense as when she would be on the court playing--but close enough.  The closest she ever got nowadays.

Ignoring the glances from her male counterparts, Aelin pushed her way through the reporters, Nox at her side.  She wasn’t quite at the front of the crowd as she would like to be, but close enough.  

Aelin watched as two delegates from each team--the Wyverns and the Sea Dragons--came onto the stage.  Rowan Whitethorn and Lorcan Salvaterre for the former and Sartaq Khagan and Sam Cortland for the latter.  Aelin never understood how such attractive people could get drafted for both teams.

Rowan Whitethorn in particular had always caught Aelin’s attention.  He’d been signed from the European league after dominating some private university division.  The Wyverns laid their claim on him five years ago and it seemed he’d found his home in Wendlyn.  It was his story, his history as a player that had always intrigued Aelin.

His striking silver-blonde hair and piercing green eyes also helped.

“Live in five...four...three…” a technician counted down giving a signal to Duke Perrington who stood in front of the main camera.

“Here we are at the post-game break down,” Perrington said, his slicked back and signature smirk of a smile ready for viewers. “Wendlyn barely cinched this win, as has been the norm for them through the entire regular season making everyone question, how are they going to do in the finals?”

Aelin wanted to roll her eyes. Perrington had washed out as an athlete in college and barely had the credentials to be a lead reporter for a major sports station.  He only had an in with Havilliard because the two could be sleazes together.  And money.  And they had similar values.  Demoralizing and inhuman ones, but similar nonetheless.

As the questions began for each team, Aelin got more and more frustrated that she’d never been able to pose a question.  Every time she’d raised her hand to ask a question, she’d been ignored.  Every time she tried to push her way through to that front of the line of reporters someone would nudge her back.  Even with Nox at her side, Aelin was at every disadvantage.

“I think,” Rowan Whitethorn said, his accent rolling off his tongue, “it took far more teamwork than anyone really notices to get us here.”

Teamwork.  The five best players for Wendlyn hated each other.  Rowan, Lorcan, Connal, Fenrys, and Vaughan.  Gavriel had finished out his last season five years ago and was now working as assistant coach but she was sure he hated the others as much as they hated him.

It was a nice sentiment really.  And even though Whitethorn was leading in assists, it was clear there was a rift in the team.  As was made evident by the Wyverns barely scraping their way into the finals.

Perrington made the mistake of pausing too long and Aelin sent a well-aimed kick at the instep of the man in front of her.  She had seconds to push her question.  It led to a larger theme that she was interested in as a sports writer, but one no one--no man-- took seriously.

“And what would you define teamwork as, Mr. Whitethorn,” she asked loud enough that any microphone would be able to pick up.  Aelin felt eyes and cameras turn to her, giving her a thrill of excitement.  Almost as good as being out on the court. “It’s become fairly evident that there is a divide among the Wyverns and how you all play together.  It would seem that teamwork only exists on the court, not off it.”

Silence.

It seemed that everyone had forgotten a woman could be a reporter, let alone exist in general.

Rowan Whitethorn’s pine green eyes bore into her.  Even at a distance, Aelin could feel the intensity of his gaze, the scrutiny he was putting her through.  And she loved it.  Far too often men, and women, dismissed her as nothing more than a blonde bimbo.  Even though she’d risen high and mighty among the ranks in her college classes.  She’d become valedictorian even while playing basketball herself.  She’d been one of the best on and off the court.

Until Arobyn Hammel.

Now all she was known for was that she made good coffee runs in the office.

“Teamwork is trust.” Whitethorn didn’t have an opportunity to say anything else before Perrington swung the attention back around to how both teams would approach the finals and having to play each other again.

Whitethorn’s gaze continued to flick back to Aelin through the final questions.  Aelin alternated between glaring at him and Perrington.

Perhaps her question wasn’t the most interesting to them.  It was a bit more of a touchy feely sort and less about statistics and the male-esque propriety of victory.  But it was something worth considering.  Especially when the Wyverns hadn’t been playing their best in years.  Despite their successes, they were still being held back.

And Aelin wanted to know why.

She wasn’t able to sink her nails into the questions however.  Perrington called a final question and cameras flashed as the conference wound down.

Aelin seethed to herself as she faded back into nothing.  No one, not even Nox tried to say anything to her.  She knew she shouldn’t be surprised.  She shouldn’t even be as disappointed as she was.  This was everything she should have been expecting.

“Who let the skirt in?” Salvaterre muttered to Whitethorn as soon as someone called a loud “clear!” to indicate the conference was over.

Aelin was more than ready to let it go.  The microphone was muffled as the giant of a man moved, the fabric of his sweatsuit rubbing against the sensitive item.  She knew she should just forget the comment and get on with the article.  She had enough information to get something down.  Even if she did utterly fail at getting treated like a real reporter.  Again.

Until Whitethorn opened his mouth.

“At least it gave us something to look at.”

The prick hadn’t turned off his microphone, hadn’t put a hand over it, hadn’t even bothered to check if it was still on.  His words echoed over the din of voices.

Aelin didn’t think as she spun on her heel, head cocked to one side.  She could hear Nox cure under his breath as she stepped up to the stage where the players were still standing.

I was gratifying to see Cortland and Kahgan shuffle off to one side, expertly avoiding her.

“So I was right, was I?” Aelin asked before she could stop herself. “You are as big an ass off the court as on.  Is it alright if I quote you on that?”

“Aelin,” Nox hissed behind her.  Ah, so now he wanted to talk to her.  She ignored him.

Whitethorn stared down at Aelin, his ridiculously handsome face passive and unreadable.  If not for those green eyes that pinned her where she stood.

“As long as you call it a great ass, fireheart,” he said, his accent growing thick as he leaned over the press table to grin at her. “I don’t find I care.”

Aelin wondered if she would get fired for slapping a multi-million basketball player in the face.  No.  Punching. Punching would be far more satisfactory.

“Buzzard,” she hissed, instead.

“Princess,” he replied, that insufferably sexy smile never leaving his face.

A hand grabbed Aelin’s arm and she had to stop herself from swinging a right hook at Nox. 

“Havilliard is gonna kill you,” Nox said, he gestured around them and Aelin realized the scene she was making.

The cameramen had their cameras not quite in a position to start recording, but it was pretty damn close.  All the other reporters had their own recording devices not so secretly hidden in the flaps of their suit jackets or just out right ready to catch anything that might happen.

Aelin took a breath and shook Nox off.  She then put on her most charming smile--the one that had gotten Archer Flynn to give up VIP season passes to the Lakers last year.  And again this year.  The poor beautiful fool.

“Mr. Whitethorn, Mr. Salvaterre,” she purred, looking at each man in turn before leaving the conference hall with the loud, efficient snap of her heels echoing behind her.

...

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the act (s. moran)

sebastian moran doesn’t know how to love. incessant pressure from his father to “do better” erased any kind of bond he could have formed with him. his platoon was murdered in front of his eyes, and when he woke up the realization that he was dead too wiped away any chance at love.

sebastian moran prides himself on his ability to bed women (and men if he so chooses) at the snap of a finger. taunts and mocks come at the expense of his actions, but why should he care? he’s always been the butt of the joke while working with the moriarty family. it’s not like they’re going out and picking up people left and right. they don’t have the ability to do so. the colonel claims it’s a god given gift, but fred knows better than to buy into the defense mechanism that is moran’s sexual habits.

sebastian moran doesn’t care for anyone. sure, he’ll give his life to keep william alive, but that’s simply out of pure obligation. he’s well aware that his own like is expendable. why should he spend time trying to convince himself otherwise?

sebastian moran is a defensive, brash, sexual man who does not need anyone to stay alive. that is, until he meets you.

•••

when he first sees you, it’s across the street in town. you’re arguing with a vendor, claiming the fruit you’re trying to purchase is much too expensive for the meager salary of a maid working for some self-centered noble. it’s not like the vendor will cave on their price, but you hope they’ll remember the interaction for the next time someone can’t buy any of their produce. you’re two seconds from walking away until a tall (very handsome) man slides next to you, paying for the fruit in full. he offers you a cocky smirk, but you know better than to buy into the fact that some strange man is buying the entirety of your produce just for the hell of it.

meanwhile, the colonel is trying his very hardest to not blush like a maniac. because in reality, the suave act that he puts on for the men and women swooning over him in bars and sleazy alleyways is just that. an act. so when he realizes you’re absolutely nothing like the people he puts the act on for, he’s stumped. he’s intrigued by your soft eyes, the slight downward curve of your lips as you frown at him, and the way your fingers fiddle with the thin gold chain hanging delicately off your neck.

“there’s no need for such a beautiful person to frown and mar their face. i’m simply being polite,” he’s well aware his comment strikes a bone in you, but he’s thoroughly surprised at your remark.

“i’m beautiful regardless of the face i’m making. only some people can truly appreciate such beauty,” you say with confidence, straightening your back and staring up at him (you’re just now made aware of how tall he is). his smirk fades into a childlike grin, and you come to appreciate how he almost looks like a young boy smiling widely in a candy shop. but you know better. the hard lines of his face and the small scar peaking out from beneath his buttoned shirt indicate that the man’s mind is far older than you realized. his dark eyes reflect pure joy at your challenge, but you can still detect the faint traces of panic. you’re confused as to why such a confident looking man would experience panic when talking to you. you won’t know why he’s panicked around you until much later.

“i suppose you’ll have to teach me how to appreciate your beauty then,” he hopes he maintains the same confident tone he spoke with before, but with the way you’re looking at him he’s positive you see right through him.

“you can only see true beauty once you’ve seen it in yourself. i’d suggest dropping the act, it makes it much easier to appreciate yourself if you’re true to who you are,” you finish, turning away from him and walking away. the vendor looks between you and moran, but moran’s eyes focus solely on you. he’s sure that the next time he sees you he’ll fall even farther than he already has.

•••

the second time he sees you, you’re picking up a brand new tailored suit for the nobleman you work for. you’re very clearly tired, the bags under your eyes a dark purple, but sebastian moran is still in awe of your raw beauty. he doesn’t even try to put up his usual front when he walks in line next to you, head turned down.

“if you’re having trouble with such a heavy bag, i could help you carry it,” he tries hard to keep the bubbling feeling of bashfulness out of his voice, but your small giggles prove that you’ve already detected it. when you look up at him, eyes shining with amusement and mouth wide in a breathtaking smile, he thanks every deity in existence for bringing you to him.

“i see you’ve learned to at least drop your act around me. i’m impressed, i didn’t know men like you could learn to do it so quickly,” you admit, turning back to the heavy package in your hands. at that, his face turns down into a confused frown.

“what do you mean men like me?” he’s curious, wanting to know how you see him.

“men who so clearly put up a charming front in order to seduce others when in reality it’s simply a defense mechanism to hide their insecurities,” you say it as though it’s the most obvious thing in the world. sebastian on the other hand takes a moment to process your words before scoffing indignantly.

“and what do you think i’m insecure about?” he glares down at you, trying to keep the anger in his voice. it’s difficult for him to do so when you look up at him with pure mischief in your eyes.

“that would probably be a third date kind of conversation. how about we start with date number one tonight at the bar near the vendor we first met at. 8 o’clock sharp,” you say it with ease, and he’s taken aback by your brazen words.

“but i’ve never been on a date,” he blurts out without thinking, looking down as his cheeks flush a pale red. sure, he’s met people at bars, but it never escalated past the one night they shared between sheets. you’d be lying if you said it didn’t make your heart beat a little faster at his obvious embarrassment.

“i’m sure you’ll do just fine colonel moran. i look forward to tonight!” you call out, turning left at the intersection. it takes him a second to register that you just said his name, and he never said it to you in the first place, much less his military rank.

“how do you know who i am?” his voice is loud enough to catch the attention of a few noble women who giggle and stare at him. he pays no attention to them. he only watches you as you turn around to smile coyly at him.

“you’re not the only one with connections,” you say before disappearing into the crowd. it’s a simple sentence, but the implication has his head spinning dangerously fast. he’s ecstatic to see you again.

•••

the third time he sees you, it’s not at the bar. it’s in the basement of your nobleman’s house, where he had you locked up five days ago. your clothing is practically ripped to shreds, blood seeping out of angry red cuts on your arms and legs. you almost look more dead than the noble upstairs. the only tell tale sign that you’re still alive is the shallow rise of your chest with every labored breath. you barely stir when he carefully cradles you in his arms, rushing you out of the house and back to the manor.

when louis opens the door to find a frantic moran and a near-dead maid in his arms, he lets him by without a word. he knows better than to question the colonel when he looks as panicked as he did. louis helps him bandage you up without a word, washing away dried blood and cleaning old wounds as moran carefully wraps bandages around the bigger cuts. william, fred, and albert return back to the mansion all together, watching moran in awe.

“colonel, who is this?” william finally speaks up as the two men finish bandaging up your still unconscious form.

“a maid for that dead noble,” his answer is short, curt. he doesn’t speak again as he carries you bridal style out of the kitchen and into his bedroom, letting you rest. he’ll explain everything once you’re awake, but for now, he’s content with watching you sleep. as fred stares quietly from the doorway, he’s well aware that sebastian moran has never cared for anyone in his life. but with you, there’s clearly an exception.

•••

he sees you everyday after that, keeping a silent tally in his head. he’d never admit that to you though, knowing he’d never hear the end of it.

he learned your name the day you woke up, your raspy voice still ringing clearly in his head. the first time he heard your name, he had to stop a blush from spreading across his face. a beautiful name for a beautiful person.

“so colonel, are we ever going to make up that bar date? i was really looking forward to it you know,” your soft voice pulls him out of his head, staring at you from across the couch. you’re wearing his jacket, claiming it was cold in the house since winter was coming. you both knew that was a lie, that william always had measures in place to keep the house warm. yet, neither of you said a word about it.

“you want our first date to be in a bar? why can’t i take you out on a proper date?” his question is genuine, and the exasperated look on his face makes it very evident. but you couldn’t care less.

“yes i would like it to be in a bar. i’m sure that’s where you put your act on the most. it would make sense that that’s where you start to drop it as well,” you say nonchalantly. the sentence is loaded, and he can see the piercing gaze you send his way as you speak. the knot in his throat grows, and for the first time in years, sebastian moran feels nervous. downright anxious.

“no pressure colonel, i can see the cogs in your head spinning wildly. i just want to see who you really are, not the panty dropper the other maids used to fantasize about while working,” you can’t help but giggle at your own words, and the silliness of it all forces a laugh out of moran. you’ve never seen him laugh before, but it’s the most beautiful sight in the world.

•••

the seventh time he sees you, you’re dressed in nicer clothes than usual, a glass of whiskey in your hand as you giggle over another story moran’s told you that night. both of you are breathless, laughing over the story about how one time albert tried sneaking a girl into the manor, but everyone was awake and awkwardly watched as he escorted her into his bedroom. the bar incites lively conversation, patrons bumping into you two as you stand at the wooden countertop.

“i thought albert was a gentleman!” you can’t get the sentence out without giggling once more, leaning forward a bit.

“apparently he’s not as much of a gentleman as we thought he was,” moran responds, a bright smile painting his face. he looks absolutely gorgeous like this, cheeks flushed and smile so wide you could fit a coat hanger in his mouth. once your laughter dies down, both of you sigh, taking sips from your respective drinks. you’re the first one to break the silence, smiling warmly at the colonel.

“i think i could come to like this more accurate version of you colonel,” you say with sincerity. his smile grows impossibly wider at that, a heavier blush accompanying it.

“excuse me mr. moran? i was wondering if maybe you’d like to join me upstairs?” a high pitched, almost whiney voice sounds to the left of you. a woman, probably a few years older than you, bats her eyelashes seductively at the colonel. his blush fades instantly, and his smile turns sharper. you watch as his eyes glaze over with their usual cockiness, turning to face her and whispering what you can only assume are sweet nothings in her ear.

“i think i’ll be taking my leave, i seem to only be interrupting something here,” you say dryly, setting your glass down on the bar and walking away from the pair. you can feel moran’s eyes on you, but it doesn’t matter as you push your way through the crowd. the doors fly open with the force of your push, and it catches the attention of almost everyone in the bar. not that you care. all that matters is getting away from the sight of the shell of sebastian moran and the woman who was so clearly was eye fucking him right in front of you. you don’t realize your hands are shaking until you feel a larger pair envelope your own and they stop trembling. moran’s eyes are wide, trained on you. you’re positive if you look up they’ll simply take your breath away.

“why’d you leave so suddenly?” his voice is steady, but you know better. you were always terrible at reading people up until you met sebastian moran.

“i’d rather not be abandoned in a bar while you went off with some woman, so i figured i’d save myself the trouble and just leave,” you keep your voice even, eyes still on the ground. that is until his fingers lift your chin up to meet his face, and you come face to face with the softest smile you’ve ever seen on his face. it should be illegal the way he’s looking at you.

“i was telling her i was on a date with you, and that she should think twice before coming up to a man who’s clearly with someone else,” he says softly, fingers still on your chin. embarrassment washes over you as you tug your hands out of his grasp and bury your face in them. he chuckles from in front of you, and before you process what’s going on, your world is tilted sideways. the yelp that escapes you is completely involuntary, and when you open your eyes you realize you’re in sebastian moran’s arms, and he’s carrying you back towards the manor.

“why are you carrying me?” your hands wring together, desperately trying to calm yourself down before you pass out from sheer shock and humiliation.

“i heard jealousy makes people do irrational things, so i figured i’d just take you home before you could do any damage,” he speaks with confidence, but it’s not an act this time. and the teasing smirk he shoots you is genuine. so you bury your head in his chest, hands fisting his jacket.

“i’m not jealous,” you speak boldly, but it sounds muffled in his jacket.

“sure you aren’t princess, sure you aren’t,” his laughs are deep, and you whine in protest, the alcohol warming your senses.

“shut up,” you grumble, and you’re only met with more laughs.

“make me sweetheart,” his voice is right next to your ear now, breath tickling you. so you do.

the seventh time he sees you, you kiss him for the first time. you grab him by surprise, hands removing themselves from his jacket to hold his face close to yours as you push your lips onto his. your eyes are squeezed shut, and your face burns with shame as you pull away. it takes all of your self control to not kiss him again with the way he’s gazing down at you, eyes wide, lips slightly swollen from the force of your kiss, and face painted a pretty pink. you bury your face back into his chest, hands finding purchase in his jacket once again.

“keep walking,” your voice is quiet, almost scared to break the silence. moran doesn’t trust his voice at the moment, so he quietly walks back to the manor, grip on your body tightening marginally. the only thing that runs through his head is how soft your lips were against his, and how warm your hands were on his face. he prays to every god that he’ll have the chance to kiss you again.

•••

the fifteenth time he sees you, he’s beyond annoyed. you had deftly avoided him since kissing him, but now he had your cornered in your own room.

“are we just going to ignore the fact that you kissed me the other day and then completely ignored me for an entire week?” his voice is stern, commanding. any other day you’d be fighting a blush at how sexy he sounds like that, but now you’re beyond terrified.

“well that was the plan,” you hope your sarcasm is well received. judging by the way sebastian’s eyes harden and he crosses his arms across his chest, it is most definitely not well received.

“if that was the plan i would’ve appreciated a heads up you know,” his voice is somehow deeper than before.

“well i was kind of drunk so i wasn’t thinking you know,” you stumble over your words, fingers finding your thin golden chain and tugging harshly at it to fight the anxiety bubbling up in your stomach.

“so it was a mistake then?” he’s closer to you now, inches away from your trembling body. you don’t know how to answer the question, not knowing if even you knew the answer. sebastian takes your silence as your answer, turning to walk back out of the room. in an ungodly moment of clarity, your only solution is to scream a rushed ‘wait!’ and promptly jump onto his back, your arms wrapping around his neck as your ankles hook around his waist. your head is tucked into the crook of his neck, and he just about falls over at the force of you flinging yourself onto him.

“what in god’s name are you doing?” his voice is loud in your ear, and despite his attempts to tug you off of him, you stay wrapped around him.

“getting you to stay!” your line of logic is borderline at best, but that doesn’t matter now.

“what? why?” his hands grip each of your ankles tightly, intending to pry them apart and pull you off of him.

“because it wasn’t a mistake!” you’re consciously aware of the fact that you’re practically yelling in his ear, but it does the trick as his hands stop tugging on your legs. both of you are silent, save for the heavy breaths falling from your mouths.

“get off of me,” he speaks lowly, practically growling. it’s a tone you’ve never heard, and it sends shudders up your spine. you don’t waste a second, nimbly detaching yourself from him and falling to your feet just behind him. you’re positive he’ll walk out and not look back, so when his hands grab your face and he kisses you harshly, you all but pass out on the spot. your hands easily find purchase in his hair, tugging lightly at the roots as he backs you into the wall behind you and pressing his body into yours. his tongue claims every inch of your mouth, hands moving from your face to hold your hips tightly. when he pulls away, both of you gasping for breath, you catch a glimpse of that same soft smile he gave you outside of the bar.

“i thought you were mad at me,” you blurt out, consciously aware of how your hands are still tightly wound in his hair. you’re scared if you let go you may float up and away from him. he laughs lightly, staring down at your wide eyes and mouth slightly agape.

“i couldn’t stay mad at you if i tried,” he confesses, forehead resting against yours. it’s calming, comforting.

“why’s that?” you’re still breathless as you stare at him.

“because i don’t think anyone has ever looked through the front i put up and proceed to call me out on it the first time we met,” his answer is blunt, straight forward. you suddenly remember how panicked he seemed when you two first met. the puzzle pieces click together nicely.

•••

the forty seventh time he sees you, sebastian wakes up to see you peering down at him in bed. he’s hyper aware of the fact that he’s only in boxers.

“rise and shine sunshine!” you’re smiling widely, and the sudden shock of waking up to your face jolts him awake.

“jesus christ why would you do that,” he groans out, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his palm.

“because you have to do chores today. louis is already annoyed at you, and i’d rather not wake up one day to find you dead because you never did what he asked you,” you say, hands on your hips. he comes to realize how beautiful you look while you stand next to his bed.

“how about you just come join me in bed all day,” he says, reaching out and grabbing your arms. you yelp with the force of being pulled forward and tripping over the end of the bed. you bounce onto the bed, strong arms wrapping tightly around your smaller form. your face grows increasingly warm, hands unconsciously pressed against the firm planes of his chest and head tucked under his chin. you look down on instinct, heart practically jumping out of your chest.

“sebastian! you’re not wearing clothes!” your voice is high and strained. your hands push against his chest, but he keeps you against him, rolling over so that he’s hovering above you with both of your hands intertwined above your head. when you look up, he’s grinning down at you, but it’s completely genuine.

“i have on underwear though. does that count?” he’s teasing, you’re very aware of that.

“that is probably the thinnest piece of clothing you could possibly have on right now. can you please pu-” you’re cut off by his lips on yours. it’s not like his usual kisses that tease you and only rile you up. it’s soft, passionate. he squeezes your hands ever so slightly as he feels you kiss back. everything about it is perfect in spite of his lack of clothes. when he pulls back, your eyes are gleaming in the sunlight pouring through the window, and you have the faintest hint of a smile on your face.

“how about instead, we get you out of all these unnecessary clothes instead,” he offers wiggling his eyebrows at you. neither of you can stop the laughs that follow his words, your eyes crinkling as you’re overcome with a fit of giggles. in the midst of your laughs, you don’t see how sebastian moran stares down at you. you don’t see how his heart beats inexpicably faster. you don’t see how he blushes madly. you don’t see how he’s fallen in love with you.

but it’s okay. because he can’t see the way you’ve fallen for him too.

•••

sebastian moran doesn’t know how to love. his past all but erased any chance for him to form a deep and meaningful connection with anyone. and he’s lived that way for the majority of his adulthood. that is, until the eighty third time he sees you.

he’s woken up to see you trembling in bed beside him, and he knows it’s not from the cold. your shared body heat keeps both of you comfortably warm.

“love? what’s wrong?” it’s still dark outside, probably well into the night. that doesn’t matter as he turns your shaking body to face his, and he sees the gleam of your tears reflecting the pale moonlight filtering through the curtains. he immediately pulls your body impossibly closer to his, smoothing a hand over your hair as you sob quietly into his chest. he waits until you’re calmed down before leaning back to look at your face. his thumb rubs over fresh tears, lips brushing against your forehead as your cries quiet down to occasional sniffles.

“i had a nightmare about the man i used to work for,” you admit, hands trembling between you two. it’s not the first time you’ve had one of these nightmares, but the last time it had happened was weeks ago.

“do you want to talk about it?” his voice is soft, gentle. you’ve come to love how sweet he is, how careful he is of you.

“no. can you just hold me for now?” your eyes are still shining with unshed tears, but he nods and pulls you closer, wrapping an arm around your waist and one around your back. he pushes your head onto his chest, your ear lining up just above his heart. he’s found that hearing his heartbeat helps you calm down after the more severe nightmares. he sighs in relief when he feels your breaths come out more evenly, your stiff body relaxing significantly in his arms.

“feel better princess?” you nod at his question, pulling your head back to shoot him a watery smile.

“thank you sebastian,” your voice still shakes slightly, but it’s considerably better than it was before. 

he tried to seduce men and women in bars until he met you. he never cared for anyone until he met you. sebastian moran didn’t know how to love someone until he met you. and now that he’s met you, he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to live without you. so when he murmurs those three words that he hasn’t said since he was a young child, he feels tears prick the back of his eyes. because if he can make you smile the way you are right now, tears spilling onto your cheeks and a rushed ‘i love you too’ falling from your lips just so that you can kiss him as hard as you can, he’ll gladly tell you he loves you every hour of every day for the rest of his life.

Prompt 27: Clarity

*rolls in two months late without starbucks*

Hi, have a bit of combat, understandings, apologies, and some purple-dark prose, as Serella and Aymeric reconcile following the investigation into her actions as a Dark Knight.

cw: combat against scalekin, some angst, but a happy ending

word count: 2,360

A part of negotiations between Dravania and Ishgard involved their continued collaboration, in both peace talks, as well as pushing back the last vestiges of Nidhogg’s enraged brood. The latter, however, happened with dwindling occurrence as time went on. Dwindling, but not entirely ceased, at least for now.

So when Aevis descended on what should have been a diplomatic meeting between Vidofnir speaking on her father’s authority, the Lord Speaker of Ishgard speaking on authority of his city, it was only meet that he raised his blade in her defense. It bode well that his beloved had accompanied him for this conference.

“Warrior of Light, are you with me?” Aymeric asked her as he readied his sword.

When he turned to Serella, he could not bite back a proud smile at the sight of her already having her blade drawn and shield high.

“As ever. Vidofnir, go!” She barked over her shoulder.

“I would not leave thee to struggle without aid—” Vidofnir widened her stance, wings flared out in warning to the encroaching aevis who snapped and snarled as they krept nearer.

“Then help us by protecting your little ones.” Serella insisted. “We’ll be fine. Go!”

Neither of them turned to the dragon again, but the gust that swept their coats against their legs told of her retreat. With a nod between Knight and Paladin, they braced for battle. When one of the aevis attempted to break ranks and give chase, Aymeric sprinted to meet it instead, Naegling carving through its neck. The blue of the blade was almost entirely stained with crimson when he ripped it out of the wound it had made. The scalekin reeled back with a gurgling howl, thrashing even as it fell, dying.

Chaos erupted. Driven all the more mad for the blood freshly spilled, the remaining flock of aevis, five in total, launched themselves in a frenzy. 

Two bore down on him, charging together. Though Aymeric managed to leap to the side and knock one of them back into a second, a third closed in behind him, teeth bared in preparation to taste his flesh.

The air pressure around him changed suddenly enough that his ears popped. The temperature rose with a flash of brilliant gold light. When that light spread beneath him, he leapt back in time to avoid the blazing aetherial blade that shot up from the ground, tall as a pillar, and speared the aevis that would have claimed his life. The impact of the blow sent the scalekin skyward, and it landed with such a force that the ground beneath them quaked. The Confiteor spell took the second aevis by surprise, and Aymeric closed in to capitalize on the opportunity, piercing its skull with a downward stab of his blade.

A sharp cry of pain rang out from behind him— he whirred around in time to see Serella be flung several yalms away, her shield clattering to the ground where she had been struck. One of the remaining aevis must have recovered and took the opening she had made in saving him. As it closed in on her, it limped— the trail of blood it left in its wake confirmed she had at least managed to maim it before she was blown back.

Heart in his throat and blood roaring in his ears, Aymeric turned to sprint toward where she lay crumpled upon the crag. If he could at least get her shield to her, keep them off of her long enough to recover—  

He barely caught an aevis by its gnashing teeth before they closed in on his shoulder, Naegling forcibly wedged within its jaw kept the scalekin at bay, but the impact forced him to the ground. With the weight of the beast bearing down on him and his arms burning from the effort of keeping those jaws from closing in, Aymeric grit his teeth and fought to free himself. Though he saw the last of the aevis lumbering toward him, he focused more on getting free of the one pinning him down; if he could get to Serella, then that was all that mattered, he had to get to her before they did—

A shadow passed over him. A chill rippled along the length of his spine. The noise of crackling aether and the scent of ozone and salted earth. Where the Confiteor spell that Serella had shot off had felt like the oxygen in the area momentarily leaving, this felt like the air had grown dense. It reminded Aymeric of how the air felt with an encroaching storm, heavy, still, and thick with anticipation of rain or snow. Familiar and quiet and calming.

The aevis that had been gnashing against his blade was forcibly knocked away from him. Hauling himself to his feet, he anticipated blocking the second aevis that had been approaching, shocked to see it was being successfully held off by what he could only describe as a shadow clad in armor, wielding a claymore. The darkness flowed and bent in a familiar dance; even if the motions were nothing like when she wielded a sword and shield and its stance was completely different, even just looking at the shadow made Aymeric think: that is Serella. The swings of its darkened blade were precise but weighty, each impact bursting with purple and ebon aether that rippled and warped around and through the aevis it struck. Though Aymeric only looked on for the span of a breath, it felt like time had slowed, even as he had turned to face the aevis that had been thrown off of him.

Before he could even get line of sight on the beast, the ground quaked again. Time seemed to catch up to him in a rush with the impact of something mighty crashing to the earth, and his eyes settled on the scene. Pinning it to the ground as it squirmed in a frenzy was a familiar blade— long, smoky steel with glinting blue adornments, he recognized it instantly: Dainslaif. Serella loomed over the scalekin, her armor dark with blood and shadows. He could not see her face with her back to him as it was, but something about the way she casually reached for the blade’s handle and ripped it across the aevis’ neck to cleanly decapitate the dying aevis came across as cold.

A feeling that crept into the silence that reigned in the aftermath of the fight. She stayed still, in that position, greatsword still firmly in her grasp, her back to him. Though the wind blew her hair and the coat of her armor, she was otherwise eerily still. In his periphery, Aymeric could see that figure cloaked in shadow turn to face her, almost expectantly, as if waiting for her to command it. 

Then, it began to move toward her, steps languid but hushed. Familiar. Heart flying into his throat again, Aymeric moved to run those scant fulms to her, when its gaze was turned to him. There was something about it— something intrinsically her about the shade that froze him to the spot. Her blue iris was reflected in those eyes, the exact same shade that he so adored losing himself in.

The reminder that this is her, too, was enough to inspire him to move again, curious but unafraid. And the shadow watched him, as he drew closer to where she stood. Watched, until Serella swayed in place. In an instant, both he and the shadow snapped their focus to her. With unnatural speed, the shadow reached her first, but that did not stop his advance; nothing else mattered but ensuring she was all right.

“Ella…?”

His voice was barely above a whisper, hand tentatively reaching out to close the distance. When the space between them was down to scant ilms, her aether crackled again, a riot of violet and red rippling along her armor. At her flinch, Aymeric and the shadow both retracted their hands as if the kaleidoscope of luminosity inside her threatened to burn them. 

“I’m fine.” She lied to them both.

“Fine with that cracked rib of yours?” The shadow scoffed.

When Aymeric reached out to stabilize her, it spoke again, sharply: “Have you not done enough?”

“Stop, Esteem.” Serella cut her shadow off swiftly, tone brooking no arguement. “He’s done nothing wrong, and we both know it. I’m fine.”

"Oh, so you're fine with being put last? Again?" The shadow— Esteem? — snorted. "By him?" 

There was very little that could make him physically recoil as though he were a wretched and awful thing, but the thought that he had done irreparable harm to her was enough to inspire that distance, that hesitation.

The tension left her shoulders, slumped as if in defeat. She did not respond— which, he supposed, was a response all its own. He felt ill.

“Shadow, fall behind me.” Serella beckoned in a tired voice.

The shadow paused to look at him again. Though the feeling of something not-quite-there scrutinizing him was unnerving, he stood his ground and did not look away. It was a part of her. He had naught to fear from it, he saw that now. Something seemed to satisfy the armor clad darkness, or at least placate it, as it turned and knelt before Serella, sword stuck into the ground as a knight kneels before its queen. That crackling aether remained, but calmed into something more akin to gentle ocean waves idly lapping at their shores, bridging the distance between Serella and her shadow as it melted into the earth. As it sunk lower, lower, into the earth, until the pool of inky darkness stretched toward her feet and clung to her heels, giving her back the shadow she had cast away to save him.

This was what he had been raised to fear and hate? This was the villainy of darkness and sin that he had been taught made a Dark Knight? This protective shade, this Guardian in the dark, of the dark, was what should be expunged from Ishgard? This was the face of all the evils in the night? Impossible.

It was beautiful.

“Sorry.” She said quietly, and swayed all the more as she turned to face him.

Her eyes were blue.

“What on earth do you have to be sorry for?”

“Didn’t want you see this.” She mumbled, gesturing weakly at herself. “Never wanted you to see it. But I’d rather you live and hate me tha—”

When she tried to turn her body away as she spoke, her words died off with a yelp of pain. She staggered and clutched at the side that she had landed on when thrown. Before he had even realized he had moved, Aymeric had caught her as she stumbled, and eased them both to the ground when her knees buckled. 

“Shh, shh, I have you,” He cooed in her ear as he knelt into the earth and did what he could to keep the pressure off of her injured side.

“Never wanted you to see—” Serella hissed through her teeth, hands fumbling to press flat against her ribs. 

He could not see her face with her head bent as it was. As she began to weave starlight around her injury, she let out a pained whimper at a worrying pop from under her platemail. Shifting to let her rest her weight primarily against his chest and ease her weight off of her healing side entirely, he lifted a hand to smooth her hair down and press a kiss to her scalp.

“See what? That I had naught to fear but mine own prejudice?” He held her face with the hand that had brushed her hair away and used it to guide her into looking at him gently once her healing magic had tapered off. Despite the situation, he huffed a laugh. “A lesson you have had to teach me twice now. Would that it had taken less than this for me to see. I am so sorry.”

“I didn’t want you to see.” Serella said with a laugh, eyes filled with tears. She was smiling, in that relieved and unreserved way that crinkled the corners of her eyes and caused her tears to flow. “I was sure you would hate me—”

“I can hate you no more than I can hate breathing.” He whispered fiercely, and pressed their foreheads together. “Your shadow— Esteem, was it? — Also had no qualms taking me to task for how I have failed you.”

“You—”

Didn’t, Aymeric taster her denial on her tongue when he crushed his mouth to hers.

“In my desperation to keep my promise to you, I fear I have done exactly that, in leaving you to think that I hold you beneath anything— anything, on this star or any other.”

“But we promised to put everything else ahead of us!” Serella wept, even as she kept smiling.

“In duty, aye— and we have. And we will.” Aymeric brushed her hair back when the wind swept it in her face again. Even as her eyes were still too bright, still blue, he refused to look away. “That does not mean that I love anyone or anything more than you— I can’t even fathom doing so.” With another kiss to her forehead, he hugged her closer. “I’m so, so sorry I ever left you to doubt that— and worse, did so because I lacked the words for what I felt.”

Serella closed her eyes and took a deep breath, as if letting his words seep into her soul. When she opened them again, they were mismatched. He smiled around a sigh of relief.

“There is my world.” He whispered against her lips in a kiss. “My heart.” He moved to her nose to kiss the tip. “My everything.” He kissed her forehead before he all but crushed her close.

Vidofnir flew back to their side with her little hatchlings in tow once the winds had calmed, and found them just like that, with Aymeric holding close his Warrior of Light and Darkness both, as Serella used healing magic to attempt to ease the discomfort. Content that the threat had passed, she laid herself close and shielded them under her wing. The little dragonlings, all chirping and cooing and worried, settling around their shoulders, in Serella’s lap, looped around Aymeric’s wyrm torque, rumbling in a way they hoped would help, protecting their protectors, as their ancestors had before them.

Adrift in the Sea of Clouds, the bridges between man and dragon, and Lord Commander and Warrior of Light, continued to mend.

Renegades Chapter 4 Part 4 The Wheel Part 1

Previous Parts: HERE

Cyclops gasped a breath but instead of a human sound it came out as a squeak. Cautiously he opened his eyes and to his bafflement found his world had turned to shades of grey and he could see much farther around himself than he was accustomed to being able to do. His hands and feet had become small paws. Cyke’s ears were much larger and to his surprise he had gained a slim tail with a tuft on the end. Long thin hairs stuck out in front of his face that tingle at the slightest reverberation. Most alarming of all, was the perception that he had been either dropped into a world of giants or perhaps into the body of a small rodent.

Knowing the best respite from his unease was obtaining more information about his surroundings Cyclops carefully ventured forward. The floor beneath him was hard cold concrete. Near him was what looked like the leg of a bed. Across the room he saw another similar bed, the columns of the legs rising like great trees to his eyes.

To his surprise a human hand descended from the heavens and Cyke felt the mouse's heartbeat accelerate in fear at the sight. His mind cried out to flee but despite it all he found himself frozen unable to move a muscle. To his profound relief the hands only seemed to be to feed him a small morsel of something edible. On instinct, Cyclops carefully smelled the offering as the mouse's hunger made itself apparent. Cheese!! In an instant, he reflexively snatched the cheese from the man’s palm and fled to carefully devour the food in relative safety. In response to this behavior, he heard a low chuckle that sounded familiar. Logan?

Despite his animal instincts Cyclops crept closer and dared to climb onto the man’s hand. Even though his heart trembled Cyke allowed himself to be raised for closer inspection in exchange for more cheese bribes. The stalwart mutant found himself entranced by kind ocean deep blue eyes so sharp with wit that they seemed to pierce through him.

Abruptly Logan’s attention turned away from Cyke towards outside of the room which looked to be another jail cell much to his annoyance. Not again the seasoned hero couldn’t help but mentally opine, not this again. Not only was he in the body of a mouse but he was once again behind bars with Logan. Upon hearing the sound of approaching steps Logan gently set his new dormouse back to the safety of the ground.

A waifish young police officer nervously fumbles with the lock as two of his superiors dragged something cumbersome between them. To Logan’s displeasure their burden is revealed to be someone, a man in fact. A growl of discontent comes from Logan unbidden at the sight of the young man being toted in such a haphazard manner, being treated as little more than an irksome burden as he lay limply by his arms in their grasp.

“Hey, Wildman!! We got a playmate for you! Try to be gentle!” The cops laughed derisively as they carelessly tossed their limp cargo to land with a thud onto the hard concrete floor at Logan’s feet. The dark-haired mutant scowled his displeasure at being used as an object in their sick joke. He glared with quiet violence simmering at the officer’s backs as they continued to laugh. Oblivious of the danger, the higher-ranking officers left to go about their business with no scruples. The rookie, on the other hand, swallowed nervously upon observing the feral man’s quiet menacing presence, shut the cell door with a jarring clank, and beat a hasty retreat.

“Fuckin pigs,” groaned the young man as he gingerly gathered himself to a sitting position. The man was slim with tousled brown hair of the longer style that so offended the older generations in the 1960s. He was wearing only a bright badly torn paisley shirt and trousers. Most concerningly he looked to have been thoroughly thrashed and beaten.

Ever prepared to assess a threatening situation Cyclops took inventory of the man's wounds automatically storing the information away for future use if necessary. Most shocking to the eye was his cut lip, a bloody nose on what would otherwise be a handsome face. A slash on his forehead that was bleeding precipitously staining the brightly coloured fabric crimson. Add to that the ripped clothing, the numerous bruises and it painted an unsettling picture.

Regardless, the man was unfazed by his injuries and seemingly unrattled by his poor treatment by authorities. All in all he seemed to be taking the whole affair in stride. When the man looked up Cyke was again struck by the strange deja vu at the experience of seeing an alternate version of himself. What was most surprising Cyclops was the man’s eyes were amber-brown, not red, and safely hidden by a visor. Perhaps this version didn't have powers, Cyke mused. Yet the way his keen eyes were scanning and tactically assessing his surroundings made Cyclops question his theory.

Memories of cornflower blue eyes and strong supportive hands came to the other Scott’s mind automatically. “Information is power Scotty and that clever head of yours is your greatest ally. Take in your surroundings, assess any potential threats, take inventory of yourself and any resources that may aid you. Prepare yourself to act in an instant if necessary.” The peaceful man tensed and the itch to prepare for defense or a rapid strike surfaced unbidden within him, years of training fitting like an unwelcome instinctual glove. Memories that once brought comfort now like shattered glass under his skin unmendibly bitter and dangerous in what their sharp edges may awaken.

Despite himself Scott could hear the distant baying howls of despair on heels of the hounding nausea of self-hatred the trained reflex triggered within him. Memories, like the spring-powered sharp steel jaws of a trap threatened to catch him in their grasp. Only thanks to years of practice was he able to wrestle himself free, close it's jaws and bury it once again. He could not afford to show weakness here. Another day the beast could have its way but not today.

The man in black looked his new cellmate up and down with schooled casual interest. ‘Be cold like ice, little bear’ sage words came to the feral mutant’s mind. Warm like alcohol on the tongue,’ but be fluid like the spring mountain stream.’ With a half nod towards the stranger he drawled a lazy inquiry,“so kid, what’d yah get?”

“Get? All I got was marinated in tear gas and the tender mercies of the fuzz’s billy club brigade,” answered the visorless Scott with rhye humor as he gainfully raised himself from holding court on the floor and re-established his dominion on the bunk across from Logan, with a sigh.

“What were you arrested for?” Inquired shorter man opting for a more direct approach this time. The man in paisley exhaled and looked skyward as if mockingly looking to a higher power for wisdom.

“Hell if I know,” scoffed the groovy Scott. For a man of such a drab fashion he sure is curious. Almost too curious, interesting. Two could play at this game and he would give as good as he got.

He continued, “Probably some trumped-up charges,” the alternate Scott stretched, stopping with a wince when the action aggravated his injuries. He looked chagrined like a fox that had been discovered out in the open, self-conscious at the thought of giving the other any sign of weakness. With the practiced iron-clad nonchalance of a believer committed to the struggle he elaborated, “stand up to the man, try to stop the wheel and they’ll take you away.”

“You were part of the protests today? Do you think a crowd of hippies with signs can stop the state's military industrial complex?” probed Logan with the sort of boring affect that took years to perfect.

Protests? Thought Cyclops his nose twitched and his whiskers vibrated with excitement as he listened to this universe’s counterparts with avid and shameless curiosity. Everything he had seen so far reminded him of the 60s. The garish outfits, the antiwar protests the pieces were slotting into place in the strategic mutants mind.

The other Scott leaned back and raised an eyebrow sagely. So completely at ease did the man look that the steel and cotton bunk he reclined on could have been mistaken for a plush throne. He wants to know about the protests huh? Interesting. He wondered who the man he was dealing with, was a cop or a bribed informant.

Logan raised an eyebrow surprised by his cellmate's overtly friendly demeanor and seeming sincere openness despite the young man's battered aspect “ah yes. Victory. From the looks of she’s a real devil and demands a sacrifice,” said the dark-clad man with a scowl and lowered brows.

“This? This is nothing, don't sweat it old man,” laughed the man in paisley as he gestured vaguely at his person. What’s with this man, thought the ex-avenger, does he think I am some kind of naive cub in need of shelter? As if on cue, his nose started bleeding again.

“Hrmph,” grumbled the shorter man getting up with a huff, stalking over to the other man to glower down at him, “nothing you say huh?” The other man meets his gaze with curiosity and a fearless blood-stained grin. Bring it on, thought the stalwart musician, he’d handled far worse.

For the briefest moments, Cyclops was wary for his counterpart, but he quickly realized that he needn't have been worried when the feral mutant deftly tore two strips from his cotton undershirt and threw them at the younger man before returning to his domain. “Take care of that, bub. Yer making a mess,” command the darkly clad man curtly.

“Right on. No need to, hacked-off old man, but thank you,” admitted the lanky man, slightly muffled midway through as he put a piece of the cloth to his nose as he tilted his head back to stop the bleeding. The hippie supposed he had a point and accepting some help couldn't hurt.

After a spell he straightened up, the bleeding having been halted to his satisfaction for the time being. Rubbing his brow in the same manner Cyke himself would often do when a migraine was beginning to settle in earnest, he looked at the dark-haired older man with his sensible earth tones and non-flamboyant fashion with dropped pretenses and tired eyes.

“I figured they would make an example out of someone, so then it might as well be me,” explained the young man closing his eyes tiredly. He continued, “I’ve had worse. Honestly, I’m more concerned about my guitar.”

Curious, the feral man entreated his companion for further elaboration, “your guitar? You're a musician?” Scott stiffly shrugged eyes still closed and looking like he was trying to take a nap.

“Huh. They are throwing musicians behind bars now or somethin?” Mused Logan stroking his chin scruff thoughtfully.

Upon hearing this, the peace-loving man opened one eye despite his aching head, “Seriously?”

The man in paisley queried and in response, the man in black nodded.

“Heh imagine, that,” mused the auburn-haired man. “Two star-crossed musicians thrown in the clink together. That's way out man. Unreal.”

“It is odd,” agreed the man in black. The two sat for a time in comfortable silence. Cyke could see his counterpart was stewing on something, the gears turning evident to even the untrained eye.

“You’re an informant aren’t you? Who’s your baker? The local police?” The flamboyant man looked pointedly at his cellmate with an intense suspicious glare while maintaining a lazy confident facade that never faltered. Worryingly Cyclops thought his counterpart’s eyes looked to have a ghost of a red glow to them. Logan on the other hand looked gobsmacked upon receiving such an accusation.

“What? I’m not a cop. Nor am I working for the fuzz,” denied the feral mutant with a scowl.

“FBI then,” Scott countered.

“No!”

Qq his life had become.

Signing in annoyance and in an effort of tempering his own molten ire, Logan rallied his patience and looked at the other man with eyes that tried to project as much honesty as possible.“I am not a spy,” he declared sincerely as if praying this would put a pin in the matter.

His lanky companion, however, was ignoring him in favor of trying to make the cat's cradle with the bandages he had still neglected to use. He hypothesized dryly “If I was a spy I’d probably deny it if questioned.”

“I am not working for your government,” the douir man spat looking disgusted at the notion. The nerve of this American surfer wannabe thought the bear like man as he hunched his shoulders as if prepared to deliver or defend from a blow.

The man in paisley leaned forward like a fox waiting to pounce on the mole it hears moving about under the snow, “So who are you spying for then, old man?”After this salvo his witty counterpart grinned, his enjoyment of their verbal sparring match clearly evident in his demeanor.

The dark haired man stood up again hovering over the slighterman and glowering down at the other like a wet bear that had been whacked on the nose. “I. Am. Not. A. Spy,” he ground out through clenched teeth.

The other Scott locked eyes with his stern companion for a few minutes, his amusement and lack of intimidation despite the efforts of the other plain to see. However, when the angle of his regard further triggered his migraine the Logan’s groovy opponent retreated from the staring battle. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, in a futile attempt to ease the growing pressure.

With a sigh of false surrender, the hippie breathed a reply with a pacifying tone as if he hadn't been the provocateur a split second before,”no need to flip your wig ol’ man. Keep your secrets.” The youthful musician mused worriedly that the power suppressors must be wearing off. The burden of being a danger to all around him like a vice like muzzle, an invisible cage of exhaustion and fear that never opened no matter how long he paced.

Seeing the other man had still neglected to make adequate use of the bandages, the shorter man sacrificed a completely decent shirt for, he snatched the cloth bandages from the other man now sufficiently distracted by his aching head. Cubs are always the same no matter the century, Logan growled mentally, cute as they were foolish.

“Give me those, yah fool kid,” demanded the older man.

“Hey!” Squeaked the other Scott indignantly.

“Budge over,” commanded the man in black, an order which the lanky man obeyed instinctively much to his chagrin. The feral mutant sat on his bunk then pointed at the floor between his spread legs.

“Come. Sit. Now,” urged his cellmate to which the colorful man looked back at him askance.

“Pardon?” Hesitated the man in paisley. He was not opposed to the idea, in spirit, but honestly his timing was far from optimal.

Logan said with exaggerated slowness making his opinion of the groovy fellow’s sensibleness clear. “I need to look at your head wound. This is the most optimal method. Ok?” Requested his shorter companion. Oddly Scott swore he could almost hear a faint hint of an accent.

Wearily the younger man did as requested and although the cold hard floor bothered him; he gave no indication. Both Scotts were surprised when the feral mutant pulled a small flask from a secret pocket in his jacket.

“How’d you manage that ol’ man?” Asked the hippie, astonished.

It was Logan's turn to grin, “after what I did to the other guy in the barfight the authorities thought it wise to keep their distance.”

Raising an eyebrow Scott looked up at his cellmate, “What’d the other man do to provoke such a response?”

Asked the other man, his earlier unease seeming to have vanished.

“He was coming on to one of the waitresses at the bar in an inappropriate manner. I politely asked him to leave. The man was a bad listener,” ebony haired gentleman with a nonchalant shrug.

“Right on. That's a completely understandable response to such a pickle,” noted the colorful hippie as he looked up at his feral comrade, his head practically resting in the other man’s lap. The other Scott’s eyes had a noticeable red glow as they gazed up into concerned blue eyes.

Logan seemed to be awkwardly trying to remember a name he never asked for and the other had never provided one so instead went for a suitable alternative.

“Um...uh …….kid?”

“Hmmm?”

Hummed the man in paisley.

Worried the animalistic man noted “your eyes? They're glowing red….”

“Ah that it's nothing. It's fine. I wouldn’t worry about it,” dismissed the lithe mutant who was by all appearances cavalier about his powers manifesting. Hopefully, it would be nothing, rationalized the ex-hero. Sparky or someone should be along soon to try to rein him in, a true dreaded necessity.

“Somebody should be coming to bail me out soon and they can spring you from the clink but only” elaborated the peaceful hippie blithely as he put his finger to the other man’s lips in the shhhhh gesture.

“But only if you can keep a secret uh….” The man in paisley tilted his head trying to remember the name of this charming acquaintance of his. Sensing his predicament feral mutant interrupted.

“Logan.”

“Uh right, Logan. If you can keep this little secret,” whispered the other Scott with an air of fondness. In his tone there was no trace of real concern or fear should the other man reject the offer as he continued,” then you can have your ticket out of this hell hole.”

“You have a deal um…” the shorter man replied haltingly since he still didn't know the other's name. I like this cat, contemplated Scott. He may be a bit gruff but he was easy on the eye and a mystery thoroughly worth unraveling.

“Scott but you can call me kid, hey you or whatever you want, ol’ man. I don't mind, “ the peaceful young musician confessed softly and almost seductively. To Cyclop’s surprise, this other Logan seemed to have blushed for a moment before gruffly handing his flask to his cellmate.

The feral mutant gruffly prompted, “Erm Scott is fine, kid. Here drink a sip of this.” When the other man looked questioningly at him he continued, “I’m going to clean your wound. The taste will help distract you from the pain.”

“You think so?” doubted the injured hippie skeptically.

“I do,” stated Logan with concrete certainty.

“Right. Sock it to me,” entreated the flamboyant man gamely.

The dark-clad musician handed him the flask, from which the adventurous man took a good sip, grimaced, and coughed. The dark-haired man deftly took the flask back dipping a part of the cloth in the alcohol and quickly went about cleaning the cut. Before the lanky man could finish processing how bad the brew tasted his head wound had been cleaned and bandaged.

The fashionable young man gasped, clearly not accustomed to such coarse fare, “oh God!! What was that? Paint thinner?”

It’s a favorite from my hometown,” divulged the dark-clad mutant. Logan's hometown vibes as unmistakable as his amusement at the other’s reaction,” it’s good eh?”

“I feel sorry for your liver. Say where is your hometown?” Wondered Scott.

“Canada,” answered the stockier mutant vaguely.

Before the man in paisley questioned his compatriot further, the rookie cop’s approaching hastey nervous gait made his return apparent. This time he was joined by a man wearing an expensive dark brown gold striped suit and gold dress shirt in tow. A minute later Cyke recognized him as a somewhat older Tony Stark complete with greying sideburns. Strange, mused Cyclops, uneasy at the Avengers presence. From his experience, nothing good came from Avengers becoming involved in Xmen's business.

To be continued Part 2 HERE

Written for Day 7: Sith of Codywan Week 2020 @codywanweek

Here on AO3

Chapters: 1/2

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Category: M/M

Characters: Obi-Wan Kenobi, Boil (Star Wars), Original Clone Trooper Character(s), CC-2224 | Cody

Additional Tags: GFY, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Emperor Cody, Sith Cody, Force-Sensitive Cody

“two can keep a secret (if one of them is dead)”

He wasn’t even able to enter Coruscant’s atmosphere before being intercepted, Obi-Wan noted with despair.

“General Kenobi,” the unknown trooper leading the squadron of fighters forming up around him greeted, “we were informed of your imminent arrival and have been ordered to escort you to the Senate Dome. The Emperor has been anxious for your return, sir.”

The dread that had been his constant companion ever since Cody had him shot off the side of the cliff on Utapau sank its claws ever deeper into his stomach. No contact, no information, not a single transmission from anyone in the galaxy, and the very first thing he heard upon returning to Coruscant confirmed all his worst fears.

They had been betrayed.

Obi-Wan had no doubt that he was being escorted to his own execution and, with that in mind, he acknowledged the troopers’ orders and prepared himself for what was to come. He was expertly surrounded by soldiers of the highest calibre who knew everything there was to know about Jedi battle tactics. To fight now would be suicide, and pointless, besides.

And, he had to admit, he had no desire to harm them.

After three years of fighting side by side, Obi-Wan had picked up both an eye and ear for spotting the differences between clones; the one leading his escort through the clouds of Coruscant sounded very young. Perhaps not a shiny, but one of the younger crop all the same, his training expedited and his assignment off Kamino received at perhaps only his eighth or ninth Standard year.

His continued use of honorifics and the trappings of rank, as he directed them through traffic and the landing process, baffled Obi-Wan perhaps more than anything else. The trooper—Lance, according to his wingman—sounded nothing less than ecstatic about Obi-Wan’s arrival and their orders to see him to the ‘Emperor.’

Obi-Wan shook his head and cooperated without a fuss. Going in blind as he was, it wouldn’t do to show his hand before completely necessary.

The troopers ‘escorting’ him landed as well, surrounding his little fighter more like an honor guard than a traditional one. As he leapt from the cockpit down to the landing pad, another squad approached from inside the Senate, wearing the bright red of the Coruscant Guard and—

“Boil?”

“General,” the man indeed wearing a familiar pattern of 212th gold on his armor said, nodding at Lance and his men in 501st blue. “We’ll take it from here, Corporal. You and your squadron can report to the minister before heading back to the barracks."

"Yessir," Corporal Lance acknowledged, his men saluting smartly behind him. Before leaving with the rest of them, he pulled off his bucket and aimed a bright, relieved smile at Obi-Wan. "Welcome back, General. We're glad to see you're alright."

He looked just as young as Obi-Wan had predicted, perhaps even still due one last growth cycle. The thought was… a terribly uncomfortable one.

"Thank you, Lance," he said at length, unsure how to react to the lad’s obvious, uncomplicated happiness. Obi-Wan watched the squadron take their leave, expecting to be forcibly escorted away from the landing site at any moment, but Boil and the Guard seemed content to let him dally. After several long moments, he finally faced the troopers. “Well now, I hear there’s an Emperor who wishes to speak with me?”

Boil nodded and led the way into the Senate building. The members of the Coruscant Guard fell into position around them, tight and defensive.

The Senate was quieter than Obi-Wan could ever remember it being. Normally a bustling place of politics and intrigue, with aides rushing about and Senators playing their games, the stillness seemed unnatural.

Inside the lift to the Chancellor’s suite, Boil coughed.

“General Kenobi,” he said, gruff as ever but also tinged with embarrassment. “I wanted to apologize for, er—that is, erm—” He took a deep breath. “I was the one who shot you down! Sir.”

The admission came in a rush, the words forced out in such a way that they all slurred together, barely comprehensible. When Obi-Wan riddled out what he was saying, the discomfort in his gut twisted into a new configuration of knots. He didn’t know how to respond.

Sergeant Boil had been a steady and trusted member of the 212th since the beginning of the war. That he was the one to turn a cannon onto Obi-Wan and fire was yet another blow, not crippling, but damaging all the same.

Eventually he merely said, “I see,” his tone neutral and even.

The lift doors slid open a moment later and Boil caught his elbow before he could follow the Guard members as they filed out into the receiving room. “Just,” he began, before cutting himself off. “If you could, sir, try to keep an open mind. We know you won’t agree but—this is for the best, General.”

Too confused and heartsick to reply, Obi-Wan allowed himself to be nudged out of the lift and watched the door close over the face of his beloved friend.

Again, the Guard allowed him to take his time, pulling the Force tight around him and taking a few meditative breaths. He may not know precisely what was going on but the longer he was on Coruscant, the less anything made sense. Boil’s apology mixed with the expectation of his return and the plea for his understanding were all pieces to a puzzle.

The shape of which he couldn’t even begin to see.

But, as both Anakin and Mace were fond of saying, the show must go on. It wouldn’t do to keep the Emperor waiting, especially as his office had apparently replaced the Chancellor’s.

“If you would be so kind,” he said, stepping up to the trooper acting as secretary, smiling as if the galaxy hadn’t gone mad while he was away, “I believe I have an appointment.”

A cough that suspiciously resembled a laugh came from one of the Guards flanking him, followed by the distinct impact of plastoid on plastoid. The secretary suppressed a smile as well, helmetless and distinguished from his many brothers only by the impressive number of piercings he’d managed to fit on both of his ears and a single eyebrow.

“I’ll let the Emperor know you’ve arrived, General Kenobi.”

Obi-Wan bowed slightly and stepped away from the desk.

A moment later, the secretary nodded to the other troopers, who began to file back into the lift without fanfare. At Obi-Wan’s look of bewilderment, the secretary merely smirked and tapped at his undecorated ear, indicating an earpiece. “The Emperor will see you now, sir.”

“So soon?” Obi-Wan barely managed, darting a glance at the doors. “No other appointments? I’d think the brand new Galactic Emperor would be a busy man.”

The secretary’s smirk widened into a wolfish grin and he immediately began radiating a smug kind of satisfaction. “Between you and me, General Kenobi,” he said, leaning forward as if to share a secret, “the Emperor’s been anxious to see you. He’s been in a right snit about it, too. We expected you hours ago.”

With that puzzling bit of information, he pressed a few buttons and the doors to the Emperor’s office slid open. “Tell him Indigo says being his secretary is osik,” Indigo—presumably—said with a jaunty wave as Obi-Wan moved determinedly toward the office. “And that I want a raise—!”

The doors slid shut behind Obi-Wan before he could finish, and then it was just himself and whoever sat in the Chancellor’s chair, facing the wide transparisteel windows.

“Well, you wanted to see me,” he challenged, squaring his shoulders and placing a hand on the hilt of his lightsaber. “Here I am, Emperor.”

The figure in the seat turned and suddenly it felt as if the floor had fallen out from beneath Obi-Wan’s feet. Plastoid that had once been white was now matte black, and gold trim that was worn and chipped looked freshly applied, but there could be no mistake.

A wounded noise left his mouth without permission. “Cody?” Obi-Wan said, voice sounding small even to himself. “Commander?”

His commander, his lover, his truest friend beside Anakin, tilted his head at the non-question. “I’m afraid it’s Emperor, actually, Obi-Wan,” Cody replied after a moment, his face a mask of sympathy even as he blinked sharp, electrum eyes in lazy interest. “We have a lot to talk about.”

(When you casually remember you have another KHR blog that you can connect timelines with for the luls. This tiny brain rot hasn't left me so I thought to write a small thing for it. Readmore bc i'm shy.)

@belacedia​

-

With a small bird perched on her shoulder, Haru was led down the long halls by Kusakabe, who was quite used to escorting her to and fro on the behest of Hibari Kyouya, the Cloud Guardian of the Vongola.

Haru was showed into a room where Hibari was already sipping a warm cup of tea at. It never ceased to amaze her how this room in particular was filled to the brim with Japanese aesthetic. A traditional room fitting for a man who was somewhat old-fashioned.

She didn’t know what exactly she was called in here for, but she didn’t feel unnerved by his presence. Over the years, the two would interact with each other at random and one could say they’ve formed something akin to a friendship. At least, that was how Haru saw it.

Don’t get her wrong, it took an incredibly long amount of time to reach a stage where the two could enjoy a cup of tea together as Haru would speak on random inanities. The little bird, who Haru dubbed ‘Mi-chan,’ flew towards Hibari, perching on his outstretched finger. “Miura.” He greets her calmly.

“Hibari-san.” She greets back as she simply approaches, sitting down at the table where a cup of tea was already poured for her. “Can I ask why you’ve sent Mi-chan to me today?” Not bothering to waste time with the pleasantries, she cut right to the chase.

The warmth of the teacup felt comforting as her nerves were wound tight in anticipation. While there were many yellow feathered ‘minions’ under Hibari’s command, there was one in particular that Haru often interacted with, and it was due to the fact that Haru had found it injured one day and nursed it back to health before returning it to Hibari’s side.

Having grown attached to Haru, Hibari deemed it useful to allow this one lone bird to serve as a liaison between Haru and himself. It was quite rare when the bird that Haru has affectionately named ‘Mi-chan’ was used for any business other than spoiling the bird with treats, so being summoned the way she had today had Haru feeling nervous.

“A couple birds have reported something interesting. A certain Prince has been visiting you frequently.”

Haru almost dropped her tea in shock, but she managed to keep the cup in her hands by fumbling. She wasn't expecting to be having this conversation with Hibari of all people. “Hahi? They told you about that? Well- it’s not wrong…” She awkwardly fiddled with the cup in her hands. “… He’s been visiting me often.” At a certain point, she’d dare say he was just terrorizing her by getting on her nerves, but at large, it was mostly harmless.

She did ponder on this fact in her downtime, but it did seem like Belphegor’s frequent visits didn't go completely unnoticed. So far, it seemed that only Hibari knew about it (Or rather he was the only one to outright confront her about it).

Eyebrows raised in surprise, “You called me here just for that?” Her tone was incredulous as he never involved himself in her business as it wasn’t his place to do so. The two would talk on occasion and it was merely due to the fact that Haru put forth the effort to try to get along with all of the guardians, and that included Hibari. It was accurate to say that the both of them had come to a common agreement to simply accept each other’s existence and not bother the other.

It helped that Haru got along with the yellow avians, often looking after them if they wanted to rest after a long day of hard work. It only took one of the avians to speak well of her for the rest to understand that she was a ‘good person who can serve as a secondary food source.’

Not one to owe others favors, Hibari willingly associated with her on occasion. Luckily, Haru never asked too much of him, so they could interact with each other in peace. “What is he planning to do in Namimori that involves your cooperation?” His teacup now empty, she had his entire attention. Obviously, this conversation would not budge from this topic.

She blinks a few times before she chuckles quietly. “I don’t think anyone has plans to harm Namimori, Hibari-san. I understand the concern, but he can be agreeable if you’re willing to meet him halfway. He certainly is very lacking in sociability, but he’s doing his best… I think. Even though his reputation is what it is, he is able to be civil, so I don’t think you need to be concerned about his casual visits.” She has absolutely no intention of stating that Belphegor wouldn’t destroy Namimori if a mission was involved.

“You have a positive opinion of him.” Hibari notes, his piercing gaze picking every small movement of hers down as his mind then collates everything together to form a coherent but unorthodox thought. “Don’t get played.” A pointed comment that both would be able to understand.

Of course, he was referring to a certain 10th generation mafia boss. “Tsuna-san didn’t play around with me.” Haru hisses, instantly going on the defensive. Being played would suggest that he even looked in her direction to begin with—which he didn’t. Just like the lightning comes and goes with a sudden flash, her temper could leave as quickly as it came. “I don't think Bel is playing around with me. I feel he's being sincere. At the very least, he doesn’t force any expectations on me. He respects my ambitions more than some others we know, and I appreciate that. He’s surprisingly--- likable at times. Would I be stupid for thinking about him?” Who knew there'd come a day when Haru speaks about relationships with the  Hibari Kyouya?

The matter of relationships and feelings were foreign ground for the likes of Hibari, who much preferred to keep to himself, save for those he approves of. Just as she didn’t interfere with his business, he wouldn’t interfere with hers. If she could objectively deduce that she trusted the destructive Prince, that was her choice to make.

Surely, she wouldn’t continue the mistake of falling for yet another person who wouldn’t look her way. Then again, perhaps that wouldn’t be an issue, if Belphegor’s frequent visits were of any indication. It was also true to say that he hadn't received any reports of any significant property damage in Namimori immediately following Belphegor's casual visits, so it may be beneficial to relax his guard on the matter.

Steel cold eyes glanced at the woman across the table, noting the indecisive sheen in her eyes. The normally ambitious and self-assured woman had moments of hesitation, it seems. “It’s your choice to make. Don’t belittle yourself. Any damage to Namimori and it’s people will be met with force.”

"With force!" The yellow bird chimes in randomly, flapping its wings energetically. 

A small smile graces Haru’s features as she read between the lines, “Haru is being made into a convenient excuse for a fight, hm? At least give me a chance to fight for myself first.” In other words, should anything go wrong, the best person to have as an ally in Namimori was Hibari himself. There were some benefits to trying to befriend the guardians, wouldn’t you know? 

It was only a matter of time before others learned about what was going on, so it would be beneficial for all parties involved for her to make her decision quickly, lest she be bothered by a couple of worried nagging guys.

“I told you all this in confidence, you know? Of course, you wouldn’t go blabbing, right?”

“Your private life is of no business to the rest.” Living life without an annoying pest worrying about inanities was a day well spent, after all. 

“Hibari-san understands well.”

She thought it was a bit early to be considering anything in seriousness, but it never hurt to cover your bases. The moment Gokudera or Tsuna heard about Belphegor’s frequent visits, her life was going to be rife with annoyances. Hibari wouldn’t alert the others to what he’s noticed and he may feel it necessary to ensure the others are kept in the dark for the sake of peace and quiet.

The moment Tsunayoshi’s worries trickle down the ranks of the Vongola, Namimori’s peace would surely take the fall. Barring a Prince from doing whatever he wished to do? That reeked of property damage.

Really, it was nice having someone like him as a ‘friend’, sometimes. “Since I’m here, let me tell you about a recipe I’ve thought up recently. I think the birds would love it. It would be tasty and healthy for them.” 

"Hm. Give the recipe to Kusakabe."

“Roger that.” 

Flare of the Morning Star

<<—Previous——————Flare of the Morning Star——————Next—>>

PART IV: LAST STAND

“I’d never seen anything quite like it—a single phrase and the front twenty of a hundred men in formation taking aim in unison with one, fluid motion…”

Be aware that the following themes are present in the text below.

Last Stand

Defiant to the End

Famous Last Words

{December 14th, 2020T}

[He hadn’t planned for this. He hadn’t planned for this. What was he thinking? He should have seen this coming! In fact, he had seen this coming, hadn’t he?! He should have KNOWN the recurring dream was akin to a vision!]

-=-=- Round 1: Felix uses Granite; 851/851 and 202 Def Tolbi archers fire (front and back), 9 hit: 151 HP; 700/851 HP Petra returns Felix’s HP: 719/870 HP, 206 Def =-=-=

“{LOOSE!}”

[A rain of arrows struck him, converted into Death energy upon contact.]

({Hhhh—! Well THAT hurt.})

[A lot more than he thought it would. He didn’t want to think about how much worse it would have been if he hadn’t shielded himself against most of the damage.]

“{Feel THAT? There’s a LOT more where that came from, with you name on it.}”

({This… this can’t. No… can’t surrender. Never… never will be fewer men. Would… would take away the rest of my armor, too, if I surrendered.})

[Such things probably would have felled other men instantly, but not Felix; he could take a lot more punishment than most.

But even as the arrows disintegrated into dark Venus energy, leaving him pressing against the wound, he knew that he couldn’t take this forever. Especially the more Djinn he used.

But what choice did he have? He could only surrender or fight.

And he had to fight. Even if no one would ever know, even if it wouldn’t save him—he couldn’t just grovel before tyrants and let them have their way.

He couldn’t just give up on everything that mattered.

And oh, how he wished he had time to daydream, to draw strength in this final hour! But no—they wouldn’t let him.]

=-=- Round 2: Felix uses Mud; HP drops to 709/853 Tolbi Archers fire (sides), 4 hit: 126 HP Felix’s HP: 578/863 Bane returns =-=-=

[It was a mockery at how few of them fired; they were toying with him, trying to whittle him away.

Well, if they thought that it would take so little effort to fell him, then they were sorely mistaken.]

({Can’t… can’t give up now. Need… might survive. Need to see you. Still… still a chance.})

[He didn’t have very many options. He had to prioritize survival. If he could just live long enough to Summon the wrath of the end of days, then perhaps—]

({Still… still a chance…!})

-=-=- Round 3: Felix uses Crystal 573/858 —> 830/858 HP, Defense is 206 Tolbi archers fire (all sides), 12 hit; 378 HP Felix’s HP: 452/858 (406 HP of damage) =-=-=

[He staggered at the intensity of the dozen arrows that pierced his body, seeing bright white for a moment. That had more or less reversed the healing he had just done; he could probably take another hit like that, but not too much more.

He wasn’t sure Cybele would be enough. These men were a lot stronger than he thought; if the Mighty Numbers could survive a hit from that Summon, they probably could, too. And if they survived the hit, then he was probably done for, as he wouldn’t have enough time to build up something strong enough a second time.

No, he—he was going to have to endure, and use the power at his disposal to do so just long enough…!]

-=-=- Round 4: Felix is ordered to surrender. He refuses. Felix uses Iron 452/858 —> 333/739, defense is 232 Tolbi archers (all fire); 370 HP damage -37/739 HP, Game Over =-=-=

[He held his ground, waiting for the silence to break, the next man to strike.

A voice called out in an authoritative manner from somewhere deeper in the crowd, using the language of the Tolbi empire.]

“{Drop your sword!}”

[Felix only gripped his sword tighter in defiance, bracing himself to continue.]

“{You’re surrounded by a hundred men!}”

[They’d literally boxed him in, yes, so he could see that it was true. Five rows of five on each side of him…. Even with the dozens he had injured in the course of the battle, they still had so many at their disposal.]

“{Drop your weapon, you villain! You will answer for your crimes against the empire!}”

[He called out to the crowd, his heart racing as he spoke with a bold sense of confidence that did not seem to be his own.]

“{Then strike, if it’s my death you’re looking for!}”

[He could not even see the commanding officer who was pacing between the ranks.]

“{Nobody’s impressed by your attempt to be a martyr! Submit to justice!}”

[He gritted his teeth at that, feeling bitter for the first time in the whole surreal throb. Justice? They DARED lecture him on justice?

No. He would not submit to them, to their tyranny and vices. He refused to die a miserable slave, dragged before the public to be put on trial, and then tormented in the sands for sport.]

“{If I am to die, I die a free man!}”

[There was an almost mechanical noise as the rank and file in front of him raised their bows yet again, all in unison. He now found himself staring down the arrow shafts of all twenty archers.

And as he looked—exhausted, feeling cold and somewhat lightheaded at his current piercing wounds, all 25 of them—at the row of arrows staring him down, he felt his heart falter.

An overwhelming sense of innate understanding gripped him to the core.

Here. Here is where it would end. He couldn’t dodge them all, and—and that meant he wouldn’t make it.]

“{There is no escape for you, Felix of Prox! Surrender immediately!}”

[He bared his teeth, his heart pounding again.]

“{Death first!}”

[He was suddenly blinded by pain. Intense pain that made him fall to his knees.]

[Tick. Tick. Tick.

Drip.]

[Too much—he was losing too much blood—

He could only huff in short, erratic gasps as he immediately began feeling lightheaded, feeling the rising grasp of engulfing darkness—

He could feel his life fading as he finally succumbed to his injuries.

There wasn’t much noise as he collapsed to the ground.]

({Have to stay…})

[It was so familiar. The overpowering sensation of being lightheaded, his vision dimming while blood pooled beneath him.]

({Stay awake…})

[He coughed weakly, quietly gasping for air.]

“{He’s still breathing!?}”

[His vision was growing very dim. Darkness was closing in, despite his desire to hang on.]

(Sheba…)

[There were shapes moving, but he was sinking fast. He couldn’t even see anything anymore.]

“… … …”

[Voices. They were too faint.

Everything…

Everything was…

…dark…]

<<—Previous——————Flare of the Morning Star——————Next—>>

Plenty Good Enough

No amount of experience changed the following: attacks would always happen, and they would always happen fast.

It was an expectation that had embedded within the nerves of every pro-Hero from the moment they entered a university, to the day they earned their license, and then every numbered day after that. But despite this instinct, even the best ranking pro-Heroes could be caught off-guard; Quirk or Quirkless, humanity was all the same - flawed and fragile.

Even before losing One For All, Yagi had gradually been coming to terms with this fragility, which only seemed to worsen in the aftermath of his final brawl with All For One. The pain in his chest had graduated from a dull ache to more of a constant sharpness whenever he moved. His arms, once capable of carrying eleven people from smoking wreckage, could hardly summon enough strength to carry groceries. His fingers, once balled tightly into fists that terrified even the worst of foes, were lately too weak to open a jar. Most days, Yagi really only felt comfortable sitting or lying down, but he’d never admit it, even to himself...

Shouta knew, though. He’d noticed Yagi’s persistent tiredness, which was enough to (almost) rival his own. He saw the evidence in the form of dropped paperwork in the hallways and a curious receipt left on Yagi’s desk for an automatic can opener. But most of all, he noticed it in Yagi’s eyes; though they had been sunken in from the day Shouta saw his true form, the once electric-blue light within them had dimmed in a way that resonated beyond all of the physical clues. Toshinori Yagi, the man who believed in always smiling, was deeply troubled.

Yagi picked up on Shouta’s concern over him pretty easily. Ordinarily, he would have shrugged it off, but lately, he was finding it harder and harder to deny Shouta’s gestures, which ranged from holding the door open for him to accompanying him to the store - though, it wasn’t because of his growing weakness.

Yagi wasn’t sure when he had fallen for Shouta. Much like his illness, it had developed gradually over time. All he knew was Shouta somehow made his chest hurt in a way that wasn’t bad.

An autumn sunset was bathing the Kamino ward in lilac hues as the nightlife of the city began to stir. Yagi had been invited to see the statue that had been unveiled of him - of who he used to be, anyway - and Shouta, without being asked, had tagged along for the trip.

“What did you think?” Shouta asked, after the ceremony was over, and after Yagi was quiet for too long.

“Oh, I think it’s amazing…” Yagi started, “I can’t believe how fast they rebuilt this place…”

“I meant your statue,” Shouta corrected, causing Yagi to still, “What did you think of it?”

“Oh… it’s…” Yagi scratched the back of his head, fighting for the right response, “It’s very humbling, and I’m most appreciative!”

Shouta looked as though he wanted to roll his eyes, but refrained. For whatever reason, Yagi challenged him.

“What?”

“I’m not the media, y’know,” Shouta mumbled, tucking his hands into his pockets, his face partially hidden by his ever-present capture weapon wrapped around his shoulders, “You don’t have to give me such a generic response - you can be honest.”

“I am being honest!” Yagi said, far too defensively, “I do appreciate it…”

“But…?”

“It’s just,” Yagi sighed and looked down at Shouta’s boots, “Not many heroes have a statue made of the exact moment they stopped being a hero… it’s a bittersweet feeling. I mean, I’m not ungrateful or anything, I just - ”

“You don’t need to justify yourself to me, Toshinori,” Shouta said, “I understand.”

Yagi took as big of a breath as his remaining lung would allow as he followed Shouta down an alleyway to a side street, opting for a potentially quieter route from any would-be fans still lingering on the main boulevard. Yagi smirked; Eraserhead was a master of avoidance.

Shouta knew Yagi was struggling a lot more than he was letting on, a stubbornness that had well-preceded his retirement. Would he ever drop the facade and just admit he needed help? Flashbacks of All Might deteriorating on live television mere blocks from where they were walking flashed in Shouta's mind. He froze.

"Yagi," Shouta said suddenly, "You may have retired, but that doesn't really mean you 'stopped being a hero'.”

Yagi watched as Shouta looked over his shoulder towards him, momentarily stunned by his words. Yagi supposed he shouldn't have been too surprised - this was Aizawa he was dealing with after all, yet…

"That's… kind of you, but I don't think you do understand. I can barely hold a textbook. If anything were to happen to the students, or just an ordinary citizen walking down the street, I'm completely useless,” said Yagi, “How can I still be a hero if I can’t do anything?"

"Idiot," Shouta glared, as if he were about to use his Erasure, but instead, he pointed to Yagi’s chest, “It’s still here. Continuing to teach, continuing to guide Midoriya, the effort you put in just to get out of bed every day… it might not be your idea of what a ‘hero’ is, All Might, but it’s plenty good enough.”

Yagi could only watch as Shouta’s finger pressed gently into his chest, before retreating back to his pocket. Shouta turned and continued on, and Yagi was unsure if Shouta was aware of the impact of his words. Yagi slowly reached towards his chest, finding the spot over his heart that Shouta had touched. He smiled to himself, then followed after the fellow teacher, taking in the cool air, the comforting hum of cars driving nearby, and in the distance, a lone dog barking.

Yagi watched Shouta’s form, hunched over and broody, his dark hair blowing with the breeze. A familiar pain radiated in his chest, not from his lung, but from the moment. This small little moment with Shouta that he never wanted to end... He’d become so entranced, that he missed the second Shouta’s capture weapon sprang to life.

“Get down!” Shouta shouted, the rushing noise of his binds zipping past Yagi’s frame towards an enemy that had jumped down right behind him.

Yagi dove towards the street, only hearing the sound of running footsteps - Aizawa’s - and the grunt of whoever was on the end of his binds. But before Yagi could look, the sound of a gunshot pierced through the once-calm side street. Yagi’s heart went into a free-fall as he saw the gun sticking out from the binds, still smoking. The crazed man holding it was smiling wildly at Aizawa, who kicked the gun out of his grasp and slammed his head into the nearby wall. The man slumped immediately, his grin still ghosting his face.

“Yagi, call the police,” Shouta instructed, still with a white-knuckled grip on his weapon.

‘He doesn’t seem injured,’ Yagi thought, part of him still shaking with adrenaline as he reached for his cell phone, ‘What a relief…’

Shouta continued to look down at the assailant that had just attempted to murder Yagi. He was Quirkless, but a villain none-the-less. His gaze traveled to the pistol, which he reached to pick up - it was only then that the pain hit. Shouta felt his left arm weaken with the realization. Next, his fingers stopped cooperating and the binds fell from his hand, slumping onto the ground between him and the attacker.

A warm sensation, accompanied by a hot knife-like pain twisted at his side. He clutched the area with his free hand, his skin immediately met with the tell-tale warmth of blood. His breath caught and he looked to Yagi, who was faced away, attempting to describe their location to emergency services.

“Tell them to bring an ambulance,” Shouta called to him, but Yagi didn’t seem to hear him.

“Tell them…” Shouta tried again, realizing that his voice was just above a whisper, “Ambulance…”

Yagi was scratching his head as he squinted at the sign on the backdoor of one of the buildings - some kind of a clothing store.

“We’re behind… Dirt-Cheap Donki-Oote…” Yagi explained.

“Who is the Pro you are with, Mr. Toshinori?” asked the dispatcher.

“Shou - Eraserhead,” Yagi answered, smirking a little as he turned to Aizawa, who… was on the ground.

Yagi froze, only for a second, before dashing to Shouta’s side. In the glow of the streetlight, he could see blood was quickly pooling around Shouta’s torso; it completely covered his hand, which was feebly attempting to clutch the wound, his other hand still gripping the weapon wrapped around the shooter.

“Send paramedics - my friend’s been shot!” Yagi yelled to the dispatcher, who had been questioning his silence.

“Where has your friend been shot?”

Yagi reached towards Shouta’s hand, trying to ignore how much his own was trembling. “I don’t know, h-he’s wearing all black… lower stomach, maybe…? Torso. Lower left side… Shouta, where were you hit?”

“Here…” Shouta said, cringing as he pressed on the spot in his side, the blood-soaked clothing sticking slightly to his fingers.

“Is he bleeding?”

“Y-Yes, a lot…” Yagi said, making the mistake of locking eyes with Aizawa, who had a look on his face Yagi had never seen on him before, but had seen on the faces of countless people before - people who knew they were in grave danger.

The dispatcher’s tone rose in seriousness. “You need to apply pressure - “

“I know, I need to put down the phone, please - just hurry!”

“Sir, wait - ”

The phone was set aside, just a few inches from the gun.

Yagi gently nudged Shouta’s hand away, then placed his own hands over the space on Shouta’s side.

“Here?” He asked, to which Shouta nodded.

Yagi swallowed hard, then pressed down as hard as he could. Shouta grunted and closed his eyes tightly while Yagi tried not to react to the sight of the blood bubbling up between his fingers; he hadn’t seen a sight like this since the USJ incident, which had also involved Shouta and a lot of blood.

Back then, he had been able to save him.

But now...

Only two minutes passed before Yagi’s arms began to strain. Still, he kept the pressure on, keeping a careful eye on Shouta, the dazed attacker, and the gun between them. He swallowed hard when he noticed the capture weapon was starting to slack. Shouta’s grip was slipping.

“Shouta, hey…” Yagi tried, “Help is on the way. Just hold on.”

Shouta mumbled some kind of acknowledgement, and after the fourth minute, every nerve in Yagi’s fingers were on fire. Still, he kept the pressure on, listening for anything that remotely resembled a siren approaching, but the quiet ambiance still remained; the far away dog kept barking.

Yagi glanced at his phone, which was still on the call with the dispatcher. He thought about picking it back up, or trying to put it on speaker mode, but before he could even consider how to do so without letting go of Shouta, he saw the capture weapon crumple in his peripheral vision. Shouta had let go, and much to Yagi’s terror, Shouta’s face was now as white as a sheet.

“Shouta, talk to me…” Yagi said shakily, looking between him and the attacker, who still seemed to be unconscious. No longer held by Shouta, Yagi could only hope that the bastard stayed knocked out or the police would arrive soon. Yagi would wonder about who he was and why he had tried to kill him later...

Shouta opened his eyes, studying Yagi closely. “You… talk to me instead.”

‘What am I supposed to say…?’ was Yagi’s first thought, before a lifetime of instinct rushed back to him.

“You’ll be fine,” Yagi said, but the words came out stilted at first.

Shouta somehow managed to smirk a little. “I think you should try that line again…”

“You’re going to be just fine,” Yagi said once more, “Because I am here...”

It wasn’t as boisterous as Shouta had heard him say it so many millions times before, but it was just as sincere. Shouta felt Yagi’s renewed spirit tighten the pressure on his side; there was no doubt holding his wound was taking a profound toll on Yagi, yet here he was, holding on anyways, with everything he had. Yet, Shouta was drifting. He couldn’t feel his capture weapon or the street beneath his back anymore. He couldn’t feel his fingers or legs. All he could feel was Yagi’s hands.

‘I can’t die…’ Shouta thought suddenly, ‘I can’t let him think he failed…’

Yagi could feel the urge to cough clawing up his throat as his hands trembled. Eight minutes, now.

“Just a little longer, okay?” Yagi said, looking carefully at Shouta, who had closed his eyes again. Suddenly, the feeling of a hand brushing against his. Shouta’s.

“Not…” Shouta rasped, as a thin line of blood began to trickle from the corner of his mouth, “Not… your fault…”

Everything within Yagi came to halt. “W-What…? What’s not my fault?”

Shouta’s hand came to rest over Yagi’s. “...if I don’t make it.”

Those five words, uttered by Shouta Aizawa, were worse than any punch, kick, or bite than Yagi had ever received in his life.

Nine minutes.

“You’re going to make it,” Yagi argued.

‘You have to make it. The world needs you. UA needs you. Class 1-A needs you. Midoriya needs you. I need you.’

Through the white-hot pain flaring from the tips of his fingers to the ends of his shoulders, Yagi felt Shouta still.

“Shouta?” Yagi asked, his voice cracking.

Ten minutes had passed and Shouta stopped moving, even as the sound of sirens finally emerged in the distance, echoing indiscernibly between the tall buildings of Kamino. He didn’t move, even as Yagi continued to call out his name. He didn’t move, even as the criminal beside them began to stir.

Yagi looked quickly from Shouta to the man, the bundles of Shouta’s weapon in a heap around his lap. He watched as the man opened his eyes, taking in the realization of Yagi and Shouta, and then the gun just within his reach. The sickly smile he’d had before returned to his face.

Eleven minutes.

“How can I still be a hero if I can’t do anything?"

“It’s still here... it’s plenty good enough.”

As red and blue lights flashed over the surrounding buildings, Yagi forced his left hand down and snatched Shouta’s capture weapon with his right, yanking it back as the man leapt for the gun. The binds hissed as they instantly constricted the man, stopping him just inches from reaching the pistol. Yagi kicked his leg out, sending the gun spinning away from them towards the oncoming convoy of police and ambulances.

The very next thing Yagi knew, he was in a hospital bed...

No amount of experience changed the following: a Hero was bound to wake up in a hospital bed, definitely more than once.

Yagi noticed the IV in his arm first, then the familiar feeling of a paper-thin hospital gown fitted awkwardly over his frame, before the memory of Shouta sprang him forward. Heart pounding, he looked around, his sight catching on a curtain that was pulled between his bed and the next one over.

‘Please…’ He thought, reaching out to grip the edge of the curtain and pulling it back.

The sunlight streaming through the window blinded him at first, delaying the sight of the familiar disheveled UA teacher resting right beside him.

The sound of the curtain being drawn back so rapidly stirred Shouta from whatever morphine-induced daydream he was in. He wasn’t surprised to see Toshinori staring back at him as if he were a ghost, his panic reflected in the sudden erratic beeping of the EKG attached to him.

He supposed Yagi’s concern wasn’t too far-fetched; apparently he had been clinically dead, but only for a few seconds during the ambulance ride. A bit of hemostatic, blood transfusion, and the removal of the bullet - which thankfully hadn’t been a hollow-point - and Shouta had woken up around 4:30 in the morning, just as he always did, briefly wondering if he could make it to class in time. Once he noticed Yagi was in the bed beside him, however, he texted Hizashi about the situation. Class 1-A would have to wait.

Unsurprisingly, Naomasa arrived only a few hours later, having already collected the preliminary details on their attacker: a man named Fuyuto, whom, as Aizawa had figured, was Quirkless and had a criminal history. His exact motive for targeting Yagi wasn’t yet known, but Naomasa was already suspecting the possibility of a link between Fuyuto and the League of Villains. Shouta was too rational to make any assumptions this soon, especially concerning the League; for all they knew, Fuyuto was merely ill and the attack was completely random.

“What happened to Toshinori?” Shouta asked Naomasa.

“No major injuries,” Naomasa assured, “He exhausted himself, is all. When first responders arrived, they found him holding onto you, and using your scarf to hold Fuyuto down, and while doing all that, he’d managed to kick the gun out of reach, too. As soon as they cleared him to let go of you, he collapsed.”

Shouta looked off in the corner of the room, suddenly remembering the last words he had said to Yagi. For whatever reason, Shouta tensed up with guilt. ‘It’s not your fault if I don’t make it…?’ Ugh. Just how much blood had he lost? Yagi would’ve blamed himself, regardless of anything he said. He should have said something else. Something that he had been trying to say wordlessly for years, in the form of opening doors, bringing him coffee, and joining him for the absolute media Hell that was a statue unveiling.

Come to think of it, after all this, the Kamino ward had certainly seen the last of them - willingly, anyway - for a long time...

A phone call had beckoned Naomasa out of the room and a nurse came in right after, closing the curtain between the beds as she checked on Shouta’s dressings. After she was done, she neglected to place the curtain back when leaving, and it was a little after noon when it suddenly snapped back, revealing Yagi had woken up.

And here they were...

“Shouta,” Yagi breathed, “You’re okay… I… I’m so glad you’re alright!”

“Take it easy,” Shouta warned sternly, “You did a number on yourself.”

“Oh, r-right…” Yagi said, gazing down at the space between them as he sat back on his bed, somewhat resembling a drooping sunflower. It made Shouta’s heart squeeze.

Yagi continued to look at the floor, even when he saw Shouta’s bare feet step into view. He looked up to see Shouta standing before him, staring down at him intently. He was… really close, Yagi realized, much closer than he’d ever been to him before, or anyone for that matter. He couldn’t commit much more thought into it as Shouta had now taken his hands in his own. Yagi felt a familiar pang in his chest as Shouta’s thumbs slowly stroked the tops of his hands.

“Sho…” Yagi started, just as Shouta leaned in and kissed his forehead.

Yagi stilled, only able to look forward at the dipping collar of Shouta’s hospital gown, revealing his normally-elusive neck and upper chest.

Shouta figured his gesture might make Yagi cough up blood, just not all over him. But before Yagi could start sputtering apologies over it, Shouta squeezed his hands gently.

“Don’t worry about it,” Shouta assured him, “You were covered in plenty of my blood last night. Let’s just... call it even, I guess.”

Yagi grinned, then looked down again. “I love you...” 

Yagi wasn’t sure why he said it. Much less so suddenly. The words just escaped him, like a caged bird. He looked back up to Shouta again, ready to bury the words under a slew of platonic phrases, but Shouta kissed him before he could even try.

This was a prompt sent to me by @jsml-universe: Erasermight prompt: shouta gets hit by a bullet while protecting toshinori who no longer has ofa and yagi must unfortunately apply pressure to aizawa to stop him from bleeding out. Help is on the way.  It's a painfully long 11 minutes

Thank you for the prompt! This was my first attempt at erasermight - I hope you liked!

and we’ll watch the world crumble (watch the world burn)

Summary: In a galaxy falling apart at its seams, two broken souls find solace in their forbidden connection. But when darkness threatens to destroy everything they know, Rey finds herself forced to choose between what can, and what could have been.

Chapter One

A/N: Of all the things I thought I would be doing this quarantine, I really didn’t expect writing my first reylo fic to be part of it but I guess here we are! Please be gentle, I’m still trying to get all my Star Wars lore correct :) 

Read on AO3 or under the cut:

Rey couldn’t sleep.

But then again, after everything that had happened since leaving Jakku, sleepless nights weren’t uncommon for her. Even in the comfort of a sizable cot in her own section of the cave, safe in the Resistance base on Ajan Kloss, Rey felt uneasy giving in to the vulnerability of sleep. As exhausted as she was, falling asleep meant putting her walls down and letting the nightmares and monsters in.

Monsters like him.

Every time she closed her eyes, she saw his. Warm brown irises flooded with desperation, looking at her, no, into her, as the world around them crashed and burned. In that moment, she saw him clearer than he would ever see himself: a terrified boy, pleading for acceptance and understanding, from a scavenger, nonetheless. She couldn’t help but wonder if he saw her too. Did he see how much she had wanted to take his hand? If only for some form of purpose and clarity, for a chance to no longer feel achingly lonely. Or had he seen the moment she made her decision? The moment she went for the saber.

Luke’s saber. Rey eyed the broken weapon sitting on a bench across from her bed. She had felt wrong in keeping it, knowing it was all the legendary Skywalker had left behind, but Leia’s insistence helped assuage her guilt.

“It’s what he would have wanted,” the general said softly, gently wrapping Rey’s fingers around the saber’s cracked hilt. “You might not think you’re the last Jedi, Rey. But you are the last hope.”

And what a burden it proved to be. Since her floating rock stunt saved the Resistance on Crait, everyone seemed to be constantly staring at her, almost eerily wary of her every move. For a girl who spent most of her life alone in a desert, Rey wasn’t used to being the center of so much attention. But what scared her the most was her inability to discern whether people were looking at her with curiosity or fear. Or, as Poe would put it, a healthy combination of both.

Getting to know Poe was, in many ways, like getting to know a droid. It was very clear from the start that the man was programmed for war. More than once, Rey has caught herself overhearing Poe and Leia discussing weaponry, strategies, treaties, and negotiations, all of which sound like another language to Rey. But Rey soon learned that Poe’s skills as commander were equally matched with his penchant for sarcasm and light-hearted jokes as he and Finn constantly bickered during meal breaks.

Finn, Rey was thrilled to see, had made a full recovery since she had last seen him wounded after the battle on Starkiller base. As her first, and now best friend, Finn shared Rey’s anxieties about fitting in with the Resistance. A turned stormtrooper wasn’t exactly a leading example of a light-side warrior, and though he never voiced his concerns to Rey, Rey could tell Finn was trying to prove his place among the Resistance ranks through his enthusiasm in volunteering for even the simplest of missions.

His new friend, Rose, however, was exactly what Rey imagined Resistance members were like. Of course, it didn’t take much for Rey to like Rose given that she had saved Finn’s life, but Rose was truly sunshine personified. Despite the recent loss of her sister, Rose never ceased to smile. Her kindness toward Rey was more than welcome amidst the wordless stares from most others, and for the first time in her life, Rey found herself glad to be in the company of a woman closer to her age.

Rey huffed a sigh at the thought. It felt so strange that almost a year ago she was alone on Jakku, barely getting by on the meager portions she was able to receive, waiting for a family that would never return. Now she’s a force-sensitive fighting a war, no longer hungry, no longer chained by her past. No longer alone.

She tossed around in her bed, her blankets every bit too warm, but the room too cold all at once. Closing her eyes, she tried to sleep, letting her mind drift ever so slightly, but to no avail.

Of course, the recent onslaught of piercing headaches didn’t help either. For the past couple weeks, Rey had been experiencing strange migraines. They all start with a slight disturbance in the force, an unexplainable shift that never fails to give Rey goosebumps. Then waves of pain crash through her mind without any more of a warning, as if her brain is being torn to shreds. Luckily for her, they often leave as suddenly as they come, but they’re never any less painful. Unable to do anything about it, the medical droids left Rey to wonder when the next headache would hit, and which one would ultimately kill her in the end.

“I wouldn’t count on it.”

The familiar presence slipped so suddenly into Rey’s mind, she sprang up from her sheets. How much had he just heard?

“Get out!”

Kylo Ren sat across from her on the bench, next to the broken shards of his uncle’s parting gift. She couldn’t tell where he was, and for her sake and the Resistance’s, she hoped he couldn’t either.

Rey allowed her eyes to roam over the Supreme Leader, a self defense tactic, she decided, to see if he appeared as a threat. She quickly noted the absence of his lightsaber and stopped herself from reaching for her blaster. Even though she knew from their previous encounters that the weapons didn’t work through their connection, it never hurt to be safe. He donned his usual black tunic and trousers, with heavy duty boots to match, but seemed to forego the formalities of his cape and cowl. The wide belt at his waist emphasized the broadness of his chest and shoulders. His folded hands remained gloved as he leaned forward, resting his forearms on his thighs.

And yet, the one thing that caught her attention the most was the lack of his mask.

Something about his face felt alluring to Rey, and not just in its undeniable vanity. Ever since he had first taken off his mask in front of her, Rey was aware of the vulnerability he allowed himself in her presence. As if she was the only person who could still see the slivers of Ben Solo behind his hardened facade.

Only there was no facade. Not this time. Kylo’s eyes were dark, red-rimmed with sleeplessness and—oh.

Sadness. No, this wasn’t just sadness. This was deeper than that. This was the kind of sadness that eats at the soul, even when there is nothing left but emptiness and a deep, dark ache, and Rey knew the feeling well. But she wasn’t easily fooled.

“I said, get out!”

“You know I would if I could.” He spoke calmly, with little to no antagonization, to Rey’s surprise. If anything, all she could detect was a hint of dejection in his tone.

Rey shook her head in denial. “I don’t understand. Why is this still happening? Snoke’s...”

Kylo’s eye twitched at the mention of his deceased master. “I’m sure you can put it together yourself.”

“He lied,” she finished, more for herself than for him. “Well, I can’t say I’m surprised given how the Sith usually deal with manipulation.” She looked at him to see if the jab had struck a nerve, but was disappointed when he remained passive to her comment.

He stood from his seat and walked to the door-like opening where Rey’s little nook met the larger portion of the cave. Avoiding her glare, he stared out the entrance with a pensiveness that reminded Rey of Leia and Rey couldn’t help but wonder what he was looking at in his perspective.

After a moment’s silence, she added, “So how do we end this?”

He heaved a sigh, his gaze falling down to his feet. Rey tried not to notice the way one of his obsidian locks fell over his face. “I don’t know.” The words sounded foreign and almost disturbing coming from him, but Rey hid her discomfort behind knit brows and a tight scowl.

“You don’t know? You’re the Supreme Leader, aren’t you supposed to know about these things? Or were Force Bonds not covered in the murderer handbook?”

“Not one like this.” There was an edge to his voice now that he was growing more and more impatient, but she wasn’t fazed.

“Fine then, I’ll figure out a way to get rid of it since you won’t, you coward.” She let the insult roll off her tongue and watched as it washed over him.

It was as if she had finally pulled the right trigger because all of Kylo’s anger came bubbling up to the surface as he turned to face her. “You don’t think I want to?” He took a step closer and Rey felt herself backing up against the head of her bed as he neared her. Suddenly, reaching for her blaster seemed like a good idea. “I’ve spent the past three weeks trying to sever you from my mind, but each time I do—” He stops, as if trying to put his thoughts into words. “It feels like I’m tearing my own brain apart.”

That explained the headaches. “So that was you. I felt it too.” A chill ran down Rey’s spine as she came to the ugly conclusion, the one neither wanted to acknowledge. “Does that mean...”

The frustration in his eyes turned into an acceptance as his expression hardened. “That’s the only way it ends.”

A month ago, Rey wouldn’t have thought twice about killing Kylo Ren. Hell, she even had a fair try at it, the jagged scar across his face serving as a constant reminder of his close defeat. But after they had touched hands on Ahch To, things were...different. Somehow, the thought of him dead now made her stomach churn and her eyes burn, and yet she couldn’t figure out why.

“Well, it doesn’t have to be. Not if…if...” she trailed off.

“If what?” he challenged.

“You know what.”

“Say it, Rey.” She shivered at her name, spoken like a curse. “I want you to say it.”

It would be so easy to continue fighting him, but she didn’t see the point. Reluctantly, she said what he wanted to hear. “If you turned. Joined the Resistance.” Joined me. “Why didn’t you?”

This was the first time she had really asked him sincerely, the question that had been plaguing her mind. He turned away from her again, and for a second, Rey didn’t think he was going to respond, but his low voice broke the silence. “The same reason why you didn’t accept my offer.” He squared his shoulders, back still to her, and though his mask was nowhere to be seen, Rey felt as if he had just put it back on. “We are who we are. What’s the use in fighting it if it’s what we’re destined to be?”

She let the question fall from her lips before she could stop herself. “What do you think we’re destined to be?”

The connection cut out before she could get an answer.

Hey! Another servant and this time is Fenrir! 

Avenger: Fenrir 

Alignment: True Neutral 

Parameters: 

Strength: A++

Agility: A

Endurance: B+

Luck: E

Mana: B

NP: A-

Traits: 

Divinity A Madness Enhancement C Oblivion Correction (Gleipnir) C-  Self Replenishment (Magic) A

Skills: 

Divine Jaws A-: Fenrir is said to be the being that will end the world in norse mythology, who will devour both Odin and the earth and sky whole. Due to their ribbons however, their jaws cannot extend that far, however they do still contain traits of anti divinity in them. More applicably, whatever these jaws bite down on can only be destroyed at the end. 

Hopeless Howl B: A bone chilling roar from when Fenrir was bound, any and all who hear this cry become completely demoralized and will feel as though they are being weighed down, leaving them helpless to the wolf’s assault 

Shapeshifting C: A rather simple form of Shapeshift that just allows for Fenrir to grow parts of their body closer toward their original world ending size. 

Presence of the End (Fenrir) A-: A personal skill of Fenrir that marks them as a world ending being. Upon activation all things that Fenrir attacks has a higher likelihood of being mortally wounded to killed, they break through most magical defenses with ease and release a sort of energy into the air, degrading anything it touches physically. However, with the ribbons, this skill can’t truly reach it’s pinnacle, otherwise any non divine or protected thing would simply crumble away in the presence of Fenrir. 

Noble Phantasm(s) 

Gleipnir, Gjoll, Thviti: 

Type: Anti Self

Rank: EX

Description: The chains disguised as ribbon that bind Fenrir. With these strange colored ribbons wrapped around their body Fenrir’s parameters are lowered as well as their skills. If these were to somehow be broken, Fenrir’s Oblivion Correction would spike to EX, forgetting about all that they have experienced and move to end the world. 

Gjoll and Thviti are the stake shaped rocks that can be used to hold Fenrir in place if needed. While an enemy could possibly get close enough to use this against them, Fenrir capitalizes on their bindings. In battle, they make good use as both blunt and piercing weapons, the ribbons can be used as well, as they are much heavier than they would appear. 

The River Van 

Type: Anti Humanity Anti Army

Rank: B-

Description: When Fenrir was bound, their spit created the sea known as the River Van in norse mythology. As a being that brings forth the end, this spit becomes more volatile and eats away at life in a matter of seconds, akin to the Chaos Tide. While under the effects of Gleipnir, this is weakened considerably but can still be used as a deadly attack. 

Description of Servant: 

Fenrir is a massively sized wolf like creature, though definitely not your average wolf, its teeth are like trees, rows of razor sharp teeth that have thorn like bone protrusions coming off of them. Their fur is like clouds, billowing, stormy flowing in all directions as if it has no form and there is only a will keeping it together. Their paws have two sets of claws, one on each toe and 5 above it made for mauling and maiming. Along side that, bright yellow eyes within dark irises that dig into the soul. Despite the fear one might feel in their presence, the wolf is definitely beautiful, though its clear that time has worn on them. 

Fenrir is also able to use a human form if they should so please, large imposing androgynous human with hair flowing down their back reminicent of their fur and the same eyes. Their limbs are still animalistic and hold the traits of their clawed paws, except now theyre hands. A bit unwieldy with their claws but they get the job done. This form as well holds the god like beauty one could find in Fenrir’s wolf form, but its only more clear on a human face how worn down they are. 

Fenrir can talk in both forms in an imposing yet intelligent manner, they don’t boast often but they are prideful and will take any challenge that would grant them more fame head on. While they are smart, Fenrir is a wolf through and through and will usually go with their instincts on most issues, although they don’t like that about themselves. The reason for that is because they are naturally trusting, even when it has burned them horribly in the past, when first meeting someone Fenrir will always try to be cold before allowing affection to shine through. 

Interactions with other servants:

Hessian Lobo: That wolf that calls himself king is glaring yet again. Its a little annoying to be honest, what fame is there to be gained from kicking this poor dog, hm? I feel some sort of connection though, so, maybe we should allow our teeth to do our talking. 

Gorgon and Kingprotea: The extremely large snake woman is something to behold, I had to stop myself from seeing how her snakes tasted...ah, you saw when….well. It would be...poor of me to act like an animal in front of a child, a giant one at that. It was quite a sight though, a massive snake woman and a massive mossy child trying to pet me. In the end, I guess me and the snake woman have an...agreement, when it comes to that child. 

Martha: Rise up, brother! Will you simply allow this holy woman to keep you in her chains? Will you endure her bondage any longer?! Come, I will snap you free my-ah, huh? Oh? You...like her? I...hrm...thats...a little disappointing, you know... 

Red Hare: ….Master. While I understand your wish of not having me challenge the other chaldeans….that...that thing...if you bring him near me, I will eat him. Whats my problem? Hes completely strange is the problem! Its creepy! 

Atalante Alter: *Sniff sniff* *Sniff sniff* Hmm, I smell that woman again. She’s just plain senseless, instead of backing off already she keeps challenging my space. Tch, I’m itching to fight now…huh? Oh...! Fine, I’ll play nice yet again. Don’t blame me though, if I have to knock an angry kitty down a peg.

5+ servants that are animals/have animals with them: Are you by chance amassing a Zoo, master? Everyone in the animal quarters are just as odd as their owners, I swear, and I’ve had to fight for my space against the oddest things. Oh, though it was rather unexpected, the service here is nice. Even I enjoy being lavished like a god~

Humans are weird: Resistance Fighters

The Mubari people were vaguely humanoid in shape, even could have seem them as slightly taller than average humans were it not for the extra set of arms extending from the sides of their chests and the back of their skulls elongated upwards.

The war began so suddenly that the people of Haven had no clear idea what triggered it or even that there was a war at all going on between the Mubari colelctive and the Human Systems Alliance until Mubari warships took orbit over the planet and began landing ever increasing ground forces. The local garrisons were taken completely by surprise and many soldiers died while still sleeping in their barracks. Those that made it out after the initial attacks fled to the cities and began regrouping for a counter offensive that would never happen. The Mubari surrounded each city and then launched all out attacks from every direction, flooding the streets with their soldiers.

Hastily thrown together barricades stemmed the enemy tide for mere minutes before being overrun forcing the Haven garrison to fall back street by street. The war quickly devolved from organised battle lines to desperate city fighting where every building became a stronghold, every street a killzone, every door a booby trap. With such chaos the command structure broken down that sometimes a Sargent would be leading an entire cities defense for no other reason that he was the highest ranking officer that could be contacted for orders.

Despite such an inspiring defense put up by each city one by one they had fallen until 11 days after the initial landings official orders were transmitted world wide issuing a general stand down order for all military personnel. Many units accepted the order with heavy hearts while others continued the struggle, regardless of their hopeless situation. But these flickering lights were snuffed out leaving the planet in totality under Mubari control.

The Mubari leadership planned to make an announcement to the planet and had ordered the capital city to be prepared for a spectacular display of Mubari might. And so those that had survived were put to work clearing rubble and removing any signs of battle damage the Mubari had inflicted on their now human subjugated citizens.      

The day of the announcement the city square was eerily silent as the throng of citizens shuffled in place casting fearful gazes at the armed soldiers lining the outside of the square. Mubari flags flying from nearly every building by the citizens, not as a display of newfound loyalty to their overlords, but to hide the signs of damage they could not remove in time for fear of repercussions.  

Scorch marks from energy weapons still covered some walls, the husk like storefronts littered the streets with their windows either blown out from explosions or smashed by looters complimented by the burned out vehicles that were still present. Unable to lift the heavy destroyed vehicles the people had been able to at least shove them to the sides of the road to clear a path, though now their burnt remains looked like mourners lining the road for a funeral.

Overhead the roar of engines drew the crowds attention as a large dropship flanked by four fighters flew over the city. The gusts generated by the engines making the banners fly wildly in the air and some citizens to be blown off their feet. The starcraft turned around and made a second pass over the city causing further pandemonium before finally the fighters peeled off and the dropship slowly descended towards the edge of the square.

As it touched down the rear ramp slowly began opening. As it finally touched the cracked concrete surface of the street a new squad of ornated soldiers stepped out in perfect unison. Their armor decorated with jewels and gold forged into intricate patterns, the weapons they carried long pole arms tipped with strange energies that took the form of a spear tip, and their faces hidden behind golden masks carved to resemble the face of the Mubari leader.

They marched through the gathered crowd and made a path to the podium at the far end of the square, shoving and kicking any that were not fast enough to move of their own will. One old woman was violently tossed aside when she couldn’t rise to her feet fast enough after being knocked down earlier by the ships engines.

After a pathway had been cleared the guards turned as one and faced the dropship. A loud buzzing sound filled the square forcing some of the children to cry and others to grasp their ears. “PEOPLE OF HAVEN,” boomed a loud voice over a loudspeaker built into the ship, “KNEEL TO YOUR CONQUEROR, HIGH MAGISTRATE KARNAL VON!”

Slowly the crowd began kneeling. One by one at first, then more and more, until every citizen in the square was kneeling. From the dropship came a loud clanking sound of marching feet and for the first time the people of Haven caught sight of their conqueror.

Karnal, unlike his honor guard, wore not armor but robes of the finest material whose smoothness made it feel like he wore a cloud itself, on his fingers he wore magnificent jems that changed color with each wave of his hand, and atop his head was a crown of black polished metal that appeared to suck in the surrounding light like a black hole.

Regally, Karnal descended the craft and walked through the crowd. Silence filled the square as he climbed the steps and stood behind the podium, his hands firmly grasping its sides.  

With a slight lift of his hand Karnal beckoned the people to rise. He gazed out over the mass of people, easily some five thousand souls not counting the Mubari soldiers. Gazing out over the Collective’s new citizens, Karanl weld up with pride. But as he saw the peoples faces he saw a different story. Anger, hate, fear, despair, dread...    Their lives will be better, he thought, they will see this in time.

“People of Haven.” He began, his voice filling the square so clearly even those in the back could hear him. “Your leaders have abandoned you to your fate, leaving you to face the might of the Mubari Collective alone. Though you fought bravely, those of a single world could never resist the might of a those with a thousand worlds.”  Paint them picture, make them visualize the gap of their power.....  “With open arms I welcome you now as new citizens of the Mubari Collective! By accepting this great boon, your children and your children’s children will praise you for ages to come with your foresight towards the betterment of their lives.” Make them see what they will now become part of....how it is better than what they once knew.... “Now that your leaders have surrendered to us, we can work together to rebuild that which was lost and step forward together into a brighter future!” Karnal raised his hands to the crowd. “LONG LIVE THE MUBARI CO-” The gunshot pierced through the glimmer of the ceremony, ruining what Karnal had been rehearsing on-board his ship for the last several days. He didn’t see the shooter, but he felt it as it grazed past his exposed cheek leaving a light wound and impacting the stage behind him.  For a moment no one in the crowd made a move nor sound. The citizens looked on while the soldiers stood dumbfounded. For that one moment the world stood on a knifes edge and time itself seemed to stop for all those present.  A woman from the crowd screamed and set off a cascade of panic that swept through the crowd like wildfire shattering the calm. “COVER THE MAGISTRATE!!!! one of the honor guard shouted as those in front of the podium jumped on to the stage and surrounded him.  A second shot rang out, this time hitting one of the honor guard in the leg between the exposed armor joints causing them to crumble to the ground. People now were scattering in all directions trying to flee from the chaos while the Mubari rapidly scanned the surrounding buildings for the shooter.  The third shot impacted the honor guard standing directly in front of Karnal in the neck causing a gout of purple blood to spray out and cover the Magistrate as they fell to the ground grasping at the wound. None of the other guards went to aide him but instead tightened their circle around the Magistrate. “Do you have a location on the shooter!?!?” A guard shouted into the radio built into his helmet. “west corner window, 12th floor, green building three blocks south of the square!” came the response, “Should we deploy ground forces?” “That will take to long, level the building with the fighters!”  Karnal’s eyes were glued to the dying honor guard before him still gasping and clutching their wound, the purple blood pouring through his fingers while his other hand was reaching out to him desperately asking for help. He didn’t hear the roar of the fighters passing over the head, nor feel the rush of hot air as their explosives impacted with the building sending it crashing to the city streets.  Through the dull of it all Karnal felt like he could hear someone shouting his name and turned to gaze at the nearest honor guard, his gilded face looking back at him. “What?” “MAGISTRATE WE NEED TO MOVE NOW! BACK TO THE SHIP!”  Two of the guards lifted Karnal up while still encircling him and as one the group began a brisk pace back to the waiting drop ship taking the original path through the crowd. The citizens had only become more anxious with the destruction of the sniper’s building and though some had been able to escape the majority were now still trapped in the square by the sheer mass of bodies attempting to use the limited exits.  While being lifted Karnal looked over the crowd of humans before him. He was always impressed by the differences between each human as he studied them for the coming war. It was rare for any two humans to be truly alike. He saw some throw themselves over others to protect them from debry, older couples sticking together holding each other close with their eyes clenched shut, others grabbing people and tossing them aside to gain their own safety, and strangely an odd number of them standing perfectly still as if transfixed by the whole situation.  His eyes locked with one such human as he was roughly half way through the crowd, the corridor to the ship still kept clear by his guards. They were wearing a thick hooded cloak that covered most of their body and features, but from the outline he wagered that it was a human female. When his gaze finally reached her face instead of a frightened human face he saw a strange mask with blacked out eye lenses, a breather tube attached to one side going behind her neck down her backside under the cloak. The masked female cocked her head to the side for a moment and Karnal couldn’t help but feel as if he was being pitied.     Without warning the masked female flung out her cloak revealing a military grade assault rifle and let lose a barrage on Karnal. The rounds bouncing off some of the guards armor but some still finding their way into weak spots sending two more of his guards tumbling. As one, the guards closest who had been manning the corridor turned around and brought down their pole arms, rushing the woman as she went to reload. They had nearly reached her when two more cloaked figures emerged from the surrounding mass of people and jumped on the guards backs. Caught off guard by the sudden ambush the guard’s attempted to shake their attackers loose but were not fast enough to stop the new figures from driving knives deep into their neck joints. The guards twitched and spasmed for a few moments then collapsed to the ground. Both figures turned around to face Karnal and to his horror they both wore the same mask as the human female, who he just now noticed had finished reloading her rifle.  Suddenly there were masked figures striking out from the throng of remaining citizens and attacking the honor guard manning the corridor. Some of the honor guard were not fast enough to block the surprise attack and were taken down, but others reflexes were finely tuned and were able to swiftly repel the attackers, their pole arms slicing through the crowd leaving severed limbs and bodies in their wake as they held their ground.  The path ahead was now blocked so the guards around Karnal stopped and began slowly fighting their way forwards. Karnal shook off the two holding him and flicked his wrists. Four side arms descended from the depths of his robes and latched on to his waiting hands as he took to the battle himself. The weapons a hybrid of an compact energy weapon and what humans call a “shotgun”. With weapons in hand Karnal let loose single bursts of energy powerful enough to send a human attacker flying backwards before waiting for them to recharge. In the meantime he used the bladed undersides of the weapons to cut any that got close enough to him.  Despite the suddenness of the attack Karnal saw that the hooded figures were still vastly outnumbered. The honor guard were holding their own and now common Mubari foot soldiers were pressing their way into the square. If he could hold out long enough he would be sa- The guard next to Karnal suddenly had their head explode in a welter of icor and gore. He spun around to see the original trio of masked figures breaking through the corridor and rushing Karnal’s group. They must have sense as well that their chance for victory was dwindling by the second.  Running together, the female fired her last magazine into the mass of gaurds surrounding Karnal forcing them to lock together to protect him. As the gun ran out of ammo she threw it as one of the guards impacting them in the head with enough force to cause them to step back out of formation for only a moment, but that moment was all that they needed. The three humans leaped over the guard and were now within the protective circle facing Karnal head on.  The first one with knife still in hand rushed Karnal in a blind rage. Karnal brought his weapons to bare and fired point blank into their chest blowing them violently in half. The second followed in quickly and leaped on to Karnal head on, using his arms and legs to latch on to all four of Karnal’s arms.  While Karnal struggled to free himself he saw the second figure lean back suddenly and then violently head but him in the face. Karnal coughed up blood and struggled further to dislodge the human but not before they brought in a second and even harder headbutt forcing him to collapse backwards.  He looked through his bloody eyes now as the female lunged at him with her drawn knife. Her knife was inches away from his head when a guard put their hand in between the two and had the knife instead impale it. With a single motion he clenched the impaled hand around the knife and used their other arms to begin punching the female. The masked figure still holding Karnal leaned back once again to deliver another headbutt when they were suddenly stabbed through the chest by several pole arms. Their grip on Karnal loosened and their head looked down dumbly at the shimmering blades. With a single motion they pulled the blades upwards in lightning speed and cut the human to pieces, the gout of red blood splattering across Karnal. He casually pushed aside the dissected body and rose to his feet, using his robes to wipe away the blood covering his eyes. When he opened them again he saw that the fighting in the square was nearly over. The majority of the masked attackers now dead or dying on the ground and Mubari soldiers taking up positions around Karnal.  Turning he saw the limp form of the cloaked female from before now being held firmly by two honor guard while a third continued beating her. “That’s enough.” Karnal said as he approached the female. The guard looked at him but stopped their beating. “We can’t question a corpse no can we.” The guard who had been beating her stepped away and Karnal noticed that it was the same one that had allowed themselves to be impaled in his protection. He put a hand on their shoulder and stared at them “You have my thanks, all of you have my eternal gratitude for your ever vigilant service.” The guard looked at him and nodded then returned to reclaim their pole arm.  Karnal approached the female and looked at her. Her cloak was now torn and full of holes, purple and red blood splattering across her body like some human art piece, and from his hearing he could guess that one of her lungs was on the verge of collapsing from his guards pummeling. He had to be quick.  “Who are you?” asked Karnal. The woman’s head bobbed side to side while staring at the ground. He ripped off the mask and held her head upwards. Her face surprisingly young, skin lightly tanned, and eyes a soft emerald. “WHO are you?!” he asked again. The woman coughed and then returned his stare. “I am-” Karnal closed his hand around her face to silence her. “I do not care who you are as an individual, I ask who you are as a group!” The woman took several deep breaths. “We, are the Guardians of Haven. The last defenders of this great world.” Karnal cocked his head to the side puzzled. “But Haven has surrendered, your military is no more.”  The woman smiled and softly laughed. “We’re not part of the military, nor have we ever been. We are the guardians of Ha-” “Your leaders surrendered to me!” Karnal cut in, visibly upset. “Your leaders in the government and military stood before me and gave me their surrender! Now you are telling me that it was all a lie?!?”  “No, you are right.” The woman softly spoke. “They did surrender to you, and they did order everyone to surrender. But not everyone chose to surrender, some of us chose to continue the fight.” “I don’t understand? You chose? You?” Karnal was now deeply confused.  “You’re going to learn this fast, but I’ll spell it out for you” she chuckled at his state. “Humans are individuals first, not some mindless collective that only does what those above tell them too. When we agree on something, we come together and make it happen. But if we find something wrong, some of us do not blindly follow it.” Her stare now fixed on Karnal. “Some of us, choose to resist.”  Karnal scoffed. “Well your attempts to resist have failed. Look around you, all your comrades are dead!” He waved an arm to the ever growing pile of dead masked figures. “Yeah, we failed this time. But that does not mean others will not rise up again.” Karnal turned back to the woman. “You are not welcome here, you will never be welcome here, and that is because the things and people you took from us can never be replaced and that has left pain in our hearts; a pain we will direct towards you and the your collective for years to come.”  “It can be small, like not being served at a restaurant or being blocked from going to work; or it could be large, like a barracks of your soldier suddenly exploding or even..” she smirked at Karnal “ the death of a high ranking figure. The people of Haven will resist you in any way they can and even though it may not happen in our generation the day will come when your people are driven from our world once and for all.”  Karnal leaned down to be face to face with her. “It is a future you will not live to see. You will die here this day, either from your own wounds or by my guards; it matters little to me anymore.”  She just kept staring at him with that devilish smirk. “You see, I never really planned on living past this day. Kinda defeats the purpose of having a bomb vest backup plan.”  He saw her eyes dart to her left hand and he followed them to see her revealing a small trigger clenched in her fist with wires leading back under her sleeve.  “Viva la resistance.”  She closed her eyes and pressed the trigger, the world fading to black.  --------------------------------------------- The Battle of the False Proclamation was the first major offensive of the newly formed resistance group “Guardians of Haven”. Even though the plan was deemed a suicide mission by the groups leadership, at least a hundred volunteers answered the call to strike a critical blow at the Mubari war machine. Comprised of people who had lost loved ones during the opening days of the battle, they launched a surprise attack during a planet wide broadcast of the Mubari victory. The entire planet watched on as those brave souls who had resigned themselves to death took on the most elite fighting force the Mubari had to offer all for a chance to decapitate the Mubari leadership. Though all of those resistance members that volunteered were cut down, it was through the heroic sacrifice of the mission leader Claudine Chabert  that the death blow was struck. Claudine, a former construction worker and mother of three with her husband Colonel Chabert, lost her husband in the opening stages of the conflict as his barracks was incinerated by concentrated Mubari fire. She then fled with her children from the bombed out remains of their home on military base leading her to become attached to a refugee convoy heading to the capital. Along the road her children became increasingly sick and lacked the needed medication to treat them. They had just reached the capitals main hospital only to find that their stores of supplies had already been used up by other patients.  She spent several days searching hospitals, pharmacies, and even family owned drug stores for the medication only to come up empty each time and to return to the hospital to find that her children had passed away.  Unable to cope with the sheer enormity of her loss she returned to her former home and attempted to search for her husband, but to no avail. It was here she ran into a group of resistance fighters scavenging supplies and weapons. With her former knowledge of the base she easily guided them to stores and then additionally gave them access to construction grade explosives stored at the construction company office located in the capital.           In the years to come the Guardians would launch a long guerrilla war against their occupiers until some thirty years later the planet was finally liberated and the Mubari driven off.  Today in the square where that first climactic battle took place now stands a monument to all those that gave their lives in the defense of their planet. A iron wrought statue of several cloaked figures standing in a circle, bandaged and hurt, but never broken.  

“The Bravest of the Brave”: Marshal Ney, the soldier’s soldier.

Michel Ney, duke d’Elchingen, (10 Jan 1769 - 7 Dec 1815), one of the best known of Napoleon’s marshals (from 1804), who pledged his allegiance to the restored Bourbon monarchy when Napoleon abdicated in 1814. Upon Napoleon’s return in 1815, Ney rejoined him and commanded the Old Guard at the Battle of Waterloo. Under the monarchy, again restored, he was charged with treason, for which he was condemned and shot by a firing squad.

His execution like his soldiering life was the stuff of legends. 

Beginnings

Ney was the son of a barrel cooper and blacksmith. Apprenticed to a local lawyer, he ran away in 1788 to join a hussar regiment. His opportunity came with the revolutionary wars, in which he fought from the early engagements at Valmy and Jemappes in 1792 to the final battle of the First Republic at Hohenlinden in 1800.

Ney’s legendary bravery was especially seen at Mannheim when a cannonball killed his horse and wounded his leg, and then when Ney stood up he was hit by a bullet to the chest which threw him to the ground. Luckily for him, the bullet was spent and did not pierce him, instead only giving him a bad bruise.

The early campaigns revealed two contrasting features of Ney’s character: his great courage under fire and his strong aversion to promotion. Willing to hurl himself into battle at critical moments to inspire his troops by his personal example, he was unwilling to accept higher rank, and when his name was put forward he protested to his military and political superiors. In every instance he was overruled: it was as general of a division that he fought in Victor Moreau’s Army of the Rhine at Hohenlinden.

He soon caught Napoleon’s eye and made rapid progress up the ranks. He didn’t disappoint. The further up the ranks he went the further into danger threw himself into. The men loved him and followed him anywhere.

On May 19, 1804, the day after Napoleon had had himself proclaimed hereditary emperor of the French, he revived the ancient military rank of marshal, and 14 generals, including Ney, were gazetted marshals of the empire.

The Russian campaign of 1812 cemented his legend. On the morning after the somewhat inconclusive battle at Borodino, Napoleon made him prince de la Moskowa. On the retreat from Moscow, Ney was in command of the rear guard, a position in which he was exposed to Russian artillery fire and to numerous Cossack attacks. He rose to heights of courage, resourcefulness, and inspired improvisation that seemed miraculous to the men he led. “He is the bravest of the brave,” said Napoleon when Ney, for weeks given up as lost, joined the main body of the frozen and shrunken Grand Army.

The fall of Napoleon and the rise of the Bourbons

But after 1813 and the with the Winter disaster in Russia, Napoleon suffered a series of setbacks that eventually pushed him back to France and to the brink of defeat.

Napoleon concentrated his remaining forces at Fontainebleau to fight the allies in Paris, but Ney, speaking for himself and other marshals, told him that the army would not march. “The army will obey me,” said Napoleon. “Sire,” replied the Bravest of the Brave, “the army will obey its generals.” Napoleon was forced to abdicate. Ney retained his rank and titles and took an oath of fidelity to the Bourbon dynasty.

With the Bourbons returned to power in France in 1814, Marshal Ney rallied to them in the hopes of a peaceful and stable France. In response, he was made a Knight of Saint-Louis and Peer of France and he was placed in charge of the cavalry. However, despite these rewards he could only watch as the government grew inefficient and old privileges granted to the nobility were restored, going against the very changes that had allowed him to rise so high.

Furthermore, since he was the first Duke of Elchingen and first Prince of the Moskowa, he and his wife were frequently snubbed by the returned nobility with famous ancestors.

One day he returned home to find his wife in tears over more ill treatment received from the Duchess of Angoulême. Enraged, Ney charged to the Tuileries where he burst in, politely and quickly paid his respects to the king, and then verbally berated the Duchess, beginning with, "I and others were fighting for France while you sat sipping tea in English gardens," and ending with, "You don't seem to know what the name Ney means, but one of these days I'll show you!"

The 100 Days and the Battle of Waterloo

When in 1815 Napoleon escaped from Elba and began his triumphant march back to Paris, Ney was horrified by the prospect of civil war. Despite his dislike of the Bourbons, he told the king he would bring Napoleon back to Paris in an iron cage. As Ney led his troops in a march to intercept Napoleon, his doubts began to grow. The people of France and the army all seemed to be cheering for Napoleon, and no one had fired a shot to stop Napoleon. During every step of Napoleon's progress, more and more had joined his side.

If Ney ordered his men to fight Napoleon and his men, Ney might be the cause of civil war, presuming that his men would even follow his orders and shoot at their former emperor. After receiving a message from Napoleon, Ney decided that he could not fight the tide and told his men that the legitimate dynasty of France as chosen by the people was Napoleon. His men began cheering, and he sent off messages stating his intent to rejoin Napoleon.

Despite Ney’s conduct, Napoleon wanted his ‘bravest of the brave’ by his side once again. Ney decided to take up the offer and assumed command of the left wing of the Army of the North. Almost immediately he was thrust into action, fighting the British at Quatre-Bras on June 16th. Two days later he fought at the Battle of Waterloo, leading from the front and having four horses killed underneath him over the course of the battle. When the French began to break and be overrun by the combined Prussian and British forces, Ney said, "Come and see how a Marshal of France dies!"4

Ney escaped from Waterloo and returned to Paris where the Minister of Police Fouché gave him passports which he did not use. After Napoleon's second abdication, Marshal Davout took command of the army and refused to surrender until a treaty was signed that granted amnesty to those who had rejoined Napoleon. Ney went into hiding at a friend's chateau, but he was soon spotted and arrested. Even the king was upset that he had not fled the country, hoping to avoid a trial that could expose the internal divisions of the people. After giving his promise to not flee, Ney was escorted back to Paris without being bound. On the way General Exelmans came to his rescue, but Ney refused to go against his word to his captors, and he continued back to Paris.

Trial and execution

Initially Ney was to be tried by a military court run by Marshal Jourdan, however his defense team argued that this court could not try him, and instead his case should be tried in the Chamber of Peers. His defense team won in this regard when the court declared itself incompetent, though that may have been due to the military court not wanting to convict him but also not wanting to defy the Bourbons by acquitting him. Next Ney would be tried by a group populated by Royalists and without the same sense of honor as his military colleagues.

During the trial in the Chamber of Peers, Ney's lawyers brought up how the trial was in direct violation of the treaty Davout had negotiated, and secretly in response a new law was then passed forbidding mentioning that treaty in court. With such an act, it became clear to everyone that the trial was a witch hunt. As a last attempt, his lawyers argued that since Ney's hometown of Saarelouis was ceded to Prussia, he could not be tried as a Frenchman, but Ney vehemently denounced this tactic and demanded to be tried as a Frenchman. Some of Ney's supporters appealed to the British for assistance, but they refused, claiming that they could not meddle in France's internal affairs despite spending the past twenty five years trying to change France's government.

On December 6th, Ney was convicted by the Chamber of Peers and the Peers also voted on his sentence, with the majority voting for death by firing squad. The execution was to be carried out the next day. When news of Ney's sentence reached the public, a mob began to form where the execution was to take place, and a new place of execution was quickly arranged at a different location.

Ney faced his execution by firing squad in Paris near the Luxembourg Garden. He refused to wear a blindfold and was allowed the right to give the order to fire, reportedly saying:

“Soldiers, when I give the command to fire, fire straight at my heart. Wait for the order. It will be my last to you. I protest against my condemnation. I have fought a hundred battles for France, and not one against her ... Soldiers, fire!”

Marshal Michel Ney was a soldier’s soldier.

Ney was wholly without political ambition or judgment. He was at his greatest in the campaigns for France’s natural frontiers at the beginning and end of his career, but out of his depth in Napoleon’s intricate strategy for the domination of Europe. He showed little interest in external distinctions or social success. The dignity with which he met his death effaced the memory of his political vagaries and made him, in an epic age, the most heroic figure of his time.

The Angel On The Battlefield

(On Ao3)

Even if the War was over, the skirmishes continued here and there. Jaina knew it was unavoidable, but she still wished for all the bloodshed to end soon.

Currently, she was heading into the middle of such a skirmish. She found a loophole as to not clash with Kirin Tor’s neutral stance in such affairs. She was heading there as an heir of Kul Tiras, asked to assist Quel’Thalas army. The request came from Uther the Lightbringer and with him being an old and dear friend of the Proudmoores, Jaina couldn’t deny his request.

They were traveling for some time as the skirmish occurred along the Southern border of Quel’Thalas and they had to brave some terrain that slowed them down. But the call for reinforcement came from Ranger-General herself, so they all marched forward, not letting anything stop them for long.

They were on the road for a few days when they finally approached the west and practically walked right into the battlefield. That was Jaina's first time being that close to any sort of real fighting and she couldn’t help but grip her staff with both hands her face unsure and eyes wide.

Orcs and trolls and elves clashed together in one mess of metal and screams and blood. She saw Rangers and Paladins of Light fight with ruthlessness she’d never seen before.

Jaina jumped when a large, gauntlet-clad hand laid softly on her shoulder. She looked up at the mountain of a man that was Uther.

“Be strong, child.” His deep voice managed to sooth her fear somewhat. “Focus on protecting those who need it. You do not have to spill blood today.” She gave him a shaky, but full of resolve smile and a nod. Uther smiled back before turning back to his men, his voice carrying over everyone. “Sound the horn! Let our allies know that we’ve answered the call!”

The moment the drawn out wail of the horn rang through the air, deafening as it was, its sound brought hope with it.

The fighting on the battlefield ceased for a moment. Elves and orcs turned to look in the direction of the sound. Jaina swallowed, holding her staff with one hand now, light sheen of frost creeping over her other one. The thick, suddenly quiet air was pierced by a voice, loud and strong and full of power. And Jaina knew that voice.

“Quel'dorei! Stand! Together! For your home! For your families! For your freedom! Your lives! For the Alliance!” Ranger-General’s voice carried through the air and it was answered by a deafening roar of her Rangers and Paladins alike.

“Paladins!” Uther’s voice roared in response. “You heard that! Together! With our friends! For the Alliance!” He raised his hammer over his head. “Charge!”

Jaina didn’t know how she ended up in what felt like the middle of the battlefield. She dodged blows directed at her, and together with elven Mages was pushing the orcs back with her walls of ice, water elementals and ice shards, keeping the Horde at bay, giving the rangers enough time to fire back.

Out of the corner of her eye she noticed one of the orcs breaking though and rushing forward with a purpose somewhere further into the ranks of elves. She tried to see what he was trying to reach and her eyes went wide when she saw Lady Windrunner just pulling her blade from an unmoving orc and turn to yell some orders.

“Alleria! Take your squadron and go from the back! Vereesa! Flank with Uther's Paladins! Lor'themar! Your Paladins on the front with the Mages! Push these bastards from our lands!”

Jaina didn’t know when she started running, leaving her elementals to continue pushing the orcs back. She darted out of Rangers’ and Paladins’ way as she tried to get to Lady Windrunner as fast as she could.

“Ranger-General! Watch out!” Jaina yelled as loud as she could, hoping she’d be heard over the cacophony of screams and roars and clashing of weapons. And it seemed she was.

Lady Windrunner spun around just in time to barely block the attack of an ax that was meant for her back. The orc roared, raining a fury of blows against Lady Sylvanas' block. And sadly, Ranger-General wasn’t a match for orc’s brute strength as one of the blows broke through her defense, slicing across her front, right though her armor. Jaina watched as she was tossed away like a sack of flour, landing heavily on her back.

The next thing Jaina knew, ice shards rained upon the orc and she was at Lady Windrunner's side, cradling her head on her lap. She looked around frantically as Ranger-General was bleeding heavily from the wound and seemed to be on the brim of being unconscious, reaching her hand up towards Jaina, which she quickly took and squeezed firmly. She spotted familiar features not far from her.

“Captain Windrunner!” She called, glad when Lady Alleria turned at her panicked voice, eyes wide when she saw her.

“Liadrin!” Lady Alleria called and soon she was running towards Jaina with the Priestess she’s seen that day in Silvermoon. Lady Alleria dropped on her knees on one side of her sister, taking a look at the orc bleeding out on the ground, full of ice shards. She looked back at Jaina, gripping her shoulder. “You fought well, Lady Proudmoore. Will you be able to take her away from the battlefield?”

Jaina nodded, watching the priestess tend to Lady Windrunner, not noticing how her hands were shaking at the amount of blood.

“Lady Proudmoore.” Lady Alleria said more firmly, shaking Jaina out of her stupor. “Take her out of here. Please.”

Jaina nodded again, hands still shaking as she asked to describe a safe place for her to open the portal to.

The Horde was pushed back and Paladins set up camp around the Rangers’. Jaina was in the tent that served as a war room. Everyone of high rank was gathered in the tent, discussing what needed to be done. Papers were passed around and suggestions were made. Jaina, on her part, was sure that she was still standing solemnly due to the remaining of adrenaline coursing through her system.

After another hour they finally started leaving the tent and Jaina fought with herself when she noticed that Lady Alleria and Lady Vereesa stayed behind talking quietly with each other. Jaina took a deep breath and stopped just at the entrance of the tent, turning back to face the Windrunner sisters.

“Captain Windrunner, m-may I ask you how Ranger-General is faring?” Lady Alleria looked up at her and smiled before walking over to Jaina, placing both hands on her shoulders.

“Thanks to you, Lady Proudmoore, Liadrin got to her just in time.” The eldest of the Windrunner sisters said with a warm and kind smile. “She will inform us when she’s done and we can see Sylvanas.”

“You indeed were very brave today, Lady Proudmoore.” Lady Vereesa said, joining them. “We’ll let you know when Sylvanas is better.”

Jaina wasn’t sure if she would be able to sleep that night. She was so full of worry for Lady Windrunner she was sure she’d spend the whole night pacing back and forth in the tent. But, surprise-surprise, the moment Jaina's head touch the pillow, as she laid down on her cot, she was out like a light.

She woke up the next day a few hours after the sunrise. She quickly cleaned herself up, only slightly ashamed of how long she had slept. She joined Uther for late breakfast and he filled her in on what she had missed. Which mostly was everyone tending to their wounds and Rangers were accounting for everyone, but Uther said that at that point it seemed like Quel’Thalas didn’t lose a single soldier that day. As well as his own men were all still standing. Hearing that, Jaina relaxed further into the chair. Good news were always welcomed after such a fight.

The rest of the day was spent in meetings and helping everywhere she could. Jaina spent most of the time helping the Mages with the wards along the borders. They still remembered her from the last visit of Kirin Ton and approached Jaina with the request. And Jaina was more than happy to help.

Jaina was in the middle of writing one of the reports Archmage Antonidas asked of her about the state of the wards in the area of the conflict when a guard located outside her tent informed her that she had a visitor.

She immediately stood from her seat when Lady Vereesa walked inside.

“Please, Lady Proudmoore, there’s no need.” She walked closer to the desk. “Sylvanas if out of danger now. Though Liadrin says that it would take a couple of days for Sylvanas to wake up. The wound was too severe and Liadrin had to use a lot of magic to heal her. And as you know, we elves are… sensitive when it comes to magic. Of any form. And a great amount of it can be overwhelming.” She gave Jaina a small, but sincere and reassuring smile. “Right now, Sylvanas just needs to sleep it off. We’ll inform you when she’s conscious again.”

The thought that Lady Windrunner was no longer in any danger eased Jaina's mind and she could now focus all her attention on the tasks she had at hand.

Another two days went by when Lady Vereesa found Jaina in Uther’s tent, as the two were talking quietly with each other. They both rose when she was announced, but she waved her hand, prompting them to relax.

“I hope I’m not interrupting any important talk?” She asked, looking between the two.

“Nothing of sorts, Lady Vereesa.” Uther said, sitting back into his chair. “Is there something we can help you with?”

“I was hoping I could steal Lady Proudmoore for some time. Sylvanas is coming around and I thought she’d be glad to see Lady Proudmoore when she woke up.”

Jaina's face lit up and she looked at Uther expectantly. He only chuckled, waving his hand dismissively. “Give Ranger-General my regards and best wishes to get better soon.”

With a nod, Lady Vereesa held the flap of the tent open, letting Jaina through first, before giving Uther another respectful nod and heading after her. Jaina followed Lady Vereesa to the hill where one of the bigger tents was located. Jaina guessed that the biggest, most luscious one belonged to Ranger-General.

Lady Vereesa held the flap for her again, letting her in first. The inside wasn’t as extravagant as Jaina honestly expected. There was a large round table full of maps and parchment which Jaina guessed were different reports. There were a couple of chairs surrounding the table and furthest away was a cot.

Jaina watched Lady Alleria seating at the edge of the cot talking to the priestess who Jaina now knew was called Liadrin. Lady Windrunner was lying on the cot, from waist down she was draped in some blankets and wearing a loose white plain tunic. Her hair was all over the place and she was mumbling in her sleep.

“Ah, Lady Proudmoore.” Lady Alleria said with a smile. “Liadrin says Sylvanas should be awake any moment now.” Liadrin nodded, washing her hands in a small basin.

“Though I wouldn’t expect much conversation from her.”

“What?” Both Windrunner sisters said at once.

“I’ve warned you,” the priestess said, whipping her hands. “I had to use a lot of magic to make sure Sylvanas was in no danger. She had some ribs cracked and she had lost a lot of blood.” Jaina gripped the front of her robes, looking concerned, she was still hanging back by the round table.

“A-and what does that mean?” Jaina found herself asking.

“Just that she might be a little… disoriented and… loopy, if you will.” Liadrin said walking over to the table where her bag rested.

Jaina watched her pull some herbs from one of the compartments when everyone turned their attention back to the cot when Ranger-General groaned loudly. Jaina watched Lady Alleria and Lady Vereesa get closer to her, making sure she stayed as still as possible.

The moment Lady Windrunner's eyes opened and seemed to focus on her sisters a what Jaina would describe a dopey smile formed on her lips.

She said something in Thalassian and Jaina barely held back an undignified snort at how slurred her words sounded. Lady Vereesa, however, didn’t hold back, snorting rather loudly. Lady Alleria only smiled and shook her head, keeping her hands on Lady Windrunner's shoulder to keep her in bed replying to her softly. Jaina smiled at Liadrin when she chuckled as well.

Then Ranger-General said something else. Equally slurred but with the edge of… awe? Jaina watched as everyone in the room turned to look at Lady Windrunner, confusion on their faces.

“What?” Liadrin asked no one in particular, but that seemed to spur Lady Windrunner into motion. She began saying something stumbling through her words, sometimes pausing and seemingly concentrating to find an appropriate word. Jaina would be lying if she said she didn’t find the whole scene before her rather adorable. What she didn’t expect was for Lady Vereesa to double over in a fit of loud laughter as she fell from the side of the cot she was sitting on, clutching her stomach.

“W-what… What’s wrong?” Jaina asked Liadrin, more confused than worried. “What’s Ranger-General saying?” Liadrin took a moment, her eyes still on the blubbering mess that was Lady Windrunner.

“She’s saying that…” she seemed to collect herself, “She’s saying that on the battlefield… She was saved by an… angel?” That made Lady Vereesa laugh even harder. Jaina looked at Liadrin, face etched with utter confusion.

“What?”

Lady Windrunner went on blubbering almost incoherently, making Liadrin shake her head with a smile.

“She’s saying that an angel with hair of gold, eyes like ocean and skin of silk saved her of the battlefield.” Lady Alleria said, turning to Jaina and giving her a pointed look. When the words finally registered, Jaina's face flushed with the heat she never felt before. Casting her gaze to the side, she didn’t dare to look at anyone in the room. Lady Alleria laughed, turning back to Ranger-General and saying something to her. To which Lady Windrunner eagerly, albeit still tripping over her words, replied back. “She’s saying that the angel was surrounded by frosty blue light and her voice was full of worry for her.” She paused, as Lady Windrunner said something else. Oh, how Jaina wanted to bolt it from the tent, or be swallowed by the ground. She prayed for someone needing to talk to her right now. Anything and everything or she feared she’d burn alive from the heat in her cheeks. “And she’s saying that the angel was the most beautiful woman she’d ever seen in her life.”

Help came from the least expected place, as Liadrin spoke up.

“Enough, my love. Stop tormenting the poor girl.” She said, walking to a small kettle by the brazier and throwing the herbs into the boiling water.

“I’m merely translating what my sister is saying, my light!” Lady Alleria said, her voice laced with fake innocence.

“And it’s enough for her. Sylvanas is not going to remember any of this.” Liadrin poured the mixture into a cup.

“I will!” Lady Vereesa shot after finally taking a hold of herself, though still breathless from her laughing fit. But at the glare from Liadrin, Lady Vereesa pouted, crossing her arms over her chest. “And I’m going to keep that to myself for the time being.”

Liadrin shook her head before passing the cup to Lady Alleria. “Make her drink the whole cup, it will help her sleep.”

“Does she need more sleep?” Lady Alleria asked, taking the cup.

“It’s the fastest way for Sylvanas to get read of the excess magic energy.”

Jaina was brought out of her stupor by a hand on her shoulder. She jumped slightly, the fire in her face flaring up for a moment when Liadrin chuckled, but she settled quickly. The priestess of Light radiated the sort of soothing energy that made Jaina calm almost instantly. She squeezed Jaina's shoulder, speaking softly.

“Forgive Alleria. Windrunners can be assho- Mmm… a bit much, sometimes.” Jaina relaxed, chuckling.

“Is Ranger-General going to be all right?”

“She’s going to be just fine.”

Jaina left the tent after a moment, heading back to her tent to gather her thoughts. The words of Lady Windrunner, as fever induced as they were, didn’t leave Jaina's mind for the rest of the day.

Jaina was gathering her things when a Paladin stationed outside her tent announced that she had a visitor. Jaina was surprised when Lady Windrunner shuffled into her tent. She wore a plane green tunic along with simple leather pants and boots. She looked exhausted even after sleeping for four days straight. She smiled at Jaina.

“I was informed that you’re leaving us today.” She said, her voice hoarse and tired.

“I have to.” Jaina said, walking around the table and walking closer to Lady Windrunner. “I’ve already pushed my stay. It might look suspicious for outsiders that a Kirin Tor mage helps Quel’Thalas, considering the neutrality.” Lady Windrunner just hummed in response, eyes never leaving Jaina's face. “Is there something wrong?”

“No. No. Forgive me, Lady Jaina. I’ve just had the strangest dreams for the past days.” Lady Windrunner said, rubbing her eyes tiredly. “I came to thank you for saving my life, Lady Jaina. I’m forever in your debt.”

Jaina smiled, her cheeks warming up again (she came to accept that it was going to be the constant occurrence when it came to Lady Windrunner), her gaze cast to the side. “There’s no need to thank me.”

Jaina almost jumped out of her skin when Lady Windrunner stepped into her personal bubble, her calloused yet gentle hand laid on her cheek, guiding Jaina to look up at her.

“Forgive me my forwardness, Lady Jaina, but I’m not going to allow you to belittle your own bravery during the battle.” Jaina wasn’t sure how she was still standing at that point. Lady Windrunner's hand was scorching against Jaina's skin but she couldn’t bring herself so pull away.

They stood there for what felt like eternity when Uther's loud voice, right outside Jaina's tent, made them jump apart.

“At ease, Paladin!”

“Sir, Lady Proudmoore is currently preoccupied.”

“Preoccupied how?” And without waiting for a response he pushed into the tent, but gladly, Jaina was already a safe distance away from Lady Windrunner. “Ah, Ranger-General! Good to see you back among the living!” Uther said with a bright smile. Lady Windrunner smiled back at him.

“Believe me, Sire Uther, I certainly don’t feel alive right now.”

“Forgive me bursting in like that.” The man said, taking a couple more steps into the tent, joining the two.

“Worry not. I just wanted to personally thank Lady Proudmoore for saving my life and to wish her a safe journey.”

They chatted idly for a few more moment before Jaina ushered both of them out, claiming to need finish gathering her things before the departure. And the moment the tent flap closed behind Uther, Jaina clutched her robes right above her heart. She could still feel Lady Windrunner's palm against her cheek and her whole being so close they were almost pressed against one other.

What was Sylvanas Windrunner doing to her?

1. A Faithful Meeting

2. A Day In Silvermoon

4. A Day in Dalaran

Little bit of H/B stuff

Was going through my saved story stuff. This a chapter I had written a couple of years ago, that I think I’ve only ever showed one person before. If you care to read it, it’s a Hiei/Botan scene. 

“After Yusuke and Koenma reject Botan" "Stupid Yusuke! Stupid Lord Koenma! Stupid everyone thinking I can't fight too!" Botan growled out, stomping through the forest surrounding Genkai's temple. She kicked angrily at a pile of leaves, sending the frail foliage into the air around her. "Why does everyone think I'm a weakling that I can't be strong too!?" Reaching down, Botan snatched up a fist sized rock and chucked it with all her might, the stone smashing the bark on a tall evergreen. "Because I like "girly" things and wear kimonos, I can't hang with the tough guys and train with them!? That's total crap!" Cocking her clenched fist back, Botan thrust the appendage hard into trunk of the same tree. The crunch of bark and thud of flesh and bone echoed throughout the quiet forest followed by a sharp hiss of pain. The shock of pain struck Botan and she pulled her hand quickly away, trying to shake the sting away. "Darn it!" She seethed through clenched teeth, her face burning red with embarrassment and anger. She'd let her temper get the better of her actions and now she'd gone and hurt her hand with an unprotected punch to a poor, innocent tree. The skin on her knuckles was broken and a small amount of blood seeped through the bark covered cuts. Botan pouted shortly before healing the wound with her left hand and wiped the blood and bark away on her jeans. "So what if a punch hurts my hand! That doesn't mean anything,” Botan spat, her words countering her own actions. She turned to the calm water of a nearby lake, “Because I can just do this!” Botan took the stance she'd seen Yusuke perform so many times in the past; feet spread shoulder width apart, arms held straight out in front of her, and right index finger extended. Channeling her spiritual energy with practiced ease, her fingertip began to glow with a bright, white energy.

"Spirit Gun!” Botan called out, before releasing the signature attack toward the lake's depths.

Her world was suddenly spun upside down as the force of the attack launched her backward into the ground, landing painfully on her backside. A squall quickly assaulted her, the gale force winds whipping at her clothes and hair, her ponytail being pulled from it's bind and blowing messily about her head. Through squinted eyes, Botan stared at the ball of energy shooting across the field. It was much larger than she had expected it to be, rivaling even one of Yusuke's most basic shots, and her entire arm stung from the backlash of releasing so much energy at once. A deep purple glow swirled around the attack and Botan watched curiously as it soared ever closer to the lake's waters; it had never looked like that the previous times she'd experimented with the attack. The ball of energy slammed into the water, sinking beneath the once calm surface, before exploding against the opposite shore, showering water and dirt down onto Botan and the surrounding forest.

“W-what in the world?” Stunned at the power she'd released, Botan stared down at her hand, before a triumphant smile crept over her face. “Ha! I told you so! Take that you jerks!” Botan cried joyously to the sky, jumping to her feet.

But her celebration was halted before it began as her vision swirled and a wave of exhaustion struck her. Botan slowly sank back down to her knees and tried to catch her breath, her heart pounding under her breast; it felt like she'd just non-stop for days. However, the smile did not leave her face. She must have used a lot more energy than she expected to have, but even so, she was beyond happy with the results.

“'Take that', you say? Am I to believe this was your doing woman?”

Botan froze in place upon hearing the unexpected voice directly behind her. Craning her neck toward the source, purple eyes widened in surprise at the sight of Hiei, dripping wet and sword in hand. His usual spiky hair now droop around his face, and rivulets of water poured down his bare chest and shoulders.

It took a moment to realize who she was staring out, his face hidden by a mess of raven hair, but the damp white starburst and piercing red eyes could only belong to one person.“Hiei? What are you- ,” Botan trailed off as her eyes moved downward from his stony glare down his body. A high pitched wail echoed throughout the surrounding trees and even Hiei had to admit he had been slightly startled by the sudden noise, dropping into a protective stance, sword raised defensively. Botan stared at him in a mix of horror and embarrassment, her face flush as she scooted back away from him on her hands and feet. "H-Hiei, you're naked! I can see your pe-pe-pe-," Botan stuttered, unable to finish her sentence, too mortified to form the word. She came to a stop when her back collided with the trunk of another tree and, unable to retreat any further, Botan slapped her hands over her eyes to block the sight she knew she shouldn't be seeing and was terrified to have seen. "No, wait! I didn't see anything! I really didn't look directly at it, I swear!" Botan lied profusely, bringing her knees up to her chest in a futile attempt to hide herself from the drenched fire demon.

Hiei glared at the girl with a pained expression of annoyance. Leave it to those from Spirit World to be terrified of even nudity. Ignoring the girl's antics for the moment, Hiei swept the wet hair from his eyes, and surveyed the surrounding area. He had been bathing in the lake near the temple, and mere moments after submerging himself in the cold waters, he had been seemingly attacked. The blast was a far-cry from being life threatening to him, but it had packed quite a punch, carving out the landscape on the shore opposite of him and the jittery woman. Hiei looked over the bashful blue hair, still hiding her face from his nudity, and focused on her.

From the girl's claim and previous exuberance, she had been the one responsible for the damage that now lay before them. He could tell from her labored breathing that she had expended a substantial amount of energy in a short time period; power he never thought capable from a mere ferry woman in human form. Hiei's eyes narrowed in concentration, focusing further on her spiritual energy. There was a significant drop in her overall reserves, but what intrigued him more was the strangely large well of energy she had to offer. Much larger than normal humans and spirits by far, rivaling even demons in the low C- Class ranks. Her body showed no particular training either; she was by no means unfit, but did not have the body of one who trained day in and day out, her muscles small and meek. She had always been a peculiar being to him and the once spirit detective team, but this made her even more-so.

Breaking away from his thoughts, Hiei searched the surrounding forest with his jagan to make sure no one else was around that could have been the cause. She was a blabbermouth, but Hiei had never known the woman to be a liar. He had to be sure though, especially being so close to Yukina's occasional home. Finding no one but the ferry girl and himself around for some distance, Hiei turned back to the girl and found her in a compromising position. No longer was she hiding behind her hands, her head poked up ever so slightly over her knees, and one bright eye peaking at him through a gap in her fingers.

Their eyes connected and Botan let out a squeak as a dark smirk spread across Hiei's face and he began to stalk toward her.  Apparently she wasn't as frightened of his exposure than she originally let on, though with her nosy mannerisms, he should have known better.

“W-wait! Wait wait wait! Stay over there, you're still naked!” Botan shouted, clambering to her feet as Hiei came closer, holding her hands out in front of her and squeezing her eyes shut. “Please Hiei, I'm not that type of girl! I'm not ready for something like this!”

When no reply came, Botan dared another peak, and was surprised to find that Hiei had vanished from her sight completely. Glancing around her, there was no trace of the fire demon to be seen. Botan let out a deep sigh and leaned back against the tree to steady her breath.

“Phew...that was a close one Botan ole' girl,” she sighed to herself, rubbing at the back of her head, a dark blush staining her cheeks. “This curious kitty almost got more than she could handle!”

“Yes, you were oh so nearly pounced upon woman,” came a dry, sarcastic reply, from the opposite side of the tree she was leaning against.

Botan nearly jumped out of her skin, turning on the spot and stumbling backward. “H-Hiei! You really must stop doing that to me. You're going to give me a heart attack!” The sound of rustling clothes and the clinking of belts could be heard, and Hiei stepped out from behind the trunk, fully dressed in his usual black attire.

“Then pay more attention to your surroundings. Now, explain yourself woman,” Hiei ordered shortly, arm outstretched to the damaged shore and debris strewn about them, “What is the meaning of attacking me during my bathing, and where did you acquire such power?”

A look of realization passed over Botan's face, before she rocked back on her heels and thumped her fist in her open palm. “Ah! That's why you were naked in the forest! I thought you were just being a naughty flasher or something!”

Hiei's glare hardened in response.

“I'm sorry Hiei, I had no idea you were taking a bath when I shot my spirit gun at the lake. I was just...frustrated with Yusuke and Lord Koenma, and needed to let off some steam,” Botan answered, laughing nervously, “I guess I let my emotions get the better of me and used up too much of my strength. I could have hurt you on accident, so I'm very sorry.”

Hiei scoffed at her explanation, “Don't be foolish woman, something of that magnitude would barely leave a scratch on me.”

A crestfallen look quickly passed over Botan's face, her eyes rolling downward, and she slouched dejectedly. Hiei was an S-Class demon, an incredibly strong one at that, so it shouldn't have hurt so much to hear that her attack, surprisingly stronger than ever, was as insignificant as a scratch to him, but it did.

“You think so as well, huh?”

“What?”

“That I'm weak and have no business getting stronger.”

Hiei raised an eyebrow, a look of confusion marring his face at Botan's words. What in the hell was talking about? He watched in silence as Botan turned away from him and looked up toward the sky before taking a steadying breath.

“Shizuru...said she felt a bad omen,” Botan started solemnly, “Something that felt even worse than when Sensui pulled his scheme on us, all those years ago. She's incredibly gifted in that area you know? Even better than her brother is.”

“And? What does a Kuwabara's psychic abilities have anything to do with what you're on about?”

“Everything Hiei,” Botan spoke softly, finally turning back to him, “Kuwabara and Shizuru's psychic abilities are never wrong. If Shizuru says something bad is going to happen, then it absolutely will. Whenever the three worlds are in trouble, you boys always go racing off into the face of danger, getting beaten to bloody pulps and nearly dying. We girls have to sit back and watch, just being protected or getting in the way. I thought that maybe I could finally be of some use to everyone.” Botan let out another deep sigh before crouching down and began to lazily draw in the dirt with one of her index fingers.

“I asked Lord Koenma to allow me to train with the SDF and leave my duties of ferrying souls to the others for the time being. He flat out rejected me telling me that I'd be wasting my time, and there's no way I could be powerful enough to be of any use in a fight alongside you guys.

Hiei remained silent, listening to the girl speak. Despite his dislike of the infantile prince, he wasn't wrong. Fighting alongside the likes of  A and S-Class warriors was going to get the girl killed immediately.

“So then I asked Yusuke to help me get stronger. With all the time he spent training in Demon World and under Genkai, I thought for sure he'd be perfect for the job,” Botan continued on, a wry smile on her face now, “If Koenma wasn't going to help me, I was going to find my own way! But imagine my surprise when he laughed in my face! He said that someone like me, someone so 'girly' and 'cheerful', had no business getting into fights, and that I should leave it to the 'tough guys' like you and him.”

Again, a sentiment Hiei agreed with.

“Hn. So you're angry that you're too weak to defend yourself and no one will help you get stronger? How foolish.” Botan's somber expression quickly turned sour and she shot up, stomping her foot angrily into the ground, purple eyes ablaze with anger.

“I'm not weak Hiei! I can fight too!” she spat hotly.

“You are no warrior, woman. Everything that you are, is the exact opposite of what one should be,” Hiei countered calmly, shoving his hands into his pockets and turning fully toward her. The look on his face was unreadable, and Botan's anger wavered momentarily, confused at Hiei's words.

“What...do you mean by that?” Botan asked quietly, suddenly finding herself nervous of Hiei's response.

And that’s it so far.