anyway dagmar deserved worse.

★— ⋆｡˚ [Unexpected Things]

For Day 14 of Carry on Countdown 23, Blade. @carryon-countdown

Basil's gone and done it. Poor lad's gotten himself stabbed, and it's only taken 3 years out of law school. At the very least, his nurse seems nice enough.

Rated T for near-death experiences, excessive cussing, and Basil checking out his nurse too blatantly.

This is part 1 of the Nurse/Lawyer AU I started on Day 8.

⋆｡˚

‘Oh, bloody hell–’

I need an ambulance. There is a gaping wound in my gut. I am losing a lot of blood. I have enough presence of mind to shrug off my jacket and ball it up to press over the wound. Vaguely, as if from very far away, I think about how I should call for an ambulance. I don’t think I’ve got consciousness enough in me to make the call.

I should really make the fucking call.

I keep fumbling over the keys to my phone as I stumble my way through the alley and out onto the pavement. 999 should not be this hard to dial. My fingers should not be this bad at dialing three whole numbers. Especially not if they’re just the same number repeated thrice over. If I can manage to make it to the pavement I can dial bloody emergency. I’d never seen a blade go so deep past skin before. I don’t think I have enough strength to keep standing.

I shortly find out that I do not.

I am flat on the ground. Did I pass out? Maybe for a moment. Apparently, I’ve managed to get through to emergency though, because someone is asking me to answer on the other end of the line. Someone is Asking my name and situation. Vaguely, I pull my phone closer to me, close enough so the operator can hear.

“Stabbed…” is about all I can mutter out, but she asks for my name and location, so at least I know she heard me. I sigh out, laying flat on my back and staring up at the moon in the sky above.

I manage my location. The moon is blinking at me, blurred morse code messages I can’t quite decipher. Or my eyes are closing and my consciousness is slipping. I can’t really tell which it is, but the latter seems more likely.

I repeat the intersection one more time into the phone. I think the operator is talking me through keeping consciousness, but I don’t think she’s going to succeed. Somehow, I give my name, or at least part of it. The operator sounds really worried for me. What was her name? Crystal? Maybe Krystal. Krystal with a K is such a choice of a name– Kardashian fodder stuff. Not that I’m judging my only link to potentially surviving this whole situation. I will judge her parents though.

“Is your name Crystal with a C or with a K?” The operator stops talking for a whole two seconds, and I cough out a laugh in the moment of silence. I am not doing well, but at least she confirms her name starts with a C. “That’s good Crystal, your parents aren’t shite people.”

The moon is still flashing its blurred morse code at me. Probably, it’s also trying to tell me how to stay conscious. The moon is worse at this than Crystal is.

“I’m sorry, darling, but I think my capacity for staying alive might be a touch dodgy at the moment–”

Crystal keeps talking, telling me to keep pressure on the wound, not to move, ect ect. I don’t register all of it. Distantly I hear sirens.

The world goes dark.

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I wake up in a hospital bed and for a moment I’m surprised enough that I woke up at all that I fail to see the pretty nurse next to me. I apparently managed to skip the whole ambulance ride and repair process too. I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck. I’m also starving. I also really need a drink. I also really need to take a piss.

Alright, body, calm the fuck down, one step at a bloody time.

I start sitting myself up, groaning the whole while, and the nurse who had been diligently taking my vitals drops everything to stop me in my tracks. “Hey, there, Handsome,” the nurse says with her hands on my shoulder, gently keeping me in place, and I can’t help but notice that they’re stronger than they look at a glance. Either that or I’m especially weak in my freshly stabbed state. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“Bathroom?” My voice cracks on the word. Lovely. I’m making a lovely first impression. Fuck.

“Well, let’s get you into a chair. You’re not quite standing ready just yet.” Their voice is terribly gentle despite the seriousness of their tone, sweet and steady, a comforting thing, and in my probably still somewhat drugged state I almost say as much.

Instead, I keep my head enough to respond in a very smart and on topic way, “That bad?”

“Not as bad as it could’ve been,” they answer lightheartedly. And then I see their name tag and pronouns neatly displayed on their chest. Simon.

Alright, Simon.

I roll the name around in my head while she fetches my chair. It’s not a bad name, a bit simple though. Mother wouldn’t have picked it, but then again her chosen husband had an equally boring name, so I suppose that doesn’t really matter, does it?

Crowley, my mind’s all over the place. Where the bloody hell do I get off on comparing Simon to my father right off? I mean clearly he wouldn’t be a homophobe given he was at minimum an out part of the community. That didn’t outright exclude bigots or internalized homophobia but, you know—

I should probably stop thinking so much. My head’s starting to hurt with the liberties it’s taking about someone I’d exchanged a whole five lines of dialogue with.

Oh, thank fuck the chair is here. I start sitting myself up again, but Simon’s quicker, already there to guide me up and over.

…It’s a process.

I feel so bloody betrayed by my body, but Simon talks me through it and I suppose that’s help enough. Embarrassing still, though. Even more embarrassing how I can’t stop myself from noticing how soft his sun-streaked hair looks, how striking his eyes.

As if meeting someone via stabbing was a great way to start a relationship or form an attachment. Fuck’s sake, she’s a nurse, Basil! This is her place of work, I literally know better. I’m just asking to catch a harassment case at this rate.

I just sit for a while in my chair after the whole affair’s done with, my head leaning probably too far back and my gaze intent on the ceiling.

“Do you want to stay there a while?” Simon interrupts my fugue and I realise I’ve probably been holding him up from the rest of her patients.

I shake my head, “No, I’m bloody starving though. Thirsty too.”

“Well,” she starts, not stuttering a second while she’s helping me back into bed, “Technically it’s past supper, but I’ll see what I can manage for you, Tyrannus.”

“Baz,” I correct, even though I’m never this informal with strangers, “Baz or Basil, please.”

“Baz,” Simon repeats, taking a moment to note it on my chart, “I’ll see what I can do.”

“And water?”

“Already done,” she gestures to the bedside table and there it is, already poured in glass for me and everything.

“Delightful,” I manage without an ounce of sarcasm. It’s an achievement, actually.

“Press the button if you need me,” Simon says with a warm smile.

My heart does a stupid flip-flop despite the risk such a thing would be to my life, what with the whole recently stabbed and nearly bleeding out bit. Really inadvisable, heart, let’s just kill us after just barely managing to survive a direct attempt on our life. Don’t be such a numpty, heart, I’d like to live a good while longer.

I manage a nod despite my internal argument with my circulatory system. “I’ll see you back then?”

“More than probably,” Simon answers, “Don’t forget your water.

My heart does another flip-flop when he gives me another smile full of sunshine. Rather against my earlier advice. The idiotic bloody muscle’s practically trying to kill me.

⋆｡˚

I don’t see Simon back for a while, but I also haven’t bothered to press the button. I’d finished my water and my phone was right there next to it, and I’m not sharing the room so I can have the tv on if I like even despite the late hour. I’ve plenty to entertain myself with, or at the very least plenty to distract myself from the pretty nurse trying to invade my mind with his skin painted in freckle constellations and copper curls.

It’s not enough, somehow, and I find myself having to actively resist the urge to push the button for no reason. I’ve not needed much for the painkillers, I’m not popping stitches or going anywhere, and I’m not exactly dying of hunger, so there’s no reason to call Simon unnecessarily.

Still.

I want to.

Thankfully I don’t have to. Simon shows up sometime near three o’clock in the morning with a sandwich in hand and a side of apple slices. I’m pretty sure it’s her lunch.

“Are you allergic to anything?” He asks as he plops himself in the chair next to my bed.

When I shake my head Simon proves me right by keeping half the sandwich for herself. I bite in without thinking about what might be in it. I’m too hungry to be particular right now, and I polish off the sandwich before I can even properly figure it out, washed down with a fresh glass of water and a sigh.

“Fuck…” I sink back against my pillow and let my eyes close, tenderly poking around the stitched up wound in my gut.

“Stop that,” Simon scolds with a swat in my direction, “Just because it’s not that bad doesn’t mean you can just poke at it.”

“How bad is not that bad?” I still stop, even if I ask the question as if I wasn’t going to.

“Not bad enough to need surgery,” Simon answers between bites, “You’re lucky enough your assailant didn’t knick any arteries or organs, but bad enough that if you put too much strain on it or pop a stitch the doctor will be Very upset with you.”

I can hear the capital in his voice. I don’t press further, letting my eyes slip closed in the moments following.

“So who’d you piss off enough to end up in this state anyway?”

“Is that normally the sort of question you ask a patient, Simon?” I can’t help cracking my eyes back open to serve them an incredulous look. At least I hope that’s what it comes across looking like. Who’s to say what I actually looked like, between the tiredness seeping into my bones and the ache in my gut.

Simon snorts out an amused laugh at me and my look only turns more sour. Or, again, I hope that’s what comes across. “Maybe if I were on the clock I’d be more tactful.”

“You’re spending your off hours with me? How unprofessional. I’m a lawyer, you know, I know how that could come across.” Even as I say it, there’s no threat behind the words. I’m leaning up to look at her more properly and she’s still smiling that sunshine smile and I can’t help but smirk back.

“It’s just my lunch, we’ll see about off hours later,” Simon’s being coy, but I can’t help but notice that he looks good doing it.

“You’re really toeing the lines of respectability, I’ll have you know.” Even I think I sound pompous at that, but Simon just keeps grinning over at me, so maybe she likes pompous sorts anyway.

“Is that how you got stabbed? Pissed off a client? Got on the wrong side of the mafia then?” He asks it like a flirt, tone all low and sultry, and I can’t help but laugh.

This is definitely not how one normally flirts. “Not exactly,” I answer as I settle back down in my bed, letting myself relax before carrying on, “A client’s ex-husband. I’m a divorce lawyer, and some men don’t handle that too well, it seems.”

Simon lets out a whistle of surprising length as he starts at his apple slices, “I was thinking criminal lawyer would be hotter, but I think I could be into a family court kind of guy.”

I shift as carefully as I can onto my side and perk a brow at this too pretty nurse ineloquently munching her lunch beside me. I’m still unreasonably attracted to him. “That’s incredibly unsubtle, Simon.”

“I know, Basil, but you’re not too subtle yourself.”

“What gave me away?”

“Heart palpitations,” Simon answers simply, “And I caught you staring at my bum when I left the room.”

“I was not!” I have to deny it, even if I had been.

“Sure you weren’t,” Simon hums, head quirked to the side and watching the guilty flush that was surely on my cheeks spread, “But how do you feel about the idea of shared off time? When you’re not such a vulnerable stabbing victim at some point even.”

“Is that how you’re asking me on a date, Simon?”

“Is that how you say yes, Basil?”

I purse my lips at him, a little bit of dramatic flair showing while I stretch out the moment in unnecessary anticipation. We both well know I’d already agreed. “That depends on your taste in the theatre. Are you a musical sort of person at all?”

“I could learn to be,” Simon answers, almost too earnestly.

I like that earnesty too much. “Well, I can appreciate someone who’s willing to learn for me. Give me your number and I’ll call you when I’m less recently stabbed. I’d like to be able to walk properly if I’m going to take such a pretty thing out on the town.”

“You’re really pushing for that lawsuit now, aren’t you?” Simon teases.

I’m a little too proud of the fact that I still managed to get his number programmed into my phone by the end of her shift though. I know full well I’m going to call him before I’m done healing though, even if I try and tell myself to not rush into things.

When I do call, a mere two days after I’m discharged from the hospital, Simon doesn’t seem to mind my blatant approach in the least.

The only good thing Xiaolin Chronicles did was the implication that Dashi knew what was going to happen to Chase.

And like, now that I'm thinking about this and working on my other fic, I know of want to write one set in the immediate aftermath with Dashi and whoever's left. And I don't know which timeline would be better. And by better I mean worse and more painful.

One the one hand, you have the primary timeline wherein you would have Guan and Dashi picking through the rubble. And Guan starts to put some things together. How Dashi got kind of weird around Chase after he started testing the Crystal Glasses. How he insisted a bit too strongly that they didn't work and then lost them very soon afterwards without trying very hard to get it to work right. How he seemed more resigned than worried when Chase went missing. How he knew exactly what was happening as soon as the attack started. How he had an evacuation plan for the villagers ready beforehand. How he convinced Dojo to leave with the village children. How he was always right where he needed to be to protect any remaining civilians. How he knew exactly what, no who, the beast was.

He knew. He knew exactly what was going to happen and he didn't say anything. He knew and he didn't do anything to stop it. He knew and he didn't even let him say goodbye.

He finishes moving the block in his hands and tries to find the words to voice this horrible realization. He tries not to think about how Chase would know exactly what to say. But there's work to be done and how do you even start to ask if someone if they let the person you love most in the world become a mindless beast. Eventually, they're too tired for a sense of duty to work as a distraction. He keeps staring dead ahead at a pile of stones and can only get out, in a numb, quiet voice, "Why?"

Dashi doesn't deny the unspoken accusation. He's for once in his whole life silent. Then he says, "It never changed." He sounds like he's rehearsed it. He probably has. He still isn't ready to say it.

"Why didn't you at least let me try?" He can't be truly angry with Dashi. Not when his own guilt is a gaping chasm about to swallow him whole. He should have done something. He should have noticed something was wrong. He should have told the senior monks that they become Xiaolin Dragons together or not at all. He should have made sure Chase knew how deeply and truly he was loved. He should have let him know every damn day that he was perfect just the way he was. He was supposed to protect him and he'd failed.

From Dashi's silence, it's obvious that he's horribly aware of the betrayal he's committed. And they're both silent for a long time, in grief that's too raw to be anything but numb and mourning that's too long past to be anything but scarred over, until Dashi can't be anymore and adds, "It was the only way to get rid of Hannibal." He knows the price of that confession and he's prepared to pay it because he owes his friends that much.

Guan resumes work in silence. By morning, he's gone too.

Then there's the Time after Time timeline.

The dust hasn't even settled when Chase pins Dashi up against a crumbling wall. Chase was always a smaller, slighter man and there's blood oozing from a wound in his side, but he's furious and Dashi's in shocked horror. He was ready for Chase. He'd made his peace with Chase. He'd finished mourning Chase years ago. This isn't how it was supposed to happen. There's a broken body draped only a few feet away and there's no escaping the blood and death and destruction.

Sure, Dashi had a damn plan, but it was meant for another time, someone else and it barely helped now. Instead of the well planned, organized evacuation, it was a mad scramble. Instead of a well rehearsed speech about how somebody had to protect the village children to convince Dojo to leave, he just shouts, "He's going to fucking eat you."

The fires burn brighter and smoke curls from Chase's mouth and he looks too much like he should have as he starts and stops sentence after sentence over Dashi's stammered apologies.

"The future changed and you didn't think to check it?"

"Why didn't you do something?"

"We were happy! You let us be happy damn it!"

"Do you have any idea how horrible it is to wake up to a cold mat when you only just got used to sharing it?"

None of it feels right and in the end, he can just barely spit, "You damn fool."

Even Chase isn't entirely sure which one of them he's talking about. Dashi may have been caught off guard by this new future, but Chase made a fool of Hannibal and didn't expect payback. He'd come back from the forest that morning, feeling more certain of who he was and who he wanted to be than he had in years and perhaps it was impulsive, but Guan looked so damn worried and he'd kissed him and for a few weeks, they were so damn happy. And he'd painted a target on his lover's back without thinking about it.

Chase was always the smart one. He should have seen this coming. He should have protected him.

He can't even be angry with Guan because he'd been prepared to do the same thing. He had done the same thing. It just didn't work. Why did it work now?

And then there's the thing that they don't talk about. Chase passing by Dashi on the way out of the temple. Dashi saying, "There's nothing I can do to stop you," like he's actually asking a damn question, then handing him one of those stupid yo-yos. Chase almost asks, "Why couldn't you give him a way back too?" but stops himself. He's not stupid. Dashi could tell himself that he was giving Chase a way back home until he believed it, but deep down they both know that it's not true.

And Chase lets go. And Dashi sinks down against the wall and for a few minutes, Chase sinks down next to him, his face buried in his hands and knees. And for a few moments, there's some small comfort in shared grief. Then, once what they're going to pretend is labored breathing stops, Chase gets back up and walks away into the smoke and ruin.

And no matter what he does, Dashi's left alone, his future completely unchanged.

You Gotta Fend for Yourself

Read here on AO3!

Summary:

Bruce is Tim's emergency contact. He gets a call to meet Tim at the ER.

“I’m looking for a patient.” The woman behind the ER desk looks bored as she eyes Bruce, takes in the pressed suit and diamond cufflinks. The way he fidgets, drumming his fingers on the desk and trying very hard not to look as anxious as he feels. It’s easier to reign in his worry when he’s wearing the cowl. “Name?” “Tim Drake.” “Give me a minute.” She types his name into the computer, and Bruce can’t help but wonder how she manages to type with such long fingernails. “Your son is in bed eight. It’s over there, against the far wall.” She points him in the general direction. Bruce considers correcting her on the fact that Tim is certainly not his son, but he doesn’t need to tell this complete stranger that. Let her think what she wants. He thanks her and goes where directed. His chest loosens when he finds Tim sitting on a medical cot, neither bleeding out from a gaping wound nor missing any limbs. Instead he’s playing some sort of racing game on his phone, indifferent to the bustling emergency room around him. An oxygen mask sits beside him, forgotten. He and Bruce should really have a conversation about the importance of listening to medical professionals. “Hey, kiddo.”

Tim looks up and his eyes go wide. “Bruce. You...actually came?” His voice is hoarse, like he’s been gargling sand. “Of course I did. I am your emergency contact, after all.” Tim blushes. “I told them not to call you. You really don’t need to be here if you’re busy, I can get a cab home. And I’m sure I can talk the doctors into letting me check myself out without an adult, so—” “It’s okay, Tim. Really. You actually saved me from a board meeting.” Tim doesn’t look at all reassured. Bruce sits on the side of the cot beside Tim, who moves over a few inches. “Your teacher told me you went into anaphylactic shock in the middle of geometry.” Tim rolls his eyes. “I got a candy bar from the vending machine and the wrapper forgot to mention there were walnuts in it. It’s not that big a deal.” “Oh, sure, not that big a deal. You just stopped breathing for two minutes. Totally normal.” “I’m breathing now, aren’t I?” Tim takes an exaggerated breath. “See? I’m fine. And, for the record, it was the teacher’s fault. I had my hand raised for a whole minute trying to tell her that I couldn’t breathe, and she didn’t even look at me. Eventually I just passed out.” Bruce blinks. “You raised your hand? While your life was in danger?” “I didn’t want to be rude.” Lord, beer me patience. “I’ll get you an EpiPen to carry with you from now on.” “I usually have one, but I used it up a couple months ago and kept forgetting to ask my dad for another one.” A shrug. “Don’t you keep one in your utility belt?” “That’s for civilians.” Bruce’s eyebrows crease. “It’s for keeping people safe, not just civilians. You’re a person, so I want you to use whatever you need to keep yourself from dying in the middle of class. Got it?” Tim nods, a little sheepishly. “Yes, sir.” “Good. Now, how are you feeling?” Tim flicks the IV tube. “Cortisone and a shot of epinephrine earlier. I’ll be fine.” Even so, Bruce can’t stop himself from checking Tim over anyway, just to be sure. He needs to see that Tim is okay with his own eyes. He feels Tim’s throat for any residual swelling, checks his pulse. “Can you breathe okay?” “Yep.” “What about your mouth, does it feel numb or tingly? Any swelling?” “No and no.” “Are you dizzy at all, nauseous?” “You do realize we’re in a hospital, right? Surrounded by actual doctors?” “Yes, and I don’t trust a single one of them unless their name is Leslie Thompkins, Alfred Pennyworth, or Bruce Wayne.” “You’re insane.” “Good. Maybe then you’ll stay alive long enough to see the new year.” Bruce takes out his cell phone and drafts the beginning of an email in his notes app. “I should call the school and give them hell for not looking after you. Or at least for not being more aware of their vending machine snacks.” He knew Tim never should have been allowed in a public school. That’s like locking the most perfect, innocent kitten in the world in a cage with rabid coyotes. Completely irresponsible. “You’re overreacting, B.” “You could have died.” Tim scoffs. “Stop being so dramatic. This isn’t even the worst allergic reaction I’ve had. My parents were terrible at remembering to tell the nannies about my walnut energy, so there were a lot of close calls.” Bruce should be more surprised at that information. After he sues the school for the wrongful almost-death of a student, he should sue Drake Industries just for the hell of it. “Where are your parents? Are they on their way?” Jack Drake is as disagreeable a man as disagreeable men get, but he’s always revving for conflict. Bruce will definitely be able to sway him to his side of this matter. They can bring it up to the board of education, draw up new regulations for the school’s allergy protocols. Tim scratches absently at the rash on his neck. Bruce swats his hand away. “Dad brought Dana on a business trip to Philadelphia. It was only supposed to last the weekend, but they decided to stay a few extra days.” “A few?” “Eleven, to be exact.” Yikes. Big yikes. “You at least called them, right? They’ll want to know you’re safe.” “I called Dad when I first got here, but he didn’t pick up so I left him a message. I’m pretty sure he got it, because Dana keeps texting me to make sure I’m okay and asking if they should come home early. Dad still hasn’t said anything, but I’m sure he’s worried too.” Even as Tim says the words, it’s clear he doesn’t believe them. Never mind, fuck Jack Drake. Bruce can find another parent to start an alliance with—one who actually cares about their kid. Maybe Crystal Brown is free tonight… Bruce flags down a passing nurse. “Can I get some discharge papers for my son, here?” Might as well throw that in, give himself some extra authority. Whatever gets them out of here quicker. “Thank god,” Tim says. He plucks out the IV and swings his legs off the bed. “I’m sick of this place. You can just drop me off at home and I’ll be all set?” “Drop you off? You’re coming home with me, Tim.” Was that part not clear? “It’s cool, really. I’ll be fine after some rest. You don’t have to look after me.” “I know I don’t have to. I want to.” Bruce thanks the nurse who brings over the discharge papers in record time. People really don’t appreciate nurses enough; he should donate a few million to boost their salaries. He pushes the clipboard into Tim’s hands. “Here, fill these out and we can get going. I’ll call ahead and have Alfred make supper.” “And then I can go home?” Bruce shrugs, eyes fixed on his phone screen as his thumbs fly. “You already have a room made up at the manor, so I don’t see why you can’t stay over tonight. Besides, I’d like to keep an eye on you, just in case.” Anaphylaxis can be a tricky thing. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re a mother hen?” “Once or twice.” “Well, they’re right.” Bruce snorts. He works more on his email draft to the school, making a mental note to censor out the swear words during revision. He’s getting flashbacks to years ago when Jason had a close call with some shrimp at a party for a museum opening. Bruce nearly decimated the catering company for not putting out warnings for potential allergens. “Tim?” “Hm?” “How come I’m your emergency contact?” Tim freezes. He doesn’t look at Bruce and twiddles the pen, quiet for a moment. “I don’t know. I guess I didn’t know who else to put? I figured it would never actually be needed, so it wasn’t like you’d ever find out about it anyway. But don’t worry, I’ll change it tomorrow so you don’t need to do this again.” “No,” Bruce says, a little too quickly. “Keep it. It’s...more logical for it to be me. And I really don’t mind.” “You sure? You don’t have to.” “I want to. Partners look out for each other, right?” Tim’s cheeks are flushed under the allergy-induced redness, but he nods. “Right.”

A World In Monochrome

My brain is firing on like, almost all cylinders to pump out all of the sweet sweet ideas I obsess over. This one stemmed from playing the game and realizing that Cat causes total loss of color from Geralt’s sight until the potion wears off 

Enjoy it on AO3 here!

Geralt hated fiends. Well, he can’t say that with any honesty- for as brutal and base as they appeared, there was an elegance to them. They left people alone for the most part, content to wander their forests, caves or swamps, and only attacked if necessary. They were huge yet moved with incredible speed, and if necessary, their third eye opened, stunning and allowing them a chance to escape. To be compared to a fiend among friends was almost a compliment. 

What he hated most about them was how often they took him into caves; the dank, musty smell of old corpses and fiend dung clung to him for days after he’d finished the hunt, and he couldn’t carry a torch with him to light the cave. Not that he hadn’t tried when he was young and just set out on the Path. After too many times plunging into darkness without anything to light, Geralt prepared himself more carefully. Relict oil for his blade, Thunderbolt and Swallow on his belt, and Cat, choked down at the last minute to give himself all the time he needed. 

He hasn’t fought anything cave dwelling in a while, and isn’t expecting anything out of the ordinary when he takes his latest contract. Jaskier had wanted to bargain for a higher price, since this was Skellige and the fare back to Velen was expensive, but Geralt couldn’t. Mutation’s took all Witcher’s feelings people claimed, but his heart had gone out to Ohden, worried over his son, and he gave Jaskier a glance to keep him quiet. Jaskier hadn’t pushed, just hummed thoughtfully and thanked the man for his account of where to start. 

That was another thing that Geralt hadn’t expected. When Geralt told Jaskier he was headed to Skellige for the summer he fully expected Jaskier to disappear wherever he goes for the winter. Instead, he was met by Jaskier waiting on the docks, bag slung over his shoulder and lute clutched against his front. He’d only complained of seasickness in the first two days, and spent the rest of their trek across the sea singing bawdy sea shanties and learning new ones from the crew to delight whatever crowd he could find in Skellige. Geralt had spent his time making potions and sharpening his blade, sat atop a barrel to keep a sharp eye on the bard under his care. He tried to look casual, but half the crew gave him a wide berth and the others stared in open hostility. The only thing keeping them somewhat friendly was Jaskier and that magnetic charisma he seemed to exude. 

“Stay here.” Jaskier perked up at the sound of Geralt’s voice, then rolled his eyes. 

“Geralt, how am I supposed to tell of your exploits if I never get to go?”

“How are you going to if you follow me and die?” Geralt’s throat tightens at the thought, and his voice sounds particularly grating when he talks through it. “You’re staying here.”

“At least let me see you track. I’ve never seen that even!”

“No.” Jaskier gave him a look, blue eyes glancing up just so through his lashes, and Geralt’s heart gives a wild leap at that. He sighs wearily, rolling out his shoulders. “Fine.”

“Yes!”

“But-” Geralt silences him, eyes narrowing a bit. He hears Jaskier breathe in sharply, but finds him staring with that same eager intensity. “If I let you come, you have to promise you’ll run if I tell you.”

Jaskier grins, eyes sparkling, and bows low at the waist. “As you command, White Wolf.” 

Geralt finds someone to care for Roach while they’re away, and only has to narrow his eyes to ensure she’ll be taken care of and their stuff won’t be plundered. Skelligers are hardy, but even they know not to mess with a witcher, let alone Geralt. Geralt heads southeast, toward where Ohden had gestured to, and it isn’t long until he finds footprints. They’re from a male, that much he can tell, and that puts him on the right track. 

They hike in relative silence for a while, Geralt occasionally pointing out a footprint that Jaskier would be able to see and explaining when Jaskier seems lost on how Geralt is leading them. The dirt road becomes pebbly a couple of miles later, and it’s then that Geralt spots the crumbling castle ahead of them and smells blood. 

“Quiet.” Geralt hisses, Jaskier trying his best to stay as quiet as he can. Geralt’s silver sword slides free from his sheathe with nary a whisper, and he rolls his wrist, careful not to hit the bard behind him. He can hear breathing, heavy and bovine, and he creeps forward, Jaskier at his back. Geralt slips through a gap in a broken wall, nostrils flaring as the scent of decay and musk hits him. He holds out a hand, telling Jaskier to stop, and moves a bit further into the clearing of what used to be a courtyard. The ground near the south wall is saturated in blood, and flies buzz around it, grating to his ears. 

He straightens up a bit, casting a glance around; whatever caused the gore doesn’t seem to be here, and this is the best lead he’s gotten so far. Gravel crunches behind him and he whips around, Jaskier freezing as the sight of Geralt, pupils mere slits and nostrils flared. “Nothing then?”

“I told you to wait.” 

“Right, except I couldn’t see anything and I-” Jaskier’s eyes are pinned on the background behind him, and the hairs on the back of Geralt’s neck raise. His medallion hums angrily against his chest, and the sharp, eye watering scent of a fiend hits him hard. 

“GO!” Is all he can say before throwing up Quen, grunting as the barrier around him crystallizes and shatters, having effectively warded off the fiend’s first charge. He won’t have time for a second, and all he can hope is that Jaskier heeded his command as he dives out of the way of a second charge. It’s a narrow window at best, and Geralt rolls to his knees, throwing a plume of fire in front of him. He almost chokes on the scent of burnt fur, the fiend roaring and hopping back a couple of steps. Geralt downs a dose of thunderbolt while he has a chance, throwing the glass away. He can come back and hope it isn’t broken later.

He falls into the fighting as easily as breathing, spinning on his toes and grunting at the twinge that goes through his knee and up his thigh. So it’s going to be like that. He can ignore it for now, and a dose of Blizzard has his blood singing and muscles working double time as he whirls and dodges the blows that the fiend throws. The fiend seems slow as Geralt hacks at the black and white patterned hide, tiring with the effort of trying to hit a target that won’t stop moving. This fiend is old, Geralt can tell just by the scarred hide and brutal efficiency in which he goes after his target. 

Geralt can tell that the fiend is almost done for, blood oozing out of multiple cuts that regenerate before his eyes. He finds his opening when a well placed shot of Igni has the monster stumbling back, Geralt lunging to drive his sword through the beast’s skull. A flash of red catches Geralt’s attention, and he watches with a helpless kind of fury as the fiends third eye flares open, stopping his blow in its tracks. The fiend swings a meaty paw and sends him flying back into the wall of the abandoned keep, Geralt wheezing as the air is knocked out of him. His scabbards dig roughly into his back, sure to leave bruises later, but they might have just saved his spine. 

In the time it takes Geralt to stumble to his feet, gasping for air, the fiend has fled the field, out of the ruins. He’s off like a shot, following the scent of blood and decay and singed fur through the rest of the ruins and down the bank of the river. It’s there he finds a cave, reeking of gore and pitch black. 

“Fuck.” Of course he’s going to have to use Cat. He downs the potion as quickly as he can, not wanting to give the fiend more time to recover than is necessary. He skids down the rocky entrance as color leeches from his sight, every inch of the cave lit up in a murky haze. The fiend is crouched in the corner, tearing away at the entrails of some poor soul. This time the fiend won’t surprise him, and Geralt leaps onto the offensive, slashing a gaping wound through the beast’s left flank. It should slow the beast down enough, and Geralt is already leaping away when the beast roars and swings wildly behind itself.

Geralt dispatches it with another quick blow to the throat, silver blade digging in so deep that he lodges against bone for a moment. Geralt isn’t a fan of denting his blades, but the fiend has fought long enough, and Geralt just wants a quick end to the fight. He pants as the fiend twitches, crashing to the ground and eyes rolling sightlessly. One last blow ends the fiends suffering and severs the rest of the head- he’ll need it if he’s going to prove he killed the beast. A quick glance around the cave shows that this was definitely what was killing all of the travelers on the road, and though he can’t see it, he highly suspects that the lighter tone of the tunic he spies has to be yellow. He cuts a swatch to bring back with him, and drags the beast’s head up and out of the cave. 

                                                          -*-

Jaskier had scrambled to climb the ladder when Geralt had yelled for him to run. He’d noticed it earlier when they first came in, and figured height would be a good advantage against whatever had charged at Geralt. Watching the fight was better than anything Geralt could have described, and Jaskier takes it in with reckless abandon. The way that Geralt’s hair had flown about him as he spun, the sun glinting off his blade. The way that his shield, brilliant orange in the light had shattered after the first charge. 

He’s going to have the best ballad to write when they get back to town, and already a melody builds in his throat. He hums it while he watches, nervous to see Geralt go up against such an impossibly large foe. He trusts that the witcher knows what he’s doing, and he winces, gripping the craggy wall as Geralt crashes into it just below his hiding place. A normal man would have snapped his spine from the impact alone, but Geralt struggles to his feet and runs off, following the fiend wherever it fled to. 

Well, he can’t miss this, can he? Jaskier creeps down the ladder, stooping to pick up the vial Geralt had tossed aside earlier before plodding after where the two disappeared. He isn’t able to leap off ledges like Geralt can, so he has to pick his way down the side of the ruin and hope he doesn’t trip and fall. By the time he makes it down to the bank and follows Geralt’s footprints he can hear the dying bray and gurgle of a large animal. It comes from a cave in the hillside, and Jaskier is loath to go inside. Especially if it smells as bad as he thinks it will. 

“Right, uh, I guess I should get a bit closer…” The bard says, not moving an inch from where he’s standing, staring down into the pitch black of the cave. 

“No, you shouldn’t.” The voice has no owner for a moment, ragged and deep, and it takes Jaskier longer than he’d like to admit to recognize it. 

“Geralt? Are you alright? I’m coming in, let me just-”

“No.” Geralt’s voice is sharp enough to stop Jaskier in his tracks, and he wrings his hands together in a nervous habit. “Go back to town.”

“I can’t just leave you here, what if a-a bandit or something were to come?” There’s a rough chuckle, and Jaskier thinks he spies a lock of white hair, dyed pink at the ends by blood. “Geralt, come out? Please?”

                                                         -*-

Of course the bard had followed. Geralt had asked one thing, one thing of him, and wasn’t even granted that. He had hidden at least, because Geralt had no clue where he’d gone in the rush of the fight. He doesn’t want to step out into the sun, not while everything is too much, too bright, but the longer he stays down here the worse it’ll be to adjust. And the more likely it will be that Jaskier comes in anyway, despite the stench he knows keeps the man away for now. 

“Move.” Is all the warning the bard gets before Geralt tosses the head out of the cave, listening to the dull thud of its landing and the sharp yelp Jaskier lets out at the sight. He limps from the cave as his knee gives another sharp twinge of discomfort, hissing at the brightness of the sun filling his eyes. It blinds him- leaves everything in washed out shades of white and grey and he hates it. The wildflowers bunched around the rocky ground sway in the wind, but Geralt can’t see their true colors. He knows the stems should be green, the flowers a pale blue or white, given the local flora, but all he sees is three different shades of black and white. 

He hears a sharp intake of breath near where he tossed the head, and his body goes taut, attention snapping to the source of the noise. Jaskier stares at him, eyes wide and pupils blown wide within what Geralt knows should be blue irises. But they aren’t. They’re so pale they almost blend with the whites of his eyes, and Geralt’s heart drops into his stomach. Jaskier’s heart pounds a frantic, steady rhythm in Geralt’s ears, and his scent, usually so dominated by lavender, has taken on an edge of what Geralt can only describe as cloying spice. He isn’t sure what it means, at least for Jaskier, and he draws in another breath, trying to sniff discreetly, or as discreetly as a witcher hopped up on potions can. 

Jaskier reaches out for him then, to lend him a hand or- he doesn't know what- and Geralt flinches. He can see the hurt in Jaskier’s eyes, can smell the scent of dying roses on him, and he struggles to push words from a throat more ready to strangle him than talk. 

“Potions.” He looks at Jaskier again, eyes searching every inch of him for any sign of blood or injury, and grinds his teeth in frustration when he can’t differentiate the difference between what’s the stitching of his doublet and what’s the silky chemise underneath. They’re all the same color. 

“Oh.” Jaskier sighs out, breathy and soft, and that confuses Geralt more than his lack of color or his racing heart. “Do you need anything right now? Water, stitches?”

“Stitches?” He manages to mumble, taking a step back into the cave where it isn’t so damn bright. 

Jaskier’s lips quirk in a soft smile, and he shrugs. “I can’t see if you’re hurt. So, stitches?”

“No. White honey?” Jaskier winces, shooting Geralt a sympathetic look. 

“Back in the packs, I think. Should I go fetch it?”

The offer is tempting; Geralt’s heart is still racing and every nerve in him screams that Jaskier is an enemy and he can’t fucking see color, but he doesn’t want Jaskier to leave. Not with his humanity still crumbling within him as he tries desperately to hold himself together enough to talk. He closes his eyes, hoping that taking away one sense will help with the noise in his head, but he’s not sure anything will help right now.

“No. Gotta meditate.” 

“Well, come out of the cave then, I’m sure you’d rather not smell whatever it is that’s in there.”

“Bright.” He hears Jaskier chuckle, and the soft shuffle of fabric and leather creaking as Jaskier moves toward him. The thought makes him want to run deeper into the cave, where he can’t do anything that might scare the bard off, but something warm and reeking of lavender is being draped over his head. The light burning through his eyelids lessens immediately, and he gasps as Jaskier gently takes his hands. His grip is iron on Jaskier’s poor hands, but the bard doesn’t protest or pull away, just talks soft and low. 

“Do you trust me?”

Does he? He tries to think of all the reasons he shouldn’t trust the bard, but fails to come up with anything meaningful. “Yes.”

“How long till this wears off?”

“Couple hours, maybe more.”

“Okay. Let’s head back for the keep, it’s a bit safer I think. Can you carry the uh, head?”

Geralt nods, and Jaskier leads him over. Geralt can navigate by the scent alone, but he doesn’t want to let go of Jaskier if he can help it, and uses one hand to lug the head along by the horns. Jaskier leads him up the path he must have taken to get down, and settles him in the shade underneath a small ledge. He only lets go of Jaskier’s hand once he knows they aren’t going to move again for a while. 

“Okay, go ahead and meditate, I’ll keep watch and let you know if I see or hear something.” Jaskier goes to move a few steps away, but Geralt’s hand shoots out, gripping his wrist. 

“Stay here.” Jaskier’s heart gives a little stutter, but he laughs softly and settles down next to Geralt. It’s nice, Geralt decides, and though he doesn’t actually feel it much, he figures he has a right to complain. Blizzard has an apt name, both for making everything seem to go in slow motion, and for shooting ice through his veins.  “S’cold.”

“Fire?”

“Too noisy.” Jaskier hums for a second more before suddenly leaning against Geralt’s side. It’s near impossible to notice through the leather armor he wears, and must be wildly uncomfortable, but he can feel the heat seeping into him and his heart beats just a bit faster at their closeness. Jaskier being so close also drowns out any other scents around him, and slipping into his meditation is easier when he has one thing to focus on. It's also the closest that Jaskier has gotten to him in days, and he finds he misses the contact. He tries to shut out the noises around him, bouncing through his skull, but where Jaskier has settled them has created some kind of echo around him, and he grits his teeth. It might not be so easy after all.

Jaskier reaches for something, dragging it across the ground before the distinct sound of two metal clasps pops close by. A note is hummed, a string strummed, before Jaskier begins picking away in earnest. The song is new, one he's never heard before- or maybe he has? The melody picks at the edges of his brain, and he finds himself slipping into that trancelike state he was looking for. 

When he comes to a couple of hours later, dusk has fallen behind his lids, and he cracks an eye open experimentally. His heart and brain have calmed, and he doesn't feel nearly as cold as he did before. The potions have mostly worn off, except for the Cat, which should be gone in another half hour or so. He hopes.

For now, he'll just have to be content with the watery color bleeding slowly across his vision. Jaskier has stopped playing, lute tucked away, and has his jacket back on to ward himself from the cold. Now he scribbles in his notebook, tongue peeking out from between his lips as he concentrates on whatever he's writing.

"A new one?" His voice is rusty, and he clears his throat while Jaskier jumps, sitting up and clutching his book, cheeks red.

"You should warn a man you know, I could have done something drastic."

"Like what?" Geralt's lips quirk in a small smile, and he's glad he can somewhat recognize the teal of Jaskier's doublet again. Jaskier doesn't seem as amused, and pins him with a withering glance. "New song?"

He tries it again, hoping that showing interest will soften Jaskier's apparent anger. Jaskier regards him with suspicion for a moment more before sighing, nodding while also shrugging.

"I have a lovely new ballad coming, yes, but I was… drawing." Geralt hums low in his throat, nudging his companion and dipping his head toward the journal still clutched to Jaskier's chest. A silent question of can I see it? Jaskier hesitates, holding on a bit tighter before he sighs, holding it out for Geralt to take. "Don't laugh. Poetry was more my strong suit."

Geralt says nothing as he pulls off his gauntlets- they're covered in dried blood, and he doesn't want to ruin the page. Upon taking the journal and seeing what Jaskier has drawn, he almost wishes he had. It's a sketch of him, he can tell by the line of his jaw and the straightness of his nose, but he hates what else he sees. His eyes have been filled in with black, a spiderweb of inky veins creeping over his face and down his neck. His hands shake as he stares at himself immortalized in a state he never wanted Jaskier to see. He was too hopped up on potions to care at the time, but looking now, he feels his heart constrict. How could Jaskier touch him, sit beside him while he looked like this?

"Do you like it?"

"No." Shit, that's not what he meant to say. He glances up, can smell and see the hurt on Jaskier's face, and his throat tightens, strangling his words.

"Give it then, so you don't have to see it." Jaskier takes the book back quickly, closing it with a snap and standing up.  He grabs his lute case, slinging it across his back and pacing a few steps away. Ready to go back to town. Geralt struggles to his feet, his damn knee cracking painfully as he rises from his kneeling position. He has to take a second for it to settle before he can bear any weight.

"Jaskier-"

"Let's go, Geralt. I'm tired of being outside." He finds that hard to believe, seeing as they've only been out half the day, but Geralt doesn't know what to say and Jaskier doesn't want to hear it. Geralt follows him in stony silence, hoisting the fiends head away from the ground and wincing at the congealed blood that saturates the ground under it. It reeks. He's not sure how Jaskier could tolerate the smell, let alone sit by it for hours.

Geralt collects his reward from the grieving father and hands over the scrap of what he can now see is mostly yellow fabric. The man laments his son's fate, and Geralt can't do more than stand there and promise he was avenged. The man waves them off, wanting to be alone, and Jaskier heads off with a brisk comment about finding an inn for the night. Geralt goes to check on Roach and gather their things, wanting to give the bard time to cool off. He's brushing Roach down, sneaking her a couple sugar cubes when Jaskier comes to fetch him, leaning with his arms crossed against the doorframe. Geralt follows without complaint, refusing to let Jaskier carry his own pack despite the hand held out for it. 

The room in the inn is sparsely decorated, and there's only one bed, but a steaming tub of water waits for him, and his heart gives a strange leap. Jaskier’s doublet is off, tossed carelessly on a chair with his boots sitting nearby, and Geralt has to force himself not to stare at the dip of Jaskier’s chemise. "Bathe."

The command is rough, but Geralt complies easily, stripping himself out of his armor and the soggy clothes beneath before sinking into the water. Heat prickles uncomfortably at his skin, but he lets out a small groan and sinks a bit deeper. Jaskier perches wordlessly behind him, tugging the tie from his hair and working any blood out with whatever soap he'd managed to get from the innkeeper. It smells a bit stronger than Geralt would like, but he doesn't say anything. Maybe now he can try again, while he's relatively safe.

"It was nice." Well, that's a start at least. Jaskier's hands pause in his hair, nails digging in a bit too hard, but Geralt groans and leans up into the touch. Jaskier scratches along his scalp, nails digging in, and Geralt relishes the sensation. His vision is almost back to full color, and he stares at Jaskier's doublet, discarded on the chair. "The drawing."

Jaskier scoffs. "You don't have to lie."

"M'not. Just don't like seeing it. The monster." Geralt adds on the end, not wanting to fuck things up twice. Just saying what he feels makes his skin crawl, but Jaskier gives a soft oh, continuing to scratch at Geralt's scalp. 

"So you weren't insulting me then?" Geralt shakes his head, going still when Jaskier clicks his tongue. He begins scrubbing at the blood under his nails while Jaskier talks, needing something to pay attention to. "I thought you looked… Gorgeous, ethereal, effervescent- I could wax poetry about it endlessly.”

Geralt snorts, shaking his head, causing Jaskier to press his fingers in harder to keep him from moving. “Don’t. Don’t pretend.”

Jaskier scoffs this time, fingers tightening in Geralt’s hair and pulling until Geralt is straining to look back at him or risk his scalp. A hot wave of arousal washes over Geralt at the sensation, but all he does is grunt, looking back at the bard with a mixture of annoyance and hopefully- suppressed lust. Geralt notices, faintly, that his color is back completely as the two of them lock eyes, glaring at one another. 

“I’m tired of you telling me what to do and how to feel, Witcher.”

“What am I telling you to feel?” Heat creeps along Geralt’s spine, and oh he’s playing a dangerous game. Maybe those potions aren’t as worn off as he might have thought.

Jaskier looks at him, brow furrowed, and Geralt feels Jaskier’s grip in his hair loosen. He misses the sensation for an instant before Jaskier leans forward, pressing his lips to Geralt’s in an awkward, upside down kiss. It’s almost painful- Jaskier’s chin and nose dig into him at an odd angle, but his hands come up and out of the water instinctively to grip Jaskier’s hair, keeping him from moving away. Jaskier takes that as a good sign it seems, because he nips at Geralt’s lower lip before pulling back. Geralt doesn’t want to hurt him, ever, and he lets Jaskier go, breathing hard and pupils contracting to mere slits. He tracks Jaskier’s every moment, listens to the way his heart is hammering, that same cloying lavender scent oozing through the room.

Geralt leans forward as Jaskier moves around the side of the tub, a pale hand smoothing over his shoulder. He wants to know what’s going on, wants to ask Jaskier what he thinks he’s doing, but nothing escapes him other than a low growl. Jaskier laughs softly, almost mockingly, and leans forward to kiss the corner of Geralt’s mouth. The witcher moves faster than might be necessary, but just barely catches Jaskier before he leans back again. 

“Bard.” Geralt warns, voice vibrating with the steady growl that’s built up. Jaskier glances at him, eyes darting down to Geralt’s lips for an instant as a smug, self satisfied smile lights up his face. 

“Witcher.” 

“Say you want this.” Geralt’s mind moves slow, so slow that for a moment he fears he’s drunk off of the scent of Jaskier, so incredibly close yet just out of reach. He can’t think with Jaskier so close, grinning at him like he’s a cat who’s just gotten a delightfully fat mouse, and his fingers twitch on the edge of the tub. 

“I’ve never wanted anything more.” That’s all that Geralt needs, and he reaches out, snagging Jaskier by the hips and bodily hoisting him forward. Jaskier laughs as he slips against the edge of the tub, a hand splaying against Geralt’s chest. 

“You’ll ruin my clothes and the floor.” Geralt grunts, not caring, but Jaskier is undeterred. “Out.”

Oh, this is dangerous indeed. He groans, impatient, but Jaskier is already stepping away and tugging at the ties on his chemise. A moment of hesitation slices through the haze in Geralt’s mind, and he pauses in the water. Jaskier has seen him naked more times than he can count, but it’s different this time. This time, he’s allowed to look, and Geralt isn’t sure what to do with that thought. He’s waking up slowly from the raging of his heart, but Jaskier reaches out, fingers brushing under his chin and tipping his head up. He kisses Geralt slowly, luxuriating in the action and nipping gently at his lower lip. The small bit of pressure from Jaskier's teeth has Geralt gasping, and he stands up blindly, stumbling out of the tub as Jaskier continues kissing him. 

That one point of contact, their lips sliding against each other, is the anchor that Geralt clings to. His hands come up, fingers shaking before finding purchase on Jaskier’s shirt and gripping it tight enough that he can hear the fibers straining not to rip. Jaskier hums against his lips, hands sliding over Geralt’s chest and pushing him back and away from the tub. Geralt walks blindly, and every time he breathes, opens his eyes, the world is skewed with vibrant contrasts of color. Geralt’s calves hit the edge of the bed, and he tips back, dragging Jaskier with him and wheezing out a laugh as the bard lands on top of him. It feels good to have Jaskier’s weight on top of him, and he hardly lets him get far. He can feel Jaskier’s cock pressing against his hip, and he groans, glad it isn’t just him affected. Jaskier kisses him harder for that, and Geralt whines against his lips. 

“The potions.” Geralt hums, glancing up at Jaskier with half lidded eyes. His hair is a mess, lips red and cheeks redder, and the sight steals his breath. He props himself up on his arms, sighing when Jaskier settles astride his hips. “Are they still affecting you?”

“I don’t know.” He admits softly, humming when Jaskier leans to lay kisses along his jaw. He arches his neck, giving the man atop him more room to work and huffing when Jaskier drags his teeth lightly down his neck. “Why?”

“I don’t want to do anything if you aren’t in full control of yourself. Not unless we’d agreed upon it before, of course.” 

“It’s not like being drugged.”

“No, but how do I know this is because of sober thought?” Jaskier grinds down suddenly, and the friction of cloth against his bare skin has him hissing, hips snapping up of their own accord. Geralt chokes on a breath before glaring at the very smug bard atop him. 

“Don’t-” Jaskier laughs, kissing him in apology and lifting himself up a bit. Geralt is both grateful and infuriated, hands clenching into fists. He’s definitely more affected than he thought. “What did you mean, agreed upon?”

Jaskier looks at him, humming softly and shifting to sit back on Geralt’s thighs. It sends a shimmer of pain through his knee, but the sensation grounds him further, and he sits up fully. “Geralt, if I can be frank-”

“When aren’t you?” the bard pins him with a look and Geralt raises his hands, gesturing for him to continue. 

“I find you in all your witchery, black eyed glory incredibly attractive. I’m surprised you haven’t smelled it on me by now.”

“I don’t like to pry.” He can’t help himself now though, leaning a bit closer and taking a deep breath. He smells sweat, the lavender oil Jaskier uses, and most powerful, the sickly sweet, almost spicy scent of Jaskier’s arousal. “Really?”

“Really.” Jaskier shifts off his lap now, padding over to their packs and digging out clothes for Geralt. “So, get dressed before I decide to ravage you fully.”

Geralt catches the clothes as they’re tossed at him, flexing his thighs and steadying his breathing to calm himself down. He dresses slowly, skin hypersensitive and every sense trained on where Jaskier tidies up across the room. Now that the other man isn’t kissing him senseless Geralt takes a moment to think, and to admire him in full color. Jaskier catches him looking, but merely smiles and nods toward the bed. Geralt crawls under the covers at the silent request, and lays back, watching as Jaskier strips down to his small clothes and blows out the candles, leaving just the hearth for faint light and warmth. He crawls into bed and into the waiting arms of his witcher, pressing their legs together and grinning when Geralt loops an arm over his hips.

“Have I told you why I hate fiends?” Jaskier shakes his head before tucking under Geralt’s chin, cheek pressed to Geralt’s collarbone to feel the vibrations.

“Does it have to do with caves?” Geralt grunts, squeezing a bit tighter and reveling in the pleasant squeeze Jaskier gives back.

“Yes.” 

Down the Rabbit Hole part 25

“Jesus,” Erica breathes, “you weren’t kidding,” and I resist the urge to roll my eyes.

I’ve managed to keep my heartrate under control all the way down to the barrows but now that we’re here I’m able to let my breath out and relax a little, ironically. The place is a graveyard, a grisly butcher’s workshop of stinking ichor and dismembered copepods. It is unearthly quiet, even down here in the middle of the Pit’s guts, with the only sound being the dripping of glutinous white phlegm-like vital fluids and occasionally a far-off groan from the Pit’s musculature.

The copepods are everywhere, strewn all over the place like ragdolls, and very few of them are intact. The majority have had their arms ripped off and a ragged hole bored straight through the middle of their armored faceplate that looks like it goes several feet deep at least. Here and there there are dead leeches, the only trace of the leechman, the only thing giving any clue as to what might have happened her. I briefly wish that I still had my camera with me.

Saying goodbye to Elena had made me acutely aware that I may not have been prepared for what I was getting myself into. I had helped her out of the cot and she had stumbled and cried out and then I caught her, prepared for the worst, already starting to panic – had I done a bad job? Had I hurt her somehow while I was tending to her wounds and only now was she able to feel the effects of it, getting up and moving around?

Elena had looked at me, lips already curling into a sheepish grin, and then she must have seen the look on my face and stopped, stood there straight without any assistance from me and then put her hands on my face and cupped me to her and kissed me so long and so hard that I felt a little faint. Erica had coughed behind us, a little uncomfortably, but when we finally broke apart I really had eyes only for Elena, I couldn’t stop staring at her, at the freckles across her cheeks, at the way one of the corners of her lips lifted slightly higher than the other when she smiled, at a dozen little things like that that I wanted to fix in my mind.

I don’t think I really knew, not consciously, at least, why I made such an effort to keep a clear image of her in my head then, to get every detail down in as complete a manner as I could. It only became apparent to me once we had walked out to the Cord and Elena had opened the door and turned around and waved to me before disappearing that I had been so concerned with her safety that I had had no concern at all for mine.

The door clanged shut and Marcus had spun the wheel to seal it tightly and then Elena was gone. Before she left we had hugged again, there in Oyster’s Shame, amid the glistening walls and the sounds of more of the tiny pearly deposits falling here and there like a soft distant rain. “You come back to me,” she had growled, right into my ear, and I could feel her leave a wet spot on my cheek from where she had begun to cry, and I wanted so badly to go with her but I didn’t see any way I could.

“Well,” I had said to Erica, forcing myself to sound brighter than I had felt, “let’s get this over with.”

So we did.

Marcus kicks one of the dead leeches and it rolls a little. It looks like it has some weight to it, some heftiness that isn’t immediately apparent from how slender it is. It’s about the length of my arm. “What the hell is this, E?” he asks, looking up at her, and Erica shakes her head, getting down on her haunches to examine it.

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” she says. “It’s a little bit like a gastric bristleworm but not as…I don’t know, bristly.”

I’m standing there in the back with my arms folded, waiting. Next to me is the stinking corpse of a copepod; this one has been crushed, its insides, ropy and white, flooding out in a great mass from its burst sides. Even with the helmet up I can smell it; Erica and Marcus must have cast-iron stomachs. Erica does, anyway; when we first made it down to the barrows we’d had to stop for a moment to let Marcus vomit.

The tracking PDA had lead us almost exactly the way we’d gone the day before, back before everything had gone to hell. I still don’t know exactly what had kicked it off to begin with; my best guess was that the Leechman had showed up and gone on a rampage just after we’d left with the crystal, and the copepods, they must have assumed that it was our fault, that we’d drawn it here or were somehow working with it. Did they know what it was? Did they recognize it? I wish the Big Guy were still around to ask but we had passed his desiccated, punctured corpse, recognizable only by the stump of one of its wrists, as we had made our way through the central chamber. Marcus is carrying the Sergeant’s slug rifle but he does so nervously, as though he’s afraid of it. He clearly isn’t familiar with the thing. I wonder what’ll happen if he does have to fire it, if it’ll just put him on his ass or if it’ll actually break a bone.

The two of them have been decent to me so far. Erica seems genuinely regretful about hitting me earlier; she doesn’t look at me most of the time, and if she does need me for something, mainly to use the suit computer to look at a map, she asks for me politely and in a soft voice. I thought that Marcus might curse at me or harbor some kind of ill-feeling; after all, Elena – after all, my girlfriend attacked him, and I have no doubt that if she had been able to get away with it she likely would have shot the both of them and washed her hands of it.

The thought makes me shudder very slightly, but not of fear or anger but just vague baseless exhilaration, of minor and muted joy that things are finally happening, for better or for worse, for good or ill, that great capital-letter THINGS WILL CHANGE finally rolling over and putting muscle behind its epitaph.

I had been terrified on the way down that the copepods would have torn us apart, would have eaten us. I had no confidence in Erica and Marcus’ ability to protect this little illicit expedition. They have no plan, no notion of what might be waiting for them. And I don’t know what they intend to do if they do actually manage somehow to get their hands on the crystal. Break it? But that’d be counterproductive, wouldn’t it, as if what Erica’s saying is right, that’d just give us that psychic illness.

If I don’t have it already. Was that dream a dream or the start of it? Is it –

No, stop. Don’t be ridiculous. It’s the perfectly normal sort of dream to have when you’re under this much stress, in these conditions. Once you’re out of here, once you’ve – Christ, I don’t know, gotten Elena some vacation time or sick leave or whatever the hell and spent the rest of your savings taking her to fucking Tahiti or somewhere, if you’re still having the dreams then, you can worry about it.

I could tell them, I could tell Erica and Marcus. It’d be easy. I could just say something like, ‘hey, uh, so there’s this giant fucking ogre made out of leeches wandering around down here and it’s got the crystal you’re after, and it killed all these copepods. Oh, and the crystal weighs about a ton and we had to get a robot to carry it, which I notice you guys didn’t bring with you. No, you can’t use our robot, it’s probably smashed to bits somewhere.’

They wouldn’t believe me. There’s no way in hell they’d believe me. Even if I did want to save their asses, which at the moment is not very high up on my priority list. I’m still maintaining the faint hope that they might actually find the damn Leechman and try to get into a fight with it, which would be my cue to run like hell.

“Roan,” Erica asks me, again using that mildly infuriating soft and considerate voice, “have you seen one of these before?” She’s holding the body of the leech out to me, grasping it like one might hold a snake, right behind the head. Its mouth gapes insanely wide and round and the body hangs limp. I can’t stop myself from taking a step backwards.

Goddam it, Erica.

“Leechman,” I say, and then I cough. Our eyes meet for the first time in a half hour. “The leechman’s here.”

Erica’s eyes seem to grow instantly deeper. Her mouth is open slightly, and she stares at me in silence until Marcus nudges her, his eyes flicking between her and me. “What’s the leechman?” he asks, and Erica, broken out of her reverie, licks her lips and glances over at him.

“Nothing,” she tells him, getting to her feet quickly. “A fairy tale. Like the boogeyman.”

Marcus doesn’t believe this; I can tell from the way he looks at her, but he doesn’t question it, just gets to his feet as well and follows her as she pulls out the tracking PDA, taps at the screen a few times, and then points down at one of the darkened vents. “That way,” she says, and where she points we follow.

We make our winding way through the ass-end of the barrows, the part we hadn’t gone through yesterday, and then the trail takes a corkscrewing, winding path downwards. We are very clearly in a section of the Pit that people have not been in very often. Even in the sections leading up to the barrows, where the flesh of the vents is left bare and uncovered, there are still lights strung here and there, little radio repeaters and every now and then a tiny, cramped-looking ranger station, mostly mothballed and closed-off, but still evidence that someone had come before us. In the barrows, though, this stopped entirely. There were little trails of cleat-marks here and there, but I think the majority of them were from us stomping through earlier, they looked too fresh, too new.

We only saw a couple of copepods, and these from far off, across vast chasms of flesh, scarred here and there like cliff-faces. I couldn’t divine their purpose, just – anomalies of anatomy, no meaning, no clear analogue I can draw. Just places where the flesh falls away and vague misty nothing takes its place. As I stand on the precipice looking over and down into darkness, watching the way my flashlight beam peters out depressingly soon, I swear that for a moment I can see something moving around, something large, fluttering and flapping and swooping like some kind of giant bat, but if anything was there, it vanished so quickly as to not leave an impression on me other than a brief glimpse of size and frantic motion.

I turned back to see if Marcus or Erica had seen any of it but they were huddled together, deep in conversation, hunched over the PDA. After a moment I traipsed over to join them. With each step on the way down I had felt my weariness building, both in my body and in my heart – I had shoved so much out of the way down somewhere inside of me where I didn’t have to feel it, and it was only now that it was beginning to creep back out at me.

We’d passed some things I’d recognized from the rest of the squad – there was a torn piece of a suit there, in a small knurled corner, dirty and speckled with red matter that might have been blood or bits of flesh. I didn’t look closely enough to check. A boot, cleated firmly into the ground. Nothing as definite as a body; the closest I saw was a great foaming gout of blood splashed across the floor and up part of the wall of the vent, but no indication as to whether it came from a person, from a member of the team, from Klaus or Euler or – or Peter, or whether it was just natural, some artery in the floor being clipped during the fighting and spraying everywhere until capillary action cut it off.

If I think about it I won’t be able to go on. I can’t bear to –

Alright, Roan. Easy girl. Deal with it later. Right now just focus on staying alive. Get back to Elena and then you can cry about things. God, poor Peter, though; and poor Makado, waiting for him. How would I feel if it had been me up there and Elena down here?

I think of her, alone, making her way up the Cord, no weapon, still hurting, probably, as the painkiller starts to wear off, and I bite my lip, hard. Goddam it, I’m not going to cry. Not down here. She’s fine, she’s going to be perfectly fine. She knows how to handle herself.

I focus instead on the ache in my knees, in my back, in my arms. We’ve been going for so long, it feels like; hours upon hours. I’d check the time on the wrist computer but these damn gloves - !

Erica and Marcus look tired as well, at least. Maybe they’ll want to rest soon. We’ll be able to eat, sleep perhaps…they have to have some kind of tent, or sleeping bags, or something, even if it’s not one of the fancy hexagonal ones the squad used. I think about pointing out that we’re all dog tired, we might as well take a break before we go further, but I nix that idea quickly – I don’t want to seem weak. Erica’s given the impression that she won’t push me but Marcus is still a wild card, I don’t know him, how he handles stress, how he’ll act in a couple of hours when he’s even more tired and hungry.

They gesture and lead on, and I follow, dead on my feet but still forcing myself to continue.

And then, after fifteen minutes of walking, down treacherous polyped inclines, past outcroppings of redundant, keratinous spines, we find, laying in a slump with his neck at an awkward unnatural angle, his eyes terribly bright and aware, Euler.

I cry out when I see him; my stomach makes a horrible lurch as I take in the gnawed markings dotting his once-bright ranger suit, round and puckered and blood-crusted. The leeches have been at him but left him alive for some inscrutable reason. He coughs as we shine our lights on him and shifts feebly but he is unable to move more than an inch or two – his spine is clearly broken.

I hadn’t expected to find any bodies; somehow I had guessed that one way or another, anyone lost down here would be utterly irretrievable. But there is Euler, the one person I would never have expected to survive – I guess I underestimated him.

Or perhaps his current condition isn’t really surviving in the main sense. Once I’ve gathered my senses I rush to him and kneel there beside him. I have nothing to offer him, no painkillers, no first aid, nothing besides companionship, but it’s better than standing and gawking as Erica and Marcus seem to be satisfied with. I wipe his forehead with my gloved palm lightly, the sweat shining on the rubber in the wake of my flashlight, and Euler’s eyes shift up to meet mine and he croaks out my name in a hoarse voice. He says it wrong, like it were one syllable, but hearing someone I care about even infinitesimally say it is like breathing after being underwater.

“Euler,” I tell him, and my voice breaks just a tiny bit right at the end. I lick my lips and try again. “Euler, what the hell happened to you?”

“I’m – it’s bad, Roan,” he says. Rone. Should have changed my name in that rebellious phase, added that accent mark I always longed for. There’d be less ambiguity. I smile to myself in spite of everything and he grins at me, just a little bit, but his eyes stay wide and frightened. They flick over to Erica and Marcus, and I look back at them as well, and then give an exasperated sigh.

“Don’t you two have any damn medical things? A first aid kit?” They glance at each other. “Anything?”

“I thought you might…” Euler coughs. “Might have come to rescue us.”

I frown. Us?

“Euler, are there…more people from the squad down here? Hurt somewhere?”

He shakes his head minutely, then winces. I don’t know what to do, I don’t know where to touch him without hurting him. I tear my glove off with my teeth, just lay my hand against his cheek. It feels like an awkwardly intimate gesture but I don’t know what else to do, I don’t know how else to help. If it were me I think I’d – I think I’d want human contact, something skin to skin. I think it might be a comfort.

“What happened?” I whisper.

“The Leechman,” he says, “it – it grabbed me and then it –“

He cries out, gently, and I move my hand downward and grab his. He clutches at me desperately. The last time I had seen him the leeches had been streaming into his open mouth, writhing against him, wrapping him like a hundred pythons at once. I bite my lip and glare back at Erica again. “Will you two fucking do something?”

“He’s clearly past any help we could give him,” Erica says, and Marcus nods.

For a very brief moment I am so intensely angry I feel as though I might burst into flame. Euler cries out softly again and I realize I have squeezed his hand too hard, and I jerk my hand back from his, muttering a stammered apology. He shakes his head.

“They’re right, I’m done for,” he tells me. “You should – you’re going down further?” he asks, frowning, and I nod.

“Those two want the crystal,” I tell him, lowering my voice a little.

“It went…that way,” he says, glancing to the right, further down the vent and into the Pit’s depths. We sit there in silence for a moment longer and then finally work up enough nerve to ask him the question I wanted to.

“Are you in pain?”

He thinks about it for a moment. “It feels like I should be but it’s just dull.” He breathes heavily. “I’m afraid.”

“Euler, don’t –“

“I’m going to die down here,” he says, and there is a terrible layer of finality in his voice that makes my heart fall.

“No, Euler, you’re not –“ I start, but then cut myself off. Because he’s right, isn’t he? I can’t argue with him, there’s no way in hell that we’re going to be able to get him out of here. If he has a broken neck there’s no fucking way we could stabilize him well enough to carry him out of here, and even if we could, I’d need Erica and Marcus’ help, which they don’t seem incredibly inclined to give me. I look back at them and start to get up, but Euler catches the cuff of my suit and I stop, hunkered over awkwardly.

“Roan, I saw – “

He coughs; I can see his chest heaving. I wonder about those leeches; I know I saw them flooding into his mouth, forcing their way down his throat…what would have –

“I saw inside it,” he tells me. I frown.

“Inside what?”

“The Leechman,” he says. His eyes are boring into mine with a horrible intensity, practically bulging outwards. “I saw inside it and – and it was so bright –“

“Euler, I don’t know what you –“

“Don’t leave me down here,” he says quietly, and then lets go. There is a pleading in his eyes that stops me dead. I’ve let my mouth fall open slightly, but there is no mistaking what he means, there is no ambiguity in the quiet desperation in his tone. He wants me to –

I get up quickly. My hands are shaking and my arms and legs feel like I’ve been whipped with a coil of lightning. I walk over to Erica and Marcus, and Erica nods at me. “You ready to go?” she asks, and I shake my head. I open my mouth and try to talk but I choke a little, then cough and try it again.

“Erica, Euler, he –“

“What is it?”

I shut my eyes. “Kill him,” I tell her. “He asked me to but I can’t – I can’t do that. He’s scared and he doesn’t want to have to lay down here unable to move for a couple more days before something fucking eats him or he dies of exposure. Please.”

Erica’s eyes are very dark. She glances at Marcus, then back at me, before she reaches down to her belt and unsnaps the holster there, then hands me the revolver. I nearly drop it; it’s heavier than I had expected. “Do it yourself,” she tells me. Her voice is like glass. “We’ve wasted enough time here already.”

“You – “ I start, but I choke it back. She’s trusting me giving me the revolver; this means something to her. This is a test. But what am I supposed to do? Can I –

But you already did once before, some part of me whispers at the back of my head. Remember Rey? He’s dead because of you. And before that -

Marcus is covering me with his own slim little pistol. I swallow hard and try not to feel the imprint of its muzzle, covering me from five, seven, ten feet away from me, my back itching as I half-expect to hear a report and feel a sharp shock –

But nothing happens. I make it to Euler; he’s watching me, his eyes rolled upwards in a manner that somehow distinctly reminds me of a dog, somehow, and I hate myself for thinking so, but he’s looking at me in the same way a dog will look up at you, not moving its head, its eyes wide and hopeful.

I thought the gun might feel better in my hand after I’d had it there for a while, but it’s still awkward and heavy and purposeful. It’s much heavier than the pistol they’d given me to practice with during qualifications back on the range a few days ago; that one hadn’t even felt like a gun, it hadn’t felt real. This one most certainly does.

Euler nods at me infinitesimally. “It’s…alright,” he says. He seems to be laboring a bit more now; maybe he hadn’t been expending very much energy until we came across him. I certainly didn’t hear any cries for help on the walk up. If he’d been there the whole time, for hours, listening to the Leechman and the copepods duke it out…

“Euler,” I say, “what did you mean when you said you saw inside the Leechman?”

“Roan,” he says. His eyes are fixed on the revolver. I’m stalling, I realize; I’m putting it off so that maybe somehow this responsibility will be removed from me. The inside of my mouth is very dry and I swallow hard, willing some moisture to return to it.

“Okay,” I say quietly. Okay, I think to myself. I take the revolver, hold it in two hands, one on the handle, the barrel resting in the palm of my other hand. I look at the cylinder, fumble for a moment before that trip all those years ago with my dad comes back to me and I find the catch and swing it outwards. Erica hasn’t reloaded since she shot Elena, I note, some dull part of my mind logging the information without any further comment. I can see the tiny mark of the struck primer on one of the cartridges. But I won’t find any salvation here, there are still five more shots that are perfectly serviceable.

I click it shut, remembering, as my dad told me, not to flick it closed, not to spin it. You aren’t a cowboy, he’d said to me gravely, pressing the gun into my chest. It had smelled like oil and metal, like something functional, like when you open the hood of your car. And I had trembled then as I am now, and I had looked out across the flat open expanse of grass –

Even then I couldn’t bear to think of it after I’d done it.

I’m stalling.

Goddam it, Roan, goddam you and your willingness to stick your neck out.

Euler makes a small noise beneath me and I look down at him. “Are you sure?” I ask, willing him to say no, to rethink it, to give me a reprieve. He nods.

“Just do it,” he says. “They won’t come get me, they won’t care. Just do it.”

“Okay,” I breathe, and then I hold the gun in two hands – why does it come back to me so easily? – and put it up very close to his forehead, and Euler shuts his eyes, and I shut mine as well. I inhale and then exhale.

Five minutes later I hear feet squelching up behind me and then Marcus is crouching next to me and prying the gun from my nerveless hands. “It’s okay,” he says, not unkindly, and then he is gently pushing me out of the way. I get to my feet, not knowing what else to do. I meet Euler’s eyes and I start to say something, then I stop. There is no blame in them, or maybe I don’t want to see blame. So instead I turn around and hunch myself against the wall, and when the gunshot finally sounds I flinch, and then I finally let myself cry.

When I turn back around I can’t bring myself to look at him. I instead watch Marcus hand the revolver back to Erica, watch Erica slip it back into the holster, watch Marcus shove his pistol into the waistband of his heavy-duty jeans. I blurt out the only thing that comes to my mind and tell him that he shouldn’t carry one in the chamber like that, it’s dangerous, and Marcus gives me a pitying look and says nothing. When I meet Erica’s eyes they are lighter than before and I realize, with a shudder as another wave of tears rolls soundlessly down my cheeks, that whatever test there was, whatever reason made her give me the revolver, I passed.

And then we stomp off into the darkness and leave poor Euler behind.

 * * *

 The next day I feel better. I slept better than I thought I might have, sandwiched between Erica and Marcus in their tent, cramped and with not enough air mattresses or sleeping bags, but I managed. They shared some of their food with me, MREs scavenged from some surplus store somewhere, which I found faintly comforting, and then the next day, when someone’s alarm blared and woke us, I was disconcertingly and surprisingly fresh-feeling. All the pain and sorrow I thought might have come boiling out of me when I let my guard down never did, and instead it was replaced with a calm, warm, faintly comforting deadness. I was, I realize now, preparing on some level to die. I had arrived at a zenlike state that had me convinced I was either dead or dreaming, a fragile state of mind that I had tried so hard to reach at that dojo in Oklahoma but which constantly eluded me.

Since Friday I am complicit now in two murders, one arguably and one less so. When I think of myself the person I am is thorny and sharp-edged and armored and I do not recognize her when I hold her in my arms. I blow out a breath and pop my eyes open as Marcus nudges me and hands me a cup of bootleg espresso made from two freeze-dried pouches, and I take it gratefully and even manage to smile at him. I feel…clean.

We’ll see how long that lasts.

More walking, more bypasses across stinking rivers of digested slurry, more crawling across meter-wide cords of banded muscle. The anatomy gets stranger and stranger, more open, more wild. Nerves like waving cilia, waggling at us like anemones, retract at lightspeed at our approach. Everything is luminescent down here, everything glows, but what glows brightest of all is the rectangular blocky backlight of Erica’s PDA, guiding us forward like a north star. She seems less certain of it, less sure; she stops and consults with Marcus every now and then and I feel fairly frequently like I have simply been forgotten, like I am an insurance policy for the return trip, a hostage kept in waiting to be revealed and used as leverage later on.

Will Makado care, I wonder, when she knows that they’ve taken me? I hope she will. I think we got close enough that she would. I think she likes me.

Does she like me enough to send a team after me? I’m sure there’s some kind of tracking device in this suit but will it even function this deep down? I don’t know.

I stub my toe on a bloated adipose swelling and it belches a gout of rank, sticky fluid on me. We pause again for Marcus to vomit.

Eventually we make it to a curled, winding passageway, a tight intestinal-feeling loop that circles in on itself over and over again, the tissue struggling against us at every turn, that we have to claw and scrape and crawl through but that the PDA swears is the right way to go, the simplified arrow logo spinning back around and directing us back in every time we think of turning around and trying someplace else. We push through and through until finally it vomits us out, breathing hard and covered in blood and strands of pale-white membrane, and then we stop, eyes wide, staring up and up and up at the space we’ve found ourselves in.

It’s enormous, the size of a stadium and at least twice or maybe three times as deep, great gnarled coils of sparking nerves weaving in and out of the fleshy, irregular walls casting macabre light in regular snaking patterns across the broad flat plate of bone that divides the space nearly in half, knotty and bulging and thick, honeycombed and dripping with thick resinous marrow.

There are things moving, I realize, on the far-off floor of the chasm, great writhing worms or – no, no, they have legs. Squat lizard-like figures, then, moving in fits and starts, their flesh a glistening pale sickly color, like milk that’s gone off. They must be simply enormous for us to be able to see them from this distance. I glance back at Erica and Marcus; their mouths are open, dumbstruck as well – they must not have known this was here. Could we be the first to find this place?

I watch a shadow, a patchy midnight cutout, detach itself from the bone plate and fall swooping to the floor of the chasm, and then it wings its way back up, one of the lizards caught in its claws, dangling beneath like a rabbit caught by a hawk. I watch, overwhelmed, as the – the thing, whatever it is, I want to call it a bird but it can’t be, it simply can’t be – flutters ungainly and graceless back to the bone and vanishes with its prey into a whorled hole in the side, ragged and uneven.

“What is this place?” I mutter to Erica, after I’ve regained enough of my senses to think to speak, and she shakes her head faintly.

“I have no idea,” she tells me, but before I can say anything else I hear a noise from above us; a subtle noise, like a whistling, drawn-out swoosh, and when I look upwards I can only see a diving, dark-furred silhouette with outstretched, foot-long claws and a hungry, slavering mouth.

I don’t have time to scream.

Continue with Part 26

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hmmmmmmmmmmmm

so this is basically an AU where misery and curly swap places (and species) - everything else is still the same in that curly was responsible for creating the demon crown, quote & misery were partners, the doctor’s trying to take over the world with angry rabbits, etc etc!

buckle up kiddos, there’s a Wall Of Text™ ahead!

first off: curly!

- her motivations for making the crown were similar to what i think misery’s were - power, mostly, but in this case it was for ‘selfless’ purposes, she wanted to be able to protect the island and its inhabitants in case something bad happened (ie. humans invading), so she’s less angry and just really depressed about what she’s being forced to do.  - she gets along much better with balrog because she doesn’t treat him like a punching bag, he’s more of a shoulder to cry on when it gets too much (both figuratively and literally) - her magic is more like a traditional bullet hell, bursts of low-damage patterned bullets similar to the machine gun that quickly overwhelm her targets, she’s at a disadvantage in one-on-one duels but can disperse a crowd incredibly easily - tries very hard to keep up a cheerful appearance, and is outwardly apologetic to those she’s affected

misery:

- still a soldier robot with amnesia, she knows about the war and what the soldiers - and humans, more importantly - did, and is Very Angry about it - lives by herself in Sand Zone (she gave the colons to jenka after finding them), attacking anyone who comes near - literally just full of rage - furious at humans for what they did, and hates robots including herself for being built to mindlessly cause death and destruction, would punch her creators if she ever found them - wields the nemesis the whole game because Lightning - was once quote’s partner, after regaining her memories she refuses the role, believing she doesn’t deserve it for the way she treated him and just trust issues in general, but post-game they still remain relatively close

general shit:

- the sand zone encounter is different in that quote doesn’t fight her - he tries, but she’s very aggressive and doesn’t have the colons to worry about - he eventually convinces her he’s not a threat, he’s a ‘good’ robot, and is trying to stop this bad guy by burning the red flowers, so she lets him pass and he continues on (also instead of finding the puppies for jenka he has to find the colons) - this also means that, similar to the fourth ending mod, when curly shows up at misery’s place looking for the mimiga, misery doesn’t get badly injured - there’s a ‘fight’, but it’s over pretty quickly - curly just gives up on trying to reason with this angry robot, manages to catch her off-guard and send her to the labyrinth because she won’t stop shooting at her, and it’s very inconvenient - by the time quote gets to the labyrinth she’s also there, hanging out in the camp because she can’t get past the boulder  - they agree to team up, escape, and stop the doctor (quote because of his Player Character™ status/whatever motivation he has in canon, misery because she just doesn’t want the war to happen again and is incredibly pissed off that humans are fucking up the goddamn island AGAIN) - in the chamber, balrog helps move the boulder because misery scares him into doing it - misery ends up giving quote her air tank like in canon, but it’s 100% out of spite - she gets badly injured during the core fight and wants to make sure that at least someone is going to go and beat the doctor up - by the time she’s revived, lost in the waterway and given the mushroom, she’s still Full Of Rage but a little more friendly - even if she’s confused as to why quote helped her - he didn’t have his memories, he couldn’t have known they were partners, she wasn’t nice to him at all, she doesn’t deserve to be saved - and is just unable to comprehend that maybe he just didn’t want to leave her to rust in a watery grave regardless of her (somewhat justified) anger at Everything - she decides, despite everything, to finish the mission with quote, and accompanies him up to the balcony - curly throws the bossfight because a) there’s two very armed very angry robots and b) they’re here to kill the doctor which is something she agrees very strongly on, so she lets herself get hit on purpose - ‘oh no... this gaping wound in my shoulder... you two have bested me..... the doctor is just up ahead take the stairs you can’t miss him’ - she catches up with the two just as they reach the undead core, because she wants to return sue to her family but isn’t sure where they are, and of course the red crystal shenanigans happen - however! post-crystal shenanigans, she doesn’t disappear, and despite being in a very bad state both physically and mentally, she directs the others to the exit - they actually have to convince her to at least leave the tower, she ends up agreeing to get sue somewhere safe where she can try and contact her family - sue is not thrilled but a bit too out of it to argue - hell happens, the curse is broken, ballos is defeated, misery and quote are rescued by balrog  - they return to the island because misery doesn’t want to leave it, she’s quite happy being a grumpy little shit in her nice sandy corner of the world - balrog and quote go find the sakamotos and live with them! momorin just rolls with the fact that her family now contains an actual dragon, an easily excitable toaster-soap-lunchbox thing, and an ex-soldier robot - curly and misery end up hanging out together on the island because curly gets lonely and thinks misery needs a friend (which she does but she won’t admit it) - i’m sure you can all guess where this is going thank you don’t forget to like and subscribe

whumptober day 8, 10, 11, 12

Ok I’m totally falling apart as far as staying on schedule here so tonight you are getting another combo fic, incorporating four prompts!!

Day 8: Stabbed

Day 10: Unconscious

Day 11: Stitches

Day 12: Don’t Move!

Penelope

It started off easily enough. Cross the water to Long Island, a uninhabited islet near Hampshire. It didn’t take us all that long to get there. Langstone Harbour is a little over an hour from Watford.

Took longer than that with the bus but there’s no helping it.

I must say the Mage is simply terrible with logistics. He saddles Simon with missions but never tells him how to get there or how to get back. He doesn’t even spring for tickets or reimburse Simon for expenses. I’ve half a mind to send a letter to the Faculty Board or the Coven but I don’t want my mother getting wind that I’m helping Simon. I’d probably be able to hear her yell from here. And Morgana knows what spell she’d magic up to stop me from helping again.

I’m not going to risk that. I’d rather deal with the Mage’s stingy ways than have my mother find out what we’re doing.

It turned out that this place isn’t much of an island at all, name notwithstanding, although my preparatory research did reveal that it was inhabited in the Bronze Age and even up into Roman times. That’s why the Mage wanted us to go there.

There’s some sort of talisman he’s discovered through scrying. I didn’t think the Mage believed in crystal balls or images in pools of enchanted spring water.  Simon says he uses all available means of magical discovery and that scrying is a fairly common practice in Wales. That’s where the Mage is from. Simon says he rarely speaks of it.

We made our way to the island right before dusk and I magicked up a causeway. Simon wanted to steal a boat. Why steal when we can use magic? A stolen boat leaves a trail, a memory for the Normals, something out of the ordinary. A magickal causeway and a judicious “through a glass darkly” is all that’s necessary for something like this. No one will even know we were here.

Or so I thought. The Mage neglected to mention that this island is protected by the Mer people. And that this talisman has some magical significance to them. Typical.

We made it over without incident and I cast a few finding spells, using a sketch of the talisman the Mage had provided. It took about an hour but we found it, plucked it out from the center of a stone mound and stashed it in Simon’s pocket, wrapped in a scrap of cloth.

One of Baz’s linen handkerchiefs to be accurate. Simon can be so petty sometimes.

It took a fair bit of magic to keep the causeway up that long—the island was a fair distance from the coast, and the span wasn’t as simple as a footbridge across a river or ravine, like I’ve done before. I could feel my magic waning as we made our way back across.

Which is, of course, when the Mer people showed up. They rose up out of the water, on either side of the causeway. Dark-haired men, heavily muscled, wielding tridents at us. Mer people have their own kind of magic and they don’t particularly like anything crossing over their watery domains. Particularly not mages. There is all kinds of history there, none of it good.

I could see my causeway start to shimmer ahead of us. We only had a short distance to go, the shore wasn’t that far ahead, but then the causeway had flickered completely away in front of us, leaving me and Simon balanced on the edge. I darted a look behind me.

Merlin’s teeth. They’d erased it behind us too. We were stuck on the little remnant, surrounded by them.

Reasoning didn’t work. Simon called the Sword of Mages and made quick work of a few of them, slashing through their tridents and slicing some arms off as he did. It got a bit ugly then. Simon got blurry at the edges, like he gets when his magic rises up. He was moving so fast I could barely keep his sword in sight. He had me tucked behind him with a “can’t touch this.”

I don’t know why he didn’t do it over himself too but Simon never casts protective spells on himself.

He won’t weatherize himself either, even if it’s pouring rain. I don’t know if he forgets or he’s just incapable of doing it. I think he just forgets. He doesn’t think of himself that way, as needing a shield or a defense. Just everyone else.

We were outnumbered and Mer people are fierce when they’re feeling slighted. Or anytime they’ve got strangers near them, to be honest. I was trying to cast nets and churn up the water but it was difficult to cast when I was stuck behind Simon and hard to avoid getting him tangled up or knocking him off this remnant of my causeway.

A trident had whipped in front of my legs but the spell held it off.

Simon hadn’t been so lucky. He got speared in the side by another raging Mer-man. It was enough of a shock to make him go off. We ended up on the shore, under a tree.

It takes me a moment to clear my head and brush the sand off me. That’s when I get a look at Simon.

He’s bleeding and there’s a huge gash along his side. It looks like he got stabbed and then the trident tore along the surface of his flesh. It’s nasty looking.

Wide. Gaping. Blood pouring out of it.

“Don’t look at me like that, Penny. I’ll be fine. Just give me a “get well soon” and I’ll be alright.”

His breathing is too fast.

I point my ring at him and it gives me a half-hearted glow. Fuck a goblin. I need more power than this. I point it at him and cast a “get well soon” and a “right as rain.” The bleeding slows up and his breathing slows too, but the wound is still there.

I can’t think of any other spells right now. “Early to bed” comes to me and I cast it. Simon grabs my hand. “It’s all right, Penny. It’s better. I can manage.”

He can’t, the great thumping git. He’s got a bleeding hole in him, literally a bleeding hole, and a good eight-inch gash along his flank.

I need help. I don’t know how I’m going to get him back to Watford. The bus will take too long and we’ll draw too much attention if he’s bleeding on the bus. I doubt a “nothing to see here” will last long enough, the way I’m casting right now.

I find a blanket in a rowboat nearby and I cast “sanitized for your protection” on it before I tear it into strips to bind Simon’s wound with it. I make it snug enough that he gasps when I tighten the last bit.

“Bloody hell, Penny.” “I can’t have you bleeding out, Simon.” My voice is curt but I pull his arm over my shoulder and we limp our way to the station. He rallies a bit for the trip home.

It feels like we’re traveling forever.

We finally make our way to Watford by cab and blast it, the bloody drawbridge is up already. Fuck a nine-toed troll. I am going to skin the Mage the next time I see him, I swear to Merlin.

What am I going to do with Simon? I need to get him inside, I need to get him to the infirmary. We’re standing here, staring at the drawbridge, at the moat, at the gap between us and the wall, trying to figure out what to do.

Simon chooses this exact moment to pass out. He slumps right down, sliding away from me and falling into a heap at the moat’s edge. I drag him back. The mer-wolves have a keen sense of smell and I wouldn’t put it past one of them to crawl up out of the water to investigate the scent. They have a unnerving nose for blood.

I’ve had enough of bloody mer-creatures for one night, thank you very much.

I’m wracking my brain trying to think of a way to contact Agatha. If I could reach her she could get the nurse or the Mage or even Miss Possibelf, if the Mage is gone. He’s gone half the time as it is. He sends us off on these blasted missions and isn’t here to claim the artefact he sent us to find in the first place, the barmy bastard.

I’m on my knees casting “get well soon” on Simon again when I hear a voice calling my name.

“Bunce?”

I look up to the ramparts and see Baz’s pale face shining in the moonlight.

“What the devil are you doing out there, Bunce? And what have you done to Snow?”

Beggars can’t be choosers. Baz Pitch is a blessed sight at the moment.

“Stop chattering, Basilton Pitch, and help me. Simon’s hurt and I can’t get across the moat.”

He frowns down at me and for a moment I think he’s going to turn away. Next thing I know he’s over the ramparts and floating down across the moat, calm and collected, as if he casts “float like a butterfly” every day.

“What’s the situation?” he asks, as he lands, sinking to his knees next to Simon. I can see why Simon gets irritated with him. He even makes kneeling in the mud look elegant.

I give him as vague a story as I can. He shakes his head at me. “Can’t the Mage do his own dirty work?”

It’s startlingly close to my own opinion on the matter. It was fun and exciting the first years. But we’re sixth years now and it’s getting a bit irritating to always be at the Mage’s beck and call. It would be nice if he did some of this on his own. I don’t know why it always has to be Simon.

Baz’s grey eyes meet mine. “I don’t know if I can carry him over the wall with the spell,” he says.

I know that.

“And I can’t magic the drawbridge down.”

I know that, too.

“Can you get the nurse, Basil? Or Miss Possibelf?”

He looks down at Simon then and in an uncharacteristic motion takes Simon’s hand in his, pressing his fingertips to Simon’s wrist. “His heart’s racing. How bad is he hurt?”

“Bad enough. I got the bleeding to slow down but the gash wouldn’t heal.”

Baz’s nostrils flare at my words.

Oh fuck.

I point my ring at him, leaning over Simon menacingly. I hope I look menacing. I’m not sure. I probably just look tired. “Don’t move, Baz. Stay back.”

He knocks my hand away. “Calm down, Bunce. I’m not going to hurt him. I may loathe Snow but this is perhaps the least sporting way to inflict damage on him.” His expression softens. “Let me help.”

“I don’t trust you.”

“I don’t trust you either. Now will you shut up and let me help or not? You’ve dragged me into this, I may as well make myself useful.”

His wand is in his hand and he’s pointing it at Simon. I want to push him away. I want to shout at him to stop.

I want him to help me.

He casts a “get well soon” and I can feel the power of it. I press my fingertips to the blanket bandages and they come away wet.

“I think we’ve got to close the wound. I think that’s the only way we’ll get the spells to actually take.”

“Unwrap it then.”

“Can you handle it, Basil?” I’ve never addressed this with him. I’m not even sure I believe Simon. About Baz being a vampire.

But I can’t risk it. I can’t risk Simon.

Baz raises one eyebrow and quirks his lip. “I can handle a little blood, Bunce.”

Baz

Aleister Crowley, I hope I’m right. Thank magic I fed just a bit ago. I’ve got a full belly, blood sloshing through me still. The rats were plentiful tonight and I was thirsty.

It should be fine. Everything should be fine.

The scent of Snow’s blood hit me when I was still up on the ramparts. It’s what made me look down. I know that scent.

I’d recognize it anywhere.

I’ve smelled it all too often; from when I’ve hit him myself, from all the nights he’s crawled into bed after one of the Mage’s missions.

He smells like bacon and warm cinnamon buns. Like hazelnut coffee and campfire smoke.

He smells good enough to eat.

I can’t let myself think like this.

I have to do this. I have to help Simon.

“It’s fine, Bunce. Unwrap the layers yourself, if you don’t trust me.” That keeps me from getting blood on my hands. I don’t know if I could handle that right now.

Bunce meets my eyes and we stare at each other for a long moment. Then she nods and unwraps what looks like a plaid fleece blanket from around Snow’s waist.

The gash is ugly. It’s ragged and a good six inches in length, gaping near the stab wound but tapering off at the end. There isn’t much active bleeding. It seems the spells have at least managed that.

I don’t know how to heal a wound. I’ve not had to do this before. Experimentation seems a bit risky. I try to think of something that might bring the edges together but my mind is a bit of a blank, between the glimpse of Snow’s freckled skin and the rising scent of his blood surrounding me. I may be a tad woozy from it all.

Bunce shoves me. “Do something.”

“I’m trying to think what to do.”

She huffs. “If you can’t think of a way to seal the wounds then we’ll just have to stitch him up.”

“You must be joking.”

“I’m waiting for a better idea from you.”

She’ll be waiting a long time then. I’m blank other than healing spells so I hit Snow with a few more of those to stall for time. The wound narrows a bit and the bleeding stops completely, thank magic.

He’s still out cold. Blood loss and shock, I’m assuming.

“A stitch in time” I cast and a threaded needle shimmers in front of me. I’m not sure if I should use my wand or my hand to direct it. Bunce makes the decision for me. She grabs the needle and starts to make the first stitch. She manages to make three uneven stitches before she groans and covers her face with her hands.

“Ugh. I don’t know if I can do this.” “What do you mean you don’t know if you can do this? You asked me to help. I’m helping. Come along now, Bunce, stitch away.”

“I can’t. It’s awful. The way the needle feels going through his skin and the way his flesh quivers when I do it.” She shakes her head. “You do it.”

I stare at her. “You can’t be serious.”

The glare she shoots me over her glasses is menacing. Bunce can be quite terrifying when she chooses.

I bite my lips. I do not want to touch Snow’s skin. That would be an absolutely terrible idea. I may want to trace the constellations of moles that dot his chest and abdomen but now is most certainly not the time for that.

What am I thinking? There’s never going to be a time for that.

I shake my head to clear it.

I really can’t afford to get any of his blood on my hands.

I lean over him, wand pointed at the needle Bunce has abandoned on Snow’s skin. “I’ve got this all sewn up.” I make the sewing motions with my wand and the needle parallels my movements, slowly stitching up the wide wound, inch by inch. I make her tie the knot when I’m done.

She casts a “sanitized for your protection” on the blanket remnants, which is truly an inspired spell. I’ll have to remember that one.

Once she’s got Snow all bandaged again, she moves to place his head on her lap, gently stroking the hair off his face.

I imagine it’s me doing that. I think about how his curls would slip through my fingers, how the calluses on my fingertips would catch in his hair. How I’d stroke the side of his cheek . . . bloody hell, I need to stop this.

I drag my eyes away.

“Anything else I can do, Bunce?”

“Cast another healing spell, would you, Basil?”

I cast another healing spell. And another. Just in case.

I don’t think I can magic Bunce and Snow over the wall. We’ll just have to wait until morning, when the drawbridge comes down. Or flag the goatherd down at sunrise and have her magic us over. Fiona says she may be unassuming to look at but she’s a powerhouse when she chooses.

I wouldn’t know.

The night is getting cooler and the breeze picks up. I magic my coat into a blanket and Bunce does the same with her jacket. We wrap them around Snow and huddle together for warmth, Snow’s head still pillowed on Bunce’s lap.

He’s inches away, closer than he’s ever been before, except when we’ve been fighting.

It’s too much, having him here like this, so close, so still, so quiet. It’s unnerving. I’m worried that he hasn’t woken up yet. I’m worried he’s lost too much blood. I can feel his heartbeat, steady and strong though and I try to convince myself it’s just exhaustion and blood loss.

I can’t help it. I reach over and lay my cold hand on his forehead. It feels warm but not too warm. What would I know? I’m not a normal temperature myself.

Snow turns his head into my palm and rubs his forehead against my hand. I snatch it back, not daring to meet Bunce’s eyes.

She places her hand where mine was. “He’s not running a fever, if that’s what you’re worried about, Basil.”

“I’m not worried. Just thought I’d check is all.”

I get another one of Bunce’s penetrating stares. I don’t say anything. I just lean back against the tree we’re huddled under and tilt my head up to look at the stars.

I follow the patterns of the stars but what I see in my head are the patterns on Snow’s skin.

It’s going to be a long night.

Title: Bitter Night Fandom: Final Fantasy XV Chapters: I | II | III | IV | V | VI Characters: Noctis Lucis Caelum, Ardyn Izunia | Ardyn Lucis Caelum, Regis Lucis Caelum Tags: Time Travel, Fix-It Of Sorts, Angst, Hurt, Comfort Eventually, Ardyn and Noctis are both Assholes, Fuck the Gods Summary: He hadn't known what he was doing. All he knew was that he felt bitter in this endless night--bitter that the story needed to end like this. It felt like the Bad Ending and--well, Noctis hated getting Bad Endings in his games. He refused to.

So Noctis refused. 

None of the blows that tore into him from the Kings of Yore left behind a physical wound, much like each of the thirteen royal arms that he’d taken into his armiger had left behind little truth of their presence aside from a coldness in his breast and a pain that ached deeper than any sort of physical thing Noctis felt before. That didn’t mean the blows did not hurt—the pain of them was so profound that Noctis found himself in a struggle to breathe. He could barely lift his own head, let alone grasp at his father’s sword with fingers that felt fat and weak.

Somehow, and Noctis could never quite be certain how he succeeded at it, he dragged the sword over to where the ghost of his father stood—the first to respond to his summons, the last to strike the blow. Befitting, perhaps, that his father would be the one in the end. He couldn’t look at the man, just as he didn’t doubt his father couldn’t look at him. Noctis hadn’t anticipated this all those years ago, as he stood in front of the citadel with a smile on his lip and a bow to his King. He wondered if Regis knew.

Did you know, dad?

Noctis hand shook and he fought to get the breath in his lungs to speak, but eventually he got the words out even as the tears he fought so hard to hold off began to drip down his cheeks. “Dad.” The sword never felt so heavy in his grip. His palm was wet and struggled to keep a grip against the hilt. He could hear the blade tremble against the stone from where he dragged it.

Did you know that it would come to this?

He needed his father to finish it. Noctis needed all thirteen—and Regis was the last. He was his father first and foremost, his King second—but he was of the Lucii now. Neither of them wanted this, Noctis knew, but he was the only one left and he needed this. Noctis sucked in a breath through lungs that refused to work and weakly uttered, “Trust in me.” His throat wanted to close up and he wanted to sob himself sick.

Finish it, dad, please. I’m so tired. Just…

Noctis found the strength to pull back when the blade left his grip. He forced himself as upright as he could make it even as he felt the ghost of his father fade from his side. He raised his gaze up his father’s Lucii form and felt the last of his breath hitch in his throat. The man was formed of crystal fire, but it was so utterly his father there. The motion of the blade held aloft, to the design of the armor.

…finish it.

The sword pierced home with the groan of metal in a way that hurt unlike each of the other blows. This one was physical, Noctis knew—the sacrifice demanded of him to end the blight upon the Star. He understood that even as he felt his breath tear from his lungs with a wet sort of gasp, as he felt his father’s soul nestle back into the ring and take with it the light that had tried to burn his eyes out. Noctis felt the magic slip from him then, through his grasp and his fingers even as he slumped over with a second, wheezed breath of pain.

Death hurt, Noctis knew it would. He knew it would hurt the minute he held that very ring in his hand after Leviathan—after Luna—and he knew it the first moment he placed it home upon his finger. He could feel the way the Lucii dragged their tenterhooks into his very soul and Light. To be a King of Lucis was to be a sacrifice; it was all the Kings were, no matter their choices in the end. They were sacrifices and tools—and so when the power of the ring Called, Noctis stood at its epicenter freed from the mortal coil, but not freed from the pain of death.

The blade still dug itself into his chest, he could feel it, even as Noctis stared down into the gaping chasm of darkness within the depths of the ring. He made a promise to Ardyn; Noctis could remember it clearly as the man lay upon the ground with his own form slowly breaking into bits of miasma. He could remember all that Bahamut showed him—and the promise, as Ardyn died at his knees, even as he knew without a doubt that they were nothing more than pawns in a bitter feud between the Gods and Mortal Men. Ardyn didn’t deserve this. Noctis didn’t deserve this. The world didn’t deserve this.

It felt like the Bad Ending in a long, drawn out story—and Noctis wanted to laugh at it all even if it hurt.

Noctis closed his eyes, let these thoughts suffuse him, and raised his hand up; he could feel his Ultima shift into place above him, and with a voice choked by his own blood Noctis uttered, “I’m sorry,” and threw the blade down.

If it was one thing no one expected, it was to have the walls of Angelgard suddenly tear open with the force of an Alterna as Ardyn lay entangled in his own chains. The force of the magic as it ripped through the ancient prison knocked Ardyn through the hair lightly, enough to feel each jagged edge of the blades through his skin tear something fresh and force him into wakefulness. He blinked into the darkness with a faint moan of pain even as the sudden pull of the magic cut off with the sound of a warp and the clatter of a blade upon the stone.

Ardyn could feel the body brush up against the chains that dug into his feet; he could fee the touch of fabric against his toes and fought to contain the hiss of breath at the gesture even as he tried to catch sight of whomever had been added to his prison now. Perhaps Somnus decided to give him a bedmate? Hah, wouldn’t that be a thought—his brother doing anything kind to him for once. It took a moment longer for Ardyn to readjust to the world in darkness after the bright lightshow of crystalline magic, but when he could—well.

The shape and form at his feet was familiar. Ardyn couldn’t see much, but he could hear the way the other man hissed and struggled for breath. He could hear hands scrapped against stone as the other man shifted and pulled away, as he brushed against Ardyn’s chains and pushed Ardyn to sway the faintest bit. Ardyn bit back another groan of pain and tried to focus on the dark head of hair of the man who fumbled backward and coughed—it sounded far wetter than anything rightly should, followed by fluid hitting the ground at Ardyn’s feet.

Blood, perhaps? Wouldn’t that be his luck. Some fool thrust in, only to die at Ardyn’s feet. A fool with dark hair, with magic—with a blade so familiar tossed to the wayside. Ardyn shuttered his eyes and tried to breath through the ragged thought that at his feet lay Somnus—

His little Somnus.

Somnus hadn’t always been such a shit; once he’d been a kind, if lazy thing. Before the Kingdom in its early stages came between them, before plague struck their lands—when they were children and it was only them. Ardyn and Somnus.

Ardyn missed Somnus.

The form at his feet choked on pain and hissed through teeth as they tried to move themselves from being collapsed, to at least upon their hands and knees. Ardyn fought down the urge to start to whisper Somnus’ name—he got as far as, “S-Som,” before he clamped his voice behind his lips and closed his eyes.

Instead Ardyn listened as the other man’s breath hitched, a choked off, “I’m sorry,” reached his ears even as whomever it was at his feet—Somnus—struggled until they leaned against the stone that blockaded Ardyn in with chains. He could hear the sound of fingers that dug into the dirt and grime as the body leaned heavily against the ancient ruin. He could feel wet puffs of breath against his bare calves and a hand weakly reached out and grasped at his ankles.

“Ar—dyn,” Somnus gasped out, weak with the sound, fluid most-probably in his lungs with the way his breathing rasped and rattled loud in the darkness. Ardyn’s eyes snapped open again and stared down—down at impressionable, grey-blues and he felt bitterness choke upon him, in his throat—and the hand gripped at his ankles tightly.

Strongly.

Those grey-blue eyes turned a bright and deadly pink and with a puffed breath and a snarled face with far more stubble than Ardyn could remember Somnus ever deciding to wear, Somnus ground out as if his throat were coated in glass, “Shatter.”

The chains shattered into light; the sudden loss of them dragged into his weight, pulled upon his muscle and through bone, left Ardyn with a cry of surprise. He crumbled to the ground and had half-a-second to hear Somnus utter, “Shit!” before his head struck stone brick.

When You Least Expect It | 04

Pairing: Jungkook x Reader x Taehyung

Word count: 8.6k

Warnings: masturbation mention, angst 

AO3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16732419/navigate

A/N: This ended up being a 15k chapter but I wanted to keep the chapter sizes under or around 10k if possible, so here is the first part. The second part will be coming forthwith!

Next: 05 || WYLEI Masterlist

You’re in love with your childhood friend, Taehyung. The problem is, you treasure your friendship with him far too much to ever risk losing it. Oh, and he’s quite the Casanova. At your wits’ end with feelings you can no longer hide as diligently as you once did, you ask him to set you up with someone, anyone, in a last-ditch attempt to avoid a heartbreaking conversation.

Your hand twitched in your lap under the strain of suppressing a facepalm. “Aren’t we a little old to be playing this game?”

Hoseok scampered over, crouched low, perilously clutching a bottle of vodka and several shot glasses to his chest. Luckily, he managed to reach your group before the evening was ruined by the shattering of glass. “When can you ever be too old to hear your friends’ dirty secrets?” he posed, and you no longer had the power to withhold the inevitability of your hand meeting your face.

“I thought for sure that we already knew each other a little too intimately,” you peeked through your fingers at Yoongi, who, for some reason, was toting one of those expensive-looking crystal decanters and tipping it in your direction with a deliberate wink.

Hoseok followed your gaze to the subject of your shame. “Hey, I told you not to touch that stuff! It’s for special occasions.”

Drunker than he usually allowed himself to get, Yoongi waved the container in front of him as Hoseok advanced on him, withdrawing it cruelly out of reach whenever he stretched for it. “This is a special occasion,” he asserted. “I’m here.”

“Dude, I don’t care how good a friend you are, that stuff costs a bomb and you’re not having any now,” the taller of your two friends put the other in his place. It was always a little jarring when Hobi got serious. Like the sun setting and ushering in a darker unknown, seeing the light disappear from his face would have you scurrying for safety. If Hoseok was angry, upset or disappointed, you sure as hell better hope it wasn’t directed at you. In this case, however, he was more bemused with Yoongi’s defiance than anything. “I’ll bring a little for your party.”

Yoongi forced out his bottom lip into an uncharacteristic pout. Bewilderingly, the expression suited his small, round face a little too well. Dare you say, it was even becoming of him? “Fine.”

Somehow, initially lured by the promise of drinks and a sorely needed group catch-up, you’d been dragged into an ill-advised game of Never Have I Ever. When all of you gathered – even in your rather subdued late-20s – you could expect something memorable to go down. And, cocooned within a tentative tranquillity that you had weaved over the past few days, you didn’t want that endangered. You weren’t here for drama.

You’d been far more restrained with your alcohol consumption than the others so far, though, and you realised how much you’d probably missed during your past episodes of inebriation. Your wasted personality was definitely just an exaggeration of your sober one; not a Jekyll and Hyde type some of your more unassuming friends had mortified you by showcasing.

Guilty of being a flirt even when there was nothing negatively influencing your better judgement, alcohol only amplified that trait to the extent that you basically became a sexual deviant. Not a stranger to dancing on tables and giving whoever was unlucky enough to be sitting there a show of your amateur lap-dancing skills – usually goaded on by the cheers of your shit-faced peers – your inability to limit yourself had gotten you into some rather tricky and, on occasion, shameful situations. It had been a long time since you’d really let yourself go, though, and tonight would be no different. Watching the quirks of your friends’ personalities manifest in ways you’d previously been too impaired to see awarded you joy enough.

Other than the three of you, Taehyung had tagged along too, and in tow, a couple of his own friends. You were surprised he hadn’t brought Tara, but you knew their budding relationship was a big thing for him and that he was probably planning on officially unveiling her at Yoongi’s party. For the sake of safeguarding that precious, fragile stability you had pieced together for yourself, you tried not to dwell on it for long. But you knew that the only reason you weren’t being taunted constantly by visions of Taehyung walking some faceless woman down the aisle was because she was just that; an unknown, intangible. She was still just a concept in your mind, and you were afraid of what the reality would do to you when you were finally forced to confront it next Saturday.

One thing was helping, though. Immensely.

Jungkook.

You still couldn’t believe it, really.

While waiting for Hoseok to set up and for Taehyung to get back from the bathroom, you retrieved your phone from your pocket. You had no new messages, of course – basically everyone who gave you the time of day was in this room with you. But you thumbed affectionately over the last few messages he had sent you, the same quiet smile that lifted your lips settling itself there once more as you read them. Since that sequentially harrowing and then uplifting day at the school, you’d been texting each other on the regular.

[15:34] Jungkook how about this?

[15:34] Jungkook sent an image.

You spent time examining the selfie he’d sent you. Posing in front of a poster for what was obviously a horror film – some slasher, you guessed, from the silent scream emanating from the lead actress’s gaping mouth – Jungkook mimicked her expression, his free hand flat against his cheek in some wide-eyed Edvard Munch tribute. On your first look, you had merely been amused at the lengths he would go to to extract a smile from you, but then it had bloomed into an affected warmth. Everything he said and did was in an attempt to lighten the load of your burdens a little, and it touched you a tad too deep. You didn’t want him to become your pack-horse; you wanted him to enjoy his time with you, too. And, somehow, he was making it easier for you to become a person that was enjoyable to be around. In minute, hesitant steps, but still. Your second date was the day after tomorrow, and averse to the run-up to your first one, you simmered with excitement when you thought about it.

No, the pain hadn’t gotten any easier, but rather than picking at the wound and preventing it from healing, you allowed Jungkook to be the bandage that cushioned against such harm. And, because you couldn’t let yourself live, not even for one second, you felt guilty about that.

He was just a distraction.

As much as you wanted him to become everything to you that Taehyung was, he was just a temporary salve that washed away when you were dragged downstream by the current.

Taehyung always pulled you under.

[15:36] Lmfao, you’re adorable

[15:37] Jungkook i’m not adorable, damnit!! i’m a testosterone-fuelled, hot-blooded man!

You swallowed a snicker. You had a feeling that your age gap made him a little insecure, so you tried to tease him as little as possible. Tried. It was his fault for being cute as fuck.

[15:38] Somehow, you’re both. Good job!

And then he’d sent you something that stirred a feeling in you that had become all-too familiar when attached to Taehyung, but not any other man.

[15:39] Jungkook let me prove it to you someday

Yes, your venture was cautious and new, but you had set the bar with your previous flirting. This had encouraged him into being a little bolder with you. Nothing obscene, nothing even all that overt. But occasionally he sent you messages that hinted at something. And holy shit, it got to you far more than you’d ever expected. Even just the faint promise of it had you fidgeting a little uncomfortably in your seat sometimes.

It had become an altogether terrifying prospect that you may never be attracted to, or aroused by another man until you somehow got over Taehyung. The fact that Jungkook could provoke you in this way was endlessly reassuring, if not a little startling. Thankfully, it was still too early for you to even think about sleeping with him yet – you were determined to take it slow, despite what your body told you – and if things ever went well enough for you to consider acting on your desire, you had ample time to prepare.

[15:41] Maybe, if I’m feeling charitable lol

And that was something he was going to have to get used to – your sometimes overly abrasive wit that was certainly not a defense mechanism in any shape or form. Not at all.

He seemed to sense that about you, though, if his response was any indication. In such a short period of time, too. How?

Jungkook played along.

[15:42] Jungkook yes miss, thank you miss

You had a feeling that such flirtatious back-and-forths were a tribute to the relative safety of distance between you. Jungkook certainly seemed bolstered by it. Because for every dangerous comment you’d levelled at him on your date, face-to-face, he’d been stumped, and more than a little flustered. With a little time and loosening up, what sort of a man would he show himself to be? You bit your lip thinking about it.

“Did your man-shape send you something good?” a sing-song voice rudely interrupted your increasingly indecent thoughts.

You looked up at the guy with lurid red hair. It was Jimin, one of Taehyung’s friends from college and someone you’d had to repeatedly rebuff in the past. Sure, he was hotter than Satan’s favourite beach holiday destination, but you found his personality incredibly lacking. In fact, his dating practices imbued in you as little faith as Taehyung’s, except he was not up front, he strung women along and frequently made booty calls to those who were naïve enough to believe that he would eventually want something more. And that is why you kept well away from that strutting, manspreading catastrophe. “My man-shape?” you clarified, though you supposed Taehyung had told him all about Jungkook. The fact that you were the subject of recent conversation between the two of them made you feel a little uncomfortable – when would Jimin get the hint? No, when would he finally take note of the flashing neon sign above your head that read ‘Hell can freeze over first!’?

“Yeah, your boy-toy. Sexting already?” he smirked, spread out on the couch like he owned the place, one arm slung over the back and his legs spread as wide as his distractingly tight jeans would decently allow him.

“Jesus, Jimin,” you sighed. Every time you uttered his name it was awash in disapproval. “Nosy much? How about I ask you when you last fucked someone? No, wait, don’t answer that,” you added on hurriedly, your frantically waving arms stretching to censor him the wider he opened his mouth. “No, don’t tell me. Please.”

He stuck out his bottom lip in protest but complied. Thankfully, as coarse and lewd as he could be, Jimin could – most of the time – reel himself in when people began to tire of his unseemly conversational topics. Unfortunately, he was still insufferable enough that you wouldn’t consider meeting up with him on your own time, but you were more than happy to hang out with him in the presence of others. Jimin in limited doses could be fun. Somewhere, a small part of you lurched at the thought that he had probably been your ideal type only a few years ago.

Why Hoseok thought it was a good idea to play this game, especially with Jimin present, mystified you. Not only did you basically know everything about each other already, but you were no longer living a transient lifestyle; everyone had remained here with some permanence and if anything embarrassing surfaced tonight, there would be nothing for it but to face an awkward run-in the next day. It was inescapable. And this is why these games were better suited to the temporary shitstorm of student life. Particularly for you, who was probably liable to spill the juiciest secrets of them all.

So, despite feeling the familiar, coaxing warmth of alcohol cladding your veins, you would endeavour to lie at every opportunity. The problem is, you weren’t particularly good at lying, especially when put on the spot. And all the more for being under the sway of Russian spirits.

Mercifully, Jimin’s attentions had been captured by the hushed scolding of the other friend Taehyung had brought with him – a girl you didn’t recognise, and by the way Jimin was being excessively handsy with her in the midst of their playful, charged bickering, you presumed she was his current ‘girlfriend’. Her face was entirely unfamiliar to you, and it surprised you a small amount to see her here at Hoseok’s place, considering Taehyung was your tie, not his. And he had brought with him a chain of friends whose links to Hoseok became weaker the further down the line you went. He didn’t seem to mind, though. Unlike you, Hobi was outgoing and welcoming of fresh blood. He just loved to play host.

Everyone was sitting on the floor in a circle, waiting for Taehyung to return. After several more minutes and jokes exchanged about whether to send in an excavation squad, he finally reappeared and settled himself next to you. Before anyone had a chance to say anything other than a cursory ‘Finally!’, he held up his hand. “Don’t ask, unless you want me to get gross.”

And, yes, it had dawned on you the day after your most opportune reunion with Jungkook and Taehyung’s subsequent suspicious behaviour that the Gods hadn’t smiled upon you at all. No, it had just been him spinning his tricks. From the intrepid misplacement of his phone, to the fastidiously plotted – late – arrival, to the panicked, rushed departing. The fucker had planned it all, despite your obvious discomfort with the entire situation. The anger you had felt initially would have been a damn sight more homicidal if it hadn’t been so dulled by the genuine contentedness your spontaneously set-up date had given you.

When you’d seen Taehyung next, though, you’d immediately tacked him to the wall, finger prodding his chest in accusation. He’d merely stood there, frozen, eyes wide and duly fretful. And he knew damn well it would extinguish your fury. The bear-hug he’d then trapped you in hastened your transformation from vengeful hell-bitch to tender, wilting flower. Muffled pleas for forgiveness had been breathed into your neck and it’d taken the self-control of a saint not to turn your head and swallow his begging with your mouth. Because, fuck, why did he have to get so close all the time, smelling like all your favourite memories and haunts and places in the future only your imagination could take you. It was a good idea to keep him at arms’ length, really, but he caught you off-guard every time, pinning you like the apex predator of maleness he was.

Eventually, you’d bestowed upon him the forgiveness he so desperately sought and thanked him. Because you were truly thankful. Jungkook had deserved that second chance.

Hoseok began to dish out the glasses, filling up your respective cups. Having already plied everyone with drinks since an hour beforehand, needless to say the room was already abuzz with giddy chatter. “Let’s get going, then. I’ll go first. Take a drink if you have done this, remember.”

You leaned back against the front of the sofa opposite the one Jimin and his girl were seated on and pulled your knees to your chest. “We know, Hoseok. I’ve played this game so many times.”

“I know you have,” he tutted, disappointed with your sour attitude. “And I’m sure many of us have, too. But we’ve never played it together, have we?”

Taehyung answered for you, mimicking your posture and raising his knees. “Nope. I was 3 years too late to join in on your antics,” he muttered, an indignant finger hovering between you, Yoongi and Hoseok. “But then again, I was a good boy, so.”

Yoongi almost choked on the beer he’d been chugging. Oh God, you thought to yourself. Yoongi, don’t mix your drinks. “Bullshit. You might not have been drowning in booze in your teenage years, but everyone knows you were drowning in pussy instead. You’re hardly the face of morality.”

The younger brother merely shrugged, unaffected. “True. They all thought I was a good boy, too, though.”

If you’d been drinking, you were sure it would be burning the inside of your nose right now. Instead, you slapped his shoulder lightly in admonishment. The kid was clearly becoming uninhibited. “Kim Taehyung!”

For some reason, Jimin seemed to enjoy goading you. “Things are probably going to get a lot worse than that, ____. Why don’t you drink some more to take the edge off of his PG-13 words?”

The girl thumped him, but you were already glaring at him so hard you saw even his steadfast look of self-congratulation falter a little. There was absolutely no doubt in your mind that you could take that cocky little shit of a man out back and have him begging for mercy within a couple of minutes. “Why don’t you sit on my finger and spin, little boy? You’d probably like that, huh? Don’t talk to me about PG-13.”

An uproarious ‘ooooooooooh!’ rippled throughout your group. “Holy shit,” Yoongi rasped. “Someone Google the nearest burn centre.”

Hoseok was giggling and kicking his feet like an excited child. Jimin, however, stared at you, slack-jawed enough to convey how severely dumbfounded he was. For a brief moment, in the absence of his cocksure smirk, you saw him for what he truly was: a babyfaced man still living out his collegiate fantasy in order to feed his constant need for validation. You felt sorry for him, in that second. That feeling was painfully familiar to you.

But it was Taehyung’s reaction that had you blanching. The blatancy with which you spoke about your sex life was, usually, kept strictly to the trained ears of Yoongi and Hoseok. They had frequently been your drunken comrades-in-arms, afterall. Taehyung, however, had been relatively sheltered from your mountain of sexploits. You protected him from that image of you; didn’t want him to think you were loose, or debauched, or anything else along those lines, even though you knew that he wouldn’t judge you. That it wasn’t shameful to be that way. He, afterall, had been and was still that way. Not quite as wild, you were sure, but nevertheless. And that utterance, just now, was only the tip of the iceberg. He had no fucking idea.

But he was just staring at you. His face, on appearance, blank, but you knew that face, and that everything was somewhat out of place. Eyebrows slightly raised, eyes a little wider, lips incrementally parted. Afraid of what kind of conclusions his brain was coming to, you adopted your first line of defence: savagery. “I’m sorry, Taehyung, have I forever corrupted your innocence? Stop gawping and start drinking.”

Your acidity dissolved the weird tension. He shook his head and huffed resentfully. “Mean.”

Impatient to start, Hoseok clinked his glass against the bottle of vodka. “If any of you are too young, inexperienced or easily frightened, you’re more than welcome to sit out. Now let’s get started! Never Have I Ever,” he paused, scanning the circle. Everyone’s glasses raised expectantly in the air. God, you were going to get so fucking drunk tonight. “Kissed someone of the same gender.”

For some reason, everyone’s eyes flew to you first, and you shrugged and downed your shot. That was something you had absolutely no problem admitting to. You raised your hands in exasperation. “What is this, a 13-year-old’s sleepover? Give me some real questions,” you snickered. But why the fuck did you ever think that provoking the others in the room – particularly Jimin – into asking something far more untoward was a good idea? You groaned inwardly, knowing that your immodesty would only worsen with percentage imbibed.

You watched Yoongi lower his glass, and that didn’t surprise you one bit – he’d never displayed an interest in men, and very few women in general. Even your booze-fuelled fondling had been experimental rather than the culmination of some pent-up sexual frustration. If anything, you suspected he was aromantic, asexual or both.

The aggression with which Jimin slammed his glass on the table had you rolling your eyes. Of course. Such fragile masculinity. “Nope, never,” he commented as casually as possible.

Hoseok’s face had gradually drooped the more people that lowered their drinks. Then, shyly, he took his shot. Yoongi turned to him and placed a hand on his shoulder, reevaluating him from head-to-toe. “Really? Who? When?”

And that surprised you. Yoongi had never expressed an interest in anyone’s romantic life, even his own. Hoseok seemed giddy with the attention, and that had your eyebrows shooting skywards. Had he set this up to put out some feelers?

The younger of the two cleared his throat, falsifying some projection of nonchalance. “Some guy, and ages ago,” he trivialised the occurrence.

Unbeknownst to the man who was now questioning everything he knew about his best friend, you’d personally witnessed many more such encounters – and several that had progressed quite a bit further – you’d had the misfortune to walk in on when Hoseok had implored you to sneak him into some of the frat parties you’d attended. He wasn’t strictly in the closet or anything, but you knew that he preferred to keep it close to his chest, and for some reason that hadn’t occurred to you until now, away from Yoongi in particular. Had he gotten tired of waiting for him to show some interest? It was strangely reminiscent of your situation with Taehyung.

Interesting.

Taehyung had rested his glass between his legs and was tracing the rim with his finger, waiting for the hubbub to die down. To your great annoyance, Jimin nodded his approval at his friend’s lack of bi-curiosity. God, why was he the epitome of a bro? The girl – Candy, you thought you’d overheard Jimin calling her earlier – also raised her glass and winked in your direction, taking her shot. Failing to surprise you at every predictable, meandering turn, Jimin whooped his encouragement of this revelation. “Candy! Fuck, I’m gonna be thinking about that later,” he dropped brazenly, but everyone seemed to have discarded their reserve by this point and merely emitted a mix of cringe-induced groans and chuckles.

“My turn,” Taehyung piped up, brandishing his glass high. “Never Have I Ever had sex in a public place,” he proposed confidently, like he’d spent some time mulling over what to say.

Again, you and Candy drunk in tandem, pointing at each other a knowing finger. You seemed to be kindred spirits. Jimin and Taehyung also took a shot, and your mind was threatening to run wild with any number of potential scenarios that involved your best friend’s disposition for public indecency.

Yoongi’s glass lay neglected on the floor; apparently keeping it raised was tantamount to too much effort. “Okay, I want examples, please,” his tone not at all becoming of a request and more suspect of fallacy.

Candy and Jimin glanced at each other before the latter bragged. “In a park.”

Taehyung, having always been a lightweight, was resting his head back against the sofa cushions, rolling it from side to side for no apparent reason other than his own amusement. His voice was a lot thicker than normal and fuck if it didn’t sound like his throat was coated with honey. “In the toilets at a concert.”

Longingly, you wanted to envision such a sight. But – and even though it was difficult to contain, the longer the night when on – you would not let yourself do so. You inhaled deeply in preparation to impart your list. “On a beach, in a field, in the woods, in a lecture hall, a supply closet, the back of a car, the back of a motorbike…” you trailed off when all ambient noise ceased entirely. Were you being too honest? “Uh, you get the idea.”

“Fuck,” Jimin whistled. “Shit, you’re wild,” he lauded you openly. His companion didn’t seem at all disgruntled by his appreciative attentions. In fact, she was nodding along with his exhortations. “Alright, my turn. Never Have I Ever,” he dragged out the last word, pinning you with a pointedly salacious gaze. “Masturbated over one of the people in this room.”

The soundtrack from The Good, the Bad and the Ugly may as well have been playing for all the loaded looks that were exchanged. Like cowboys at a saloon showdown, everyone’s eyes flew to one another, some with drinks aloft and precipitously hanging. When the weird tension alone was no longer entertaining enough for Jimin, he took a shot directly and tipped the empty glass towards you, sending you a brazen wink. Your lip curled in disgust and you moved to employ Taehyung as a human shield between yourself and the shameless pervert, but you were halted by the curious hovering of his hand over his planted shot-glass. A tremulous sigh escaped him and in one fluid movement, he downed his drink, as though wanting the offending liquid gone as soon as possible.

This was far more a shocking revelation than Jimin, who seemed irritated that Taehyung’s admission had stoked the fires of enthusiasm in the group. Yoongi was the first to spring to life. And that in itself was weird, because he was usually the last person to give a shit about such frivolity. “I swear to God, if it’s me, I’m murdering you.”

Taehyung’s hair fell over his eyes when he raised his head to look at him. “Very funny, hyung.”

But he wouldn’t elaborate further, and your heart began to hammer against your ribcage. Inwardly you took a roll call, your eyes drifting between people. Was it Hoseok or Jimin? Was that why he seemed so reluctant to admit it? Or perhaps it was Candy? If she was currently engaged elsewhere, that would also explain his hesitation.

An angel of mercy appeared to tease the truth from him. “Well, who is it, then?” Jimin sneered. Alright, perhaps not an angel. One of Satan’s earthbound minions.

Taehyung didn’t seem particularly annoyed with being pushed on it; afterall, he could have lied without anyone calling him out. He slumped back again to stare up at the off-white ceiling, before a gentle loll of his head had him facing you directly and with what you can only describe as a mischievous grin rounding the edges of his angular mouth. Your blood ran cold. “____.”

“What the fuck?” you gasped near inaudibly, glancing in alarm around the circle, as though you could glean an inkling from their faces that this was some sick prank. But rather than sit there, as blank and unresponsive as you were, people were up in arms, roaring their delight. In the commotion, no-one seemed to notice the way you had drained of colour, nor hear the thunderous pounding of your heart, so loud in your ears you were sure it would deafen you.

Taehyung had been watching, though, and he patted your thigh as if to soothe you. “I’m sorry for ruining the sanctity of our childhood, noona,” he grinned impishly. Clearly, this wasn’t anywhere near the calamitous deal to him that it was to you. “In my defense, I was a teenager, and when you hit puberty you turned into this hot, older girl right before my eyes. I was into older girls for a while because of that,” he elaborated to the group, and Jimin nodded sympathetically, as though both were attendants of some support group and had experienced a shared pain.

You knew that it shouldn’t have meant anything. That the moment had long gone; been buried beneath years of many other girls and women much prettier, much more interesting than you. To be the muse of a teenage boy’s masturbation fantasy was as fleeting as the length of time it took for them to bring themselves to completion.

And yet.

And yet, there had been some acknowledgement, some time, somehow, that you had been desirable in his eyes. He’d seen you as a woman; not just as a sister, not just as some amorphous blob. A woman. And that accompanying word, having itself rolled off his own tongue, an actual cherry on top: hot. He’d thought you were hot.

You briefly recalled the sight of your ghastly reflection from an earlier bathroom trip. Taehyung almost certainly didn’t regard you as such anymore, but it had been a reality at one point. Perhaps, if you worked on yourself, you could conjure it back. What would you have to do? Lose a little weight, put more effort into your appearance?

The ice in your veins melted and allowed your blood to flow once more, searing you with possibilities. The tumultuous excitement in your stomach should have been shameful, improper – you had Jungkook to think about now, and yet, and yet you were still only one date and a few minor flirtations in, you could cut him off quickly without harming him too much more, and—

Stop, you hissed inwardly. You’re a fucking disgrace.

The power he had over you was truly formidable. How could you ever mistake the lightness in your step of late as being a sign of you finally overcoming this? If he even so much as looked in your direction you would crawl over hot coals to reach him.

You saw it in his eyes. The calm, casual way he still regarded you, as if he hadn’t just shattered your carefully constructed barriers into heart-rending fragments. You had to get out of there.

“I gotta go to the bathroom,” you mumbled, tripping over yourself in your haste.

“Wait,” Jimin called after you, and you repressed the urge to strangle him before turning to him, palms spread and expecting some infuriating jibe.

“What?”

“You’re avoiding the game,” he smirked, looking as pleased as punch. And that’s what he would be getting very, very soon.

You could have walked away. You could have walked away from this game from the beginning. But you were irate and not thinking straight and you wanted to affect Taehyung in some way, any way, even if it was just to make him regret such a barefaced confession. So you stalked toward him and picked up your glass, eyeing him meaningfully before throwing the liquid to the back of your throat and tossing the empty vessel to the couch. Wiping your mouth on the back of your hand as he gawked at you, bewildered, you sauntered away looking far more of a badass than you felt.

Because when you got to the bathroom and closed the door, you slid down its surface to the floor and began to shake, your shoulders heaving with every great, silent gasp of air you desperately drew in to prevent your panic from spiralling out of control.

This is how it would always be.

You progress around the board, you make some headway in life, you land on a Chance and you stupidly take it, every single fucking time, because you can’t not know what is under that card.

You pray that it’s Boardwalk, but you go straight to jail.

Or, more aptly, purgatory. Repeatedly.

Nothing about this situation was healthy or sane, and now Jungkook’s tender feelings were embroiled. You could no longer serve yourself so selfishly without hurting others. And that is what prompted you to, finally, take out your phone. With trembling fingers and a tear-smeared screen, you texted Hoseok.

[22:13] I’m so sorry to ask this of you. I don’t want to ruin your night, but I have something really important that I need to talk to you about ASAP.

[22:14] Would you mind taking me home? I can’t stay here any longer.

You heard the chime of his phone distantly. It was hard to stay strong, when you could feel the resurgence of your unrequited feelings crushing your lungs, but what was almost unbearable was the shame of dragging others into your mess.

[22:15] Hoseok Of course! Are you okay? What’s going on? Are you in the bathroom still?

[22:15] Yes, I’m here, and I’m hiding. I’ll tell you why soon. I can’t come out yet, I feel and look like an idiot.

A few seconds after your text, you heard the scrape of muffled movement and your head snapped up in panic. He wasn’t sending them home, was he?

[22:16] Hoseok-ah! I’ll leave, don’t tell them to go on my account! Oh God

Murmurings unmistakeably confused and reluctant in tone met your ears when you pressed one to the door.

[22:17] Hoseok I’m getting tired as it is, so don’t beat yourself up about it. I got what I wanted out of the night.

You groaned and pressed your face to your knees, sandwiching your nose between them, hoping they would swallow you up into obscurity. When the sounds from outside abated, though, you were granted no such wish. Instead, with a sudden yank of the door behind you, you fell backwards and hit your head on the floor, squinting as artificial light assaulted your eyes. “Oh, fuck,” you muttered, rubbing the crown of your head.

Hoseok peered down at you, eyebrows raised as far as they could possibly go, his expression so intensely concerned you wanted to comfort him. “____. Jesus, are you okay? What’s going on with you?”

Bracing his hands under your armpits, he dragged you into standing and you leaned against him, his warm, platonic love enveloping you in the form of his cashmere-clad arms.

And that was it.

You just.

Let.

Go.

You sobbed, and sobbed, and when he hushed you gently and manoeuvred you backwards, still face-deep in his chest, you sobbed, both of you stumbling occasionally in the conjoined efforts of two people possessing impaired motor skills. The backs of your knees eventually hit the couch and you crumpled, still clinging to him, into its plushness, and he didn’t yield, not for one second. He must have been able to tell how much you needed him in that moment.

God, it had been so long since someone had just held you, romantic or otherwise. You’d basically been sub-human and shunning any prolonged contact for a spectre of love that you were sure would haunt you to your grave. “Hoseok,” you sobbed, and you couldn’t get out much more than that.

Ever so gently, he rubbed the span of your back, equal parts to comfort and encourage you. “I’m here, ____,” and when you didn’t say anything else, he took it upon himself to relieve you of your pain without you having to open your mouth and form the excruciating words. “Is this the culmination of the last few months?”

“Y-Yes,” you sniffled, an ugly wail swallowing any further explanation.

His voice was kind, patient. “Have you been holding this in all this time?”

“Yes,” you repeated lamely, but this in itself was a miracle – your verbal confirmation of these feelings were solidifying them into concrete, tangible problems that you could potentially fight. And, now, you wouldn’t have to battle them alone.

He sighed, then, and you stiffened, because you were so afraid of rejection in any form now that you thought it possible that even one of your dearest friends would become sick of your antics and disown you. You began to tremble, and he squeezed you closer; uncomfortably tight if you liked breathing, perfectly tight if you wanted to feel as though you had returned to the safe recesses of the womb. “You can shoot me down if you like, but please don’t lie to me if it’s the truth,” he mumbled into your shoulder, and you gulped. “Is this about Taehyung?”

For the third and final time, you exhaled your answer with all the relief of having a splinter extracted. “Yes.”

Hoseok nodded, but didn’t move, or say anything further. Instead, he allowed you to cry out the last of your bountiful supply of tears and only then, when you pulled away, snotty strings snapping upon the absence of your nose from his sweater, did he say anything. Of course, his first words were calculated to put you at ease. He looked down at the impressively large, damp stain you had left in your wake. “I’d recommend consulting an ENT doctor.”

You couldn’t help yourself; you laughed, your eyes still red and shining. But just the knowledge that you were no longer alone in this struggle, that it didn’t have to be contained to the self-destruction of your own inner prejudices, but could be scrutinised with objectivity and lucidity; you already felt tonnes lighter. “I’m sorry about your sweater. I promise, I’ll get you another like it.”

He futilely wiped at your endlessly gushing waterworks before handing you a box of tissues from the coffee table. “None of that. So,” he prodded gently, lowering his head to catch your downcast eyes. “Do you want to talk, or should I ask?”

Talking plainly about it was still too hard. You took the coward’s route. “I’m sorry to make you work for something you don’t even want to hear, but it would be easier if you ask me about it. My thoughts are a mess.”

Hoseok snatched the Kleenexes away from you when all you did with them was tear them apart between your fingers. That drew your gaze to him and he pinned you with one of reproach. “Stop. Beating. Yourself. Up,” he punctuated each word with a tissued dab at your face. He cupped it around the end of your nose and, like a parent kneeling before their leaking child, commanded you: “Blow.”

That roused you a little. You shirked away in embarrassment. “Oh my God, no. I can blow my own nose,” you sniffed indignantly, though the validity of your assertion was nullified in large part by the sodden patch on his sweater that he pointed to in reminder. You smiled again and thwapped him, but he seemed beguilingly happy by your response.

“I’m glad to see you smile. Let’s sort out your little problem then, shall we?” he proposed, and you sighed.

“It’s hardly a little problem.”

“It will be when we tackle it together,” Hoseok said confidently, and you almost believed him. “I don’t know what’s going on, exactly, but you got upset when Taehyung admitted to being a gross little shit. I’m guessing it goes deeper than that, though?”

You shuddered at the memory of the playfulness in his eyes as he had said it. “Yes. Actually,” you sat up a little, peaked by your own interest. “Have you ever, I don’t know, sensed anything from me? About Taehyung?”

“You’ll have to be a little more specific than that,” he pressed gently, reclining in the space Jimin had so grossly been taking up prior. “What do you mean?”

Words were hard. “Did you ever get the impression that I was, uh, into him? Like, something I said, or did?”

Hoseok let his head rest on the back of the sofa as he considered your question. Then, he shook his head minutely. “Not really. I mean, you’ve always been affectionate with each other, and your chemistry has always been relaxed. Like, never forced, or tense, or anything like that.”

You brightened with this heartening piece of information. “Oh, I’m so glad. God, I was worried I’d been way too obvious. I mean, when you asked me about Taehyung, I started panicking that it was as plain as day to everyone, and I was the only one pretending.”

Hoseok tugged you to into a more comfortable position with him, and threw his arm around your shoulders to pull you close. “So you have a thing for him? Is that why you got upset? I thought, perhaps, because you’ve been pretty down lately, that – I don’t know, that perhaps the fact that your perfect best friend was just a dirty little pervert like the rest of us men made you feel – I don’t know, I’m grasping at straws here – betrayed, or unsafe, or, I don’t know. That’s about 5 minutes worth of frantic guessing, right there,” he rambled, and although you understood his line of thinking, you wished it was as superficial as that. “I thought this breakdown was more to do with, honestly, the outcome of my over-working you,” he muttered, and you felt the barbed sting of guilt. All you ever did was make him worry. “You’ve been suffering, you’ve been struggling, and I’ve only piled more on top of you.”

You cut off any further musings of his accountability by choking him a hug, silencing him with the pressure of your arms around his neck. “Stop. Don’t you dare think this is anything to do with you. It’s not, and it never has been.”

Hoseok sighed again, and, oh, what you would do not to hear him make such an unhappy sound. It was agonising. “Still, if you’ve been suffering for so long, I’m sad that you didn’t feel like you could come to me sooner. I feel like I’ve failed yo—“

You held a finger to his mouth and if that hadn’t muzzled him, the seething glare you watched him wilt under did. “Don’t be fucking stupid, Hoseok. You’re not the problem here, it’s very clearly me. I’ve never been one to speak openly about how I’m feeling. You should know that well. And, seeing as I show more of myself to you than anyone else, you should also know that you are, honestly, the only person I would ever come to with something like this. It has taken me reaching breaking point to finally come clean about it.”

“But why did it take for you to get to that stage?” his forehead creased in confusion. “It’s difficult to talk about, yes, but why wait until you hit the bottom before you seek help?”

“Because it’s not that I merely have a crush on Taehyung, Hoseok, I –“ you stopped to gather your thoughts into one concise statement. “I love him.”

His eyes widened almost comically. “You love him? You don’t just have some crush on him?”

“No,” you breathed, slumping into the cushions. “I’ve loved him for fucking ages. It’s slowly been driving me mad, and I don’t know what to do anymore. I thought – foolishly – that getting back into dating would help, and, well – it did. Kind of,” you stumbled through your words, slapping the sofa in frustration. “I like Jungkook, I really do. He’s great, and every time I doubt that there’s something there, he does something that shows me that there might be. But it’s still very early days, and I— this infatuation, or whatever it is, it’s impossible to fight most days. But especially when Taehyung says or does something that gives my pathetic hopes something to cling to. What he said tonight, well, that was the one thing that I had always protected myself with – the idea that he’d never been attracted to me. And now, well, my mind’s having a field day.”

Hoseok leaned forward, elbows steadied on his knees, a hand cupping his chin in thought. He looked most astute like this. “I see,” he muttered, his vision unfocused and clearly elsewhere. What was he seeing? A solution?

“What do I do?” you whined, stamping your feet. “Can you see my dilemma, though? Don’t tell me to confess to him, because he’s in too deep with Tara now, and even if he weren’t, he’s never expressed to me any desire to date me. And because of that, I won’t do it. I value him, my friend, far more than I value my own skewed desires.”

He bobbed his head in agreement vacantly. “No, I wasn’t going to suggest that. I agree that it could ruin things between you. I think you’re going about it the right way, to be honest – Jungkook sounds promising. Yeah, Tae throws you a curveball every now and then, but this new guy has distracted you from him pretty successfully, right?”

“Yeah,” you relented, watching the way his mouth curved sweetly when he was contemplative. “But I always go back to him. Always.”

“In that case,” Hoseok turned to you and applied a gentle pressure to your knee as though to prepare you. “I think it would be best if you distance yourself from Tae for a while and focus purely on Jungkook. I know you’ll have to see him at the party, but keep your interactions minimal for a while until you can really allow the new guy to make an impression. Hopefully, a good one.”

Honestly, you’d considered this option a few times in the past, but Taehyung was insidious. He was clingy and needy when it came to your friendship; it certainly wasn’t one of those ones where you questioned whether you were the only person in it. He was always proactive in contacting and arranging things with you, and when you’d tried to limit your time with him he’d only become more insistent, and you could hardly explain to him just why you were withdrawing from him.

This time, though, you had Jungkook. Hell yes you were placing far too much responsibility on the poor guy’s unknowing shoulders, but keeping him in the dark about it would prevent your mess from becoming his burden. This knowledge was a comfort, a stabilizer, just for you, to keep you afloat. “What if he texts me, what if he calls me? What if he just shows up without explanation? He will, you know. He does that.”

“Reply to his texts sparingly and pick up the odd call on occasion. Don’t make it seem like you’re cutting him out, just that you’re incredibly busy. Your finals are in, like, 3 weeks, aren’t they? Use that as an excuse. By then, perhaps you’ll have made some headway with Jungkook.”

“And what if Jungkook isn’t what I’m looking for? What if it’s hopeless?” you hugged a cushion to your stomach and curled over it, the black cloud looming.

Hoseok seemed to notice the shift in your state. “Don’t catastrophise,” he emphasised the last word. “I know what you’re like. Let’s try this first, and think of something if that comes to be. Okay? You have me to talk to about this, now, so don’t you dare go digging yourself into a pit again before you ask me for help.”

You stuck out your bottom lip in some ineffective attempt to stem the batch of fresh tears brimming your eyes, because you were just so fucking touched by how much he cared about you, even though you never let him in, never came to him with anything. He made you feel strong for doing this, not weak. “I love you so much,” you blubbed, and he crushed you to him again, your face squished unpleasantly to your earlier display of upset. “Thank you, Hobi.”

“Don’t even m—“

The pocket of your jeans vibrated and the two of you exchanged a look. You both knew who it would be. Now that you thought about it, you’d probably left him feeling rather disconcerted after your last interaction. Hopefully he would write it off as you being drunk and a little disgruntled rather than actual disclosure of who you thought about when you fingered yourself.

“Go ahead and read it,” Hoseok nodded for you to proceed. “We’ll figure out what to do.”

You clicked on your phone and looked at the top-most notification.

[22:53] Taehyung Noona, if I made you angry, I’m sorry. I was drunk and not thinking straight.

Another message came through while you were reading.

[22:55] Taehyung I just wanted to let you know that whatever I did back then, it meant nothing, and it never changed how much I respect you and look up to you.

Your stomach turned sickeningly. It meant nothing. You’d just made an unexpected appearance amidst his usual jack-off fodder. He was trying to comfort you, and any sane person would recognise and appreciate that. For you, however, his words only wounded you deeper.

[22:56] Taehyung I was just a stupid kid back then, and clearly alcohol helps me regress to that. I don’t think of you that way anymore, and I haven’t for a long time. I just wanted to reassure you. I don’t want things to become weird between us.

Of course it was impossible that he could find anything in you attractive now. The older you got, the more invisible you became.

[22:56] Taehyung I love you, ____, you’re the most important person in my life. And I’m sorry.

If you had been on the verge of evacuating the contents of your stomach before, you were now just one hastily-slapped-hand-over-your-mouth away from ruining Hoseok’s carpet. If the intent had just been a little different—

Hobi snatched your phone from you and marched you immediately to the bathroom. Thankfully, just in time. Ever the long-suffering, dutiful friend, he held your hair aside as you hurled this evening’s mistakes into the toilet bowl.

During one of your pained, rasping intervals, you noticed him scrolling through the messages Taehyung had sent you

“He’s saying everything wrong,” Hoseok muttered, his brows pulled down in frustration. “God, he’s so oblivious.”

Your phone buzzed in his hand and you looked up, both dreading and eager to hear what he had to say next.

Against your expectations, though, a smile lit up Hobi’s face. Just seeing that lifted your weary spirits a little. “What?”

“It’s Jungkook,” he chuckled, turning the screen to you.

[23:08] Jungkook i just woke up from the worst sleep ever and you were the first thing i thought of

[23:09] Jungkook this is creepy and far too late to send but i have anyway

[23:09] Jungkook just want you to know i’m thinking about you

Somehow, his texts dulled the sour taste on your tongue. Hoseok watched you intently, and you knew he would be pleased by what he was seeing. Every subsequent message pulled your smile a little higher, made your eyes shine a little brighter. And still, they kept coming.

[23:10] Jungkook not in a dirty way

[23:10] Jungkook oh god i’m making this worse

[23:10] Jungkook hopefully you’re drunk and delete these texts by accident

Sure enough, you were giggling at his adorable buffoonery, headache and burning throat forgotten. Hoseok gained confidence in your joint plan of action. “I’m sure things will work out,” he framed it as a statement, not a meagre hope. “Give Jungkook a chance, try and focus purely on him.”

The necessity of equilibrating your yo-yoing mental health had you agreeing resolutely. “I will. Let me just text Tae so he doesn’t worry,” you mumbled thickly, and Hoseok raised a suspicious brow at you.

“I’ll do it,” he informed you, and you knew there was no room for argument. You watched quietly as he tapped in a very brief response to Taehyung’s heartfelt apology and handed your phone back to you.

[23:14] It’s fine, I’m not mad. See you soon.

The curtness made you wince. “He’ll think I am mad,” you were convinced.

“No, he won’t. He’ll ask me when he sees me tomorrow how you were, I’m sure, and I’ll tell him you went home smiling. Okay?”

That satisfied you somewhat. “Alright. Thank you, again.”

He waved a hand dismissively. “Don’t be silly. Now, don’t leave your new man on read this time, yeah?”

A noise of agreement sounded in your throat and you stewed over how to respond to his sweet messages. You had to tease him, of course.

[23:16] I am drunk, and I re-read these texts many times on purpose. Just to commit them to memory, so I can torment you about them forever.

-

Next: 05 || WYLEI Masterlist

farewell to princess meatball, a very good & brave cat

tumblr’s utility as a conventional blogging site has always been questionable at best; nevertheless, it’s the only reliable stream-of-consciousness space I have outside of google docs.

importantly: putting this out here helps me. i’d like to think it can help someone else, someday, too. (be forewarned that it is very long and mildly graphic.)

the beginning

josh & I bought our first house in portland, oregon in the fall of 2014, two weeks before my 29th birthday. it was a freshly remodeled, mid-century ranch-style house a few short blocks from peninsula park. it came with retro-inspired light fixtures, charming built-ins, and a scraggly backyard-dwelling tabby cat. we purchased the washer and dryer separately.

we were not in the market for another pet. just as well, because this cat didn’t seem especially interested in being anyone’s companion. she laid out on our fence and occasionally peered into our windows, her docked ear the only sign that she’d been handled by humans. bearing the obvious marker of TNR and looking otherwise fed, we figured that could be enough.

i couldn’t tell you what possessed me to talk to the cat, but i did. there was nothing eventful leading up to our first conversation. we fixed each other with the same measured gaze -- me from the deck and her from her perch on the fence -- and i said, entirely conversationally: “hey, kitty.”

something about her face changed in that moment. she perked up and responded immediately with what I would soon come to recognize as her signature greeting: a confident and startlingly loud, “MEOW.” she slid down the fence, all claws, and came trotting up to me with an expectant gleam in her eye. 

what else was I to do but feed her? josh told me not to feed her; I lied and said I didn’t. one day at dusk (otherwise known as 2:59pm during winter in the pacific northwest), I caught him spreading out a blanket on the deck and inviting her to sit with him, bowl of kibble in hand. “don’t start feeding the strays,” I echoed back to him, and he called back sheepishly, “well, she seems pretty hungry. what else was I supposed to do?”

but she didn’t become our cat at first feeding. it wasn’t until we noticed the huge, gaping wound on her chest -- red and visceral with a glossy, sickly citrine overcoat -- and subsequently wrangled her to the local vet for stitches, that she eventually started the journey towards being our cat.

by this point, she was coming into the house just a little bit; enough to keep her out of the rip city rain and safely nestled in a cozy bed-and-blankets nest near the back door, but not enough to put her in contact with our other pets. she didn’t much like being indoors, either. we bought her a little outdoor cathouse with a heated bed where she could escape from the downpour, and that’s where she’d spend most of her time.

...that is, until I coaxed her inside with treats, wrangled her into a cat carrier, sustained significant injuries from the attempt, and somehow got her to the vet with my life intact. they asked for her name; we’d been calling her “meatball,” because of course we weren’t planning on formally adopting her, so why not give her a ridiculous moniker? (we would only uncover her royal heritage later, sometime between her peeing on the new mid-century modern couch and using the above-ground pool as a giant water bowl.)

turns out meatball was very well-behaved for the vet, so much so that they were able to clean her wound and stitch her up with a bit of local anesthetic and some veterinary elbow grease. I had her vaccinated and dewormed, with stitch removal scheduled two weeks out. there was just one problem: sweet meatball had to remain exclusively indoors from the time we arrived home until here stitches were ripe for removing.

tl;dr: she hated it. she yowled and scratched up all the furniture and peed on everything. she whined incessantly at the back door, staring out through the glass at the freedom she had always known. she would look up at the ceiling and flinch away, seemingly claustrophobic for the dearth of endless blue sky above her. she kept us up at night -- every fucking night -- for two whole weeks. all in, I paid $700 to be tormented nightly by a nine-pound demon spawn and was decidedly not stoked about it.

when we brought her home for her follow-up appointment, I was convinced we’d never see her again. we took the carrier straight out to the deck and opened the door for her, expecting some calculating hesitation at the very least. but no, she bolted out like lightning and never looked back, a shock of mottled brown fur running full-speed into the unkempt shrubbery where our fence met the neighbor’s behind us. she didn’t even pretend to be grateful. I chalked it up to my good deed of the year and we made peace with her unceremonious bailout. 

until, that is, she showed back up two hours later for her dinner.

princess meatball was ever after that our cat. she was mostly our outside cat, since that was where she felt most comfortable and at home. I had grand plans to convert her to an inside cat, but it seemed a cruel thing to force on an animal who had spent most of its life outside and loved nothing more than sleeping in impossibly tall trees, tightrope-walking the wooden fence, and yelling at all other animals that dared set paw in her yard.

not a year after we’d bought that house, I entertained a job offer in the bay area, in tech, a far cry from the boutique firm where I'd spent the last five years an underpaid editor, and where everyone was about to lose their job in an acquisition. we packed up the pets and drove 12 hours straight to san jose, where I hoped against hope that the yard in the house we rented -- a house we’d only seen through the lens of my local relatives who’d scoped it out for us -- was up to princess meatball’s lofty standards.

honestly, it’s hard to remember every detail from august 20, 2015 to december 21, 2020. between josh and I, we took enough photos and videos over the years to piece together a pretty accurate revisionist history, but there’s no need to rehash every detail. meatball’s days were mostly the same, in the best possible way: she spent her time outdoors, lapping up water from a bowl we filled with a garden hose, chattering at the many birds that nested in our trees, chasing butterflies, rolling around on the concrete porch, and sitting in the sunshine.

over the years, she acquired a two-story outdoor condo lined with turkish towels my aunt sent us for exclusive human use; we called it meatball’s summer house, but really it was an extension of her primary residence, and she gave no thought to the season. the princess had also commandeered the growing collection of patio furniture we amassed, along with all of the blankets and towels and everything else that made its way onto the patio. we joked that the back yard was “meatball’s house,” a concept that only grew in merit as she routinely greeted us every time we deigned to visit her.

it’s hard to convey through words alone, but the yard was her place. there isn’t a single inch of that space that wasn’t touched by meatball. when she wasn’t lounging in (or on top of) her villa, she was prowling in the bushes, taking shade under the hammock, or curled up on one of the seat cushions. she was everywhere, all at once. she was sunning herself on the deck. she was scaling the fence, albeit far more clumsily as she’d gone softer and, ahem, plumper from regular feeding and coddling alike. and if she saw you drag a blanket into the grass, she’d follow close behind, ready to lounge alongside you. 

mindfulness often eluded me, but sitting in the grass with that little tiger-ticked tabby -- the breeze fluttering her dark-rooted whiskers and tickling her nose, ears twitching towards the sounds of bluebirds and finches, fur glistening in the warm california sun -- was the only time I truly knew peace.

she had dozens of fuzzy blankets indoors, but meatball could be comfortable anywhere. she could lounge in the gravel; she slept in the dirt; she’d nap on the ice chest. inside the house, where her humans dwelled, she would flatten herself under the furniture; nest in open drawers, however shallow; lie in loaf position, head straight down, on the back of the couch near the window. she slept on both beds, all chairs, any piece of cardboard -- box or elsewise -- and every other surface imaginable, save the countertops. some of her sleeping positions seemed supremely unnatural and yet, meatball was so at ease in every space she occupied.

so when, in the summer of 2020, meatball seemed less and less comfortable in any space that wasn’t the bottom of the shower, I knew something wasn’t right. 

the end

one night, late in the spring, I'd remarked to josh that our princess seemed to be losing weight. she’d gotten fairly rotund up to this point, so the slimming didn’t seem drastic at first. even her increased thirst and cold-seeking behavior wasn’t totally alarming; we’d had unseasonably warm weather in the bay area, after all. deep down though, my conscience was nagging at me: something is going on with the cat.

meatball, like most other cats on planet earth, did not like going to the vet. unlike most other cats, meatball had been adopted semi-feral off the street and deeply feared all but the two humans who had dedicated their lives to socializing her. compounding this unfortunate fact were statewide covid-19 restrictions, which barred us from going into the vet’s office with her. nevertheless, on july 9th, we took her in for evaluation. 

she was anemic, we learned. her bloodwork revealed some other anomalies, but nothing definitive. her x-rays were practically useless. the doctor guessed parasites; we gave her a dewormer and went about our way. 

meatball maintained a strong appetite, but it wasn’t clear that she was gaining weight. against my better judgment, I googled her symptoms and her blood-tells. the internet’s vast crystal ball suggested hyperthyroidism and kidney failure and cancer. all of these were rare in a cat meatball’s age (or what we guessed was her age), but set my mental alarm fairies alight all the same. 

near the end of that same month, I slid my hand idly along her flank, scrolling mindlessly through the phone in my dominant hand, and felt a lump. 

it’s that same sick sort of feeling you get when you know you’re getting bad news -- life-changing, heart-rending bad news that will alter the trajectory of your worldview -- bad news that feels like a hard mass of something that doesn’t belong on your cat. I was not calm or collected; I was entirely mechanical as my feet dragged me to josh. I did not say, “I need you to come here” or “I need you to see this,” because those phrases were reserved solely for when the princess was being indescribably cute. instead, in a voice that felt unsteady and faraway in my own head, I said to him: “I need you to feel something on the cat.”

the results of this double-blind study were conclusive enough to warrant a call to the vet. the other vet. the really expensive vet with the on-premise hospital and compounding pharmacy and every type of specialist you could imagine. the vet that took three weeks to get into during the pandemic. that vet. 

by the time we were able to take her in on august 13th, she was alarmingly thin: just under seven pounds despite extra treats and stealing her sister’s leftovers. the expensive vet took a biopsy of the lump and examined it under her microscope. “it looks waxy,” she said of the results. “it’s not what I would expect to see with cancer.” 

vets have a tough lot. the totality of the healthcare system for humans in america is rotten enough on its own; naturally, most folks don’t have two nickels to rub together when it comes to preventive care and diagnostics for their pets. the typical next step for a human patient, said dr. blackwolf, was scheduling an ultrasound. but with pets, the expense was often tough for owners to justify, and she didn’t think it was urgent.

of course we opted for the fucking ultrasound. but the very soonest they could do it was september 5th. it would be ok to wait that long, she said, though the labor day holiday meant that we wouldn’t receive our test results back until the following thursday.

meatball remained as loving and good-natured as ever, but continued to lose weight. days before her ultrasound, she seemed increasingly uncomfortable, especially after eating. when the eternity between her biopsy and her ultrasound finally elapsed, we waited in the car, anxious and hopeful for the promise of a resolution. as with all appointments prior, meatball had peed in her carrier. 

when the doctor called with her findings, she did so in the voice that people use when they’re breaking tough news to you. that voice that’s practical and giving you space to process, but feels pandering in the moment. “we shaved her belly and found more lumps,” she said somberly. “her spleen looks like swiss cheese. her intestines are very irregular-looking. her kidneys are failing.” every word a mach truck to my gut. finally: “the prognosis is likely very poor.” 

she gave me options -- I don’t know what all of them were -- and advised me that they were contingent on the more conclusive lab results they’d get back. the doctor would not prescribe pain medication or recommend any therapy in the meantime, as this was highly dependent on the diagnosis. 

it took nearly a week for the “conclusive” results, which were as conclusive as: maybe your cat has cancer of some kind? if it was cancer and we wanted to treat it with anything but “giving up,” meatball would have to go to a specialist at an even more expensive hospital, because changes to california state law prohibited the adequately-expensive hospital from administering chemotherapy within its current square footage. so I called the specialist. september 24th was the soonest available; sooner than I’d guessed, but nowhere soon enough. I took it, and then begged dr. blackwolf for the aid of any political capital she could summon. in her last mercy to us, she emailed meatball’s test results directly to the head of oncology. I received a call later that same day that dr. regan could do a telehealth consult that friday.

by this point, meatball was urinating in her sleep. she slept at the bottom of the shower and would wake up with her left hind leg soaked in diluted pee. when she wasn't in the shower, she would lie on the outdoor dining table or the metal cooler or even the dirty concrete. she no longer liked to perch upon blankets, especially the fuzzy ones -- formerly her favorites. her breathing was labored. she was clearly uncomfortable. 

dr. regan was able to see meatball the morning after her consultation. she'd need to leech more of meatball’s precious blood, perform another ultrasound, and do all the things I'd wasted weeks and dollars doing before. but it didn’t matter, because help was on the horizon, and dr. regan was an oncologist. 

I thought about chronicling all the particulars of meatball’s appointment dates and protocols, but I'm not sure that it’s necessary or even helpful to get it all exact, here. importantly, meatball was finally diagnosed with high-grade lymphoma; the lumps we had felt on her flank were actually her lymph nodes. the prognosis was indeed poor, and we could either choose to give her steroids until her passing, or attempt a chemotherapy protocol.

after seeing my coworker put her dog through chemotherapy only a year prior, I had silently promised myself that I would not put my pets, my partner, or myself through that emotional rollercoaster. and yet, when an expert is on the line telling you that you can buy your beloved best friend -- currently a shadow of the animal you once knew -- a few good-quality months or even years of life, it’s really fucking hard to remember those commitments you make to yourself, when your pets are healthy and your life is going just fine.

we told ourselves that we’d see how it went. if meatball felt better, we’d continue as long as she did. if the treatment stopped working, we’d stop taking her in. simple, really.

and the thing is, the treatment worked. we’d started her on a 16-week protocol and she got five solid weeks of marked improvement. she put weight back on; not a hint of her former paunch, but the muscle returned to her legs. she wasn’t peeing in her sleep anymore. she was active, even playful at times. she hated the daily dose of prednisolone, and she wasn’t a fan of the weekly hospital visits, but we’d reasoned it was a small price to pay to see her enjoying food and treats, pain-free. each week, the doctor had said her lymph nodes were feeling normal. 

week six was her follow-up ultrasound and blood panel. once we saw how the cancer had diminished, we could put her on an every-other-week schedule, a much-needed respite from the weekly visits that sometimes kept her boarded for seven hours at a time.

unfortunately, this was also the week that the doctor felt meatball’s lymph nodes swelling up again, which meant the current protocol was no longer effective. every time we were at a crossroads with meatball’s health, I'd ask the doctors what they’d recommended. dr. regan said that we could try lomustine, a rescue chemotherapy protocol. there were risks, she’d said, but we could administer that to meatball instead of a now-pointless ultrasound and see how she responded.

if she’d responded at all, it wasn’t a good response. lomustine could only be given once every four weeks to keep its heightened immunosuppressive properties from overwhelming poor meatball. the first night, she threw up her undigested dinner on the bed. we’d brought her back weekly, still, for blood tests and monitoring. over the course of the next few weeks, she continued to lose weight and had lost her voice.

it was so important for me to be strong for meatball. I reasoned that she was enduring so much, the least I could do was provide her a source of stability and confidence. but hearing her signature loudmouth meow grow increasingly hoarse before falling completely silent nearly broke me. she ate haltingly, taking labored gulps from her dish. she could no longer alert me when she wanted in or outside, so she scratched at the door or simply sat and waited.

when we took her back to the oncologist, I thought that would be it; she’d tell me that there was nothing else we could do except “keep her comfortable,” an option that seemed out of our reach by then. selfishly, I wanted someone else to tell us when it was time to let go. but she offered to give meatball another dose of elspar and pursue another course of treatment from there, so I thought, may as well try.

and wouldn't you know it: our fierce little tigress, slayer of wayward rodents and champion of the tall grass, had once again bounced back from the brink. she put on weight. her meow returned in full force. 

it was one of many gifts we had and would receive for the duration of the princess’ reign. denial had a powerful hold on me for weeks, as I'd started to feel the notches in her spine once more; but the doctor said her lymph nodes were feeling mostly normal, remarked that her being was more substantial, and we held on to that hope until the very last. we held on until dr. regan called us an hour or so after we’d dropped meatball off for another treatment and said, I'm sorry, but I can feel her nodes again.

somehow, I expected the call before I even received it. meatball’s quality of life hadn’t decreased in any manner of obvious significance, but over the final weeks and months of her time in this mortal realm, I'd grown so in tune with her health and the deviations in her body and demeanor, however minor. the prominence of her ribs was as clear a diagnostic as any lab test, to say nothing of any disturbances in her eating and lounging patterns. these changes, like the ones preceding her eventual diagnosis, were gradual, subtle; viewing them as individual points in time, you could almost mistake them for the signs of aging, even in a cat as young as we think the princess was.

every time the disease changed course, dr. regan (and all doctors before her, for that matter) would present me with a set of options, typically in threes. this time was no different: we could try another, highly specialized course of treatment that required trained staff to administer; we could continue giving meatball the gentle elspar that had been working so well; or we could simply keep her as comfortable as possible for the remainder of her life on steroids alone.

unencumbered by emotion, I'd always prided myself on my practical, often utilitarian thinking. just like I thought I'd never elect to put my cat through chemotherapy, so too did I assume I would inherently know the right path at any crossroads during treatment. and once again, I had grossly miscalculated the impact that unimaginable sorrow would have on my decision making. as with every inflection point in this ill-fated choose your own adventure: cheating death on behalf of your cat, I hemmed and hawed. 

because what do you even say when faced with those choices? for so many people, the cost of life-saving or -extending care is infeasible, often for their human and animal loved ones alike. that doesn’t make the choice any easier; I suspect in many cases, it can even make finality of such a decision that much more gut-wrenching for its lack of alternatives. but we weren’t at the end of our rope, financially, nor had we apparently exhausted our options. to me, possibilities meant hope. 

just like the law, there is both a letter and spirit to interpreting a course of action. taking another route was a literal possibility, but if the guiding principle behind every decision was maintaining a good quality of life for meatball, then pursuing that path had to be in service of her best interest.

as usual, I asked the doctor, “what do you think is reasonable?” it was a cop-out, maybe, and one that flirted with unduly burdening her, but I trusted dr. regan to give me an objective response. she had already let me know that there was no shame, no defeat, in simply keeping the princess comfortable from the outset. this was her life’s work and her speciality; in the absence of known monetary hurdles, which we’d define if and when the expense became untenable, she could more readily chart the boundaries into moot territory. she could be meatball’s health advocate in a way my heart might not allow me to be.

this time, dr. regan did not recommend the alternative treatment. we agreed to take the middle ground of administering the elspar once again, and then every three weeks until it was no longer effective. in conjunction with the daily prednisolone, dr. regan said it would likely give her a few more weeks of good-quality life. 

this time, when we picked meatball up from treatment, it was a different nurse who carried her out into the parking lot and into my arms. she asked me if I had paid over the phone (I had) and said the doctor wanted to see meatball again in three weeks’ time. I asked if they would schedule us ahead of time, as they’d done before. “we’ll call you,” she said, and it felt non-committal under the sag of meatball’s carrier. 

they never called. not that it mattered; it was obvious to us that the elspar was no longer effective. meatball seemed stable enough in the following week. then, the week after, she started a noticeable decline. 

it hurts to think about the degradation of her quality of life at all, let alone in detail, but honoring meatball’s life means honoring all of her life, the hard parts included. she’d developed chronic diarrhea and was vomiting once a day. we reasoned that she was still eating, still purring, still perky. we ordered her high-fiber food and probiotic supplements. we babied her incessantly, and she ate it up. but starting that weekend, it became clearer that she wouldn’t make it to that next appointment; the one we never even made.

on sunday, she’d barely eaten. she had grown so fearful and resistant to her steroids, that the process of medicating her became traumatic for us all. after a very early and reasonably hearty breakfast, she vomited many hours later, in a voluminous splash that sounded like a hefty water balloon tossed onto the tile, all full of partially-digested food and mucus. it was then that josh made the call to the in-home euthanasia service, and we somehow agreed to a 1pm appointment the following day, gasping for breath between sobs. 

usually after she’d throw up, meatball would want to turn back around and eat again. this time, she retreated quietly outside to rest in the sun. when she ultimately came back in at night, the light in her eyes had visibly dulled. she enjoyed a few freeze-dried salmon treats from josh’s hand, but little else. I made her a nest out of a large cardboard box and a duvet cover, where she spent most of the night and the next morning, tucked away.

in the middle of the night, she heard josh get up to use the bathroom. like she often did when he rose at night, she followed him. only this time, she wanted to eat a full meal. he sat with her, petting her while she devoured her late-night dinner, listening to her purr rattle in her tiny chest before she curled up with him in bed. then, after giving him that last gift, she crawled into her box-nest and stayed until morning. 

I didn’t get up with the two of them that night, though I treasure the memory of her little crunching sounds echoing in the hallway. it’s a bittersweet feeling of happiness, tinged with sorrow; I wish that I had joined them in that last moment of meatball being meatball, but at the same time, I’m happy that they had a moment of shared tenderness and vulnerability. sometimes, knowing and observing is enough. in this case, it has to be.

in the morning, I laid on the floor in front of her corrugated hut -- another property to add to her empire, and proof that anything could be a bed to meatball. she’d bunched herself up against the back of the box and when she changed positions, slowly and methodically, we saw that she’d urinated in her sleep. as far as we could know, it was the first time since her formal diagnosis. cats are clean and prideful animals, but meatball was always immaculate. while it wasn’t embarrassing for her to soil herself, it was surely unpleasant, if not outright vexing.

as painful as it is to relive the loss of her life, hashing out the loss of her trust is somehow harder. over the last two or three days, she’d been especially wary of me. it seemed any affection she had left was reserved for josh, whom I'd intentionally positioned as the “good guy,” swooping in with treats and affection after I'd administer her daily steroid. selfishly, pitifully, I needed absolution before her passing.

so, against that damnably practical nature of mine, I put a small pillow on the floor and curled up near her, careful not to block her exit route. her eyes were dull and wide; she had little interest in anything but managing her own discomfort. I tried my hardest not to cry too much. and I spoke to her.

it’s important to note that my family believes in a lot of weird shit. at least, that’s how I always saw it. as a kid, my dad would talk to me about animals having a shared soul and collective conscious. a few years ago, my aunt had gone on safari in africa and met a purported interspecies communicator; she’s now convinced she can talk to animals telepathically. and while I can neither validate or invalidate their beliefs, I can say that, at bare minimum, talking to meatball helped me. I hope it helped her, too.

I started to tell her an abbreviated version of her life story as I knew it, and as I’ve written about it. I told her that she was one of the best things to ever happen to us, and I meant it. I told her that her legacy would live on with us, and that we would never forget about her. I told her that I wasn’t going to let her suffer any longer, and that I was so proud of how strong and brave she was, and that I only ever wished to help her. I told her that all of us did everything we could; the we knew she needed us to be strong; and that help was on the way for her. I told her how much I loved her, and how much I would miss her, but that both josh and I would be okay. I told her that it was okay for her to go, that she could rest, and that we would be here for her always. 

as I spoke to her, she slow-blinked a few times, an homage to the fond way with which she’d regard us when we complimented her, petted her, sang songs about her, or even asked her questions she couldn’t very well answer. when I was done, I asked her to forgive me. and for the first time in days, she leaned down to my outstretched hand and gave my fingers a lick.

perhaps I'm guilty of anthropomorphizing; maybe I sound like a quack. but somehow, meatball always knew what we needed. and even if she couldn’t understand my words, she seemed to know that I needed her love and acceptance in that moment. (and of course, I promptly lost my shit, cried, and thanked her profusely for her grace).

another hour or so passed in the box before she got up, walked to her water dish, and then promptly exited the human house through the propped-open back door, entering her domain for the last time. 

meatball was weak; a shadow of her usual self. she was gaunt, frail, and visibly tired. but she relaxed in her summer house one last time. she sat on the cushioned bench where she used to perch next to josh, grooming herself while he’d read. and then, one last time, she came to lie with us in the grass, on a blanket in the sun. 

among the aversions she’d developed during her bout with lymphoma, she most distrusted the sight of the two of us together. to her, it meant we were going to tag team getting her to her her appointments, and she was not having that. but she relaxed and allowed us both a spot on the blanket. she no longer purred, but she gave us both a few final head-butts. she licked my nose one last time, despite the taste of sunblock I'd slathered on. and she let us pet her for hours, until the doctor -- the last doctor in a sea of too many medical professionals -- arrived. 

by this point, meatball had grown suspicious. she could sense our combined anxiety; having to don face masks didn’t help ease her skepticism. I went to greet the doctor and go over logistics. by the time I escorted her into the back yard, meatball was back on her bench, next to josh, where she loved to be. 

while friendly and infinitely loving, the princess was feral at heart. we’d spent a long time socializing her, but she really only had eyes for us two. she feared other humans, especially humans dressed like doctors, and we, in turn, feared that she would try to make a break for it at the sight of dr. cheung. the nightmare scenario was that meatball would spend her last moments afraid, and being forced out of hiding by the two people she loved.

meatball tensed lightly as the gentle doctor approached, but seemed to relax just as quickly. we went through the paperwork. we picked out an urn. we tried to give meatball some ice cream, but she was too sick for it. then, the doctor gave her the first shot, a combination of morphine and general anesthesia.

being true to meatball’s legacy and experience, and without having the human words to share her thoughts, I can safely say that meatball fucking hated that shot. for a brief, wild moment as her angry yowl culminated in a fierce hiss, my brain panicked with thoughts of, “these are her last conscious moments and they are filled with fury and betrayal.” she tried to run off, up the stairs and onto the deck, towards the house. she made it up, but not inside; the drugs worked quickly, and Josh and I followed her with reassurances. 

honestly, I can’t remember what either of us said. I don’t know if it mattered. I think we both petted her. I think we both told her we loved her. and she began to settle, the drugs taking her pain and discomfort away. she eased into a peaceful sleep. at some point, I became painfully aware of my face mask filling up with snot. I felt like I was choking for air. I worried I would pass out there next to her.

dr. cheung clearly felt bad about meatball’s reaction. she came and tenderly folded a soft blanket under meatball’s little head. she let us sit and pet her for awhile. while we’d been forewarned, the sight of meatball’s beautiful, but unseeing eyes was disconcerting for me. I forced myself to look anyway.

her breathing was even and steady for the first time in days, unburdened by pain or nausea. her little front paw twitched involuntarily. dr. cheung, comforting us as well as herself, I suspect, told us, “if she knew from the start that we were giving her a peaceful end to her suffering, she would have held her leg out willingly.” then, even more quietly, she said, “I can feel the lumps in her belly. there are so many.” 

I don’t know how much time we took, holding each other and crying, petting meatball and repeating assurances that she couldn’t hear, much less comprehend. I clipped a few tufts of belly fur off of her while she slept, a practice that felt mildly violative but still preferable to defilement of a corpse. at some point, not too long after, we gave the doctor the okay to administer the euthanasia. 

maybe I'm a coward, but I couldn’t watch meatball take her last breath. I held her front paw, the one that had twitched, the entire time. seconds (minutes?) later, dr. cheung held her stethoscope to meatball’s chest and said quietly, “she has passed.” I opened my eyes to look at hers, which had dilated unnaturally under the bright sky. part of me sincerely wishes I hadn’t burned that last image into my brain; still, I didn’t look at her belly, no longer rising and falling in the gentle cadence of calm breath. I buried my face in josh’s shoulder and kept hold of meatball’s little paw until we signaled dr. cheung to take her. 

as soul-crushing as it is to hold your pet while they breathe their last, to sit with their little body in death, to feel the oppressive weight of finality descend upon you, and to be so painfully raw and vulnerable in front of a stranger, it came with a sense of relief for an end to her struggle. 

from her perch on the top step, the doctor slowly -- so very slowly -- removed the blanket from under meatball’s head and laid it out on the deck next to her. she gently shimmied the waterproof pad under meatball’s backside and used it to carefully lift her onto the blanket, supporting her head and she went. although meatball would not have known, in death, if she’d emptied her bowels, we were glad for her sake that she hadn’t. this day, she did not vomit. she went to the bathroom moments before the doctor had arrived. 

dr. cheung swaddled meatball like an infant in her arms, leading us out to the back of her SUV where she lowered the bundle of meatball into a lined basket; a baby in a bassinet. finally, she peeled the blanket back from meatball’s little face so we could see her one last time, at peace, with yet another bed to her name -- as was her way.

life after meatball

meatball died on monday, december 21, 2020 at approximately 1:30pm. it was the winter solstice, and a day that marked the great conjunction of jupiter and saturn. somewhere, some sect surely believed this would be the day the world would end; for me, it may as well have been. 

that may seem melodramatic, even to an avowed animal lover, but if you were lucky enough to be loved by meatball, it would feel like the understatement it is. 

everywhere you were, there was meatball: loud, expressive, and a little bossy at times. she was so talkative, never minding the fact that we spoke in different tongues. over time, she only seemed to grow louder and more insistent, her meow often being mistaken for a screaming child in the background. strangely, she relished receiving pets while she ate. in fact, she would often consume her meal with more gusto once she had a hand gliding down her back and a familiar human voice praising her, bestowing formal recognition upon her as the very good eater that she was. we joked, once, that we’d created a monster by coddling her so; it seemed that after years of indulging her, well, indulgent behavior, she began requiring an audience for her meals. 

demanding though she may have been, she gave back a thousandfold. every time we returned home, always entering through the back yard, she would greet us enthusiastically, meowing and chirping and sticking her little face through the gap between the gate and the side of the house. she knew the sounds of our footfalls and the scent of our presence drawing nearer. oftentimes we wouldn’t make it through the door without showering her with affection, petting her belly while she rolled around on the ground, flipping back and forth and purring.

our PDA didn’t hold a candle to hers, though. meatball was a connoisseur of hand hugs, stretching out her limbs while we’d stroke her chest, then retracting them in a firm embrace around the hand whosever hand was tending her, nuzzling her face into the touch with a small, accompanying squeal, eyes squeezed shut. she loved to kiss and be kissed; we would take turns kissing the patch of golden fur on her forehead before presenting our own faces, upon which she graciously reciprocated the act. 

but she needed no invitation to lavish you with licks from her sandpaper tongue. meatball would approach the both of us at eye level and lick our foreheads, cheeks, noses, chins, and hair, wholly unsolicited. to this day, and for at least the year prior, I’ve sported a perpetual small, circular red spot at the tip of my otherwise bloodless nose; a physical testament to her unending devotion. earlier this year, I had resolved to discourage meatball kisses in the hopes that the mark, so obvious against my pale flesh, would eventually go away. it’s thoughts like those that make me feel so sick and sad. fortunately, I lacked the resolve to keep her at bay for long.

meatball loved to press her forehead against yours; rub the side of her face against yours; nuzzle you unabashedly and for absolutely no discernible reason. if you held a book or beverage or device in your hands, well, she would head-butt your hands and whatever thing that occupied them. at the risk of assigning human motivations to a tabby cat, we never got the sense that meatball’s sole objective was commanding your attention. rather, meatball was a cat that took matters into her own paws: if your fingers weren’t available for caressing her, she’d pet herself on them while you went about your business.

similarly, meatball could make her own fun. she never lacked for toys (or cardboard boxes), but when her mortal nemesis, rainbow snake, was nowhere to be found, she would just... attack the blankets. or the grass. or launch herself at a piece of furniture. 

more than anything in the world, meatball loved life. her vigor went beyond the unmistakable survival instinct that connects humans and animals by a spiritual thread; everything captivated meatball. every sound, every smell, every sun beam, every breeze, every little movement or flash of light. she took such joy in drinking fresh rainwater out of the divots in the deck; in watching the squirrels run along the fence; in being brushed; in receiving treats of any sort; in having one of us spoon her wherever she lay.

to write about her like this almost makes her seem needy; to the contrary, she was fiercely independent and happy to be part of the action without inserting herself at its center. she wasn’t a lap cat, but she was a lover through and through. and while concepts like time and gratitude were much too human to project unto her, I know that she spent the rest of her short life expressing her gratefulness to us for having saved her. I felt her thanks in every lick, every slow blink, every purr. 

2020 was a tough fucking year for so many people. I know that josh and I are among the luckiest of the bunch: we didn’t get sick, none of our human friends or family members fell ill, and both of us were able to work from home. we have good neighbors, a big back yard (that meatball generously let us use), and live in the heart of silicon valley, where we could have everything delivered to us with relative speed and ease.

but comparing the suffering of one human to another is apples to oranges. despite our position of relative privilege, we suffered heavily under the demands of our respective jobs. like everyone else, we were robbed of our routines, unable to see friends or be part of the community in the ways that we so enjoyed: the farmer’s markets, local coffee shops and restaurants, our favorite small businesses, and even the occasional trip to the coast. the stress of us politics and global events weighed on us. quarantine was depressing, the world was depressing, and life as we knew it just... changed. it was ok to grieve that loss.

the one bright spot: we could spend more time with our pets. meatball, in particular, loved this. for one, it meant that she wouldn’t have to choose between indoors and outside; we would leave the back door propped open with the metal, cat-shaped doorstop, allowing her an easy transition between spaces at will. it also meant that we could take lunches and breaks with her out on the patio or in the grass. and if she wanted a morsel or two of food she wouldn’t otherwise get outside -- we didn’t want to attract ants or other critters, after all -- well, then, that was just a bonus.

the sensible part of me is glad that we had this time together, in light of her diagnosis. it allowed us to be present for her and to maximize the remainder of her life with us. it also gave us flexibility with scheduling medication and feedings, and the peace of mind that we would always be around with her if a complication arose. 

the irrationally angry, still-grieving part of me is so unbelievably gutted that the universe saw fit to take away my one silver lining of this fucking pandemic. that, by acknowledging what was most important to me, I somehow doomed her to be taken away. 

and I know, I know: it’s better to have loved and lost. barring another tragedy, I knew we’d both outlive meatball, and that even another decade with her wouldn't have been long enough. I know she’ll live on in our hearts; I know that loving her made us better people. but right now, I'm struggling to breathe under the crushing, suffocating, unfathomable absence of her. the back yard is overwhelming in its energy and the absoluteness of never hearing her curious and joyful meows again.

because for all the routines we’d abruptly given up in march of this year, meatball so often was the routine. it might not sound rational or healthy to say, but in many ways, our day-to-day life revolved around meatball (and our other pets, past and present). despite my misgivings about enabling outdoor cats, meatball’s origin story made it entirely impractical for us to imprison her in a house, and the assortment of california fauna that might scrabble its way indoors in her stead had rendered the possibility of a cat door equally futile (to say nothing of the fact that we’ve been renting for the last five years, anyway). this meant that meatball needed a perpetual doorwoman at her beck and call; apparently, this was my true life’s work.

it would be dishonest of me to suggest I always accommodated her willingly and happily. leaving the door open was fine during the day, but at night, we’d close and lock it. if meatball wanted inside, she would have to yell to get our attention, scratch mercilessly at the back door, or both in tandem. 

sometimes it would only be once a night. more often, it would be two, three, or even four times she’d want in and out: to get a bite of food, to cuddle in the warmth of the bed, or for some unfathomable, attention-seeking reason I couldn’t comprehend at 3am. sometimes I groused about it; occasionally, I would have a meltdown about it. but I always did it. I never wanted meatball to feel like she would be abandoned by us or that she couldn’t have access to food or fresh water. similarly, and despite the obvious toll the cumulative sleep loss took on my health, I wanted reassurance that she hadn’t been captured by a nocturnal predator, hadn’t ventured outside of the yard and gotten herself injured or worse, and wasn’t suffering in an unexpected storm or drop in overnight temperature. and if she was in some sort of trouble, then I would never forgive myself for sleeping through her distress.

so many other rituals revolved around meatball’s wants and needs (or our various interpretations of them). she would wait outside the bathroom door if you were in it, waiting to be greeted. she would frequent “treat station,” a grassroots cat treat co-op sprung up from the bench at our dining room table where she’d sit and wait silently for one of us to give her some goodies. she would simply sit between us on the couch at night, watching whatever was happening on the big screen while her humans were preoccupied with their small screens, taking turns at absently petting her. 

her loss is felt in every corner of this property. I struggle to resume the search for a house to purchase, because leaving here means leaving a part of her behind. we can open the back door and glance two paces ahead at the spot where she died, a few of her little hairs sitting dormant until the next rainfall. we can take with us the furniture and the many blankets she loved, but the yard she owned and championed, the space where she lived her best until she ultimately perished, cannot be taken with us.

the ugliest side of grief

writing this out has been cathartic, in many ways, and painful as a motherfucker in others; I don’t know that the two are mutually exclusive. but still, it feels like the journey through inexplicable loss has just begun.

the thing is, we were trapped in a cycle of mourning for meatball with no foreseeable closure until now -- and even now, truth be told. cold fear had me gripped in the weeks leading up to her diagnosis, bone chillingly aware of how bad a sign unexplained weight loss was in cats. we feared we’d lose her before her treatment would even begin. then, her incredible response gave us such hope. we wept and grieved when she lost her voice; we cried any time she showed a sign of illness or discomfort. we knew that we couldn’t save her life; only buy her some time and solace. 

I used to think that when meatball did eventually pass -- innumerable years into an abstract future, as I'd imagined it then -- I would have no regrets about the life we provided for her. and on the whole, I really don’t. right now -- today and all days following her passing, though hopefully someday with decreased frequency -- I struggle with the kind of guilt only wrought from hindsight.

was there anything I could have done differently? was I not careful enough in administering her medication? did the droplets that leaked from the corners of her mouth or ricocheted off the insides of her cheeks make a difference of weeks or months? should I have at least tried the alternative treatment? was there anything else I could have done for her pain? should I have called the vet about her diarrhea and vomiting sooner? 

if I knew that princess meatball would die on december 21, 2020, would I have still explored all of the treatment options I did? was it worth it?

did she know how much I loved her?

did I force her to prolong her suffering on my account?

so many of these questions have answers I can’t possibly know. I know that I did my best; we both did. I know that we gave her a merciful end, even if she was angry about the needle part at first. I know that she isn’t suffering any more. yes, we could have called a day or two sooner and prevented any further decline; but with her ability to rebound after a bad day, it felt almost premature. I feel absolutely certain that the timing was right based the information we had. 

she knew that I loved her, even if she couldn’t understand why I constantly subjected her to things she didn’t like. she knew that I didn’t like those things either, I think. whether there was anything I did or didn’t do: who knows? everything I did for her was out of pure love, and for most of the treatment cycles, she was relatively comfortable and happy. she didn't like going to the vet, but she loved sitting on my lap for the car ride home. she hated her medicine, but she enjoyed being rewarded with tuna water and brushes under her chin. the treatment side effects, when they did manifest, were mild and few. and for awhile, we saw her enjoy herself as she used to. 

her loss is profound, and it chokes me throughout the day. I want to fight against fate, or give up and die, too. but that would be very silly of me to do, when a little tabby cat who weighed no more than five and a half pounds at the time of her death could fight so hard to stay alive for her people.

rest well, my golden-crowned princess. your light lives on in us.  

Fated

Lucia doodled carefully on her arm. The colour vanished slowly into her skin. She loved watching the colors swirl for the few seconds they stayed on. The rest of the time her world remained an endless monochrome. When she was younger she tried writing on herself so she could tell her soulmate where she is so they could meet soon. But her mother told her that patterns often changed when transferring and what might be words on her skin ended up just scribbles on her soulmates’. Lucia stayed optimistic for a while though. She was sure at least one message would be legible. But slowly her faith had waned. There was never a reply. Not even a simple line on her skin and she still checked every morning and night. She was always left disappointed.

“Maybe he is one of those people who don’t believe in marks and wants to leave it to the universe or whatever?” Her brother had suggested once. Lucia hated that idea. Adrian had it lucky. He was one of the rare people who could see colours from birth. What he drew stayed on his skin. He was devastated at first and if it were fifty years earlier he would’ve been shunned for a cold hearted monster but people understand the connections better these days. The permanent presence of colour only meant that Adrian was the most important person in Adrian’s life. It had nothing to do with love. But the old beliefs were hard to shake. It was a fact that those with connections usually stayed together and fell in love most times.

“Maybe they are just shy?” Lucia could see Adrian’s questions about the pronoun but she knew she wasn’t ready yet. “Or maybe there isn’t anyone at all?”

“Then you would be like me Lu. Stop worrying, whoever it is, I am sure they have a reason to be so silent.” Lucia nodded but her unease stayed.

***

Adya’s mother watched her scrub the colours off her hand violently. She gently pulled Adya’s hands away before she could hurt herself.

“I am worried about her.” She told Adya’s father that night. He sighed and prayed to all the gods he knew to keep his daughter safe.

***

Lucia loved travelling. She firmly believed that she would find her person if she could just go out and see the world. But a small seaside village with barely a hundred people did not sound promising to her.

“Why can’t we go somewhere better?” She would deny anyone if they called it whining but she knew she was whining a little.

“We’ve been to so many cities and tourist spots before Lu. Let us try Adrian’s dream vacation once.” Her father sounded amused which made her feel that much more childish.

“We’ve tried it before. Remember how boring it was?”

“You mean peaceful?” Adrian elbowed her.

“No. I mean boring!”

“Oh come on, Lu. You will love this place. It has a beautiful beach and I know you love swimming.”

“Ugh fine!” She knew she had lost a long time ago but she had to try one last time. They packed up and left the next night. Lucia left a few drawings and the address on her arm and belly as she usually did when she left home. She even wrote her home address on her ankle every morning, just in case.

***

More colours appeared on Adya’s body while swimming. The salt water helped in getting rid of the colours soon but it left her skin red and raw. She hated that she could only see colour like this. She had heard her mother describe the ocean as wonderfully blue and green. But she could never see it. The only way to see it would be with her fated and she had long decided that death would be better than that.

***

Lucia grudgingly admitted that the place was beautiful in a quaint, sleepy, soft, humble way. A few houses were scattered around the valley which led right onto the beach. There was a small villa located right by the water that was prepared for them. Lucia managed to call dibs on the room with the amazing view and was feeling quite victorious when the housekeeping staff called her aside for a word.

“Please stay careful in that room, Ms….?”

“Just Lucia is fine. Why should I be careful there,Mrs…?”

“Just Anna is fine. Don’t open the windows in the night, Lucia. Trust me.” She smiled and Lucia immediately loved her little dimples.

“What did you mean, Anna?”

“Lucia!” Adrian called before Anna could answer and when Lucia turned back Anna wasn’t there.

***

Anna sat on the sand watching the waves morosely. She longed for a swim but it would be impossible. Her sister slipped out of the water and after arranging her coat carefully on the sand, sat beside Anna.

“How have you been, Hema?” Adya asked. Anna hadn’t heard that name in years.

“Mostly okay. How’s everyone at home?” Anna’s voice shook but she held back the tears.

“Everyone misses you.”

“I miss you all too.”

***

The first few days went by without any incident. Lucia was extra vigilant in the room. She had even kept the windows closed at night but the room got uncomfortably stuffy without the breeze. The third night she opened the window. Nothing happened.

It wasn’t until the fifth day that she saw something interesting. Anna was on the beach, alone. Lucia was about to go join her when she saw the other woman. She looked about Lucia’s age with long black hair covering most of her. She laid something down on the sand and sat beside Anna. Lucia quickly shut the windows. It looked too personal to interrupt.

The next morning at breakfast Lucia found Anna in the kitchen. “Hey Anna do you have any family?” Anna dropped the ladle she was holding.

“No.” She answered after a long pause. Lucia changed the topic quickly before she could offend Anna.

“Are there any interesting places around here to see? I am already bored.” Anna smiled her dimpled smile again.

“Have you found your fated yet, Lucia?”

“My fated?” Anna motioned to the slowly disappearing marks on Lucia’s hands and she blushed.

“No. This is just...I was just hoping...trying to send...telling them...I just wanted them to know where I am.” Anna’s smile fixed on her face.

“Well if you could see colours I would suggest the crystal cave but for you it might be a little disappointing.”

“Can you see colours?” It was a personal question but Anna had already asked her so Lucia figured it must be okay to ask.

“Yes.” The smile died.

“Oh, where are they?”

“Dead.” Anna’s tone was weird.

“I am so sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.” Lucia backed away quickly.

“No, dear Lucia. You didn’t hurt me. Do you know why we call them the fated instead of soul mates?”

“No.” Lucia loved a good story. She made herself comfortable leaning against the counter.

“The marks and the colours don’t signify love all the times. They just show the one person you will be fated to meet no matter what. The one person fated to be the biggest presence in your life. The one person fated to change your life for good or for worse. And in my case it was for the worse.”

Lucia felt like shit for digging it all up so early in the morning. “I am so sorry for what happened to you.”

“It’s okay. He is gone now and I am doing fine.” She didn’t sound fine but Lucia didn’t push.

“Where’s this crystal cave? I would love to go see even if it’s not a complete experience.”

Anna gave her some directions and packed her some food. She almost seemed her cheerful self by the end so Lucia went away happy.

***

Adya sat on the stone steps leading into the lake in the middle of the cave. She had swum in here to avoid her parents fretting over her. After the visit with Hema, she was feeling even more wound up than usual. She took off her coat and folded it carefully and hid it under a rock.

A noise outside made her bolt for her coat. She hastily slipped back into the water but before she could hide someone walked up to the steps.

“Hey!” Adya turned around to a woman leaning over the edge peering at her. Her pale skin stood out in the dark cave, the dark brown curls mingling with the rock behind her. She looked a little lost with her huge eyes and gaping mouth. Then Adya realized why the woman’s mouth was open so wide. Her world was filled with colour.

***

Lucia stumbled back at the sudden colour flooding through her senses. The woman in front of her was the same woman she had seen with Anna the other night. Lucia was sure she would recognize the hair anywhere. She had only touched the edge of the hair floating in the water but there she was her fated.

The cave was as beautiful as Anna said it would be. Lucia sat back and waited for the woman to come out. She was clutching a towel to her chest standing in the middle of the pond opening and closing her mouth but without saying anything. Lucia understood the shock. She was feeling it too.

The woman did something weird then. She held the towel closer to herself and gathered herself behind it. She sank down into the water completely covered the soft grey towel. Lucia felt a thrill up her spine as she recognized the colour. Then there was just a seal. A seal with the same dark eyes as the woman swimming away into the depths of the pond. She never came back up.

***

“Anna!” Lucia crashed through the villa, searching for the woman.

“Lucia? How was the …”

“Who is she? What is she?”

“Lucia, calm down. You’re scaring me. What happened?”

“I found her. I found my fated!” Anna’s face fell.

“Did she hurt you?”

“What? No! It the girl I saw with you.”

“With me?”

“In the night. On the beach.”

“What’s happening?” Adrian looked pissed. Lucia didn’t care that she was shouting enough to disturb everyone.

Anna’s face drained of colour. She grabbed Lucia’s hands hard enough to bruise. “You stay away from her you monster!”

“Anna! What the fuck! Let go of her!” Adrian tried to pull Anna away but she was too strong.

“Promise me you won’t ever go after her!” Anna screamed.

“Like hell I won’t! She is my fated! You can’t keep her to yourself!”

Anna wailed and let Lucia go. She ran out of the house. Lucia sat down trying to grasp what had happened.

“What the hell was that about?”

“I found my soul mate?”

“Anna?”

“No! Someone with Anna. But she did that when I asked about her.”

“Don’t worry, Lu. You will find her again.”

“Fuck that! I am gonna find her now!”

***

Adya panicked. She didn’t know where to go. She knew telling her parents and running away would be a good option but they couldn’t leave Hema behind, not so soon after finding her.

“Adya!” Hema was swimming out to her even though the water would be burning her.

“Hema! They found me!”

“Do you still have your coat?”

“Yes. Yes. We should talk on the beach.”

“No, it’s ok.” But Adya could see the pain on her sister’s face. She swam them out to the shore. And the woman was waiting for them there.

“Fuck, is she hurt?” The woman reached for Hema and jumped away when Adya hissed at her. “Get away from us!”

“Look, I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t understand anything. Please, let me help.”

“No! Go away! You will only hurt us!”

Adya was surprised when the woman actually left.She hadn’t even put any magic into her words. She had expected a fight, anger or even violence but not this. Carefully, she laid her sister down and waited for the moon to raise and heal her.

***

Lucia was pacing in her room. She knew what she saw in the pond. And a quick google search had given her “selkies”. Another search with selkies and the name of the village gave her some odd stories of mermaid sightings, some conspiracy theories, some folklore and one story that captured her attention. It was about a author who had found the village on his travels and came upon the most beautiful woman on the shore. They found out that they were soulmates and soon after she confessed her secret to him. She was a selkie and she had to return to the ocean from time to time. That night he stole her coat so she could never leave him. Then they lived happily ever after.

The ending jarred Lucia. She could not imagine worse circumstances for happiness but it was the man who wrote the story. She searched for more mentions of him and found an obituary and a small mention in some old newspapers. He was murdered, throat cut in his sleep soon after he got married to his soulmate. She was a local girl called Anna.

***

“You should leave, Adya.” The words hurt to say but Hema had to say them. Her magic had kept her safe in the village but there was no knowing what Lucia would do to Adya.

“We are not leaving you here. Not until we find your coat.”

“It’s been years, Adya. We might never find it.” She could feel it close by but there was something holding it away from her. Whatever it was, was not affecting her powers much. She had kept the villagers away from too many questions about her but weaving the magic over the new guests was too much for her in such a short time. She could’ve had them if only she had a few more days.

“Doesn’t matter. We are not leaving you with humans alone.” It had taken a couple of decades for her family to find her in this godforsaken village. She had all but given up hope of ever returning to the sea when they found her. She was still trapped but at least she had support in maintaining her magic. But now she had to give that up too.

Anna took a deep breath. “You know she will get you. I will give up anything if it means you don’t get my fate.”

***

Lucia went back to the cave hoping to meet the selkie there. She had a feeling she would be there but she wasn’t alone. There were a few more selkies with her, all clutching their coats close to their hearts and looking at her with fear and anger filled eyes. It was the second time she had intruded upon their family but she had no choice.

“Anna?”

“Lucia.”

“Why did you tell me to be careful in my room?” Anna shrugged.

“It is the room where I killed my fated.” Her eyes were cold. There was no hint of the Anna from days before. Anna had stayed away from the villa for almost a week and it showed. She looked hungry.

“And it has a view of your meeting place.”

“Yes. That too.”

“Did you ever find your coat?” The rest of them shuffled nervously at the mention of the coat. Lucia was firmly avoiding the eyes of the other woman.

“No.”

“I think I know where it is.”

“This is a trap.” The woman spoke for the first time. Her voice was harsh and Lucia stepped back.

“It is not. Your hus...your fated, he was a well known author. He wrote about folklore and he wrote your story in it. How he met you on the shore…” Anna snorted.

“He stole me from my home and forced me to come here. He did not find me here.”

“Oh...I only know what he wrote. I am sorry. But the way he ended the story was weird. He said he stole your coat and you lived happily after that.”

“He stole my coat and I was trapped with him.”

“Yes. That’s why it was weird cause he died soon after so I went to the others here and asked them if they knew him and the library in a nearby town had the original story. I found it and he didn’t end the story there. There were a few more pages where he described how he hid the coat. He said the magic of selkies comes from the moon and it is magic of life and happiness.”

“Yes.” They were all guarded now. Lucia knew she would not be going out alive if she made a single misstep.

“So what is the opposite of life and happiness?”

“Death.” The other woman answered, baring her sharp teeth.

“Graveyard. I think he hid the coat in his coffin.” The silence that followed was absolute.

“It is true that the death from the graveyard could keep you from finding the coat.” An older woman said. Lucia guessed she was their mother.

“Adya?” Anna asked turning to the other woman. Adya. Lucia savored the name in her mind.

“It is worth checking.”

“I can help.” Lucia offered. The selkies looked at each other. Lucia turned to Adya. It was now or never. “I’ll leave if you ask me to. Now that we have touched, we’ll both see colour. There isn’t anything stopping either of us from leaving. But I want to stay. I want to know how you will change my life. I want to know you. If you will let me.”

“Go away.” Adya said.

***

Lucia walked away without protest surprising Adya again.

“We might need her.” Her father said and Adya hated that he might be right.

“Can we go to the graveyard by ourselves?”

“I am not sure how the place would react to us. It could hurt us.”

“I have to go. I have to see.” They all understood Hema’s desperation. “I never thought he would be depraved enough to hide it with a corpse.”

“I’ll ask her.” Adya decided. They needed Lucia. And without her coat, Hema entering the graveyard would be too dangerous.

“We’ll go, Adya.” Her mother said. But there was no way Adya would let her old parents go through something so dangerous.

“No. I’ll ask her. I’ll be careful. I promise.”

“It could be a trap.” Her father warned.

“She will die before she could spring it.”

***

Lucia doodled on her arm. It was mindless silly patterns that sank into her skin. She didn’t know where Adya was. She had promised her help but when Adya told her to leave she didn’t have any other choice. Lucia hoped Anna would find her coat. She wanted to know if her theory was right. It wasn’t as easy to find that information as she had made it sound. She had call in some favors from her father’s colleagues who all thought she was losing her mind for trying to find a single story from guy who’s been dead for fifty years. In the end she found the original which was part of his diary. It was a disturbing read to say the least. But it had given her the clue to find Anna’s coat.

“Lucia.” Lucia jumped when she heard Adya’s voice from the window. She was standing at the window looking in. “I need your help.”

***

Adrian wasn’t sure what to think when his sister woke him up from a nap and asked his help for grave robbing. He was quite fond of Lucia’s quirks but this was a bit extreme. And then there was Adya. She was a silent presence beside them.

“Is she your…” Adrian’s question died in his throat at the glare from Adya.

“It’s complicated but yes.” Lucia said ignoring the glare.

“So whose grave are we desecrating?”

“A kidnapper’s.” Adya answered.

“Cool.”

And that’s how he found himself in a graveyard, digging up a coffin.

“It’s here. I can feel it.” Adya said twisting a blanket around her. She was already wrapped in tight. Adrian wondered if she would bite his head off if he offered her his coat.

“We’ll find it.” Lucia said, panting from the effort.

“What are we searching for?”

“A coat.”

“Uhhh...Lu I can buy you a new coat if you want.”

“It’s for Anna.”

“I can buy her a new coat too. You can borrow mine if you are cold.” He dared to offer Adya.

“We need this coat, Adrian. Trust me on this okay?” Lucia sounded uncharacteristically serious. “Sure sis but you owe me big time.”

“I owe you.” She didn’t even fight for it. Adrian dug faster.

Finally they hit rotting wood. Inside was a smelly rotting skeleton wrapped in a blanket just like the one Adya had but with little brown spots on it. Lucia grabbed it disturbing the bones but she didn’t seem to care so Adrian let it be.

“Is this it?” She held it out to Adya who snatched it out of her hands. Just then there was a commotion from the road and someone shouted at them.

***

Adya held her sister’s coat in her hands. Finally finally finally. They could all go home and be happy. Someone shouted at them. She could leave the humans to sort out the other humans. She could escape and leave with her family that instance.

Lucia and Adrian looked terrified in the grave surrounded by the bones of Hema’s fated. She sighed and turned to face the humans. It was simple magic. Even surrounded by death and decay, the power of two coats made it easy to confuse the human yelling at them.

“You saw nothing here. Go home.” The human walked away.

“That won’t last long. You two should hurry.” She left then but Lucia’s hopeful voice stopped her.

“Can I see you again? Please?”

“Meet me in the cave tomorrow alone.”

***

Lucia knew it was a goodbye before she entered the cave. They were leaving the day after. It had taken some talking but Adrian agreed not to tell their parents. And Lucia knew the selkies would be leaving too now that there was nothing trapping them there.

“Hi.” Adya was alone, sitting on the edge of the pool. Her coat was folded behind her. Adya was holding it tight with one hand. The other held out a small pearl to her.

“What’s this?” Lucia asked sitting a few feet away from her.

“A thank you.”

“And a goodbye?”

“Yes.” Lucia’s heart still broke.

“We live near the sea. I am going to work super close to a beach next year.”

“What do you do?”

“I am a marine biologist.” Adya laughed. Lucia was struck by how beautiful she was. Adya noticed her watching.

“Maybe I’ll find you there, Lucia.”

“I hope you do. Is Anna okay?”

“Her name is Hema.”

“Oh...is Hema okay?”

“Yes. It will take a few years for her to be completely alright but she is happy. Thank you.” She added softly. Lucia took the pearl.

“I am glad.” Too soon it was time for Adya to go. Lucia watched til she could no longer see the specks of grey in the blue water.

***

A few months later, Lucia was walking along the beach behind her new house. She had started working in the new city a couple months ago and had walked along the beach everyday. She had scribbled the name of the city on her arm every day since. Adya wrote back sometimes. It was always a little wet and rubbed off too easily but Lucia treasured the lines on her skin. They talked when they could. Sometimes the words were legible sometimes not. Lucia didn’t care. She rubbed the pearl. She wore it all the time, holding it when she felt desperate and lonely. She knew the story was not over yet and there was so much more to come. She just wished Adya were here with her to share the sunset and the cool breeze.

“Come here often?” Her thoughts were interrupted by a beautiful woman sitting on a grey blanket. Adya’s hand was still clutching her coat hard but there was a smile on her face and Lucia’s heart soared.

Shattered

A memory crystal clear and shining, it’s brilliance a balm to my aching flayed soul. I remember. I remember the day we met. Me in my ridiculous suit just trying to get a job, you so caught up in your own life you didn’t even remember meeting me that first day. It seems like a lifetime ago now, but that’s where it all began. The weeks passed slowly at first but before long they never seemed to last long enough. We only saw each other a few hours each day, yet those hours lasted days, yet those days lasted moments. And far too soon it fell apart...not forever...not that I knew. For many little reasons some my fault, and larger reasons for which I cannot apologize enough. We went our separate ways, each of us broken, lost, and without the one who always seemed to make those feelings go away. I didn’t know I left a piece of myself with you, you never told me. I didn’t know it was there, I didn’t know it lived, I didn’t know it died, I wasn’t there to say goodbye. You never told me, and you never apologized.

 I found out one day, not the way I should have, and I came back to you. The same love still in my heart, the same man I once was, yet different than I had been before. Still you took me back, except it wasn’t just me and you anymore, you had another and I couldn’t bear it. I thought to run away but with nowhere to go, I sought oblivion. And succeeded. It wasn’t peaceful like everyone said, it was torment and torture and it lasted longer than all the days and hours and moments I had wished to return to with you. And it was over in the blink of an eye. The smell of antiseptic and the sight of worried faces were all I came back to. None of them were yours.  Yet still I sought you out, my love stronger than reason. And I found you, again in the arms of another, again of two minds, again used when he hurt you, when he wasn’t enough for you. Every time you took me in your arms I lived, and every time you took me in your arms I died. My heart soared with boundless joy until I realized it was all a lie. I walked away again that time. Too hurt to ignore the pain inside. I sought to go my own way at last and finally be free from the past that had driven me to scream, and rage, and mourn. To finally quiet the turmoil and storm of the lies and shame and child unborn. I left to walk my lonely path and swore to myself to never look back. 

What a fool I was then to think I could do it for seeing you still set my heart racing and no matter how hard I tried I couldn’t keep from chasing after the one who had loved me so true, at least that’s what I thought we’d come to. But again you took me into your arms while sharing the bed of another who you’d harmed. I won’t say I’m not partially to blame but this time it would not end the same, I tried and I tried to be what you needed. I came to you day, or night till any hour, you had me completely under your power. I gave to you more of me than I’d ever given anyone and yet it was never enough to get you to stay. 

And now we come to the most painful part, that now that its over I can’t believe I didn’t see from the start. You never felt the way that I did, you used me when you felt you needed someone to talk to, to tell you they loved you and make you feel better. To give of themselves all they had to give up so you could feel powerful, loved, and appreciated. And then go home to a man who you hated but gave you things and paid all your bills,  you just needed me as emotional fill. Now this was long ago and you could have just let me go. But as if this wasn’t enough you found me and told me about how happy you are, with someone I don’t know and taken this scar. This wound that was gaping and cut to the bone had finally healed and until I answered the phone to hear your voice one last painful time. And ripped it back open to bleed out anew, with words like “you never understood me,” Fuck you. I gave you my everything and laid bare my soul, and now I’m left shattered, never to be whole. You always had a reason, an excuse, a story, but never once did you have the decency to simply say I’m sorry. To look me in the eye and apologize for what you did, to let me say goodbye to our kid. I wish this was it and I could just move on but you’ve torn me to pieces now that you’re gone. 

Here is this memory now fetid and cloying, once a beacon of light turned to a vortex of torment. You found me and charmed me then rent me asunder. So from here I’ll continue no longer in wonder of the woman you were or the future we had. I’m shattered, I’m broken, I hate what I’ve become, this thing that you left behind a husk of who I once was. And yet for all of that pain that I had to endure, part of me still loves you and that part I abhor. 

I’m left without substance, fulfillment, or closure. I feel like a rag wrung out on the floor, I’ve left it all on the page and there is nothing more. So thank you for letting me rant, rage, and shout. I think I’ll just end here and see myself out.

The snow owls:Book 1

The weight of my SR-34 comforts me as I take out the magazine and start counting the bullets, 1, 2, 3,4,5,6, I stop to notice the others trying to calm their nerves. I'm told that everyone who has done The Drop, weave tales of fear and pain, it's always the quiet that rattles you the most they say. I understand what they mean, the five of us were ordered to remain silent, keeping us strangers. All I know is their names on their chest plate, Amaryllis, Cavso, Hale, Ava, and me Detasha; I start tracing my nameplate and rank, a white chevron, we all have a single white chevron, at least we have something in common all being fresh recruits straight from the Academy. Except me, I came from the Education Centers of Alustria. I try to imagine what they look like under our bulky armor. The armor is different than the type I was trained in, MK-18 was lighter and snug, The MK-00 was very heavy and streamlined. The big difference is the white paint and a heat vent coming out of the shoulders. A blue light comes on above shouting that we are in the exosphere 500km above the planet, the seed like drop pod suddenly becomes full of anxiety. It gets hot and claustrophobic in our vehicle of torment. I think I hear sobbing but the helmet muffles it; I feel the same way. The second light blazed burning up all hope and comfort. A voice rips the silence in twain "welcome recruits to Paliscia your last stop before you are assigned to your fleet. You will be dropped at a height of 120km, 25 km from fort Meytel. Warning: Please avoid the Xoltixs, the crew members, and the raging blizzard; Of course you don't need to fret over it as long as you make it to the fort. Do not help or work together with another squad.  We only want the strong to survive. Glory to the goddess, glory to the empress, and glory to the empire. Enjoy The Drop." I breathe in trying to quiet my thoughts of dying from the impact. 75% fatality rate they told us when we left the spaceport; fucking assholes. I can feel the tension in the air as we await The Drop; we were told nothing about the planet we are dropping on. I gather from our armor that it's going to be a tundra planet, of course, it would be with the name Meytel for the fortress, the name of the Holy Royals. I wonder if they are cold like their name, Meytel a snowstorm. The stress gets to a critical point as a foul blue light turns on signaling our final moments. We drop, the sudden weightlessness is pleasant, quickly turning sour. I feel my stomach kiss my throat as we continue to fall faster. Everyone is shaking as we start to break through the atmosphere. My bones rattle in their sockets bringing a sharp pain to my chest.  My head goes blank, I close my eyes and pray to the 1st Goddess. "100km, 90km, and 80km" the voice announced. I can't listen to the voice, all I can do is focus on my prayer. May Kyta Meytel, Kin saver, Mother Of the Empire, 1st Goddess, And The Frozen Warrior embrace my soul for the wealth of the aether; Please Save the Aether of the souls who may die in this pod; take them into your sweet embrace so they may power the empire beyond death. The pod stops shaking bringing back the feelings of weightlessness slowing my mind down "20Km, 10Km, 5km, the voice blares. The sudden release of the engines hisses slowing our descent, only slightly. I feel the ache in my bones before the cracking whip of the impact. Burning pain and ringing ears are our introductions to Paliscia. "Is everyone alive?" I quiver. "I don't want to be “replies a female voice to my left; Amara Kosovo in bright red letters etched into her chest piece. "Anyone else?" No reply. I reach over and tap on the helmet on my right. “Cavso are you alive?" I shout as I shake the helmet, he doesn`t react. I undo the seal, staring back at me are the bloodshot bulging eyes of Cavso. He was beautiful, pale skin, golden hair, and most striking golden eyes. I look at Amaryllis “The shock killed him. I think it killed all of them. “I said staring down at the helmet, "This is insane, why would the empire do this it's barbaric and pointless. “Amaryllis shouts. I don`t say anything as I reseal the helmet. None of the teachers trained us for this to be so deadly. The Education centers of Alustria are gentle and safe compared to this. We spend time checking each of them for life. The cold dead silence was broken by the hiss as the pod doors open. The corpse's spill out as we make our way to the steaming crater that is our landing pad. A blizzard was buzzing to embrace us even through my armor I could feel the sting of Frozen love.  'Detasha where do we go from here" Amaryllis chatters. "We are 25 km away from the fort," reply looking around at the tree line,  "in which direction I don't know, all I know is I do not want to be out here" I replied with clacking teeth. Amaryllis sighs as we start walking towards the snow hugged forest. I turn on my suits heater using the interface on my glove, a gush of warm airwaves embrace my body, at least I can be warm I thought as we entered the forest. The massive evergreens surround us in a thick piney fortress covered in snow. My suit starts to get hot enough to start melting the snow around my feet exposing blue flowers, frozen at the peak of vitality; I turn my heaters off and close the vents in my armor. I feel a push and sudden burning in my shoulder before I hear the explosion of a railgun. I scream out in agony as I hit the tree behind me, my shoulder is a gaping hole sending waves of pain throughout my body. Amaryllis cries out in shock. The explosion lashes out at the top of the tree, sending it tumbling down. I leap to the side landing on my wound, I puke up breakfast, Fresh blueberries and rice, and I wonder why that thought crossed my mind as my body goes into shock. Amaryllis lifts me and starts to drag me deeper into the forest. The world wobbles as we trudge on, my body is cold and limp in Amaryllis`s hands; I close my eyes. Amaryllis opens my eyes when she starts shaking me, she starts talking but I can’t hear her through the speakers in the helmet; a ringing dances in my brain. A sudden flash of light blinds me which was the least of my problems as a searing pain rips through the wound in my shoulder, as the pain increases I can see darkness creeping in distorting the image of Amaryllis armor body. The darkness suffocates me unable to move I catch glimpses of golden figures jittering towards me causing tears in the fabric of darkness with every jolt of their wraith-like bodies. Light explodes as I gasp for breath, I’m cold and so hungry. My eyes focus seeing the helmet of Amaryllis, “There you are, all patched up. Flex your fingers". She sounds exhausted. I danced my fingers on her palm. "Good now let's go before things get worse” She says with a rasp in her voice. I get up with no reply still amazed at the small scar on my shoulder. We continue walking under the massive canopy, the hole in my armor no longer protecting me from the cold. Walking through the forest trying to shake off the snipers greeting, we make small talk “My full name is Amara Calun Mar Amaryllis from clan Kosova, It`s nice to meet you.” She shakes my gauntlet, I shake back “I`m Mir Detasha from clan Mors.” I duck under a branch just before it hits my head “It’s very nice to meet you and rather unfortunate that we are the only survivors.” I can tell from stone silence that I should not talk about the deaths of our comrades, “So where did you grow up?” I ask batting away branches as we go deeper into the forest. “I was born on a breeder planet but I grew up as a slave. We got raided in the middle of the night, From what my matriarch told me the temple guards patrols where riddled with traps that night and because of that along with  various rescue attempts only half of the guard was there to protect the brood mothers. Long story short I was taken by human slavers, sold, and then rescued 10 years later.” Amara replied rather nonchalantly. “Where did you grow up Mir? “She says punching me in the chest to break the tension the clang of my armor echoes throughout the forest.  I take a minute to digest her story before I reply.” I grew up on an asteroid colony, so I have never been to the core worlds. I was born to two loving parents although I don’t know much about them when I was born something happened to the colony and I started living with the matriarch of Clan Mors, Isabella Mortus, she was going home with her fleet when she received the distress call, it`s a miracle that she was even near us when it happened whatever it was, they still won`t tell me what happened.” I reply shivering from the hole in my armor. The blizzard begins a new assault of ice and wind tearing down our spirits, sending us scurrying to a cave at the bottom of a hill. With the forest behind us and the relative warmth of the cave we start to make camp, Amara makes a wall of snow to cover the lip of the cave adding insulation to our temporary home, I press the buttons on my gauntlet releasing the seals on my armor allowing them to clank to the floor giving my body much needed relief from its stifling space my hair is soaked in sweat from the heaters which I kept on to keep the cave warm, but most importantly to get the aether crystals hidden in my chest plate, I send a pulse of heat from my core infusing the crystal with my aether, it pulses yellow in response, I let it fall to the floor where it hovers a foot from the ground radiating a gentle warmth throughout the cave. Amara unseals her armor and grabs her rations and starts to eat the tasteless bars and drinks the nutrition drink, I look at my armor and decide to get my sleeping roll out to go to bed; it’s best to sleep than eat that garbage. I unfurl my white sleeping bag, unzip it and start sliding into it. Amara unfurls her sleeping bag next to me, as the snow powder bag is unzipped I take in Amara’s features, cascading waterfalls of snow-kissed hair, pale skin, and jagged scars on her arms, neck , and legs. I can`t imagine what she must have gone through, it`s horrible, my eye`s start to tear up. I fall asleep, I dream in darkness. We wake up to the sounds of birds and streaming sunlight in our cave. I roll up my sleeping bag and tie it inside my back piece, I carefully start to get in to my armor, sliding the spider suit`s mesh down my arms and legs I step into my boots, I click the lower leg pieces into my boots, next is the thigh pieces. After a couple minutes of adjustments and my armor is on nice and snug. My helmet clicks into place and makes a hiss as it seals my armor, it starts making a sucking sound as I remember the hole in my shoulder, it seems warm enough I ponder as I take my helmet off and tie it on a hook coming off my waist. Amara does the same tying it to a spare hook on the armor; she starts to knock down the snow wall allowing more sunlight to enter the cave. We start walking out of the cave and back into the forest walking around the bottom of the hill. The day is warm melting the snow in patches allowing the flowers and shrubs to breathe their colors to life, blues and reds dot the forest floor, smacks of purple and yellow cover the trees in tiny flowers. “The forest is rather beautiful now that the blizzard stopped and the sun is out” I say basking in the glow. “I`m just glad I can stop running for my life” She mumbles with a sigh wiping sleep from her eyes. Walking at a brisk pace we find ourselves on the other side of the hill opening up into a meadow untouched by the snow. The smell of the flowers is intoxicating as we walk across dancing around blue, purple, and green fingers. Our dance comes to an end as we reach a stone sitting peacefully in the center of the meadow. I motion Amara to come look at the smooth glass like surface of this rock. As she approaches I start staring longer, entranced I reach towards it, touching its smooth surface brings such an intense satisfaction that it hardly registers the fact that the smooth rock is now a towering 4 legged beast. It roars exposing it`s massive fangs, breaking the spell it had over me and ringing my eardrums. I start stumbling backwards swaying left and right, my ears weeping blood making me a perfect snack for this beast. It reaches out with its massive fur covered paw, as it nears I reach down grabbing the small handle of my retractable blade, my blade slices through the paw severing it causing the beast to real back in pain. Amara starts unloading her SR-34`s 56 titanium slugs at 1,850 bullets per minute deep into the beasts sides, by know I have to assume it’s a Xoltix. The Xoltix rushes towards me unaffected by Amara`s assault. I lift up my arm as heat rushes to my hand I release a miasma filled with paralytics and toxins that break down organic matter. The beast is engulfed slowing its attack and finally it stops, the miasma breaks away as my focus shifts to what’s about to happen next. Blisters start to cover the beast filled with yellow puss, they pop spewing out rotten flesh, the Xoltix`s body slowly shudders down as it is broken down to its basic components. The skin sloughs off exposing green muscle oozes down to the floor as it is no longer contained. The beast collapses half rotted to the bone filling the air in a noxious smell. I stand up trying to avoid the liquefied corpse as it runs down the meadow, Amara stares at me eyes filled with disgust, “You are a Thanoist, I can’t believe I slept next to you, you freak, I think I’m going to be sick.” She covers her mouth. “ It`s not like I had a choice, some people can make fire, or freeze things, or like you healing and using light, I just happen to kill everything. So yeah I guess I am a freak. Can we just move on and find the Fort?” I yell frustrated by her reaction, the same reaction most people give me when they know what I am. She pukes as the river of rotting flesh makes its way past her, after a few seconds she composes herself and walks past me with no reply. We make it to the other side of the meadow to see past the tree line a  beach with a beautiful frozen lake          and  a massive fortress blazing blue among the snow on the other side etched into a mountain. “I’m guessing that's Fort Meytel?" I huffed taking of my helmet trying to catch my breath. Amara turns to look up at me, “Why are you twirling your hair like that?" "It’s just a thing I do when I'm thinking or nervous." I replied letting go of my obsidian locks. "Look I don't have the best memories of thanoists... I'm going to have to tolerate you especially in the fort, it is unprofessional to withhold communication with someone you despise." Amara says as she takes off her helmet. Her hair unfurled glowing white like the snow. I notice her eyes look almost golden, I'm starting to stare long "um so how about we get inside the fort I'm exhausted." I say trying to focus on the fort and not her face. She turns toward the fort " yeah let's go, and be aware of the instructors, I don't want to patch another hole."

The lake is gorgeous up close as we get to its edge. Deep black mud holds our boots down. We struggle to get free from this mucus trap. “How are we going to get free from this?" I say trying to pull my foot up. “We are so close to the edge that we could jump out of our boots and on the ice". "Uh I don't know if we are on the same planet, it's below freezing and getting colder, your best plan is to get out of our warm boots to freezing cold ice." I reply. I can't tell if that made her mad under the tinted glass of our helmets. Suddenly the mud starts to pull us down like it's eating us. The shifting mud ripples out as we unbuckle our boots. We both try to jump out of our boots only to slam face first on the ice. Crawling forward through the mud I notice how it feels through the spider 3 skin suit, it's like tiny hands are pulling us back. With great effort, we free ourselves from the black mud. The mud rises to form a tall woman. “You did well freeing yourself from my grasp, now for the next test see if you can cross this lake alive." She said each word filled with sadness. She lifts her hands up swirling her mud into her palms, with a quick flick it forms a glaive. Dashing forward she strikes at Amara. Amara raised her sword parrying the jagged blade. I charge forward into the opening the deflection caused. Swiftly unsheathing my sword, it slices through the woman's black gown. At least that was what I thought, she disappeared when it connected. We take the gift and start to run across the lake, trying not to slip on the smooth surface. The ice next to us bursts to send daggers into our armor. A massive boom fills the air from the railgun firing. We hit the ice on our sides from the hole in the lake. Helping each other up we see the ice, countless bodies lay underneath. A dozen barring the drop suits we have on. I can only guess that they are the other squads that landed with us. "Children it is not the place to mourn the dead!" Said the sudden man approaching us in full tundra armor. Amara lifts her gauntlets and blasts a beam of light at him. He grabs it and throws it back at us. I grab her as the light hits us. Parts of our armor is melted others glowing red hot, having no other option we emergency purge our armor denting the ice as it lands. The rush of steam covers our area giving us time to get our weapons. Amara's pistol and rifle bursts into shrapnel as two shots fly out. The shrapnel digs into our sides Amara's hand torn to pieces, she uses light to burn the wounds stopping the bleeding. I grasp my blade tight to withstand the pain of the fire. Amara's blade is in her offhand with a fierce glare on her face, she shouts for us to charge. We both rush towards the man slashing down in synch only to hit the air. The man lifts his mace bare down on us with such force our blades shatter when we block it. Both of us holding our shattered blades becoming daggers as we flank him. We both stab into his sides only to have them bounce off his white armor. Jumping back we try another assault just to be flung backward knocking the wind out of us. We can't win against them. The mud woman approaches us from behind while the man from the front. We stand to meet their blades. Suddenly the heat rises in my body, I send it out to the corpses under our feet. "Amara blast the ice under us and jump to the side. I whisper to her. She nods and jumps to the side sending a blast into the ice. The rotting gas exploded sending our attackers flying. We scramble to stand up only a few feet from the end of the like. Without looking back we run begging our tired legs to hold on for a few more seconds. As we reach the edge of our salvation we get hit with a ball of fire sending us back with dashed hopes. The ball unfurled into a blazing woman carrying a railgun, " oh no how could this happen when you were so close to the fort, in fact, you are the first to make it this far. What will you do I wonder, do you give up here perishing in the lake or do you fight on..." She barely gets the words out as Amara's kick slams into her face knocking her to the ground. "Oh, wonderful choice". She sneers eyes ablaze with fury. She lifts her hand setting the ice behind on fire making an arena for our doom. "Shall we begin!?" She booms as she throws her rifle into the fire. I'm the first to attack sending a roundhouse kick to her side, Amara flanking her from the left sending a punch to her face. The woman grabs my leg and Amara's hand sending tendrils of flame up our bodies. The pain lashes out as the fire grabs onto my thigh. She laughs as she throws us back, charging in with a curved blade from her hip. I dodged a blast of fire followed by a slash of the blade into my shoulder. Amara counters with a beam of light into her side causing a hole in her armor exposing flesh. Amara is greeted with a quick kick to her chest as the fire thrower pivots her exposed side to me. I feel the heat rush to my hand as I lift them to poison her blood. A pustule forms causing her blood to become infected with my energy, as it makes its way to rot her body. She screams out in pain extinguishing the fires. We both rush towards the fort praying to make it to the other side of the lake. Our feet meet warm sand soothing our cold feet as we collapse. "Well done recruits you made it to the fort, you passed your test now let's get you to the medical center." Said the tundra man covered in rotten flesh. We pass out from the relief.

I can hear screams echoing throughout the room. Strange figures crash into the room embracing me. "Mir we need you to be quiet and hide." A honey voice whispers. “Be brave and know we will always love you. A comforting voice whispers as I'm lowered into a dark space under the bed. It's dark and silent until I hear a mighty roar and hurried footsteps leaving the room. It's quiet again, so quiet I can hear the thump of my heart. Thump, thump, thump, my heart won't settle for anxiety embraces me. The door squeaks open as footsteps creak around the room. My heart beats faster as the smell of copper fills the air. Strange noises swirl around the rooms, clicking and screeching fill my head. They get closer to where I'm hiding. Silent again my heart roaring in my chest. Something crashed onto the floor, as light seeps in I can see a face. Its flesh glows like the sun, eyes dark and narrowed. The hatch lifts open as the being reaches its gnarled claws at me. I scream as I wake up in a vat of pink liquid, a tube in my belly connecting fleshy walls that surround me. I can hear muffled voices outside. The walls around me contract and expands slowly the tube slides out giving a glimpse of a thick needle. The walls start to fold back as I'm being pushed forward. I spill out into a pool of pink fluid. A beautiful woman greets me with a rather large towel. I puke the pink fluid out of my lungs, she gently rubs my back “Get it all out, you are safe now." She coos with such a sweet voice that fills me with love. She wraps the towel around me as she helps me up and onto a bed." Mir welcome to the medical center for Fort Meytel, my name is Dr.Leona Arca from clan shale, I'm the chief medical officer nice to meet you." She says full of cheer and love. I feel ill," I mumble feeling numb and dizzy. "It's just the side effects of the healing womb you're going to feel rather high for a few hours, but the confusion will stop soon." Every word she says is so joyful maybe she is the one who is high. "Anyway now that you are healed up, let's get you dressed and into the mess hall for breakfast," she says as she gives me a black shirt and shorts. I slide into them, they are heavy, warm, and silky it’s a strange combination.

Dr. Leona helps me up so I can get the Shorts on, they are the same as the shirt it's like heaven. As we walk down the massive pearled halls I struggle for words, I think it’s the fluids wearing off. It’s a constant cotton feeling in my head. Trying to find something to focus on I look down at the floor, tiled black and white clashing with Dr. Leona`s purple coat trail, she has really big feet kept in green boots; In fact, Dr. Leona is a towering figure making me feel small.

I have a thought that breaches the surface of the cotton mill of my mind," How long was I in the healing womb" I stumble over my words. She looks down and smiles “It has been 3 days 4 nights, you and Amara where a mess when you came here," she sighs “It’s always like this, you die or you live and I have to heal the horrendous aftermath from those careless people" I can see a tear well up in her eyes as she stops in front of a bright blue door. How did I not notice that I look around and realize that I spent most of my time looking at the tiled floor than the actual hall we were walking down? It's beautiful, almost like walking on a glacier, blues and whites blending together in a wonderful pattern. She taps my shoulder to usher me into the room beyond the door. I'm greeted with rambunctious laughter and breaking cutlery. A cup slams my head breaking into pieces, the laughter stops as a booming voice slides through from the large man sitting at the head of the table" Well look who is finally awake the young lad that blew me away, sent me on my ass and bathed me in death, it took 3 days to get the smell out." the woman to his left elbows his side "Oh Lord Admiral you smell like death all the time, remember that time on Galicia-4 when that group of humans tried to "Slaughter" us, the bodies piled high , oh goddess you let loose that day." Oh, my Goddess I have walked into an insane asylum, Dr. Leona walks me to my seat, it's cold and soft for some reason it feels comforting. Quietly I look over the people sitting at the table, I can make out the fiery lady and the mud woman both sitting next to each other spooning soup into each other's mouths, the lady next to The Lord Admiral is unknown to me, Amara is across from me scowling like I did something wrong. The breakfast was a feast of strange meats and flora, I piled my plate high and ate in silence. The Lord Admiral stood up slapping his hands down to garnish the attention of the room, "Alright I believe that introductions are in order, I am the Lord Admiral of the Snow Owls, Tsuka Lora of clan-Sala." he roared. The lady on his left stands up" I am The Vitara of the Snow Owls, Nadia Morvo from clan-Sala." she replies kissing Tsuka on the cheek. The two lovers stop eating their soup and stand holding hands, " I am Mia Nita of clan-Rya and sorry for shooting you and setting you on fire," "And I am Anasu Nita of clan-Pya, you both made me so happy to finally fight someone fun in this cold wasteland." Dr. Leona nudges me with her elbow, I stand up" My name is Mir of the Mors-clan and I'm rather confused why there is a Lord Admiral and a Vitara are doing at a fort in the middle of a tundra planet instead of traveling the galaxies doing work for the goddess and moreover there are only 3 Lord Admirals, we learn their names and you are not among them!"

Amara slinks down red-faced as the Lord Admiral laughs, " Yes that is what they teach you in school what they don`t tell you is that there were 4 fleets for the empire. Until one Admiral disobeyed an order from the 1st goddess, the fleet was pulverized and forgotten from history. The truth is a secret romance between the 1st Daughter and the admiral resulting in a child forbidden. When the Empress found out about this child, she struck a deal with her daughter and the Lord Admiral; exile and eternal servitude in the shadows for the little girl's life and title. The Lord Admiral agreed, took his fleet and left to instill fear in the enemies of the Empire and The wraith of the 1st Goddess herself." He said dripping with pride. “What the Lord Admiral is trying to say in oh so many words, we are the spies, assassins, forbidden researchers, and the hand of the Goddess. We do the unclean work for the safety of the empire." The Vitara said lowering the Admiral into his chair. I fall back into my chair processing this information, its crazy there couldn't be a fourth fleet these people are just joking with us. Amara stands up looking frustrated "From that stupid look on your face Mir you are in disbelief as was I when I was first told; now I know they tell the truth despite being overly eccentric and constantly joking around they are indeed part of a secret fleet." she said glaring at me. I calm down and accept this new truth, “very good now Mir, Amara it’s time for your fleet test, follow us to the arena." Nadia says walking the Admiral to the door I came in from. I get up from my chair "But Lord Admiral I thought the test was making it here alive" I quiver. They laugh and walk faster giddy for what`s to come. As we walk down the hall I realize my heart is running full speed making my hands shake; Dr. Leona places a hand on my head instantly relaxing me. I want to hug her; before I get the chance we arrive at a gilded door. The Lord Admiral Throws open the door revealing a massive arena. Amara and I get pushed in with gusto; the Fleet crew smiles as they walk to the edge of the arena. We walk towards the middle of the frost-kissed earth; Standing on the two starting lines. The Vitara sits down" Okay you two this is the most important fight of your lives, and yes I mean your lives as one of you will die in this arena." she said with a smile on her face. That can`t be true; would they really make us fight to the death. The look Dr.Leona gives me fills me with dread. The Lord Admiral and his crew sit next to the Vitara," Alright lad and lady it’s time for your fleet test. The rules are rather simple; first no weapons, second no amputation of limbs including the head. And that's all." Tsuka`s voice booms off the walls of the arena.  Anasu raises her hand signaling that she had something to say. The Lord Admiral nods at her; she shoots up and yells so everyone could hear" Don`t forget to have fun and try to make it entertaining; it has been so long since the last fleet test and I was starting to get bored." she says grinning as she sits back down. Lord Admiral claps his hands starting our fight. "Oh, Goddess I can`t believe we are going to fight to the death," I say to myself. I then notice that Amara doesn`t seem conflicted, it seems like she is happy. I walk to the middle and touch her hands; they are soft and warm. Her fist slams into my chin followed with an uppercut that sends me into the air. Our audience cheers as I hit the ground hard. Amara wastes no time and jumps on top of me; I kick her off jumping up on to my feet, it's my turn. She stands up blood dripping from her nose; I charge forward slamming a kick into her stomach. I feel sick for some reason; I look down at a gaping hole in my stomach. She blasted me with her healing energy that was used to heal me; now it's being used to kill me. I place my hand over the hole to stop the decay of my cells. Amara walks away believing she had won; I rush towards her readying my infectious touch. The heat crowds my body as I blast her exposed flesh with pustules shutting down the cells in the affected area. She screams out in pain from the rupturing of rotten flesh on her body. I move in for the kill stopping short as she blasts the area around her with light blinding me. After rubbing my eyes I see her wounds start to heal. She rips towards me slamming her shoulder into my chest; stabbing down with her glowing hand. I thought it would hurt more as my heart is pierced with hatred. The light begins to fade as death embraces me until I hear a voice whisper "Ashua" through the darkness, slowly I feel a pulse through my body. That pulse quickly turns into a rumble forcing me to stand in front of a disbelieving Amara. I lift my hand almost as if I was detached from it; swirling darkness envelopes my hand. The rumbling stops, my hand points its dark energy towards Amara; energy tendrils whip forward catching her arm. Her arm melts down to the bone, she screams as the starved tendrils consume her shoulder. Closing my hand the tendrils roar into a ball that hovers above the arena. Instinct tells me to lower my hand sending the ball to crash down. The ball is deflected by a shield of light from Amara; her arm is slowly growing back cell by cell. The Pulsing rages inside my body as her light forms a spear tearing my leg open; the scent of burning flesh fills the air. I need to do something anything; a thought pops into my head. Gliding my hand over my leg I rip the femur out; its jagged ready to be used. I throw my bone spear at her with a jet of methane from the rotting marrow. It makes a home in her head, as she falls her eyes dull and close. My body shakes as she falls to the ground; I believe I have won until I hear a crack rushing towards me. I turn around just to topple as a ball of light crushes my head. I`m dead right, then how am I still able to think, I hear talking, and feel safe. Opening my eyes I see the familiar walls of the healing womb. It contracts and births me into the pool. Dr. Leona`s loving smile fills me with joy; she picks me up toweling my body off as she brings me to the table. I see the medic bay this time instead of vomit. It`s rather large with for healing wombs, 5 tables, and an assortment of focusing tools for surgery. Amara is in the womb that is next to me silhouetted in pink shadows. The womb contracts birthing Amara into the pool; Dr. Leona helps her up and onto a table next to me. I look over at her trying to see what she looks like naked. She notices me and growls making Dr. Leona jump in surprise. Laughter fills the room as the Fleet crew walks in with Lord Admiral Tsuka at the lead," Amazing fight you had kids, It fills this old heart with joy to see such a passionate battle. “Tsuka says grasping his chest. The Vitara moves pass him and hold my hand with her left and Amara`s with her right, "You both did wonderfully, it`s rare for two recruits to kill each other in the arena, now you know what death feels like and the pain of having to kill a comrade, Welcome to The Snow owls". She says squeezing our hands, everyone cheers and welcomes us to the fleet. I really don`t know how to take this all in “I thought we were dead?" I said. Tsuka looks down at me "of course you were dead, now you are not yay!" "HOW!" I shout stomping the friendly atmosphere to dust. Lord Tsuka sighs places a hand on my head “You are a very uptight lad you know that always asking questions. Fine every arena in the empire is surrounded with an aether net preventing your aether from leaving into the universe and allowing our very own Vionsa Dr. Leona to grab them and stuff me back in yah, does that satisfy?" Dr. Leona walks over to me “It’s something the empire made to keep recruits alive during trials and to not waste any potential while pushing them to the limits. It only works when a Vionsa is around to keep the aether inside the body sometimes it doesn't work out and recruits die." she said with a sobering look on her face. Amara pukes making me shudder from the sound," Why make us kill each other at all why not use a VR room?" she said wiping vomit from her mouth. The Vitara sashes between us "Where the fun in that, pure combat is wonderful, gets you used to pain and bleeding. It is not a gentle universe, Ha even in the empire you have to fight to stay alive. Be glad you died in the arena and not on the lake like the other recruits. We only need strength in this empire, the weak will be purged by their own hands. Now get dressed it’s time to go" she smiles as she gives me a pair of black pants, shirt, and boots. We killed each other, and that's a good thing, what was that voice I heard, and why did my aether become tendrils? Looking down at my arm I imagine jet black tendrils coming out. My rampaging thoughts jump all around with ideas of what is going on while I blindly walk with the fleet crew out of the med bay and into a shuttle. I just realized that I spaced out, having no idea of what we are doing I lean in to ask Amara as we strap our belts in, "Hey where are we going", I whisper. She looks at me like I'm stupid leans in and says “How do you not pay attention to getting ready to leave and go to the capital ship. Are you kidding me?" she scowled snow-white brows furled. I stumble on my words as the door clicks closed and we begin to lift. The crew is so relaxed about this, Mia is dancing fire on her fingertips, Anasu is making clay dolls finishing one she nudges Mia making her hands into a kiln. Lord Admiral Tsuka is stuffing strange colored herbs into a vaporizer, taking long puffs of this fragrant smoke. The Vitara leans forwards taking the orb like vaporizer taking 3 big inhales and slowly exhaling out circular clouds. Amara coughing plugs her nose to avoid the clouds floating by. The Dr.Leona Coughs gaining the attention of the Admiral, who smiles storing the orb back into a sack in his armor. She leans back eyes closed breathing in and out slowly. The shuttle starts to rock rapidly making my stomach flip as we break through the atmosphere. That is when I noticed the pilot, she was laying down in a purple vat inserted into the floor, and she has wires connecting to metal implants in her skull. This is unreal I have to know what in the name of the goddess is going on," Oh that is Urza the Locan of Talon she controls the Titan a massive A.I battleship, and about a quarter of my fleet. That answers some questions for your creepy stare." he said gesturing to the Vitara to continue his explanation. She smiles "It's called BSI Biological Ship Interface, connecting her whole body to the ship for enhanced computing power and easier handling. It's something our shipwrights created. “Her voice rich like honey. I`m sitting awestruck at the sight of the capital ship. It`s a large purple petal ship resting in 3 rings gently rotating. As we get closer I notice orb drones swirling around the ship creating a moving spiral of tiny balls of death. Suddenly the drones stop as we enter the ship`s gravity well, " Is that supposed to happen? “I asked Lord Admiral Tsuka. He looks up with fear in his eyes “No it's not, everyone brace yourselves!" He shouts. I get as small as I can in my seat covering my head as the drones swarm around our ship. Our ship is rocked by roaring vibrations. I prepare for the ship to get crushed by the rogue drones. Halfway through my prayer, the vibrations stop and through my fingers I see the drones fly away. The shuttle is filled with laughter from everyone but Amara and me dripping with fear" It`s all okay, Just a little joke from our lovely Locan. You two are so serious, lighten up everything is going to be wonderful!" He grins rather pleased with our reactions. I see a smile crawl on Urza`s face as she guides us into the ship. We gently lower into an open platform on the side of the ship. The shuttle lowers into the ship exposing a massive hanger with small ships and shuttles slumbering in a pale light. We stop. The hatch of the shuttle lowers down revealing a hazelnut woman carrying a tablet tapping away, "Oh shit its Luna, ugh what she want this time?" Vitara Nadia whispers walking down the ramp with a reluctant smile. Luna and Nadia walk away talking about star charts and something about a ceremony. I get my snug harness off and start following The Lord Admiral out of the shuttle,” All right you two time for your crew assignments. You both with follow Dr. Leona for testing and orientation.” He said pushing Amara and I in the opposite direction of where Luna and Nadia went. As we walk away Amara turns toward The Lord Admiral stopping him with her voice” Lord Admiral Tsuka will we meet again, seeing how the ship is massive and its unlikely that we would have a high enough position to work with you?..” The Lord Admiral pats her head smiling” Of course Little Amara I always check on my crew and don`t call me Lord Admiral on the ship Just Tsuka, That goes for you to Mir. This ship is family not a rank and file system that you are used to. Now Hurry after Dr.Leona” he said with a wink as he walks away. I realized that Dr.Leona was already waiting for us in the lift. I grab Amara`s hand to drag her away from the stars in her eyes to meet Dr.Leona in the lift. Amara grumbles swears at me that I ignore instead I wonder about what assignment I get. I hope it’s something challenging, and most importantly away from Amara. Dr.Leona seems to pick up on my thoughts and gives my hand a little squeeze to comfort me. My hand stays in hers until the lift stops and the doors slide open. I walk out last in awe of the violet hallway with multicolored lights flashing on and off. It’s rather rhythmic the way the colors flash and change, “Mir sweetie can you please hurry up my assistants are waiting.” Dr.Leona says breaking my trance. I realize I’m still at the start of the hallway and rush to the green door Dr.Leona is standing in. Amara scowls at me as I enter the room labeled Medical. There are 3 women  in front of a white desk each wearing a nametag and a mask bowing to Dr.Leona “ Amara, Mir meet my medical team, This is Dr.Ari Arca my medical engineer ”Dr.Leona taps the woman on the head, she has bright green eyes, and long fiery hair curled into locks. “It`s nice to meet you” she bows her head again, “This is Dr.Sai Arca my pathologist” Dr. Leona taps her head, she has light blue eyes, short blonde hair, and is the smallest one “Good to meet you” her eyes dart to the floor, “and this is Dr.Lia Arca my surgeon” she has white eyes, no hair, and as she stands up is the tallest person in the room “hello “she whispered staring into my eyes as if she was removing my skin , I shudder as Dr.Leona finishes by saying they are her sisters. She starts commanding for our vitals to be checked and to get us prepped for something, I stopped paying attention to her once I saw the rest of the medical room. It`s crushed pearl walls are crowded with monitors of different sizes connected to 10 beds each covered in blue blankets. At the foot of each bed there is a cart with an assortment of medical supplies like gauze, sutures, scalpels, and more that I can’t identify. As I am ushered into the first bed in front of the one Amara is in I notice there are stairs at the end of the row of beds and from what I was able to see is another room filled with healing wombs. The sisters get to work examining us, Dr.Ari taps  my head sending shivers down my spine as tiny orbs flow out of her sleeve to measure my body down to its microscopic parts, Dr.Sai takes 13 vials of blood making me feel woozy, Dr.Lia cuts the black fabric of my shirt exposing my chest to her thin finger`s. She starts to draw lines on the right side of my chest forming a perfect oval underneath my pec “Um what is that for?” I ask. Dr.Lia whispers into my ear “It’s so I know where the limiter will go “She leans back with a wide smile making me nauseous. Dr.Lia starts to place stickers on my chest and face then goes to Amara and does the same. I can see Amara`s pale skin and my eyes start to focus on her chest, her breasts are large with pink areolas, her nipples are inverted, and when I look closer covered in scars. I realize her whole chest is covered in purple jagged scars, as if she was tortured for most of her life. My heart lurches as I bring the pieces together. I heard stories from my kin-sister about cruel Thanoists who would work with slavers bringing them alustrian children and safe passage in exchange for a safe place to experiment with their powers. They would keep some of the children for the experiments the slavers would let them perform in their spaceports. I always thought it was a tale to scare young Mors children into behaving. “What is a limiter for Dr.Leona?” Amara said each word stuck in a terrified muck.” It is a gauge of the amount or potential of aether in your body. Once it is identified from a scale of E-S .If you are graded too high we limit your aether abilities until you achieve more training and control, otherwise you would go into a supercharged frenzy killing everything around you and yourself. It`s sad really.” She said eyes welling with tears. Dr.Sai rushes over to wipe away her sister’s tears. “Oh well let’s begin with the operation sisters, Ari are the limiters ready?” Dr.Lia said with an ice cold whisper. “Yes they are, I just need to sterilize them. “She replies pouring a light blue fluid over two small disks. The world starts to swirl dragging my eyes into a deep sleep. My eyes float open greeted by the smiling face of Tsuka. “Hey buddy how you feeling?” said Tsuka. As the world shifts into focus I notice Amara sitting in a chair at the end of my bed with Nadia rubbing her back. “What happened?” I groaned.” Well when we tested the limiters they could not get a reading for your grade. So instead we are going to visit the seer and figure out what’s going on.” Nadia says with a drop of relief in her voice. “It`s definitely a change of pace around here.” Tsuka laughs. Amara stands up her green gown fluttering,” Before we do that can I get some clothes?” The sister Dr. give Amara a pair of blue slacks and a red T-shirt, I get Black slacks and a White T-Shirt that is a size smaller than I am so it’s a tight fit. The Lord Admiral and Vitara help us get out the door which was much appreciated since we are still woozy from the anesthesia. We head out of the sliding doors saying our good byes to the Dr. Sisters as the hall of lights envelope us, we approach the lift except this time Tsuka slides his hand onto a scanner in the wall making the lift produce seats. We sit down and buckle in the lift starts to move sideways at a rapid pace “Lord Admiral I mean Tsuka where is the seer at? Do you have a temple like on the colonies?” Amara asks excitement dripping from every word.

The only reply she gets is giggling from Tsuka and Nadia. It seems like they want us to discover where we are going. The lift breaks through the darkness shining a bright light as a massive city unfolds around us, the lift being guided by a rail in the sky above the city.

“Welcome children to the Ship-City Minora,” Nadia says bubbling over with excitement.

     Ch2. Seer

   The lift slows to a stop at a station overlooking a bustling golden plaza, the reflection of the light burns my eyes making me squint. We walk onto the platform greeted by the smells of cooking food and the sound of various music, all around us children play on the platform running up and down the stairs trying to catch one another. The light that fills the sky is beautiful then I realize there is a sky on a ship.” Tsuka how is there a sky and sun inside this ship, it`s rather strange and beautiful at the same time.” I ask looking at the sapphire sky and its billowing clouds.

“Well the ship is part of our artificial planet in our home system, the sky is generated by the steam from our power generators and engines which forms lakes and rivers naturally in our city providing more water vapor for the sky and more water for our power generators. The Light or our fake sun was developed by our shipwrights they told me its plasma in a state of whatever I stopped listening when they got all science on me.”  Tsuka replied as we walk down the metallic stairs to the plaza below.

Its amazing random stalls selling foods and strange objects for what looks like orbs of aether, which I learned was illegal for anyone to have except for the temples and shipwrights, even then it's only for intense rituals and aether gates. I get absorbed by the sights of the buildings each a variety of colors and design, one looks like it’s made of frosted glass and tanned leather. In the middle is a great fountain with a statue of the 1st Goddess holding an owl with her right arm and holding an ancient weapon that if I remember from school was an AK-47 in the air almost as if she was still fighting on earth against the humans for the freedom of the Alustrian people. Entranced by its beauty I walk towards it looking at the plaque at her feet, words are engraved in the gold plate it reads: Kyta Solvink 1st Goddess, 1st Empress, Born 04-15-2120, Rule 2140-4240, and Death 12-11-4240. In honor of her victory over the Humans of the earth. The battle for Exodus. I feel a hand on my shoulder” She was amazing in the battle, I wish I could have been one of the first soldiers to fight for our freedom. I spit on the graves of the human tyrants that tried to cull our people. Now let’s hurry we need to catch up.” Nadia spits on the floor. Tsuka and Amara are walking down a dirt-laden alleyway. We catch up, Amara sneers at me for making them wait, and Tsuka is buying a strange fruit to pass the time. “Finally I was just about to sit down and have lunch you took so long HAHAHA.” He mumbled between bites of the fruits blue skin dripping violet juice down his face. We continue walking deeper into the dirt alleyway. After a few blocks of chatter between the Lord Admiral and The Vitara, we take a sharp left, stopping in front of a door inside a mound of dirt. “This is the place? It doesn’t look like any temple I’ve seen.” Amara asks touching the archaic wooden door. Nadia opens the door and ushers us in with no reply to Amara’s question, Tsuka walks in first kissing Nadia on the cheek, Amara follows him, and I continue to stand dumbstruck at the sight of dirt and mounds even a wooden door in a ship like this. Nadia clears her throat pushing me through the door, down the earthy and dimly lit steeps into a massive hallway. Romantic scents fill the earthy metallic hallway, the floor squishes under our boots, its covered in bright green and blue moss, it’s a beautiful pattern crawling up 5 pillars on each side of the hallway stopping just below aether lamps to save its self from a charred state. I notice sparkling on the walls, I look up greeted by a jewel-encrusted ceiling casting the light from the lamps around the room in a kaleidoscope pattern, and at the end of the hall sitting in an onyx throne is a little girl in a modest white dress her eyes wrapped in a scarlet sash clashing with her beautiful silver hair as if she has aged rapidly under a great deal of stress.

The little girl gets out of her chair and gallops excitedly towards Tsuka, he lifts her up overhead both giggling, after 3 swirls he lowers her down patting her head” It`s good to see you, Betsy.”

Betsy clasps her hands swaying side to side “Thank you for the visit Tsu-Tsu and Na-Na, but I fear I know why you are here” The air becomes thick with a tangible sadness as Betsy stops swaying and walks back to her chair “ You want to know if those two special children were chosen correct” Tsuka nods his head. Betsy gathers herself in her chair the long tail of her dress being ruffled as she tries to settle in “Well they are chosen by the 1st goddess but early in their development from what was shown to me, they were supposed to be further in skill, alas not everything can be seen in the waters of time” she said still trying to get her dress straighten out,

“So it is true, although if they are supposed to be more mature wouldn’t receiving the blessing be too much for them?” Nadia asks hands clasped to her chest breath abated. “Um excuse me we are right here stop talking like we are infants and just tell us what’s going on!” Amara shouts causing echoes throughout Betsy`s chamber hall. I am thinking the same thing though I would never be so forward to ask. Nadia starts to reply but is cut off by Betsy`s sigh creating a void in my heart that I cannot help but look down ashamed, I feel Amara do the same slinking down into our boots with shame,” You two are rather rude, very well you are supposed to be the next Vitara and Lord Admiral, that’s if you survive the blessing and of course the hellish missions to come.” Betsy pauses to get silvery strands out of her mouth,” Yuck, On top of that you need to learn respect, discipline, manners, and most importantly you both need to stop being babies and learn to like each other. Just grow up, you two are going to be together living or dead like it or not. Besides, why did I have to tell them, you both already knew.” She says pointing at Tsuka and Nadia. They both start looking around until Nadia clears her throat,” Um well yes that’s why we went to the frozen death trap of a planet in the first place. Plus we needed to be here anyway for you two to get your first mission.” She whispers almost like a child to an angry adult. I start to wonder how old Betsy really is, if she has had DNA altering or cybernetics she could be thousands of years old though it is rude I`m going to, I get cut off as Amara starts to speak” How old are you, Nadia?” “I`m 330 and 21 solar days.” She replies.

“How old are you Betsy?”