#with everyone else left to rot and a dead king behind him | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

hushbats · 1 year

Text

forget everything (and I’m starting with you) Part II

Read on AO3

Part I

Steve ran – lungs and legs burning from the lack of oxygen. It was going to get him. It had already gotten everyone else. Steve had no choice. He had to leave them behind. He had to be faster, but his legs weren’t working right. He didn’t seem to be making any headway. A disconcerting growl from behind heightened his panic. It was gaining on him. He was going to die here if he didn’t move faster – die alone. He ran around the next corner and came to an abrupt halt. A dead end. A small boy with long, untamed hair, wearing a top hat and dirty, old clothing stood facing the wall. Shit. The sound of growling and gnashing teeth was closing in on him but he couldn’t look back. If he didn’t get himself and the kid out of here right now, they were both going to become the monster’s chew toy. He couldn’t save his friends but maybe he could save this kid. He reached out for the boy.

“Kid! Hey kid! We need to go- ”

A flash of big haunting dark brown – almost black eyes.

Then suddenly, he was at the bottom of his empty pool, trapped, with no way out. Black, gnarled vines snaked across the walls and floor of the pool. The sound of the monster following him was gone, but the eerie silence was almost worse. The air was dead and difficult to breathe. His heart was thumping so hard, he thought it might just break through his ribs.

“Hello!” he shouted in desperation. His voice echoed, ricocheting off the walls of the barren pool. “Is anybody out there? Help!”

“There is no one. Only me,” a withering, reedy voice answered from behind.

He whipped around to find Barbara Holland – or what was left of her – standing there, staring at him with venom and hatred in her clouded, dead eyes. The bodies of his friends – Nancy, Jonathon, the kids – all torn apart and bloodied, faces twisted and frozen in a wretched scream of fear, and left strewn at her feet.

“Barb?” Steve’s heart dropped into his stomach.

“Look what you did to me, Steve,” the corpse of Barbara Holland said, taking a step toward him on bloated, rotting legs. “Was it worth it? Just to get your lecherous hands on Nancy?”

She continued to advance slowly, spitting venomous words at him.

“I shouldn’t be surprised. King Steve always gets what he wants. Attention, adoration, popularity…girls. But not love. Never love. Isn’t that right, Steve?”

Steve swallowed back the tears threatening to fall, unable to move.

“You don’t deserve love after what you did to me. Who would love someone like you? A manipulative, spineless, selfish little rich kid. You’re poison, Steve Harrington. And you’re only going to do to them what you did to me.”

Steve squeezed his eyes shut. No, no, no. There was no way this was happening.

“LOOK AT ME, STEVE! LOOK WHAT YOU’VE DONE TO ME! WHAT YOU WILL DO TO THEM!”

Steve cowed, frozen to the spot, but didn’t dare open his eyes.

“This isn’t happening. Someone will come. Someone will come for me. It’s okay. Someone will save me,” he chanted in prayer under his breath.

“No one is coming for you, Steve,” Barb’s voice whispered right in his ear. “You don’t deserve to be saved. You deserve to die alone like I did.”

Steve’s breath hitched as a slimy hand touched his cheek.

His body unfroze, recoiling at the touch. He turned to flee only to be met with the strange boy again – still in his top hat and ratty clothes, facing away from him but this time, holding a shiny gold pocket watch open in his right hand.

“I’m waiting, Stevie,” like he whispered it right in his ear.

Another flash of deep, brown eyes and what felt like a tap from a warm hand to the forehead.

Steve bolted upright with a scream dying on his lips. He was panting, sitting in his sweat covered sheets. The remnants of a nightmare and the eerily familiar brown eyes quickly fading from memory, like water from a sieve.

***

The downfall of King Steve Harrington began when one Jonathan Byers deservedly knocked him down a peg and ended when one Nancy Wheeler drunkenly told him their love was bullshit at a dumb Halloween party. These events, along with the life-altering run-ins with the Upside Down, gave Steve the kick he needed to re-evaluate his life and find the courage to try to change for the better, and leave behind the apathy enforced by his parent’s neglect. His greatest teacher came in the unlikely form of Dustin Henderson; a cheerful, nerdy little kid five years his junior who he took under his wing. He saw so much of his younger self in the boy; he was passionate, excitable, and a bit of a chatterbox just like he was and exactly how Steve imagined he’d have been today if not for the pressure to adhere to his parent’s idea of a perfect son.

A lot of the bigger changes in his life were brought about by his involvement with the Upside Down, some of which were positive – like his friendship with the kids and his role as protector and his growth as a person for which he will be forever grateful for. But most of which were bad. Physically, he emerged from these events relatively unscathed – some cuts and bruises, and a mild concussion or two – nothing that couldn’t be fixed given a little time. But mentally, well, that was a different story. Steve was always on the alert and he couldn’t switch it off. It was exhausting, but he figured it was better to be safe than sorry. It was a necessary evil and Steve could handle it. But after the Starcourt ‘fire’ of ’85, that all began to change.

He'd often had nightmares after that night at the Byres’ place, the night he got dragged into all this. But recently, he was plagued night after night by the most vivid nightmares; dreams like those of monsters crawling out of the Upside Down and hunting his friends one-by-one until only Steve was left alone were now the norm. It was graphic and all too real. Steve suspected that this was a side-effect brought about by whatever the Russians injected him with. He’d hoped it wasn’t permanent because it was getting difficult for Steve to get a good night’s rest but it had been going on for months now. And if anything, the nightmares were becoming worse with time. They lingered long after he awoke and stayed with him. He couldn’t just sit around anymore. He had to do something about the horrific and traumatizing dreams and the unsettlingly familiar ebony eyes before he lost his mind.

***

On any normal day, this Munson guy was the last person Steve Harrington would seek out. He’d successfully avoided him in high school, and weaseled his way out of having to deal with him when buying drugs by bullying the freshman jocks into doing it for him instead. Hell, he didn’t even know the guys first name. Was it Frankie? Tony? Something like that. Changed though he was, he really didn’t want to deal with the weird Munson kid but he felt he was out of options. The nightmares were disrupting his daily life and affecting his overall health. Taking something might make everything worse but he had exhausted all other options. It was the only possible solution Steve could think of that he hadn’t yet tried. He wasn’t entirely sure how to go about setting up a drug deal, but figured his only discreet option was to stick a note beneath the wiper of the guy’s beat up van and hope for the best. It paid off when he called Family Video asking for Steve the following evening and awkwardly arranged a time and a place, then abruptly hung up the call.

And so, that’s how Steve found himself standing nervously in the clearing behind the high school football field in the late summer sun, periodically running a sweaty hand through his tousled hair and flip-flopping on whether or not to forget the whole thing and just book it back home before the freak show could start. Too late. The pungent smell of smoke seeping into the heavy, earthy air around him was his only warning.

“Well, well, would you look at that,” a deep voice drawled mockingly from behind Steve making him jump. “Hawkins’ Golden Boy, Steve Harrington actually showing up for a private rendezvous in the woods with the town pariah. Never thought I’d see the day.”

“Jesus Christ, Munson! Don’t fucking do that!” Steve yelped, slapping a hand over his heart and turning to face the voice behind him. He took a step back once he realized the drug dealer’s close proximity, caught off guard by intense brown eyes and mischievous grin. He felt thrown of kilter having Munson’s gaze on him; an emotion he couldn’t quite place. He was wearing his usual weird get-up of a patch-covered denim vest over a worn black leather jacket over his creepy nerd club t-shirt. Steve wondered how on earth the man didn’t sweat to death in this weather. Steve’s attention was pulled to the other boy’s lips as he brought a lit cigarette to his mouth and took a long drag, breathing it back out through his nose. Steve was unexpectantly hit with a feeling so foreign, yet achingly familiar at the sight – something he hadn’t felt, hadn’t been allowed to feel, in many years. The word pretty came to mind unbidden before he caught himself. Instantly, his father’s words echoed around his head making him cringe – I refuse to have a fucking fairy for a son!

“You alone, Harrington? Or, uh, are your boys lurking nearby?” Munson asked, breaking his intense eye-contact to survey the trees surrounding them, giving Steve the chance to shake himself from such thoughts and process the question.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, is this some kind of ambush? Getting the freak alone in a secluded area so you can beat the ever-living shit out of him?” Munson questioned, flicking his cigarette to the ground and stomping it into the dirt aggressively with his heavy boot.

“Because if it is, I might have to cut up that pretty face of yours, and wouldn’t that be a shame?” he continued with a dramatic sigh, pulling a switchblade from his jacket pocket and flipping it leisurely between deft fingers.

“Whoa, whoa, dude wait,” Steve chuckled nervously, raising his hand to placate the metalhead. At this rate he was going to start having heart palpitations – or worse yet, a heart-attack. “You’re joking, right?”

Steve’s eyes may have been deceiving him in his panic, but the drug dealer’s smile seemed to warm slightly, its cocky one-sided upturn melting away.

“I guess it depends.”

“Fuck sake, man, this isn’t high school. I’m alone. Just put the knife away, Jesus.”

The metalhead laughed good-naturedly and shoved the blade back into his pocket much to Steve’s relief.

“Just a precaution. ‘Can never be too careful ‘round here,” Munson said flippantly by way of explanation, and for a second, Steve felt a little bad for the guy. “So, what can I do ya for, Harrington?”

“I was hoping I could, uh, maybe buy…you know…” Steve stumbled, still recovering from having had a knife drawn on him.

“Weed?” Munson supplied with a raised eyebrow. “You can say it you know? No one’s around to hear and ruin your perfectly manicured image.”

Steve snorted derisively at that. “Pfft, what fucking image? I thought all this was old news. But in case you need a recap, I dropped Tommy and Carol; my girlfriend cheated on me with Byers and then dumped me; Billy Hargrove became the new “king”; my only friend was, and still is, a nerdy middle-schooler with an attitude problem,” Steve rambled, counting each failure off on his fingers, “and now I can’t even get a good night’s sleep without waking up scr-.”

Steve barely stopped himself from blurting out the real reason he was here. This Munson guy couldn’t give a shit about an ex-jock’s nightmare-induced insomnia, that’s for sure. But, something in the metalhead’s demeanor shifted. It looked a lot like…concern? As if.

He had no idea why he was even off-loading everything on this weird guy he barely knew. He didn’t like being exposed and vulnerable like that even with those closest to him. But it kind of felt good to finally let some of it out. Maybe the fact that he was a stranger made it easier. But at the same time, Steve felt he was trustworthy somehow; the look in his soft eyes and warm smile that invited Steve to spill his guts to the man.

He buried the thoughts and sighed deeply. “You know what man, it’s whatever.”

Munson let out a low whistle. “Wow. How the mighty have fallen, eh Harrington? Then, may I be the first to welcome you to the ranks of the outcasts and the freaks,” he continued with a flourished bow. “Just so you know, I’m the king here, but I could be persuaded to take you as my queen if you miss the adoration of your loyal subjects.” His eyes raked up and down Steve’s body, and Steve could feel himself flushing a deep crimson.

Christ, this was exactly the kind of thing Steve had been hoping to avoid.

“Shut up, Munson,” he spluttered through his embarrassment, scrubbing a hand roughly over his face like he could somehow wipe the scarlet from his cheeks. He’d been warned about this before – the shameless flirting. It was the main reason he made the lowerclassmen do his dirty work for him.

“Enough with the jokes. Do you have weed or not?”

“Well, um, I’d be a pretty shitty drug dealer if I didn’t.”

Seriously, this fucking guy. Steve just levelled him with a look that said he was about five seconds away from walking out on this deal.

“Okay, okay, Harrington,” Munson laughed. “I uh- usually the weed I sell to the alum of the Hawkins High elite is pretty much overpriced dirt weed, but for you Harrington, I am willing to make an exception.” He patted himself down and rummaged around in the pockets of his leather jacket before finally pulling out a plastic baggie with a celebratory ‘ah-ha!’ and handing it out for Steve to take. “This right here is the best you’ll get in the fine state of Indiana.”

Steve stepped forward to take the offered bag. “The best in Indiana? You taking pity on me, Munson.”

“Just think of it as a welcome gift. Us outcasts have to stick together, right?” Munson smiled kindly, so unlike the cocky grin he usually wore.

Steve just nodded, not really knowing how to respond. Though he hated to admit it, he was still mourning the loss of his life as a popular kid. Even though his so-called friends were major assholes, he kind of missed the attention in some fucked up way. But he’d found solace in his little ragtag, monster fighting family and felt at home with the band of misfits. He looked out for them, and they looked out for him in return. It felt right. He felt like himself for the first time in years. But he often felt he wasn’t worthy of their friendship. Not after everything he’d done; who he had been.

“So, how much?”

“Let’s say…10 bucks,” Munson replied, making a deal of thinking really hard.

Steve knew that the shit Munson sold the basketball team was 40 dollars a bag, so the good stuff should be the same if not more. There had to be something going on here – there had to be a catch.

“I don’t know much about dealing, but I’m pretty sure discounts that big are bad for business. You don’t owe me any favors and you know I’m not short on cash. I barely even know you, so what gives?”

“You really don’t remember, do you?” Munson questioned quietly, almost forlorn with the way his shoulders sagged a little.

Steve racked his brain but came up with nothing beyond passing each other in the halls. Did they ever even speak to each other? Steve didn’t think so. Still, he hazarded a guess.

“Remember? Did we, like, sit next to each other in class or something?”

Eddie quickly cleared his throat and looked away momentarily, as if trying to regain his composure. Like he was genuinely upset Steve didn’t remember. But that couldn’t be right.

He smiled sadly. “Yeah, Harrington, something like that.”

***

“Who knows, maybe the weed will help you remember. When you do, you’ll know where to find me.”

Those were Munson’s parting words to him, mumbled lowly like he was unsure or afraid that Steve might actually hear. For the rest of the day, those words looped like a broken record in his head. What a weird thing to say to a stranger. But somehow, that didn’t feel quite right. Steve wasn’t as weirded out by it as he felt he should if Munson really was a stranger. He spent the following hours after their meeting wracking his brain; trying to figure out what it all meant and to relieve the niggling feeling that he was forgetting something important. Try as he might, it was always just out of reach. It was making him agitated. Maybe a joint and a bath is just what he needed to quiet his mind before bed.

Steve lit some lavender scented candles he found in his parent’s bedroom and ran the bath, making sure to add as much bubble bath as the tub could handle. He decided to smoke while he waited for the tub to fill so he’d be blissed out in time for the bath. He lit the joint and took a deep pull. It had been a long while since he last smoked so he almost coughed up a lung for his troubles. He took it easy after that, slowly feeling the effects of the weed make his mind floaty. He stubbed out the half smoked joint for later and turned off the faucet. Then he closed the door and turned out the light, leaving only the ambient flame of the candles as company. Steve sunk into the warmth of the water and sighed. Heaven. He hung his arm over the lip of the tub and rested his head in the crook of his arm watching as the dancing flames casted swirling shadows along the walls and ceiling.

***

Steve was in a clearing somewhere in the woods. It was peaceful. The sun was beating down through the trees, stifling any breeze that dared make its way through the maze of firs. It was silent save for the distant sound of joyous laughter drifting from his left. He followed the sound to a clearing with a pond; two young boys splashing and playing in its shallows. He felt drawn to the scene before him. He took a step closer – then three, then ten, until he was right on the water’s edge behind the boys. At this distance, there was no mistaking it as surreal as it was. He was looking at himself as a child playing with a boy slightly taller, but much scrawnier with collarbones jutting out through his pale-white skin. He sported a wild mane of ebony curls and deep eyes, almost as dark as his curls and the bruises that littered his arms and sides. The sight made Steve’s stomach lurch. Kid Steve didn’t seem to mind or notice the other boy’s state.

“Uh – hello?” Steve chanced a greeting to get their attention.

But the boys ignored him and continued happily skipping stones across the pond. Their voices cut loudly through the stillness of the forest, shrieking in delight.

“Hey!” the strange boy suddenly gasped excitedly, startling Steve. “Let’s see who can make the biggest splash with the rocks!”

“Okay!” Little Steve chirped brightly.

Steve watched on as the boys hunted for the biggest rocks they could find. They walked around him as they searched, never once acknowledging his presence like he was a ghost. They tried to one-up each other every time – cheering when one made a particularly pleasing plop sound. When they ran out, the hunt for big rocks would start again.

The scruffy kid seemed to be winning, so little Steve moved to the other side of the pond to find an even bigger rock. He easily found one – one much too heavy for a kid that age. His arms strained as he pulled with all his might. He managed to get it far enough off the ground to stumble back to the water with it, but it was a struggle. Puffing and panting, he finally made it to the water’s edge – where the stones underfoot were coated in a layer of slimy green algae. Steve could quickly see where this was going.

“Hey! Look at this rock I found!” shouted little Steve, trying to get the other boy’s attention. “Hey, Ed-”

Just at that moment, little Steve lost his footing on the slippery rock and his grip on his find. The large rock crashed down right on his bare feet. He let out a howl of pain that had big Steve wincing.

The scream alerted the other boy who came rushing over, almost in a panic.

“Shhh, shhh, it’s okay,” the wild kid said softly, rubbing little Steve’s back as he cried. “What happened, Stevie?”

“I- I- dropped the r-rock,” he sobbed through hiccupping breaths and holding his feet. “It hurts r-r-really bad.”

The other kid gently took little Steve’s feet carefully to inspect the damage. Little Steve flinched when he touched the reddest part.

“Good news, Stevie! There’s no blood and it doesn’t look like it’s broken, but just in case, how about I give you a piggy-back back home?”

Little Steve nodded, his sobbing quieting to sniffling. The older kid carefully wiped little Steve’s tears with his thumb.

“Here, hop on,” he said, turning his back to little Steve and crouching down for him to climb on.

Steve was in shock. No one was ever so caring and gentle with him as a kid – not even his parents. But even more of a shock was that this didn’t feel like a dream; it felt more like a memory. An old forgotten memory buried deep in the recesses of his mind that had finally dug its way to the surface. Steve blinked and felt something wet run down his face. He touched his hand to his face and realized they were tears. He stared at his hand in disbelief. As the boys passed him, he heard little Steve mumble.

“Thanks, Eddie. You’re the best.” Eddie?

“Anything for you, Stevie.”

He watched them disappear through the trees and was about to follow when a disembodied warm touch to the forehead had him flinching.

When he opened his eyes, he was somewhere black dark. He couldn’t discern anything around him. It was like a void that had greedily absorbed all light – empty of anything but echoing sobs. He followed the sound to a boy. He thought it might be the boy from before, but this time he was wearing a formal, dated top hat and held a shiny golden pocket watch open in his hand. His back was to Steve, shoulders hunched and heaving. Steve approached the boy slowly so as not to startle him.

“Hey. Hey, don’t cry. Everything’s okay,” Steve tried to console him, a hand on the boy’s shoulder.

The boy turned to face him with big wet eyes looking lost and hurt. There was no mistaking it, it was the boy from the dream-memory.

“No, it’s not. I was waiting for you, but you forgot about me, Stevie.”

Steve woke with a gasp, splashing lukewarm bath water over the side.

Eddie. Eddie Munson.

***

In a haste, Steve threw on his clothes, not caring that he was still wet from the bath.

“Who knows, maybe the weed will help you remember. When you do, you’ll know where to find me.”

The memories of that period of his life were slowly filtering through bit by bit. A lot of it was still disjointed, but he could pick out bits and pieces – enough to know where to go.

As he ran out the back towards the woods, he wondered how he could have ever forgotten Eddie when he was his whole world at one time; an escape from the cold, sterile place he had no choice but to call home and from the so-called parents that abandoned him at the first chance they had. Steve was safe in the leafy cover of the woods with Eddie. Safe from the near constant disregard and belittlement he suffered daily. No matter what he did or how well he did it, it was never enough for them; because he was the child they never even wanted in the first place. But Eddie wanted him.

He remembered now.

He remembered Eddie teaching him about the different types of clouds, spending hours just looking at them and trying to make out the shapes of animals and people, distracting Steve from his apathetic homelife and giggling until their sides ached. He remembered Eddie quietly singing while he held him that time when his father made good on his threat to beat the queer out of Steve. He remembered that Eddie loved him when no one else did; loved and accepted Steve just as he was unconditionally.

Steve tried to hold it back, just a little, but the pain and guilt and panic ravaged his body, pumping adrenaline relentlessly through his veins. He was gasping for breath through his tears, lungs burning. He stumbled out the back garden gate, into the moon-lit woods beyond.

He remembered.

He was the best thing that ever happened to Steve, the only person in the whole world who loved and cared for Steve. But then he was ripped from him. That evening in early spring when everything changed. His father’s rage at finding out; his mother’s passive indifference and compliance; his own fear and desperation as he was dragged away, his mother’s sharp talons digging into his upper arm. The days after when Steve cried and cried and cried, pleading with his mother to let him see Eddie only to be locked in his room until he could learn to behave. Until finally he broke. It was too painful to remember; too much for such a small child. How else could he go on without the only light in his young life. It hardened him; made him forget.

Steve ran and ran like his life depended on it. It did. It wasn’t much farther, just around the next tree and –

Steve froze, breathing ragged.

There, sitting cross-legged on top of their rock, was Eddie. In all his theatrical glory complete with the top hat and the old pocket watch swinging on its gold chain around his finger – just like Steve now remembered. His heart clenched and fresh tears fell.

“Stevie, you made it!” he said, his voice cautiously hopeful.

“Eddie,” Steve breathed and the dam burst open.

“Eddie, I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry,” he cried, shaking. “I didn’t- I forgot- I-.” He couldn’t get the words out; couldn’t put all the thoughts, all the memories, all the emotions into words. All the shit Steve had said and done to him while in high school flashed in his mind’s eye, mixing with the fractured memories and overloading his brain. All he could say was sorry. And it wasn’t enough. He didn’t deserve Eddie after all he did.

Steve wasn’t sure when Eddie climbed down from the rock, but he knew he had when he was bundled up in his tight embrace, leaking tears and snot onto his t-shirt as he cried harder into his shoulder. Steve didn’t even think that was possible, but in hindsight he thought years of trauma and repressed feelings would do that to a guy. He couldn’t do anything to fight it, so he let himself get swept up in it, holding on for dear life should Eddie somehow disappear. It felt kind of cathartic to finally let it all out.

“Shhh, Stevie, it’s okay. It’s okay,” he whispered into Steve’s hair as he gently rocked him. Steve recognized the wobble in his voice enough to know that Eddie was crying too.

After an embarrassingly long time, Steve emerged from the safety of Eddie’s arms bashfully with one more sorry on his lips. They both took a second to sniffle and wipe their tears, trying to keep their composure. When their eyes finally met again, they both broke out into a fit of watery giggles.

Steve eventually broke the silence when the laughter died down and he felt he could speak without breaking down again. Looking at the boy in front of him, so many thoughts, so many questions raced through his mind. Steve didn’t know where to start. Why didn’t you tell me who you were? What happened after that night? Were you okay? Were you safe? And most importantly: Can we ever go back to the way we were? However, the question that came wasn’t the one he’d expected to ask.

“How did you know I’d come here?”

Eddie just looked at him with so much love and happiness and relief.

“I didn’t. I just hoped and waited,” he smiled. “Every day.”

#I actually finished it!#steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #steve stranger things #eddie stranger things #stranger things fanfic #stranger things #stranger things fanfiction #hushbats' fanfic #fanfic

8 notes · View notes

legendaryskyscale · 1 year

Text

So first poll, Saladbowld won. Congrats to the stinky scarecrow! I'll now be showing off this cryptid creechur

-----

For those who don’t have the time to read a huge wall of text and would like to read later (I get it, happens to me too), here’s a tl;dr version for Saladbowld:

Saladbowld started off as a joke/parody toon based off of Caladbolg. He was supposed to get deleted, but I got attached and now he’s got a story connecting to the Mad King’s Realm

For everyone else who’s interested, lemme introduce to you the Drowned Reaper of the Mad Realm (aka Saladbowld)!

Creation Origin I created Saladbowld on November 20th, 2015. I don’t remember exactly the thought process other than “I like this Trahearne dude, I wanna make Caladbolg into a gijinka!” That and I wanted to try out Necromancer for the first time. And so, this thing was made.

This joke toon was my test run for the Necro class and he was supposed to get deleted/remade or something. However, he grew on me when I got him to become a Reaper when HoT dropped.

Now, it wasn’t until around 2019 did I start joking about him being a scarecrow from the Mad Realm. That slowly snowballed into him being some kind of sailor/pirate in life, then a pirate cook, then the Royal Chef, and then finally this thing he is today.

I had planned to change his name while making his backstory, but I couldn’t think of anything to call him and eventually just kept his name as is. So in story, he remains nameless. Out of story tho, he’s Saladbowld.

Unfortunately, I don’t have him completely fleshed out, but! I will share what I’ve got for him so far. Keep in mind this is all a work-in-progress AU, and none of this is canon.

Storywise This mysterious being hails from the Mad King’s Realm. When the Shadow of the Mad King arrives to Tyria, this Drowned Reaper can be found roaming the Mad King’s Labyrinth taking down the many beings of bone and brim and sweet sweet candycorn, oftentimes ignoring exploring adventurers. The Drowned Reaper endlessly mows down the Mad King’s subjects, yearning to get to the Mad King himself.

Before he was brought back within the Mad King’s Realm, he was once a human man by the name of Hendrick “Dreck” Henderson. He was a cook for a wayfaring ship (that may or may have not been a pirate ship) and a sea merchant, and he had two drake pets named Chompy and Mr. Vile. He met a noblewoman named Maelyne during one of his ventures. He would visit this woman whenever the ship would resupply, and eventually ended up marrying her. They had two sons and one daughter.

Dreck’s cooking became renown, and he ended up being King Thorn’s Royal Chef. He did not have a good time as he was often requested to make the most bewildering of meals. He was passionate about his cooking, but he hated his position.

When King Thorn’s reign ended, Dreck and his wife were not lucky. Dreck was thrown into the ocean, chained up with a rock holding him down, and he drowned. It was the end of Dreck and his wife (fortunately their three kids had already grown up and left the nest several years before this tragic event)

Fast forward to the Mad Realm Dreck and Maelyne were brought back as twisted versions of their former selves. The ol’ cook was a monstrous being filled with rotting vegetation and dead sea life (most notably tentacles growing out of him). With hardly a memory retained of his human life, the Drowned Reaper was only filled with rage, determined to cut down anything relating to the Mad King himself.

When the Mad King’s Realm receded back to the Mists, an odd scarecrow was left behind in the fields of Shaemoor. The farmers were at first frightened of this thing, as it reeked of rotting fish, and they tried to get rid of it. However it would always reappear days later, no matter if the farmers broke it, burned it, or anything else they could do to destroy it.

Eventually they left it alone in the field. It would only vanish when the Mad King’s Realm returned each year. Strangely enough, when this scarecrow is present, anything planted around it will flourish and thrive. Pumpkins in general would grow big and healthy year-round around this stinky scarecrow.

In-Game Role Saladbowld becoming a Reaper was actually really awesome, cus I didn’t like core Necro back in 2015-2016. Saladbowld’s build was “Shout Reaper” that I got back in 2016 (which I think is gone now I’m not sure) and pretty much kept it all these years with little change.

I mainly use him for Fractals and for the Mad King’s festival (kinda phasing him out of this cus I find Shortbow Thief best at farming to the max).

---

There you have it. He's still being worked on storywise. He has no real connections to the canon story and is considered a cryptid around and during the Shadow of the Mad King.

#gw2 #guild wars 2 #Ro's content #Saladbowld #c: saladbowld #long text post #reen's screenshots #reen's doodles #one day when depression isn't eating at me i'll eventually finish his concept design/ref

2 notes · View notes

lunagb · 10 months

Text

A Plague of Sleet and Rot (ASoIaF x The Walking Dead fanfic)

BOOK 2 - A Road of Snow and Grime

Chapter 7: Debate

Masterlist

Relationships: Daryl Dixon x Carol, Rick Grimes x Lori Grimes, Carl Grimes & Sophia, and basically a friendship tag with Jon Snow & Everyone else [except Shane].

Summary: A month has passed since Jon Snow awakened on a highway outside of Atlanta and joined Rick Grimes and his fellow survivors. His memories of his death have returned and our alien world is beginning to make a bit of sense. Ever since the loss of the CDC, surviving in the apocalypse has been a daily struggle. The group is on thin ice. Supplies are dwindling. Hope is fading. The dead are walking. And their only chance for life may be a run-down farm, an old man and his daughters.

Chapter Summary: The group decides what to do with Randall and lays Sophia to rest.

Time Frame: Farm Arc - TV Variant Adjacent

Featured Characters: Jon Snow, Ghost, Mormont's Raven, Rick Grimes, Carl Grimes, Lori Grimes, Daryl Dixon, Carol, Sophia, Dale, Glenn Rhee, Andrea, T-Dog, Edwin Jenner, Shane Walsh, Beth Greene, Maggie Greene, Hershel Greene, Randall Culver,

Warnings: gore, vivid descriptions of dead bodies, child mutilation, graphic violence, death, murder, active combat, descriptions of armed warfare

[Art above is a piece by Art.of.Azrael. You can support them here: https://linktr.ee/Art.of.Azrael ]

Any notes are appreciated!

Doused in the pinks of the morning sun, Jon sat in the corner of the room watching Carol weep over Sophia’s body. She’d wept the instant the blade passed through Sophia’s temple. One short, choked sob. That’s all. One. Then she’d sunk to her knees, lay her head on Sophia’s chest and let the tears flow free without sound. Jon ought to have left her then. He ought to have woken Daryl and left the two of them to grieve in peace. Yet, Daryl remained asleep and Jon remained in the room.

What sort of man was he to burden a grieving mother with the presence of her child’s murderer? A pathetic one, that’s what. The sort of man who couldn’t even pass a sentence right. He’d needed the girl’s mother to do it. Why hadn’t he stopped her? Why did he watch as she put down her own daughter? He should have stopped her. He should have insisted it be him to do the deed. It needed to be him. He owed that much to Sophia.

For all the days Sophia had clung to life she’d looked half a corpse. An illusion. One conjured by weakness. Carol had had the right of it, Sophia had left life behind some time ago. She looked the same before and after the knife slid through her temple. Jon should have seen it. If he had, he could have spared Carol from the injustice of it all. He would not make the same mistake again.

Ghost’s head shifted in his lap. The direwolf had remained with him all night, never resting. Wolf and man so very rarely saw the world through the same eyes. Yet, Ghost had joined Jon in staring at Sophia, taking in the sight, committing it to memory. Ghost saw it too. Direwolves often saw more than men if one believed the wolf dreams. The sight confirmed a suspicion. It revealed a truth. It dispelled a lie. Often, where it concerned the dead, Jon had heard others refer to them as being at rest. The Stark kings rested in the crypts beneath Winterfell. Small folk rested in the cemeteries of village Septs. Sophia did not look at rest any more so than the corpses who walked. No peace came from death, only the end. Sophia’s face showed the truth, clear as crystal. Even after Carol had shut her eyes, Sophia’s hollow cheeks puckered her lips. Bone jutted through her paper-thin, waxy skin, contorting her face into one inhuman. The blood that had wept from her temple wasn’t even red but black and brown. Where was the peace in such disfiguration? In such corruption of all that once made her human? Ghost must have known the truth all his life. After all, he’d been born in death, forced to flee his mother’s corpse as his siblings suckled fruitlessly on her dead, cold teats.

Had Arya looked like Sophia when she died? Had Bran? Had Rickon?

They were dead. They were. Jon had no proof to support the claim but, he knew. He knew. The wall had fallen. The Whites had swept across a broken, divided land and erased all life from Westeros. From the world most like. Westeros had died. Its people slaughtered, frozen and cursed to roam an empty land for all of time as restless husks of ice and bone. Where was the peace in that?

A flutter of black feathers perched itself in the open window. Bloodbeak gazed upon Sophia with his one good eye. The pink morning light warmed the pale, jagged scar that travelled from the raven’s eye to thigh. Another of the gods’ cruel japes. Of all the living souls in Westeros, of all the souls so pure and innocent, so deserving of second life, the gods chose a bloody raven. What a mockery.

Downstairs, Jon heard the beginnings of the morning’s bustle start to awaken. Soft thumping footsteps. Hushed whispers. Laughter. Jon sat up and cocked his head, honing his hearing. He must’ve been mistaken, there couldn’t be laughter at a time like this. No, there it was. Soft laughter and hushed voices warmed by smiles. Bloodbeak’s beak clattered as he cackled deep in his throat. His eye turned to Jon; a dark hollow pit. Ghost bared his fangs at the raven.

“Snow!” Bloodbeak screeched.

Daryl awoke with a start. “H-Huh?! What? God fucking dammit. Little bastard bird. Go on, git!” Daryl staggered from his chair and tried to wave the raven from the window.

Bloodbeak quorked in his face and remained perched. Facing the bird, Daryl seethed, unaware of what lay behind him. Carol lifted her face from Sophia’s chest, weathered and tear-stained. She looked about to speak but Jon beat her to it. She’d done enough.

“Daryl,” Jon said.

Daryl started and whipped around to face him, scowling. “Jon? The hell’re you doin’ there?”

“She’s dead, Daryl.”

“What?”

“Sophia.”

The sharp, rugged lines of Daryl’s scowl softened as his features fell. His breath caught in his throat. Quick as a flash he turned and faced Sophia. “Did she… did she turn?”

“Yes,” Carol said at once.

“Fuck, you should’ve woken me-” he looked back at Jon. “Did you-”

“No, Carol did,” Jon said. His throat tightened his voice.

Daryl sunk to his knees beside Carol. “You should’ve got me to do it.”

“She’s my daughter.”

“Exactly, it ain’t right.” Daryl pulled a bandanna free from his belt. He began clearing away the black and brown crust around Sophia’s temple. His hand trembled as he worked.

“Don’t make no difference now.” Carol stopped Daryl’s hand with a touch, eased the bandanna from between his fingers and took over. “Jon, best you go tell the others. They’ll want to see her while she still looks like her.”

The order, for that, was what it was, was given so gently Jon failed to register it at first. Only when Daryl scowled at him and gestured to the door, did he stand. The time for leaving had long past come yet, Jon lingered in the doorway. The tears that flowed so freely down Carol’s cheeks had all but dried up. Cleaning away the bloody crust, she gazed upon Sophia as if she were a stranger. Tears brimmed in Daryl’s eyes. Jon hurried from the room to afford him the privacy a man needed to weep. Ghost padded after him. The raven remained.

Downstairs, smiles and laughter filled the air. All had gathered in the living room, crowded around the door to Carl’s room, even those meant to be on guard. All except Rick, Lori and Hershel. As Jon made his way down the stairs, Ghost padding behind him, Glenn spotted him and broke away from the crowd, beaming.

“Jon!” He ran to the bottom of the stairs. “Dude, Carl’s awake.”

The gods’ cruelty knew no bounds.

“Sophia’s dead.”

All noise drained from the room as a crowd of deadpan stares faced Jon.

“Wh… what do you mean?” Glenn asked.

“What do you think he means? He ain’t speakin’ in fuckin’ riddles.” Shane snapped.

“Piss off, Shane.” Andrea put herself between Shane and Glenn.

Shane loomed over her. “The fuck you say to me, woman?”

“Woman?” Maggie joined Andrea’s side.

“Yeah, woman! Y’all are, ain’t ya?”

“Let’s all just calm down now.” Dale approached the trio, hands raised before his chest. “We’re all hurting, emotions are high, let’s just take a step back and breathe.” Dale reached for Shane’s shoulder.

Shane planted his palm on Dale's chest and shoved him off his feet. “Don’t touch me.”

Dale fell and T-Dog rushed to help him up.

“Don’t touch him!” Andrea shoved Shane with both hands.

Shane staggered but didn’t fall. The whites of his eyes showed as he grabbed at Andrea. Andrea weaved. Shane grabbed air.

“STOP IT!” Beth screamed.

T-Dog and Jenner pulled Shane away by both shoulders and Maggie stepped into Andrea’s path.

“Get out of my way!” Andrea tried to get past Maggie but found no success.

“Get off me!” Shane thrashed out of T-Dog’s and Jenner’s grip but, quick as a flash, T-Dog hugged him from behind. Even so, Shane twisted and bucked, testing T-Dog’s strength.

As Jon made to aid T-Dog in restraining the crazed man, Rick’s voice cut above the chaos.

“What the hell is goin’ on out here?!” Rick stood in the doorway of Carl’s room, Lori and Hershel behind him.

Everyone froze – even Shane – and stared at Rick. He emerged from the room, on his own, without support.

“Someone gonna give me an answer?”

“It’s Sophia, man…” Glenn’s voice trembled. He slumped onto the bottom step of the staircase and buried his face in his hands.

“What about Sophia?”

“She turned in the night,” Jon said. “Carol put her down.” He couldn’t tell them the whole truth. They’d never understand.

“Jesus… she put her down?” Andrea asked, stepping away from Maggie. When Jon nodded, tears brimmed in her eyes. She turned her back on everyone, scrubbing her eyes.

Rick scanned the room, passing a sharp glare over everyone. His glare lingered on Shane.

Shane huffed. “You don’t gotta say it. I’m goin’. Someone’s gotta be on guard duty anyhow.” T-Dog let go of him and Shane marched out the front door, slamming it behind him.

Rick sighed and kneaded the bridge of his nose. “Is someone with Carol?”

“Aye, Daryl.”

Rick nodded. “She destroy the brain?”

“Aye.”

“Through the temple?” Jenner asked.

“Through the temple.”

Beth whimpered and bolted for Hershel, burying her face in his chest. Despair’s great weight dragged all down. Hershel hugged Beth, keeping her on her feet. Maggie sat with Glenn on the steps, putting an arm around his shoulders. T-Dog dropped into the couch cushions. Dale lowered himself back to the ground. Jenner sat beside him. Andrea sat against a wall. Even Rick leaned against the door frame.

Standing tall, Lori joined Rick’s side. “We’ll hold a funeral tonight and lay her to rest with the others.”

Rick straightened and held Lori’s shoulders. “Yes, that’s what we’ll do.” He looked at Hershel. “We have your permission to bury her alongside your own?”

“You do. If…” Hershel shifted and avoided Rick’s eyes. “If y’all are gonna be livin’ here, you may as well be family.”

“A funeral is all well and good but, what of the boy?” Jon asked. “We mustn’t delay in our decision of what to do with him no matter the circumstances.”

Rick’s expression turned grim. “You’re right. We’ll have the discussion and take a vote after we’ve all had a chance to say goodbye to Sophia. Do you know if Carol wants us in there?”

“Aye, she does. She asked you all to see Sophia before… she becomes unrecognisable.”

Rick nodded. “Glenn, you’ll go first. After, I want you on lookout duty.”

Glenn lifted his head. “Why? Shane’s already on it.”

“Shane ain’t to be armed unless we’re under attack. Tell him to come back. I want him where I can see him.”

“By myself? He isn’t gonna listen to me.”

“That’s why T-Dog’s gonna go with you.” Rick looked at T-Dog. T-Dog stood and nodded. “After, I want you to guard Randall, T-Dog.”

What was this? Two of the people most likely to be convinced into reason wouldn’t even be able to hear Jon’s arguments. Did Rick do that on purpose? Rick glanced at Jon as T-Dog joined Glenn’s side; a silent admission. Yes, he must have.

“On his own?” Jon asked. “No, Dale should go with him to guard the boy.”

“Me?” Dale asked, looking back and forth between Jon and Rick.

“No, I don’t like leavin’ people out of the discussion as it is,” Rick said. “T-Dog’s strong. If Randall breaks out, he can handle him on its own.”

“Yeah, man. The kid probably can’t even walk. I can handle him.”

Jon kept his frustration from his face. He hadn’t expected that sort of cunning from Rick. He’d have to be more careful going forward. “Aye, okay. Makes sense.”

“It’s settled then,” Rick said. “Y’all head upstairs. Make what peace you can. I’ll be right behind you. Remember, Glenn and T-Dog go first.”

After a collective nod, the group filtered upstairs, leaving only Jon with Rick and Lori. He crossed the living room and approached them, Ghost stalking after him.

“You too, Jon,” Rick said.

“I’ve made my peace already. If I may, I’d like to see him.” Jon nodded at the doorway.

Rick nodded a small, weak nod and spoke with tight strain. “Sure, just… let me speak with him first. You can come in but, let me do this.”

“Of course.”

Rick lingered in the doorway. A tremble shivered through his body as he drew a deep, wavering breath.

“Be strong. He needs us to be,” Lori whispered. She hugged Rick’s arm and planted a kiss on his shoulder.

Rick’s straightened his back, squared his shoulders and entered the room. Jon allowed him and Lori two paces before following. Inside, Jon found Carl sitting upright in bed, propped up against several pillows. Pink flush warmed the boy’s chubby, freckled cheeks. Greasy, unkempt hair encroached over his forehead. It rested above his rich, brown eyes. He gave Jon a weak smile as Rick and Lori knelt by his bedside.

Lori took Carl’s tiny hand into hers.

“How much of that did you hear?” Rick asked.

“All of it.”

“Oh, Carl.” Lori squeezed his hand. “Sweetheart, we’re so sorry.”

“Why? You didn’t kill her.”

Rick and Lori shared a glance. Jon should’ve kept quiet. He’d promised too but, the truth needed to be settled.

“That blame falls on me, lad. You were both in my care and I failed you. I’m sor-’

“No.” Carl sat up, his voice rising. “You didn’t kill her either.”

“Son, you can’t blame Carol for-” Rick began.

“I’m not! No one killed Sophia. The walkers did. They killed everyone.”

Carl clenched handfuls of his bed sheets. A tremble shuddered through him. His hair shifted, falling over his eyes. Lori swept it away and stroked his head.

“Would you like to see her?” Rick asked. “Before she’s buried? I can talk to Hershel about having you carried upstairs.”

“No. That’s okay.” Carl’s voice smoothed over. Neither grief nor contentment was present on his face but something else. Something without form or definition.

“Are you sure?” Lori asked. “Once she’s buried, you won’t be able to see her again.”

“I will. When I miss her, I’ll remember her in my head, like I do with all my other old friends. She probably looks pretty ugly right now. I want to remember her when she looked pretty.”

It appeared Rick and Lori knew naught how to respond for neither uttered a word. Carl spoke how no child should with a voice void of innocence and joy. Tears brimmed in Lori’s eyes and Rick’s face scrunched to hide his own.

“Why are you crying, Mom?”

“O-Oh, I’m… I’m just sad, sweetheart.”

“You’ve been sad before but you never cried then.”

“I did. You just…” Lori inhaled sharply and scrubbed the tears from her eyes. “You just never saw.”

“At the quarry? Is that when you cried?”

“Yes, dear. It was.”

“But not the road? After we lost the quarry?”

“No, there wasn’t time for crying then.”

“Because we weren’t safe?”

“That’s right.”

“So this place is safe?”

Lori stared at her son for a moment before looking at Rick.

Rick squeezed her hand as he nodded at Carl. “It is. We’re safe here for as long as we’re strong.”

“Oh. Okay.” Carl shifted beneath the sheets. “Can I talk to Jon now?”

“Sure, son.” Rick glanced Jon’s way and nodded.

As Jon made to kneel beside Lori at the bedside, Carl spoke again. “You guys can go say goodbye to Sophia if you want. I don’t mind.”

“There’s plenty of time for that later.” Rick smiled and stroked Carl’s head.

“But, you can do it now. Nothing’s stopping you.”

Rick gave Carl a baffled look while Lori smiled. “Would you like to talk to Jon alone?” she asked.

Carl fidgeted. “Yeah.”

“Alright, sweetheart.” Holding Rick’s hand, Lori stood. “We’ll be upstairs if you need us.”

“Okay.”

Rick stood but, as he and Lori headed for the door, he lingered.

“If anything happens, I’ll shout.” Jon gave his most reassuring smile.

Rick gummed his lips but nodded all the same. “Upstairs. That’s where we’ll be.”

“He knows, Dad. Mom already said that.”

“Well, now I’m sayin’ it.” Rick lingered for a one last moment before leaving.

Not a second later, Carl called after him. “Dad?”

Rick reappeared in a flash. “What’s wrong?”

“Can you shut the door, please?”

Rick cracked a smile and chuckled. “Sure, son.” He shut the door behind him.

“So, what do you want to ask me that you couldn’t say in front of your parents?” Jon asked.

“Is Dad telling the truth? Are we really safe here? ‘Cause, sometimes he lies when he thinks the truth’ll scare me.”

Jon considered what Rick had said. It’d been a half-lie of sorts. A fair one. Carl was but a child, an injured one at that. There was no sense in frightening him with the whole truth. “What your Dad said about strength keeping us safe here, that was true.”

“But are we strong now? Are we safe now?”

“We have shelter, fields to grow food, a well for water. We’ve got medicine and guns and ammo. We’re stronger than we’ve ever been.”

“Did you kill the bad people? The ones who attacked you?”

“How… How do you know about that?”

“Tell me the truth and I’ll tell you.”

Jon sighed. “We haven’t, lad. No.”

“So we’re not safe?”

“Not right now, no but, if we win we will be.”

“Okay.” Carl nodded. “We’ll win. We’re strong.”

“Aye, I hope so too. Now, how do you know about the Culvers?”

“Promise you won’t tell?”

“I’ll promise to not tell things that don’t need telling.”

Carl rubbed the sheets between his fingers and thumbs. “Well…” He glanced at the door. “I actually woke up last night. Please don’t tell my parents. They were so happy when I woke up in front of them. They think it was for the first time. It means a lot to them.”

“I won’t tell. Your secret’s safe with me.”

Carl smiled and nodded. “Thanks.”

“So, you heard our talk last night, then?”

“Yeah. Have you killed him yet?”

“No, not yet.”

“You should. He’s bad.”

“Aye, he is.”

Carl nodded. He looked past Jon at Ghost who lingered in the corner of the room, watching them with passive eyes.

“Can I pet Ghost?”

“Sure.” Jon whistled. “Ghost, come here.”

Ghost rose and padded over without a sound. On his knees, Jon had to look up to meet the direwolf’s eyes. Carl ran his hand through Ghost’s shaggy, white coat. Ghost’s tail wagged as Carl’s hand ran along his back.

“What’re the bumps under his fur?”

“Scars, lad.”

“Like the ones on your chest?”

“Aye.”

Carl touched the sheets over his stomach. “Am I gonna get scars?”

“Probably.”

“Cool scars?”

“Hopefully.”

Carl seemed pleased at that. “Getting shot hurts.”

“So does getting stabbed.”

***

On the porch, they waited in considerable silence for Rick and Lori to finish with Sophia. Some sat in the rickety, porch chairs. Some leaned against the banisters, never daring to apply all their weight. Some leaned against the walls of peeling white paint. No one spoke. No one looked at one another. Their eyes found refuge in the empty space between faces. Open fields of ageing wheat; a sky of gathering, grey clouds; the peeling, white paint of the porch. Except for Shane, who Jon caught staring at him on more than one occasion. When their eyes met, his gaze would linger for a few more moments than it aught before breaking away to the empty space between faces. Shane’s scowl never faltered, however.

Bloodbeak watched Jon from the porch rafters, quiet as death. Too quiet. Too still. As if he'd turned into a statue.

The front door opened, creaking on its hinges. Rick and Lori exited, followed by Daryl and Carol.

Dale stood from his seat in a porch chair. His bushy eyebrows, like two white and grey caterpillars, rose as his eyes widened. “Carol, you don’t have to be here after what’s happened. We’ll understand.”

“Sophia’s dead, Dale. Right now concerns the living.”

“At the very least, take my chair. I insist.”

“Thank you.”

Carol crossed the porch. The floorboards creaked and groaned. All eyes followed her. She sat in Dale’s chair and Daryl leaned on the peeling banister behind her.

“So, how’s this gon’ work? We gon’ take a ballot or somethin’?” Daryl asked.

Rick moved to the end of the balcony, standing at the head of the group. His sheriff's star, freshly polished and pinned above his heart, gleamed. “We’ll start with a discussion. Everyone gets a chance to talk. You don’t have to if you don’t want to but, everyone will be allotted the time to speak their piece. After we’ve heard from everybody we’ll cast a vote.” Rick gestured to Lori.

Lori held out a bowl and several strips of paper.

“Everyone will write down their vote on the paper strips. Once we’ve all made written down our votes, we’ll collect them in the bowl to be counted. That way it’s anonymous and impartial.”

“Fuck that,” Shane said. “We should do a raise of hands, get everybody’s say at once.”

“No.”

“No? That’s it? No reason, just no?”

A look that would wilt a flower with a glance festered on Rick’s face.

“Rick’s way is better,” Jenner said. “If we all vote at once like that we’ll be subject to groupthink. Democracy functions best when paired with anonymity.”

Shane looked around at the others and huffed when confronted with a crowd of unified nods.

“Whatever…” He scowled at the peeling porch floorboards.

“What options are we voting on?” Jon asked.

“Let Randall live and let him go. Let Randall live and keep him here. Or kill him,” Lori said.

“Do we all agree with these options?” Rick asked.

The group nodded and murmured their agreement. Jon nodded too. As he did he looked over his shoulder. Far away, T-Dog stood atop the hill outside the barn, overlooking all with a rifle in his hands. Jon looked forward, past Rick and Lori, Glenn sat atop the RV, his back to the group. Both were in sight but out of earshot. Jon had been a fool not to see something like this coming. He’d let his guard down around these people. Their pasts of wealth, luxury and safety had blinded him. All men possessed cunning. He should have known that.

Rick had removed two unknown votes from the pool, reducing the reach of Jon’s arguments. A majority of the group wanted to vote to save the boy; Rick knew so as well as him. Already, Jon faced an uphill battle, and Rick had kicked him further down the hill.

He’d even removed a vote certain to side with him. Whether on purpose or by coincidence, Jon couldn’t say.

“Carl ain’t gonna be a part of the discussion or the vote. He don’t need to hear that kind of stuff,” Rick said.

“Why, because he’s a child?” Jon asked, outraged.

Rick stiffened. “Yes. He’s ten, Jon.”

“You call me a child yet, you include me.”

“That’s different. You know it is.”

“It doesn’t matter. The consequences of this decision will directly affect him, child or not.”

“He’s my kid. I don’t want him to be a part of it. That’s final.”

Rick cleared his throat. “If we’re all ready, I’d like to speak first.”

The group voiced acceptance. As did Jon. Going first came with several disadvantages. Speaking last allowed one to hear all voices; all perspectives. It provided the pieces needed to construct an argument that appealed to as many as possible.

“Great.” Rick placed his hands on his hips, looked down and drew a deep breath.

The other stiffened to attention. Jon remained as he was, cross-legged and leaning against the house's peeling exterior wall. His cloak pooled behind him. Ghost dozed at his side.

“Great,” Bloodbeak muttered, breaking his queer silence. He watched from the porch rafters, perched on a mouldy beam like a feathered gargoyle.

Rick met their gazes. “I’ve known a lot of kids like Randall. I’ve put so many of them in jail that I can’t even remember how many. Jail, mind you, not prison. Overnight in the station, the weekend at worst. I came from a small town. We didn’t get much real crime up there. Only kids who’d drunk too much, started a fight, sprayed somethin’ on the side of a buildin’. Stupid shit like that.”

“Whenever I brought one into the station, I’d try and talk with them. Most of ‘em never said a thing back. Couldn’t blame ‘em. I’m the reason they’re there to begin with in their eyes. The ones who did talk with me though were arrogant sons of bitches. Rude, cocky, potty-mouthed, unruly. They’d contradict you just for the sake of it. They thought they were a hell of a lot smarter than they actually were. And that level of ego made ‘em think they were invincible. They reminded me a lot of my son. Which was sad ‘cause, Carl wasn’t even ten and these boys were fifteen to eighteen. They should’ve known better at that age, you know? But if you spend your whole life talkin’ about what should’ve been, that gets you nowhere. Fact is, they didn’t know better but, it didn’t make ‘em bad kids. Just stupid kids who went along with whatever their stupid friends or stupid family we’re doin’.”

“That’s how boys like that were back then. Before everything they ever knew was taken from ‘em. Before they lost the world and the lives they knew. Randall don’t deserve to die for what he did. He’s just a kid. He was just goin’ along with the really really stupid decision his family made. An evil decision, not made by him. If he’d died like the others, if he’d died in the fightin’ that’d be one thing but, he didn’t. He’s a prisoner now not a soldier. If we decide to kill him today we’re makin’ just as an evil decision as his father did when he tried to have Jon killed.”

Rick’s eyes fell away from the group, shifting to meet the barn. “That’s all I’ve got to say. Does anyone else want to speak?”

“I do.” Maggie stepped forward from leaning on the porch banister. “What you said about what boys like Randall got up to before all this is a bunch of bullshit.”

“Maggie,” Hershel hissed. “Keep it respectful.”

“Let her speak, Hershel,” Rick said.

“Thank you.” Maggie glared at her father. “Rick, you’re trying to compare kids taggin’ walls to those sons of bitches tryin’ to kill us. How? You were there. You felt those bullets come within inches of hittin’ us, the glass fall on us, the brick explode. The kind of people that could do somethin’ like that ain’t a bunch of dumb kids with booze and spray paint. They’re fuckin’ monsters. If they’d done somethin’ like that, if Randall had done somethin’ like that before all this, he’d be in prison. Not an overnight night stay in the jailhouse. Decades behind bars. Death row even. Your comparison just don’t make sense, that’s all.”

Maggie stepped back and leaned against the banister, avoiding Rick’s eyes.

“I’ll go next.” Dale stepped forward. “Maggie is wrong about Death Row. Hershel, Randall is younger than seventeen, right?”

“That’s right. Fifteen.”

“Fifteen. The law is clear. The death penalty cannot be given to anyone under the age of seventeen in the state of Georgia. What Randall and his family did was a severe crime, I don’t deny it, but if we’re to respect the law we can’t in good conscious use death as a punishment. If we do, we’re abandoning everything this country was built upon. When we throw away law, we throw away liberty, justice, freedom; the bedrock of civilisation.”

“Oh, please.” Maggie rolled her eyes.

“Maggie, you need to let him talk,” Rick said.

“No, no it’s fine,” Dale said. “If she’s got a response, I’d like to hear it.”

“The law you’re talking about was made for a different time. The dead weren’t walking when some lawmakers decided that it was okay to execute a seventeen-year-old but not a sixteen-year-old. We can’t make decisions in the here and now by using the rules of a completely different world.”

“The world has changed, yes,” Dale said.

“Dale, you need to-”

“No, let him talk!” Maggie snapped.

“It’s only changed on the surface not at its core. When times are hard throughout history we so often discard that rule of law in place of the rule of violence. It’s the easy answer but, it never helps. We only just make things worse when that happens. Germany learnt that lesson from World War Two and paid an unspeakable price for it. Democracy, law, these are the hard paths but, the best ones.”

“Do you think the Culver’s give a fuck about the law? Do you think the dead give a fuck about the law?”

“Maggie-”

“It doesn’t matter what they think, it-”

“It doesn’t matter at all! If we follow what you say we’re just placing unnecessary restrictions on ourselves. That shit’s gonna get us killed!”

“When democracy and law die, so does civilisation!”

“You’re a fuckin’ stup-”

“ENOUGH!” Rick marched across the porch and put himself in between them. “You’ve both had your chance to speak. Does anyone else want to talk?”

Maggie huffed and turned her back on the group. She leant on the banister and stared at the fields of ageing wheat. Dale flushed, looking rather embarrassed as he stepped back.

Hershel left Beth’s side and stepped forward. “I do.”

“Alright, Hershel. Go ahead.” Rick rejoined Lori’s side.

“I don’t know much about law or history but, I do know what the bible says on such matters. To kill our fellow man is one of the most grievous sins of them all. Jesus commands us to turn the other cheek, to rise above anger and hate, and find it within ourselves to forgive. Even those who we don’t think deserve forgiveness.”

“Rick had the right of it. I’ve known Randall since he was in diapers. He’s not an evil child. He simply grew up around some very ignorant and hateful people. He, most likely, is ignorant and hateful himself yet, I implore you all to consider the verse Jon 8:7. He that is without sin among you, let him cast the first stone.”

“We’ve all committed terrible sins to survive in this world as long as we have yet, here we stand unpunished. You saw mine first hand yet, here I stand unpunished. So why is it that we cast judgement down on this boy when, if any of you had been in his position, you would have committed the very same sins? If strangers had killed my daughters like that, my family, I wouldn’t have stopped fighting until they were dead. I wanted to kill y’all when you put down my wife and boys. I might’ve tried it too if they weren’t… what they were.”

“Death. Grief. War. They steal away our humanity like that. Right now, the battle’s over. The fighting has lulled. Our minds are calm. Let us make the right decision before we lose the ability to think clearly.”

Hershel stepped back and retook his seat at Beth’s side.

“Anyone else?” Rick asked.

“Yeah, I wanna say somethin’,” Daryl said. He scowled from behind Carol with arms folded across his chest. “I ain’t got a whole sermon for y’all. Shit’s pretty simple. This kid tried to kill us so, we kill him. That’s all I gotta say. Anyone else who’s got some big speech can go right ahead.”

The group brooded in silence to rival even Ghost. Jon looked around the porch for a sign that someone else had something to say. Andrea sat beside him. She should have had something to say. It wasn’t like her to allow the foolishness of display to go unchallenged. Yet, Andrea sat huddled against the wall, knees tucked to her chest, eye downcast, sharing in the group’s silence.

Even Bloodbeak remained in his queer silence. His blind, scarred eye stared at Jon from the rafters, unblinking for it lacked the ability. It followed him as he walked into the centre of the porch. Ghost eyes flickered open. He stretched and yawned before padding after Jon and sitting by his side. All eyes fell on them.

“I wish to speak,” Jon said.

Rick’s expression tightened as he nodded. “Go ahead.”

“Life is a fickle thing. So very easy to lose. Right now, with times being what they are, that could never be more true. The dead, hunger, thirst, disease, our fellow man; the threat of death badgers us wherever we go. I ask you all, pray tell me what protects us from death’s threats? Sanctuary, that's what, and this farm is a near-perfect sanctuary. The fields fend off hunger. The well fends off thirst. It’s medicine and doctor fends off disease. Its weapons and ammo fend off the dead, and wards against our fellow man who seek to destroy us. Do not be mistaken, they do. Our farm is a beacon of hope and life. In a world of death and darkness, a beacon on a hill attracts ire like a lantern attracts moths. There is no man alive who would not kill another when it comes to their life versus a stranger’s. When they – our fellow man, desperate for life – see this place, their first thought will be of how to make it theirs. You would all think the same, in your deepest of hearts. I know it to be true. I know you know it to be true, no matter how much you hide from it.”

“I ask you to recall. Hershel and his family, and Jenner I permit leniency for they were not present to see the quarry. As for the rest of you, I ask you to recall. Have you forgotten the quarry so easily? Have you forgotten what happens when we lose our sanctuary? People die. Lots of people. Men, women, children. They die slow, agonising deaths, torn limb from limb, eaten alive. It can happen again. It will happen again if we are not vigilant. Our sanctuary is built upon a foundation of twigs and straws. One blow of the wind and all comes crumbling down, and let me assure you, the winds are howling. Have you forgotten the horde? I haven’t. As we speak, thousands of the dead march on this place. A hundred of the dead nearly wiped us out back at the quarry. A thousand will flood over this place and wash all we have away. And then where will we be?”

“We can not afford to dawdle. We can’t hope to protect this place from the horde whilst also engaged in open warfare with the Culvers. We must bring about a swift and efficient end to this conflict. Peace was lost the moment we drew blood. A hostage holds no benefits. Quite the opposite. The boy requires a constant watch, food and water, and medicine. We can’t afford to sacrifice such vital resources as it is, let alone while we are at war. You all speak of liberty, democracy, justice, Gods and morality as if they are necessities. They are not. You speak of privileges afforded to us by civilisation. In times such as these, in times where life is so easily lost, civilisation itself is paramount. Privileges of better times must be put to the wayside so we can make the hard, necessary decisions that’ll keep us alive. As we stand here, discussing whether to make a foolish decision or a reasonable one, we stand supported by the memories of all those who died so we may live. If we are to cherish their memory, we must be able to make these hard decisions. I beg you, please see the truth of our circumstances. See reason.”

“Truth! Truth, truth, truth!” Bloodbeak quorked.

By the time Jon finished speaking, all eyes were off of him. All voices were silent. All faces were tight and tense. Anger, frustration and guilt gripped all. Jon prayed that the emotions on display were directed at the self rather than Jon. A small part of him hoped for it to be true. A larger part of him knew it wasn’t. Without another word, Jon rejoined Andrea’s side on the porch boards. Ultimately, it did not matter. If they voted in favour of reason or foolishness, the boy would die anyway. Jon would see to it. They believe me a boy. If they can not kill one boy, they will not kill another. They may hate me for it but they will be alive, so it matters not.

“You never mentioned this horde before,” Hershel said. Fear strained his voice. “Is what he said true, Rick?”

“It is…”

“And you never thought to mention that?!” Maggie said.

“I was going to, once y’all had a night to mourn your dead. What Jon said is true. A horde of walkers trailed us from Atlanta. They’re moving slowly, though. It’ll be about two weeks before they arrive. Maybe more. From what we’ve seen, the bigger the horde gets, the slower it moves and it’s been growin’ at a steady rate.”

“An- And there’s thousands of ‘em?” Beth asked.

“Yup,” Daryl said. “Counted them myself.”

Tears brimmed in Beth’s eyes. She squeezed Hershel’s hand and looked at Jon. Fear sharpened her eyes. “How are we gonna deal with thousands of ‘em? There ain’t even thirty of us.”

“We build walls.” Jon pointed to the tree line. “Just one side will do for now. They’ll approach through the trees. A strong wall will act as a shield against any stragglers while we try to lure them further down the highway.”

“The fuck you mean lure ‘em?” Daryl asked.

“They’re drawn to our eng-”

“We can discuss this later,” Shane said. “We’re here to talk about Randall, ain’t we? I’ve got something I’d like to say.”

Jon scowled. The look Beth had given him. It spoke of truth seen. Shane’s support of Randall’s death threatened to undo any scrap of goodwill towards Jon.

“Go ahead,” Rick muttered. “We can plan for the horde later.”

Shane stepped forward. He sighed, ran his hand across his scalp of patchwork stubble and shook his head. “Tell me y’all are hearin’ the same shit I am. This crazy talk. Are we killers now? Is that the way of it? A group of kid killers? I don’t think so. Y’all are good people. I’ve seen it, time and time again. Y’all charged head-first into a dead-infested city to save a son of bitch who really didn’t deserve it. Y’all managed to forgive her.” Shane gestured to Maggie. “She shot Carl. Almost killed him. Yet, we act like it never happened. Y’all even managed to forgive me, it seems. Or at least look the other way. Y’all ain’t gonna kill this kid. Shoot, y’all don’t want to kill this kid. ‘Cause y’all have got your heads on straight. Jon though?” Shane smiled at Jon. “I mean, we all know.”

Shane paused and scanned the group. Jon followed his eyes. Wherever Jon’s eyes went, gazes scattered to hide. All except Carol. Her gaze never met his. Instead, it bore into Shane as she scowled.

“We all know why Jon wants to kill this kid,” Shane continued. “I don’t gotta say it. Don’t get me wrong, we all love Jon. He’s a part of our little misfit family we’ve got goin’ here. But we all know he ain’t all there upstairs. We’ve all seen the scars. How do y’all reckon he got ‘em? What’d he go through to end up here, like that, alone, at his age? Jon’s probably been through more hell than most of us. Gives you a certain outlook on life. A fucked up one. It ain’t his fault but…” Shane looked Jon right in the eyes. “He ain’t fit to make decisions like these. Frankly, he shouldn’t even be here. Her neither.” Shane pointed at Beth. “They ain’t even old enough to decide on a president let alone somethin’ like this.”

“You done?” Rick asked.

Shane’s gaze snapped from Jon to Rick. He cocked his head and laughed. “Did I say I was done, brother? No. No, I don’t think I did, did I? We shouldn’t kill this kid. We shouldn’t even be fuckin’ discussin’ it. It’s evil. Plain and simple. The fact some of y’all are even considerin’ it makes me fuckin’ sick. Now, I’m done.”

Shane stared Rick down for a few lingering moments before stepping back against the porch banister.

“Anyone else got somethin’ to share?” Rick asked, curt and sharp. After a few moments of silence, he nodded. “Alright. Let’s start then. Lori’ll hand out the slips, write down-”

The front door creaked open. Carl hobbled through the doorway, clutching its frame. The brim of his hat cast a long shadow over his face. Its golden star dulled in the shadow of the porch’s shade.

“Carl…” Rick sighed and approached his son.

Lori followed after him. “Let’s get you back to bed, honey, okay?”

“No,” Carl whispered. His little face scrunched as he stepped onto the porch floorboards. “You guys need to do it.”

“This isn’t something that concerns you, son. You ain’t old enough.” Rick lifted Carl into his arms as easily as if Carl weighed nothing.

“You need to kill him, Dad. He wants to kill us. He’s bad.”

“No, son. He ain’t.” Rick looked at Lori. “Finish up here, won’t you?”

Lori frowned, touched Carl’s forehead and pursed her lips. “He’s burnin’ up.”

“I’m fine, Mom…” Carl whispered, slumped in Rick’s arms.

Hershel rose. “Jenner and I’ll see to him.” Hershel looked to Jenner.

Jenner nodded and the two of them followed Rick inside. Lori remained and made to start handing out the paper slips when Carol stood and approached her.

“Go be with your child. I’ll bring your slips to you.” Without waiting for an answer, Carol eased the bowl from Lori’s hands.

“Thanks, Carol.” Lori smiled and hugged her. “Glenn and T-Dog’s votes are already in the bowl.”

“Got it. Now, go on.”

Lori nodded and headed inside. Carol crossed the porch and placed the bowl on the seat where she’d been sitting. She started handing out the slips of paper.

“No one put your vote in the bowl until we’ve all written down our answer,” she said.

Once everyone gave a nod or spoke an agreement, Carol took up the only pen and scribbled down her vote. The pen passed around the porch and one by one, votes were written behind the cover of hands and backs. When the pen came to Jon, he pressed his slip against the wall and wrote, “kill”, without bothering to cover his paper. Once all the votes were set, Carol carried the bowl around the porch and collected everyone’s paper. She disappeared inside, returned a few moments later and began sorting the votes into two piles on her chair.

Jon’s heart sank. Two piles formed. The majority of the votes clumped made up one pile. If reason were to prevail, it’d be by a slim margin. Such a disparity could only mean foolishness. By the time Carol had finished, the answer became clear before Carol had spoken a word.

“Four to kill. Ten to live.”

***

The sun sank low beyond the fields, painting all in a warm orange hew and cold, long shadows. Sixteen long shadows climbed the barn’s hill, fifteen dark fingers reaching for the barn’s doors. Beside the sixteenth grave full of unnamed strangers, lay a seventeenth. A pile of dirt sat beside it, impaled by a rusting shovel. Fifteen living souls gathered around the empty grave, sharing a moment of silent grief, Jon among them.

Sophia lay at the foot of the grave, covered in the blanket from her sleeping bag, a checkerboard of white rabbits leaping upon a field of pink. Her hand poked out from beneath the folds, tiny and covered in flaking, waxy skin. Carol knelt beside her, holding the hand, head bowed, shoulders hunched. On Sophia’s chest sat her pink bear, tall and stiff like a soldier standing guard. A scar of stitches carved a line across the bear’s chest where Longclaw had pierced it.

Daryl stood behind Carol, a hand on her shoulder. A long shadow cast his face in a gloomy shade, darkening his eye bags and deepening his bunny lines. A make-shift quiver fashioned out of a sleeping bag’s bag was slung over his shoulder. Hand-crafted bolts with whittled tips and fletched with raven feathers filled it. His crossbow lay in the dirt by his feet within arm's reach.

Lori stood tall as she held Carl against her belly, arms crisscrossed over his chest. Rick stood by her side, arm around her shoulder, squeezing Carl’s hand. Tears brimmed in Lori’s eyes. Lines stiffened Rick’s face. Carl wore a mask of stone. He stared past the mound beneath the blanket as if it were something entirely different to what it was. The holster on his hip lacked a gun.

The pistol that had once belonged to Carl resided at T-Dog’s hip. The stocky man watched Carol stroke the pink blanket, shrunken and hunched. The setting sun glimmered in his large, round eyes. He wiped at them often but the glimmer always returned. Dale rested a delicate hand on T-Dog’s broad shoulder. His eyes shifted back and forth from Sophia to the other end of the gathered group where Andrea stood.

Andrea met his eyes only once. Elsewise they were fixed on the barn, on the doors kept secure with little more than bags of gravel. When her gaze did meet Dales that one and only time, it lingered. A frown had spread across her face. Not sharp nor sour but, soft and bitter. Dale broke the lingering gaze. Andrea fidgeted with the string of knives along her belt. Dale fidgeted with the bolt lever of a rifle.

Apart from Daryl and Carol, Jenner stood closest of all to Sophia, holding a shotgun. He stared long and hard where the blanket hid Sophia’s face, his jaw set stiff and sharp. The man Jon had talked into seeing hope for the future, a man once determined to meet death, may as well have been a stranger. A thin red line bled through the white patch covering his cheek.

Glenn stood with the Greenes behind the wooden cross Beth had carved that afternoon. A shotgun lay at his feet. He held Maggie’s hand as his features wavered between stout composure and the precipice of grief. Whenever his composure faded, Maggie squeezed his hand and it returned. Her gaze shifted between Carol and a grave further down the line. As did Hershel’s. A tremble troubled his good hand as it clutched the book of his god. His bandaged, ruined right hand gripped Beth’s shoulder. She wept openly, the only one to do so. She wept for a girl she never knew. A girl she’d never spoken a word to. She’d never seen the rare smiles or heard the rarer laughter. Yet, she wept all the same.

Only Shane wasn’t at the grave. Atop the barn’s hill, he gazed out into the fields, over the top of the farmhouse’s roof. Ghost did much the same. Sat at Jon’s heel, he faced the fields, back facing the grave. Every so often, Jon glanced at the direwolf’s jaws for a silent snarl or ears for a flicker. If their enemies made an appearance, Ghost’s ears would hear it long before Shane spotted them. Otherwise, Jon kept his sights set on Sophia, waiting on Carol.

They’d come to put her to rest, to hear it be said. Folly. What rest? No, a funeral was so much more. To bury someone, to mark their grave, to speak of their life’s achievements; it honoured who they were. A funeral celebrated life. It warned of the fragility of mortality. All of a sudden, Jon realised the mistake of his ancestors. The tombs of the Stark Kings should have never been hidden away in the crypts. They should have been displayed where every man, woman and child could see. Where every future king could see to remind them how easily death comes for us all. Mayhaps then, Robb wouldn’t have…

Carol sighed and let go of Sophia’s hand. “Alright, I’m ready. Let’s put her under.”

Carol got to her feet and made room for Daryl and Jon. Daryl climbed into the grave while Jon cradled Sophia in his arms. She weighed as much as if she were stuffed with straw. Delicate, like handling something made of glass, Jon lowered Sophia into Daryl’s arms. Daryl took her, lay her on the grave’s floor and smoothed over the pink blanket. Jon picked up Sophia’s bear from the dirt. He traced the stitching across the bear’s chest before handing it to Daryl. After returning the bear to Sophia’s chest, Daryl climbed out of the grave. He joined Jon’s side as Carol pulled the rusted shovel from the pile of dirt. She buried the shovel’s blade into the pile, lifted a heaped mound and dumped it into the grave. Then she did it again. And again. And again.

No one made a move to stop her. That argument had long been had and lost. Instead, the only move made was by Hershel. He stepped forward, leaving Beth to weep on Maggie’s shoulder as he opened his god’s book.

“There is a special Angel in Heaven that is part of us. It is not where we wanted her but where God wanted her to be. She was here but just a moment like a nighttime shooting star. And though she is in Heaven she isn't very far. She touched the heart of many like only an Angel can do. So I send this special message to Heaven up above. Please take care of our Angel and send her all our love.”

Jon heard a whimper. Tears broke the stone mask of Carl’s face. Lori hugged him tight and stroked his hair. Rick knelt and took his hand into his. Carl acknowledged neither. He stared at the shovel even as the tears flowed, following each mound of dirt. The proper thing to do. The proper way to honour her memory. Carl’s eyes met Jon’s. He gave Carl a nod and resolve hardened on his round, freckled face.

Only once the dirt blocked Sophia entirely from view did Jon leave the grave’s side. He rejoined Ghost and stroked his fur as he watched the barn.

I will kill the boy tonight under the cover of darkness. There will be a guard. It will not be me, Rick wouldn’t allow it. Depending on who ends up being chosen, I may have to incapacitate them. That’ll make noise. So be it. To end a life takes only a moment and the boy is crippled, he can not fight back. They’ll never be able to reach the barn in time to stop me. They’ll hate me for it. That is certain. Any doubts about my wits shall be solidified in their minds. They’ll think me mad, deranged, dangerous. So be it. What is the cost of love compared to the price of life?

A flutter of black wings perched upon Jon’s shoulder. “Love,” Bloodbeak muttered. “Love, love, love.”

In the corner of Jon’s eye, he saw Ghost’s fangs bear. He rose onto all fours. His hackles stiffened. His ears twitched.

“We’ve got company!” Shane yelled.

All eyes snapped to the fields. Except for Carol. She continued filling the grave, never so much as flinching.

Distant engines rumbled across the rolling hills.

“How many?!” Rick drew his revolver

“Four!” Shane laughed. “Man, you’re not gonna believe this shit!”

“The hell you talkin’ ‘bout?!”

“They’re wavin’ a white flag!”

1 note · View note

exquisitley-obsessed · 3 years

Text

Cardinal Catastrophe

Author: @exquisitley-obsessed

Summary: Elain reaches out to Azriel after that dreaded Solstice night and they once again meet under the moonlight in the River House - but everything is different now (post ACOSF, Azriel’s the focalizer)

Pairings: Azriel x Elain, Elriel

Word Count: 13,300+

Warnings: This does get a bit smutty and then there’s some violence towards the end.

A/N: This is like super long. It basically has everything it’s fluff, smut and angst so yeah, something for everyone. This is probably the longest oneshot I’ve ever written, I don’t know where this has come from but it’s taken me way longer to write than any of my other stuff. There’s a lot of catharsis in this and reflection on how I think both Azriel and Elain think of the situation. You’ll also get a bit of Rhys’ pov towards the ned ;)

Preview: With Elain’s eyes closed he allowed himself to greedily devour the sight of her. Just her face alone captured his attention entirely. With his eyes he memorised the curve of her cheekbones, the specific angle of her brows, even the exact chocolatey shade of her lashes. He went over it again, and again, and again, like a worshipper devouring the holy text. Azriel needed the perfection of Elain committed to memory, because he was sure that one day his luck would run out entirely. That soon he would not be permitted to even these meetings in the dead of night, with only a thousand stars as witness to their mutilated fate.

“Elain...” He tried again; his voice softer than he had ever heard it before. The person he became around Elain was foreign to himself. He had never been someone privileged enough to both love and be loved, not like this. Now that he had tasted such passions, he found he could not always recognise himself. Because he was Azriel, and he was cursed and damned, destined to be alone, to be unloved, mutilated both in mind and morality. He could not love; he shouldn’t be able to love - and yet.

MASTERLIST

It was no exaggeration to say that Azriel’s work was of a most gruesome nature. His daily routine involved cutting into people, making them sing to his shadows, working them like a carcass in a machine until they’d spilt their guts to him before painting the walls with those same organs. As the Night Court’s spymaster, Azriel knew things that would bring kings to their knees, secrets that were interwoven into the foundations of courts, hidden information that would dissolve alliances in seconds; and yet, here he was, pacing the room like a schoolboy as he tried to swallow the fluttery ‘butterfly-like’ feeling twisting his gut.

He’d noticed the note the minute he’d entered the room. A tiny slip of paper that glowed in the moonlight from where it was perched on his work desk, a stark contrast to Azriel’s messy, tea-stained paperwork. Azriel had smelt her on it before he read it, in fact, the second he opened the door to his River House bedroom he was surrounded by her faded aroma. She must’ve breezed in and out, not wanting to overstep her bounds as she left him a note no one else was to read. Knowing her, she was probably currently riddled with guilt for entering his private space, even though, quite frankly, Azriel wouldn’t mind her invading on every aspect of his life, personal or not. Not wanting to face what her scent in his room did to him, he’d crossed the room in three strides and devoured the note in seconds; the words still rang in his head.

I need to see you.

Everything had been fine. Ever since Rhysand’s outrageous demand of Azriel several months prior, Azriel had fallen into a routine, stricter than the last, for ignoring Elain Archeron. He was working more than he ever had before, not just in quantity but in quality. Unnecessarily detailed reports were showing up on the High Lord’s desk of situations that were entirely irrelevant to the current political climate and yet, Azriel thought it was only fair Rhysand suffered somewhat from this situation too.

I’m sorry for everything.

While he was anywhere but Velaris, Elain was never anywhere else, specifically in the River House, a place he had thus far avoided with painful success. Until his High Lady had demanded he come to dinner to celebrate Nesta’s birthday, Nesta who was happier than he had ever seen her before, practically glowing with the dreaded mating bond. It still baffled him how much prevalence mating bonds had played in his life the past few years after 500 years of silence, strings of fate which seemed to only bring about the greatest happiness or the wickedest pain.

I just want to make things right.

They were so happy, all of them. Rhysand with Feyre and Nyx, Nesta and Cassian - and though he just wanted to be glad for his family, the miasma of their bliss was suffocating. Because Azriel had never felt more alone, had never been so buried in his work, so achingly tired from the unnecessary flights and dreary missions, and his harmful behaviour was turning his body into something foreign. Azriel never used to have the constant tautness across his shoulders, nor the constant black shadows under his eyes from the sleepless nights, or the aching muscles that never seemed to heal. But it was necessary – if he wanted to obey Rhysand’s order, if he wanted to maintain civility between courts, and for a plethora of other supposed noble reasons – it was necessary.

I miss you.

He just wanted her. Not in any possessive way, he just wanted to be around her. He’d come to find a specific kind of peace in her company, something about that soothed his worries and aches. So, he missed their walks in the gardens, their shared book recommendations, their inside jokes, their unspoken understanding, their healing. And above all he missed her: her smile, her laughter, the shade of her flushed cheeks, her kindness, her silence.

Azriel hadn’t realised what had been happening to him as they had gotten closer, hadn’t realised how far he’d fallen till Rhysand had pulled him out of the air. Now all that was there, was a lacking. He was busier than ever, but all around him hung the privation of her.

Meet me in the foyer when the sun sets.

So he couldn’t be around his family, couldn’t face their overwhelming joy when he was so, so alone. Maybe it would’ve been better if he had never met Elain, or at least if he hadn’t allowed himself to fall for her. But in those soft moments he shared with her, the brushes of fingertips to the sun-kissed smiles, he’d been forced to face just how alone he was, how alone he had always been. Through Elain, Azriel had had a taste of honest, unwavering love - and yet he was expected to turn his back on such a discovery, by his own family no less.

Please.

He would meet her in the foyer when the sun set. He would follow her to the ends of the Earth if she asked him to, because maybe he was just so masochistic that he didn’t mind meeting Elain only to be reminded of everything he couldn’t have. Reading the note Azriel couldn’t help but think bitterly of how the flower-grower was far more courageous than he. That she was reaching out to him after he had rejected her so brutally. Azriel jolted, flaring his wings slightly to stop the train of thought. That pained, confused look in Elain’s eye when he had said that word, haunted him. Mistake. He’d called it a mistake. Azriel raked his hands down his face and sighed.

He wished he were strong enough to either commit or drop it entirely. He wished he had it in him to do something. Azriel should’ve bitten back at Rhysand all those months ago, should’ve just dealt with this catastrophe back then rather than let it fester and rot under the proverbial carpet.

As time passed in Azriel’s knotted thoughts, the sun plummeted towards the horizon. It was a perfect summers evening, and Azriel stilled at the window to watch as the sun melted the sky into shades of pink and purple. He saw it and thought of the colour of her dress tonight, or even that dress she had worn when she’d made traditional Illyrian biscuits and demanded he tried one. He’d taken it in his pocket and only took a bite when he was alone in the shadows of a different court, and he had savoured every bite, quietly smothering his growing adoration as he did so.

Elain, Elain, Elain. His shadows whispered to him, as though they knew they would soon be in her presence. No one had ever had such an effect on his shadows, and around her he was more aware of them being a separate entity to himself. Though they were bound, around Elain they seemed to grow more confident, they acted of their own accord and would often disappear in her presence, as though his shadows knew he wished to be entirely alone with her.

Foyer...Elain...flower-grower...beautiful. Azriel was inclined to agree. And before Azriel could lose himself to shyness, the sun finally dipped behind the curve of the land, allowing a thousand glimmering stars to prickle through the endless black sky.

She would already be waiting for him, and though Azriel was nervous, he had to restrain some part of himself that longed to throw open the door and jump down the stairs two at a time. Instead, he used the shadows, stepping through them to the base of the large foyer staircase. It would be more silent this way. He wouldn’t make the same mistake of not listening to the corridors as they spoke. For Elain’s sake, he would demand the utmost privacy, even from his High Lord and Lady.

He could see her before she saw him. She was leaning of the Foyer’s centre table, fiddling with the bouquet of flowers in a glass vase - of course she was. All he could see of her was the lower half of her pale gown and her dark golden hair, cascading down her back like a waterfall. The moonlight streaming in through the large French windows gave her an angelic glow, whereas the more sensuous light of the flickering candles painted shadows across her thinly veiled curves. Both warm and cold light coming together to worship the woman who seemed to him as light herself. At the sight of her, Azriel involuntarily sucked in a breath and felt her scent hit the back of his throat, his entire body seemed to sing from her aroma alone, as though it were his own personal drug. Dangerous, this was dangerous, to be with her and to be so alone. He didn’t care.

“Elain,” she didn’t start as he spoke into the thick silence. If she had the confidence to call him here tonight, then he must source some of his own. He at least owed her that. Delicately, Elain turned and looked over her shoulder, her beautiful brown eyes finding his and melting the whole world away.

“You came,” She breathed, her shoulders sagging slightly out of relief. She turned to him properly then, and Azriel flickered his eyes over her so quickly she might’ve mistaken it for a mere blink. But he saw her, saw what she was wearing, and some core part of his soul longed to weep at the sight of her beauty.

Elain was in a nightgown, off-white cotton and silk, with cream and dusty pink lace. Pale ribbons pulled the nightdress around her breasts and down to her naval, dipping in a slight ‘v’ before the skirts flowed around her natural curves and then dropped to the floor. The neckline was agonisingly flattering, though Azriel was sure he wouldn’t look twice at the nightdress on anyone else. Her creamy skin seemed browner in the warm candlelight of the house, and as the shadows flickered, he was aware of how her collarbones stretched out to the curve of her shoulders, how she didn’t have freckles on her chest and arms but rather a specific constellation of moles, even how her hair was impossibly thick and, if memory served him well, soft too. Upper sections were pulled away from her face in an intricate pattern of braids and ties, and yet lock after lock of pale brown hair cascaded down her back and over her shoulders, framing her angelic face. Oh, that face. Poets and painters alike would weep at the sight of that face. The small, angled eyebrows that somehow made her doe eyes bigger, the freckles across her cheeks and nose, her plush lips-

“I know that you’re avoiding me,” she began, crashing Azriel back into reality. He shifted slightly, ruffling his wings as though to wake himself up. Her voice wasn’t accusing, but calm and quiet, “I know there’s a reason why you’re never around. For a while I thought you were just cooped up at the House of Wind but Nesta says that she never sees you...no one ever sees you anymore.” Azriel stayed quiet, just holding her gaze. He never needed to speak around Elain, she had quickly understood that when he had something to say, he would say it, but till then, he was comforted by the silence. And so she continued, more nervous now.

“I don’t want to be...narcissistic...but it seems to me that you’ve been distancing yourself with everyone after what happened on Solstice and...” She shifted uncomfortably, her confidence running out as she looked down at the floor and wrung her hands. “I can’t take it. I can’t take being the person whose pushed you away and I...I think we need to talk about it - or not talk about it - I’m not sure. I just, I don’t want you to avoid me anymore, even if that means we pretend that it never happened, that’s fine. I just...”

He could tell her right now the exact reason why he couldn’t be around her. Elain, he would say, I would do anything to be around you. I would kill a thousand men just to have the privilege of your company. But I can’t, Elain. Because when I’m around you, everything turns inside out, I forget everything I’m supposed to be afraid of. I become this person around you Elain, I become someone who I’ve always wanted to be, and I don’t know how to be him, if I even can. I’m not used to this, to wanting something so viscerally it feels as though I might fall apart every day I don’t see you. Elain, I don’t know how to choose happiness, I don’t know how to be selfish in that way, and above all...I don’t know how to fix this.

“I don’t care if you don’t want me like that, not if it comes at the price of your friendship. I still...need you in my life, Az,” Elain was whispering now, her large eyes slightly glassy in the candlelight.

Azriel couldn’t help but think that Elain was evidentially stronger than him, that she could still want to be around him even if he supposedly didn’t want her. If the roles were reversed, if it had been Elain who had pushed him away, he was pretty certain he would’ve manipulated his work to make him leave the Night Court for at least several years. Of course, she was stronger than him, he was beginning to think she was stronger than them all, because of this exact trait of hers - forgiveness.

“Please...say something,” Elain’s broken voice rose through the silence. She looked at him again, tears threatening to spill. Her looking at him in such a way made something deep in his chest twist, and twist and keep on twisting.

He didn’t know what to do, so he took a step forward, and another and another, until he was a foot’s distance away from her. The whole time her eyes never left his, her hands still twisting together at the front of her beautiful, beautiful dress. He opened his mouth to speak but once again Elain had rendered him speechless. Where could he begin, how could he begin - how could he fix this?

“Elain...” was all he managed in the end, but that seemed to be enough to soothe her as her eyes fluttered shut and she breathed deeply at the sound of her name mingled with his breath.

With Elain’s eyes closed he allowed himself to greedily devour the sight of her. Just her face alone captured his attention entirely. With his eyes he memorised the curve of her cheekbones, the specific angle of her brows, even the exact chocolatey shade of her lashes. He went over it again, and again, and again, like a worshipper devouring the holy text. Azriel needed the perfection of Elain committed to memory, because he was sure that one day his luck would run out entirely. That soon he would not be permitted to even these meetings in the dead of night, with only a thousand stars as witness to their mutilated fate.

“I’m sorry,” He began, his voice barely audible. And by the way Elain’s brows furrowed slightly and her mouth tightened, he knew that she knew he was talking about the last time they’d been here, in this foyer. “I wish things were different,” He whispered, now trying to memorise the exact constellations of her freckles.

“Me too,” She breathed, her eyes still closed. “I wish I was different,” She surprised him by whispering.

“Don’t...” He murmured, silently stunned, “You...you don’t know how you...” But he had to stop himself mid-sentence, had to bite his tongue between his teeth hard enough to draw blood. Because if he started to talk, he wouldn’t stop. He would tell her everything, and he wasn’t quite ready to be so vulnerable, not when he didn’t know how to be vulnerable at all.

“I...” She opened her eyes and seemed to look at him as though for the first time. After a long pause she spoke again, “I wish I had courage.”

“Courage?” Elain paused and shifted slightly from foot to foot, as though she were debating what she would say next.

“I want to be strong, like my sisters...I want to etch out my own path rather than fumble in the dark.” Azriel thought for a moment.

“You are strong, whether you perceive yourself to be or not.” He wanted nothing more than to reach up and stroke his hand along her smooth cheek, instead he dug his nails into his already marred palm and focused on the pain’s bite.

“I will never be a general,” Elain whispered, her eyes still damp, “I will never be a High Lady or a leader, I don’t care for any of that...I wish I did. You can’t imagine how badly I wish I...” Her words ran out and her eyes became slightly glossed over and detached. Again, he felt the urge to touch her, to ground her back in reality, but he just dug his nails in deeper. “I don’t belong on battlefields, though I’d always fight when the world needed me but...I’m not a warrior; and that petrifies me.”

Again, Azriel paused, taking time to absorb every word Elain offered to him under the moonlight. Azriel adored Elain, he could’ve stood there for an hour and listed everything about her that had brought him hope. How her outlook on life had been so foreign to him, so unrealistic when he first met her, that it was extraordinary now just how jealous he was of her ability to look at the morbidity of the world, and still seek out the good.

“In a world of endless bloodshed and bitterness, do not be ashamed of not wanting to be a warrior,” Azriel whispered.

“But I’m useless,” Elain quickly interjected, “I have all this power, I feel it stirring in me and there is no part of me that wishes to manipulate it or-or exploit it.” Elain’s hands came up and danced in the air as she spoke, another quirk of hers he’d both memorised and adored. Azriel thought again, long and hard, before he spoke.

“I’ve been around a lot longer than you, and from what I’ve learnt of people is...that they’re horrible,” Azriel watched as Elain’s eyes widened and drank in his words and something twisted in his chest. People didn’t look at him like that when he talked. His brothers would wink and laugh with him, his enemies cowered and flinched, those whom he bedded would smile slyly or watch his mouth as he murmured dirty things in the dead of night. But no one looked at him like that, as though he were reciting poetry, as though he were beautiful enough to say something worthy of those big eyes and parted lips.

“You wouldn’t believe the horrors I’ve seen, or the court secrets I’ve uncovered. The way people, particular those in positions of power, treat each other, treat those around them and those below them - it’s tragic. It’s merciless and cruel.” Elain was still drinking him in, still hanging onto his every word.

“I think over the centuries, I myself became desensitised to the horrors of power and politics. Especially given my start in life. When you were human I understood your naivety, your belief in the good of the world, especially after your riches had returned and your life was content.

“But what I didn’t understand was how you continued to believe good after everything you went through. After facing the most brutal torture from the Cauldron itself...you still chose to believe in the wonderful and I-I didn’t understand that. Because I couldn’t do that. Because I’d never believed in the good of people the way you do...I had never even believed in the good of myself.

“Please don’t think that kindness is something small, or something that can be overlooked. Because when the world is little more than ruin and rubble, kindness is all we have left. We’ve just been alive so long that we forget about it, us Fae, we’ve spent so much of our lives at war that it’s easy to forget why we’d even engage in such bloodshed. It wasn’t till I met you that I was reminded that such things as tenderness and humanity even existed outside my family, and once the wars were about defending those virtues rather than snuffing them out…I just, I can’t help but think that if there were more people like you in the world, maybe Prythian wouldn’t succumb to carnage every few decades, just so that the heartless noblemen of this land can feel something.”

Azriel hadn’t meant to speak for so long, in fact, he didn’t quite understand where the words had even come from. They were true, of course. He did whole-heartedly believe everything he had just said, he just hadn’t realised how much he’d ached to say it aloud. Elain was still staring at him wide-eyed, and then there was the worst thing of all, a single tear spilling over her damp eyes and trickling down her cheek.

“I’m sorry I didn’t mean to-”

“No,” Elain whispered, suddenly reaching out and sliding her palm into his from where it was hanging limp at his side. Electricity shot through his arm, and he forced himself to look at her in the eye as he tensed his legs so that they didn’t crumple underneath him. “No, it’s good I’m, I’m glad you said it I...”

But again, words seemed to evade Elain as she looked up at him. Azriel was now hyperaware of her how close she was, of her smooth palm that fit so nicely in his own. His body often reacted on its own accord around Elain, and he had spent months leashing his desires into chains, beasts that could only come out in the dead of night. But since that dreaded Solstice night last winter, everything had changed.

Life these past few months had consisted of the battle between two extremes. Either he was drowning in the way his body seemed to ache and beg for her, his mind obsessing over their stuttering relationship as though it were a philosophical debate. Especially since he now knew that some part of her wanted him and had wanted to kiss him even with her mate sleeping upstairs. The fact that he now knew what her scent tasted like, how her voice sounded when it was breathy and desperate - it all fuelled the fantasies that haunted him the moment he made it back to his room. He could be on the other side of Prythian and somehow the presence of Elain Archeron would find a way to him.

The other extreme was complete and total deprivation. The reality that he hadn’t seen her for months, that she would soon exist more in memory than experience. Even though his fantasies of her were so visceral, so tangible, the reality that she was not in the room with him always came crashing down by the time his head had cleared - and then he’d feel more alone than ever before.

But when he was here, with her, the argument ceased. The torture and the pain, the writhing mind and aching debates, it all fell into beautiful silence. And so, looking at her now, he was unable to help himself. And without thought, he reached up and tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear as he murmured under his breath, no more than a whisper, “Elain Archeron...saviour of the cursed and damned...”

As Azriel’s fingers grazed Elain’s cheek, a horribly confused and upset look twisted her face. She seemed to freeze at the contact and Azriel halted at her discomfort, internally berated himself for pushing her too far, for being so arrogant in thinking he could touch her in such a way.

“I...Azriel...I don’t understand,” Elain’s breathless voice seemed to caress him, and once more he found himself tensing his legs so that they wouldn’t give out under him. “You don’t want me...you said it was a mistake...” Azriel stilled, and he caught her eye in a moment of alarmed sobriety.

“You and I both know that’s not true.”

He couldn’t stop the words before they spilled from his lips. It didn’t matter how soft, how quiet, his voice was, the words were innately harsh and something deep against his spine lurched at the thought of her hurting her - of hurting her again.

But Elain didn’t flinch. Her eyes, instead of widening in shock, stayed stoically still and calm. And then Azriel watched as those honeyed eyes he loved so much lapsed darker and darker, the floral musk of her arousal drifting to him like a moth to a flame, the same scent he’d been dreaming of for months, the memory of it alone making his body achingly hard and taut, as though his own skin existed only to respond to the call of hers.

The scent surrounded him, sending blood to his cock which was now throbbing viscerally against the seams of his leathers. His arousal had never felt so tight before, so extreme and sudden. He felt it, heavy in his lower abdomen, twisting and knotting his guts in both pain and pleasure. That was familiar, that he’d felt a hundred times before, but for Elain Acheron his whole body seemed to sing. His blood burned under his skin as it pounded through his body, whilst his heart was light and fluttery in his chest, as though it might edge up his throat and fall from his lips. His eyes felt heavy lidded as though he were drunk, and even though he were standing stoically still, even though he hadn’t done anything yet, he found himself short of breath.

He had never wanted something more - never. Not Mor. Not a job. Not a secret, not information. Not salvation, not mercy. God, it seemed as though in this instant, Elain had invented want for him.

He would beg for her. Right now, in the foyer where he’d first tasted this personal drug. Had Elain not been holding him up by her eyes and a single palm he would already be on his knees. He moved to fall down before her, like a worshipper at a temple, when movement at her mouth caught his eye. Azriel watched as her delicate, pink tongue slowly dragged along her lower lip to wet it as she blinked innocently at him. Azriel’s resolve was gone in a puff of smoke.

Fuck Rhysand. Fuck Lucien. Fuck the Mother, the Cauldron, the world. Fuck anyone who stood between him and Elain who he knew, he knew, wanted him as badly as he wanted her. Because of course she did. Because whatever this was, whatever was happening between them, was otherworldly and impossible to ignore.

And good luck to them, was the last though Azriel had before he leaned in. Good luck to anyone who ever dare stand between him and her, because he’d kill them - he’d fucking kill them.

Despite his body beating like a drum for Elain’s melody, he did not kiss her right away. Once he’d accepted that he would kiss her, once he’d come to that inevitable conclusion it felt like a thousand doors of golden light opened before his eyes, and it took everything he had to not sob with joy.

All those fantasies he had revelled in for the past year that had been shrouded in a miasma of fantasy and shame, rolled through his mind clear as day. He could kiss her lips. Those soft pads of blushing rose that he had already committed to memory. Or he could trace down and press his lips to the sensitive spot between her neck and shoulder, a crook of intimacy that he’d already figured out from watching her protect it with her hands when someone stood behind her. He could kiss her temples, her cheeks, her throat - every fucking inch of her.

Now that his resolve had snapped like an elastic band stretched too far, he found that he was finally free. Looking at her he hadn’t realised how long he had taken, how slowly he was leaning in until Elain’s fingers suddenly gripped the leathers across his chest and her brows furrowed as she pulled closer to him, her eyes dark and desperate, her mouth wet and parted as she half-gasped, half-whispered, “Please....Azriel...”

He did moan then. A low, throaty sound that escaped him at the sound of his name intertwined with her breathy gasps. He snapped.

He had intended to savour every second of kissing her, but the moment his lips touched hers, he felt fire. Elain’s hands ran up his chest before intertwining themselves in his hair as she pulled herself against him and he moaned again, the second time in a minute, into her mouth. Because he could feel her, all of her, pressed against his hot throbbing body. The soft pressure of her breasts, the bones of her hips, even one of her legs had tucked between his own, the sides of their knees brushing together. She was going to kill him. She was going to fucking kill him.

And then there was her mouth. Softer than petals, and so obviously hers in taste and touch. Every time their lips brushed, every time he felt her perfect breath mingling with his own, shivers erupted across his body. Unable to stop himself he brushed back her hair before firmly grasping the side of her neck, his hand was so large against her velvet skin that he knew he could probably hold her entire throat in one hand. He put it there as an ode to the last time he’d been here. He’d put it there as a fuck you to fate.

His other hand curled around her waist and pressed against her back where - and he moaned again - Elain’s exposed skin greeted him.

He wanted to take her right her. Wanted to lie her down on the carpet and bury his head between her thighs as he had done so many times before in his fantasies. How he ached to taste her, all of her, to pin her writhing thighs back with one hand and wrists with the other. He wanted to look at her perfect angelic face as he made her sing sinful sounds for him. Wanted to make her toes curl and back arch as she came on his tongue. Again, and again, and again.

Elain tugged slightly on Azriel’s hair and he was thrust back into his body, back into the present, and he had to stifle another moan because those thousands of fantasies had nothing, nothing, on this.

In response to Elain’s needy tug, Azriel bent slightly and curled a hand around the back of each of her thighs and hoisted her up against his chest. Elain, much to his delight, snapped her legs around him as he lifted her against his chest, their lips still ferociously dancing. He only had to walk a few paces to set her against the edge of the lobby table, but that particular move was one that had been haunting him more recently of late.

He went to pull away after she was set down on the wooden tabletop. He wanted to see her, with her hair ruffled and her cheeks flushed, her lips swollen and her chest heaving. He wanted to commit that image to memory because there was still some part of him that could not believe this was real.

But as he moved to step back, Elain caught him off guard as her legs tightened from where they were wrapped around his hips, something of a growl arising from the back of her throat as she fisted his leathers and pulled him against her. Azriel obeyed her, like a puppy on a leash, leaning his hands against the table, either side of her hips, in order to stay standing.

She was flushed against him once more. Her breasts pushed against his chest which felt suffocated by the Illyrian leathers, he ached to have her skin brushing against his own, but all in good time. He slipped his tongue into her mouth then and revelled in the juxtaposing thrill and relaxation of exploring her in this way. But there was still an inch of space between their hips. He didn’t know why he left it there, even when Elain dragged him against her, perhaps it was because he knew the minute they were aligned in cardinal perfection, there would be no turning back. He would be hers and vice versa, and she would be his muse and his priority, and he would put her before everything - even his High Lord.

To steady himself, Azriel made the mistake of taking his hand and bracing himself on Elain’s thigh. What he was not expecting was for his palm to find the soft, exposed flesh of her leg from where her dress must’ve mischievously ridden upwards when he had lifted her.

Purely on instinct, Azriel moaned and drove his hips forward into her core, earning a breathy sigh from them both as they finally found an inch of friction in their writhing. There was only fabric now. Measly layers of fabric that came between them.

“Fuck...” Elain gasped into his mouth and some outrageously animalistic part of him growled in satisfaction at having pulled a sinful swear from her angelic mouth. Azriel kept one hand against the wood near her hips to stay steady, to stop himself from grounding his hips into her like an uncontrollable beast, the other stayed on the warm, smooth flesh of her exposed thigh.

Slowly, he began to trace rough circles with his thumb on her inner thigh earning a flutter of breathy sighs to dance from her lips which pleased his soul to no avail. Azriel parted from her lips and began to pepper kisses along her jawline as he torturously inched his thumb up, inch by inch with each circle. When Azriel began to kiss and suck on the spot just below her ear he allowed himself to peek at her as he worked.

Her head was tilted back slightly, her throat bobbing as high hums fluttered from her. If he could paint he would paint the perfect blush of her swollen lips. If he were a poet he would turn her breathy moans into the sweetest of sonnets. And then she tugged on her bottom lip with her teeth as a soft moan escaped her and he had to look away, if only to stop himself from reaching down and fisting himself at the sight of it.

With his head turned Azriel hissed out of surprise as his thumb rubbed against a sticky sweetness coating her inner thigh. God she was wet. And as he rubbed further, coating his thumb in her essence, he had to bite his cheek as to not come in his pants like a schoolboy. Azriel stopped rubbing circles in favour for taking his first finger and tracing back and forth over the highest point of her thigh, slow and torturous as he familiarised himself with the feel of her. His heart threatening to beat out of his chest when his fingers brushed against a lacy frill at the apex of her thigh. Tilting his head Azriel was able to husk into her ear.

“What do you want Elain?” His voice was low and breathy before he caught her lobe between his teeth. Another shuddering gasp floated from her lips.

“I want you to touch me...and I don’t want you stop,” the sound of her voice so mingled with pleasure and need was almost enough to undo him. “Ever,” She went on, “Not until I don’t know my own name.”

She was going to kill him. Growling in satisfaction he rewarded her answer with one quick brush over her lace underthing's, the touch was like electricity for them both. Elain physically tremored as Azriel finally brushed where she needed him most, and Azriel shuddered at the contact with the girl of his dreams.

“Please, Azriel,” Azriel stilled for a moment, wondering how she would react to his instinctual next move. His particular flavour of making love.

“Say that again,” He said slowly, his voice barely more than a brutal, low husk. As he spoke Azriel allowed some of his power to ebb into the words, the siphons a top his hands guttering as they came to life. It felt slightly wrong to use such a voice on her, the one he so often used with enemies, but Azriel watched as Elain’s lips parted, her pupils expanding as her breath grew heavy in response to his dominant voice. Oh, Azriel couldn’t help but think in agonising awe. Maybe his deep assumptions, the ones that only haunted him in that void he entered before he fell asleep, were true. That Elain, the purest of sisters, was also the filthiest.

“Please, Az,” Her voice was breathy and pleading, but there was something alight in her eyes as she begged him.

“Good girl,” Azriel couldn’t stop himself from husking as he peeled back the top of the lace. They both stared unwaveringly into each other’s eyes as Azriel dipped his hands along her, not touching just hovering. He held his hand there, an inch away from where she needed him most, waiting until she almost whimpered before he slid a single finger slowly through her folds.

Her reaction was blissful to see. The way she bit her lip, her back arched, and her eyes fluttered shut. Azriel moved with her, his own mouth parted, and brows furrowed as he stroked her again.

“Don’t close your eyes,” He murmured in his voice of steel, “Look at me.” Elain’s eyes snapped open, and it was his turn to be caught off guard. Gone was the hazelnut colour, even the sensuous black he had somehow lulled them into, what met him was the colour of bright honey and her eyes, they were glowing. They stood out like gemstones being pierced by golden light. It was then that Azriel began to take note of their surroundings and realise that the thrumming was not just happening inside him but all around him. Ripple after ripple of raw, ancient power was bleeding from Elain, fizzing into the air and turning the entire foyer into something alive and electric. A shiver ran along Azriel’s entire body as his own powers itched to sing in harmony with hers; cobalt energy rising to meet her golden light.

Her folds were dripping, and he was having an internal debate on whether or not to rip off her underwear. On one hand he would have better access, he would be able to pleasure her better, and he could even push her back against the table and lower his head and taste her. On the other, he couldn’t stand being disconnected from her for a second.

Whilst he debated, he slowly raked his finger up her again before finding that small bundle of nerves. When he caught it with his fingertip and began to drag slow, luxurious circles over it, a throaty, guttural moan escaped her lips. He bit his cheek again. He wondered if anyone had fucked her like this and again, that pride bloomed when he realised that he might be the first. Not her first, but the first person to show her the true ecstasy of pleasure.

“Oh fuck, oh fuck,” Elain gasped as her head fell forward on his shoulder. Azriel allowed the eye contact to break, too absorbed by the feeling of having Elain writhing under his fingers to care.

He’d always thought that he could die a happy man if ever he was blessed enough to experience such a joy as Elain Archeron, but now he realised what a stupid notion that was. Because Elain wasn’t cause for death but cause for life. He’d live for Elain, Azriel realised. Elain who was writhing and mewling into his shoulder as he slowly brought her to the ecstasy she deserved. She was close and following this he would winnow them away to either his unused apartment in central Velaris, or deep in the gardens on this summer night, where they would be entirely alone, and everything would be perfect. And once they’d had their fill on the pure bliss of one another they could talk about everything, and they’d find a solution and they’d work it out, and everything would be okay - and then Rhysand walked in, and everything came crashing down.

Some part of Azriel’s hazy mind had been aware of the movement deep in the house but it had been so, so inconsequential compared to what was in front of him. And his shadows, well his shadows were nowhere to be seen, not with golden light quite literally thrumming from Elain. There had been no warning, and as Rhys met Azriel’s eye when he still had his fingers flush against Elain some primal part of Azriel reared its head.

In an instant Azriel’s siphons were spluttering to life as power surged through Azriel, his wings instinctively flaring as wide as they would stretch, so that the cresting talon of each wing scraped into the polished walls. Rhys, who was standing at the edge of the foyer, an unrecognisable expression scorched into his face, was a threat at that moment, and the whole world seemed to still as Azriel slowly came down from the high of his arousal.

Slowly, Azriel removed his hand from Elain’s underwear and smoothed down her skirts to cover her legs, all the while never moving his eyes from Rhys. He didn’t care if he was in for the doghouse, didn’t give a shit about what consequences his happiness had just induced - Elain came first.

And right now, even though it was a ludicrous thought, Azriel was preparing himself to protect Elain from Rhysand. Elain’s whose nightgown had slipped down her shoulder, whose eyes were wide as she glanced over her shoulder at her brother-in-law, exposed and vulnerable just as she’d been on the worst night of her life.

“Azriel,” Rhysand finally spoke and Azriel shifted slightly to pull Elain closer to his chest. “My office...now.” It seemed as though all sense of formality had dropped as Rhysand’s High Lord voice billowed into the room. Azriel didn’t speak, didn’t move either, just shifted his eyes to Elain whose face was blanch and confused.

“Can’t this wait?” Azriel asked, his voice low and full of strength. Instantly he realised that he should’ve worded his question better. He didn’t want time in order to finish off what he and Elain had begun, but rather to give Elain a moment to breathe, for her to fix her dress and smooth her hair, for her to do whatever she needed to do before she was forced to face her family. Rhysand’s eyes darkened, and he entered the room in a low stride, both hands digging deep into his pockets. Azriel moved instantly, stepping around Elain to put himself in front of her as Rhysand approached.

Without a word Rhysand came closer and closer, and Azriel continued to stretch his wings to cover Elain from whatever vitriol was about to be thrown his way. But Rhysand didn’t say anything, he didn’t even move suddenly, just reached out a single hand until it was barely touching Azriel’s arm as darkness surrounded them both.

Before Azriel even had a chance to realise that Rhysand was winnowing them away – away from Elain – they were standing in his office, and Azriel couldn’t help but shake his head at the slight Deja-vu of the whole situation. Except this time, he wouldn’t be bounding himself in shackles, he’d be setting himself free, whether Rhys wanted him to or not.

Azriel was standing in front of the large mahogany desk of Rhysand’s office whilst it’s owner moved behind it, one hand still in his pocket. Already the air in the room was taut with energy, as though the very air were cowering in the face of the upcoming argument. And still Azriel’s mind was still thinking of the girl in the foyer, her name like a mantra beating through his body,

“Put your cock away Azriel,” Rhys immediately spat in response to the ripples of cobalt energy rippling from Azriel’s form. Azriel didn’t deem the childish comment with a retort, though his arousal was already gone, and quickly replaced by the tautness of anger and frustration. His shadows had returned to him now that he was away from Elain, and they were writhing uncontrollably around his legs and back.

Azriel stayed standing, folding his arms over his chest just for something to do. It was then that Rhys sighed heavily, leaning against his desk and hanging his head. He wasn’t as tired nor as desperate as when they’d last spoken like this - of this. No, now Rhys had everything. Everything he had ever, and could ever want, and now his fight lay in protecting the paradise he had found in Feyre and Nyx. Whilst Azriel was still in the dark, still alone, still secretly in agony - they were not the same.

“I gave you the simplest of orders,” Rhys sighed like a disappointed father and something brutally aggressive awoke in Azriel. How dare he, how dare Rhys speak to him like that?

“I know,” Azriel said, his voice indiscernible and calm. Rhys swung his head up to glare at Azriel, something emotional lingering in his violet eyes.

“You know? Then, Azriel, why did you take it upon yourself to disobey me?” Azriel’s grip on his biceps tightened.

“Elain is...” Azriel began before he had to lower his eyes. What was Elain? How could he explain to Rhys the inexplicable way he felt about the angelic gardener? The effect she had on him, it was both irrational and yet made perfect sense. And right now, he could barely focus with knowing that somewhere in this house she was looking around confused, wondering what the hell had just happened. “She’s important to me. More than you realise.”

“She has a mate.”

“That is irrelevant-”

“Irrelevant?” Rhysand looked as though he might laugh and Azriel once more gripped his arms tight enough to bruise. “I thought I made it perfectly clear to you Azriel that the bond between Elain and Lucien-” Azriel growled at his name, Rhys ignored him, “-is paramount to the civility between us and not just the Autumn Court, not just the Spring Court or the Day Court, but also the Band of Exiles and the Human realms.”

“And have you ever wondered if maybe Elain deserves better?”

“Better than Lucien-” Rhys practically squawked.

“No,” Azriel growled, allowing his anger to show, “Better than us. Better than a family who reduce her to little more than a political pawn-”

“She is my sister,” Rhysand spat, standing up straight with a newfound intensity. “Don’t you dare question my treatment of her, don’t you dare suggest I don’t care for her.”

“Are you truly so out of touch that you do not see the shackles you’ve tied around her wrists?” Azriel uncurled his arms, “You’ve stripped her of any choice-”

“This is not about choice!”

“This has everything to do with choice!”

“Elain is a valued member of my family but also of my court. As her High Lord, I have made a difficult decision but one that will undoubtedly strengthen this us in the now impending war. It was a tough decision and if you want me to be the bad guy, fine, I’ll be the bad guy, but you will obey my orders as this is the best choice for Elain.”

“Then why don’t you ask her,” Azriel growled, grappling with the internal leash on his powers, “Why don’t you actually include her in the decisions you’ve made about her life.”

“I don’t know what you’re insinuating,” Rhys flicked invisible lint from his suit, “But Elain is a valued member of these discussions.”

“Then why isn’t she here?” Azriel husked quietly, full of venom. Rhysand apparently didn’t have anything to say to that, so Azriel went on. “You claim to value choice Rhysand, and yet you’ve stripped Elain of not just her own volition, but the simple knowledge of the choices made about her life.”

There was something bitter clanging through Azriel as he spat the words, he knew what it was, it was a word - hypocrite. Because whilst Azriel was fighting for Elain, really he should be allowing for Elain to fight for herself. He should’ve left the office the minute Rhysand winnowed them and searched for Elain. He should’ve told her, all those months ago, about why he could no longer be around her. And that’s why Elain deserved better, better than Rhys and better than him, because even now they talked of her rather than with her.

“You are to stay away from her,” Rhysand said at last, glaring out the study’s window almost as though he was ignoring Azriel.

“I can’t do that. Not anymore,” Azriel husked, and Rhys paused, catching Azriel’s eye before he hastily looked to the side and raked a hand through his hair.

“I told you, Azriel. I told you to stay away from Ly-” Both Azriel and Rhys’ eyes widened at the name that nearly fell from Rhysand’s lips. A revelation occurring to them both as the name Rhys’ long deceased sister was brought into the room. “Elain,” Rhys corrected himself, acting unbothered by his slip. “I told you stay away.”

Azriel didn’t know how to respond. He’d spend hours in training rings, on long haul flights or espionage ventures thinking of this specific argument. The way he’d tell Rhys all the things he should’ve said on that Solstice night, about the disservice they were both doing to Elain, about how it was outrageous of Rhys to demand Azriel put politics before his happiness after, well, everything.

After Azriel had spent 500 years alone with only a doomed infatuation with a woman who would never love him back. After Azriel had always favoured to be alone, to suffer in silence, to take the blame, and now he finally had an out. After Azriel had to put up with both his brothers finding their perfect happiness, Rhys himself almost starting a war by perusing and protecting Feyre.

Why was it so different for him? Why was it the moment Azriel had happiness within an arm’s reach there were a thousand excuses for him not to have it? What was so poisonous about his desires? About him?

“She’s not Lydia,” Azriel said at last. It was a low blow. Especially since Rhys had so clearly tried to cover up his slip a moment ago. “For one, you would never treat Lydia with such little respect. Elain is her own person and I’m not going to fight with you, or Lucien, or anyone for that matter like she’s some kind of prize.”

This argument was too real. Of course, they’d had arguments before, all three of them had. Azriel could remember a particularly nasty one between Cassian and Rhys where they hadn’t spoken for a year, Azriel bouncing between them like an owl. But this wasn’t a brotherly squabble, not when the stakes were so high.

Rhys sighed, still not meeting Azriel’s eye as a muscle in his jaw ticked. It seemed as though the High Lord also understood the irregularity of the dispute, or maybe he was just furious at facing his own errors, at his spymaster criticising him on failing someone so important on a matter which Rhysand prided himself on - the volition of the women in his life. After what happened with his mother and his sister, to find out he was now failing his new family must be driving him mad.

“You just can’t keep it in your pants can you Azriel?”

It may have been less shocking if Rhys had just leaned over and stabbed Azriel in the gut. His words clanged into the air with a sour metallic taste, and for a moment Azriel lost his breath, his jaw slackening as his shock registered before he could swiftly cover the expression with the mask of steel he’d perfected. The silence following the comment was perhaps worse than the blow itself. Now it was Azriel who couldn’t stand looking at his brother. He didn’t care if Rhys looked apologetic, didn’t care for him at all.

“Do you really think so low of me?” Azriel’s voice was deathly quiet, before he finally shifted his eyes up to see the raw regret plastered on his brothers face.

“No, I-” A vicious knock came at the door then, interrupting whatever apology Rhys was going to throw his way.

“Open the door,” Came Elain’s voice, more brutal than he’d ever heard it before. Something electric shot through Azriel at the sound of it, of her. If anything, her voice was a reminder that this was real, that his hair was tousled, and lips swollen because of Elain-fucking-Archeron.

Rhys didn’t move for the door, so Azriel did. Turning around, he walked the length of Rhys’ office to the large double oak doors and pulled one back without hesitation. He knew she deserved to be here, that she should’ve been here from the start.

Azriel was so set on opening the door for the sake of justice and fairness that he momentarily forget that it was Elain on the other side, and the sight of her made his breath stop in his throat. Her hair was still ruffled from where he had raked his hands through it, and her lips still blushed from where he had tugged on them with his teeth. There was also a faint flush of her cheeks, either from their previous activities or from running through the River House searching for him and his brother.

Something electric and charged ran the entire length of his body at the sight of her - not arousal, something deeper. And by the way her glowing eyes drank him in, he knew she felt it too. Azriel stepped aside and let her pass into the office and walk up to Rhysand’s desk. As he followed her, something bitter twisted in his gut - whatever was blooming between himself and the gardener was a thing to celebrate. Such love, light and warmth in his life which had thus far consisted of cold loneliness was a joyous and wonderful thing. And yet he was made to feel ashamed of his happiness, by his brother. His own damn brother.

“What’s going on?” Elain spoke in her traditionally soft voice, but even Rhys must’ve picked up and the unwavering steel that seeped from her tone, so similar to Nesta’s pitch.

“Nothing, Elain. Just a dispute between myself and Azriel. It’s nothing you need concern yourself with,” Rhysand’s easy smile warmed through his cheeks and Azriel was sure he was going to punch him before the night was out.

“Don’t lie to me Rhysand, it’s not a good look for a High Lord,” Elain spoke smoothly, folding her arms over her chest as Azriel had done moments ago. Rhys’ expression only flickered in response. “Now, what’s going on?” Elain asked again.

“Well,” Rhysand began, “Me and Azriel have been discussing you actually, you see, your bond with Lucien is unfortunately paramount to a lot of peace and unity between our court and others.” Rhysand looked blankly at Evie as he spoke, completely dethatched from the emotional anger he’d unleashed on Azriel moments ago.

“Is this about me breaking the bond?” Elain said, her voice smooth like honey, healing the sparking energy in the room as Azriel and Rhysand had geared up for a fight. Something about the question twisted Azriel’s guts. It was her terminology; it was all wrong. There was no such thing as breaking a bond, one could reject it and render the attachment limp and lifeless, but breaking a bond was only achieved in death, and even then some believe the bond to continue in the next life. It was just a reminder that Elain knew nothing about this world, Lucien had placed the acceptance or rejection of the bond in her hands, but she did not even know what either option would truly entail. Her education, it was another thing they’d all failed her on.

“If you wish to reject your bond with Lucien I, nor anyone in this court, will prevent you from doing so,” Rhysand said smoothly, “However, given the current political climate, I must say it would be best to leave this till after the war.” Elain did not look away as she thought.

“I don’t want the bond,”

“That’s perfectly okay-”

“No,” Elain interrupted, “I don’t want the bond at all. I don’t want to have to accept or reject anything - I just don’t want it...you....you don’t know what it’s like, to be pulled apart limb by limb, and be remade against your will, to find yourself destroyed and then re-crafted by something as unapologetic as the Cauldron itself. I was violated to the most extravagant degree and when I finally came around, when I finally managed to find something recognisable in myself, months after that night, I came around to find that I had been reduced to some ancient claim a stranger possessed over me. You are all kind, and you all mean well, but I know you all see myself as his.

“It was on the worst night of my life, the night when I had been pulled apart till I was only vessels and blood, he called me his. He is not a bad person I can see that,” her voice wobbled slightly then, “He is kind and witty, he’s working harder than any of you for the forgiveness of my sister. He doesn’t deserve…” She choked up slightly, but cleared her throat to cover it up, “He’s not bad…but this bond is terrible, it’s worst then terrible, it’s suffocating. And when I think of that bond, tied around my ribs like some kind of violating shackle, I just think of how it felt to suffocate on black water...that’s what this bond means to me, it’s a violation on top of a violation. So, to hear that to you, this bond gives you a political advantage, that you get a gain out of it and that you wish me to continue living in torment I...

“I wish I could be sorry about feeling this way, but I don’t. I have stayed quiet, and I have played the role you needed me to play. I keep out of your way; I busy myself with the gardens and dinner and I do everything I can to not bare my teeth every time he visits. But I...” Her wide, damp eyes turned to look at Azriel, “I have found something living in the never ending grave of my life. After I found myself again, all those months after the Cauldron, it felt as though it was only then I emerged from the black water. After I found...” She trailed off, stilling holding Azriel’s eye, “...I was not just out the black water, but back on the ground.”

A small silence settled over the room as Azriel and Elain found themselves quickly lost in one another again, Rhys was merely glancing between the two, his mind whirring as he tried to click together the puzzle in front of him.

“I tried Rhys…I really did,” Azriel finally whispered into the heavy silence, still not looking away from his beloved. “I’ve done everything short of chaining myself in the dungeons to stay away, but I can’t.” It wasn’t until the words had left Azriel’s mouth that he realised his error. And it wasn’t until Elain’s brows furrowed and her eyes moved to Rhysand, that he felt his heart drop.

“What?” Elain whispered. One of the thousand questions she no doubt harvested. Azriel couldn’t look away from her, couldn’t meet his brothers eye. He had this awful feeling now twisting his guts, the feeling that everything was about to come crashing down.

“I ordered Azriel to stay away from you,” Rhys said evenly. Always the honest man.

“I...what?” Elain spluttered softly, her eyes narrowing on Rhysand. “What?”

“He called me away on solstice night when I was about to kiss you, that’s why I stopped.” That’s why I called it a mistake. Elain’s eyes burned even brighter and Azriel wondered if he should’ve held his tongue. If he should’ve just waited to have this conversation tomorrow where whatever ancient power that was stirring in Elain had calmed down. Now Elain’s glowing eyes seemed to fill the room with golden light, even the black night shrouding Rhysand’s figure ebbed back and inch.

“What?” Elain’s voice rung out, the magic in the room quickly turning volatile.

“I am sorry Elain; I didn’t mean to meddle with your private affairs, but with Lucien under the same roof it would’ve been too risky for those in the house. He could’ve invoked something called a ‘blood duel’.” Of course, Elain didn’t know that, of course none of her friends or family had taken the time to explain that to her.

“You…you sanctimonious dick,” Elain spat. Had it been any other day, Azriel would’ve had to fight an astonished grin at hearing the words on her lips, but not tonight, not when everything was turning so morbid in front of his eyes.

“I’m sorry Elain, I truly am. But I’m not just your brother-in-law but your High Lord and I cannot risk my entire court for the mild infatuation of a-”

“Don’t speak to her like that,” The words were writhing in venom as Azriel spat them out. He would go down with her.

“No, Azriel, you don’t speak to me like that,” And with that Rhys’ last straw was gone. In an instant his power was billowing into the room in clouds of black smoke. Rhys acting in such a way in front of Elain, who was already vulnerable, her dress already ruffled and her eyes wide in alarm, made Azriel furious.

“I am your high lord, Azriel, and I gave you a direct command and you have disobeyed me-” Without thinking Azriel’s own icy power rose to the surface, his siphons lighting on fire at the surge. If Elain was frightened by their display of bottomless power she did not show it, perhaps as her own fire was still burning vividly behind her eyes, perhaps since she knew she had more power than them both.

“Have you ever thought perhaps you stepped out of line by asking such a thing of me?” Azriel had never heard his voice so loud and angry before. He didn’t do this. His arguments were stoic and brutal, but mostly silent. He never fought politics - he carved into people who were in chains, and when there was an argument he stayed in the shadows and listened.

“You are my spymaster-”

“I am your brother!” Azriel’s choked sob echoed into the room. “Do I not deserve to be happy?” Rhysand at least had the decency to flinch, to reel back and allow his jaw to slacken in shock.

“Of course, you deserve to be happy brother,” Rhysand’s voice was low and strangled, “But this isn’t just romance – it’s never just romance – this will be a battle-”

“And I’m willing to fight!” Azriel roared, his hands slamming into Rhysand’s desk, his power causing the entire house to shudder, right down to the foundations.

“Azriel,” Rhys’ voice was deathly quiet, “I need you to calm down.” For a moment Azriel didn’t understand, his mind was so focused on Elain, on his own shuddering heart and writhing powers that he simply could not comprehend the words that came out his brothers mouth. Finally, the message registered in his mind and he became aware of his shadows, flourishing and filling the entire room, crawling over the windows and blocking out all the light. The only way he was seeing Rhysand was via the golden glow that came from Elain’s eyes. Disgust racked through his body at the sight of the manifestation of his swirling pain, but before he could do anything, the leash on his powers snapped.

“Azriel-” The next series of events was a blur. Power billowed into the room in a quick explosion, God knows whose it was. Perhaps it was initially Azriel who had finally lost control on that leash on his Illyrian gifts, perhaps Rhysand moved to repress Azriel’s powers with his own, premature or not. Maybe the quiet Elain had had enough of the noise. In an instant, a cocktail of three brands of magic billowed towards each other before exploding outwards, sending a wave of pure, unhinged chaos through the room, the house, and the whole of Velaris.

They all were thrown back from each other, Rhys flying up and landing on his feet, bracing himself against the ornamental globe as his wings appeared and flared. But even he, the most powerful High Lord in history had his knees bent and his arms raised as he braced himself against the fizzling aftershock of the ancient power that tore through the air. Azriel’s centuries of training kicked in as he was catapulted the length of the room, his own wings flared to slow his flight before he caught himself on the doorframe, the weighty wooden doors having flung open, it took an immense amount of physical upper body strength to keep himself upright as the wave of power subsided, his teeth grinding together as his muscles screamed.

But he wasn’t aware of the pain of his screaming muscles, wasn’t thinking about how his wings were in danger of being shredded by the power that ripped through the room. There was only one person, that his entire being seemed to lurch for as his mind screamed her name over and over. Elain.

Elain.

He had seen as her pale form was flung away from him towards the cabinets, had heard the shattering of glass over the howling in his ears. Of course, he and Rhysand were okay, they had centuries of power and training under their belts but Elain…Elain didn’t have training, and she had flown through the air the fastest, taking the brunt of the powers rebound, her small form crashing into the case of Rhysand’s prized artefacts.

The minute Azriel had control of his own body and wasn’t being thrust back into the hallway, he winnowed to her, stepped into the shadows with a haste and urgency he’d never felt before. Wrong. He’d felt this fear before, he recognised it’s taste from the poisonous memories of that night Elain had been ripped away from them, leaving behind nothing but a vacant cot and warm sheets. Memories of that night often haunted his dreams; how ridiculously lucky they had gotten that they had reached Elain minutes before the King of Hybern got his hands on her. In his dreams he was too late. In his nightmares he fails her, and by the time he and Feyre find the tent she’s already gone. Sometimes there’s a body, and sometimes his unconscious mind is kind enough to just leave behind her lingering scent. That night he learned what it was like to truly fear, to have the blood leave your body, to feel the world still.

And that’s what the world did as he stepped onto the other side of the shadows. Elain was crumpled on the floor underneath the large bay windows, moonlight streaming into the mutilated room and illuminating her still form. It was as though the starlight was searching for her, reaching out to her with hands made of silver shadows.

Glass crunched under Azriel’s boots as he took a step forward, and another, and another. Because he could scent it before he saw it – the blood. The sour metallic taste that clogged up the air, interwoven with her own delicate scent. Wrong, it was so wrong, to have Elain’s scent fused with that of blood. She was facing away from him, crumpled on her side in a foetal position, and he could see her arms, her beautiful nimble arms so like the legs of a doe, limp on the floor and marred with what seemed to be a thousand cuts.

Her blood was black in the moonlight, and was colouring her beautiful, beautiful night dress. The roaring in Azriel’s ears was nothing short of explosive. And before him he saw a black wave, taller than the Ramiel, heading straight for him. One that was made of self-loathing, anger, frustration and agony, and as he dropped to his knees in front of Elain he felt it wash over him, burying him deeper in himself than he’d ever been before, and he knew he would not resurface.

Slowly, as not to hurt her further, Azriel rolled Elain over onto her back and into his lap. With shaky fingers he pushed back her hair, just as he had done less than an hour earlier. Her eyes were shut again, but this time he didn’t look at her face for beauty, but for a sign of life.

“Elain…” He whispered; his voice was softer than petals. She did not stir.

“Elain…” He murmured again as he bowed his head and pressed it against her chest, sticky blood rubbing against his cheek as he did so. For a moment it was all silent, and Azriel felt the world drop away, felt himself falling through bottomless black water only to never resurface.

And then there it was. The familiar ‘thu-thump’ beating slow and steady in her chest, the sweetest melody Azriel had ever heard. But before he could revel in the relief of Elain being alive, movement at the side of his eye made him snap his head, turn up his top lip and let loose a nothing but feral growl. It was his brother, and a small wave of shame rolled through him at having behaved in such a way to someone whom he owed so much.

“Azriel…” Rhysand’s voice was soothing, calm, “She’s having a vision…look, Azriel look. She’s okay, she’s just having a vision.”

And so, he looked again and yes, she was having a vision. Behind her eyelids Azriel could see her pupils flurrying side to side as though she were engaged in some riveting dream.

She’s having a vision; she’s having a vision. His shadows chanted to him, running up his back and whispering in his ear. It didn’t soothe him, but rather caused the cloud of anger around him to disappear, so that he was numb again. Some movement deep in the house pulled at his attention, but it was like a ribbon trying to move an ocean, there was nothing for it to hold onto.

And soon both men were turning to the worst thing of all: Feyre and Nesta, standing at the doorway looking at their sister unresponsive in a pool of blood, both primed and ready to kill.

“Get away from her.” Nesta’s voice clanged through the room like steel as she strode forward, seeming to fill the broken room with her strength alone. As she moved she revealed a slightly dazed Cassian behind her, still dressed in his night clothes and yet armed to the teeth, clearly having been awoken in a haste. Rhys took a step back, there was too much power, too much energy, in the room already, provoking Nesta would surely lead them all to their sudden deaths.

Then there was Feyre, walking into the room behind her sister, quiet but observant, the perfect High Lady. She seemed to assess everything around her. The tautness of her husband’s stature, the silent flood of emotions that seemed to be rippling from her spymaster, Elain’s shallow breaths and bloodied night gown. After a moment of quiet assessment, she moved forth to the stoic and emotionless figure of her shadowsinger.

“Azriel,” Rhys recognised Feyre’s tone as she approached his brother, it was the tone she used with Nyx, motherly and soft. Azriel pulled his eyes from Elain to look at Feyre vacantly. “It’s okay, everything’s going to be okay…but I need you to let me take her.” Azriel’s mouth contorted in pain as he pulled Elain slighter closer to his chest.

“I know,” Feyre whispered, dropping to her knees next to him, not caring that her own silken nightgown was turning splotchy and red. “I know it’s hard but everything’s going to be okay. She’s my sister, and I as your High Lady will not let anything harm her.” There’s no need, Azriel thought bitterly as he looked down at Elain’s deathly pale skin, her abuser is here, right in front of you. The only harm you need protect her from, is me.

But he didn’t say any of that out loud, he wasn’t even sure his voice would work for him in that moment. Azriel didn’t quite hand Elain over to Feyre, rather he just let his arms go limp around her, and Feyre was able to scoop her sister out of his arms as though they were passing Nyx from one another. Every instinct Azriel had was screaming at him to take Elain back, to at least look at her unconscious form in Feyre’s arms as they moved away from him, but he kept his eyes on the floor, now kneeling to only the pools of Elain’s blood.

Voices began to erupt around him in hushes whispers, he could distantly hear Rhysand guiding his subjects through the plan, explaining to them what had happened whilst withholding the reason why. It was all numb to him as he continued to float under that black wave, sinking deeper and deeper, their voices were above the surface and so they just sounded warbled and strange.

But one movement did catch Azriel’s eye. It cut through the room’s silent chaos like a knife, a figure appearing at the ruined doorway that caught Azriel’s attention the same way an earthquake would. It was him.

Lucien.

“What happened?” Lucien growled out and something roared in Azriel. He knew that tone of voice, could smell the mate-tarnished anger that was rolling out of him. That animalistic claim on the woman Azriel had nearly lost himself in only moments ago. That’s why he was here, because he would’ve felt the energy down the bond, because even though he was at the other end of Prythian with his own family, he had that claim.

“She’s okay,” Feyre breathed softly as she lifted her sister up into her arms, “Her cuts are already healing, it looks worse than it is. She’s just had a vision so it might take a while for her to come around.” Feyre’s voice was so like her husband’s, even and balanced, reassuring everyone in the room that everything was okay, even if that were not necessarily true.

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

Azriel didn’t want to hate Lucien, even now he could see that the Autumn son was grappling with the bond that was no doubt screaming at him to rip his mate from Feyre’s arms and winnow them both to the other side of the continent. Azriel knew, because he felt it too. Like Elain he didn’t really hate Lucien, he hated the bond, hated what it told him about himself, clear as day, that he wasn’t worthy of Elain. And though some part of him already assumed just as much, no one was so self-deprecating to not at least hold of a sliver of hope in the face of such agony.

“She’s fine,” Nesta snarled at Lucien, one hand on Feyre’s shoulder, the other on Elain’s pale and bloodied forehead as she guided her sisters towards to mutilated door frame. They were right to take their sister away from the scene, God knew that no one there could help Elain now.

And so Elain disappeared around the corner, and Azriel slowly brought himself off the floor, trying to ignore the sight of his marred hands, covered in her blood.

What...even...Cassian’s voice swam into Rhys mind, dripping in confusion and concern. Did you and Az have a fight?

Rhys put off audibly groaning. Whenever he and Az fought it was normally not difficult to keep Cassian oblivious, he didn’t always pick up and stuff like that and sometimes it was just easier to deal with debates behind closed doors. Not to treat Cassian as his and Az’s overgrown child, it was just that Cassian was never meant to be a mediator.

It’s complicated, Rhys reported back keeping his voice level and calm - his High Lord voice.

I’ll let you off for tonight but, Rhys, you have to let me help you. Especially when it comes to Az. He was right of course, just like Azriel had been.

Deal, Rhys shot back, for tonight I need eyes on Az, I don’t care if he pushes you away I need someone with him at all times, at least until Elain comes around. We’ll re-group then. Cassian didn’t respond besides the smallest of nods. He stayed where he was, more awake now with his eyes trained on their other brother, and Rhys knew Cassian wouldn’t take his eyes off him for the foreseeable future.

Rhysand couldn’t help but sigh, it’s not as though Azriel or Lucien were aware of him to notice. This was a mess. Worse than a mess, it was a catastrophe. Everything Azriel had said was right but, he had broken his order, he had defied rank in a way he’d never done before and that squeezed something deep in Rhysand’s gut. Above all he needed to be able to trust his friends, so that when push came to shove he’d be able to make the tough decisions and his friends would let him go into the belly of the beast. But tonight, that had changed. Everything had changed.

And Elain, Elain who he had nearly called by his sisters name, she’d stood up for herself tonight. And then there was the situation of her powers, savage and rippling out of her like a beast. He had tasted those powers when they’d tore out of her, and they were ancient. The same power that was interwoven in the very fields of the earth, concentrated in the form of the sweetest girl of all. Rhys knew at least a thousand fae who would pay a hefty price to possess Elain, a hundred who might be willing to go to war - and then there were the Fae who would claw for her hand, the noblemen who would see her for her potential offspring. Rhysand physically shuddered as he sent his wings away.

Yes, tonight had been a catastrophe all right.

Rhysand looked away from Cassian’s half-hidden grimace and turned to the two males standing off, the blood of the woman they were unspokenly fighting over still pooling across the hardwood floors. Lucien glaring with restrained anger at Azriel, his masculine mating bond clogging up the air, whilst Azriel wore an impenetrable mask, hiding the bottomless torment and agony that was no doubt running rife in the shadowsinger, as he stared at the weeping puddle of Elain’s blood.

279 notes · View notes

honkhonkrichard · 3 years

Text

Theory: Stanley Uris was Murdered.

Tagging @vvanini I hope you can follow this okay it’s very word vomity lol

Okay So TW because this post will touch on Stan's death ad the methods behind it

I propose that Stan Uris was murdered. by IT. In his home on that fateful night. I think that Stan posed the biggest threat to IT and therefore IT felt the need to take him out before the battle even started.

Allow me to explain.

Okay, so, I need to lay out some basic "rules" or "facts" before I make my case. They are as follows.

- IT planted it's roots in Derry, and finds it difficult to leave, but still can at it’s own wil. If you read the book (I honestly don't blame you if you haven't) You'd know that once the Losers kill IT for the final time, Derry (the Physical town) is obliterated. Buildings explode, sinkholes appear, things are flooded. The town is in ruins by the time that the Losers leave the sewers. The movies don't adapt this so If this is news to you thats fine. the bottom line is that destroying IT destroys Derry, like ripping a tree out of the ground with all it's roots. Because of this, we can make the claim that while it can Leave Derry (as it does every 27 years) it probably takes tremandous amount of power to do so, which is why IT only goes when the cycle is over. Why does this matter? Well, what if IT left Derry to get to Stan? The murders had stopped for about a week when they're all in the Jade of the Orient. Plenty of time for IT to cross from Maine to Georgia. Side Note: We KNOW IT leaevs Maine to elsewhere in the world because of King's extended universe all interconnecting. it's not far off at all to make the claim that IT is the same evil that haunts, say The Shining's Overlook Hotel, which is in Colarado.

- IT is omnipresent This is also a given, IT lives everywhere, and can fuck with time and space in godlike (or maybe eldritch like) ways. in IT: Chapter Two, when Mike claims "IT Doesn't know I know what I know" he's unfortunately wrong, because we know that IT can be in A) Multiple places at once, B) can manipulate anything on the drop of a hat (See: Stan being teleported away from everyone else in Chapter One, Everything about Neibolt, etc) and C) Knows everyone's deep fears. This is further proven by IT Saying things like "Beep Beep Richie" (although this is Horribly Horribly executed in the films, ugh.) and so on and so forth. On top of all of this, We can make the claim that IT can exist outside of Time as well, given that IT is immortal. SO, what's stopping IT from Knowing Mike was going to call them all back (Espically considering that IT TOLD Mike to do this?). Even if we keep IT's omnipresence to the location that IT inhabits (in this case Derry) IT would still have knowledge of where the losers are through Mike. And if you take the Lucky Seven/Chosen Seven route (oh my god I got theories on that too) you could argue IT knows where they are inherently due to their cosmic status.

- Stan is the "most Powerful" loser So, obviously all the Loser's are powerful, espically considering they're the ones who Defeat IT (Again going on to the Lucky/Chosen Seven theory). This next claim is going to be less focused on what the 2019/2017 Movies do because they are Bad Movies and that's a whole other rant. However, in the book, Stan is (to my knowledge feel free to correct me on any of this) the only loser to Actively ward off and 'defeat' IT on his own without running away. He uses his belief in this what is Real (birds) to ward off what is "not real" (IT). The other losers do manage to take down IT in their own Right, but Stan is ultimately the one to Really get IT. This is because Stan's character revolves around Belief and Willpower. These are, in some form or another, the ways to Defeat IT. the ritual of Chud is a battle of Wills. in the book, Bill takes IT down and Eddie does the final blow. In the Remake (ugh) the losers can defeat it Technically using the belief that IT isn't as powerful as it claims because IT's "just a clown" (Ihatethatfuckingendingsomuchugh). Stan being much more skeptical than the rest of the group in his ability to understand Reality vs IT's illusions is a powermove, and IT knows that ability doesn't go away as Stan grows up, but rather he gets more powerful. Stan is the Only loser out of the 6 who left that has any sort of knowledge about IT, where the other losers have nothing. Bev has nightmares, yes, but she still forgets them. We're told in his chapter (Chapter 3, Six Phone Calls (1985), Part One: Stanley Uris Takes a Bath) that he has some hazy knowledge of his place in the Lucky Seven, and even goes so far as to MENTION it sometimes, even if he doesn't quite remember or understand any of it, his knowledge of IT and Derry is worlds more prominent than that of the rest of the losers.

(page 52 of IT: "Stanley, nothing's wrong with your life!" "I don't mean from inside." he said. "From inside is fine. I'm talking about outside. Something that should be over and isn't. I wake up frmo these dreams and think, 'My whole pleasent life has been nothing but the eye of some storm I don't understand.' I'm afraid. But then it just... fades. The way dreams do." OR page 45: He had been smiling a little. Now the smile faltered, and for a moment he seemed puzzled. His eyes had darkened, as if he looked inward, consulting some interior device which ticked and whirred correctly but which, ultimately he understood no more than the average man understands the workings of the watch on his wrist. "The turtle couldn't help us," he said suddenly. he said that quite clearly.)

So, Stan has some cosmic knowledge of IT and Maturin and his role in the battle against It. What does any of this have to do with his death? Well, let me point out some other things about Stan's death that always stuck out to me. - His death chapter is narrated by his wife, Patty, rather than himself. The other chapters - almost all the other chapters - are narrated by their respective Loser (the caviot for this is Ben, but Ben is also wasted out of his damn mind so its understandable.) - Stan's personality is few and far between in the book, but we know he has a weird little sense of humour and that he's incredibly logical. I think that this logical part of him would be able to understand that Suicide is Never Ever the answer, and that it would cause FAR more problems than it would solve. (the 2019 movie tries to reexplain his death and it's crap and i hate the letters i hate the letters so much im gonna explode) The other losers try to rationalize his death by saying "He would rather Die Clean than Live Dirty (Page 506, Chapter 10, The Reunion, part 3, 'Ben Hanscom Gets Skinny') but he had already BEEN Dirty when he defeated IT the first time, and I think he would've recognized that. - upon finding him, Patty (in her narration) notes that Stan's head is bent back over the edge of the bathtub, so from his sight she would have been upside down. If Stan DID kill himself, why would he be positioned like that? It's unnatural, like someone Posed him. - the cuts on his arms are two length wise cuts. I'm no expert but.. that's suspicious. That's weird. - IT is written in blood on the wall. Why? Why would Stan right THAT of all things? You know who DOES like to paint with blood? IT.

Alright, returning to my thesis statement, Stanley Uris was murdered. Do I think Stan genuinely was going to take a bath at 7pm (which we're told is weird for him)? Yes. I think that's absolutely a thing he could have done or planned to do. Do I think he slit his wrists and commited suicide so he wouldn't go back to Derry? No. Not even remotely.

Let me paint a New Picture.

It's May 28th, 2016, or 1985. Stanley Uris gets a call from Mike Hanlon. Stan is incredibly hesitant to go to, and says he needs time to think about it. Or tht he'll try. He can feel the starts of a Panic attack, and as he's remembering the circles of Hell he went through as a child, he tries to hold himself together. He doesn't want his darling wife to see his break, so he says "I think I'll take a bath" and nothing else before going upstairs. he hides in the bathroom. He closes and locks the door, because, well, he's panicking. Locking doors is one of The Small things he does. Is it usually the bathroom door? no, but still (OCD is a bitch, and even with medication, but this is a special case). He looks in the mirror and tries to breathe. This is fine. He can do this. They killed IT once before and they can do it again. He thinks about his younger self, the promises made, and how he could explain all of this Patty in time to catch a flight to Maine. It's terrifying, but if his friends are going to bite the dust, he wants to be there with them, wedding vows be Damned. Then he looks at his reflection again. A younger, rotted version of himself stares back at him. IT crawls through the mirror. Stan freaks out, obviously. This isn't real. This Can't be real. But IT utilizes this notion against him. It digs it's claws into his arms, and forces him to bleed out in the bathtub. IT then sets the scene nicely. Razorblades on the counter, a bloody signature on the wall, a horrible posture of Stan's neck. So on and So forth. and then IT returns to Derry. IT's a little weak, yeah, but Stan is dead. That's what matters. the Lucky Seven has now Officially broken, and the balance shifts in favour of the clown.

So that's the theory. feel free to correct me on anything or engage I have plenty of theories on this story and I like discussing this stuff :).

#anyways #Stan #stanley uris #Stan uris #mine #Murder Theory #honktheory #thats a tag now I gues ??#pw #analysis #meta

261 notes · View notes

sokodraws · 3 years

Photo

Crying. Why was he crying?

ye, infelix doesn’t cope well with his past, it haunts him so to say

he’s one of my more broken characters

full story under ‘read more’

PAST LIFE

(witten as a comission by the amazing @/tomokoseph on twitter)

Infelix had the flat all to himself. It wasn’t a first for him—far from it, he’d say—but it was still a rarity. Not only that, but he had a week without any of the others running about; it was a far cry from the two days at most he’d spent alone. And how did this begin? A modeling gig? It was only the third day of his isolation, and he already wasn’t sure. Though even if the memory had become a haze, he could still find necessary details.

It all began as a long conversation on a rainy afternoon. With a sudden text letting Dorcha and Flora know they’d been selected for a bigger modeling job, they gained congratulations, only to surprise the rest with how long they would be gone. Misha would join the pair—it seemed everyone expected that—and after that, it felt like everyone wanted to join along. Diopetes seemed more than eager to join the newly created trio. After contemplation, Mire decided he didn’t want to be left out of this team of sorts and tagged along even if the whole thing was of no interest to him.

And then there was one. But even with all of the others’ pestering, metaphorically and literally tugging on Infelix’s arm so he could go out farther than the city for once, he wouldn’t budge. As far as he was concerned, someone had to look after the apartment (a lame excuse). Admittedly, he was surprised that everyone let him get left behind, but he wasn’t complaining.

Infelix didn’t do much throughout the days, savoring the time to himself that slowly counted down to the group’s return. It’s not that he hated their presence, but sometimes the constant conversations became overbearing, and silence only came about in the dead of night. Hell, the more he thought about it, he should have gone along to make sure no one got in trouble. And yet, out of his volition, he let them go without a peep. Considering they were all used to their human vessels, nothing too wild could stem from one week unsupervised. Hopefully.

Now, on the third day, he could admit he was getting used to this mundane routine of his. It began to grow on him, even turning into a comfort he never thought he’d ever experience. To know it would disappear within a few days didn’t click yet, so it felt like paradise being able to stay anywhere he wanted without anything to interrupt his train of thought. With that, he decided to do something he hadn’t in a while: listen to music.

After laying on the couch for what felt like hours, he stood up and walked towards their old, small shelf. While it remained empty for a while, Flora insisted they decorate at least a little. That’s what ended up with them owning a few potted plants, books they’ve never read, and a used record player that came with a collection of vinyl records. Pulling the record player out of the top shelf along with a random record, he walked towards the couch, having to place it on the ground to plug it in. After a bit of fumbling around, the record was in its place, and the needle set down and slowly bringing it to life. He then stared down at the album he had picked out. Brahms? Not a bad choice. As the sounds of Piano Concerto No. 1 filled the room, a thought came to Infelix’s mind: I need a drink.

After a quick jog to the kitchen and rummaging through the shelves, he pulled out an ornate bottle of whiskey that he didn’t touch too often. It was on the more expensive side—one he doubted anyone could drink regularly with its price—so he saved it for special occasions. Well, special wasn’t exactly the right term, but it felt most appropriate to how he felt then. Taking a glass one shelf down from the alcohol, he walked back to the living room, falling back onto the couch as he poured himself some whiskey.

Taking a sip as he placed the bottle onto the coffee table before him, Infelix let out a sigh as the strong drink slid down his throat. As the intense playings of a piano that graced his ears died down, transforming into soft strings, he stared at the wall, his previous thoughts washing out of his mind into nothingness. As he relaxed further into the couch, taking a bigger swig of his drink, he wondered what would have happened if he had Dorcha and Flora’s lives. What was it like running about in pretty clothes, getting pictures taken and blown up for others to see, feeling somewhat significant in this anomaly of a universe?

Then, he paused. Once, he felt like someone of significance, somewhere in a land from long ago.

Deadramel.

No, he hadn’t forgotten about the realm. It would always be lingering in the back of his mind, still waiting to come to the forefront. After getting used to human years, that moment in time felt like an old memory, though it had only been a little over a decade since then. As he took another sip of his drink, he realized he was running dry, leaning forward to pour himself a little more.

Infelix remembered how everyone treated him before, becoming an important demon to all who knew him. But he just had to ruin it all, following along with Mire and Dorcha’s plans of killing the King, turning into a traitor to all in a single day despite centuries of trust. Even then, he didn’t blame the pair more than himself; why did he let such a plan go through? Grimacing, he drank down more whiskey, finding that it went down smoother the more his thoughts ran.

Before this, Infelix lived a far better life. He lived with prestige, was respected by all, second only to the King. All that he needed was at his disposal, and any commands met in moments. And even before his lavish life within castle grounds, merely roaming the wasteland Deadramel used to be, there was still one thing he had that couldn’t compare to anything else in the world: the King’s love.

But that was long ago. Now all Infelix had was this lackluster flat, surrounded by the ones he could have stopped, living a life where he felt he was rotting away. He felt like a hollow shell of the demon he once was, and the thought made his head throb in a way he rarely felt. By then, the music had disappeared into the background, barely heard by the never-ending words that rushed through his mind. They mocked what he had turned into, about how he’d never get back his past life no matter how he tried. No more Deadramel, no more of the other demons he cared for, no more of the King; all of these were memories he could visit, but all they’d do was bring him pain and suffering.

Staring down at his glass, at the drops of golden alcohol that sat at the bottom, it didn’t seem like enough. Placing the glass down, ignoring how it hit the table with a thud hard enough to break it, his eyes met with the whiskey bottle. It was still three-fourths full and, while he was unsure if it was even a right decision, all semblance of rationality had disappeared from him. In one quick movement, the bottle was in his hands, and he drank as much as his body would let him.

By the time he’d taken more than he could, pulling the bottle away with force, his vision had gone so hazy that he swore he wouldn’t move from the couch. But his instincts had other plans, forcing him out of his seat and roaming the room, pacing around with desperation. Despite the dull thud that made his head ache, he still needed more, craved more to muddle the thoughts that overcame him. Rushing about the room with the whiskey still in hand, he’d soon find his answer hidden deep within one of almost untouched drawers they had full of medicine, just by the bedroom door on the lowest row. Dropping onto his knees, he felt his headache only grow worse, but he merely shook it off as memories of the past jumbled together with the pain.

Infelix put his bottle down onto the ground before pulling the drawer open. He pushed aside any medicine he knew wouldn’t help, instead reaching for the small, bright yellow bottles near the back. All were still full to the brim, but with labels that had faded enough to be left unread. He didn’t remember what any of them did or even who they belonged to, but he didn’t care.

With hurried hands, he screwed the lid off of one, gulping at the sight of pills right in front of him. As far as he was concerned, this was what could help him forget, maybe take him out if luck was on his side, and he tilted his head back as he dropped them all into his mouth.

Some fell onto the floor, but that was the least of his concerns. With a mouthful of pills, he forced them down with whiskey that he drank down with desperation. After placing the bottle down, eyes staring at the other medicine that sat before him, he reached for another. He repeated what he’d done, over and over, too many times to count, but soon found out he was out of alcohol. Clambering up to get more, he stopped himself dead in his tracks, a memory slipping through the cracks.

Deadramel, still a wasteland, no one else but one in sight.

The King’s voice.

“No, no, that’s not right.”

Infelix nodded slowly, though still seemed confused by the magic he was supposed to mimic. When they found themselves in areas too dark to see, he would always rely on the King to lead the way, bringing about light as bright as stars that peeked through the night. But the King told him that it couldn’t continue this way forever, and Infelix would have to learn the skills that he had honed. Although surprised at first, Infelix accepted but wasn’t too sure how well this ordeal would pan out.

“Is it not?” Infelix asked, a limb extended from his shapeless form.

“No. Why don’t you follow after me, hm?” The King outstretched a limb as well. For a moment, there seemed to be no sign of struggle at all, the faint aura of magic swirling around him, soon manifesting as a ball that glowed in his palm. “Don’t push yourself too hard, and it will come, I promise you.”

Infelix, still in shock at how effortlessly the King created light, wondered if he could ever reach such a sheer amount of skill. Now flustered as he felt the need to push himself, he strained his mind to create something in his hands, feeling the King’s gaze on him for every second that passed. With a mixture of motivation to do as the King pleased and shame at the lack of prowess he had at magic, a semblance of results would soon yield.

At first, what had appeared were simple sparks, though even the small display had the King let out a gasp. The reaction had Infelix wanting to push for more, but his next few attempts only gave the same results each time. Though Infelix was on the verge of giving up, the King stood beside him, seeming unbothered by the failed attempts. Instead, the King repeated as he had done before, and all Infelix could do was watch in awe, then caught off guard as he felt a sensation tingling in his palm. Looking ahead towards his palm, his concentration suddenly increased tenfold, and it seemed all magic he had transferred right into his hand. Before his mind could even process what was happening, the same ball of light the King had suddenly manifested before him.

To say shock and awe ran through Infelix’s body was an understatement. He brought the orb closer towards his face, squinting down at its brightness, in disbelief that he could create such a thing. Yet any confusion would cease as the King suddenly drew near, beaming at Infelix, seeming prouder than ever. The sight of this had Infelix feeling lighter than air, much more pleased by his abilities in a matter of moments.

“It’s not that hard, is it?” the King asked, tone joking. “I’m proud of you, Infelix. You truly do have the potential to harness great magic.”

The statement had the already elated Infelix feel joy that overtook his whole thoughts, his entire body. To be praised by the man that cared for him was divine, an experience incomparable, and he doubted even the grandest occurrences that could happen in his life would compare to this small moment he shared with the King.

And nothing ever did.

Despite all the alcohol that filled his stomach, pills floating amongst the liquid within, the memory was as clear as day. It was as if it had occurred all over again, and the thought made Infelix pause, staring down at the ground as he couldn’t quite process it no matter how he tried. Why then? Why now? For him, it all didn’t make sense, and the dull throb in his head only grew worse.

Subsequently, tears dripped onto the ground, and it took a moment before Infelix could realize what was happening. A heaviness settled itself into his chest without warning, a light tremble over his body following, and tears continued to slip past him even if he wanted to stop them. Crying. Why was he crying? In all that had occurred in his life, tears never fell, only dread filling him in the worst of times. Perhaps his humanness was catching up with him, and he couldn’t help but groan in frustration as he let emotion overwhelm him.

The past would never return, his greatness only existing as fragments in his mind. No, all he had now were Dorcha and Mire, the pair only serving as a reminder of the mistakes he made in the past, a pair he had to take care of no matter what. But by then, Infelix didn’t even know if he could continue being the pair's carer. In a sense, he wanted to do all he could for them, but it was as if his body had given up.

Infelix was at a loss for what to do, all he had consumed unable to hinder such extreme emotion. It was as if hundreds of years of exhaustion finally manifested into his human vessel, and he felt utterly useless. Unlike before, the conditions of his life were against him. By then, he couldn’t name a single good thing that had happened in years. He was nothing. A failure—

He needed another drink.

And another.

More pills.

Before he knew it, Infelix passed out, slumped against the wall as he dropped a bottle of whiskey in his hands, knocking over other bottles he’d had strewn across the floor.

#infelix #my design #the cursed universe #oc #oc backstory #digital art #backstory

111 notes · View notes

say-the-name-sebongie · 3 years

Text

Complicated

Synopsis: Mingyu is a demon prince and came to earth to watch another world war that was caused by the demon king to honor his inheritance to the throne in the underworld (as all his predecessors had done by tradition). It was going great until he met a female soldier at one of the military camps made him kinda not want to be a demon anymore.

Pairing: Mingyu x fem!reader

Genre: angst, kinda dystopianAU!

Warnings: war, guns, mentions of death,

Word Count: 1.3k words

Crickets chirped on a bunch of trees to her left as she walked back to the barracks. Why she was always assigned for night patrol, _____ didn't know. Her hard-military boots didn't make the walk back to the barracks any easier but she knew she had to hurry if she wanted to make it to shelter before the bombing started again.

Gritting her teeth, she gave one last spurt towards the dark building where a single lightbulb was the only thing that was providing any light. All other lights were already turned off, signifying that everyone else had turned in for the night. But sitting under the light was Mingyu. The man was twirling his service pistol— which would have been tremendously dangerous if he were not a trained soldier— with his finger inside the trigger guard. A combat shotgun was propped against the wall behind him.

Mingyu was this really tall guy who wouldn't disclose anything about his past. Where he came from, his age, his last name, what he used to do for a living before getting dispatched as an emergency recruit, nothing. All he would say was that his dad was really rich and that going to the military and fighting in this war was the only thing that would ensure that he would get all of daddy's riches when the time came.

_____ didn't know why his father would make him join the army as a private, especially in the middle of an ongoing war. If Mingyu was really as rich as he said he was then he would have been able to snag himself a higher position instead of groveling with her in the lower ranks. And if his father wanted to have an heir, he wouldn’t sent said heir off to a war where he could die at any time. But here he was, sitting under the lightbulb of one of the barracks where the privates slept, probably assigned there by their Sergeant Major to guard in case of a surprise attack or to receive emergency orders.

Mingyu stood up as she came closer, offering to her the chair he was sitting on. _____ gratefully took the seat and sighed in relief when the pressure of her weight was removed from her sore feet. She took off her shoes and propped her swollen feet up on the wall beside the combat shotgun. "Now this is the life," she muttered, smiling warmly at Mingyu. "You're not getting this chair back anytime soon, Gyu."

The boy laughed. This girl really was something. Unlike all the other girls he had heard of, she was different. Not that he had heard of or met a lot of other girls. He sat down on the wooden floor and stared at her. Her hair was sticking out several places and her face was bare. The camouflage makeup that was required of them whenever they went for patrol by the borders looked as if it was hastily wiped away. Spots of it still hung on her skin. But nonetheless, he found her beautiful.

He hadn’t seen a lot of beautiful things before. Being the son and only heir to his father's throne in the Underworld, Mingyu was used to ugly and cold. His home was full of it. He had grown up in the obsidian castle his ancestors had built, learning about what his future of ruling the Underworld would be like. It was normal to see gargoyles flying as soon as he woke up or walking past rotting zombies and skeletons on the road. Those two words basically summarized that: ugly and cold. Never in his life (or what he called his life) did he think that there was anything else aside from that.

Yet here it was, sitting on a chair with her feet up on the wall, the epitome of beauty and warmth.

He tore his eyes away from _____ and gazed out at the forest that surrounded the base. A deep orange light was shining in the distance where a city was probably being burned down. His last conversation with his father replayed itself in his mind.

"A celebration?" Mingyu scratched his head in confusion. Such a word wasn't heard in the Underworld, at least not regularly. "What for?"

The Demon King laughed and patted his son on the back. "Why to celebrate your heirship, of course." He turned Mingyu around and gestured at the land around them, at the dead roaming around jagged rocks studded with jewels and rivers glowing dimly in different colors against the dark sky. “We will fill up the Upper world with lights and shouts in your honor."

Back then, hearing that filled Mingyu with anticipation. He had never had a celebration just for him, let alone a celebration arranged for him by his very own father. But apparently, the lights his father meant were fires of burning cities and shouts were equivalent to screams of pain and fear. The celebration of his inheritance had come to Earth in the form of war.

Mingyu would have been happy with all this if he hadn't requested to see the celebration himself and met _____ in the process. He had disguised himself as a human soldier and blended in with a group of other soldiers. Her strong cheerful voice was the first thing that greeted him when he boarded the truck. She was one of the talkative ones. Helping keep order among the first time soldiers that had been recruited from the provinces near town.

_____ showed him something he had never seen before. She cheered up the other soldiers that were depressed about going to war, telling them that they would be able to come back home to their families once it was all over. She was always the first person to place a flower on the graves of fallen soldiers.

He had fallen in love with her. Sure, a demon could fall in love. But a demon falling in love with a human? That was highly unheard of.

To his luck— or misfortune— _____ liked him as well. "We just have to wait for this war to be over," she told him one night when they were on patrol together. "Then we can get married and live happily ever after."

At one of their makeshift funerals for their comrades, Mingyu realized that one of the funerals that he attended in the future could be hers. They were in a war, any one of them could be dead by the time night came. The thought of her dying scared him.

He should’ve left when they first came to get him but he was so scared of what might happen to _____ if he weren’t there. So, he made up excuses when his father's minions had come to bring him back home. He couldn’t remember what excuses he had come up with but as long as it got him to stay by her side for longer, it didn’t matter to him.

Mingyu knew that there was no way to stop this war but he wanted nothing more than to be with her. He hadn’t known of the power of love. He wanted to stay with her and throw away the throne he had inherited along with all the powers and riches that came with it without a second thought.

But he knew his father wouldn't allow it. The Demon King could find him and bring him back to rule, that was the reason Mingyu was born and that was what the king expected him to do. He knew how far his father was willing to go. If he had to kill _____ in the process then, so be it.

"Earth to Mingyu, any signal there?"

_____'s voice brought him back from his thoughts. He looked up at her, the smile on her face brighter than the light that shone above them. The girl combed her hands through his locks, Mingyu's eyes closing at the pleasurable feeling. "What are you thinking about."

"Us."

She cocked her head to the side, confused. "I thought we had already gone through this. You said you loved me and wanted to stay with me."

"That's right." Mingyu agreed.

"Then what's the problem?"

"Everything," he said sadly, taking her hand and lacing his fingers with hers.

"I want to be with you. It’s as simple and as complicated as that."

#seventeen #caratwritersclub #svt #mingyu #kim mingyu #seventeen scenarios #seventeen oneshots #seventeen imagines #seventeen fanfic #im just #so happy everything has been cleared #caratland is finally happy again!#though this fic isnt really that happy #but i am #angst

60 notes · View notes

darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 4 years

Text

After

Warnings: noncon sex and some violence; blood.

This is dark!Thor and explicit. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: After the world fell into desolation, the Avengers split into factions. You are a medic in Thor’s settlement and find yourself called on to tend to a prisoner.

Note: This is pretty brutal so that’s a heads up right there in case you missed the warning above. Remember y’all, be safe, be healthy, take care of yourselves first. I’m always here for you, even if we never or rarely talk.

Hope you enjoy it. Thank you. Love you guys!

Please leave some feedback, like and reblog <3

You weren’t supposed to be up on the third floor. Half the ceiling was on the floor and a tree branch littered the floor along with a scatter of debris. It was like a microcosm of what the world had become; broken and bleak.

From there you could see the gate but not much further. You watched the lookouts as they roused from their listless vigils and called to each other. The party was back and they were in a hurry. Trouble.

The Prince, the second-in-command, had been gone for two weeks. Scavenging, they said, but the settlement already had a stockpile of most of the goods to be found in the area. And the fields were healthy; much better than last year’s harvest.

No one ever commented how the ‘scavengers’ returned with more weapons than they left with and a piece of two of clothing that didn’t belong to them. No one said anything because those who did ended up on the other side of the gates. It was better to live among the wolves than to be a part of the herd preyed upon.

You sighed and backed away from the gaping hole in the side of the medical center. You’d have to go back down, there would be work to do. You stopped as the gates opened. Something was different.

You stepped back up to the open wall and squinted across the distance. There were only three jeeps that drove through; they’d left with four.

The Prince, Loki, climbed out. He was the only clean-shaven man in the settlement. He spoke briefly with the guard, Isaiah, then got back in the jeep stiffly. The trio of cars rumbled on and you backed away. Wounded, likely. You could tell easily by the way he moved.

You retreated and tramped heavily down the stairs. Doctor Coleman was still in surgery with Corette. A young girl had been rushed in with a bursting appendix. The other staff waded in and out of rooms with patients for the usual daily complaints; nothing too serious.

“Aleisha,” You stopped the head nurse of your fleet. Some had been nurses before and others had learned after out of necessity. Five years felt like more. “The prince has returned.”

“And?”

“Two weeks gone,” You said. “They will be coming here.”

“Alright,” She nodded and walked away.

You shook your head at her and went to the front doors. You propped them open as Owen bent over the desk that acted as triage and jotted in a folder.

“Any updates on Dr. Coleman?” You asked as you crossed your arms and kept an ear to the doors.

“We’re low on anesthetic. They gave the girl whiskey. She woke up.” Owen grumbled. “It might take all day.”

“Shit,” You huffed as you heard motors on the next street. “Well, get ready.”

“Where’s Aleisha?” He asked.

“Another smoke break? Maybe just running away from all this,” You shrugged. “Can’t really blame her but there isn’t enough tobacco around to form an addiction.”

The first jeep pulled up, the second, and the third barely puttered at the rear. The trunk of the last was thrown open and two men ambled out with bloody rags around their arms. They helped another who was barely conscious and you waved to Owen.

“Front doors!” He yelled down the hall before he rushed out past you.

You went to follow him and the passenger side of the first jeep opened. You glanced back as several nurses appeared and the second car began to unload.

“Your doctor,” The prince held onto the door as he kept it open only a few inches.

“In surgery,” You said. “We can deal with this.”

“I don’t care about this,” He hissed as he rolled his eyes. “I need him to come with me.”

“It will be at least a couple hours.” You tried to step past him and he shot his foot out to trip you up. You stopped just before your feet tangled with his leg. “If it’s nothing serious--”

“Fine, you.” He said impatiently. “So long as you know how to use a needle, I suppose it’ll do.”

“Me, I… Aleisha is our--”

“Come on, I haven’t all day,” He growled. “Get in the back.” You stared at him dumbly. “Now.”

“I’ll need a kit,” You said.

“Don’t bother,” He sneered. “Get in.”

You looked around at the chaos of bodies and reached for the door. The Prince slammed the front one and you pulled the back open. You got in and closed the door.

You didn’t like it. Coleman was the only medical personnel permitted to see the king and his brother. The doctor said it was for the good of everyone.

You winced as you looked over to the passenger beside you. A man, barely, maybe eighteen or nineteen. He was thin and his reddish brown hair clung to his forehead. He was bound and slumped against the door. A stained cloth filled his mouth and a gash ran across his shoulder blade. You blanched and reached over to touch the dry blood.

“What happened to him?” You asked.

“His own fault,” The Prince said. “No more questions.”

You exhaled and drew away from the boy. You had nothing to help him but a pen in your front pocket and the knife clipped at your waist.

The jeep pulled up to the building they called the Palace. It used to be a bank and was one of the only buildings left untouched. You climbed out as the rest did and the man in the driver’s seat pulled the boy out with a grunt.

You were ushered to the doors and searched by the guards, ever-present on their watch. They took your knife but left you your pen. You followed behind Loki, his companion, and the injured boy. The latter was slung over the driver’s shoulder as you ascended the stairs and his pained groans echoed around you.

The door fell heavy behind you and you were led to a room. Loki muttered as he entered and directed his companion to set the boy down. You stood by the door.

“Go get my brother,” Loki ordered. “You,” He pointed at you, “See to the boy.”

“With what?” You asked as the other man left and the door snapped shut behind him.

Loki turned and opened a tall cabinet. He winced as he turned back with a tin chest in his hands. He dropped it beside the chair the boy slumped on. You neared as he traipsed away and knelt to open the kit.

“What’s your name?” You asked the wounded boy.

He stared at you a moment and reached to his shoulder. “Peter,” He grunted.

“No talking,” Loki fell onto the couch heavily and held in a groan. “Just sew him up.”

You pulled on a pair of gloves from the bottom of the chest and stood. You nudged the boy so that he sat forward and pulled apart his shirt, ripping it to expose his shoulder entirely. You bent to grab some gauze and the bottle of peroxide.

“How did this happen?” You asked quietly.

“What did I say about talking?” Loki snarled.

“I need to know if I should be looking for shrapnel,” You rebuffed.

He glanced over at your sharply and waved you away.

“I fell. Caught it on the edge of a wooden platform.” The boy explained as his hands formed fists.

“I’ll have to make sure there aren’t any slivers,” You warned as you wiped away the dried blood.

“Do what you gotta,” He kept his head down. “Doesn’t matter much.”

You were quiet at that. You knew what he wasn’t saying. It didn’t matter if he wasn’t going to leave here alive. The door opened as you tossed away a square of gauze and grabbed another.

“Brother!” The King, Thor, entered with a theatrical swish of his crimson cape. The swath of red was the reason for his nickname, well, aside from his insistence. “I was certain you’d lost yourself out there.”

The door shut loudly behind him as Loki shifted on the couch. He touched his hip as he struggled to sit straight. The King combed back his thick blond hair as the beads in his beard gave a subtle jangle as the brushed together.

“Lost? No, no, I found something… someone most valuable,” Loki smirked and peered over at Peter.

Thor turned and you kept your eyes on your work. He looked over the boy and hovered at the edge of your vision.

“You ran into Stark’s men?” Thor said grimly.

“Some of them. They were getting awfully friendly with the Rogers clan.” Loki replied. “A precarious but dangerous alliance, wouldn’t you say?”

There was silence as you fished for your tweezers to dislodged a long sliver of wood. Peter yiped as you poked the metal into his torn flesh. You apologized under your breath and he nodded as he clamped his lips shut.

“I am sorry it has come to this,” Thor neared and pulled up another chair. He sat just on the other side of you as you tended to Peter. “I always did favour you.”

“Sure,” Peter scoffed. “You know, it’s not so easy to pretend to be decent these days.”

“Mercy is a form of decency,” Thor said coolly. “My brother did spare you.”

“And killed the rest. If I was anyone else, I’d be dead.”

“But you’re not,” Thor insisted.

You threaded the curved needle as you tried to fade into the tense air. You stood and focused on aligning it’s point. You pressed it to Peter’s flesh and he inhaled as if to acknowledge you. You pushed the metal through his skin and he gripped his knee.

“Or I could send the medic away. Let that rot,” Thor ventured. “I could do worse than this.”

“Like you did to Clint?” Peter rasped and slapped his leg as you continued.

“The only mistake there was that Clint could not tell you all why I did it,” Thor sneered. “I am not cruel without reason.”

“Heh, sure. Whatever helps you look in the mirror.” Peter grumbled.

You tied up the last stitch and wiped the needle clean. You placed a patch of cotton over the cut and taped it down carefully. You packed up slowly. You thought of the limited supplies at the medical centre. You doubted this was the only treasure chest at the Palace.

You took off your gloves as you stood, the chest still open. You looked at Loki expectantly.

“Well, what do you want?” He snarled. “If you’re done, go.”

“Am I?” You asked calmly.

“What- You--”

“Your lower back. Or that’s what seems to be bothering you.” You said.

“Might be the perpetual stick up his ass,” Thor chuckled.

Loki inhaled deeply and winced. He shook his head and slid forward on the couch.

“Since you’re here.” He curled his fingers in a gesture for you to approach. “Be quick about it.”

You bent and lifted the chest. It was heavy. You set it by the couch and sat on the edge as he turned away from you. You lifted his thick jacket and the shirt beneath. A clean slice; it shouldn’t be causing too much pain, especially for him.

“Hmm,” You cleaned the cut and grabbed the largest band-aid from the smaller box. “Should heal on its own.”

“Told you.” Thor stood. “Stick. Ass. You don’t happen to know how to get it out?”

“Oh, quiet, you arse,” Loki hissed.

You shoved the wrapper in your pocket as you clasped the chest shut and stood.

“Castor oil is a natural laxative,” You offered. “But there’s not much to be had these days.”

Thor boomed with laughter and Loki straightened up with a pained breath.

“Just go,” Loki said.

“I’ll show you out,” Thor backed away and turned to open the door.

“Heimdall can--” Loki began.

“Nonsense, he’s busy.” Thor held the door and motioned you through. “I won’t be long. I am certain you can handle the boy on your own.”

You stepped out into the hall, eager to be away from both brothers. It wasn’t any secret that they had their differences, even with the state of things. Thor pulled the door closed behind him and nodded you along. He came up beside you, close enough that his cape swept against your shoulder.

“You work down at the medical center?” He asked.

“Mhmm,” You answered. It was more than obvious.

“You like it?” He peeked over at you out of the corner of his eye.

“People don’t really do what they like these days,” You said. “It’s gotta be done so I do it.”

“True, not all of us have the luxury of indulging in our desires,” He spun and stepped in front of you as you reached the door to the stairwell. “But some of us get to.”

You frowned as the air caught in your chest. He couldn’t mean…

“I have to get back. They’ll need me--”

“They can spare you for a while,” He leaned back against the door and crossed his arms. “How’d you end up here?”

“What?” You blinked.

“Stark, Rogers, Romanoff…” He said. “How did you end up in this camp?”

“Most of us didn’t choose.” You shrugged. “Before this was a camp, I was just trying to help injured people and that’s all I do now.”

“I like watching those hands of yours. So deft, quick,” He pushed himself away from the door and pulled his cape straight. “I’ve an ailment myself I’ve been seeking relief for but you see, Doctor Coleman hasn’t the cure.”

You narrowed your eyes and took a step back. His blue eyes seemed to light up as he advanced.

“Okay…” You uttered as you continued your slow retreat.

“You see, this world is lonely and I’ve yet to find any comfort for that. Anything… effective.” His footsteps kept a steady pace as he closed in. “You think you could help me--”

You turned and raced back down the hall. There was another stairwell at the opposite end, if you could reach it, you might just--

He caught you swiftly. He grabbed the back of your shirt and wrenched you back so that you nearly fell on your ass. He turned and flung you so that you hit the wall. The impact knocked the wind out of you.

You wheezed and struggled to stay upright as you turned back to him. You kicked out and he caught your foot. He pulled it up so that your other leg flew out from under you and your back hit the wall as you fell to the floor.

You coughed and turned onto your stomach as you lifted yourself onto your elbows. You crawled away from him, gasping for air, searching for the strength to stand.

His boot came down between your shoulder blades and he pushed you down onto your chest. The man who’d driven with Loki emerged from a door at the end of the hall. You looked up at him desperately.

“Loki is in his chamber,” Thor said gruffly as he leaned his weight on you. “Tell him I won’t be long.”

The man disappeared and Thor pushed down until you slapped the floor desperately.

“You know,” He moved his foot so that his boots were on either side of you. “I’ve had women offer themselves for a loaf of bread and often nothing at all. Boring.”

You tried to lift yourself and he lowered himself to his knees to straddle you. He grabbed your shoulders and forced you entirely to your stomach.

“You come here a little later and these halls are… rampant with women. Money, that’s nothing. There are new commodities to be traded; fuel, food, flesh.”

“Stop, please,” You begged. “Please, I didn’t--”

“Oh, I know you didn’t do anything. Wouldn’t even look at me.” He rubbed your back as he wiggled his pelvis against you. “And when you did, there was no desperation, no hunger, no… reverence.”

His hands left your back and the red cape swept in front of you and piled on the floor. His fingers stretched over your hips and he squeezed.

“These women offer themselves because they know they owe me. For their safety, their lives. I had these walls built, I keep the generators going, and I keep worse fiends from sinking their fangs into you puny Midgardians.”

“I--I… Please.” You clawed at the floor.

“They’re so eager, so malleable, so… pathetic,” You wriggled beneath him as you kicked your legs. “And here you are, trapped, and you still try to get away. From what? I could give you a life easier than blood and bile.”

“Get… off!” You exclaimed as you tried to squirm out from beneath him.

“This is how this world works,” He lowered his voice as he leaned over you. He placed an arm across your shoulders as his other hand fumbled along the front of his pants. “You don’t ask, you take. And if you can’t take, you’re taken from.”

He sighed and his fingers hooked in the waist of your jeans. He tore them down, the button falling loose as he did. He ripped your panties down just as roughly and you felt his arousal rub against your ass.

“You can struggle, scream if you like but… if anyone hears you,” He guided his cock down your ass and rubbed against your cunt. “They’ll pretend they don’t.”

He forced himself inside of you and you cried out in pain. He impaled you to his limit and you gritted your teeth as his thick arm crushed your shoulders. He thrust so that your entire body jerked and your fingers buried in the heap of crimson fabric.

He sat back and planted a hand between your shoulders. He rocked atop you, groaning and growling as he did. You closed your eyes as the whimpers slipped from your lips. Every tilt of his hips was harder than the last. The clap of his flesh echoed down the hall and in your ears.

“I was wondering…” He panted in between ruts. “What that weaselly little doctor was hiding… from me.”

He pounded into you without pause. Your hips hit the hard floor painfully and you curled your arm around your head to hide your face. Your hot breath filled the space and mingled with the shame nestled in your cheeks.

His purrs rose to a growl and you felt as if your body would shatter. He lifted your hips as he plunged into you over and over. Your walls clenched around him and a warm gush flooded you.

Your head shot up as you tried once more to escape him.

“No…” You gasped.

“Shhh,” He jolted into you as he slowed. He stroked the back of your head and pushed it down to the floor. He bent over you and inhaled your scent. “It will be a king’s child.”

He slipped out of you and his cum leaked down your folds. He stood and let out a satisfied sigh.

“I have not given my seed to the others.” He said as he nudged you with his toe. “Clean yourself up, pet. My men have even less restraint than I.”

#thor #dark thor #dark!thor #post apocalypse #apocalypse au #au #one shot #thor x reader #dark thor x reader #dead dove do not eat #dark!thor x reader #dark fic #dark!fic #oneshot #loki #read the warnings

445 notes · View notes

gaawachan · 3 years

Text

Critical Role 126 Discord Convo

Here, my sibling and I talked a bit about Veth, Caleb, the Cerberus Assembly, and Astrid/Wulf in particular (it starts out a bit goofy at first but gets serious): Sibling: Did you see that animatic I sent you, speaking of that scene?

Me: Yes

Sibling: Like, it'd be great to update it with Astrid and Wulf in a mound just behind the 9

Me: Lol, they would have seen the polymorphed worm, too... And the yeti friends... "They... built snowmen in balenpost?"

Sibling: And had to camp out while they disappeared into the wizard tower... the Beau-shaped hole in Balenpost lol

Me: There was a jester one too

Sibling: LOL. Like, a snowman... a snowman with 2 heads

Me: and sad faces

Sibling: One kicked over snowman and two human-shaped holes in the snowbanks. But seriously, there's no way someone isn't aware that Vess is dead. Her window was open, letting the snow come in

Me: Oh, the assembly knows. At the very least, Ludinus, Trent, and the scourgers definitely know. Astrid "thanked" Caleb because she's assuming he killed her, or she wants that to be the case, at least.

Sibling: Veth is totally missing the point. The writing is on the wall, Astrid is using the shit out of Caleb and I think, at the very least it might be an interesting DQ6 moment where when they come back from saving the world, Astrid's already taken Trent's place and they have to deal with it that way.

Me: Yeah, it's very obvious, especially when you consider how Astrid and Caleb have similarities. Like... Astrid's panic attack in the alley reminded me of Caleb's breakdown in Shady Creek Run. Right after the manipulation is over and they're out of sight, they have a breakdown. Tbh... If Caleb were to replace anyone on the assembly, it shouldn't be Trent. It should be Ludinus. Ludinus is the root of the problems in the empire, pretty much everyone is certain at this point that that is the case. The king is evil but seems incompetent/useless.

Sibling: I wonder, honestly, if that'll be the conclusion to the M9? If Caleb's arc will conclude it?

Me: But at the same time I don't want him to be in the assembly; I don't think he WANTS to be.

Sibling: Rewatching the table scene *Veth: (to Wulf) "When the war was a bit more hot... Were you much more busy?" Wulf: "Not any more than yourselves." Veth: "No I mean, were you out on the lines like a soldier?" Wulf: "I'm not much of a frontliner... More of a scout, if you would."* Wulf is totally tailing them. Wulf is absolutely the person they sent after them, I'm certain of it.

Me: Yeah, I figured. There's going to be a confrontation in Eiselcross when they're traveling with Essek, I'm sure of it. That's gonna be rough.

Sibling: No, I know that, but it stuck out to me. I feel like Matt's dropping major hint bombs... ex vs current bf?

Me: I wonder if Essek has MET Wulf before.Sibling: I like Wulf more than Astrid.

Me: Me, too.

Sibling: I think I'll be sad if he gets gravity crushed, but he better not lay a finger... on my butterfinger.

Me: I mean, I feel bad for them both, but the problem is that they can't be trusted with power, and if the Assembly falls, they may try to seize power. Tbh I just don't see them surviving to the end and that's pretty sad.

Sibling: I could see Wulf being turned if the party spent more time on things, seeing as he seems to be more of a piece to be manipulated than a major player himself... but their focus is entirely on Trent and Astrid, which makes me think that he'll be canned.

Me: Actually, I'm not so sure about that Wulf thing. I think he may be harder to reach in some ways. See the thing is... Astrid wants power. That's understandable. But it's not clear if she wants power for necessarily nefarious purposes or if it's just that the life of poverty she led before coupled with how much she's lost drives her to reach for it, and it's not clear what would satisfy her or whether or not she'd be interested in taking her life in a different direction, so that's complicated.

Me: But with Wulf... Wulf's issues are simpler, which I think arguably makes him harder to reach. Wulf and Astrid have both basically shrugged off their parents' deaths at this point, they've both indicated as much in different ways, but Wulf's a servant of the Raven Queen. He can rationalize the death of anything and anyone under her banner. Unlike Astrid, who is motivated by power/ambition, Wulf is the holy soldier... of the death god. That's uh... zealotry.

Me: Worse still, he has religious motivations for going against those who use Dunamancy, which is likely an anathema to the Raven Queen. He was already following her when he was a teenager, because Caleb was looking to see if he had any symbols of her on him when they first reunited. Honestly I really don't think either of them can truly be reached unless Caleb DOES take over the assembly and even then they might do scummy stuff behind his back out of perceived necessity.

Sibling: If his motivations have been so tied up in his religion, it would make it very difficult to reach him, true. But Astrid seems to have invested so much into her ambitions that I wonder if she might try to quiet those talking her out of it. She seems very aware of her actions' consequences, unlike someone like Essek who had ambitions without understanding where his studies would take him. If they're left alive, which I don't think they will be, Caleb's best scenario would be to avoid the assembly as much as possible.

Me: Honestly at this point I feel like the entire government of the Empire needs to be cleared out and replaced, ideally by the Cobalt Soul. Though that would be very controversial, I don't think any other organization can be trusted with filling that vacuum. The Soul is ultimately an international religious organization, but considering they have shown willingness to weed out corruption within their own ranks, it would be interesting if they pooled their resources and had the Empire taken over by a circle of vetted monks instead of corrupt mages, and then have them transition to a democracy eventually.

Sibling: Considering that Matt has reinforced that the Cobalt Soul is attempting to weed out its own corruption, but can't seem to do so for other organizations... I wonder how long it would last. At least they wouldn't have to operate in secret anymore. Maybe that would lift their final restriction?

Me: Well, the thing that really chafes at me with respect to Caleb potentially joining the assembly is that he just DOESN'T FIT THERE. I've thought this before but Caleb would be more at home working for the Cobalt Soul than the Assembly. He's been talking about burning out the rot in the Empire for ages now, and that's basically the goals of the expositors. I wouldn't object to him being involved in the Empire's government... as long as that government did not consist of anything resembling the assembly. A complete restructuring.

Sibling: I mean, you can't really rework the gov unless you're already in a position like Ludinus, but even then, Caleb I still feel like is not the person for that.

Me: But let's be real, ideally he would be the head of the Soltryce Academy... and that's the thing... One of the problems with Wulf and Astrid is that you get the feel that they could rationalize doing anything. And you have to wonder under all that rationalization and manipulation if there is any malice/sadism... there probably is, which sucks because Astrid is actually far better positioned to be an effective politician than Caleb; she's had experience around it for over a decade, she probably knows politics very well. Caleb is earnest and an excellent negotiator but he is not a politician. He would be best off as an ambassador, if I had to pick a political position for him to take.

Sibling: The government does still need to be overthrown for Essek to come hang out with Caleb though, so it must be done.

Me: It must be done. Looping back to Veth/Astrid... Here are some of the posts on Veth's behavior that I've seen. *posts a bunch of links* It's interesting... the Astrid thing. I haven't seen anyone else point this out, but... Veth probably sees Astrid as being Caleb's Yeza. And if Caleb can go back to Astrid and be happy, it's like a test run for her going back to Yeza. Which is pretty messed up. He keeps telling her "Yes, I care for her, but we've both changed" and that's not something Veth wants to think about because it applies to her as well, except that... well, Yeza really hasn't changed. Just her.

Sibling: 1) Ah, skirting her trauma by attempting to address what she sees as Caleb's? Addressing her issues by proxy? Overbearing mom living vicariously through her son...? ... That kind of makes my stomach churn, but I get it. 2) Another revenge perspective. Considering her knee-jerk reaction to kill people who've wronged her family or the party, I think revenge is totally an aspect that has gone unexplored for her. 3) Eugh, the romance still squicks me out, but I understand. Nott was a different person to Veth, she probably had a hope out for returning to her form and going back to Yeza... But I wonder if she thought he wouldn't accept her, and she had Caleb as like... (ew) a backup?

Me: I mean, it's pretty well-established that she has a thing for Caleb. And yeah, her feelings for him are pretty fucked up because of their dynamic up to the point where they went to Felderwin. The CA did wrong her family, and so did Essek, and Veth is very much a vengeance-minded person in a far more straightforward way than Caleb. Most of the others have told Caleb that if he goes after the Assembly, it should be for the right reasons. Interestingly, Veth, Fjord, and Jester don't seem to agree exactly. Jester sees it as a sort of "why not both?" thing. Fjord seems to have no qualms with vengeance at all (unsurprising considering which parts of his past have not yet been resolved, and yet Fjord has never gotten shit for that like Caleb has, and Sabian has done far less harm/damage than Trent). But Veth? Veth sees vengeance as clearcut, something that ought to be pursued and then when it's done, it's done and she's satisfied. It's interesting that the person who Caleb was most attached to at the start of the campaign is also by far the most unhealthy influence on him in the group at this point.

Sibling: I think it's because Fjord hasn't been molded by Sabian. Sabian wronged him, but the more Fjord found out about himself, the less important that seemed. And the more they found out, the more you begin to call into question whether what he did was to get rid of Vandran, an unsavory figure or... something else? Not to mention, Sabian is insignificant, whereas Caleb's abuser is still abusing people to this day. I can see there are major differences between the consequences of either of their revenge quests.

Me: Yes, but that's precisely my point. Sabian is not hugely harmful in comparison to Trent, so it's interesting that people give Caleb shit for being motivated partially by revenge, while Fjord doesn't get any when that's basically his ONLY motivation for tracking down Sabian.

Sibling: Probably because Fjord might get a reason without killing Sabian. Caleb might be walking into a trap, laid out by his peers. I still am of the opinion that killing Trent is a net positive. Just the act of getting rid of him is necessary to stop the cycle. But what comes next is the most important part. Because if Trent is dead when they come back, and Astrid sits in his place... The perpetuation of this cycle won't come to a close.

Me: Yes. I mean, personally? His entire section of the Empire's government should be outright dissolved. It's absolutely revolting. The thing is that it's not just Trent that needs to go; it's his POSITION. That needs to not exist, and I don't see that ever happening so long as Ludinus exists as well. Edit: Well, you basically said what I meant in a different way, lol.

#critical role #critrole #critrole spoilers #critical role spoilers #episode 126 #caleb widogast #astrid beck #eadwulf #veth brenatto #nott the brave #trent ikithon #ludinus da'leth #essek thelyss #cerberus assembly #meta #fjord stone #thisconversationwasallovertheplacehowdoitagthis

33 notes · View notes

im-totally-not-an-alien · 4 years

Text

Final Fantasy prompts no 53

1. Cloud is immortal and has lived for tens of thousands of years. He has watched his friends and enemies get reincarnated over and over again. He would always interfere and save the day when things got bad, prompting legends and myths of a golden haired hero with glowing blue eyes who swore to return whenever the world was in peril.

But thats not the end.

He took great care to find his friends and keep an eye on them, watching over them as a guardian angel of sorts. When he came across Sephiroth again, he expected a battle, but seeing the dull eyes of a broken teenager staring up at him as he layed battered and bruised by his own parents? It made him realize that Sephiroth wasn't born evil.

The blond added Sephiroth to his list of people to protect.

Cloud often removed Sephiroth from the abusive households he was born into by exposing the parents for their crimes and harassing them as an anonymous individual.

Once the silverette was out of the home he would manipulate circumstances so that he would come to live with Zack or one of his other former friends.

Once he hit a certain age, he would find people Sephiroth was romantically compatible with and play puppeteer until one of them married the silverette. Cloud had done this so many times that he practically became an expert. Strangely, in the recent past lives the marriages ended in amicable divorce. He didn't know what he did wrong, so the blond began expiramenting with Sephiroths "types" again, trying to find a perfect match.

This life however, Sephiroth refused to so much as hold hands with someone romantically and Cloud is about ready to rip his hair out in frustration.

The man walked down a busy street, thinking about what to do next when Sephiroth himselfed grabbed his arm.

Startled, Cloud stared up at him.

"It's you." Sephiroth muttered reverently, as though he couldn't believe his eyes.

Cloud never made contact with these people, he had learned his lesson after the fifth time he lost Zack. He let them live out their lives, only interfering to stop something negative from happening. The blond never showed Sephiroth his face since his ninth life.

So how did Sephiroth know who he was?

2. Cloud nearly giving Denzel "The Talk"

3. Denzel accidentally calling Cloud "Dad", calling Tifa "Mom", and Marlene "my sister" until he was eventually like, screw it, and called them that without hesitation

4. Denzel got in trouble at school for beating up a group of boys that were bullying another kid.

He gets suspended and Cloud takes him out for an awesome ride on Fenrir as a reward, followed by fighting lessons from both him and Tifa, then ice cream.

5. Au where Hollander was murdered by Hojo long ago. Degradation is running rampant through Shinras SOLDIER program, killing several and weakening many more.

Genesis is determined to find a cure, after all, his life is on the line. He's eventually cornered by Angeal and Sephiroth, who pull the truth out of him, and begin aiding him in his search.

They discover AC Cloud, who is from a different dimension/timeline whose very body contains the cure.

Cloud was no longer human, and had developed new organs of unknown purpose, his body having disposed of the unnecessary organs such as lungs, gallbladder, and pancreas, and modifying the ones it kept, such as the digestive track. The catch? Now he needed to feed on large amounts of natural Mako every month to survive.

Genesis sees no problem with this and asks for the blond to save them. Cloud, however, refused, not knowing what was happening to him and knew spreading it would be the bad idea of the century.

Genesis doesn't take "No" for an answer.

Hojo finds out the blond was essentially a second Jenova and had a mini lifestream inside him and becomes desperate to get his claws on him.

6. Jenova haunts Clouds dreams, filling him with dread. Not because she was tormenting him, no. It was the opposite.

In the dreams, she held him like a loving mother. Her gentle embrace warmed him, her soft words brought him comfort, made him confide in her. That's why he was afraid.

Cloud was beginning to love her, and it terrified him.

7. Zack Fair is hereby prohibited from using any form of glitter or glue.

Why? It's Classified.

8. Au where Lazard freed Zack from under the nebilheim mansion, but also dragged him outside, leaving Cloud behind.

He lied to Zack when he woke up, telling him the infantryman was dead. He believed that Zacks chances of survival would be infinitely higher if he left the boy behind, which he would never do if given a choice. So Lazard made that choice for him.

So Zack made it to Midgar on his own.

Cloud was found by Sephiroth months later. The blond had no fight left in him and tried to merge with the other Sephiroth clone, unfortunately since his cells were mutated, Cloud could not merge with Sephiroth.

The silverette had planned to abandon this failed clone until Cloud nuzzle his face against Sephiroths gloved palm. From then on out, Cloud followed Sephiroth everywhere, doing the cooking and the laundry or whatever he could to make himself useful. He would beg the former General not to abandon him, as everyone else had done in the past.

That, admittedly pulled on his heartstings a bit. Sephiroth had also been abandoned and betrayed by his two closest friends. By the company and people he foolishly devoted his entire life to.

So Cloud stayed. His master taught him how to fight, how to care for his gear, and they bonded over shared experiences and silent companionship.

It was during that final battle, where Zack and AVALANCHE slew Sephiroth, that Cloud, hidden somewhere out of sight, swore vengeance against the man who pretended to be his friend, who he believed abandoned him and left him to rot in that hellhole after he had sworn for years that they'd get them both out, that he would save Cloud, (Cause that's what heros do!) only for him to murder the first person other than his mom to ever care about him.

Clouds body held both S and J-cells, and though they may be mutated, he could still call for Reunion. Something Zack couldn't sense due to him being an A-type SOLDIER instead of an S-type like himself.

The blond could cultivate the summoned J-cells and make them multiply under his care. He knew the best revenge was patience, after all, so long as Cloud lived, Sephiroth would never truly die.

All he had to do was stay hidden. Know one could know of him, not that they were looking for a supposedly dead man, even if they were, they would never find him in his hidden underground bunker since no one with more then three brain cells would go near the Northern Crater.

9. Sephiroth drops blatant innuendos and pickup lines all throughout his fight with Cloud, but the blond thinks he's just imagining it.

Seph actually manages to escape that time, but after the fight, his friends point out all the questionable things the silverette said.

Cloud wasn't sure if he should be relieved that he wasn't hallucinating it.

10. Tifa caught Denzel and Marlene "interrogating" a doll that was tied to a tree.

They were hitting it with sticks and yelling, "Who's your source?!" At it.

Needless to say, Reno is no longer allowed to around the children without adult supervision.

11. Kunsel began fiddling with a laser pointer, absent-mindedly tracing large slow circles on an opposing wall. He kept thinking back to all the laser pointer related incidents from the past few weeks until he noticed, much to his horror, that a few of his fellow SOLDIERS in the mess hall were tracking the little red dot with laser focus.

Pun intended.

12. Aerith had long since faded into the lifestream where she belonged, but that's not what this story is about.

Thousands of years have passed since the events of MeteorFall, and Gaia is nearly overflowing with mako energy.

Cloud felt as Gaia began remaking her WEAPONS, and couldn't help but wonder as to why. After about a year of searching he found Vincent again and asked him.

The truth was disturbing. Gaia's lifestream had outgrown the planet, and was preparing a new Omega WEAPON to suck the life out of this one and travel back to the "Mother planet"

Cloud eventually found out about Gaias plans for him by eavesdropping on conversation between Gaia herself and the Cetra from the "Mother planet". You see, Cloud has a unique relationship with the planet. He was modified using Jenovas Eldrich powers, and over time, developed his own. The blond allowed Gaia to use his body/very being as a sort of ward against all things Eldrich, and has worked spectacularly well.

Gaia planned to keep him alive as she traveled through the cosmos. That wouldn't be a problem, no the problem was that she planned to encase him in crystal and keep him there for the rest of eternity. When the Cetra mentioned breeding him so that other planets would have a ward, he nearly gagged.

He told Vincent about everything and admitted he was afraid. The only reason he remained sane all these years was because he could travel and have new experiences. He couldn't do that if he was trapped.

Vincent suggested a rocket, to which the blond revealed that Gaia herself always sabotaged the rockets and space programs. For obvious reasons. They were stuck and didn't know what to do now that it was literally them against the world. So when Vincent suggested reviving Mako energy and the SOLDIER program until they could find a way off of Gaia, Cloud didn't dismiss it.

13. Another summoning gone wrong Au where Sephiroth, Zack, and Cloud who are in the normal modern universe and are lovers in a poly relationship, decide to mess around with a spellbook Zack picked up in a shop. They were saying spells out loud and making fun of them, they also did the wierd little ceremonies and made "potions" and had a good time.

Nothing happened, until they woke up the next morning to the chocobo frantically patting them awake with his hands, stunned silent.

There, in their king sized bed, were their trans-dimensional alter-egos, done up with swords and pauldrons and...is Sephiroth wearing a fetish outfit? Said silverette poked his alter-ego with a ruler a few times to confirm he was out cold.

What were they supposed to do now?

14. Final Fantasy 7 and LoZ: Breath of the Wild crossover

Cloud lands in a new reality, but he's too focused on trying to fight the new breeds of monsters and surviving the desert heat to ponder the situation for long

And then there's all those things that keep trying to electrocute him...Clouds not having a good day.

On the other hand he has plenty of things to take his anger out on.

Also, Cloud meeting a horse! Which are critically endangered on Gaia!

15. Genesis finds Cloud post DoC and begins taunting him, but gasps dramatically when he learns the blond has never tasted Banoran apples/apple products. He drags Cloud along to get a taste. Weirdly, they get along.

#cloud strife #sephiroth #sefikura #ff7 #zack fair #sephiroth+x+cloud #genesis rhapsodos #ff7 story prompts #ff7 prompts #final fantasy 7 story prompts #final fantasy 7 #final fantasy story prompts

134 notes · View notes

arcticdementor · 3 years

Link

Hindsight may very well be 20/20, but with that caveat out of the way, some events truly come across as historical in their importance even as they play out in realtime. We might not know what the results will be, but we can feel that something quite big is happening. Watching the fall of the Berlin wall was one such moment in recent history, and watching the twin towers fall was another one.

The retreat from Afghanistan should not have made the list, or least not the top of it. Yet, it has clearly already made its way there, being widely seen as something truly momentous by most if not all the people observing it. The reason it shouldn’t have had those same connotations as the fall of the Berlin wall is because it was not only planned in advance and decided upon by the 45th president, not the 46th, but because almost everyone at this point wished for the war to just end. But it is how it has ended that has really thrown back the curtain and shown the world the rot festering beneath. The Soviet Union was dying in 1989, when it completed its withdrawal from Afghanistan. It still managed to do so in an orderly fashion, with a symbolic column of russian APCs crossing the bridge over to Uzbekistan. The leader of the war effort, one Colonel-General Gromov, symbolically rode in the very last BTR, and then proclaimed to the gathered journalists that there wasn’t a single russian soldier behind his back.

The American withdrawal, by contrast, is a grotesque spectacle, laid bare to the eyes of the world in realtime thanks to the wonders of modern technology. The Soviet attempt at braving the graveyard of empires could, if one was charitably inclined, at least be construed as some form of tragedy (”we tried to help, but in the end, we accomplished nothing”), and the russians did their best to make the entire thing appear somewhat dignified and solemn. Thirty years later, the scene is closer to a black form of comedy. The American consulate was evacuated by helicopter, about one month after president Biden referred to just such an evacuation from Saigon as an example of how Afghanistan and Vietnam were not comparable. The entire government collapsed within a matter of hours, not months. Throngs of people gathered around the airports, desperate to escape; American authorities had no more guidance to offer american citizens stuck in Afghanistan than to ”shelter in place” and then presumably ask the Taliban for a visa once regular flight traffic resumes. Desperate people even clung to the airframes of departing cargo planes before falling to their deaths, like a grim re-enactment of frozen and starving german soldiers trying to escape by clinging to the last planes leaving Stalingrad.

…

There may be a deeper aspect to this than a lot of people might perceive at present. On the level of pure geopolitics, the utterly embarrassing debacle of America’s withdrawal from Afghanistan can only serve to make China more bold in any future confrontation over Taiwan. The American eagle is faltering, and its rivals will not sit idly by for long. But this is probably the lesser of the big consequences of Afghanistan. There is another, much more significant implication of the collapse of the American project here, one with much more acute bearing on the immediate future of American society itself. To understand why, it’s useful to reflect on a certain political and historical point made by Carl Schmitt in his by now nearly hundred year old essay, whose english name is often rendered as The Crisis of Parliamentary Democracy. The essay is well worth a read in full today, and the reader might be surprised (or maybe not) at how relevant many of the descriptions of the ongoing political crisis in 1923 may seem to us today, nearly a hundred years later. The most relevant passage, however, deserves to be quoted in full:

”In the history of political ideas, there are epochs of great energy and times becalmed, times of motionless status quo. Thus the epoch of monarchy is at an end when a sense of the principle of kingship, of honor, has been lost, if bourgeois kings appear who seek to prove their usefulness and utility instead of their devotion and honor. The external apparatus of monarchical institutions can remain standing very much longer after that. But in spite of it monarchy’s hour has tolled. The convictions inherent in this and no other institution then appear antiquated; practical justifications for it will not be lacking, but it is only an empirical question whether men or organizations come forward who can prove themselves just as useful or even more so than these kings and through this simple fact brush aside monarchy.”

What Schmitt is saying here is very important, and it might very well end up being the true cost of the Afghanistan debacle. Every ruling class throughout history advances various claims about its own legitimacy, without which a stable political order is impossible. Legitimating claims can take many different forms and may change over time, but once they become exhausted or lose their credibility, that is pretty much it.

…

What Schmitt is saying is that when the legitimating claim for a particular form of elite is used up, when people no longer believe in the concepts or claims that underpin a particular system or claim to rule, the extinction of that particular elite becomes a foregone conclusion. Once Napoleon came along, it became increasingly impossible to actually believe (or at least effect a suspension of disbelief) that kings were born to rule and had a right to rule. As such, the only argument kings were left with in order to be tolerated by their own subjects became practical in nature: look at how useful this king is, look at how well his administration runs, look at how much stuff you’re getting out of letting him sit on the throne. But once you are merely left with practical arguments of that kind, as Schmitt rightly points out, your replacement becomes a question of simple empiricism. The moment someone more useful is found – like, say, a president – out you go, never to return. The replacement of Louis XVI with a republic was a world-shattering event. The fall of his nephew, Louis Philippe I, in favor of another republic, was a mere formality by comparison. By the time of his fall, not even Louis Philippe himself believed in kings being some sort of semi-divine beings. Certainly almost none of his subjects did.

…

Moreover, on a more practical level, the war in Afghanistan became another sort of crucible. In very real terms, Afghanistan turned into a testbed for every single innovation in technocratic PMC governance, and each innovation was sold as the next big thing that would make previous, profane understandings of politics obsolete. In Afghanistan ”big data” and the utilization of ever expanding sets of technical and statistical metrics was allowed to topple old stodgy ideas of dead white thinkers such as Sun Tzu or Machiavelli, as ”modern” or ”scientific” approaches to war could have little to learn from the primitive insights of a pre-rational order. In Afghanistan, military sociology in the form of Human Terrain Teams and other innovative creations were unleashed to bring order to chaos. Here, the full force of the entire NGO world, the brightest minds of that international government-in-waiting without a people to be beholden to, were given a playground with nearly infinite resources at their disposal. There was so much money sloshing around at the fingertips of these educated technocrats that it became nearly impossible to spend it all fast enough; they simply took all of those countless billions of dollars straight from the hands of ordinary americans, because they believed they had a right to do so.

…

Put plainly: managers, through the power of managerialism, were once believed to be able to mobilize science and reason and progress to accomplish what everyone else could not, and so only they could secure a just and functional society for their subjects, just as only the rightful kings of yore could count on Providence and God to do the same thing. At their core, both of these claims are truly metaphysical, because all claims to legitimate rulership are metaphysical. It is when that metaphysical power of persuasion is lost that kings or socialists become ”bourgeois”, in Schmitt’s terms. They have to desperately turn toward providing proof, because the genuine belief is gone. But once a spouse starts demanding that the other spouse constantly prove that he or she hasn’t been cheating, the marriage is already over, and the divorce is merely a matter of time, if you’ll pardon the metaphor.

I suspect we are currently witnessing the catastrophic end of this metaphysical power of legitimacy that has shielded the managerial ruling class for decades. Anyone even briefly familiar with the historical record knows just how much of a Pandora’s box such a loss of legitimacy represents. The signs have obviously been multiplying over many years, but it is only now that the picture is becoming clear to everyone. When Michael Gove said ”I think the people in this country have had enough of experts” in a debate about the merits of Brexit, he probably traced the contours of something much bigger than anyone really knew at the time. Back then, the acute phase of the delegitimization of the managerial class was only just beginning. Now, with Afghanistan, it is impossible to miss.

It is not just that the elite class is incompetent – even kings could be incompetent without undermining belief in monarchy as a system – it is that they are so grossly, spectacularly incompetent that they walk around among us as living rebuttals of meritocracy itself. It is that their application of managerial logic to whatever field they get their grubby mitts on – from homelessness in California to industrial policy to running a war – makes that thing ten times more expensive and a hundred times more dysfunctional. To make the situation worse, the current elites seem almost serene in their willful destruction of the very fields they rely on for legitimacy. When the ”experts” go out of their way to write public letters about how covid supposedly only infects people who hold demonstrations in support of ”structural white supremacy”, while saying that Black Lives Matter demonstrations pose no risk of spreading the virus further, this amounts to the farmer gleefully salting his own fields to make sure nothing can grow there in the future. How can anyone expect the putative peasants of our social order to ”trust the science”, when the elites themselves are going out of their way, against all reason and the tenets of basic self-preservation, to make such a belief completely impossible even for those who really, genuinely, still want to believe?

…

I find it very likely that most future historians will put the date of the real beginning of the collapse of the current political and geopolitical order right here, right now, at the US withdrawal from Afghanistan. Just as with any other big historical process, however, many others will point out that the seeds of the collapse were sown much farther back, and that a case can be made for several other dates, or perhaps no specific date at all. This is how we modern people look at the fall of the french ancien regime, after all. Still, it is quite obvious that the epoch of the liberal technocrat is now over. The bell has well and truly tolled for mankind’s belief in their ability to do anything else than enrich themselves and ruin things for everyone else.

How long it will take for their institutions to disappear, or before they end up toppled by popular discontent and revolution, no one can know. But at this point, I think most people on some level now understand that it really is only a matter of time.

#malcom kyeyune #afghanistan #read the whole thing

3 notes · View notes

border-spam · 4 years

Text

Leech Lord : Jak-Knife

JK belongs to / is written by / designed by @godkingsanointed

“That Bandit’s a ghostwalker, my God-King. You don’t want ‘em here, trust me. Sometimes dead clans leave corpses behind that aren’t straight in the head enough to know that’s what they are... Crawl across the plains looking for somewhere else to belong, looking for a new family clan ‘cause all that’s left of theirs are Rakk picked bones. Seen plenty over the years, and they trail bad luck behind ‘em like a disease. That one’s marked like a Hellion, those got slag-burned into the ground by Atlas back in Old Haven. Your majesties weren’t here when that happened, but we were, and I remember. Leave them to me, the scout teams always need fresh meat for replacements.

They won’t stay alive long enough to be a concern.”

- Mouthpiece

Whether death follows JK or they sprint after it in pursuit is something they’ve never really been sure of. It could be either - some great predator snapping at their heels while they grew up in a Bandit clan that wasn’t kind to the small and gentle, or a force they are drawn to effortlessly like the migratory animals that follow Pandora’s monsoon seasons.

Could be either.

Could be both.

Same outcome they figure, so why would it matter.

They'd been a kid when it happened, well, a kid to anyone not a Bandit. In that life 16 years old is more than enough to run with a raid party, adult enough to work yourself to the bone, to show you can earn your keep when your brother is "useless" and you've got to be worth 2 bellies of food or watch as one of you goes hungry. Jak-Knife and Gutpunch, one a runt squinting up from under a stolen warrior's mask crafted for someone twice their size, the other a gentle giant born into a life that no aspect of their soul suited. They'd protected him, them with their little body and dull pocketknife versus the sometimes cruelty of a clan who's survival was based around only the fittest, only the strong staying part of it.

Not evil, just living as was needed. Pandora is harsh, there is no room for softness if you want to stay alive on her rocky flats, that's just the way things are. Nature isn't cruel, it simply is.

They were 16 when the Lance came.

16 years they'd lasted in the Hellions, till the day the gates of Old Haven had been opened for the Crimson Lance's money carriers. They'd done their job, they'd cleared the town at the request of the white Siren, been promised a home for the clan, a place to belong, and in the end, their payment came in bullets sprayed from Atlas gun barrels.

By the time JK had woken up and tried to heave Gutpunch's corpse off their back from where he'd shielded them, it had been two days. Groggy and confused, they'd panicked, desperately trying to scrabble out from under his bulk as the remaining Lance stopped piling bodies to burn and ran towards the sound of gunfire outside the gates.

Vault Hunters. Worse than the lance.

They couldn't take him with them, he couldn't move now, but they couldn't leave him like this, not a brother. Not when he was all they had who'd understood when they'd try and explain why their meat was wrong, how the flesh didn't sit right, when he was who would help them tighten rags around their chest and listen as they ground their overly developed canines and growled to the stars at night when it got too heavy to bear. They couldn't leave him behind after a life together, so they took his mask. Scrabbled at the bindings and peeled the effigy from what was left of his head. They realised as it separated from flesh that it had been all that was holding the remnants of skull together... but this was his face. The meat under it was Gutpunch, but the mask... they'd wear it now. He'd still be with them.

Jak-Knife had ran from the massacre of Old Haven on shaky legs, ducking as bullets whistled through the air around them as Crimson Lance and Vault Hunters traded fire in panicked waves. No hits, not directly, but a spray of Slag from a barrel ruptured by a narrow miss had sliced across their right, thick and acrid in the air as it burned through skin and into muscle. There had been no time to feel the pain, no time to stop, JK had run till their feet bled and the weight of Pandora's inky night blanketed them in exhaustion they couldn't fight any longer.

They'd started to stumble forward once they stirred in the morning. Like Mouthpiece said, a ghostwalker. No clan, no brother, no belonging. They walked and didn't stop for a long time.

Walked to New Haven, to the walls outside the town and a woman with her own terribly scarred face masking a heart softer than others would guess. Not a home there, not really, but allowed stay. A kid is a kid, even when wearing the blood-streaked mask of a Bandit. She couldn't turn them away.

They were 18 when Hyperion came.

Ran again amidst the screams to do so, ran into the wastes of Pandora and a world that made more sense to them than the town being torn apart behind them. Missed her though, Pierce. She'd been kind. A lot of those people had been kind, and now they were dead. Hyperion, Atlas, same thing. Just monsters lead by monsters.

They'd walked to the Slabs, to a jovial King who mocked their size with a tone that both bristled their muscle and left them feeling... welcome. Not a home there either, not really, but there had been jobs to run and food to earn. They'd been allowed stay, and so they did. Stil a Hellion though, still Slag-burned and covered in their clan's flame emblems and splashes of neon across their gear.... still wearing Gutpunch's blood coated mask.

The Slab king had heaved himself into their cramped sleeping quarters one night and whispered that there was a funeral for her soon, Pierce. They could go if they wanted, he'd whispered from under that massive helm. Told them with a gentleness they'd never heard before that he understood loss, having things you loved taken away from you for no reason bar cruelty. That he remembered Old Haven and wished he didn't. That they should go. They'd be welcome there.

So JK had walked again, out of Thousand Cut's Slab fortress and to a somber funeral in the icy fields of Three horns that was filled with Crimson Raiders - a mix of Vault Hunters and ex Lance, and stood in memorial amidst people that made the blood under their skin burn, all to show the respect she'd earned to a woman who'd treated them like a human.

A merc now they figured, easier than being a wanderer and Sanctuary needed mercs. Found themselves in the bar some nights, wary eyes glaring from mismatched lenses as they sat silently at corner tables while watching the rest of the loud patrons, back against a wall and a clear exit always planned.

She'd noticed. She liked big 'n mysterious. Liked how her flirtations rolled off them and were replied to with genuine questions about her. Quiet, gentle-voiced comments about the drinks, how well she played her marks, how clever that gunbelt around her thigh was positioned for quick access if she needed to control a situation with more than just her looks.

Moxx liked this one, and a friendship slowly bloomed into something beautiful.

It had been her who had put their name forward when the leaders of the Raiders had become concerned over the darkness slowly seeping across Pandora's horizon, of the bizarre war cries of fanatics leading raids on smaller Bandit camps and shanty towns...

The "Children of the Vault" was a name being passed through hushed whispers in slums and rot-dives, and Lilith had rolled "Calypso" across her tongue enough times when reading scout reports to know the taste it was leaving behind wasn't anything good. They wanted an in, and what better spy to infiltrate a Bandit cult than a Bandit. Someone who understood clan hierarchy, who could report back in words she could understand from a viewpoint she could never see.

JK had been... wary. To say the least. The Raiders weren't friends, they'd filled their ranks with ex Crimson Lance like they hadn't committed atrocities, they mowed down Pandora's natives like mad Skags who needed extermination, and Krieg...

They all knew of Krieg. Everyone had seen how he'd been really treated. JK certainly had, but they also knew Krieg had been one foot into the great hunger, that he'd been so close to the flood that he'd spoken in half Psycho-cant and half Bandit, and tore at his skin to sate the itch of the song that the mad ones screamed about. That the raiders would let him burn alive in a fury if it meant a successful mission, and they couldn't help but wonder how respected he'd really been. Some kind of mix between respect and pity they figured, mocked behind his back as "Just another Psycho", someone who got the job done even if he limped back covered in blood and bullet holes, but was whispered about as needing to be watched.

He had been called a Raider, and yet - masks like his and JKs covered the command room's wall like trophies. Murderers of their clans walked Sanctuaries halls and narrowed untrusting eyes even at Krieg's hulking silhouette as he passed. It wasn't right, and JK struggled to feel as welcome as the others insisted they were now that they had a use.

But they'd taken the job, because Moxxi said they should and Moxxi was clever, Moxxi cared about them and wanted to see them be happy, so they'd agreed. She had whispered in an accent they’d learned from long nights in her company was for real things and not her act, that this would help people, that the COV was worrying her more than she was concerned about getting intel to Lilith, and they'd nodded in agreement.

Bandits don't congregate, Bandits don't merge clans under one banner... they wanted to know what this beast clawing into Pandora's soil was capable of. They'd heard the rumours like everyone else, twin Sirens apparently. Bullshit, everyone knew Sirens were women and there were only 6. Jack had hammered that information through Bandit clans and across Pandora's E-Com network clear enough. These were obviously frauds using trickery to control those eager to believe, wouldn't be the first time a Siren cult had used Bandit clans as a personal army, and JK had felt roiling disgust at the realisation what they were agreeing to do for Lilith? Just another shade of the exact same thing.

Funny, wasn't it. Very funny.

So they'd walked out of Sanctuary and towards the hub of the birthing COV.

They'd been 20 when they had first seen a real God.

The Holy City didn't exist yet, just a pile of rickety buildings thrown up by worshippers that surrounded an old Dahl fortress bleaching slowly in Pandora's sun. They called it "The Cathedral", but it looked like the crumbling bones of some great dead thing jutting from the red sands like a cracked skull. Maybe those were the same thing, JK had thought. A cathedral, and a beast of the flood. Both seemed like something that should be worshipped to them. They liked this place.

Neon paint and rusty metal spines were everywhere among the shantytown, raucous laughter cut through the clang of metal, and the air itself was heavy with an unmistakable stink of unwashed bodies and leather. They felt it so quickly as they'd crunched through the dirt paths that split the weaving rows of scrapped together tents, making their way to the recruitment line. A fleeting tickle of a sensation that hadn't filled their belly in so long. That this was like...

home.

The twins themselves were cagey and difficult to pull usable intel about. They gave sermons from the crumbling balconies of the fortress to the swathes of screaming acolytes below, too far for JK to get a clear eye on them but dressed like Sirens at least. Swirling loops of pacifying blue along the woman, and the man... jagged lines and curved whorls of a vicious red they'd never seen on any living or dead Witch. He was off. That one was wrong, and his sister made her agreement on that clear enough in how she acted next to him. She was the star, she was in the limelight, and he was relegated to a place behind her when she spoke to her worshippers and basked in their screeched worship. Odd for a "God-King" to be left in shadows, they'd thought.

Odd indeed.

They reported back to Lilith in Sanctuary whenever the opportunity arose to leave the growing "City", cult movement, basic info on what they could see as a blossoming threat to raiders, and it was always met with sneers of disgust and pity. Monsters, she'd sighed. Just using the bandits as fodder. JK's eyes flicked to the masks decorating the trophy wall behind her.

"Whatever you say, commander".

Mouthpiece had kept his word. Fully aware of what had happened to JK's clan and uncomfortable with seeing something he believed to be a walking curse among the COV's war parties, he'd purposefully sent them on suicide runs with some of the less physically capable recruits. "Trial by fire" he saw it as, simple logic when it came to survival on Pandora. Let the weak earn their place - if they die, they die. That's the law of the land, and losing the soft only leaves the clan stronger. Except, JK' scout parties just kept coming back. It had seemed almost a fluke the first couple of times, scouts didn't last long after all, but as it repeated again, and again, Mouthpiece and higher members of the raid parties began to notice.

A combination of Hellion war training and their years of working side by side with their brother had left an understanding of why having others watch your back was more beneficial than only caring about your own neck, especially when you weren't as big as the next guy. JK was a survivor, they'd never been willing to lay down and die so the rest of the clan could be down a "weak link", and their knife-edge instincts merged with a care for the other scouts not usually seen amongst Bandits meant they were teaching the team. Unifying them as a group who responded to signal whistles, barked cant, warcries that triggered defence formations and eyes on flanks. They were leading without being called a leader, and as that first year slowly ticked by, they were being noticed.

Sharp eyes that scrutinised numbers and statistics were watching the growing ratio of successful raids to lost bodies from the recessed shadows of the looming Cathedral while Jak-Knife trained and barked orders at recruits in the garrison that sprawled in the white hot sunlight below, and eventually, the day came where the God-King knew their name.

They'd stood shoulder to shoulder with their boys as they lined facing the burning light at Mouthpiece's demand. The mask lenses had done barely anything to block out Pandora's vicious sun as he'd approached, and they'd shuddered at the warchief's hissed warning to show due respect, or die where they stood. He wasn't accepting of failure, they knew that from the hushed whispers that spread across the camp at night. He expected perfection, and word from within the now sprawling architecture of the growing Cathedral was that neither twin took insult lightly. She sucked the life out of the undeserving and he, well, he supposedly just ripped heretics clean apart.

Father Troy had been all sharp angles and gaunt bone as he'd stopped his slow pace in front of them and hunched to lean down to their eye level. They'd realised how wrong they'd been about his appearance as the heavy furs that splayed across his shoulders like a mantle blotted out the sun behind him and framed his jagged silhouette in light.

Tyreen wasn't short.

Troy was a monster.

It had been hard to pick up on his scale when they'd only seen him next to his sister, they'd just figured she was a smaller woman and him a tall man, but the reality of his size was beyond intimidating now that they could see with frightening intimacy that the scrapped together prosthetic that he held at his side so effortlessly was as long as they were tall.

A glint of gold teeth through a smile they'd thought more Skag than human snapped them out of their shock, and he'd congratulated them. Thanked the "Jak-Knife" he'd been watching so closely for their excellent work on the field, waved the disturbingly proportioned metal claws of his arm towards their team and praised their group promotion, slathered honey-thick words from a barbed tongue about how they'd be blessed by being the honour guard for a God now - a fine reward for their outstanding work... yes?

The others had gasped in stuttered praise and whimpered thanks while Jk had nodded respectfully, knowing damn well that Calypso wasn't really asking at all.

The newly titled vanguard escorted him everywhere, and that meant a shift in JK's life within the blossoming city that they could not have prepared for. They no longer slept on bare ground when not visiting Sanctuary for updates, they were brought into the twin's cathedral, were able to see its glory with their own eyes for the first time. The inside wasn't anything like the still decrepit outer walls surrounded by scaffolding that workers scurried across like ants, it was like nothing Jak-Knife had ever seen.

A bastion of worship, vast cavernous stone halls spread with clan banners in colours they'd almost forgotten, neon blazing lights framing sprawling stained glass windows depicting Saints and Clergy who's names they'd heard but never put a face to.

Ur-Aurum, scowling from under heavy brows, framed in monochrome and gold. Coins and bullets pouring from his open palms.

Ur-Machina, sharp and vibrant in reds and coppers, oil-stained hands resting gently on the slab of gilded war tech she rested daintily against.

Ur-Vendit, pristine in parallel lines and perfect angles, sneering through a swathe of shining colours as numbers and cash totals ran like ivy through the window's frame.

And something new that had been being assembled along the great hall when they first entered, a half-finished window titled "Oracle" - just the fine lines of lead and a great, staring eye all that they could make out as they followed the priest irritably urging the vanguard group to hurry as they were lead to their chambers.

For the first time they had experienced, JK not only belonged, but they were envied. Their gear was decorated, armour and weapons upgraded at the Father's blessing, and the titles that came with the role were impossible to avoid, whispered in reverence by warriors who would have spat at their feet only a few years ago.

God-King's chosen, God-King's first, God-King's hand, the nods of respect passed to them by warlords like Mouthpiece in passing filled their chest with pride under the weight of its binder, and the trips back to Sanctuary became... harder.

For all they had achieved within the now monstrous in scale COV, the Raiders saw them no differently than they had when they'd first sat alone in Moxxi's. They were still a Bandit, and nothing more. JK was side-eyed, muttered about, treated like an outsider who needed to earn their keep by passing on intel they were risking their life for, all while in the back of their mind being more than aware that they could have this place raised to the ground with a damn WORD. Lilith didn't understand what it meant to be as close to Calypso as they were, that they were beginning to earn his ear.

She wasn't aware that a fucking God cared about their opinion enough to ask for it on long technical rides or when escorting him between meetings, to her, and to the rest of the Raiders, they were still simply a lost native behind a mask that was being handed scraps of decency by people better than them - and the strain of that reality was difficult to ignore. Moxxi tried her best, always there to console and remind them she valued who they were, the beautiful mind they had shared with her in tender moments and long intimate conversations over the last few years, but the insult burned in their gut still.

They weren't just Jak-Knife. They were the God King's chosen, and they were betraying someone who valued them to share internal information on Saints and departments, cashflow and raids, with people who willingly partnered with the Crimson Lance, people who just plain did not seem to understand who they were, what they had earned through sacrifice and blood shed.

But Troy? The longer they spent around Troy the more his own mask began to slip, and the harder it came to see him as any form of enemy. The blessed Father couldn't hide his weak spells or the times illness left him barely able to stand from a bodyguard who was at his side almost every waking moment, there was no way to do so regardless of how much he clearly wished there was. JK saw everything... the spasms, the fainting, heard the whistling of weak lungs when in silence next to the damaged God, saw the black circles under his eyes that the expertly applied makeup he wore could hide at a distance. He'd been aggressive about it at first, vicious and hurtful in his reactions when they'd try and assist, but over time, as they made clear that the mockery and pity he was expecting was not going to come, he'd softened. He'd thanked Jak-Knife one night as they scraped together a fire on the salt flats to chase the bitter cold away and keep their king warm.

A God had looked at them with ice blue eyes that reminded them of a face they could no longer remember, and whispered genuine appreciation for them. How could they continue to betray him. How could they hurt him for people who didn't even count JK as human?

They saw a delicate and sickly side of one of the twin God's that felt wrong to share with the raiders, that left a bad taste in their mouth to discuss with Lilith, so they simply didn't. The rationalised that the raiders did not need to know about the self-doubt or painful loss JK saw crack through Troy's facade in private, the raiders didn't need an update on how one of the twins wasn't healthy, that he could struggle sometimes to get to his feet before an audience, or would need a discreet support from the solid weight of their muscle next to his spindly frame after some events.

Lilith didn't need to know it, and as time passed, JK found they were beginning to keep secrets. Little ones at first, justified under the intel not being valuable, but the ease of witholding useful data only increased. Their position, the growing camaraderie with the COV's grunts and militia, the respect in the eyes of worshippers who looked to the Vanguard all fed into the slow realisation that their loyalty simple did not belong to the Vault Hunters, it was to Moxxi, who loved them. It was to Troy, who every day became closer to the memory of Gutpunch they'd try and visualise on lonely nights, see his crooked smile and cool eyes flicker across a face they could no longer place.

The closer JK got with the man behind the King's mask, the harder it became to give over information to the raiders that had any real tactical value...

And that had been Troy's plan, ever since the day he'd discreetly planted a tracker on them while they'd squinted against the blinding sunlight to first look into the face of a God.

#Bl3 #Borderlands #Borderlands 3 #Troy calypso #Tyreen calypso #Leech Lord #Sbsart #My hcs #My writing

42 notes · View notes

scoooby · 4 years

Text

The Reason to Live (is to Die For This)

Read on AO3

Continue to read on Tumblr

Beta: @tenderlyannoyinglight

Word count: 6.3k

Trigger warning: descriptions of pain, death and violence.

Relationship: Merlin/Arthur *if you don't like merthur it can be taken as gen if you skip the last hundred words

Summary:

"I don't want to leave him. He thinks. I can't.

It shouldn't be the first thing he thinks of. He should be thinking of his mother, Gaius, Gwen. He should be thinking of how Kilgharrah had said he was an immortal, but Kilgharrah is also a big lying liar who lies, so he shouldn't have believed him. But he doesn't think of any of those things, after ten years of sacrificing, his brain is wired to think of Arthur, only of him."

In which Merlin is stabbed instead of Arthur. Oops.

Merlin doesn't know where the blood came from, flowing down and not stopping. There's so much of it staining the ground and his clothes, forming a puddle, he feels dizzy and nauseous looking at it. It's been almost ten years, but the sight of injury still repulses him. It scares him even more because he can't find its source. No, it terrifies him. Whose blood is it? Where is he, exactly? But he tries not to dwell on it and wonders where Arthur is. Wasn't he just here? Silly Arthur, always disappearing.

He giggles, then sobers up. He has more important things to worry about. Like the blood. Blood is so red. Like strawberries. He wishes he could make strawberries right now, Freya likes them. Speaking of which, he should probably talk to her soon.

He touches his hand to his abdomen, startled when he feels something wet and sticky. Oh.

Oh.

It's his blood. He's been maimed. He's the one dying.

I don't want to leave him. He thinks. I can't .

It shouldn't be the first thing he thinks of, and he should be thinking of his mother, Gaius, Gwen. He should be thinking of how Kilgharrah had said he was an immortal, but Kilgharrah is also a big lying liar who lies, so he shouldn't have believed him. But he doesn't think of any of those things, after ten years of sacrificing, his brain is wired to think of Arthur, only of him.

It shouldn’t be. He should be more carefree and alive and happy, like he is now. And he’s so happy.

He distantly hears a thud behind him, as if something heavy, clad in metal, had fallen. Swords are made of metal. So is armour. Stupid armour. It takes so fucking long to put armour on Arthur.

He feels hysteria rise up in his throat, he feels like laughing, He doesn’t know why. He’s been stabbed, he should care more. But those thoughts don’t even hit him. He wants to run, to jump. He could fly, like Kilgharrah. Or Aithusa. Can Aithusa fly? He would have to ask Morgana.

But Morgana doesn’t like him.

Maybe Balinor would know when dragons start to fly. He knows a lot, right?

Oh, but he can’t. Balinor is dead. Balinor is extremely dead and rotting. Hunith would be sad if she found out, he doesn’t want her to be sad. She deserves the world. He won’t tell her.

“Don’t worry,” he coos, even though there’s no one there. “I won’t tell.”

He tries to get up, but his knees are weak. He doesn't know why his ears have started to ring. Hhhhh. Hhh. That’s all he hears. It sounds weird. Weird. Weirdweirdweirdweirdweird. What a word, All words should be like it.

Everything is just a blob of grey and black. All he sees is a spinning world and green spots in the corner of his vision. He doesn’t mind, he likes green. He tries to say something, to scream maybe, yet all that comes out is a small, meagre groan.

He feels his eyes closing- And that's it. That's all there is-numbness, and then nothing.

Arthur is not ashamed to admit that he killed Mordred. The knight almost killed Merlin and dared to smile after doing so. Arthur couldn't just let him get away with it, no matter how much it pained him. Guilt doesn’t even come to mind. Mordred isn’t worth it - he tells himself as he walks, knees shaking, towards his manservant's body laying still on the ground.

He's bleeding at an alarming rate. His eyes are closed; his face deathly pale. Arthur doesn't bother with modesty as he rips the stupid brown jacket off (one would think he would come into battle wearing proper armor, at least). He had imagined doing it many times before, in entirely different circumstances, maybe with a bed underneath them.

Merlin torso is littered with scars as wood is with lines. Most of them are healed, so that only white lines are painting Merlin’s pale skin, while others are red, but still no cause for intervention. An enormous hole inflicted near his lungs, however does. Arthur’s not new to blood or injuries, but looking at this one does make him wanna vomit.

He stops, unsure of what to do. His hands hover over the body. What can he do, dammit? He knows first aid, Gaius taught him some when he was little. Nothing has ever come close or as grave as to this. He has been taught to call for the help of nurses, never to do it himself. He has to stop the bleeding, but how ? He's supposed to tie something around it; he remembers that much at least. He looks towards Merlin's face, exhausted and un-moving, a red cloth loosely tied around his neck. All he has to do to stop the blood temporarily, until he delivers Merlin to safe, more medically trained hands, is to tie the stupid red neckerchief around and hope for it to be the right thing.

He prays as he puts it around the gash. He's not entirely sure who he's praying to. It’s an unconscious reflex to beg for health. To be able to say it is someone else's fault, because he knows it's his. He should never have let Merlin come in front of him; let the sword pierce him. Damn him; damn Merlin; damn Mordred; damn the War; damn Morgana; damn everything.

It sickens him, all of it. This cave, this life. The air is dirty. The metallic smell of blood engulfing everything and making it its own. Throwing up would sound like a good idea if Arthur didn’t have more pressing matter at hand.

The air also smells of disappointment. What is he even doing? He's just two years into his reign, the army is practically gone. So many knights are dying in his name, right now, with their belief in him. And now Merlin is going to die too.

No. Merlin can't die, I won't allow it. His resolve hardens as he picks him up in his arms, Merlin’s head on his shoulder, back bent so gravity can keep the blood inside. and carries him through the mass of dead bodies. Arthur places him on the horse and climbs on behind him, arms on the reins and still supporting Merlin’s head.

It's a long ride home. You have to make it. For him. Is the only thought he clings to.

The aftermath of the war lingers everywhere. Bodies within quarter of a mile of another, their sunken eyes staring at them as the ride past.

No one stops them, too busy focusing on their own injured. Arthur's head is down to not see them. They probably hate him. With all of his being, he agrees.

Morgana, from an early age, showed to be better fitted for the crown. Might have even made Camelot a better place, once upon a time, in a time long gone.

Now they're both just as terrible and ill-fitted for his home.

He tries not to think of her, it’s too painful. So, he focuses on saving Merlin again. Merlin. His best friend, who he had always hoped would become something more. His rock, the only one he could trust. Something he has proved over and over again, but something he had realised only during his father's funeral.

Uther’s death is a recent memory. Arthur had cried until there were no tears left to shed over anyone else after. Not out of love or grievance. His father’s love for him was long gone before he himself was. But because the moment Uther’s life ended, Arthur’s reign began and the feeling of no support or companionship with it. Morgana was gone. Ygraine had never been there to begin with, and the overwhelming responsibility hit him- hard . He had felt so alone. There was no one there for him. No one cared.

Then Merlin had placed a hand on his shoulder, whispered to him, told him he was going to be a great king and that he was sorry. As if Merlin was at fault. As if he wasn't the only reason Arthur was still standing.

It made him see more clearly that he might not ruin the kingdom- his kingdom. A spark of heat, mixed with joy and sorrow ignited like wildfire spread all over his chest, then back, arms and legs followed soon, and finally his face; he returned Merlin’s sentiment with a warm smile.

Maybe that's when he had fallen in love, or when he had realized that Merlin was the only one he could trust. He's still not sure which one it was, maybe the love had come slowly, or maybe, and just the seed had been planted back then, or maybe it had come fact and crashing.

And now he was going to be gone too. Arthur sighs, his eyes drooping from a week of no sleep. Everyone leaves. They always leave. Maybe he still had some tears left.

The dark is disorienting. Is he sleeping? Is he even alive? He has to be, he has to make sure Arthur gets back home.

"Emrys," he hears someone say. No, not someone- Morgana. Her voice is unmistakable, ragged and sickly sweet at the same time. She had always been like that, even before, a dizzying array of opposites.

"Witch," he whispers. "Why have you brought me here?"

The smugness in her voice is apparent, "That's very hypocritical of you, isn't it? After all, you're magical too. More than me, even." She didn't answer his question. "All alone now, aren’t you? No one to save you." He shakes his head; how did he manage to get here? The last thing he was doing was shouting at Arthur to bring him along ("I always thought you were the bravest man I knew." “That’s not fair.") Arthur's face had been so disappointed, and it had broken Merlin's heart. But if the war was still going on, then no one would be coming for him. He will have to get out of this by himself.

"What. Do. You. Want." He grits out, he doesn't have the patience, nor the time for this, he has to help them. The knights are strong, but even the strongest of human kind wouln’t last long against an immortal army. He has to be there with them, to help them, to keep them alive. No matter how much his words hurt, Merlin will still save them, because that is what he does.

She laughs. " You."

"I don't have time for games, leave me be."- turning his head around trying to locate Morgana’s voice; the darkness, the nothingness, hasn’t changed.

"Oh, but why would I do that?" Her cold hands are taking hold of his chin, nails digging into his face. She's right in front of him. Her silky dress pooling onto his feet, the edges of her dirty hair grazing his arms. "I have you right where I want you, no one is going to come to save you. I only need one thing from you." She pauses, her fingers snap; there are fires surrounding them in a circle. He struggles against the bonds of rope he didn't realize were tied onto him, but it's of no use.

She’s clearer now, seen better days too. Bags under her crazed eyes, a ragged and torn black gown, a cloak is gracing her hunched back. Frankly, it looks like she hasn’t taken a bath in months. She doesn’t even resemble the Morgana he used to know, the compassionate and cunning one.

This is his creation; he is the reason she is like this. He never should have listened to the fucking dragon, he should have told her about his magic, maybe things would be different then.

"I won't do anything for you,” he hisses. “I would rather die.”

“Oh, you will.” She says it like it’s a fact as if it’s inevitable that he will die soon, and a tremor goes from his head to his toes in a matter of a second. He’s supposed to be immortal, supposed to live for a long, long time. He’s not scared of dying, he supposes. He’s scared of what will happen afterwards. “And it will hurt, I can tell you that, it will hurt so much.” She inches even closer, impossibly so. “But that won’t be the worst part, no. The worst part will be that no one will care . Arthur won’t care. No matter what you have done for him, he won’t even notice you’re gone.”

He’s silent as her words sink in. Sow themselves into his brain, into his heart, tries to convince himself it’s not true.

“Arthur won’t rescue you. You need his help, but he doesn’t have your back. He’s not even looking for you. If you’re drowning, if you’re about to crack, will he even care?” Something on his face makes her look smug like she’s already won. “Face it, Merlin.” That’s the first time she’s called him Merlin and not Emrys since she found out. “You don’t matter to him. He thinks you’re disposable, But I know better.”

Merlin looks up at her. "You're sick," he spits, although it sounds small, unsure. "He would look for me. I know he would." The statement is more for himself than her.

She gives a small, cruel smile as if to convey to him how pathetic he is. “All I need you to do,” she continues, “is to tell me where you are once this ends.”

He's about to ask her what she means, when the fires go out and it all turns dark again.

He stops in the forest, to rest, though he's not sure if Merlin will even survive by the end of it. He lays him down against a rock and lights a fire. He has to make something to feed them, or they'll die of starvation before Morgana's knights get to them. He surveys the clearing they're in, and he's about to walk towards what he is almost sure is an edible plant (emphasis on the almost, kings don't always learn about herbs), when he hears Merlin whispers. He snaps back, his eyes are open, a once tantalizing clear blue now murky and grey.

"Arthur" he murmurs. "Art- I-"

He holds up a hand "I'm here Merlin," he says. "I'm here but don't speak, you need to preserve your energy."

He doesn't listen. "I-I need to tell you something and," he gasps, trying to breathe, "and I need you to listen without interrupting."

Arthur wants to tell him whatever he needs to say probably isn't as important as his life, but the look on his face tells him that it might be.

Merlin shudders, clearly exhausted. "I ha-have magic," he rasps. Arthur's mind goes blank. It's a joke, it has to be. Merlin can't have betrayed him too. He takes a step toward him, to reach out maybe, but thinks better of it.

"Stop being silly," he commands, but it comes out shaky.

Merlin eyes seem wet. When he opens his mouth to speak, all that comes out is a bare whisper, "I ne-needed to tell you. In, in case, I-I, uh, die."

"You can't die." He clasps Merlin shoulder this time, leaning down. "But stop delusioning yourself Merlin. You don't have magic, I would know." It's not real, he would've been able to tell. This can't be true, it can't.

"And I use it for you," he continues, seeing his expression. "Only-only for you."

"Shut up," Arthur whispers. Merlin flinches back. "Shut up, shut up, shut up."

"I-," he starts, but he cuts him off.

"Do not speak to me."

Arthur looks at him, something rising in his throat. He thought it would be bile, but it's laughter. Of course, of course, the only person he trusts has magic.

He stands up and walks away, until he's sure Merlin won't be able to see him.

Merlin’s heart sinks as he stares at Arthur’s back, she was right. He told him about his magic, and now he was leaving him to die in a forest, never mind the reason he was dying was that he had taken a sword for Arthur. Never mind that he had spent a decade protecting him, trying to stop hundreds of people from killing someone he himself hadn’t particularly cared for at the beginning. Never mind the fact that he had sacrificed so much, just so he could be comfortable living in a castle built on the sins of his father and the corpses of magic users. Ten years, all down the drain. Merlin wants to laugh, of course, it comes done to this. To Arthur abandoning him because he told him something he didn’t want to hear. Fuck him, fuck the pendragons. Couldn’t let him die in peace.

He stews in it for a while, too tired to cry. Too sick of everything to even care anymore. He won’t tell her though; couldn’t let it all go to waste. She’ll find out anyway, he knows, she has her sources.

Yet, he has more important things to focus on, Arthur will either come back, or he won’t. But his wound stays. The giddiness is gone, replaced with something else. Something warm, like a fire in his stomach.

He presses down on his abdomen. as he sighs sharply through his nose, it helps with the increasing pain, stabbing his bone and overtaking his senses.

His lungs struggle to breathe, it feels as if they’re filling with water as he drowns; his whole body burns as his back arches and writhes. It’s like there’s thousands of needles being pushed into him from everywhere, as if the needles had been pulled out from a fire before being inserted into him- red hot and painful, so painful. He wants to stand up, to run and jump into a lake, but his legs feel like jelly, he can’t move. It hurts so much. He hears distant echoes of screams; they’re probably coming from him. And just like that, it starts to ebb. The needles being pulled out hurts more, but the small burns they leave behind are definitely better than it was before. He slumps down against a tree, numb.

He feels his eyes droop. His pain is still shooting through his body, but at least he has some time before he has to feel it again.

He wakes up again in some time, not sure when. It doesn't hurt as much as it did before. He’s just tired. He lays there for what feels like hours, but the sun hasn’t even set, so it was probably a few minutes.

To his immense surprise, he comes back. Arthur… comes back.

"Come back to finish the job, huh?" Merlin snarls, refusing to believe that maybe he came back to help him because he cared for him. It's too good to be true. Arthur is compassionate and he is kind, but not to magic users. "One stab wound wasn't enough for you?"

Arthur's already been saved from the imminent death of his which has been prophesied for a few centuries already, Merlin no longer has to worry, and he doesn't want to either. If this is his reward, to be called a coward, to be ignored and hut out, what everything had been leading up to, he might as well have died years ago. He used to wake up with only Arthur in mind, He loved him, still does. He’s not going to go out any other way.

He was the reason he lived, and he is the reason Merlin is going to die.

Arthur recoils in shock, his mouth is hanging open a little.

Good , Merlin thinks, he needs a wake-up call.

"What?" He asks.

Merlin hopes his expression can convey his feelings and how unamused he is because his throat is clogged up and he's too exhausted to say a word more. He may be a warlock, but it doesn’t change the fact that he is in unbearable pain.

Arthur looks at him as if he's grown a second head. "You- you thought I was going to kill you?"

There's no reply. Arthur comes forward, stops when he sees how scared the other man becomes. He sits down onto the cold, hard ground. "Merlin," he says softly, "I, I'm angry at you, I'm not going to lie, but I would never, never kill you. I- how could you even-" he trails off, he kicks some dirt glumly. "Just, we’ll talk about this when we're back home, okay? When you're better."

Arthur doesn't know how Merlin could think that. He would never- he didn’t even imagine doing anything other than demoting him, at most. He feels betrayed, and he feels let down. But this is Merlin. If he practiced magic, there must have been a good reason.

Fuck. Has he been that bad of a friend? Has he been so distant that Merlin thought Arthur was going to kill him? He knows he should be angrier, and just a few hours ago, he was. He was ready to yell and to scream and to rage, but then he thought of Morgana. About how he used to love her, and how she changed when he turned her away, He doesn’t want the same to happen to Merlin, doesn’t want him to change too. If Merlin dies because Arthur abandons him, he will never forgive himself.

So, as he snuffs out the fire and tries to cover up his tracks, because he knows Morgana will be looking for them, he doesn’t say anything. When he picks Merlin up and places him on the horse, he tries to be as gentle as he can. When he squeezes Merlin's hand in what he hopes is comforting, he just hopes Merlin doesn’t hate him completely.

Merlin floats in and out of consciousness for what he thinks is a day, but he can’t be sure. When he first wakes up, he’s trotting along on a horse, Arthur behind him, and then he’s in front of a fire, sitting on the ground, then the horse again. Once, he wakes up to strangled screams, but he’s not sure what was going on. He’s too scared to ask. The fifth time he wakes up, however, it’s different. It’s not a coincidence, it’s on purpose, Arthur is shaking him awake. He makes out that they are next to the lake, where he has sent away so many corpses already.

It's calm and serene, obvious to all that is happening around it.

“Wha-” he starts to say blearily, he knows they haven’t reached Camelot yet, so what is going on?

Arthur silences him by placing a hand on his mouth. “We’ve got company,” he whispers. Merlin stiffens up, never a good thing. Not when you’re trekking through the woods, your companion and you both in bad conditions, both starving, one run through with a sword. Not when your companion is the ruler of kingdom which has war being waged against it.

“Arthur,” he says, his voice still sounding heavy and drowsy.

“What?” His mouth feels swollen, and he is incredibly tired, but he can tell he’s agitated, so he doesn't beat around. “Use the sword."

He looks surprised, the expression he hates. The one he uses whenever he realises that he underestimates everyone around him. "I think I know how to use a sword better than you do, Mer lin."

Prat.

"I mean, don't use your old sword, use Excalibur. It can kill anything. " Saying even this much feels like he just ran from Ealdor to Camelot without break, but he manages.

He opens his mouth to reply, but then his eyes widen. "Did you hear that?" His voice is low but urgent. Merlin blinks, he didn't hear anything other than the wind and- oh, he hears it now. There's distant screaming, coming from a woman from what it sounds like. It's barely noticeable, but the sounds of footsteps and something heavy being dragged on the forest floor towards them is much, much louder.

They exchange glances, only for a second. Merlin gestures towards the sword and Arthur nods, not questioning him for once.

Merlin tries to speak, he wants to help, but his throat is becoming clogged, and his vision is becoming blurry and- I am not going to survive. He thinks, before his eyes roll back into his head, and he passes out once more.

Arthur does not dare to say anything, or to do anything, other than stay frozen in his spot, sword in hand.

The noises are coming closer and closer. The screams have subsided now, but the steps have not. He knows he should highball out of there, but he has a feeling that whatever is coming their way cannot be outrun, and 50% of his lessons in swordplay focuses only on telling him to follow his gut.

"Emrys," says a voice. He inhales sharply, he recognizes that voice; knows it better than he has any right too.

"Morgana," he breathes.

She pouts, looking disappointed. "Seems like our Emrys isn't awake. Shame, I wanted him to see you die." She says it casually, as if she tells her once-brother that she’s going to kill him every day.

He reminds himself - this is not his sister, not the woman he grew up with. If he doesn’t kill her, she will kill him. And she will take his kingdom.

But he never meant for them to get caught up in this, he had to control himself. He can’t rush to hug her or stab her. He can see a flicker of what she used to be, the brave, young woman. He needs her to hold onto that. If she doesn’t, he will have to do it. And he really, really doesn’t want to.

But as she lunges at him, the flicker ebbs out. She has slipped through his hands, and she has changed. She has been carried away by the waves of sorcery, and it has ruined her. He remembers her being his hero when they were young, when they used to sneak out of the castle to look at the stars. Her arguing with Uther over whether it was right to commit genocide, the irony of which has stuck with him. Her teaching him to use the sword, having already mastered it herself. Her forcing him to make friends with Gwen, who grew to become his ex-lover and best friend and surrogate queen. The memories keep on coming, and they don't stop. But she, like everyone else, changed. No matter what time, she is different now. It will never come back. He wants to go back, when they were innocent and naive, when everything was left for them to discover.

But he can’t.

So he fights back instead.

It's all he can do to make his hands steady as his blade sinks into her stomach, as he buries it deeper and deeper until it comes out on the other side. She looks surprised, then grim. She'll be alive for a few days, at most, a few minutes, at best.

But he can't bear to leave her suffering, alive but dying, tortured. So, he stabs her again, this time aiming for the heart, and again. And again. And again. When he is sure that she's dead, he stops, sliding onto his knees. He glares at the sword in contempt. He killed her; he killed his sister.

No .

He killed the woman who wanted to burn his kingdom to the ground. He had no other choice.

But what sort of person is he? He's killed both his knight and his former sister on the same day, with the same sword.

He grips it harder, then looks at the lake. He needs to get rid of it, that's what he needs to do. No one can find out what happened today, he can't let them. He raises it and throws it in. He had thought it would land on the banks, considering how heavy it is, but it doesn't. Instead, the sword flies out of his grip, and cuts through the air, towards the lake. He swears he can see a hand reaching out of the water to catch it, but it's probably a trick of the light.

He turns to her body laid on the ground, eyes open and unblinking, mouth looking as if gasping for breath, cloak sprawled around her like wings. She's dead.

Somehow, he knows if he had used the other sword, she would not be; he knows enough about magic to realise that the high priestess cannot be taken down by a normal weapon.

But Excalibur was not normal, was it? Just another thing to add to his list of questions.

It takes him thirty more minutes to dispose of her body in the lake, staring as it sinks deeper into the water. He doesn't look away, no. He deserves this. He has to remember, and he will.

He doesn't move for a long, long time. Only goes so when he realizes that, although she is dead, Merlin is not yet. Arthur intends to keep it that way. He turns his back on her. Every step drains him, but he does it.

He can't be left alone again.

It takes them two more days to arrive in Camelot. All of it passes in awkward silence, with Merlin getting paler and paler with every passing second. Arthur doesn’t say anything out loud, but his mind is racing. He doesn’t think of them. He can’t. So he focuses on magic instead. He’s not sure if he trusts magic fully, even now, but maybe he should be more open-minded. Maybe he should give it a chance. Maybe it'll be different than it was with Morga- her.

When he arrives, it is completely different to what he had expected. There are mourners, of course. People in white, downcast expressions, closed windows, doors painted black. But there are also red banners hanging everywhere, citizens cheering as he rides past, ignoring Merlin behind him. Cries of "she is dead" and "the war is over". People are grieving, and there are those celebrating. He doesn't ask how they know of her death, he doesn't want to know. They tell him anyway. Apparently, the army stopped attacking, all of a sudden. They had cried, and shouted, and had turned back. It is unclear why, but Arthur knows he is the reason. Morgana dying at his hands is the reason.

Some help him get to Gaius', seeing how unamused he looks. They clear out the road, offer them water. Arthur is grateful for them, glad that at least some of his people acknowledged the dying man and had tried to help.

The physician is busy when he throws the door open, Merlin in tow. There are many, many people here. All with varying degrees of injuries. Arthur can’t bear to look at them. It’s his fault. It’s all his fault. So he ignores them, marches up to him.

“He’s- he’s been stabbed,” he chokes out.

Gaius’ eyes widen, and he rushes to follow Arthur. He lays Merlin out on one of the few empty beds, his body sprawls out on it. It’s sickening to look at as if he’s dead already.

He sets to work immediately, ordering Arthur to fetch herbs and vials and all sorts of things he doesn’t know the uses of. The people around them stare at him blankly, as if they know he’s the king, but they don’t fully recognise him.

He knows when he is not needed anymore, and backs away to watch. It's odd, and it feels so wrong. It's wrong to watch as Merlin is cut open and healed. Like he's invading his privacy. Merlin deserves better than to be put on a show in front of so many people.

He does try to help. Tries to tell as many people as he can to move to the castle, where he is sure more doctors would be willing to help, but some are in too bad of a condition to be moved as they are tended to by nurses. So he elects to focus on his friend instead.

Gaius' hands have always been steady, for as long had Arthur had known him. He cuts open bodies without worry, without even flinching. Which is not the case today, he notices. No, his hands are shaking. Not much as to be obvious, but he's known the man for far too long to not be able to tell when he's scared.

He thinks Merlin is going to die .

Arthur recoils violently. He doesn't know where the thought came from, because it's not true. It can’t be.

Merlin is going to survive. He tells himself.

Merlin. Is. Going. To. Survive.

Merlinisgoingtosurvive

MerlinisgoingtosurviveMerlinisgoingtosurvuveMerlinisgoingtosurvive

He repeats under his breath, rocking himself back and forth on his heels until he almost believes it. He has to.

He's not sure where the time has passed, because Gaius is in front of him all of a sudden but Arthur remembers him standing over the table just seconds ago.

Gaius shakes his head and it takes a few minutes for it to register in his mind. Arthur can't be looking at him, and his heartbreaking face. Just like him, Gaius' only support was Merlin. Was. Not is, was. Merlin is barely dead, and Arthur is already starting to think of him as a memory.

The physician knows what it feels like, but Arthur doesn't care.

"You should've done better," he hisses. He doesn't regret it. Doesn’t regret causing the shock he’s caused Gaius. But it's his fault too. He's the one Merlin took a sword for. But he needs to blame someone else. Because he doesn't want to think of the implications of Merlin dying at his hands. Gaius looks at him as if he is about to break, so Arthur walks away. From him, towards the corpse. He can't bear to face another person he's hurt.

It can't be true. There's got to be something he can do, something. He can't die, he can’t fucking die. Not when there's not much left to say. Not when they've just won. It's supposed to be a thing to celebrate, a war ending, he can't mourn. He can't give a speech to his kingdom which wasn't written by his best friend. Can't lose him. He doesn't think he'll be able to live without him.

He doesn't want to. He won't.

Merlin looks too much at peace, content in a way Arthur hasn't seen him in a long time. His long lashes casting shadows onto his freckled skin, his lips are twisted into a scowl, but he is at peace. He still looks the same, though. Beautiful and striking. Arthur's rock.

And dead.

Arthur’s hands move at their own accord, to stroke the side of his face. A sob escapes him before he can stop it, pushing through his throat. His people need assurance, and him crying like a bloody fool won't help. But that's the last thing on his mind. All he knows is Merlin is dead.

He isn’t able to stop staring, can't help wondering what he will do now. Whether the body will be burned or buried. He will be given a hero's funeral, it's no less than he deserves. He will be clothed in Camelot’s colours, or maybe his Ealdor's. Hunith would know better.

Oh lord, Hunith. She will have to find out through a letter. No. Arthur will have to go to tell her. He can't let her go through it alone.

He's about to turn away, to tell someone to help him move the body when his lips move.

Merlin's mouth opens, just a little bit, but enough to tell that he's alive.

Arthur feels a shock go through him. It was just an illusion.

Right?

"Merlin?" he asks. It can't be true, no matter how much he wants it to be. It was probably a trick of the light, but that can't be right. Because Merlin's eyes are opening and he's staring at him and some colour is returning to his cheeks and oh-

This the man he loves. And he waking up.

"Ar- Arth," he begins but Arthur shushes him. He’s alive, he’s speaking. He doesn’t know how, but it’s real. It’s actually real.

"I'm here," he assures him "I'm here." He shocks even himself as he leans down to kiss him. He's even more surprised when Merlin kisses him back. It only lasts a second before he pulls back, but he just kissed Merlin. It was rough, it wasn't perfect. But he's breathing. They're both here. He can't ask for more.

"Wha- what was," he exhales through his nose, as if speaking taxes him, "that for?"

"I wanted to," he says, shrugging, still not over the euphoria. He just lost him, he’s never going to again. The least he can do is not hide from the truth. "And, I, I also kind of love you. Like, I’m in love with you."

His eyes widen a fraction, but Arthur can tell he’s too tired to question it further.

He wants to say more, he has so many questions as to how he's still breathing, when he started practicing magic, why, but he doesn’t. He has time, they have all the time in the world.

He turns his back, yelling for Gaius. The physician shows up immediately, face lighting up when he takes in the sight of his son very much not-dead.

"We'll figure it out," he says, though he's not sure he heard him over the noise. "We'll figure it out." He grins. Yeah, they'll figure it out.

He swears, Merlin is beaming right back at him.

51 notes · View notes

ladyhallen · 4 years

Text

I Am Not A Sacrifice (She Is A Gift)

Read on AO3 | FFNET

When Sansa was a fourteen, a dragon came to the North.

It was large, pale and blended terrifyingly well with the snow. It also ate its body weight in cattle, something that had Sansa’s father age ten years before his time.

“We cannot kill that dragon,” she remembered him saying. “Its hide is as thick as a boulder and our blades would just bounce off it. It breaths ice and snow and it causes an avalanche every time it moves its tail or its wings.”

There was despair in Winterfell and Sansa did her best to be extra behaved. It wasn’t fair to her parents to have to worry about Sansa when they had a dragon to worry about as well. She ushered her siblings into being careful and Robb, for the first time, seemed to understand and helped as well. He didn’t go about with Theon in Wintertown and instead took over some of fathers duties.

And then they received news that the dragon had asked for a meeting with all the lords of the North.

“It must be a trap!” Sansa’s mother said. Her red hair, usually up in a careful braid, was loose and frazzled, a reflection of how the dragon worried her.

“We have no choice,” Sansa’s father said. His face was grim and unsmiling. Not even Arya could make him laugh. “If we do not reach a compromise, that dragon will eat us out of food and all the winter stores in a week.”

All the lords of the North converged on Winterfell, and it was a testament to the size of the castle that it managed to host all the lords, and all the guards that the lords brought with them.

Sansa had been practicing being a hostess in a while and she did her best to help her mother. It made mother smile, which was something of an accomplishment in itself.

Then, the dreaded day came and the dragon arrived. Its wingspan blocked out the sky and a great cry of fear came up from everyone.

Sansa looked out of the battlements where she had sneaked out with her siblings, Robbs head beside hers and Arya’s fingers tight in her hand. Rickon wiggled and went still while Bran just gasped in awe. Sansa took deep breaths. Her siblings would make fun of her forever if she fainted.

“You are all here, good,” the dragon said, voice deep and roiling like a thunderstorm. “I will speak, and you will listen.”

“Not like you gave us a choice, you’ve almost starved us to death here,” GreatJon Umber bellowed back at the dragon.

The dragon reared back its great head and roared. “I will speak, and you will listen!” making everyone’s ears ring.

There was a moment of terrified silence, and then Sansa’s father moved forward.

“Speak then, and we will listen,” Sansa’s father yelled up at the dragon.

The dragon rumbled and there was a moment of panic, before they all realized that yes, the dragon was pleased. Purring, like a cat.

“My name is Gilgamesh, and I am here to give you all a warning,” it rumbled. “A great Winter is coming, a storm of snow, ice and hail that will envelope your country for long, long years. If you are not careful, you will all die of the hunger and the starvation.”

There was a great deluge of whispers, but under the dragons gimlet stare, went quiet again.

“I notice that there is a heart tree here, a proper one. Good. If a Stark Monarch bleeds on the tree during Winter, you can lessen Winters hold on the land,” the dragon pronounced. “A week for every cup of blood.”

“There are no Stark Monarchs,” Robb hissed in her ear. “Or Kings or Queens at all. Ever since the Targaryen conquest, there have been no Stark Kings.”

Sansa looked at her pale brother. He seemed to understand what the dragon was saying. Sansa too felt that dawning horror of the inevitable.

“Lastly,” the dragon rumbled. “I am dying. My child is coming and will be of great aid to you, for he breathes fire. You will all take good care of my child, for he was born the Eternal Flame of Summer. You will need his Flame during your Long Winter.”

With that, the dragon sat on his haunches and stared at them all, seeming to catch the Stark siblings hiding by the battlements. “Now, you shall speak, and I will listen,” the dragon announced.

The noise that erupted was insane. Sansa let go of Arya’s hand and covered her ears. She did not let her eyes away from the dragon. It seemed displeased at the noise.

“The Long Night,” someone said. “You speak of the Long Night. It is a myth!”

“Food stores that will last for ages!” someone else said. “How on earth do you expect us to save that much food? That’s insane! It would rot!”

“You can’t expect us to host another dragon willingly! You’re eating habits are going to starve us to death, we don’t have to wait for Winter!” Sansa’s mother yelled.

The dragon rumbled again, waiting for all the questions to stop.

“I will answer, and you will listen,” he said. “If the Long Night is a myth, it is the same in that dragons are a myth. Look at me, and tell me I am not real.”

He glared at all of them with great yellow eyes. No one moved, or breathed, their courage all deserting them as they all suddenly remembered that yes, dragon.

“I will teach you how to preserve food that will last for years,” he added, looking at Master Wolken, who looked incredibly pale under the dragons attention. “And lastly, it is an exchange. If I was to give you knowledge that was incredibly valuable, then I must also get something of equal value.”

Sansa felt that knowledge settle deep in her bones. Equal Value.

“My child will not eat as much, but he will still eat, since he is the Eternal Flame. But he will also hunt, so it will be a fair trade,” the dragon finished. “I will go now, but I will come back. You must all decide wisely, for my time here is not long.”

The dragon left, as though he had not rearranged their entire lives.

“The Long Night,” Bran said. “And people called Old Nan crazy!”

“Do you think it will be very cold?” Arya asked.

Sansa shivered. “I hope everything will be alright,” Sansa said. “But father will do his best.”

Robb’s hands were warm against her back but he looked terrified.

That night, Sansa dreamed. The dragon had looked at her, she knew. Looked at her and found her worthy. Sansa hadn’t realized how lonely she felt among her family, that with just a look, a dragon could make her feel less alone.

“Child,” he spoke, voice calmer and less of a rumbling mass of force. “Why do you weep?”

“There are no more Stark Monarchs,” she whispered. “And our people are divided. We may yet die. I will fight for my people, but I do not know how.”

He hummed. “If I teach you, you will know. You will learn.”

“But will it hurt? Equal Value,” Sansa whispered.

The dragons eyes gleamed. “You listen well. I admire that. But the price for what I will teach you is without measure. You will know what your payment is when my child arrives.”

Every night Sansa slept, she dreamed of the dragon.

He taught her about leadership, about duty and about Stark Magic.

“Monarchy for the Starks is less about the title and more about the Magic, and the duty to the people,” Gilgamesh lectured. “Luckily for you, you are almost of age. Once you have turned eighteen, do not kneel for anyone. You may bow, but you must never kneel.”

“Does that mean, that we lost the title of Kings of Winter when we knelt, not when the crown was melted?” Sansa asked.

“Yes, for kings and queens will only kneel when they are conquered,” he said. “Now, have you found the Heart of Winterfell yet, Sansa?”

Sansa had found the hot springs, and the lesson proceeded.

Sansa understood what Gilgamesh meant when, a few days later, they receive news that the dragon was dead and Lord Bolton started talking about taking off the head as a trophy.

She entered the meeting chamber, with all the lords present and her siblings behind her watching her in awe.

“No,” she said to all those powerful men. “Gilgamesh the dragon, the truth speaker, will not have his head made into a trophy. He deserves better than that. He deserves to buried, or to be left alone. Let his bones rest peacefully, for he did us a great service.”

Father looked proud and everyone else looked at her strangely. Sansa stood tall and remembered not to be afraid. She would miss Gilgamesh desperately, but she knew it was his time.

And all of Winterfell waited for the arrival of the Eternal Flame, the great dragon and child of Gilgamesh the oracle; they were unprepared for the arrival of a teenaged boy carrying a sword.

“My name is Cor Leonis,” the boy said, eyes slitted like a cats – no - a dragons. Other than the scales in his arms and the horns pushing through his hair, he looked like a normal boy. “My father, Gilgamesh, bade me to come here.”

“You are the Eternal Flame, the great dragon?” Eddard Stark asked. He looked the boy up and down appraisingly. “You are smaller than I expected.”

Cor huffed, and a curl of smoke escaped his mouth. “I thought coming as a dragon would be alarming and eye catching. Also, I eat less in this shape.”

Everyone relaxed at that last sentence and Sansa had to hold back her giggles.

Perhaps it wasn’t as quiet as she thought, since his yellow eyes flicked to her immediately. He stared and Sansa stared back. The little bit of scale she could see peeking out of his clothes were fascinating. Weeks and weeks of having Gilgamesh as her teacher and she no longer feared dragons.

Eddard Stark cleared his throat pointedly, making Cor’s eyes snap to him again. “Kindly do not stare at my daughter,” he said pointedly.

“She smells of my father’s scent. He has crowned her a queen,” Cor announced, to absolute pandemonium.

There was, inevitably, a meeting.

Father, mother, Robb and all the lords who were given instructions to keep quiet. Lady Mormont looked intrigued. And of course, Cor Leonis.

“Sansa, tell us everything,” Mother said. “Where were you meeting the dragon and when?”

Sansa shook her head. She placed her hands on her lap and stared at them all quietly. “I met him in my dreams. Gilgamesh asked me for why I was crying even in my sleep, and I told him I worried that everyone in the North was going to starve despite our best efforts, because there were no more Stark Monarchs ever since the Targaryen Conquest. He said that it did not matter, because he would teach me.”

“Why you!?” Robb burst out, looking frustrated and worried in equal measure. “Surely I could hold it better.”

Cor sighed. “Gil chose her, because when she heard about blood and the Heart Tree, she was willing to bleed to death at its roots, if only to provide her people with a bit of summer.”

“Sansa,” Mother whispered, face pale. “Dear one…”

Father rounded on Cor. “She does not have to die to provide us all summer. We can manage the food stores.”

“No, a good monarch chooses duty over all else, even family,” Cor pointed out. “That, and having a heart of compassion. Can you look at her and tell me that Gil chose wrong?”

There was silence and then laughter from Lady Mormont.

“Look at all you men, alarmed that a woman was chosen,” she laughed. “If it was your boy, Bran, chosen, this would not be so troubling. But because she is a woman, you are all questioning her. Leave her be. Teach her, she is already chosen by the dragon.”

“Gil has already taught me,” Sansa said. “And we need to dig under the Glittering Crag. It has silicone sand, Gil said. A bit of steel and glass, and all of the North will have glass gardens. It’ll be a bit of a stretch, but we can then have Glass Farms!”

Sheer, utter pandemonium.

Sansa watched Cor give a small smile and wanted to see it again.

Winterfell and Wintertown became a hive of activity.

Cor’s use became evident as he started sketching out diagrams, teaching people to read and then just overhauling their entire education system just so that he could have skilled workers.

He drew out plans, scouted out the terrain, hunted some deer and slept as a boy by the large hearth of the castle.

Sansa never saw his dragon shape and she yearned to. She wondered if he would be as big as his sire, and felt her cheeks heat when she remembered his strength in singlehandedly holding up the roof of the workshop so that the people could hammer in the nails.

But Sansa had no time to think about that, except in the dead of the night.

Now that she was announced heir, all the duties that Robb had fell on to her, and some of Fathers and Mothers as well.

In retaliation, she conscripted Jeyne to be her right hand and Beth to supervise what Cor and the workers were up to in making the glass farms.

Sansa was busy, so she neglected her siblings. This was a mistake, because the next thing she knew, Arya had launched a mud pie at her dress as she was crossing the courtyard.

She felt numb. She had embroidered the dress personally, and sewn on the bodice. The dress was her once a year allowance to buy cloth. And Arya had just ruined it. She went away inside so that she wouldn’t cry and continued to walk, ignoring the mud and everyone smiling meanly at her.

She would have started crying in her office, except that Cor immediately swooped in and scolded Arya, her other siblings watching and all the spectators who did nothing to stop it.

Sansa stopped and stared, feeling warmer and touched that someone, at least, understood.

And Arya had to ruin it by opening her large mouth.

“You’re just defending her because she’s pretty!” Arya said meanly. “You’re such a boy, even if you’re a dragon.”

Cor just. Stopped. His eyes contracted and his hands clenched. Behind him, there was a massive rip as his trousers tore and his massive tail manifested, an evidence of his loss of temper.

“What does that have to do with respect?” Cor demanded. “I would defend her even if she was a boy, and not just because she’s pretty. She’s working herself to the bone for all of you, and you, you spoiled child, are not even helping her. She is exhausted every day, and you throw mud at her. She has managed to singlehandedly allocate supplies for three years, more if I’m counting right. A couple more months and she can manage to store food for five. That’s just from what I’ve seen. Meanwhile, I have never seen you work a day in your life.”

Sansa continued walking and felt like she was flying.

Sansa never really talked to Cor alone, because their duties ran parallel and didn’t really intersect. Aside from that first meeting, she and Cor were rarely alone.

That changed, because as soon as Sansa changed her clothes and had a bath, she sought him out where he was checking barrels for storing barley and flour.

“Ser Cor,” she said. “Thank you.”

He stood up. He seemed to have changed trousers as well and his eyes shone in the dark of the cellar. “Not a Ser. And there is no need for thanks. I am sorry I lost my temper. My manifestation must have been a surprise.”

Sansa shook her head. “No, never! I mean, you have been holding your shape for months on end. You must manifest sometimes.”

“You’re…not afraid,” he said, less a question and more a statement.

“No,” she said quietly. Up close, his eyes weren’t really yellow but a lovely shade of burnished gold that refracted the light. His hair was many shades of dark brown. “No. At the start, I may have been afraid of Gilgamesh, but as I knew him, I was no longer afraid. But you…I was never afraid of you.”

And then…he smiled.

In the dark of the night, when she was all alone and no one was around, Sansa remembered that smile and pressed cool hands to hot cheeks.

Later, many months later, when the Long Night came and Cor manifested fully as a grown dragon and breathed fire to keep everyone in Winterfell warm, Sansa would remember being the only one who did not cower at his size.

She held her head high and did not bow to him and Cor hummed in pleasure.

And when the food stores would get low, Sansa would bleed. The howling winds would lessen and her people would be able to hunt, watched and protected by Cor’s dragon eyes.

The first three years were fine and Cor continued to push people to salvage. Sansa knew that it would last longer than five years and agreed with him. Getting food from the other kingdoms would do for later, when the stores were almost empty.

The Glass Farms proved their weight in gold when it kept everyone in the North fed for years. Sansa was thoroughly sick of radishes and scallions, and so was everyone else, she suspected. She missed real meat that was not preserved or salted or broiled.

The last two years, as Sansa would remember, were the hardest. The glass farms had a leak from all the ice and stopped production for three months. Sansa finally had to asked her father to ship food from Essos.

“And if all else fails, we can ask the Reach,” Sansa said.

“They charge through the nose,” Father muttered. His cheeks were thin, but he was flush with health. The heat Cor produced just by being near was significant.

“Needs must,” Sansa sighed. “And we can sell all the wool we’ve been making.”

Given that some days, the snow fall was crazy, everyone had been spinning wool. Or carving. Or sewing. Or some variation of all three.

Cor finally finished the copper tubes he had asked for and installed them in every house in the North. There was a great deal of grumbling as no carpenter or tradesman wanted to be out in the snow. But the promise of warm houses forever more was too good to pass up.

He breathed a long and sustained flame in every house hearth and the flame settled on the logs and didn’t consume wood. It sat on the wood, but did not burn. It was warmer than ordinary fire.

“Is that…the Eternal Flame?” Sansa had to ask. Both of them sat in her solar, as was their custom after a long day of work.

Cor shook his head. “It is just dragon fire. Gilgamesh was being poetic.”

Sansa giggled and Cor smiled at her fondly.

“Cor,” she said when the fire was winding down and her eyes drooped. “When the winter is over, will you stay?” With me? She wanted to add, but was too afraid to do so.

Cor’s eyes dilated, as they did when he was experiencing great emotion. “Sansa, my queen. I would stay until you tell me to leave.”

With her heart in her throat, Sansa held out a hand, and Cor held it carefully, aware of the scales in his fingers. She felt warm and it had nothing to do with Cor’s heat.

“As queen in all the North,” she told him, like she’s sharing a secret. “I can marry who I wish.”

“As a dragon of magic and fire,” he answered. “No one dictates who I marry.”

The first kiss tasted like heat and magic and Sansa finally, finally understood Gilgamesh’s price.

Staring down at her first born, Sansa looked at the golden eyes and dark scales.

“His name shall be Gillian,” she announced.

In the afterlife, Gilgamesh laughed.

#fanfiction #sancor #ffxv #asoiaf #sansa stark #cor leonis #crossover #au #dragon au #ffxvxasoiaf

44 notes · View notes

originalhybridloverfics · 3 years

Text

Good To You - CH 24

A/N: I'm sorry for the insanely long wait but I hope the length of the chapters makes up for it!

Updates are really slow for me, I have some family stuff that came up, if you follow me on tumblr or twitter you probably already know about it, and on top of that I got sucked into another fandom that has consumed me.

I want to thank everyone who is still reading this story despite the unbelievably slow updates.

Genevieve and Celeste stroll through the cemetery.

“Oh, I remember this cemetery. Hmm. Hasn't changed a bit.” Genevieve mused.

“I've been coming here over a century, wearing one face or another,” Celeste replied.

~*~ ~*~ ~* ~

1919

Genevieve approaches a woman kneeling in front of a tomb in the Lafayette cemetery, praying to her ancestors.

“Clara Summerlin, will you come on?” Genevieve complained. “We're gonna miss everything.”

The two walk over to where a crowd of witches is standing around a bonfire, playing conga drums and watching as a witch dance around the flames. Papa Tunde walks out with an albino python around his shoulders, which he hands to his twin sons after clapping in order to quiet the crowd.

“Told you. Every witch in the Quarter is here to see the great Papa Tunde,” said Genevieve.

“Witches of the French Quarter, thank you for your welcome.” Papa Tunde addressed the crowd of witches. “It is good to be among people of the faith. I, too, practice ancestral magic, honoring those who walked the path before us. From them, we draw strength. And you will need strength, for a great darkness is coming. The city your forefathers left you is now overrun by pirates, beasts, and vampires.”

Papa Tunde takes the python from his sons and throws it into the fire, and many of the witches gasp in surprise and fear.

“I practice other magic, as well. Sacrificial magic, channeling power from the lives of my offerings.” Papa Tunde explained. “I use this strength to vanquish my enemies, and I will punish your enemies for their greed. In return, you will accept my family into your coven, and me as your leader.”

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

1919

Two men enter the room and join Elijah and a police officer at a table where a meeting was taking place.

“Gentlemen, make yourselves at home.” Elijah greeted. “Mayor O'Connell appears to be running late, but there's much to discuss, so I shall begin.”

Klaus walked down the stairs to join them. “One moment, please, brother. You know how much I enjoy these illicit, little gatherings.”

“Do not be troubled. Despite my brother's reputation, I can assure you, we've invited you here to broker in peace.” Elijah assured the men. “You have my word.”

“And, lucky for you, my brother always keeps his word,” Klaus told them. “You two are from the Guerrera crime family, a brutish pack of thieves and killers. And that's nothing compared to what you become on a full moon, is it?”

“Yes, yes, yes. Of course, a bite from your kind is not lethal to an Original. Conflict between us would not end well for you at all,” Elijah cautioned. “Let's state our proposal here. My brother and I control the ports of the city, but with Prohibition soon to be the law of the land, there'll be a certain uptick in the kind of federal presence we prefer to avoid. Therefore, I'd like to suggest a system whereby, under our supervision, of course, the Guerrera family can traffic alcohol into the city of New Orleans for a profit. We would still be in charge, but our rule would remain a secret.”

Papa Tunde walks into the room with his sons following behind him.

“This all sounds very good, but tell me, how will it benefit the witches?” asked Papa Tunde.

“I am sorry.” Said Elijah. “This is a private meeting.”

“Yes, for kings of the city, but I, too, am a king, and I have rules,” replied Papa Tunde.

“I'm impressed. You're either quite ambitious or quite mad. What's your name, mate?” asked Klaus.

“I am Alphonse Bellatunde Delgado, Papa Tunde to my followers, and I come to ask that the witches be granted fair tribute for allowing your existence in our city.” Papa Tunde responded.

“Are you suggesting that you speak for the French Quarter witches?” Elijah questioned.

“I do now, and I expect our future negotiations to go very smoothly.” Papa Tunde answered. “As a guarantee, I brought a gift. I await our next gathering.”

A small leather case is placed on the table. Papa Tunde and his sons leave. Everyone else gathers around as Klaus lifts the lid on the trunk to reveal a head inside with a symbol carved into his forehead.

“Well, I suppose we'll need a new mayor,” Klaus said.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

Marcel walked into the Abattoir Courtyard Davina and Josh beside him.

Marcel grabbed a table with Davina and Josh. Davina was supposed to be meeting with Sophie at Caroline’s request to start searching for a way to save Katherine.

Most of Marcel’s guys weren’t happy that Klaus was now in charge and Marcel appeared to be following his lead without question. And were shocked to see Davina alive and well having believed she was dead after learning the truth about her and Marcel’s connection with her.

Diego sees him enter and approaches. He walks over to the table Marcel had chosen.

“Hey, Marcel, maybe you know what's going on. Klaus ordered us to meet here, and now he's a no-show.” he looked at Davina. “And how are you alive?”

“Caroline,” Davina answered simply.

“Klaus has a lot on his hands to deal with. Give him time.” Marcel told him.

“Like what?” Diego challenged but before Marcel could answer. Klaus enters the room with Caroline and on his other side is Thierry.

“Dearest brethren, your attention, please.” Klaus’s voice ringed loudly through the courtyard. “No doubt, you're all surprised to see Thierry Vanchure, who's supposed to be rotting in the Garden for the crime of killing one of our own, and I personally decided to issue him with a pardon.” Klaus declared. “I hope you'll all welcome home Thierry.”

Thierry smiles and gives Diego a hug.

“Welcome home, man,” Diego told him.

“Now some of you may see the difference with Caroline.” Klaus continues, pressing his hand to her lower back and the other resting on her stomach. “It turns out the wolf Hayley who I had believed to be carrying my children was working with the witches all along and had stolen my children from their true mother. Now they are back where they belong and the witches will soon pay for what one of their own has done.”

Caroline forced a smile before moving toward Marcel’s table, ignoring the stares of disbelief she was receiving. “Davina, thanks for coming.”

“You said you needed my help,” Davina replied.

Caroline frowned, tilting her head at the younger girl. “You know you don’t have to help me just because I helped you, right?”

“Caroline, you saved my life.” Davina countered. “I owe you everything.”

“No, you don’t,” Caroline told her. “I didn’t save your life so you would feel indebted to me. I want you to live your life how you want. I do want your help but I don’t want you to feel obligated that you have to. You can say no.”

Davina smiled. “I know, that’s why I want to help you. You're not like everyone else.”

“As long as you know you have a choice.” Caroline gestured to the stairs. “Let’s go see Katherine.”

Davina smiled and linked their arms.

“You too, Josh,” Caroline called over her shoulder as she started up the stairs.

“Coming.” Josh quickly followed. “Hey, Caroline, any chance you have some blood bags lying around. I haven’t eaten all day..”

Marcel tuned out the sound of Josh's voice turning to Klaus as he took a seat across from him. “You're in a good mood,” Marcel said to Klaus. “You must really love the fact that Caroline is the mother of your children.”

“It’s definitely a gift,” Klaus responded. “But before I can truly celebrate this turn of events I have responsibilities that I need to tend to.” Klaus turns to address the crowd of vampires. “The witches have gone too far with their actions against Caroline. Actions they will pay for. However, since their Harvest failed, their magic will soon be gone forever. Now there has been a debate, on whether to kill them or keep them on their toes. I, however, want them dead, every last one. Diego, I wonder if you might lead a rousting in the cauldron. One that ends in blood and carnage.”

Diego smiles and starts to plan with the other vampires.

Marcel smiled. “As much as I would love to shed some witches' blood, especially after everything they put Davina through, I do have another girl to see so I will be taking a personal day.” Marcel stood and left. Confident that Davina would be fine in the compound with Caroline there.

Klaus' eyes narrowed, wondering where Marcel was headed and who he was going to see. Almost everyone he knew was at the compound.

Diego and the others looked up at the sound of multiple voices and a group of men, women and even a few children walked into the compound.

Klaus smiled at Zach and the other wolves and walked over to them. “Caroline has been expecting all of you. She’s currently occupied with helping someone who doesn’t deserve saving but until she has a moment free why don’t you get to know the place and divide up some of the empty rooms amongst yourselves.”

“We will be staying here?” Zach asked speaking up on the behalf of the wolves who were more than a little surprised.

“Caroline has insisted that you all stay with us and what Caroline wants she will get,” Klaus responded, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“What the hell is going on here?” Diego walked over, glaring darkly at Zach and his group of wolves.

“I’d like you to meet Zach and the rest of my pack,” Klaus smirked. “They will be staying here at the compound. Indefinitely.”

Diego's eyes darkened with hate. “You’re kidding, right? They terrorized the Quarter for centuries. It’s why Marcel ran them out of town.”

Zach stared Diego down. “Wrong pack. We don’t run from anyone. Not anymore. And we only came to New Orleans once we heard of Klaus’s children.”

Diego scoffed as more vampires gathered behind him.

“What he says is true. Zach is of my bloodline. Not the New Orlean wolves and they are welcome guests in my home and every single one of you will treat them so or face my wrath.” Klaus’s voice hardened like a steel blade.

The other vampires started yelling out their protest.

“Quiet.” Klaus thundered, eyes flashing, a growl emitting from deep in his chest.

Diego glared but was wary. “You expect vampires and werewolves to co-exist? You’re crazy.”

The other vampires' protest increased.

“Maybe so,” Klaus smirked. “But you will work together, starting today. Zach here will be joining in on the witch hunt.”

Diego glared but said nothing. Klaus was in charge and as of right now there wasn’t a thing he could do about it.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

Katherine looked over at the door as it was opened, feeling Elijah squeeze her hands in reassurance.

Caroline walked in followed by a girl who couldn’t be more than sixteen and a young male not much older than Caroline.

“Caroline,” Elijah greeted.

“Sorry to interrupt but I was hoping to check on Katherine and introduce her to Davina.”

“And why do I need to be introduced to kids?” Katherine raised a perfect brow as she sat up more in the bed. She had been feeling weaker and weaker. It was only a matter of time before her body completely gave out on her. She didn’t want to think about it, refusing to think of the fear that came with knowing you were going to die.

She hated it. She was Katherine Pierce, sick, frail, weak, was not the way she was supposed to go out. For the last 500 years, she had clawed and kicked and screamed to get everything she wanted to make it this long when she had a man like Klaus Mikaelson intent on killing her.

“Because Davina here is going to save your life.” Caroline wrapped her arms around Davina’s. “So if I were you I would be a little nicer.”

“Nice isn’t in my vocabulary.” Katherine retorted.

“Expand your vocabulary because without some witchy interference you're going to die soon.” Caroline stepped further into the room.

“And you care so much about my well being, why?” Katherine asked.

“For telling me the truth. Let’s not pretend we’ve ever been friends because it would be a lie. Still, this is my way of repaying you for once doing something when you had nothing to gain from it.”

“I wonder what Elena would say about you trying to save me?” Katherine taunted, trying to push Caroline’s buttons.

“I don’t much care what Elena has to say about it.” Caroline retorted. “This has nothing to do with her.”

Katherine smirked. “I gotta say, I’m warming up to you. Getting out of Mystic Falls suits you.”

Josh cleared his throat, making Caroline realize she hadn’t introduced him. “Oh, and this is Josh.”

Katherine looked him over. “He comes across as a puppy,”

“Puppy?” Josh wasn’t sure if he should be offended or not.

“Caroline,” Elijah interjected. “Just how do you intend to save Katherine's life. She is getting worse by the day. I’m not sure how much time she has.”

“Yes,” Katherine said. “How do you and this young witch plan on keeping me alive?”

“Well, I planned on seeing if Sophie knows anything or maybe looking at The Original Witch book of spells. Generations after generations of witches walk this city. Someone has to know something.”

“Caroline, I don’t think Sophie is going to be so keen to help,” Elijah interjected. “We’ve ruined all her plans and have taken her prisoner. Let’s not forget the torture.”

Caroline’s eyes darkened at the mention of Sophie. “Who said she had a choice in the matter?”

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

Sophie’s arms dangled above her from chains attached to the ceiling, her feet barely touching the ground, she had to stand on the tip of her toes, her shirt was soaked with blood, her neck covered in red stains.

Her skin pale and dark circles beneath her eyes, exhaustion coming off her in waves.

She looked up as a knock sounded on the door. The werewolf guarding her sent her a disdainful look and pulled the door open.

Caroline stepped in. She was alone. Davina was with Katherine, Josh had stayed with his friend.

“Did you really come here alone?” Sophie asked, eyes glaring. “How wise is that?”

Caroline moved forward. “You and I both know, you are too weak to do a thing to anyone, and secondly if you did anything and I mean anything you would be scattered in pieces across this floor.”

“What do you want?” Sophie asked through clenched teeth.

“Your help.” Caroline stepped closer, her eyes filled with hate.

“You have got to be joking!?” Sophie exclaimed in disbelief. “You’ve chained me up like an animal, tortured me, fed on me, healed me only to do it all over again. You keep me weakened and you expect me to help you?! You’re crazy!”

Caroline grabbed her by the neck, eyes blackening, her temper flaring. “You will do whatever I asked you to do. You live because I say so, because I allow it. The second I say otherwise you will be dead and forgotten. Don’t test me. The sight of you makes me see red and I want to rip you apart until there is nothing left. Even now I fight the urge to kill you. I rather delight in your screams as I slice you open and cause you excruciating pain.”

Sophie's eyes darkened and she looked at Caroline in revulsion. “You sound like Klaus. Has being with him changed you that much?”

“Being with Klaus has been the most freeing thing I’ve ever done,” Caroline said, feeling like the words were the most honest she ever was in her life. “Selfish, deplorable, disgusting individuals like Hayley and yourself have no legs to stand on moral ground.” Caroline pressed closer, her hand tightening on Sophie’s throat cutting off her air. “You can do as I ask or we can make this into another torture session. If you won’t do as I say. I will turn you into a vampire. I know from a friend that there is no worse fate than this for a witch. I’ve seen it. The disconnect a witch feels is hollow.”

Sophie glowered. She hated Caroline. She underestimated her and now she was just starting to realize who she was dealing with.

Sophie tried to pull back from Caroline’s hand. “Okay. Okay.” Caroline released her. “What do you want from me,” Sophie asked, struggling to breathe normally again.

“You’re going to help me save someone’s life.”

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

“Klaus.”

Klaus was in the middle of giving orders to the wolves and vampires, splitting them up into two separate parties when he heard his name from someone he wasn’t expecting to hear from anytime soon.

He turned to see Stefan standing in the middle of the courtyard. “Stefan, mate, what are you doing here?”

“I came to see Caroline?” Stefan’s brow furrowed as he saw all the people lined up awaiting further instructions. “What is going on here?”

Klaus turned back to the two groups. “You know your orders. Go.”

The wolves and vampires shared a hateful look and dispersed.

Klaus focused back on Stefan. “Now is not a good time.”

“Then it’s a good thing I’m not here for you, isn’t it?” Stefan replied.

Klaus tensed, a voice in his head whispering that Stefan was there to convince Caroline to leave him behind and go back to Mystic Falls.

“Look, Klaus, I’m not here to play games. I’m here to see my friend. You can tell me where she is or I can call her and tell her I’m here, either way, I’m not leaving.”

Klaus rolled his eyes heavenward. He would never hear the end of it from Caroline if he told her he sent Stefan away. She had such a soft spot for the younger Salvatore but so help him if he was there to take Caroline from him, he would find himself in Marcel’s Garden.

“Dwayne,”

Dwayne stepped forward seeming to move out of the shadows startling Stefan.

“Take Stefan here to Caroline, then if she wishes for you to leave do so,” Klaus ordered.

Dwayne’s face brightened. He wanted, needed to be near Caroline.

He started walking, not even stopping to see if Stefan was following.

Stefan shot Klaus an uncertain look before following behind Dwayne.

Dwayne led him down a corridor and down a flight of stairs, the sound of a bloodcurdling scream had him, stopping. His mind screamed that Caroline needed his help and he took off on a run past Dwayne. He burst into a room, slamming the door open with his shoulder. “Caroline!” he looked around the room frantically and froze.

A dark-haired girl was strapped to a med table, blood pouring down her skin, dripping into a large puddle on the floor, she was crying out in agony, she tried to thrash around, attempting to get away, to break free but was restrained tightly to the table with barely any movement. When she turned her head his way, shaking from the pain, Stefan recognized her.

Hayley Marshall.

His eyes shot to the blonde standing over her, pouring something over the girl. The blonde’s back was to him, he couldn’t see who it was but he knew he had to stop her. What did Hayley do to deserve to be tortured like this? Her cries were echoing off the walls, the stench of blood filled the air.

He moved forward grabbing the girl by the arm spinning her around. “Stop, what are you-” Stefan released the blonde, taking a step back in shock. “Caroline?!”

“Stefan, what are you doing here?” She pushed her hair back from her face, streaks of blood coating the blonde strands from her hands that were coated in Hayley’s blood.

“What the hell are you doing, Caroline?!” You’re torturing people now? This isn’t you?!” Stefan stepped forward again, crowding her. “First Damon, now Hayley, who’s next?!”

“She deserves it and so did Damon!” Caroline shoved him back not liking the way he was standing over her.

Suddenly Stefan found himself pinned against the wall by Dwayne.

Stefan’s eyes widened as he stared in the face of an angry hybrid. “Oh my God,” he looked past the werewolf to Caroline. “Klaus can make hybrids without Elena’s blood?”

Caroline turned and stuffed a gag into Hayley’s mouth cutting off her screams and cries of pain.

“Klaus didn’t make him. Tyler did, trying to prove he was right about why Klaus cared about his children.” Caroline said, her hand drifted down to her stomach. “Let him go, Dwayne.”

Dwayne let Stefan go reluctantly but he was eager to get closer to Caroline, coming to stand beside her.

Stefan pushed off the wall, rolling his shoulders, he followed the movements of Caroline’s hand’s, his eyes widening. “Your mother told me what was going on but I had trouble believing it.”

But how could he continue denying it when he could see the roundness of Caroline’s stomach. “I don’t understand.”

“You want to know what Hayley has done to deserve this? She stole my babies, she used magic to steal a pregnancy for her own gain. I’ve taken back what’s mine but that doesn’t mean, she gets to walk away from this after everything she has done.”

Caroline turned back to Hayley gripping the surgical tool, a rib spreader, and spread Hayley’s open wound where all the blood was coming from open wider.

Hayley whined in pain, sniffling. “Please, it hurts.”

Caroline’s eyes hardened. “Good.” She lifted a bottle of liquid and started pouring it inside Hayley, watching Hayley’s insides burn and sizzle as her bloodcurdling scream filled the air.

“Is that wolfsbane?” Stefan asked, alarmed.

“Yes, mixed with hydrofluoric acid,” Caroline answered, a dark smile pulling at her lips.

“Caroline, you have to stop.” Stefan came forward again.

Caroline put down the container of Acid and wolfsbane. And removed the rib spread from Hayley’s body. “She needs time to heal until next time.”

Caroline bit into her wrist and squeezed it over, Hayley’s mouth giving her only enough so she would heal slowly and not die from her wounds.

“Next time?” Stefan repeated.

“Dwayne take care of this for me,” Caroline ordered and walked out of the room.

Stefan followed her. “Caroline, stop, we need to talk about this.” he grabbed her arm, turning her around to face him.

“What’s there to talk about?” Caroline asked, shrugging him off. “I am causing Hayley pain for her deceit.”

“Caroline, this isn’t you. You don’t torture people.” Stefan protested. “You’re good.”

“What I am is tired. Why am I always the pawn in someone’s larger game? I will not allow my children to suffer nor will I allow them to be used. I’m done being a casualty. If I have to do things that I otherwise wouldn’t then I will without hesitation and if you can't accept this then maybe you shouldn’t have come here.”

“I came here because I realized what a bad friend I’ve been. I’m not going to turn back now. I wasn’t there for you. I can’t make up for what happened to you in Mystic Falls but I can be here for you now. I can’t imagine what you’re feeling. How you handle this is up to you but I am not going back to Mystic Falls.”

“Then follow me,” Caroline said and turned walking down the corridor, expecting Stefan to fall into line behind her.

Caroline led Stefan upstairs and into a room, he was shocked to see Katherine lying in the bed, Elijah sitting beside her and on her other side was Nadia.

Nadia had shown up, demanding to be with her mother. Caroline hadn’t much cared about keeping the mother and daughter separated.

There was a woman in the room and a younger girl, a dark hair male, and another man who was watching the dark-haired woman like a hawk.

“What’s going on here?” Stefan questioned, looking to Caroline for answers.

“We’re going to save Katherine’s life,” Caroline told him.

“I’m sorry, what?” Stefan was in disbelief.

“I’m still doubtful about it myself,” Katherine spoke up. “It’s good to see you, Stefan.”

“Klaus is okay with this?” Stefan asked, looking to Caroline.

“He’s willing to accept it for me,” Caroline said and then did a quick round of introductions to the room.

“Have you found anything yet?” Caroline asked Davina, coming forward.

“Not yet,” Davina answered, casting a curious look at Stefan.

“Stefan and I will go through the books Elijah has required and I’ll call Bonnie, see if she knows something. Maybe there’s something in the Bennet books that can help.” Caroline said, after thinking it over.

“You really think Bonnie’s going to want to help save Katherine’s life?” Stefan asked skeptically.

“No but I’m asking as her friend and I will explain why I am trying to do this.” Caroline insisted.

“I believe Katerina is in good hands.” Elijah smiled over at Caroline and walked past her and Stefan into the hallway. “I will be back shortly.”

“Alright, so this is what we’re going to do, Sophie and Davina continue searching here. Josh and Stefan will go through the books in the study. I will call Bonnie and see if I can get her to help. Dwayne.”

As if he was just waiting for Caroline to need him Dwayne appeared.

Caroline shifted away. He made her uncomfortable with how he was always ready to do whatever she asked. She didn’t like using the sire bond he had to the twins and how he was always lurking in the shadows wherever she was, creeped her out.

“Dwayne, you will make sure Sophie doesn’t try anything if she does lock her up and get Zach or one of the wolves to deal with her until I have the time to do it myself. Nadia, you can stay with Katherine.” No one moved much to Caroline’s annoyance, she clapped her hands. “Well, you got jobs to do. Go!”

Davina nodded and continued searching the book in front of her, Sophie glared but did as she was told.

Josh motioned to Stefan to follow him and led him out of the room.

“You really think this is going to work?” Katherine asked Caroline.

“Yes, because I will make sure of it,” Caroline answered.

“I don’t want to be human,” Katherine argued.

“You don’t want to be dead either, do you?” Caroline retorted.

Katherine shot her a look. “What do you think?”

“Good, we’ll save your life, and then we’ll find a way to turn you back into a vampire.”

Caroline stepped out of the room to call Bonnie in private.

Katherine watched the door close behind her. She hated the feeling of hope that was beginning to rise within her.

Damn Caroline Forbes and her unending optimism and determination.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

Rebekah and Elijah walk through the streets of the Quarter as they talk about recent events.

“Now, you may doubt him, but today, I saw Niklaus demonstrate mercy towards an enemy. Tell me that's not progress,” said Elijah.

“That’s Caroline’s influence,” Rebekah stated. “He wants to be better for her. He’s not the same brother we knew the last thousand years. Honestly, she is the only reason I’m not still working with Sophie.”

Elijah turned to her abruptly. “You were working with Sophie?”

“Not anymore. Not after everything she has done.” Rebekah responded.

“Are you the reason he let Thierry out?” Elijah eyed her with suspicion.

“No, that was Caroline,” Rebekah told him. “She didn’t like that he was locked up for protecting someone he loved. Though we should keep a close eye on him. Thierry despises Klaus and for good reason. He got the witch he loved killed. However, I was thinking, he knows about French Quarter covens because he dated a witch. Maybe he can lead me to whoever stole off with the Harvest magic.”

“Rebekah, we are all devastated by the outcome of this ritual,” Elijah began.

“That's just it,” Rebekah interrupted. “There was no outcome. Davina is only alive because of the Elixir. We both know that power like that doesn't just vanish. I say someone stole it. I'd like to know who, and then I'd like to make an ally out of them and then kill them.”

“To what end, exactly?” Elijah asked. “When will killing everyone who challenges us be enough?”

“I'm tired of being threatened and controlled by our enemies, being moved on a chessboard like sacrificial ponds,” Rebekah told him. “If you want to stop bullies, you need the power to stand up to them.”

“You’re not alone in this Rebekah. You have me and you have Niklaus.” Elijah insisted. “He is finally making an effort. He's invited us back into our family home. He yearns for our family to be reunited. He’s there for Caroline and their unborn children.”

“Yes. He's in a brilliant mood now, but for how long?” Rebekah challenged. “What about when things fall apart with him and Caroline? What then? He was bad before but if anything were to ever happen to Caroline or their children, he will be inconsolable, wreaking havoc and pain wherever he goes. And who says he won’t turn that anger on us and bury a dagger in our hearts?”

“I believe that he is approaching some semblance of peace here. As long as we keep Caroline safe we have nothing to worry about,” Elijah argued. “Leadership may, in fact, be a good thing for him and as I am quickly learning Caroline may very well be the best thing to ever happen to him in his thousand years on this earth.”

“I hope it’s enough and that Stefan has not shown up here to take her back to Mystic Falls. That’s not her home anymore.” Rebekah said. She had been surprised to learn that Stefan was here but she didn’t think he would be staying long. It was only a matter of time before he found his way back to Elena and his brother in Mystic Falls.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

Her phone call with Bonnie didn’t go as well as Caroline had hoped. Bonnie was hesitant to help Katherine but Caroline kept insisting that she owed Katherine. Caroline reminded Bonnie that Katherine was human and was no longer in New Orleans.

Caroline kept insisting until Bonnie finally gave in. Bonnie ended the call with the promise to look through her family journals and she would let her know immediately if she finds something.

Caroline walked to Elijah’s room and sifted through his things until she found what she was looking for.

Esther’s grimoire. Grabbing the book she left the room and found a sitting room in the compound, she settled into the end of a couch and started sifting through it.

The smell of blood filled the air and she looked up to see Klaus carrying a glass of blood and a plate of food.

“What are you doing?” Caroline asked.

Klaus set the plate and glass on the table in front of her. “Have you eaten?”

“No,” Caroline shook her head and took a drink of the blood, savoring the warm liquid sliding down her throat.

“You should,” Klaus took the seat next to her. “I know you're dead set on finding a way to save Katherine but you can’t neglect yourself or the babies.”

Caroline’s eyes widened suddenly and pulled the glass of blood away from her lips. “Do you think blood is bad for them?” her other hand dropped the book in her lap, placing her hand over her stomach.

“I think nothing that is good for you can possibly be bad for them.” Klaus reached for the book. “Are you looking through my mother’s book for a spell?”

“I was hoping it might have something to help Katherine,” Caroline admitted and reached for the place of fruit grabbing an apple slice. “I found nothing so far.”

“Where did you find it?” Klaus asked.

“Elijah’s room. I went and took it,” Caroline took another drink of the blood.

Klaus laughed. “Elijah’s is not going to like that.”

Caroline shrugged. “I don’t care.”

Klaus tossed the book on the table and turned his body more towards her. “Did you speak with Stefan?”

“I did. My mom told him about what’s going on here and he came out of concern, I guess.”

Klaus nodded, his body becoming tense. “Has he managed to convince you to go back to Mystic Falls?”

Caroline placed her glass on the table and turned toward him. “Klaus, we’ve been over this. I’m not returning to Mystic Falls. Not even for Stefan.”

Klaus swallowed, choosing his words carefully. “Things are different now. Why would you stay here after everything that was done to you?”

Caroline nodded slowly. She needed to get her point across. Klaus had insecurities and she more than anyone understood how powerful they could be, if she let the insecurities take root it could ruin what they were building. He needed her reassurance to silence the voices in his head telling him she would return to Mystic Falls.

Caroline pushed at his shoulders, shoving him back.

Klaus fell back against the cushions surprised. Caroline threw a leg over his hip, settling into his lap, and grasped his face in her hands. “I need you to listen to me and hear me, Klaus. I am not going back to Mystic Falls no matter what happens. Not for Stefan. Not even for my mom. My life is here, with you. I will go where you go. As long as you want me by your side I am going to be there. I won’t leave you.”

Klaus leaned his forehead against hers, his hands coming to rest over her stomach, over their children. “I am never going to want to let you go, love.”

“Then don’t,” Caroline whispered. “Don’t let me go. Always fight for me. Always want me.”

Klaus couldn’t take it anymore. He surged forward, burying his hands in her hair and clashing his mouth against hers.

Caroline deepened the kiss and Klaus licked into her mouth, tasting the blood she had been drinking on her tongue.

A groan tore from his throat as she circled her hips, grinding against him. He grasped at her hips urging her down on his rapidly hardening jean-covered cock.

A whimper pulled from Caroline’s mouth and she gripped his shoulders for leverage, looking for friction as she ground her hips against his, desire taking over.

“Hey, guys, we got a problem,” Diego announced entering a room in the compound, looking worried.

Klaus broke away from Caroline with a growl, his hands digging into her hips.

Caroline looked over her shoulder at Diego, perched in Klaus’s lap. “You know there’s this thing called knocking.”

Diego’s worried expression twisted into mild disgust.

“Just a little common courtesy would be nice.” Caroline reluctantly removed herself from Klaus’s lap.

“What’s wrong?” Klaus asked, readjusting his jeans as he stood. “And there better be a real problem or I might just kill you for the interruption.”

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

Thunder rumbles overhead as Diego leads Klaus, Caroline, and Stefan to the Cauldron to show them what he found.

Stefan had insisted on tagging along last minute when he realized Caroline was going.

“We came to kill the witches, just like you said,” said Diego. “And these two, they went missing. Found them like this, not even staked. Just dead.”

Two vampires were on the ground desiccated, symbols carved into their forehead.

“Someone has to account for this!” Klaus growled.

“Are we talking about revenge?” Caroline questioned. “I’m only asking because even though I’m no expert on magic, I know that marks got to be tied to some bad mojo.”

“I don’t like this,” Stefan said, having a bad feeling. Caroline was in complete agreement.

“Revenge is only the beginning,” Klaus told Caroline before turning to Diego. “We're gonna find whoever did this, and I will show them what suffering is.”

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

Thierry and Rebekah walk into a warehouse at the docks to investigate.

“Used to run things down here for Marcel,” Thierry explained. “Thought you'd like to see what I found before Klaus did.”

Rebekah smirks. “Not a day out of the Garden, and you're already proving yourself useful.”

“We made a deal, and if it screws things for your brother, I'm all for it,” said Thierry. “Though, to be honest, this stuff makes my skin crawl. I've never seen anything like this.”

“Except you’re a little late to the party,” Rebekah told him. “I have ceased my plans for my brother.”

“What?” Thierry glared at her. “You can’t-”

“Quiet,” Rebekah cut him off. “I have seen this before,” Rebekah said as they stop in front of another salt circle on the ground with two dead vampires inside. Both are desiccated and have the same symbol carved into their foreheads. “I have, a long time ago,” said Rebekah, recognizing the mark. “Somebody is copycatting a very dangerous witch. They draw their power from sacrifice.”

“I just don't understand why someone would leave it here for us to find,” said Thierry, distracted by the turn of events.

“Unless they wanted it to be found.” Rebekah pointed out.

Papa Tunde appears from the shadows behind them. Rebekah notices him in shock and horror.

“Mademoiselle Mikaelson.” Papa Tunde greeted.

“That's not possible,” said Rebekah, still unable to believe what she was seeing.

“Sure, it is, chére. It's magic.” Papa Tunde told her.

Rebekah speed vamps toward him to try to kill him, but Papa Tunde simply reaches out and grabs her by the throat. “Symbole du masque et de l'ombre, embrace-toi. Embrace-toi. Symbole du masque et de l'ombre, embrace-toi. Embrace-toi. Symbole du masque et de l'ombre, embrace-toi. Embrace-toi. Symbole du masque et de l'ombre, embrace-toi.”

Rebekah starts to desiccate, and thick gray veins pop up all over her face and neck. Terrified, Thierry speeds vamps and disappears out of the warehouse, leaving Rebekah on her own.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

Klaus, Caroline, Elijah, Stefan, and Diego, and many of the other vampires are congregating in the courtyard, discussing their current situation.

“Ah! Someone will die for this.” Klaus declared.

“Remarkably, I don't disagree,” said Elijah. “However, I would like to know where they learned such dark magic.”

“I had hoped never to see that symbol again,” said Klaus. “I recall it is the signature of a fool who once stood against us.”

“Isn’t someone always standing against you?” Stefan asked with an arched eyebrow.

Caroline smacked his arm. “So not the point, Stefan.”

“Clearly, some upstart witch is salvaging old tricks,” Elijah responded.

“Ugh, witches,” Caroline said. “I’m really starting to hate them.”

“Bonnie was a witch,” Stefan reminded her. “Before she became an anchor, she was a witch.”

“Bonnie’s, Bonnie.” Caroline defended. “And she’s different. She’s not morally questionable.”

Stefan couldn’t argue with her there. Plus, Caroline’s hate for the witches in New Orleans was understandable. “What about Davina?”

“Davina is innocent, nothing that has happened is her fault.” Caroline defended her new friend.

“I'll do for him as I did the other.” Klaus turns to Diego. “Diego, when night falls, I want you to gather every vampire in the Quarter. Get me the head of whoever did this and put it on a stick.”

“Yeah. That's gonna be a problem,” replied Diego. “Everyone is freaked out, man. We haven't had witches killing vampires in a long time. Marcel made sure of that.”

“Marcel is no longer in charge and is busy chasing after his human. You lot are left with me. Now, who of you will fight to defend our home?” Klaus looked around to see that no one comes forward. “Not a single one of you will stand with me, so afraid are you of this new threat? You should know better. I'll handle this myself.”

“We will stand with you,”

Klaus turned to see Zach and his pack stepping forward and he smirked. “Good.”

He turned to Caroline. “Stay here, I don’t want you near this,”

Caroline wanted to argue but she did not want witches near her unborn children again. “I’ll be fine,” She brushed a kiss against his stubble jaw.

It wasn’t nearly enough for Klaus, he grasped her chin and kissed her deeply.

Stefan cleared his throat after a moment, uncomfortable seeing Klaus and Caroline kissing each other like they’ve been doing it for years.

Klaus turned and the wolves followed, sending disgusted looks the vampires’ way.

Caroline lifted a hand to her lips watching him leave.

“Stefan a word,” Klaus called over his shoulder. Stefan rolled his eyes and followed him out onto the street.

Klaus turned to him. “Keep an eye on Caroline, will you? It’s only a matter of time before she involves herself.”

“I’m not going to keep her prisoner for you,” Stefan glared.

“I didn’t tell you to keep her in.” Klaus rolled his eyes. “I said keep an eye on her as in help her if she needs it. I promise you now if one hair is harmed on her head and you could have prevented it, your brother won’t be the only Salvatore I want to kill.”

And with those parting words, Klaus left.

Stefan sighed, he came here for Caroline but it looked like he was going to have to deal with Klaus on the regular.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

Cami spoke into her phone. “Sophie, the restaurant is an epic disaster again. Do you think maybe you could come in today and…”

The voice mail interrupts: "User's mailbox is full."

“Good-bye,” Cami said annoyed, ending the call.

“Looks like I should've been here last night,” said Marcel.

Cami, startled, looks for anything she can find to use as a weapon, finally settling on an empty liquor bottle on top of the bar. “Before you try anything, I'm on vervain.”

“Yeah, Klaus mentioned you broke free of his compulsion. Good for you.” Marcel wondered.

“What are you doing here?” asked Cami.

“Wanted to see you.” Marcel sits down at the bar.

“I thought now that you have Davina back you wouldn’t be leaving her side.”

“Except now I need to keep New Orleans from falling apart,” Marcel told her.

“Is Klaus causing trouble?” Cami questioned.

“When isn’t he?” Marcel responded, “and I’m more than likely going to have to be the one to clean it up. He has his hands full with Caroline and his kids and Hayley’s betrayal.”

“What are you talking about? What did Hayley do?” Cami questioned.

“Right,” said Marcel. “You wouldn’t know.” He reached for a bottle and poured two shots. “You’re probably gonna need a drink for this.”

Cami joined him at the bar. “Tell me,”

“Caroline is the one Klaus knocked up before coming back to New Orleans,” Marcel said.

Cami’s eyes widened. “But she's a vampire and Hayley is the one who's pregnant.”

“Not anymore,” Marcel shook his head. “The twins are back with Caroline now.”

Cami’s shoulders slumped forward. “I’m so confused.”

Marcel laughed. “It’s pretty unbelievable. From my understanding before the witches brought Caroline to New Orleans, she and Klaus got busy in her hometown, and by some dark magic on Sophie’s and her sister’s behalf they made it possible for Caroline to get pregnant and-”

“But how did they even know about Caroline?” Cami questioned.

“Witches talk.” Marcel shrugged. “Plus, when Klaus Mikaelson truly cares about someone other than himself people tend to notice. It’s no surprise word traveled. Anyway, when the Deveraux witches learned their plan worked and that she was pregnant they lured her here, took her babies, and put them in Hayley’s womb. Hayley went on to pretend it was her pregnancy.”

“Why would someone do that to another woman?” Cami was disgusted.

“The witches promised to help Hayley find her family and she was desperate enough to take the deal,” Marcel said.

“Still,” Cami shook her head.

“So while he’s dealing with that I have to deal with all the other drama he’s left in his wake,” Marcel stated.

“Marcel, I'm sorry,” Cami told him sympathetically. “This all sounds so complicated.”

Marcel shrugged. “Same old, same old.”

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

Elijah walks into Davina’s room to find her going through her old sketches.

“There you are.” Elijah greeted. “Aren’t you supposed to be helping Katerina?”

“I needed a break and something keeps bothering me,” Davina answered, continuing her perusal of her sketches.

Elijah gestures to the sketches. “And it has to do with your drawings?”

“I don’t know but I feel this pull. I know they're telling me something,” Davina insisted. “I don’t understand why I was drawing a witch who has been dead for longer than I’ve been alive. I’m killing time, now that I'm on vampire lockdown.”

“Are you sure it has nothing to do with the harvest?” Elijah asked and Davina glared at him. “Whoever did this, we will deal with them,” Elijah stated. “It won't be long.”

“I'm not worried.” Davina declared. “I can handle what’s thrown my way. I just want to be prepared. I don’t want to get caught off guard. Something’s coming and I need to know what it is so I can protect the people that I care about.”

“I do apologize if you feel all of our problems have fallen on your shoulders,” Elijah told her. “Finding a way to save Katherine, the Sophie and Hayley situation, Caroline. Stefan’s arrival. Rebekah is off trying to make things right. Niklaus grows more agitated with every new threat. You're just a child none of this should have fallen on you.”

“I’m not a child,” Davina said strongly. “I was forced to grow up sooner than I should have but I did it and I can handle this and I will. For Caroline but ultimately for myself. They have not beaten me down and I intend to show them they never will.”

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

Marcel is still sitting at the bar with Cami when his phone rings. It's Klaus. He hits the ignore button and returns to his drink.

“El presidente?” Said Cami.

“He likes to keep track of his people,” Marcel responded.

“Why are you loyal to him, exactly?” Cami wondered.

“For someone who says she can't stand the guy, you sure ask a lot of questions about him.” Marcel pointed out.

“My interest is purely academic.” Cami defended.

“I know what you're doing,” Marcel said, knowingly. “You're mad he used you, and you want to get back at him. Maybe you're hoping I'll let slip some chink in his armor. Friendly advice--don't do that. It won't end well. Let me tell you a story about someone who went up against Klaus.”

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

1919

Marcel returns home in his military uniform to find a party being held at the compound. Marcel sees Rebekah sitting at a table with an unknown gentleman, and walks toward her.

“This was right after I returned from World War I. I'd been trying to get away from New Orleans for a while. Something kept drawing me back.” Marcel began.

“Why don't you get me some Martinis?” Klaus suggested. “Thank you.”

“Aren't you gonna welcome me home?” Marcel asked Rebekah.

“I wouldn't want you to think that I was happy to see you,” replied Rebekah.

“How long you gonna hate me?” Marcel asked.

“You left me in a box for fifty-two years.” Rebekah glared. “Twice that seems like a good start. Come on, boys.”

Marcel watched her walk away with a look of longing.

Klaus approaches Marcel. “There he is. Our war hero triumphantly returned. Oh, good to have you back, Marcellus. Welcome home.” They drink together. “Mm.”

“Haha! The prodigal son has finally learned to hold his liquor.” Elijah teased.

“The Army'll do that to you,” Marcel replied.

“Well, it's good to have you back,” Elijah told him. “Niklaus was beside himself in your absence.”

“Now that you are here, perhaps you could help settle an argument,” said Klaus. “You see, you've traded a war abroad for one here in the Quarter. Some rogue witch wants a piece of the city we built, and Elijah, for reasons beyond my comprehension, insists that negotiation is our best recourse.”

“Yes,” said Elijah.

“On the topic of your failed comprehension, you neglect, as a soldier, Marcel has seen not only how small the world has become and how fast news can travel, but also the very horrors of war itself.” Klaus continued. “Surely, Marcel would agree with me.”

“The best way for us to defend our home is by exercising discretion.” Elijah insisted.

“So who's the witch you want to kill?” Marcel asked.

“His name is Papa Tunde,” Klaus answered. “I think he's a charlatan. “

“Well, Marcel shall be able to decide that for himself. You invited him here.” Elijah reminded.

“Of course. We're not savages, are we?” Klaus replied.

Papa Tunde arrives at the party, and Klaus immediately approaches him.

“Thank you for accepting our invitation, and welcome.” Klaus greeted. “I hope you'll allow me to play the role of host. If there's anything you need- Anything at all…”

“Pleasure before business, then,” replied Papa Tunde. “Hahaha! Hahaha!”

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

“I didn't get it at first,” said Marcel. “Klaus was the one who wanted to go to war.”

“So, why was he inviting his enemy into his home?” Cami questioned. “Why be so generous to someone who he's gonna have to kill?”

“But, you see, that's the thing. It was all part of Klaus' plan.” Marcel told her. “He was sussing the guy out, learning his weaknesses, his strengths, getting him to let his guard down. That's how Klaus does it. Then he goes in for the kill.”

“Because he's a two-faced sociopath.” Cami accused. “There's nothing enviable about what Klaus does. He is a monster.”

“We're all monsters, Cami,” Marcel told her. “If you're powerful like Klaus is, you just don't have to bother hiding it.”

“Davina’s powerful,” said Cami. “She is not a monster.”

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

Papa Tunde finishes doing his spell on Rebekah. She laid desiccated in a circle of salt, with his symbol carved into her forehead.

He stands back and admires his work. “It is done. The power of the Original sister flows through me.”

“And will that be enough to make Klaus suffer?” Asked Celeste.

“I will hurt Klaus Mikaelson as he hurt me,” said Papa Tunde. “When I am done, he will wish that he could die.”

“You’re going for Caroline?” Celeste inquired.

“His children will die before they even take their first breath.” Papa Tunde promised and celeste smirked.

Caroline had interfered with her plans when she saved Davina, she would celebrate the blonde’s untimely, tragic demise along with Klaus’s abominable spawns.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

“You gonna open this place today?” Marcel asked.

“And risk you eating the clientele?” Cami asked in return.

“Oh, and here I thought you were starting to like me again,” replied Marcel.

Marcel's phone rings again and he answers it.

“Ah, you've stopped chasing after Cami long enough to pick up the phone.” Klaus’s voice came over the line.

“I figured you'd just keep calling,” Marcel replied.

“I'm in the Cauldron now,” Klaus informed him. “You could meet me here, we could start burning passersby at the stake.”

“Sorry. I'm in the middle of something here.” Marcel replied.

“Is she more important than what is happening?” Klaus asked.

“Is Caroline?” Marcel countered. He knew the answer but he wanted Klaus to understand that he could care about someone as well.

Klaus scoffed. “Please you couldn’t possibly feel so deeply for Cami so quickly. Finish up with her and come and help me end this.”

Marcel hangs up the phone not taking too kindly to Klaus’s tone.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

Katherine tensed as Klaus walked into her room. Her face forming into a scowl. “Have you finally come to kill me?”

Klaus scoffed. “You have long since lost your importance to me. You live because Caroline wants you to, if you want it to continue that way, I would advise you keep in her good graces.”

Caroline walked in and swatted at him. “Be nice.”

Stefan snorted from the doorway. “I can’t believe you just said that to him.”

“You’re still here?” Katherine asked Stefan in surprise. “I would’ve thought you would have returned to be Elena and Damon’s third wheel by now.”

“Perhaps, I’m learning,” Stefan countered, shooting her an annoyed look.

“Enough,” Klaus said, impatiently. “I did not come here for you.” He turned to Sophie who was glowering at them. “I came here for you, the witch I was looking to brutalize.”

“What now?” Sophie shut the book she had open in her hands. “I am trying to do as you asked.”

Caroline stepped forward. “While I would love to torture you some more, there are some more pressing matters at hand.”

Klaus speeds vamp towards Sophie and grabs her in a chokehold. “Perhaps you could explain the attacks on my men.”

“What about helping me?” Katherine protested, the witch couldn’t help her if she was dead.

“I will handle it.” Davina stepped back into the room, picking up the book Sophie dropped when Klaus hoisted her up by the throat. “We haven’t given up on making sure you don’t die.”

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

Elijah is in the courtyard, trying to reach Rebekah.

“Rebekah is not answering her calls,” said Elijah.

“You worried about whoever killed those daywalkers still being out there?” Josh asked.

“Yes, I'm worried. She is dead set on making things better for Caroline,” replied Elijah. “I’m not sure how far she will take this.”

“Can she really be in any real danger?” Stefan asked. He had left Klaus and Caroline to deal with Sophie not wanting to get involved with torturing the witch.

“Things here in New Orleans are a lot different than Mystic Falls. Much more dangerous. Enemies around every corner.” Elijah notices Thierry drinking alone at a table and joins him. “Thierry, is it?”

“That's right,” Thierry answered.

“My sister is rather fond of you. Strange, she's not typically drawn to unremarkable men.” Elijah commented. “Would you care to explain your sudden magnetism?”

“I don't know what you're…” Thierry started.

Elijah, annoyed, grabs him by the throat and pushes him against the wall.

“You can either tell me what you know, or I can distribute tiny pieces of you throughout the Quarter.” Elijah threatened.

Stefan crossed his arms wondering where Elijah was going with this. Usually, it was Klaus’s method to use threats and fear to reach a goal.

“She asked me to keep an eye out on witch stuff,” said Thierry reluctantly. “I found something, and when I showed her, we were jumped by some guy. He desiccated her with his touch.”

“Like a coward, you left her.” Elijah accused angrily.

Stefan dropped his arms and stepped forward. “You did what?”

“What was I supposed to do, fight some warlock that took out an Original?” Thierry asked.

“Yes, if you were friends you shouldn’t have left her,” Stefan scolded.

“Where was this, exactly?” Elijah questioned.

“The docks, warehouse 57,” Thierry answered. “I was just doing what she asked. You cannot tell Klaus about this.”

Elijah throws Thierry against the wall. He's unconscious. “I shall take that into consideration,” said Elijah.

”I'm coming with you.” Caroline appeared. “I need a break from hearing Hayley wail when all I want to do is kill her.”

“You're not going with Klaus to handle the witch thing?” Stefan asked.

“No,” the truth was she was concerned for Rebekah. She was still mad at Rebekah but she didn’t want her in any real danger.

“No. Stay here.” Elijah instructed. “The compound is safe.”

“First, Rebekah is in trouble. I'm going. Second, I don’t care what is safe” Caroline was not going to stay behind. “And third, you don’t get to tell me what to do. No one does.”

Elijah considers this and sighs. “Do not leave my sight. I don’t look forward to being daggered by my brother for the rest of time.”

“If Caroline is going, I’m going,” Stefan said. He was determined to stay by her side and be there when she needed a friend. He needed to make up for being a bad one.

Caroline nods, and the three leave for the docks.

Elijah prayed nothing was going to happen to Caroline. He would really hate to end up in a coffin even longer than Finn or watch Klaus ripped Katerina’s heart just to watch him suffer.

Niklaus was the most vengeful, vindictive person he knew.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

“Me calling things off with you wasn't lack of interest. I was hoping to save you from all this.” Marcel told Cami.

“Well, thanks, Romeo, but I'm in it,” Cami replied. “So, when are you gonna get to the good part with Klaus and that Papa guy?”

“Papa Tunde said he wanted to empower the witches. Mostly, he wanted money and territory. Klaus and Elijah weren't about to give him either. He didn't like that, so he went on a rampage.” Marcel continued his story.

“No one was safe. Not the humans in the faction. Not the Guerrera werewolves. He even went after the witches who opposed him. Elijah offered a truce. He gave his word, in fact, but Klaus, being Klaus, he had another idea.”

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

Papa Tunde is waiting in their meeting place when he hears someone enter. “You're late, Elijah. It's not like the noble brother to keep me waiting.”

“I'm sorry, mate. Elijah is the brother you meet when negotiations are to be had. I'm the one you get when negotiations are closed.” Klaus informed him, something dangerous shining in his eyes.

“You do not scare me,” said Papa Tunde. “You have no idea the power I possess.”

“Oh, in fact, I made it a point to learn all about your power,” Klaus responded. “I noticed how you're almost always near those twin sons of yours, how they bear your distinctive mark. Got me to thinking--you channel their power, don't you? Which, of course, begs the question: what would happen were that power to be taken away, if those sons whose lives you depend on were suddenly struck down? What of that power then?”

Marcel brings in a box and sets it down. Papa Tunde looks into the box and sees the severed heads of his twin sons.

“I will kill you for this.” Papa Tunde vowed enraged.

“I cannot be killed.” Klaus declared confidently. “You, however…”

Klaus zooms over to him and presses his thumbs into Papa Tunde's eyes.

“Aagh!” Papa Tunde cried out in pain, blood streaming out of his eye sockets.

Klaus pressed harder, his thumbs smashing through his eyes and into his brain, killing him.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

“That's awful!” Cami was horrified.

“Oh, to Klaus, it's just business,” said Marcel.

“And don't you think there's something fundamentally wrong with that?” Cami questioned. “Don't you worry you'll end up one of his victims or, worse, just like him?”

Cami wondered how Caroline could justify being with someone like Klaus if this was the man that laid beneath all the art and charm. Let alone have children with him.

Papa Tunde suddenly appears in the bar. “Poor Marcellus. You remain always in the shadow of your father. Climb out from beneath it, will you, so you can die like a man?”

“Cami, you need to run now. Don't look back. Just go.” Marcel urged her urgently, wanting her to get to safety.

“I think she should stay,” said Papa Tunde. “I prefer an audience, and I'm about to put on quite the show.”

“Marcel?” Cami was unsure of what to do.

“I said get out of here,” Marcel ordered.

Cami, terrified, hesitates in the doorway, not wanting to leave Marcel alone.

“You cannot defeat me.” Papa Tunde declared, he strode forward like he was stalking prey, his sights set on Marcel. “I channel the power of an Original vampire. Soon, I will have all three. But first, I will take you, however not before you can tell me where I can find Caroline Forbes. I will take from Klaus what he has taken from me.”

Even after all this time the loss of his sons still left him with unbridled rage and the need to take everything from Klaus.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

Sophie examines the abandoned desiccated vampires that Papa Tunde left for the vampires to find at the docks. “It's a complex spell. Old-school stuff, rooted in sacrificial magic. Whoever did this to your guys, my guess is they were an offering to gain more power. More guys they kill, more power they have.”

Klaus's phone rings, and when he sees it's Cami, he answers it, motioning for Zach beside him to not take his eyes off of Sophie. “I didn't expect a call from you.”

“You need to get to Rousseau's now. Some lunatic witch doctor looking for Caroline is killing Marcel.” Cami told him. “He refuses to give her up. I can maybe buy him some time, maybe lie about where she is-”

“Say one word about Caroline to him and I will make you regret it. There is a line that can’t be crossed. Not even by you.” Klaus hung up abruptly, meeting the worried eyes of Zach, he was gripping Sophie by the arm, ensuring she didn’t try anything as he got distracted by the mention of the only vampire he considered a part of his pack. “Stay with her.” He ordered

Zach nodded. “Caroline?”

“Don’t worry about her. I have it covered. Keep your focus where it’s needed.” Klaus looked at Sophie. “If you try anything your coven will suffer the consequences.”

“I’ll make sure she doesn’t try anything.”

Klaus turned to see a familiar face.

“You, your Katherine’s daughter, right?” Klaus' eyes narrowed on the brunette who's been in and out of the compound since they brought Katherine to New Orleans. He hadn’t really cared to question her whereabouts. She held absolutely no importance to him.

“Yes,” Nadia answered. “We don’t need her breaking free. I need her to save my mother.”

“I need her to suffer.” Klaus retorted. “Don’t make me regret this or I’ll take you from your mother just like I did the rest of her family. “

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

Caroline, Stefan, and Elijah arrive at where Theirry told them about. Rebekah's body was on the ground. Caroline started to run toward her but Stefan stopped her pointing toward the magic circle beneath Rebekah’s body.

Elijah is also on the phone with Sophie.

“Rebekah!” Elijah goes to kneel next to her, but can't cross the barrier made by the salt.

“What’s going on?” Caroline questioned.

“Some kind of boundary spell.” Elijah answered..” Someone is channeling her. Typically, it's a lethal process, but, because she's an Original, she can't die. Instead, she's an endless source of power. “

“So what are we supposed to do?” Stefan asked. “I can only imagine the damage that could be done by channeling an Original.”

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

Papa Tunde bends over Marcel and holds his knife to his forehead as he begins to carve in his mark. “As I recall, you're one of the few people Niklaus Mikaelson ever gave a damn about. You know what he did to my family.”

“Aah!” Marcel cried out.

“The sins of the father are paid for by the son. I will take pleasure in telling Klaus how you died.” Papa Tunde told him. “And how you refused to give up the woman carrying his spawns.”

“Wait!” Cami screamed, running back inside. “I can get Caroline here. Just don’t kill him.” She ignored the look of betrayal coming from Marcel. She was trying to save his life.

“No!” Marcel snapped through the pain. “She has to stay away from him.”

“Marcel, he's going to kill you.” Cami protested. “If we give him what he wants-”

“You will do no such thing!”

Cami gasped, whirling around to see Klaus, his face black with rage.

She took a step back frightened.

“I would kill anyone who puts Caroline in danger for whatever the reason.” Klaus shoved Cami back and she crashed into a table, crying out in surprise and by the force. “No one’s well being is worth more than hers.”

Papa Tunde glared. “You cannot protect Caroline or your children she carries, no more than you can protect Marcellus, here.”

Papa Tunde prepares to kill Marcel but Klaus runs forward, ripping him away from Marcel.

“I remember killing you,” said Klaus. “I rather relished it. What a joy it is to relive fond memories.”

“I can crush you before the eyes of your son.” Papa Tunde said, brushing himself off. “Then, I will consume you both and then I will kill Caroline and end your children’s lives before they take their first breath. This time, I'm stronger.”

Klaus' eyes turned amber. “Stay away from my family!”

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

“You're not listening. We cannot enter the circle. There's some kind of confinement spell... If I can't remove her, we can't break the link.” Elijah explained to Sophie on the phone.

“It's a convoluted spell. It's like a witch's recipe. You can spoil the balance by adding a more potent ingredient.” Sophie informed him. “A mystical binding agent. I don't know, volcanic ash, rock salt...anything up to and including eye of newt.”

“What about the blood of a witch?” Elijah inquired.

“Do you have the blood of a witch?” Sophie asked, confused.

Elijah turns to Caroline. “I need a favor.”

“Why are you looking at me? I have vampire blood.” Caroline protested.

“The babies, Caroline,” Stefan interjected. “Their Quarter witches.”

Caroline nodded slowly, she raised her wrists to her lips and bit into it gingerly, drawing blood. She walked toward the circle, holding her wrist out and letting the blood fall on the magic boundary line. It starts to fizzle and deteriorate.

Elijah is able to get through, and he quickly picks up Rebekah and takes her out of the circle.

He nodded at Caroline and Stefan to follow him before speed vamping out.

Caroline looked down at the ruined magic line. A little surprised it had work and that her vampire blood had not tainted it. She vamped away and Stefan followed in her wake.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

Papa Tunde has the upper hand on Klaus, Papa Tunde’s superior strength throwing Klaus off and is about to finish him off when he suddenly becomes weak when his link to Rebekah is broken. Klaus is able to stun Papa Tunde long enough to run over to Marcel.

“Uhhh, is he dead?” Cami asked.

“Get out of here.” Klaus glared at her.

“Is Marcel dead? Did that guy kill him?” Cami questioned, ignoring his glare.

“He didn't finish him off. Marcel needs blood to heal. Go. Find me someone off the street.” Klaus ordered.

“I'll do it,” Cami told him.

“Fine. Get over here.” Klaus snapped. He didn’t have time for this.

Cami rushes over to Marcel and puts his mouth to her neck. “It's ok, Marcel. It's ok. It's ok, Marcel.”

Klaus barely spared the two of them a look, needing to find Caroline. She was being used as a target against him. Again.

He needed her beside him. He needed to know she was safe.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

Rebekah ambushes Thierry in an alley. “Ah! I should rip out your coward heart.”

“What, Rebekah? We made a deal to take out your brother. You were the one to go back on that deal, and at the end of the day, it's every man for himself.” Thierry responded.

“I am so sick of self-serving narcissists. Are men simply incapable of thinking about anyone but themselves?” Rebekah demanded angrily.

Elijah speeds up to Thierry and snaps his neck.

“Oh, I asked you to cease these petty moves against our family, and yet you conspire with this fool. Is this what it's come to, making moves against your own blood?” Elijah asked, looking at Rebekah with disappointment.

“I called it off and don't you try and shame me,” Rebekah replied. “Nik grows more powerful by the day, and you do nothing but encourage him. Before the truth came out, I was set on taking him down but this isn’t about Klaus anymore, it’s about our whole family. I know we need to stick together for the sake of Caroline. She has a target on her back. If we don’t stick together her children may never see their first sunrise. I refuse to let that happen. She has inherited enemies she doesn’t deserve.”

“I offer him, my counsel because it's clear to me that he needs to make the city our home. Now, perhaps leading these derelicts will curb some of these impulses, grant him some degree of happiness. Caroline is that happiness. We will all protect her.” Elijah said. “We all will make sacrifices in the name of this family, Rebekah, but know this. I will never stand against you or Niklaus.” Elijah told her.

“What about Hayley?” Rebekah questioned. “Are we just going to let her live after everything she has done to deceive our family for her own gain? Are we just going to let her go?”

“We are going to let Caroline and Niklaus decide her fate, she wronged them more than any of us. It should be them who decide her punishment. Not us.” replies Elijah.

Rebekah glowered, she wanted to kill Hayley for her treachery. The wolf girl didn’t deserve to breathe another breath.

“I think death would be a blessing for her.”

Elijah and Rebekah turned to see Stefan standing there.

“How long have you’ve been there?” Elijah questioned with narrowed eyes.

“Long enough to know Rebekah was making plans against your brother,” Stefan answered.

“Will you tell him and Caroline?” Rebekah demanded.

“No,” Stefan answered. “I don’t see what good it will do.”

“Be sure that you don’t, Stefan,” Elijah told him. “Or your time here in New Orleans won’t end well.”

Stefan watched him and then looked at Rebekah. “Did he just threaten me?”

“What are you doing here, Stefan?” Rebekah asked on a sigh.

“I came here for Caroline. She should have a friend here.” Stefan said. “And I have a lot of making up to do in that department.”

“I know that,” Rebekah rolled her eyes. “I meant here. Why did you follow me?”

“I wanted to make sure you were okay,” Stefan admitted.

Rebekah met his eyes, she could see his honest expression but then again it wouldn’t be the first time Stefan deceived her into thinking he actually cared about her.

She looked away. “Don’t bother yourself with me. I’m fine. I always am.”

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

Marcel walks into the Jardin Gris Voodoo shop, where Rebekah is standing and waiting for him.

“Fancy meeting you here,” Rebekah said in greeting.

“That symbol is already up and down the cauldron, more of them popping up everywhere,” Marcel said.

“I suppose Papa Tunde is marking his territory,” Rebekah replied.

“I'm told you saw him, as well,” said Marcel.

“Yeah. Brought up a lot of memories. Memories that are best left buried.” Rebekah stated.

Marcel swallowed. Memories of a secret long since buried 90 years ago that if it ever came to light would find him and Rebekah on the run for their lives.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

1919

“You're soused. Celebrating Klaus' defeat of the mad Papa Tunde?” asked Rebekah.

“Not celebrating, drowning sorrows,” Marcel told her. “I'm the one who brought Tunde to town.”

“What?” Rebekah replied.

“I made some inquiries while I was abroad, wanted the most dangerous witch anyone could find,” Marcel informed her.

“Why on earth would you do that?” Rebekah wondered.

“For you,” Marcel answered. “I figured if someone as bad as Tunde comes in, maybe Klaus gets chased off. Very least, he's occupied enough that he can't stop me from trying to get you back.”

“You mean to tell me that you would tear down everything my family built, everything you helped us build, risk your own life on the off chance that I would show you the slightest bit of affection?” Rebekah asked.

“I would,” Marcel answered. “I did. I'd do it again.”

“Klaus has killed a thousand Tunde's. All his life, there's only ever been one man he has truly feared. My father Mikael.” Rebekah told him.

“The vampire who hunts vampires,” said Marcel.

“If he came here, Klaus would flee and never turn back,” Rebekah told him. “All we need is a witch who can help us find him.”

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

Klaus commanded the attention of the whole compound as he spoke directly to the vampires of the french quarter.

“Not long ago, you all united against me. You failed. Since then, in my benevolence, I have wiped the slate clean, yet it seems clear you think that I am the one who needs to earn your respect, your loyalty. You're mistaken. It is you who must prove yourselves to me. Our community is under attack. I require soldiers. I need warriors, not cowards. Each of you has a decision to make. You either fight alongside me and my wolves or you leave now.”

“We don't owe you anything. If staying in the Quarter means living under your rule, working with wolves, I'd just as soon get the hell out.” Thierry declared.

Caroline grabbed Klaus’s hand as they watched a handful of vampires join Thierry and walk out of the compound. Thierry looks at Diego in hopes that he'll come along, but he gives him a pained look and stays behind.

Theirry couldn’t believe his friend was choosing to stay. Diego hated wolves and for good reason. His family was torn apart by them.

Afterward, Marcel, Caroline, and Klaus talk with Sophie.

“I got to admit, I thought you'd lose a lot more guys than that,” Marcel told him.

“Well, good riddance to them, I say,” Klaus replied. “We've no room for slackers or cowards in our kingdom. Now that you've regained your composure, let's move on to the next item of business, shall we, with a little help from our prisoner Sophie.”

“The last thing I want to do is help any of you!” Sophie snapped.

“Now, now, don't be difficult,” Klaus told her.

“You're lucky you’re still alive. You should be more grateful.” Caroline said, wanting nothing more than to slap the taste out of the witch's mouth but now was not the time to torture her some more. That time would come again later.

“You'll only live as long as you're of use to me, and right now, your best use is to explain why a witch I killed has come back for revenge. Come on. Resurrected witches with vast power?” Klaus insisted.

“It's the Harvest. To die and be reborn.” Sophie told him. “I don't know how, but someone jacked that power, and they used it to bring back three witches, just not the right ones.”

“Davina’s not in danger, is she?” Caroline asked, speaking the words before Marcel could.

“I don’t know,” Sophie answered.

“Well be sure.” Marcel ground out. “I will not lose her.”

“Let's concentrate on the immediate problem, shall we?” Klaus suggested. “Papa Tunde wants revenge. He'll continue to attack us, channeling power from the vampires he sacrifices. He kills, he grows more dangerous. So how do I end him? He needs sacrifices to gain power.”

Klaus needed to kill him, he wouldn’t be able to sleep knowing he was out there, wanting to take from him what Klaus himself took from Papa Tunde.

“Hmm. You keep him from killing any more nightwalkers, that's a start.” Sophie told him.

“Easier said than done in a city full of them.” Caroline snapped at her, just hearing Sophie speak made her want to rip her tongue out through her throat.

“Caroline’s right,” Klaus said. “If he finds the one place with a load of vampires ready to be sacrificed,” Klaus stated.

They all look at each other with a look of dawning realization.

Stefan who was standing back, for the most part, minding his own business stepped forward. “What’s happening now?”

“Nothing good,” Caroline said and leaned into Klaus’s side, seeking his touch. She felt more grounded when she could feel any part of him pressed against her.

Klaus’s arm wound around her waist, his hand curving around her side, unthinkingly, he leaned forward, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

It was actions like these that threw everyone around him, having never seen Klaus so tactile so affectionate.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

Klaus, Marcel, Stefan and Caroline, and Zach arrive at the garden only to discover that they are too late. All of the vampires are dead, sacrificed by Papa Tunde.

Not only that the wolves he had guarding the place until he got there were dead.

Caroline’s hand went to her mouth, she knew every wolf by name, she had got to know in the short period after being introduced to them and had formed an attachment.

They were good and they had welcomed her into their pack, willing to overlook that she was a vampire, they trusted her and protected her and she did the same for them.

Now, here they were. Gone. Dead at her feet.

Anger coursed through her with a viciousness that left her reeling.

“How could this happen?” Zach stumbled forward, falling to his knees in disbelief.

“This..this act of violence,” Caroline turned to Klaus, her eyes blackened with her rage. “Can not go unanswered. Their lives meant something. These were our people and they slaughtered them! We have to make everyone involved pay!”

Marcel's brow raised up to his hairline at her harsh reaction.

Klaus was enthralled by her words, the anger coming off her in waves, she vibrated with righteous anger for their wolves.

The way she had accepted his wolves as her family was something he admired. “Nothing that has happened today will go unanswered, I promise you that, love.” He cupped her face, his thumbs tracing the black veins beneath her eyes. Soothing them away.

Caroline breathed slowly, her eyes closing at his touch. A calm washing over her, pushing her anger back down just beneath the surface. She nodded and released him. She stepped forward and placed her hand on Zach’s shoulder. “We will make this right.”

Zach nodded numbly, his hand coming up to cover her own. Thankful for her support, he looked at Klaus seeing the same readiness to avenge the wolves in his eyes.

Stefan wanted to reach out and offer his support to Caroline but it seemed she had all the support she needed.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

Celeste meets with Papa Tunde near a crypt in the Lafayette cemetery.

“Is it done?” asked Celeste.

“This blade now contains all the power I harvested from the vampires. It will do things worse than death, even to an Original,” said Papa Tunde.

“And are you ready for the final offering?” Celeste questioned.

“Will you avenge my sons?” Papa Tunde asked.

“Klaus will never get the chance to see his children be born,” Celeste vowed darkly

Papa Tunde nodded in acceptance. “In the name of the witches of the French Quarter, it is my honor.” Papa Tunde hands her the bone knife.

“Thank you, Papa Tunde.” Celeste stands behind him and slits his throat with the knife.

Celeste breathed deeply, her hands coated in Papa Tunde’s blood. Her plan of making Klaus suffer was closer than ever thanks to Papa Tunde’s sacrifice to her cause.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

Caroline walked into Katherine’s room, Davina sat on the floor surrounded by a mountain of books. Elijah was seated on the bed next to Katherine who appeared to be asleep.

“Where’s Josh?” Caroline wondered.

“I told him to go find something to drink. He couldn’t stop talking about blood.” Davina looked up from her book to Caroline. “How did today go?”

“I don’t really want to talk about it,” Caroline said. “I rather talk about how things are going here. Have you found anything yet?”

“No,” Davina answered reluctantly. “But I will find something. I will, I just need more time.”

“I don’t know how much time she has left.” Elijah didn’t look away from Katherine. He reached his hand brushing her hair back from her face. “We need to save her before it’s too late.”

“She knows that,” Caroline cut a look at him. “Don’t pressure her. It’s not all on her.”

“I promise I will try everything I can to help her.” Davina insisted.

“Good but don’t forget to take care of yourself too. Have you eaten at all today?” Caroline asked.

“No,” Davina shook her head.

“Come on, then,” Caroline looped her arm through hers. “I haven’t either and I am starving for blood but I am craving actual food. I talked my friend Stefan into cooking for me. He’s a good cook. He makes great pasta.”

“Caroline,” Elijah protested but Caroline ignored him and walked out the door with Davina.

She would not allow Davina to neglect taking care of herself.

Nadia, Katherine’s daughter appeared in front of them in the hall. “Where are you going? You're supposed to be helping my mother.”

“And she will but right now, she is going to eat and then get a good night's sleep and rest her mind.” Caroline moved protectively in front of Davina. “And if you don’t like it, you can leave.”

Nadia took a step forward as if to challenge her and Caroline raised one pointed brow, daring her to try something.

Nadia with an angry huff pushed past them into her mother’s room.

“Do we like her?” Davina asked as they walked down the stairs.

“Not sure yet,” Caroline answered, leading Davina to the kitchen. “Don’t really know her.”

Stefan was pulling something out of the oven, Josh was seated at a table, drinking from a bag of blood while engaging Stefan in conversation.

“Something smells good,” Davina said, looking toward Stefan.

“That would be baked pasta. I hope you like Italian.” Stefan popped the platter on the counter.

Caroline leaned forward getting a better look. The melted cheese mixed with red sauce and beef looked delicious and smelled even better. “It looks great, you know, if you’re going to be sticking around I might talk you into cooking for me more often.”

“I am sticking around and shouldn’t Klaus be the one taking care of your food cravings?”

Klaus walked into the room. “I take care of all her cravings.” He tugged Caroline into his side, placing a kiss on her neck.

Davina made a disgusted face. “TMI.”

“Agreed.” Stefan put two plates on the counter and filled them with pasta putting them in front of the two girls. “I am not used to seeing the two of you together.”

“Well, you better get used to it then because it’s not about to change.” Caroline took a seat and started digging into the food. “Thanks for the food, Stefan. I’m starving.”

“I would imagine,” Klaus moved around and set a glass of blood in front of her.

“Is it your blood?” Caroline asked curiously, giving Davina a look of encouragement to eat.

“No,” Klaus pulled up a seat next to her, his hand resting on her knee.

“Pity,” Caroline said, wishing it was his blood. She loved the taste of his life-sustaining life force on her tongue.

Klaus moved his hand on her knee higher, fingers curling around her thigh. “Later.” his eyes held promise and Caroline felt heat rush through her.

“You guys are blood sharing?” Stefan asked, surprised. Wow, being together was one thing and accidental pregnancy another but blood sharing, that was like a whole other ballpark of seriousness in a vampire relationship. The only thing more serious would be if they had shared the vampire mate claim.

“Not really,” Caroline said. “He doesn’t drink from me and I don’t like being poisoned by a hybrid bite”

“You could always bite your wrist for him,” Davina suggested and Caroline looked at her. “I know this is not a discussion for me.”

“Actually, that’s a great idea. Klaus and I will have to try it.” Caroline said, her interest piqued.

“We will?” Klaus asks, his eyes darkened with want, imaging the taste of Caroline’s blood on his tongue as he was buried deep inside her.

Caroline bit her lip. “We will.”

“Okay, that’s enough.” Stefan cut in. “How about you keep the blood sharing interest in the bedroom and eat your food.”

Klaus grinned. “I could eat but it’s definitely not food.”

Davina’s eyes nearly widened and Caroline choked on air, her cheeks heating. “Klaus!”

Klaus smirked at her in response that devilish smirk that had Caroline squeezing her thighs together as desire shot through her.

“I think I am going to take my food back to my room.” Davina stood up and made a quick exit, waving a hand when Caroline called out an apology.

Stefan sent Caroline a strained smile. “I’m going to leave you to enjoy your food.”

Caroline watched him go, knowing it was just an excuse for him to leave. He might be weirded out by her relationship with Klaus but she didn’t care.

She dug into her food, moaning at the taste. Stefan sure did know how to cook.

Klaus’s hand tightened on her thigh and she looked at him to see his pupils were blown wide, eyes dark with that look she was quite familiar with and despite the hard and difficult day, her lips pulled into a smile.

“Want some?” She asked, her smile coy and flirty.

“Yes,” he answered.

Caroline extended a bite to him.

“Not of your food,” he said roughly, resisting the urge to pull her against him.

Caroline's own eyes darkened with want. She quickly ate her food and pushed the plate away and downed her glass of blood.

The second she was out of her seat and on her feet, Klaus hauled her against his body, urging her to wrap her legs around him.

Caroline did so eagerly, her arms going around his shoulders, eyes sliding shut as his mouth slanted over hers.

Klaus groaned, he could taste the blood she had been drinking on her tongue.

It was mere seconds before Caroline felt her back resting against soft sheets, Klaus’s weight a comfortable feeling settling over her.

Klaus pulled his mouth from hers tugging at her shirt.

Caroline rose up, allowing him to remove her shirt.

She fell back against the bed as he kissed a path down the valley of her breast to her rounding stomach.

His hands moved to cup her belly, the softness in his kisses had tears filling Caroline’s eyes, her chest tightening with emotion. “I’ve been avoiding my mom.”

Klaus looked up at her, waiting for her to say more. “I know she’s going to have questions about the pregnancy and I can’t talk about it with her.”

Klaus pushed down his desire and moved back up her body, he rolled off her laying on his side, and pulling her into him. “Why?”

“Sometimes it doesn’t feel real,” Caroline confessed.

“What?” Klaus looked at her taken aback. “What doesn’t feel real? Us? The babies? All of it?”

Carolien placed her hand on his heart, wanting to reassure him. “Not us. What we have is the realist thing I have ever felt in my life. I meant the pregnancy.”

Klaus's hand came to rest over her stomach. “Trust me it’s real. I can hear their small hearts. I know you can too.”

“It’s a beautiful sound,” Caroline’s eyes grew wet with unshed tears. “I love hearing it, knowing they're there.”

“Then what’s the problem?” Klaus asked, his hand absentmindedly stroking her belly, caressing his unborn children.

“What if they’re more hers than mine?” Caroline whispered, voicing her fears.

“I don’t understand,” Klaus said, her words confusing him.

“She had all this time to connect with them, to form a bond. I feel like I missed so much. I feel like they're no longer mine. It's almost like she has this claim on them that I don’t. And if I feel like this now, how can I possibly be a good mother to them?”

Klaus lifted a hand to her cheek as a lone tear slipped from Caroline’s eye and brushed it away. “Caroline, love, you are everything any good mother should be. Your kind, loving, caring, selfless, forgiving and so fiercely protective of the people you love. Being a mother is going to come naturally like everything else for you.”

Caroline's lips pulled into a smile before she put her hand on the back of his neck and leaned forward, pressing her mouth to his in a meaningful kiss.

Klaus kissed her back, his arms going around her, pulling her flush against him, his lips moved down her jaw. “Is that all that’s bothering you? Today was a hard day. How are you dealing with everything?” His every word was pressed against his skin as he spoke.

“Shh,” Caroline rolled onto her back, pulling him on top of her. “Everything else can wait. Talking can wait.” She pulled his mouth back to hers. “I just want to feel us.”

Klaus kissed her deeper, her mouth opening beneath his inviting him inside, he reached behind her unfastening her bra.

Caroline pushed her head back, her body arching as his lips traveled across her skin, leaving a burning fire in his wake.

She put everything else out of her mind and focused on the here and now.

She and Klaus, the way he made her feel, how he knew her body like one of his sketches.

She lost herself to the most real thing she ever felt.

And when he finally pushed inside her, eyes locked on hers, one hand digging into her thigh the other planted next to her head, she felt like everything would work itself out.

She would make damn sure of it because she was not giving up the life she was building or her new family.

Always and Forever.

It was the Mikaelson family motto.

And now it was hers.

She held on tightly to Klaus as he moved inside her, branding himself on her soul.

She opened herself to him, letting down all her walls and defenses, pushing the love she had into his heart, wanting him to know, to believe after all his time on this earth he wasn’t alone and he never had to feel like he was.

She will always be there.

She wasn’t going anywhere without him.

A/N: Thanks for reading!

Tags: @zinebaklaro @eloiselili @caritobear @paulinhaals @lord-luminous @bellarkehotchniss @fantasylover4evr @storm-pirate

#Klaroline #klaroline fic #klaus x caroline #klaus mikaelson #caroline forbes #fanfic #fic: good to you #the vampire diaries #the originals

15 notes · View notes