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blackkatmagic · 3 years

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Caaaan we get a sneak peek at those Ferus Wips, pleaaasde~ ?

“Where are we going?” Leia protests, tugging at his hand, though she doesn’t stop moving. “My father is back there—”

“I know,” Ferus says desperately, and pulls her sideways, one sharp jerk as he practically throws them both behind the jut of a decorative half-wall. In the same moment, there's a thud of steps, loud in plain armor, and Ferus sees how Leia's eyes go wide, the way her mouth instantly snaps shut. He drags her in against his side, curling around her as he ducks beneath the delicate iron scrollwork, and Leia clutches at the rough cloth of his jacket, perfectly still and silent as the stormtroopers march past.

A child shouldn’t have to have any idea about stormtroopers, or how to hide from them, but Ferus is desperate enough that he doesn’t feel anything but grateful.

He gives it a long three minutes after the last one passes before he straightens up, loosening his death grip on Leia and trying to stop the pounding of his heart. “You okay?” he asks, and Leia looks at him, looks in the direction the stormtroopers disappeared in, and pauses.

“They're here because of me, aren’t they?” she asks, and the fact that her voice doesn’t even waver makes Ferus's chest ache.

“Because of what you can do,” Ferus corrects, because he’s lied to everyone for years but he isn't going to lie to Leia about this. Obi-Wan had said—

But then, Obi-Wan seems to forget that Anakin didn’t have one child, he had two. Leia is just as powerful as her brother, and Ferus isn't about to let her suffer for that.

Leia's grip on his sleeve goes tight, and her expression wavers just for a moment. “And—my dad—” she starts, and then stops short, biting into the inside of her lip. Trying not to show a reaction, Ferus thinks grimly, and—she’s only twelve, on a diplomatic trip with her father that was supposed to be easy. Ferus almost hadn’t shadowed them on this one, because there was so little risk at the outset, but—

Best that he didn’t, clearly, Ferus thinks grimly, and wraps an arm around Leia's back, hurrying her forward with him as they break from cover and bolt for the line of trees that edges the next sprawling mansion. At the end of the street, butted up against the deep forest, there’s a ruin of white stone and glass, and Ferus's quick research into this planet didn’t turn up much at all about what used to be here, but—it’s a hiding place, at the very least, and it looks unguarded, which is invitation enough.

“Just a little further,” he tells Leia, and doesn’t risk a glance back over his shoulder even if he wants to. The planet’s curfew starts soon; anyone who spots them will likely pass them off as father and daughter hurrying to get home, and not immediately comm the authorities, which is all Ferus needs. Just a chance and he can get them to the spaceport, get them off-world, and then—

Then something. Training Leia, maybe, but for that he’ll have to find a Force nexus that will hide them, because otherwise Vader and the Inquisitors will just follow their presence in the Force like a beacon. But that means supplies, and arrangements, and days of travel. More chances for Leia to slip, control worn down with stress and exhaustion, and lead the Empire right to them.

She threw three Imperial officers off a balcony. Most initiates can't manage that until they’ve been training for years, and knowing that, Ferus doesn’t have a lot of hope that her next accident won't be just as powerful and just as dangerous.

“I have to warn my dad,” Leia says, tugging at Ferus's sleeve again, though she doesn’t stop moving as he ducks beneath a barrier made of trees trained into a fence and pulls her towards the entrance to the ruin. “He doesn’t know—”

“He knows,” Ferus promises, and slows, checking for guards. He knows that at least one Inquisitor is nearby; he felt them land, knows precisely who would be called to drag a senator’s child away to be trained for the Empire. If the Inquisitor managed to sense them before Ferus got to Leia, if they know what to look for, Ferus has very little hope of making it out of this without a fight.

He’s fought Inquisitors before, and beaten them. But Anakin knows Ferus's presence, and a fight is too great a risk. If Ferus has to reveal himself as a former Jedi, he will, but the fallout will be catastrophic, particularly when Ferus is trying to escape with Leia.

“Do you even have a plan?” Leia demands, keeping her voice low. Ferus opens his mouth to reassure her, then promptly trips, practically falling down a steep ramp of white stone. Leia yelps, tumbling after him, and it’s all Ferus can do to grab her and leap, catching an overhang of stone before they can go spilling down and into the darkness.

“Getting you off the planet is my only plan,” Ferus says, and hitches her up, trying to keep his feet steady on the slick stone. “Can you—if you can get on my back—”

Leia makes a derisive sound, but she twists, scrambles up, gets a foot in the hand Ferus offers and lurches up, wrapping her legs around his waist and her arms around his neck. There's a precarious moment as Ferus feels his boots sliding, and he curses, takes half a second to check their surroundings, and then pushes off hard, launching them off the spur of stone and out over a long, narrow pool that glitters strangely. There's a walkway crossing the water, and he, tumbles over, lands lightly on it, and puts up a hand to steady Leia.

“All right?” he asks.

“Fine,” Leia says, muffled, and a moment later she shoves enough of her hair out of the way to see and demands, “You’re like me? I thought you were just another one of Dad’s assistants!”

Ferus smiles wryly at the outrage in her voice. “Yes, I'm like you,” he allows. “I used to be a Jedi.”

Leia's breath hitches, her arms tightening. “Like—a real Jedi?” she asks, and in the vast, echoing space around them her voice is thin. “Like the peacekeeper Jedi?”

There's too much Ferus could say, and not enough words. He swallows, one hand twitching towards his lightsaber, and hesitates for a long moment before he answers. “I never finished my training, so I'm not sure you should call me a real Jedi.”

“Well, you're more of a Jedi than anyone I've ever met,” Leia says tartly, and Ferus can't help the strangled half-laugh that slips out, a little rueful.

“That’s not saying a lot,” he counters, and hears Leia's unimpressed snort. Hooking an arm under her thighs to hold her steady, he casts a look around them, half of his attention trained on the entrance. “We should—if there’s a back entrance, we should try to hide near it, just in case.”

Leia pushes up with he knees, leaning over his shoulder, and points ahead of them to a tall doorway. “This was a Kwa Star Temple,” she says, like Ferus is an idiot for not knowing that. “Dad and I toured it this morning. Whuffa worms used to guard it, so there are tunnels underneath that run out into the forest.”

Something flickers in Ferus's chest, almost like hope, and he pauses, half-turns as he looks around them. Not what he expected, but—this would have been on the very edge of the Kwa Holdings, one of the last remnants in this part of space after their conflict with the Gree Enclave escalated. “A Star Temple?” he asks. “You're sure?”

“Of course I am,” Leia says, withering. “I read.”

Ferus huffs in amusement, but instead of heading in the direction Leia pointed to, he takes a flight of stairs up, double-time and moving quickly. “If it’s a Star Temple, the Infinity Gate will be at the top.”

There's a moment of startled silence, and then Leia asks, a note of something like excitement in her voice, “You know how to work an Infinity Gate?”

“So do you, technically,” Ferus tells her. “They're powered by the Force. If we can get it running, and use it, it can get us off the planet before the Inquisitor finds us.”

“Inquisitors,” Leia corrects tightly, and a moment later she wriggles down from Ferus's back, grabbing his hand instead as she matches him up the steps. “There were three of them when my father answered the comm.”

Kriff. Something cold pools in Ferus's stomach, even though he tries not to show it. One Inquisitor he might be able to handle, but—three will overpower him instantly. He was always good, and Palpatine’s training and years fighting left him better, but there's no way he can face down three of Sidious’s enforcers and walk away alive. Even getting to the spaceport just got a lot less possible.

“You look like you're about to curse,” Leia says, eyeing him. “Or cry.”

“I only have one lightsaber,” Ferus manages. “That makes three on one a little difficult.”

Leia pulls a face, tugging Ferus left around a trio of tall pillars. “I thought Jedi were supposed to be the best warriors in the galaxy,” she says pointedly.

Ferus gives her a wry smile. “I told you, I didn’t finish training. And besides, the Inquisitors were all Jedi once, too.”

#when every leaf opens without any sound #leia organa #ferus olin #star wars #Anonymous #kat answers

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tsarisfanfiction · 4 years

Text

WIP #47

(Send me a number 1-60 [or a fandom/character I guess] for the corresponding wip) because I’m bored and brain-fried and have too many wips that’ll otherwise never see the light of day.

For @misssquidtracy who asked for “Number 47 - Thunderbirds (specifically da Gords)”. Luckily, this happens to be a Gordon PoV wip, so it’s all Gordon!

It’s also a Scott!whump, because it’s me and I’m terrible and I have way too many of these lying around, so watch out for that. There’s also a lot of this. Nearly 6k words, so enjoy :D

Gordon hated it when his squid sense started to tingle for no discernible reason. On a rescue, his squid sense was invaluable, warning him just in time that a building was about to topple, or that an aftershock was on its way. Lives had been saved by his mysterious power – hardly a power, more an instinct honed by too many years of military precision combined with a predisposition for pranks whilst living in a house with three older brothers. Alan joked about him being bitten by a squid, like that old superhero story about the guy and the spider.

It was easier to laugh it off than get into a debate with the astronaut about the biting habits – or lack thereof – of aquatic creatures his younger brother knew nothing more than the required basics about.

However, joking aside, Gordon’s sixth sense was particularly active, and while usually it was a life-saving boon, this time it was just a nuisance. He was at home, safe and comfortable in the clean water of the pool. He’d opted for lazy backstrokes, taking his time to reach from one end of the pool to the other before executing a neat flip to repeat the stroke back the way he’d come. None of his brothers were on missions, either. John was as ever up in Thunderbird Five, but from the far end of the pool he could see the holographic form of his brother just visible in the den. Alan was, last checked, also in the den – the two space mad brothers had decided to watch a documentary on, surprise, surprise, space, during what downtime they had – while Virgil had decided to do some maintenance on Thunderbird Two with Brains.

Scott was away on boring business, a stuffy CEO meeting that he couldn’t palm off onto the board of directors that were supposed to be handling that sort of thing for him, or even attend via hologram. They had insisted on a personal touch – literally – and as it was, apparently, a big deal, that meant Scott had to ditch the blues, send one last longing look at Thunderbird One, and let Kayo escort him in Tracy One to the meeting place.

The meeting had been due to start about an hour ago, if Gordon was getting his timezone calculations correct. Why Tracy Industries still had its headquarters in America, far too many hours behind Tracy Island, when there was a perfectly respectable landmass or two closer to home, he couldn’t quite fathom, but when he’d raised the point Scott and John had both fixed him with tired, don’t be an idiot looks, with just a hint of be glad you don’t have to deal with this nonsense to stop him from pestering further.

Kayo herself was who-knew-where, sneaking around in her sneaky Kayo way. He’d seen Tracy One return several hours ago, Kayo’s taxi service duties over until Scott called for her. Apparently, head of IR security did not equal anything in terms of Tracy Industries security, a fact that he knew grated on her. Still, she and Lady Penelope had run multiple background checks on all the men and women that made up Scott’s official security, and were as assured as they could be with Kayo not amongst their number that he was in good hands.

So if his squid sense could stop tingling randomly, that’d be great, thanks.

It didn’t, and annoyance turned to dread when the emergency signal went off, summoning them all to the lounge. A tingling squid sense, and an emergency? Gordon had a really bad feeling about that.

He made it to the den in record time, more damp than not with a beautiful trail of drips across the carpet that Grandma was going to murder him for later, and still in nothing but his swimming trunks. Alan made a face of disgust as he threw himself down onto the sofa next to him to face John. The documentary that the two astronauts had been watching was paused on what his old school lessons told him was a supernova eruption. The imagery of an explosion did nothing to help his jittery squid sense.

Virgil was last to join them, grease streaking up one sleeve and smearing onto the sofa he chose to sit on – at least he wasn’t the only one that would be facing the wrath of Grandma later.

“What have you got, John?” his eldest currently-home brother asked, looking far too laid back for Gordon’s liking. Not that there was anything wrong with it – Virgil still was far from relaxed, alert and ready for the briefing before launching himself down the slide of death – but Gordon found himself tense in comparison.

“A plane’s gone down in America,” John told them. “I intercepted a mayday call from the pilot; the GDF have already responded but it’s a bad one and they don’t have enough resources to get everyone out. Gear up; I’ll give you the details on the way.”

One of those, huh? Gordon flew towards the fish tank that housed his launch tube, slapping his palm against the hidden sensor and feeling the familiar downwards rush towards the hangars, splitting off from the route to Four and instead making a beeline for Two. He met Alan on the platform, his youngest brother jittering excitedly as always, just in time for Virgil to retract it, bringing them up into the cockpit.

Co-pilot was his chair, and the only person annoying enough to turf him out of it on ‘superiority’ grounds was Scott. Even Kayo knew better than to steal his chair, so Alan settled happily enough into the navigation chair behind Virgil, pulling up the screens ready for John to transmit the data straight though.

“You alright?” Virgil asked him as the hangar door rolled down, revealing rows of palm trees ready to bow in homage to the green beast.

“My squid sense is going haywire,” he admitted, no point in lying. Not on a mission. He expected John to scoff – his second eldest brother always slightly more dismissive of it than the rest of them. After all, there was no scientific explanation. All joking about fish and gills aside, Gordon was one hundred percent human. John didn’t scoff, and that made his squid sense reach an uncomfortable level. In fact, John didn’t say anything at all, his hologram not paying them any attention at all as he fiddled with something invisible up on Five.

“Well, it’s a plane crash,” Alan pointed out, his voice somewhat subdued. Virgil made a noise of agreement as Two’s engines roared to life behind them, punching them into the air. She was no rocket, but Thunderbird Two could still produce a decent amount of Gs. Gordon wished that was it, but the tingle had started before John briefed them.

“Guys,” John finally said, once Two was cruising at full speed towards America. “I’ve got hold of the flight details for the plane. It wasn’t easy; turns out it was a top-secret flight even the GDF didn’t know about.”

“That sounds ominous,” Virgil observed.

“It gets worse.” John’s face was grim. Really grim. Bearer of terrible news grim. “It was a private flight chartered for a top secret business meeting between the biggest aerospace companies in the world. Four CEOs were on board, including-” his voice broke in a very un-John-like manner, and Gordon’s stomach dropped.

“Don’t say it,” Alan begged. In front of him, Virgil’s knuckles were white on the yoke, Thunderbird Two’s engines whining as they went just that little bit faster.

“Including Scott,” John finished, visibly pulling himself back together. “In total there were thirty people on board, including the pilots. The reports from the GDF so far say that the rear of the plane is trashed but the cause isn’t yet clear. Two bodies have been recovered so far – neither of them Scott – but they can’t get into the main body of the plane. Scans suggest that approximately half of them survived the initial crash. I’m picking up fourteen life signs; two of them in the cockpit area so they’re most likely the pilots.”

“Scott’s communicator?” Virgil asked as sea gave way to land beneath them, the American coast looking unfairly beautiful.

“I’m not getting a response,” John admitted. “I’ll keep trying.”

“Anything from the telemetry?” Alan was tapping away at the screen by his chair, clearly manipulating the data John was sending him. Gordon envied him the distraction.

“It’s offline,” John sighed, rubbing his face tiredly. “Seems like it was damaged in the crash. EOS is attempting to reconnect but no luck so far.”

“Do you have any good news for us, Johnny?” Gordon asked hopefully.

“Colonel Casey is one of the GDF officers at the scene,” John offered, notably not rising to the bait. Well, Gordon supposed that was better than random officers, or worse, the ones that weren’t overly fond of International Rescue and didn’t fully co-operate. “Kayo’s just launched in Thunderbird Shadow for the airport they took off from. Lady Penelope is also on the way; she and Parker are already making enquiries to find out what happened.”

“They think sabotage?” Virgil asked.

“The CEOs of the four most powerful aerospace industries in the world were on that plane,” John pointed out. “It’s suspicious, at least.”

“Do you think it’s the Hood?” Gordon sent Alan a withering look. Not everything was the Hood’s fault, even if it felt like it.

“I don’t know, Alan,” John said. “Kayo thinks it isn’t his style. He’d have been looking to get money from them, not kill them.”

“He killed Dad.”

Gordon flinched. He wasn’t the only one.

“No-one said Scott’s dead,” Virgil said, voice steady even though Gordon couldn’t remember the last time he’d looked so tense.

“He’ll be okay, right?” Alan asked. “I mean, it’s Scott. If anyone can walk away from a plane crash, it’d be Scott, right?”

“Let’s hope,” John replied.

The co-ordinates John had programmed into Thunderbird Two’s navigation system flashed up, warning that they were on final approach. Slowed to subsonic, they came to a hover alongside a GDF flier and got their first glimpse of the downed plane. It wasn’t pretty.

The final third of the plane no longer resembled the tail of anything remotely flight-worthy. Twisted and warped metal was crumpled and torn ragged. Men and women in GDF uniforms were hovering around the area, large lasers deployed to slice their way in. Gordon knew instantly that no-one who had been in that part of the plane could possibly have survived.

At the other end of the plane, the nose was also crumpled but not as far back as the cockpit windows. It looked as though whatever had downed the plane had occurred at the back, with the damage to the nose only made by the impact of the crash. More GDF were swarming the cockpit windows, cutting their way in with infinite more care than their counterparts were cleaving the rear.

The area of most interest to them was the middle third. While not the complete write-off of the rear, massive dents and warps in the metal warned of a serious crash. Any survivors would be in that area, but the condition of said survivors was unknown. All of the emergency exits were untouched; from a distance, Gordon couldn’t tell if they were wedged shut by warped metal, or if there was another reason that none of them had been opened.

“International Rescue!” Colonel Casey flagged them down, guiding them towards a space just large enough for Thunderbird Two to land. “You boys are a sight for sore eyes,” she greeted. “The fuselage is too thick for our lasers to get through without endangering the survivors inside. We’ve got the pilots under control, but we haven’t been able to make contact with any of the passengers.”

“F.A.B.,” Virgil answered her. “We’ll get them out. John said fourteen life signs?”

“Affirmative,” she said. “We have visual on both pilots. The other twelve are randomly positioned within the front half of the plane.”

“We’ll get them out,” Virgil assured her, and ended the call. “Gordon, Alan, get as much cutting gear and first aid supplies as you can carry.”

“You didn’t mention Scott,” Gordon observed, and he sighed.

“No point worrying her. You two know we have to treat him the same as the rest?”

Alan frowned.

“But couldn’t he help us?”

“If he’s fit to help, then that’s one thing,” Virgil told them. “But I don’t like that none of the doors are open. Don’t get your hopes up; this is a nasty crash.”

“Come on,” Gordon muttered, grabbing Alan’s arm and tugging him towards the module. “Faster we get in there, the faster we’ll find him.”

“I know that much!” Alan grumbled, yanking his arm back. “I can walk by myself, Gordon!” He stalked off ahead. Gordon let him, hearing Virgil catch up with him from behind.

“You don’t think Scott’s okay,” he said, quietly. It wasn’t a question.

“If he was, he’d have got word out somehow by now,” Virgil replied. “Even if his communicator’s broken, there are GDF swarming the place. He’d only need to catch their attention through a window.” He made a beeline straight for his exosuit, pulling on the heavy gear with the ease of practice and charging out of the lowering module door. Gordon collected their last hand-held cutter and shouldered a medical pack before following alongside Alan, who was kitted out the same.

Virgil’s shoulder laser was powerful and made short work of the fuselage that the GDF had been too reluctant to touch. A wrench with the claw arm and a thick wodge of metal slammed down on the ground in front of him. The opening wasn’t huge, too small for Virgil with his suit to fit through comfortably, but it was the largest they’d been willing to risk with the unknown structural integrity of the fuselage. Gordon slipped through first, hand laser in hand for any further obstacles, and let out a shaky breath.

“Woah,” he muttered, pulling his helmet on. The air was murky, dust kicked up and swarming around from the warped metal. None of the seats were upright; sheered metal struts protruded from where they should have been, in a circle around what was once a table. That had broken in two, the far end buried under the start of the truly warped area. “Hello? International Rescue!”

Silence.

Alongside personal effects and broken pieces of aircraft, the floor was strewn with bodies. Some were obviously dead, impaled by shrapnel made from the very plane that should have been protecting them. One in particular was grotesque, a metal strut that had once supported a chair stuck straight through his chest from where he’d been thrown on top of it. Gordon recognised him as part of Scott’s security detail and had to fight to hold back the bile.

Scott. Where was Scott?

Despite Virgil’s words, he wasted a moment looking around the scene, but there was no sign of his eldest brother. Unable to justify hunting for him before checking for signs of life in those immediately visible, he crouched down by the nearest person not obviously dead and checked their pulse. It was weak but there.

“Woah!” Alan mimicked his own reaction upon entering. “What a mess.”

“Alan, I’ve got a survivor here!” Gordon called him over immediately. “Mind your step.” His youngest brother picked his way over to him. “Find a way to get him out. I’ll look for more.”

“Have you found Scott yet?” he asked, kneeling down and opening his med kit. Gordon shook his head.

“No sign. I’ll let you know as soon as I do.” Alan nodded, and Gordon continued his search. It was a grim one. He’d suspected as such when no-one had responded to his call, but even when he found a warm body, they were unconscious. Virgil joined him, exosuit stripped off and replaced with more medical kits and a small group of GDF personnel courtesy of Colonel Casey. Between them, it was a far more manageable task to carefully remove the survivors from the wreckage. Those pronounced as dead were left for the moment as John’s countdown of life signs inside the remains of the plane slowly ticked down.

All in all, they’d so far found eighteen of the twenty eight passengers, including the dead pulled from the ruined tail section. Ten to go, two of which were still alive according to Thunderbird Five’s scans. One of the ten was Scott. Gordon felt cruel when he found another breathing body and mentally cursed her for not being Scott. It wasn’t her fault; she was lucky to be alive herself, torso contorted in a way he knew meant a broken back. He should be relieved to find any survivors at all, not cursing them for not being the one he wanted to be alive.

He flagged her up to one of the closest medics and moved on. It was almost too dark to see at the back of the plane, up against the crushed wreckage. His toe snapped on something soft and he tripped. Landing in a crouch, he turned around to face the obstruction. A dead body. He didn’t even need to check the young man’s pulse; the poor guy had been caught in the mangled metal and torn in half. His face was twisted in pain and terror, blue eyes wide and glassy with death. It wasn’t Scott, but Gordon knew he’d be seeing those eyes in his nightmares nonetheless.

Turning back around, he moved to stand before realising he was by part of the fallen table. Various limbs had been protruding from beneath the large slab at intervals during Gordon’s search, but here there was a gap. A seat, wedged beneath it, had left part of the table at an angle. It was too dark to see into it, so Gordon palmed a glowstick and snapped it, illuminating the area in an eerie green. Immediately the silhouette of a body greeted his eyes. Mindful of additional shrapnel, he reached in carefully, fumbling until he found their wrist.

Thump… thump…

Slow, but there. At the same time, a GDF woman called in another survivor. One more than expected.

“Virgil!” he called. “I’ve got someone under the table with a pulse. Going to need some heavy lifting to get them out!”

“F.A.B.” his brother replied. He raised the glowstick above his head with the hand not measuring the pulse and waved it around. “I see you.” A moment later, Virgil and a trio of GDF officers appeared. “How much of this are we going to need to shift?” he asked. Gordon shrugged.

“I can’t see. Got a silhouette but not much more. Give me your torch.” He dropped the glowstick and kept his hand open for Virgil’s gear. It landed in his hand and he carefully manoeuvred it down before turning it on.

A once sharp grey suit was covered in dust, but that wasn’t what caught Gordon’s breath in his throat. It was the dark brown hair, and the broken but unmistakable International Rescue communicator on his forearm, less than an inch from Gordon’s fingers on the slow pulse, that made him gasp.

“Gord-?”

“It’s Scott.” He cut Virgil’s query off. Behind him, the GDF murmured in surprise.

Virgil didn’t ask anything more. Gordon stayed where he was, watching the limp form of his eldest brother with a lump in his throat as they moved around him. His fingers didn’t budge from the pulse, a fear gripping him that if he stopped measuring it, it would stop altogether. Orders barked and a concert of groans resulted in a large part of the broken table slab being cut up and lifted, letting what pitiful light had reached so far back into the cabin illuminate Scott’s body.

It wasn’t good. Blood matted his hair, a mark of something striking him in the crash. One leg was twisted almost completely around, a dislocated hip at best, and more blood stained his arm.

Virgil took charge, nudging Gordon out of the way. He went willingly only because out of everyone in the world, he only trusted Virgil or Grandma to handle his brother in such a broken state. He tapped his communicator.

“John, Alan?”

Both answered immediately, eager for news. Inwardly he was glad not to be the bearer of tragic news, not sure he could have managed it.

“Found him; he’s alive.”

“How is he?” Alan demanded over John’s sigh of relief. Gordon winced.

“Alive,” he repeated. “Virgil’s got him. It’s too dark back here to tell past that.” That was a bare faced lie; even as he spoke he could see Virgil attaching the medical scanner to him, still glowing glow stick highlighting the frown on his face. Neither brother called him out on it.

“I’ll update the others,” John said instead. “Keep looking for survivors; you’re on one more than our scans showed. There might be more.”

“F.A.B.” He ended the call. “Virgil?”

“All in hand,” his older brother said shortly. “Keep looking.”

“Yessir.”

Seven dead bodies later, all thirty crew and passengers were accounted for. He exited the craft, removing his now filthy helmet, only to almost collide with Colonel Casey.

“You knew Scott was on board the flight,” she said without greeting. Her face was displeased, and he figured he was the first Tracy she’d managed to collar.

“Of course we did,” he confirmed. “But that didn’t change how we operated.”

“I can see that,” she said. “Why didn’t you tell me?” He glanced back at the corpse of the plane, where Virgil was still inside with Scott, carefully transferring him to a hoverstretcher, last Gordon had seen.

“Because it didn’t change anything,” he repeated. “Excuse me, Colonel, but my job isn’t over yet.”

He didn’t wait to be dismissed, heading towards Thunderbird Two’s open module to prep it for Scott’s transport. The GDF might be taking the other injured to hospitals, but there was only one craft their brother would be travelling in, and that was their own. He wasn’t naïve; Scott’s injuries were bad, beyond anything Grandma and Virgil could handle at home. John and Kayo were already working to locate a hospital both capable of treating him, and with enough security that he would be safe from ill-wishers during his recovery.

None of them were convinced this was a simple accident. Not with so many high profile individuals on board. The Hood aside, there were many people that stood to gain from the deaths of the four CEOs. Lady Penelope was already digging into the employees from the other three companies who stood to benefit from the deaths. Regretfully, the only CEO still with a pulse was Scott. All four of them had been towards the back of the cabin, all bar Scott caught up in the twisted metal that was the final third of the plane.

Scott had been lucky, for all that he wasn’t out of the woods yet. Gordon wasn’t a medical professional, but Virgil’s face told him that much.

“The medical carrier is ready to leave,” Colonel Casey told him. He assumed she’d followed him to Thunderbird Two, although had at least refrained from entering uninvited. “As soon as Scott is on board, they’ll be on their way.”

“They can leave now,” Gordon retorted. “We’ll handle Scott.”

“I know you are concerned, but this crash is a GDF investigation,” she told him. “All casualties fall under GDF jurisdiction.”

Gordon was shorter than her – the only one of his brothers bar the still-growing Alan with that distinction – but inside the module bay he could still look down at her.

“Scott is International Rescue jurisdiction,” he corrected her. “And as the CEO of the family business, also Tracy jurisdiction. He’ll be treated at a location approved by us, not the GDF, and if the GDF have an issue with that, they can take that up with our head of security.”

“And your other employees?” she challenged. Gordon pushed away the memory of a man impaled by a seat strut.

“None of them survived.” He turned his back on her, readying the finishing touches.

“I’m sorry for your losses,” she said, and he heard her walk away. He’d barely known them, the six men and women wearing Tracy Industries logos, but Scott had. John, too, and Kayo had hand-picked the four members of security.

Alan appeared beside him, putting away what remained of the medical supplies he’d taken out earlier and locking the hand-held laser back where it belonged.

“Is he going to be okay?” he asked, and Gordon shrugged, putting an arm around his shoulders.

“I don’t know,” he admitted.

“Do you think this was sabotage?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why would anyone do this?”

Gordon sighed.

“It might have just been an accident,” he reminded him, even if he doubted his own words. Alan looked equally unconvinced. “Come on, let’s get her ready to go.”

“F.A.B.,” Alan said quietly, and they headed out towards the loading platform, only to be brought up short at the sight of Virgil approaching them, hoverstretcher alongside. Immediately they got out of the way, letting their older brother brush past and secure the stretcher to the wall.

“Gordon, pilot,” he said. “John and Kayo found us a New Zealand hospital. It’s a fair distance, but it’s secure. Scott should hold on long enough to get there as long as you don’t dawdle.”

“F.A.B.” Gordon wasn’t a fan of the implication that Scott might not, but had no choice but to trust Virgil as he jabbed the button to raise the platform. Alan stayed behind – understandable, as he hadn’t seen yet seen their eldest brother – but Gordon didn’t say anything. He could pilot Two solo.

There were many words that could be used to describe the speed they left the crash site and headed for the other side of the world at, but ‘dawdle’ was not one of them. She was no rocket like One or Three, but Two was still one of the fastest planes in the world, and Gordon was determined to get as much speed out of her as he dared. Virgil could take her faster, another Mach at least, but he wasn’t Virgil and didn’t trust himself to keep her flight smooth at top speed. He just hoped it would be fast enough.

About halfway there, somewhere over the large expanse of water that Gordon would much rather be in than over, Virgil contacted him, a hologram flickering into life in his periphery.

“If I send Alan up, will you go faster?” he asked. Gordon’s heart sank.

“Is he getting worse?” Please no, please not Scott.

“I’ve got him stable,” Virgil reassured him. “But he’s still critical. The sooner we get him to the hospital the happier I’ll be.”

“More speed coming up,” he confirmed, reaching for the throttle. “Uh, yeah, send Alan up, would you?” He could probably do with a co-pilot if he went any faster.

“Sure thing,” Virgil agreed. “He’s on his way.”

Sure enough, no sooner than his older brother ended the connection, the door opened and Alan stumbled through it, all but collapsing into the co-pilot’s chair.

“He hasn’t woken up,” the astronaut offered as he reached forwards to power up the co-pilot controls. As soon as the second set of lights lit up, Gordon accelerated the craft towards top speed. “Virgil’s worried about the head injury.”

Gordon grit his teeth, remembering the red matted into the brown under the powerful beam of Virgil’s torch.

“Head injuries are tricky,” he agreed. “But Virgil knows what he’s going, and John’s found a hospital that specialises in them.”

“I know,” Alan replied quietly. “That’s what worries me. They’re not telling us something.”

“The hazards of being the youngest,” Gordon groaned, unsurprised but as annoyed as Alan about it. Scott was their brother too, dammit. “So, what are they not telling us?”

“Have you seen the results of the scan?” Alan asked him. Gordon shook his head.

“Nah, had to leave to look for other survivors once Virgil was dealing with him, and haven’t seen him since.” Five seconds of hoverstretcher rushing past didn’t really count. “What came up?”

“No idea,” Alan sulked. “Virgil’s been keeping it out of my sight all journey. But I know John knows.”

Gordon growled and slammed the comm button.

“John, Virgil, I want the result of those scans,” he demanded.

“You’re piloting,” Virgil responded immediately. “No reading while you’re controlling my ‘bird.”

“Then summarise for me,” he retorted. “Starting with that head injury.”

“Just get us to the hospital,” Virgil ordered.

“Already doing that,” he ground out, hackles rising. “Stop trying to keep us in the dark! He’s our brother too!” Thunderbird Two lurched under his grip before Alan hastily stabilised them.

“What are you doing up there?” Virgil demanded. “Be careful!”

“Letting my imagination fill in the blanks,” he lied – he was, in fact, keeping his imagination carefully blank.

“Is it that bad?” Alan interrupted before Virgil could find a fresh retort. “Is he dying?”

Silence filled the cabin, and Gordon’s temper flared.

“You said he was stable!” he yelled. “Dammit, Virgil, don’t lie to me about that!”

“I said critical but stable,” Virgil corrected. “He is stable, Gordo, but…” He trailed off, and Gordon glanced over at Alan to see his own growing panic mirrored back at him in blue eyes.

“He’s comatose,” John said quietly.

“What?” Alan yelped. Gordon stiffened, hands threatening to crush the yoke in his hands before he forcibly relaxed them.

“You didn’t think I might like to know that?” he growled, flashes of hospitals and white coats and bodiless voices stirring in the back of his mind before he trampled them down ruthlessly. Not now. Silence answered him. Clearly both his conscious older brothers knew they were in the wrong, and that whatever nonsense they fed him about not wanting to distract him while he was piloting wouldn’t pacify him in the slightest.

Alan’s face had gone white, big blue eyes focused on him, and he knew his younger brother was remembering the last time he’d had a family member in a coma – him. He forced a smile for his benefit, which had about as much of an effect as any pacifying words John or Virgil might have tried to use.

“Why?” Alan asked, voice shaking. “Who would do that?”

“Kayo and Lady Penelope are looking into it,” John told them. “Whatever happened, they’ll find out. I’ve got EOS doing some digging of her own, too.”

“But… is Scott going to be okay?” Alan pleaded, looking back at Gordon, who was clearly the resident expert on comas. He remembered the fight for consciousness, pleading voices turning to resigned ones as they talked about their day yet again. He remembered wanting to respond so badly but being trapped by his own body.

The idea of Scott going through that filled him with dread – if he even did. Comas were different for different people, he’d found out later, when he’d torn through everything he could get his hands on in a desperate attempt to understand what had happened to him. He wouldn’t wish that on anyone, except maybe the Hood but then even only in his blackest moods. Scott had done nothing to deserve that.

“He’s a fighter,” was all he could say.

The hospital staff were ready and waiting for them when they finally arrived, a two hour flight that had felt far longer. No sooner had he touched down and opened the module than they were swarming, hurrying Scott inside with Virgil hot on their heels, presumably talking doctor-speak and filling in anything they hadn’t already been briefed about.

Gordon and Alan were left in Thunderbird Two’s cockpit, watching out of the windows as their elder brothers vanished into the maw of the hospital.

“Do we follow them?” Alan asked after a moment. Gordon looked at the doors with no small amount of dread, and shook his head.

“They won’t be allowing visitors just yet,” he said. “Virgil will have a fight to stay with him, and he’s our medic. We’ll just get shoved in a waiting room with sympathetic looks and no news.”

At least, that was the stories he’d heard from his brothers, regarding his own accident. International Rescue might have more weight than merely the Tracy name had back then, but a patient was a patient.

“Come home,” John said, popping up from the dashboard and looking them both over. He looked tired, too, and Gordon wondered how much worse it was for him, stuck up in space and fully reliant on holograms to see Scott. At least the rest of them had been able to see – and touch – him. It didn’t take much for Gordon to recall the thump-thump of a faint pulse beneath his fingers as he clung to the sign that he hadn’t lost anyone else.

Not yet, a nasty voice whispered in the back of his mind. He silenced it sharply.

“But-” Alan protested, clinging to the edges of his seat as though it was the hoverstretcher carrying Scott’s limp body.

“Come home and get cleaned up,” John said firmly, reminding Gordon that he’d spent several hours in a wrecked plane with dead bodies. It was hidden slightly better on Alan’s uniform, but a glance at his own showed red drying into brown on his yellow baldric. “By the time we get back there, they might have news for us.”

“We?” Gordon locked onto, and John crossed his arms.

“I’m not staying up here waiting for news to trickle in,” he snapped, and Gordon raised his hands in surrender.

“Never said you were, big bro,” he soothed.

“What about the investigation?” Alan asked, even as he started flicking switches and preparing the massive craft for lift off once more.

“I’ve got EOS on that,” John replied. Following Alan’s lead, Gordon took control of the massive Thunderbird again, her VTOLs roaring as they peeled away from their landing spot back into the sky. “I’ll let Virgil know where you are once he gets in contact.”

“F.A.B.,” Gordon acknowledged.

He pretended it didn’t hurt to turn their back on the hospital where Scott lay comatose, but even if it fooled his brothers (doubtful), he couldn’t fool himself.

...tbc..?

#thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds are go fanfiction #tsari writes fanfiction #wip excerpt #gordon tracy #scott tracy #john tracy #virgil tracy #alan tracy #colonel casey #thunderwhump #thunderangst

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lightpurplelilies · 4 years

Text

GIVE AND TAKE, PART ONE: FEAR-DRIVEN || WIP INTRO

“How long has it been since you smoked?” I ask quietly, and she manages a small smile. There are dark circles under her eyes. “Three weeks, four days, and twenty-two hours.”

“Oh.”

GENRE: dystopia, but otherwise realistic fiction

THEMES: romance, relationships, lgbt, polyamory, oppression, fighting, discovery, lost and found

STATUS: in progress, being published at royal road

LENGTH: 25 chapters

WARNINGS: swearing, smoking, suicide, sex

INSPIRATION: the chemical garden trilogy by lauren distefano (fever / wither / sever); also pretty much every other dystopia i’ve ever read

CHARACTERS:

ABER -- eighteen years old, newly married, and now suddenly at “home” in a house on the beach with his wife, his wife’s mother, and his wife’s two other husbands. it all revolves around his wife, doesn’t it.

NUA -- ava’s third husband, and seemingly her least favorite. always has his nose in a book and his ears open, unsure of if he’s safe tucked away here, or just dangling from a rope about to snap.

KEOL -- ava’s favorite husband, though not her first; and despite her attention, his place in this house isn’t safe. hates his wife’s cigarettes and her mother, and aber, up until aber needs his help to find his twin sister.

AVA -- unfortunately, aber’s new wife. nua and keol’s wife, too. addicted to cigarettes, keol, and annoying her mother. why would she smoke like that in the first place, if her lungs are sick?

BAYAN -- servant or slave? doesn’t matter. he’s got ava on his side, and that’s how you survive in this house.

LILLY -- ava’s mother, and the real villain. we knew that from the start, though.

ABIGALA -- aber’s twin sister, lost in the wind thanks to lilly. just like aber, but also...not.

and finally,

SHIV -- ava’s orange cat.

find the introduction and preface here. read now! however, more updates will be coming on a new website -- i’m moving to post my WIP chapters on royalroad.com, while continuing normal blogging here on tumblr. 💫

thank you for reading and for your interest!

-- vinni serein ♡

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ashenburst · 3 years

Text

Far Goes The Farrago, Chapter 1 - A Sound Little Betrayal

First chapter of my WIP because I have nothing else to post. *auctioneer voice* AND HERE WE HAVE A STEAMING HOT STORY ABOUT DEMONS, MURDER, EXISTENTIALISM AND FRIENDSHIP, COMING FROM A SEASONED FANFICTION WRITER!

Consider this a psychological Fantasy, eh? The blurb should be:

It is a tale of the unknown hero or the greatest villain: he who has forgiven the devil. But long before seeing his epilogue come true, Ulrich started off as an entirely different person: a fake hero, some unfulfilled hope, tightly promised failure. His inner demons were yet to be brutalized by the outer ones. Briefly put, this is a story set in a foreign world, delving deep into supernatural activities, all of which are slowly dying and being prohibited by humans. Ulrich is an arbiter, one of those who are trained to bring out that prohibition. As many good men, he is distraught by unjust fate. To battle it and prove his good, he must resort to nefarious ways and gather a wicked company to his aid. No training could've possibly prepared him for the inhumane adventure that awaits, orchestrated by none other than the Devil himself.

Very excited to offer this chapter to you :3 more is published on Wattpad, and the best version + some additional content is on my Patreon!

We always seek greatness in others, never in ourselves. A fact so true and firm, known to Ulrich, and yet, he fled from himself.

Where to? It didn’t really matter. The goal was reverse – not to run to, but to run away.

Heaviest sentiments sought a compensation. If the mind were so busy processing them, then surely, other stimuli needed to be deafened. It was the subconscious who stilled Ulrich so; he’d been pacing, insolently small and scared in the vast crowd, and in some vacant moment of clarity, he found it, his very own hyperfixation. A critter perched on top of a stool, quaint and big. How come he hadn’t noticed it? Was it because it looked like décor – or was it because of his own disregard for… everything? He should’ve laughed.

Nevertheless, he neared. It didn’t move much, just a stare here and there, swing of the head from one side to the other. Nobody else but Ulrich seemed to pay it any attention, which provided him with some privacy, or even better, intimacy. The best kind of it at that: the one where the other party wasn’t even existent.

When meeting a future acquaintance, Ulrich knew how to behave. Do the dreaded handshake, and fortify it with a sure stare in the eye. He had no trouble doing those, despite his somewhat reserved nature. Strangely, the problem was still in him, or on him, to be exact.

Years ago, he had read, then distinctly remembered, some author’s words, lamenting about fair eyes of “unruly ice, turquoise waters hungering and withering in the cold” – and upon the reminder of his own sharp gaze, never fair, forever protruding, every reflection would be scowled at; for in there, grew a pair of icicles jabbing at the souls of the seen. He wished for a softer look, overflowing with docile colors, but alas, he could not break the ice. Perhaps others would imagine what hid beneath, as they were, easily, far less tender than Ulrich in their living.

But here? This was a perplexing community. Ignorant and invasive all the same. The overlapping presences were enough of a distress on their own.

On the other hand, the bird… the parrot? It lacked reason, therefore, of course it wouldn’t be affected. It wasn’t affected by almost anything at all, since, well, despite the commotion, it barely moved.

He stepped closer, and it didn’t react. He took yet another step, and it barely moved in its humble residence. Just a tiny, tiny, parrot step. It was nothing compared to Ulrich’s – and it placed him so near the parrot that he might as well be intruding its simplistic home.

Out of all the places on this bird to aim his interest at, he picked an unconventional one to be shot. Ulrich had the opportunity to indulge in its eyes, without noticing his own. Inside awaited a wondrous resort, ripe for his imagination to sow, his scythe that of ardent focus.

The salon and its decadence were flooded with black. Saturated crowds drowned in mute darkness. Dry luxury too suddenly dipped into those murky ponds, pleasantly distant – finally modest. With Ulrich’s anxiety at its staggering peak, the predicament was clear. It was high time the world sank.

It was a damp place, inert and peaceful. Just like all that was good, the universe could never sustain it.

In an instant, death. Ponds fluttered, wise eyes turned primitive, and Ulrich was woken up from the stare, by a stare. Beady eyes mirrored it all, for Ulrich to see: a harmless shadow of reality, where nothing could impact, nothing mattered. He was yearning to slip inside, stay inside, cocooned in reflections. It was much easier than confronting the world – and equally as impossible.

It should’ve been simple. All he had to do was close his eyes, and he’d escape. Black would overwhelm, and in it, he would find everything and anything. It was both the martyr and the cornerstone of consciousness! The provenance of dreams, the dear night’s shroud! And, and in Ulrich’s exceptional case, it was a savior, just a day old. It was black who gave him life!

Yet, this black… it was different. It noticed, it moved, but, but it stared and shivered, and – enlarged. Feathers puffed, head bobbed. Ulrich’s fascination then renamed itself: unease.

The grandiose parrot was no longer as restful. As it shook its great head, feathers in a scarce crest swayed like artificial rods, limp and long, quite – unnatural.

To make it even more terrifying, it was of morphology immense, dark like drowse, cheeks skinned red. There was a budding tongue in that twisted beak, pointed exactly at him as it opened the mouth wide –

Then screeched with a ripping pitch and opened its massive, unexpectedly massive wings.

It startled him. His heart got chased into his throat. He screeched back, and fell back, landing on something rather soft and still. As someone who had horrid experience with bumping into people, Ulrich immediately recognized his fault. He hopped away to face the victim of his fall.

And the victim, well… despite his face being largely covered with a beard, his sentiments were clear. Dour in both bearing and expression, the man had been preparing for a relentless lecture. Ulrich was in the midst of mental preparations too, ready to apologize in a plethora of sorries, but… by the looks of it, he didn’t have to. Although he barely looked at this mountain of a man, he saw, clearly, a drastic shift in expression, from utmost gloom to total glee.

And this person, this once outraged fellow, now hollered at Ulrich as if he were dearest family,

“The heart of the celebration himself! The savior of the Hartschnapps! Ernst Sondermann!”

Ulrich’s fake name resonated throughout the crowd, spoken with such vigor, such elation, it might as well come off as laughter to some faraway folk. Wonderful, how everyone took it for granted – a mere name, more of a nickname.

And it was the right one! It was not false, it was fake – and the very black that saved Ulrich also scarred his cursed pseudonym, rendered it a seething wound, something his frail soul could barely tolerate.

Now he was reminded of his misplaced fame and glory, the precursor of this entire gathering, the consequence of black. Despite the man’s happiness in tone, Ulrich perceived it as the worst scolding, and felt accordingly.

But he couldn’t show it to anyone, ruin this entire ordeal by heroically abandoning his heroism. He had to play along, and his act was poorly executed. In contrast, his shrill laugh could easily pass as a pitched sob.

What did not help was the fact he was stared at by manifold.

He said his sorry, blurted out some diminutions, and continued down the trail, somewhere off – and he knew, he delved deep into words of nonsense, and at some point, he halted, finally meeting the heavy gaze of the man. He was waiting, so, in other words, Ulrich…

Ulrich was not interrupted. He was waited for, and he was esteemed. Something otherwise appreciated, and on this instance, incredibly awkward.

“Lastly, I believe we can infer that this was a poorly woven accident,” he tried to conclude, clasping his hands together. A blink at them, then a blink back at the man – he was too uncomfortable to keep the polite stare one would expect in a conversation.

And what he got was another speech of joy and honor.

“Poorly woven yet perfect for the occasion!” This man tapped forcefully with his engraved cane, emphasizing his oncoming words. “I wouldn’t have dared to approach you by myself, mister Sondermann! Never! But fate has brought us together, and I am honored to be bestowed even with the opportunity to meet you. Indeed.”

He finished with a brisk nod and some twitch in his beard. It must’ve been a smirk, short-lived one. Ulrich had stacked some fancy words for a similar response, but was now, surprisingly, overwhelmed. The man insisted on approaching him, taking over the conversation.

All Ulrich got was a handshake and many, many words of assurance, none of them important. Some long name, he heard – why did the people of Aurun assign such dreadfully complex names? Even if Ulrich managed to remember those (a feat of its own), greater length meant more room for mistakes.

This man, he said he was… Titus Augustine Donao? Ulrich just smiled to it. It was revolting, the amount of times confusion was the cause of his smile. That was all he could do, for mister Donao took over. Suddenly, the world revolved around him, his pleasure and his reputation and his lovely newspapers. Ulrich could barely keep track of it, especially with the constant smacking of the cane against the floor, but he somehow survived. Shaking, perhaps, but he made it.

As soon as he realized the chatter was reaching its end, he felt his mood lighten, and as soon as its end came, he dashed away from the stressors, the damned rich folk, and their blatant hapless extravagance.

Looking for a proper place to hide, Ulrich retreated himself away from the lower section of the hall, almost running up the few stairs, down the pristine marble floor, to reach the bar – the spot where he would not only sit to rest, but also be left alone. No parrots to scare him, no people to condemn him with their praise.

The salon was enormous, fitting for the occasion. It took him a dangerous lot of footsteps to reach his goal. Ulrich already met the major and similarly influential people in this huge complex – he had expected them to show up. What he did not expect was a celebration of this scale, solely in his honor. There was a grand hall, in whose corner he found the parrot, and away from it, there was a bar and a secluded dining area, where, as he spotted, some fine gentlemen played cards in peace. He had no intention of joining them.

But the bar, the bar was lovely. Dim lights provided a seclusion of sorts, and as far as the line of the bar stretched, almost none sat there. Ulrich occupied the most distant stool, ordered tea. Peppermint, of course, he told the barista.

He was unnaturally overjoyed by the fact that he was alone. Nobody wanted to bother a poor duckling like him, despite being in his uniform – it couldn’t compare to the excess in aesthetic every single person showed. He didn’t stand out, and although he was embarrassed of it at first, it proved to be his salvation. He blended in with his inferiority.

He wasn’t even sure how much he wanted to be noticed by them. The wild crowd, everyone pretending to be his friend for a minute, then storming off elsewhere for a similar verbal parade. They were all the same. fake, just like him with his fame and merit.

Ulrich dropped onto the bar’s smooth, cold, so pleasantly cold surface. Brown marble. Could’ve been polished wood, but in Aurun’s fashion, it had to be marble. Cold, hard and soulless. Perfect footing for his heavy soul.

That… that mister, the last one he had met, Titus Donao, who he had fallen on… he was the last drop in Ulrich’s sullen ocean. A shameless narcissist, just like the rest of them, startling him in a startle, and then… simply, fulfilling the duty of being good.

Ulrich did not blame him. He did not blame the parrot, or anyone else. He blamed himself for allowing the fanfare to flare this long. It would be perfect, if he could just… extinguish it in peace. Make everyone forget and go home.

He could’ve done it, but he didn’t, cowardly. And he believed he deserved some escapisms, then? Despite him hiding the great truth? He deserved to dream of a better self?

No, not in the least. But that would happen! Inevitably, his career would advance, due to his “success”. He was becoming famous. He had no idea what it brought to his life, and knew it took away one thing: peace.

His tea arrived and he sipped on it. Such a lullaby for the senses.

Sadly, they picked on something… revolting. An odd gent sat by his side. Ulrich wouldn’t like to call it pessimism, but he knew this man would talk to him. Thus, he peeked, more of a precaution than curiosity, and noticed, firstly, a long face, acute and sleek in every manner. Then the clothing, plenty of browns complimenting each other to form a rather tame suit.

What attracted Ulrich’s attention the most was elsewhere. A silly hat of brown leather was slouched on this person’s head, and as if stuffed with fresh wheat, many pale strands escaped it, all unkempt, wild and independent. Even his ear was hidden underneath that mess.

Then came the side peer of yellow, a glisten like few Ulrich had encountered in his brief life. It was entrancing, but it could not last, simply because: two peers met. The discussion had to be struck.

It wasn’t something one would expect – a riveting conversation all at once, skipping the formalities and small talk, and resorting to something bigger, truthfully engaging. Somehow, fates clashed, and what Ulrich got was exactly the unexpected.

Spoken by the stranger was a mystery anyone would long for. An oddity, some romantic subtext in poetry, where the meaning had to be dug out and felt by each heart. Not in many instances in life could the heart be brought to such use, but this… this one, it necessitated wonder.

All strangers had one talent in common, that being: bizarreness. Not one person would be more qualified for a miracle than a stranger. The tool of this one was a gentle voice, and it inquired,

“It’s nice, isn’t it, this place? Doesn’t feel real.”

Neither did his statement. Ulrich took the liberty to stare. He knew he mustered one of those sorrowful faces, but he did not, by all means, feel sad – he was simply invested. Although few in number, they were the heaviest words to land on his eardrums.

“Much like a dream,” he replied with a slow nod.

A small curve appeared on the stranger’s lips – amusement, and in the very next moment a bow of the head to hide it. “If this is your dream, then your nightmares must be competing with Hell,” was how he estimated Ulrich, and he was right.

Ulrich’s brows went upwards. He was shocked, pleasantly, to find out someone could relate – not only relate, but… approach him in such a peculiar manner. Now abysmally curious, he asked, just to get him to talk, “And you would know?”

The blond did not answer for a bit. “Nobody would.” How distasteful, coming from such a captivating apparition. Ulrich was not disappointed. This event alone was, he knew, insignificant, and yet, something his memory would cradle for years.

He decided a smooth way out, a compromise, “To each his own Hell, then.” Ulrich lifted his glass both as reconciliation and a late greeting.

This man had no glass to greet back, but he managed. He acted as if he had one of air, greeted back with it and, how generously, showed a semblance of a smile. Ulrich let out the most honest laugh this eve had heard.

The stranger offered him a hand, and he accepted, albeit hesitantly. After performing the handshake above his drink, Ulrich had introduced himself – a stupid custom, as the stranger pointed out afterwards.

“Everyone knows you.” He retracted his hand from Ulrich’s formally gloved one. “But you won’t know anyone. You’ll forget us all, all of our jolly faces and names. But that’s fine. I don’t mind.”

Ulrich couldn’t disagree, but the vanity, the wisdom, the straightforward mannerism of this man! It rendered him speechless, but he knew, he wanted to talk, he needed to say something so more could be told, but…

He was left without a clue. Previous agitation did not help in the least, so, not knowing what else to do, he resorted to honesty.

“You are terribly correct, sir. I am both glad and ashamed the truth resonates within you too.”

“It resonates within everyone! But they ignore it, it’s too much for their crammed hearts,” he replied with newfound vigor. He then turned on his stool, arm spread towards the people and their vain heads, to reintroduce Ulrich to the setting.

“And it’s their souls you want to protect?”

It was no disapproval. Ulrich was surprised to find pity on his pallid face.

“It’s an arbiter’s duty,” he mumbled, “and my humble wish.” Taking a sip from his tea, he listened to the blond’s retaliation.

“So, you love them? The people?”

Ulrich set the cup down. “I don’t have to love them. I just believe that… every man deserves good –”

But he was immediately cut off with, “Don’t you hear the venom in that hall? Is that where you wanted to pour your heart out? Who you wanted to shiver with and be loved by?”

What could Ulrich say? “So long good is not betrayed, I will stand by it, and I will offer it to all. It can’t do any harm.” He looked away. “And I won’t suffer either. I understand the bad sides of man. I stray from them, should they prove… dangerous. And those people, who you claim to be… venomous?” Then he too pointed at the crowd. “Perhaps all they need is an antidote.”

The blond had a shift in expression, from aggressive focus to blandness. “Then you’re better than I thought. A shame.”

He tapped his own hat and left Ulrich. No goodbye, no wave, no glance, no nothing. The stranger remained that: a stranger. Ulrich was left with a somewhat bitter tinge on his tongue.

The person left to the area where cards were played; so be it. Ulrich looked down to his tea. The aroma tempted him to calmness.

He rubbed his hands. The tea, the slight tiredness, they all seemed like a proper invite to sleep. He certainly felt so, but on the other hand… his thoughts couldn’t settle. This interaction in particular stunned him, and with every gentle sip, he would realize that, indeed, it stunned him, yet he couldn’t make out much of it.

Mere minutes passed, and an alarming scream shook his frame. Shouts of confusion followed, stomps of footsteps and chairs scraping, and forcefully, Ulrich had his attention averted towards the ruckus

He caught glimpse of cards flying around, people gathering. In the midst of it all, a man writhing on the floor. Shadowed was his spotlight by the concerned crowd, and he stole the show with an act so blatantly desperate: shrieks and tosses and turns, as if it were a matter of life or death.

The thick fence of people allowed Ulrich not to thoroughly examine the star. It was only after the imbalance that the cause of it all was revealed. The people supported him, as he slowly rose, only to reveal –

The blond stranger, his face disfigured in pain, certainly a sight unpleasant. Huffs and violent hacks fell all around him, while his curled-up form barely held its ground. His hands, he was clutching his own hands, holding them on his chest – but why? What had happened?

Pulled by natural magnetism, Ulrich abandoned his seat, hesitant to delve into this trouble… and yet, firmly affirmed that he couldn’t leave it at that. It was too strange, too unsettling, even for his senses – let alone his mind. The stranger hadn’t yet betrayed his good will, after all.

Before he managed to, however, a demand struck him in his tracks.

“A word, if you’re available, sir.”

Ulrich whipped his head around to be met with a tall woman. Hers was a magnificent mane of hair, curly and potent, much like a dark halo. It framed a stern brown face, unforgiving and cold in her grey eyes.

He had to stop and stare. Just a moment, and he got back to his senses. There was a more severe situation going on.

“This man, have you seen –”

She spoke, her voice that of trained authority, “I have. There’s nothing you can do, unless you possess supernatural means to aid.”

Ulrich was a little startled. This lady, firm in her composure and speech, she wasn’t… quite the sort he was used to. She didn’t act around and sweeten her words – no, they remained monotone and overbearing. Swallowing, he tried to shoo his heart away from his throat.

“Then… absolutely,” Ulrich murmured and offered his hand once he had his posture straightened. She squeezed it straight away, and – what the hell?! Her grip was too firm and short-lasting, and way too painful for Ulrich’s liking. He could feel his bones rub against each other!

He stared down to his hand, taken aback by pulsating pain that remained. But the woman didn’t seem to notice.

“My name is Maria Merkator,” she introduced herself, “I am Aurun’s Minister of Police Affairs. It is an honor to meet you.”

His heart leaped. He hid the borderline injured hand behind his back, folding his both hands there. After a cough, he formed the proper voice to answer. “The honor is mine,” he replied mechanically, “I suppose I needn’t introduce myself.”

“Indeed. Your actions are an introduction of their own. It is exactly because of them that I am here. If you would allow me?”

What actions? Did she know?

“Go ahead,” he whispered through his tight throat.

She gave him a curt nod. Her face remained devoid of any emotion. “I am in desperate need of men like you. Men who can deal with demons.”

The truth was avoided! Relief washed over him, but it was not absolute. Troubles were ongoing. So, demons, and him to battle them? The worst idea ever to befall the Minister, surely! He simply wasn’t fit. He would die if he were ever to even see one.

He laughed his stress out, then coughed to buy some time. In the edge of his vision, the Minister’s blank expression was seen, and on it, lips pressed in a strict line.

And after all, out of all the talented and notable arbiters in this world, why would… why would she pick –

Exactly. He garnered some much-needed poise. “I thought arbiters come to aid when summoned? I’m certain you can acquire even better people than me.” Then he peeked back at the Minister, saw her eyes tarnished and mute. To play it off coolly, he sipped his tea a little.

“They do, but largely defective. I won’t inquire why or how, but the fact stands, and our experience here confirms it,” he heard her speak.

As if Ulrich was supposed to justify them! Nevertheless, he assumed the answers. It wasn’t a matter of humbleness, more… his own lack of talent, for he knew he was one of the defective bunch, and the rest of them, they were the same, and probably even worse.

But he faked his surprise. “Defective in what sense?”

“Unqualified. Incapable of matching a street ruffian. You, on the other hand, slayed a demon.”

A violent tinge in his heart.

“It was luck,” he blurted out, dodging the lie.

“Pardon?”

He looked once at her, and saw her brow raised upwards, so cruelly. “I had more luck than brains,” he attempted.

“Don’t give your merit to fate and its pseudonyms. It was you who did it,” she disapproved.

“Not me, no.”

“Then who?”

Ulrich clenched his jaw. He was digging his way to the grave possibility; would he want to bury himself like that? He hid his mouth behind the cup of tea, as if, hesitating to drink.

“All those who had taught me?” His inner doubt made his outer statement come through as more of a question.

“You’re too humble,” she sneered.

He clenched his jaw once again, teeth scraping against each other so hard, he forced himself a cringe. Narrowing his eyes, he muttered, “I strive to be.”

“And you’re too mild-hearted for someone who has slayed a demon, mister Sondermann. It’s so nonsensical, one might say, even poetic.”

He shivered, grossly accused. The ending, the false name, it struck him as an even worse allegation! And it was the worst allegation, for it was true!

Ulrich stared at her. Indeed, she was correct. It was poetic, an egregious exaggeration, much like plenty of modern poems. And if, if the rest of the world was drowning in hyperboles, then… maybe, just maybe –

“But that’s how things are, ma’am. I apologize if this is not the man you want to see defend your city.”

He should become part of it, and vanish, a humble word among the ludicrous metaphors. Perfect destiny for him, for he failed to adapt. He had to accept; it was just.

“Maybe it is.” She paused. “Rest assured, if you have no other business, you are invited to stay and battle Aurun’s blasphemies. You’ll have your accommodation and support of the police, should the need arise.”

“I… of course, I accept.” And he smiled with all honesty.

“Excellent. Tomorrow after lunch, come to the main police station. Another capable arbiter shall be waiting for you.”

Another one?! Perfect to contrast his idiocy! To witness his foolishness! That was exactly what he deserved! He was horribly elated!

“I am looking forward to our cooperation,” he told and stretched his smile. It hurt so much.

Did she know, could she even assume what harrowed the abysses of his vibrating chest? Sprouting from inner oblivion, came a bitter thought, correspondingly as dark: he was willing to play the role of a hero, just so these people could have one. How utterly ridiculous.

She nodded, as if to confirm his sufferings. “As am I. Farewell, and good health.”

“Likewise –”

But she did not wait. She too, just like every single person in this colossal mishap, did not care. It made him desperate. The justice of the city, too, lacked a heart, it seemed. She did not understand her wallops, she did not know, just like anyone else, how much it devastated Ulrich. Except now, for the first time, he had grown awfully anxious. His heartbeat, a race.

Sadly, the tea, it couldn’t help. What was left of it, he downed quickly – at least, as fast as its heat allowed him.

He asked the barista if there was a balcony of sorts. There was one, and it was located left from the bar, down the hallway. He knew his next goal.

Tethers bound him to the chair, weight unknown and unpleasant. He struggled to rise back to his glass feet, but rushed, hurried vastly to eliminate his presence! Only one person was enough to bring him to the brink of dread, let alone the whole crowd.

He moved, at last. Hallways were narrow. Walls, spiraled all around him, threatening to collapse. It was, perhaps, between them, that he realized something was wrong with his head, that vertigo was settling in. Must’ve been the stress; he’d always been the sensitive soul, to a fault.

He took hold of his head, holding it for a few moments, as if to clasp his consciousness. Squinting his eyes, he wondered – just how far could he make it in this state? Would fate present him with another way out?

Gazing down the hallway, he wondered, if perhaps, his future was just as linear and suffocating.

Before he could continue, then, all of a sudden, a creak. He turned around to see if he was caught red-handed in his cowardice. Yet, no one was seen. His mind truly was a mess, he concluded with a huff.

More steps onwards, and he reached the semi-glass door to the balcony. Tugging it open, he was greeted by moist air and secluded darkness.

He dashed to nature’s heavenly pianissimo, away from the salon and its counterfeit music. He had been running all evening, escaping, hiding, reversely dynamic. Finally, he was awarded for his efforts, for outside, nobody awaited. Wet patterns on the marble floor informed him before stepping that the skies had been weeping thoroughly. Still were, in fact. His nostrils, no, his entire being was refreshed by their sorrow. It was so much lighter than his own.

He trod forward, accepting the breezes with arms spread wide, and attempted to reach the edge of the rain. The downpour carried solace unto him, and he yearned for more, came closer for more. Even when the raindrops landed on him, when the pitter-patter tapped gently against his uniform, he did not stop.

It had to be a physical boundary which would stop him. Clutching, clawing at the fence, he found nothing else but the cold. It gnawed back, left him numb. How sad, that the lonely numbness gave him more life than the entirety of celebration.

Before him expanded a city, and measured in avarice – it was vast. Measured in neglect, it extended even further. He could not make out its horizons; the rain and his tired eyes ensured so.

At the sight, he was reminded of the extremes it nurtured. Buildings, renovated and over a century neglected, stood hand-in-hand, comrades despite the extremes. In poverty and fertility, they did not share. Their habitants weren’t any different. Contrasts so large, Ulrich’s perception was daunted. His idea of the city – long ruined. This evening, it served as yet another absurd plague, another mystery for his incapable attention.

He remembered incisions on the walls. Cracks in his mind slid further. The poor condition invited crevices, ill thoughts, ill recaps, to destroy what was left of the mistreated construct. He needed introspection.

Closing his eyes, he could finally tend to his mind. What he found out? He was so confused. At least that was certain of one thing, and one thing only.

It was the entanglement in his own thoughts, like the endless worms that structured his brain. The start was incomprehensible, the finish fictional, and everything between those two points, only curves and turns and whirls and twirls. A patternless weaving, akin to raw wool.

Where had his mind gone to? Why was it so detached, even from his body…?

He barely felt. Humid winds nestled in his uniform. Cold torrents escaped his fingers. He cradled the air like an old friend, who knew him better than he did, because, after all –

Ulrich did not know himself.

It was a makeshift hug, desperate consolation by the fact that there is some absolute in the universe, some truth, that the fates were definite and their Strings stretched infinitely. That, perhaps, Ulrich was a part of it for a reason, that there was a reason for this torment. That his soon to be sacrifice would matter, not because he wanted to matter – because he wanted to matter to others.

There was no one else to confirm that, to confirm anything. It was almost impossible to believe alone, and he tried, he tried so hard, but it was too difficult. And so, in his loneliness, he realized he’d been hugging himself.

His senses landed in some state of anxious languor. He had never felt anything quite like it before. It was much like a dreamscape, presented through hazy ramblings of a dying mind. Through them, a stimulus was registered, so rough, so haphazardly unpleasant.

He was not alone. Someone was intruding his breakdown. A shadow at the door.

He dropped a weightless callout. “You…”

“Me?” It was familiar. Ulrich narrowed his eyes.

“Who?”

That person, standing at the entrance of the balcony, spread their arms in a surrendering manner, it appeared. “You don’t know me.”

Ulrich tilted his head a little, acknowledgment for the sake of it. He dropped the hug – he was no longer lonely. The stranger himself had arrived.

Although his talks were interesting to listen to, Ulrich hesitated to… accept him. He was interrupted in the worst moment, the height of his vulnerability, something he just could not show. That alone caused him discomfort.

He cleared his throat, raising his voice to outpower the rain. “Yeah… listen, I am in an awful mood, and unless you have something important to say, please, please try to leave me.”

But his demand did the exact opposite. The stranger neared, and Ulrich was watching every single step of his.

“What happens to be bothering you?”

What? Did he actively seek to… care? Why was he still nearing him, would he…?

“I don’t think you’d understand even if I were to explain, so…”

He would. He actually crossed the line between the dry and the rain, only to get near Ulrich, and ask, “Are you sure?”

Ulrich’s eyes widened. “Why do you care?”

“Why, isn’t that what humans do?” His expression darkened, twitching every now and then as raindrops fell onto it. “Or at least, should do. It just happens to be rare nowadays.”

True to that statement, the world revolved, and Ulrich had found only one genuine person in the entire ordeal. The only one who wouldn’t betray his good.

“Then, how are you? I’ve seen you… fall? Something happened for sure,” he cared back.

The stranger chuckled – it was a distinct sound, more of a titter. “Just a little accident, worry not. A condition, it’s hereditary.”

Falling and screaming in agony was hereditary…? Ulrich blinked in confusion, then repeated after the stranger.

The blond confirmed with a nod, then stepped closer to Ulrich, only a meter or so away. The meaning of his expression could not be discerned, not with the rain there to disfigure it.

“But you’re the heart of this party, it would be a shame to leave you unattended. Especially since you look so malapropos. Don’t worry about me,” he convinced, almost forcefully, attempting to forge eye contact with Ulrich who shied away from it. Baffled and tired beyond measure, Ulrich finally inquired,

“What do you want?”

Victory steadied his voice. “To tell you a story. Stories holler lessons, breathe lives, heal as much as they scar. I do think one would relieve you.” There was such gentleness to his words, and yet, Ulrich was unfaltering. His smudged line of thought continued the sentence with sarcasm, as always, spontaneous: nothing would relieve him except for sheer oblivion.

He remained silent, narrow-eyed and narrow-minded. The quiet was perceived as a mute yes.

“Not too long ago, an incident has occurred in Aurun. A public figure of solid reputation is involved. Maybe you’ve heard of it…?”

Ulrich waved his head no – wrong move, for it caused him dizziness. He frowned.

“A reformative essayist, your typical educated man with a… mildly, yes, troubled mind.” A nod from the speaker to confirm the speaker’s thought. “Also an owner of an esteemed bookshop. He was the cause of the scandal, the scandal being, hiding horrendous smuggled goods in his shop. Only after the entire folly did his antics surface and make sense.”

“What kind…?”

“Loud and bold and flamboyant, quite the two-faced snake, but very active in terms of society and aiding it. In private, he was… stingy, even, and oftentimes shooed people away from him, whilst keeping problematic folk around. He had some fame, here, not much,”

The stranger showed his hand, then clenched it. “Only a handful, if we were to measure it in our imagination. But he abused all of it. Influenced so many.” He looked back to Ulrich, expectant.

“So, he was just like everyone else,” Ulrich guessed.

The blond smiled widely, the first time he revealed such a smile, so radiant and loose.

“Indeed! Indeed,” he repeated in delight. “But, my point would be this. Men like him, loud and extreme about their innovations… they’re the ones who push and tug the world. But I believe it’s you, the so-called normal folk, who keep the world on its feet.”

Now, despite his lovely conclusion, it didn’t make any sense. Did Ulrich hear that well?

“Pardon, you said, normal, me?” He blinked, as if that would clear his thoughts.

“Yes. I’m sure you’re normal.” He nodded to himself. “That you are so much less than what this party has made of you.”

Ulrich had no idea what this meant. What this story was about, and why he was supposed to be… normal? Why would he even assume that? How did it even… help? Each and every line of his mental narration was interrupted by aches and blanks. “Sir, I pray that you’ll come to understand that… I’m exhausted, and I cannot begin to understand you,” he excused himself, then leaned against the fence – almost slipping and falling, almost. Another miniature heart attack to strain his assaulted nerves.

He quickly got an apology, multiple of them, actually.

“No, no, it’s fine. If anything, I enjoyed the conversation…” He was unsure of his own statement. “I haven’t quite caught your name, mister…?”

“Elior Truco.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, mister Truco.”

Reaching out to shake Elior’s hand, Ulrich expected a crushing grip, just like the one he had fallen victim to some time ago. Surprisingly, however, Elior’s hand was barely felt in his, and Ulrich was relieved to avoid yet another unpleasantry. He let out a sigh, even offered a smile. It was returned. The time had come for them to part ways on decent terms – or so he hoped.

All of a sudden, thunder roared. Ulrich twitched, almost squealed, for his heart jumped violently, and continued throbbing against his ribcage. Wouldn’t that mark a dramatic farewell?

Hands slipping from each other, a distinct tinge slithered across Ulrich’s palm, at first merely a disarray of his perception, then actual, burning pain, digging underneath his skin.

Inevitably, he stared down to his hand, and saw unfamiliar darkness on it, darker than his glove. A pool expanding and overflowing from the edges of his palm. He stared, paralyzed due to disbelief, taking in the pulsations of… of that, there, when Elior finally spoke up,

“Is that blood?”

It was only then that the realization settled and fear rose.

Ulrich looked back to Elior, immediately pleading him to dignify him with some, if any sort of clarification, all while meekly holding his bloodied, aching hand.

And he didn’t know. He looked at his own gloved hands, frantically flipping them over, running his fingers over them. His lackluster reaction only shoved more anxiety unto Ulrich, who stared at the oozing darkness, abandoning his being and pounding his senses.

Only seconds into the buffoonery, Ulrich couldn’t handle it anymore.

He yelled, asking Elior what he had done. The storm agreed, shattering the skies with lighting and its thunderous anger.

More excuses, more blabbering. Elior offered to help, murmuring, laughing oddly, uncomfortably, looking at any place other than Ulrich. He was shaking so much, Ulrich, he had no idea what to do, what was happening to him, to Elior –

“Elior!”

At long last, the blond looked up, “So, it’s a deal?”

And finally, Ulrich screamed a croaked “yes”.

And the deal would be completed. Elior took Ulrich’s hand and raised it up, high, for the raindrops to pierce it. Ulrich’s gash was subject to the brutal drumming of the storm. His eyes screwed shut, he silently endured the first wave of pain, and then, quickly, once the reality dawned upon him, he wheezed,

“What the hell are you doing?!”

The blond wasn’t fazed. He didn’t react at all. Panic began to overwhelm, begging his body to move, to seek refuge, but despite the urgency…

He couldn’t battle against it. He tried, he strained his arm, his muscles, but… they were all powerless. They didn’t listen, they couldn’t. He was estranged in his own body, caged in palpitations of pain. And panic was all over, tormenting him for reasons unknown, escapes none.

Gathering a cold glare, he pointed all of his frustrations at Elior, and then – then all of it diluted. Elior’s golden eyes shone, hawkish, with Ulrich as his sure prey. And they too, widened, glowing harshly in the evening’s gloom, melting the eternal ice of Ulrich’s spheres.

“Isn’t this what you wanted? To ache for once? To suffer?” His was a voice tenacious and righteous, assaulting Ulrich’s ears. “To finally add some trouble to your merit! Add weight to your title! You’ve always wanted this!”

But… but Ulrich just asked for help, for… for anyone to come by, to… just be good to him… it’s what he deserved? Or he wanted?

Strength was fading. But he would, with the last of his senses, offer at least one last revolt, the final kick before succumbing. “Let me go,” he begged, afraid of himself – the kick was but a worthless twitch. How come? How come he failed?

Yet another surprise. “As you wish.” Elior complied with a smile.

He swung Ulrich’s hand with much force, and carried by the inertia, Ulrich staggered and – fell, sprawling himself across the wet marble, squeaking his way through.

Another round of pain, another distant sensation, reaching him in weak waves. He closed his eyes, once again, clenching his jaw to overcome it all. Confusion, confusion was all over, blinding his logic and tearing him apart.

He barely managed to curl up. He barely… barely found some strength to even move. Where did this weakness come from? His intuition did not wage, but rescued with the irrational, and he stared at the one possible culprit with tired, so terrifyingly tired eyes.

No longer was that man a stranger. He was an enemy, and he, Elior was heard somewhere, misplaced words falling around with the rain. Only one statement was discerned.

The offering to one final dream. “You are needed, Ulrich.”

Black saved him. The veil of oncoming darkness was imperfect. In the lulling fade of his consciousness, there was but a single lesion: the most devious smile Ulrich had ever seen.

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could-have-beens · 4 years

Text

If By Happenstance

Because you could have loved me forever. And maybe in another universe, I let you.

One of the unfinished WIPs I unearthed recently is what was supposed to be a collection of standalone one-shot AUs, each with a different theme and centered around Tom and Ginny. I never got around to writing the whole series, but I did finish some of it, so I thought I would post it while editing TLoCC.

Fair warning, I haven’t proofread this in two years. Enjoy at your own risk!

"Coward," hissed Ginny. "I can't believe you! After all that talk about being polite and honouring your promises —"

"I stand by what I said," said Harry, with an unrepentant grin.

She glowered. "You're hiding."

"I'm not. You just happen to be in a room full of adoring fans."

Ginny rolled her eyes. She thought her days of humouring Slughorn and attending his get-togethers were over after graduation, but he hadn't stopped badgering her since she started playing for the Harpies. If she had known she was going to be accosted by wide-eyed teenagers and stammering old men, she wouldn't have bothered coming to the party at all.

"You should be the one being pestered by Slughorn," Ginny groused. She plopped herself down gracelessly on the empty chair next to Harry. "I'm just the plus one. You're the one with the bloody invitation."

Harry shrugged, but his eyes were dancing. "I guess Quidditch stars have more clout than us lowly, underpaid Aurors."

"What about the Minister's son?" she teased.

He grimaced, casting a shifty, alarmed look around the room to check if anyone had heard her. "Don't even go there. I'm not supposed to get into fights with old men over politics."

"You could not fight and turn the other cheek," suggested Ginny.

Harry snorted. "I'll do it when you do."

"Well, I don't think Slughorn's noticed you yet, so you're safe for the time being."

"As long as he keeps fawning over Riddle, I'm good."

"Who?"

"My boss." Harry leaned back and discreetly inclined his head toward the center of the room. "The pretty boy with dark hair."

Ginny followed his line of sight and found the man in question, and thought pretty was a massive understatement. Riddle was caught in what looked like a heated discussion with a flustered-looking Slughorn, a stout, bespectacled man, and a tall, stern-looking woman — politicians, the same people Harry had been avoiding since he and Ginny arrived. They were too far for Ginny to hear what they were saying, but she could see that the older man and woman were red with anger, talking a mile a minute, and Slughorn was trying to placate them, only to be cut off at every turn. Riddle, though, looked relaxed and even faintly amused, and he carried himself with all the grace and arrogance of a typical Slytherin. He didn't seem to falter as he spoke, calm and composed even as the man and woman grew more and more irate and Slughorn grew increasingly bemused.

"That's the Head Auror?" said Ginny, incredulous. Riddle couldn't be that much older than her, maybe around Percy's age at most. "He's a bit young, isn't he?"

"No, not the Head Auror," muttered Harry. "Head of the Department."

Her eyes widened. No wonder Slughorn wouldn't leave the guy's side.

She tried to remember if Percy had ever mentioned him. The way her brother rambled on about his job at the Ministry, she didn't doubt that he knew — or, at least, knew of — the other man, being so close in age and a Department Head himself. It wasn't exactly common, having such a high-ranking job in the Ministry at their age.

"I think I've seen him before," mused Ginny. "What did you say his name was?"

"Tom Riddle," said Harry, in a tone that reminded her of how he used to say Malfoy when they were kids — not quite sneering, but heavy with exasperation.

"Tom Riddle? The guy the Prophet keeps calling the next Minister of Magic?"

"That's the one," he grumbled. "The next Minister . . . my mum just got elected and they're already calling him the next Minister. . . ."

"Well, he is cute," she said offhandedly. "Bet that's why. You don't get a lot of handsome men in politics."

Harry stared, brows pulled together as he frowned.

"What?" Ginny raised her hands in mock defense. "I'm just saying. I do have eyes."

"He's a bit of a prat though."

"Is he? I think he seems nice."

His eyes narrowed. "Seems nice or looks nice?"

She nudged his leg with her foot. "They don't have to be mutually exclusive."

"You don't work with the guy."

"Why? What's wrong with him?"

"Well," he said, considering the matter. "He just always seems — I don't know, a bit fake, I guess? Maybe that's just me."

Ginny tapped her chin thoughtfully. "Wasn't he Head Boy? The one before — no, after Percy."

"I think so. Can't say I remember much of him from Hogwarts."

She scoffed. "I don't think you remember much of anything that doesn't involve Ron and Hermione."

"Hey, I remember plenty," Harry protested.

"Like what?"

As if on cue, a Celestina Warbeck song started playing, and there were excited murmurs and sudden exclamations as the guests recognized the music.

"Like how much you love this song," said Harry cheekily. He held out his hand. "Dance with me?"

"Of course," Ginny said, putting her hand in his.

They stood and, without caring whether anyone else was dancing or not, they swayed along to the music slowly, careful to stay along the edges of the dance floor. When the song was over, they returned to their table, off in a nice secluded corner of Slughorn's party. Unfortunately, no more than a minute after, Ginny was swept up into a dance by another guest, and for the next hour, she was approached for pictures, autographs, and more dancing.

To Harry's credit, he didn't leave their table and kept her company throughout it all. Of course, he found the whole thing amusing, and took every chance he got to rib her mercilessly.

"Oh, the price of being famous," said Harry, snickering.

Ginny threw him a withering glare. She was just able to tell him to bugger off before she heard another set of footsteps approaching. Stamping on a smile, she turned around to greet the fan, but was stunned to find herself facing Tom Riddle instead.

At once, Harry straightened. "Good evening, sir."

"Potter," Riddle said, smiling amiably. "Shouldn't you be enjoying the party?"

"I'm enjoying it just fine, sir," said Harry glancing at Ginny for a beat too long. Harry turned back to Riddle, as if suddenly remembering he was there. "Er — Gin, this is Tom Riddle, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Sir, this is —"

"Ginny Weasley," Riddle cut in smoothly, extending his hand. "Pleasure to meet you."

Ginny blinked, a bit thrown by the sudden weight of his attention, and shook his hand.

"What gave it away?" she said with a wry smile.

Riddle gestured to her hair, chuckling lightly. "You must get that a lot."

"Unfortunately, yeah."

The first notes of the next song began to play, and Ginny realized that Riddle was still holding her hand.

"Would you care to dance?" said Riddle. His dark eyes seemed to glitter in the light.

Ginny cast a questioning look at Harry, who had a pinched expression on his face. For a moment, it looked like he was going to say no, but then he gave a little shrug, his mouth set in a grim line.

"If you want, Gin," he said tightly.

"All right," she said, hesitant, and suddenly Riddle was leading her to the dance floor.

A kind of ripple crossed the room as a few heads turned in their direction, but whether it was because they were looking at Ginny or at Riddle, she wasn't sure. There were more couples dancing now, blocking her view of Harry, and though she tried to look for him, her eyes were drawn to her dancing partner.

Riddle really was quite beautiful up close. Dark hair artfully coiffed, high cheekbones and a strong jaw, lips curled in a crooked smile. It almost hurt to look at him — it was like looking at the sun bouncing off snow.

And yet Ginny found that she couldn't turn away. There was something about his eyes, dark and intense, that seemed almost challenging, as though he was daring her to look away, as though waiting to see if she would bristle under the intensity of his gaze.

His eyes never left hers, even as he bowed low and lifted her hand to his lips.

"A bit forward, isn't it?" said Ginny, raising an eyebrow.

His smile didn't falter. "Is it? I thought it would be romantic."

She snorted. "Romance already? You barely know me."

"But I would like to," he said, lowering his gaze to the floor. "I admit, I've heard all about you, Miss Weasley."

Riddle couldn't quite meet her eyes, and if it had been anyone else, Ginny would have thought he was nervous.

Being coy more like, she thought, as Harry's words rose unbidden. Even if he was shy — but no, he didn't seem the type, and there was something . . . Ginny didn't know what it was, but something about him seemed off. Maybe not fake, like Harry had said, but Riddle had that indefinable air of someone wearing a facade.

Ginny would know — she too had worn her fair share. Or maybe it was just the politician in Riddle shining through, underneath all the charisma and pretty smiles.

He was a good dancer, if nothing else. He was all grace as they glided across the room, his movements effortless and elegant.

"Have you?" she said dully. "Big Quidditch fan, then?"

"Can't stand it, actually. No offense."

She couldn't help but laugh at that. "Points for honesty. Why are you dancing with me then?"

Riddle arched an eyebrow. "Do I need a reason?"

"Generally, yeah. Otherwise I'm gonna think you're out to get me or something. Haven't ruled that out yet, mind you."

He chuckled. "I think I've already told you why."

She grimaced. "Yes . . . romance."

"Is there something wrong with that?"

Well.

There wasn't. Not really. It wasn't like Ginny was seeing anyone, but . . .

She thought of Harry, who had cajoled her into coming to this bloody party, with his too messy hair and his kind eyes. The thought of coming tonight hadn't even crossed her mind until he asked her, and a little part of her had always thought —

Ginny shook her head. No sense in thinking about what-ifs and could-have-beens.

"You said you've heard of me," she said coolly. "Should I be worried?"

"You probably don't remember," said Riddle, "but we were in Horace's club at the same time, back in school."

"Were we?" It was possible. Riddle seemed old enough that they must have been in Hogwarts together at some point, though Ginny would have been too young to attend Slughorn's parties then.

Riddle nodded. "Horace kept inviting me back after I graduated, and I couldn't turn down the chance to see Hogwarts again." He smiled, and again she was taken aback by how unfairly charming he was. "He talked about you a great deal, but we were never formally introduced."

"What a loss for you," said Ginny.

Riddle met her gaze daringly. "I agree."

#ginny weasley #tom riddle #gin n tonic #tom x ginny #fanfic #my fic #fic: if by happenstance #I never published this until now because I thought there wasn't enough tom in the fic #but I'm a little bit in love with this AU #because there's no war and everyone lives!!#and lily evans potter is minister of magic #which means the political landscape of this AU is different #and purebloods don't have as much sway and influence in the government #which means tom has to adjust his strategy #being the power hungry prat that he is #he recognizes that he can't use blood purity to get power #so he probably plays up his background as a muggleborn orphan for sympathy points from the public #yes he's slytherin's heir but it's useless to him politically #so he emphasizes his muggle heritage #talk about his hardship adjusting in the wizarding world #the racism he experienced in slytherin #and the media eats it up #they see him as lily's natural successor because of their backgrounds #so all tom has to do is maintain that image #and come next election he's probably minister #eyyyy this can be its own multichap fic but I'm way too lazy

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wolveswithhats · 6 years

Text

writing wip game

Rules: Post the names of all the files in your WIP folder, regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous. Send me an ask with the title that most intrigues you or interests you and I’ll post a little snippet of it or tell you something about it!

The titles weren’t interesting so I vainly just posted some excerpts from a grab bag of more recent stuff. If I did everything it’d honestly probably go on for pages. I have a lot of unfinished stuff (pretty much...exclusively unfinished stuff dfjkdjfkg). Like a decade’s worth.

Tagged by @ackbang. TY TY, MY DUDE. If you see this and you’re a writer, consider yourself tagged. Like for real. Only not tagging because I can’t remember who writes fanfic and who doesn’t.

Looooooong post below.

ling ling the goblin king (ling + lan fan, fma)

"lan fan did it," the prince says, and for a moment she feels a flare of anger and betrayal over his deception. 'it wasn't me, i didn't do this. i didn't kill anyone.' but the prince is bending at the waist, low enough that that his tail of hair brushes the dirt, and she realizes his lie is for her benefit. "thank you, m'lady. i owe you my life."

her mouth feels dry, face hot from exertion and the burning gaze of her older peers. "d-don't do that," she stutters, and she's not sure if she's referring to the lie or the bow.

"you dare give me orders?" but there's no heat in his voice, eyes crinkling with humor as he rises to his full height. she has no idea how he can look so amused with a hole in his shoulder, covered in the blood of a man he just killed. he grins lopsided, teeth crooked and painted red. the sight is altogether ghoulish.

limb choppy choppy (lan fan + greed + ling, fma, part of the revival au)

And Greed is stilling his struggles, catching his wandering hand in his own, running comforting circles with his thumb over Ling's blood-smeared cheek. “Hey, you little pissant, this is nothing, piddly kids table shit. Remember that time that one Central soldier tried to gut us? Right down the middle, like splitting a sausage. Goddamn crimson tide. I thought we'd never get the blood out of that coat. Now that was an injury.”

“T-they took my arm.”

“Yeah, and who needs one of those anyway? Gonna get you all sorted, get you one of those shiny metal ones, like your girl Lan Fan here. Guess the adjustment period takes a bit, a year or three, but bet we could expedite the process with proper motivation. I'm thinking sandwiches.”

He laughs, or something approaching as much, a soggy intake of air. She's struck with an unexpected wave of jealousy, that it's Greed that's offering reassurance and intimate personal jokes. A former homunculus, a former demon, a watery imitation of a man. Creature comforts from the creature. It should be me, she thinks, though she has nothing to offer beyond promises of protection, and even those feel like falsehoods after all that has happened here. Comforting platitudes are beyond her. What could I ever say to make this better?

lets get lit fam (greedling + ed, fma)

wobbly-legged, too uncoordinated to walk. almost stumbles into a line of trash cans at the mouth of the alley, but ed hooks his elbow and steers him away. "what the hell were you thinking? we're supposed to be keeping a low profile."

it's not an accusation he's fully equipped to grapple, not when he's still so bleary from sleep—and some other pleasant, dizzying sensation he thinks might be inebriation. he's never woken up drunk before. he's never been drunk before period. "what'd i do?"

"not you, ling. you would have gone straight for the food menu, not the liquor list. i'm talking to the dipshit you share a mental occupancy with. greed, what the hell?"

"was just a few drinks," ling slurs, but it's not his words, or his voice, and wow he's never been so aware of his own tongue before.

solid citizen (ling + greed, fma)

"geez, kid, you're certainly in a mood." so he was reading his thoughts, just fantastic. he look he gives him is withering, but greed pats his shoulder, almost condescendingly, pitying for sure.

"you're plenty fine, kid. i'll give you the ears, but you're top shelf in the looks department otherwise. if you were ugly, i'd tell you straight up. i don't lie. this here," he points to his own face. "is ugly. nothing like my old human face."

it's a bated response, he knows, and he doesn't really feel like playing, but greed did make a passing effort to make him feel better. "human face?"

he beams, dreamily, which is an impressively soft expression to pull off a mouthful of razors, and ling is suddenly reminded of the mythology of the man fawning over his own reflection. surely greed can't be that vain? "yeah i was a real stunner. fucking gorgeous." or maybe he could, apparently, what did ling know anyway.

wreckage (vincent, re-l, ergo proxy)

When she makes it back to the Rabbit, chest burning and damp with exertion, Vincent has already stripped Pino of her overalls and laid her across the table. Cooling fluids draining, frayed wiring spooling out of her gashed torso, sprawled like a tiny metal Tityos. Her left arm is snapped off and dangling at the elbow, her eyes glassy – glass, literal glass – staring at the ceiling. Broken doll parts. Just another disassembled AutoReiv, but this isn't like that at all, because Pino isn't just another AutoReiv. She's like Iggy--

It's almost too much for Re-l to take. Hand over her mouth, breathing sharp through her fingers in short repetitions. Tries to steel herself, to be calm and assertive, because one of them has to be, and Vincent-- Vincent was awkward and mousy and sensitive, Vincent who spilled his cereal and tripped over his own feet and housed an ancient being of unspeakable power in his lanky boy-frame. But his god-strength was of no use here, drowned under the weak, simpering, overpowering grief for something that was no more human than he was.

do NOT worry about meryl (vash + wolfwood + milly, trigun)

milly caught the hurt. naive, for sure, but shrewd. "oh, we'd never think that of you, mr. vash. it's just our job as representatives of the bernadelli insurance society to mitigate any and all damages from the humanoid typhoon, even the rumored ones."

wolfwood: "bernadelli employing a little insurance of their own, eh?"

milly nods. "if we had to pay out claims on every false report of mr. vash's wrongdoings, we'd go belly up in no time!"

caught up on the word 'wrongdoing', growls, "you make it sound like i'm doing any of this on purpose."

"it's just sensible. your name has a lot of weight, vash."

grumbles: "yeah, i'm aware."

"and that's why meryl was so insistent on following up on this one, even knowing it wasn't really you. so many people drag your name through the mud, and it just doesn't seem fair at all."

his name had long since been dragged, strangled and shot, left to rot under a flock of buzzards circling its carcass in the heat. There was no saving it. still, the intent was kind, if not bewildering. "you...were trying to protect my reputation?"

milly looks at him like he's insane for thinking otherwise. "well, yeah. we've come to think of you as a friend, mr. vash, and that's what friends do.”

baby scrub (locke + rachel, ff6)

offers his hand and a single word: "lock."

her faces scrunches distastefully at his uncouth greeting, but she's not sure what else she was expecting from a dirty street boy. "lock?"

"with an e," he adds, as if that clarifies anything.

"that can't be real. you just made that up."

"all names are made up," huffs locke-with-an-e, looking impatient with her slow uptake on this odd world of his. "and i never said it was real, but it's all you're going to get."

spike bday (spike + dawn, btvs)

“if I show you something, you need to promise not to say anything. not to the watcher, or your sister. not to anyone, right?”

even through her tears, she nods, curious. spike's always good for skirting just outside the limits of good taste.

“I'm serious. spool your intestines out your nose, string 'em up like christmas garland. I mean it.”

“colorful threats of bodily dismemberment, I get it.”

hands her a faded yellow tintype. a young man, twenty-five or thirty maybe, a riot of disheveled curls, glasses, frumpy suit. not an unattractive man, but a timid one, uncertainty written into the slanted bow of his shoulders. he had the weedy air of someone who spent a lot of time duct taped to flag poles, or whatever the victorian equivalent would be. did it count as a twirly if you were dunked into a chamber pot?

a rebellious counterpoint in wrinkled tweed to the hard, starched lines of victorian decorum – interesting, but not very relevant. and a little disappointing, if she was being totally honest. spike's anecdotes usually had more flash and gore. “I don't get it.”

he's exasperated, fingers twitching like he's ready to snatch it away, and he tucks his hands under his arms in an awkward self hug. she takes in the hard set of his jaw and the...flush of his cheeks? god, she didn't even know vampires could blush. it had to take some serious breaking of undead physiology to ping that level of embarrassment, and something beyond that even to flap the unflappable spike. he hisses impatiently. “would you just—look at the face.”

and she does, tilting the little photo to and fro in the dim of the crypt. unassuming man-hermione with hair that cannot be tamed. sharp cheekbones and dark heavy brows under the rims of his glasses and suddenly she sees it—him—the angular planes of his face coming into sharp relief, like a camera finding its focus. “oh. oh my god! this is you. holy crap, spike. you look....”

“normal,” he finishes for her, and something in her stomach swoops and clenches, stones in a pond. “mundane.”

“i was going to say like a megawatt dorklord, but we can use your word instead.” she wipes her nose on the back of her hand. he snorts, amused and embarrassed.

“i was a poet.”

she tried to envision anything beyond smutty limericks carved onto the wall of a bathroom stall.

“were you ever published?”

“i was a shitty poet,” he amends, grimacing.

boston au (spike + dawn, btvs)

bodily kicking a dumpster, sending it careening into the street with a rusty scream of metal. a hydrant follows suit, ripped from the sidewalk. caps off his tantrum with a boot to the side of Angel's GTX, but even the size-10 crater marring the passenger door of the angelmobile did little to ease his frustration.

“better?” dawn asks, when he drops bodily into the driver's seat with an aching sigh, anger dissipating. she looks so tiny and forlorn, knees drawn to her chest, picking at a cigarette burn in the upholstery. two years ago she'd have been a ripe treat, poor little lost lamb. now the idea twists his gut, her sorrow palpable, proprietary, under his skin and in his veins.

“no,” he grunts, staring out impassively at the aftermath of his outburst. water spurting from the sidewalk, skip spilling out into the road. half a dozen cars along the block chirping in a chorus of wailing alarms. and angel in the foyer, something vaguely resembling pity etched across his massive cavebrow. fucking wanker.

...

“we go back to sunnydale then. try again. badger the scoobies until they agree to help. we'll figure this out.”

“i don't want to.” quietly. barely a whisper.

“to figure it out?”

“to go back.”

“dawn...”

“there's nothing there. they're not going to help because i'm nothing. it's an ongoing memorial to my own non-existence. can we not go back? can we just keep driving?”

“where?”

“I don't care. away.”

thinks about leaving sunnydale. thinks about what he's leaving behind. shitty memories, regrets, lost love. he has a small collection of personal effects; records, first edition books, family heirlooms that cannot be replaced, a hundred years of mementos of his whirlwind romance with dru. wonders if he can ring up clem, ask him to send a care package once they get to wherever they're going. looks at dawn in her clearance-rack pajamas, realizes she has lost everything. she has no belongings, no family, no remnants left as evidence she even had a family. nothing but him and her, here, in this moment.

it's just stuff. it's surprisingly easy to let go.

he drives.

taco hell (spike + dawn, btvs, part of the boston / unravel au)

Right where her window was supposed to be, a swirling doorway of light ringed in licking green flame, spilling out into....a fast food restaurant?

"I think it's Taco Bell," Dawn said, pinching a tissue to her--aw hell--bleeding finger. He took inventory of the spell books around her, the scrying bowl, and the ashy pentagram burnt into 70s shag weave of her bedroom carpet. So much for their security deposit.

"You opened a hell dimension to Taco Bell?"

She craned her head to squint at the pimply teenager manning the register, oblivious to his cross-dimension spectators. "I think it's just a regular Taco Bell. I don't see any dragons or shrimp people or anything."

"Not all alternate universes have shrimp people."

"I know that. You know, it actually looks like the one downtown, across from the KFC? On Kellner? Unless the Kellner Street Taco Bell is a Taco Hell. I've been reading up about liminal spaces, where the fabric between realities is weakened. Maybe it's a hot spot, and all the employees are actually like, octopus centaurs. How would we know? Not like I'm going to crawl over the counter to check, you know?"

"Well, now's your chance to ask Squiddly Diddly here what he's got going on downstairs." Slack-jawed employee finally cottoned on to the door to another universe in the restaurant lobby. Dawn awkwardly waves. Poc Ock waves back, bewildered, before the portal collapses in on itself in a burst of white light.

"It stopped bleeding." she holds up her finger.

(I don’t think anyone would, but as a precaution: please don’t reblog these to the Herald. They’re sloppy and incomplete and mixed in with a bunch of other fandoms so it’d just be really weird. THANK)

#some of these are ok #most if not all of them will never be finished #i have a ton more?#i just didn't want to go TOO buck wild with it #i already feel like this is way too much lfgklfg #wolves writes

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professorflowriter · 6 years

Text

To have loved, and lost

I’ve been writing so many assignments for my PGCE that it’s really been stifling any creativity recently. So I’m going to start posting my WIP here chapter by chapter and see if it can kick-start my muse. Any suggestions or inspiring comments are very welcome.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/11402901/chapters/25540464

A casual observer may well believe the house was empty. Of course, to any passing muggle it would seem derelict, even if they were perceptive enough to give it a slightest bit of notice. A witch or wizard, or any other magical being, however, would see an old mill worker's house, small and narrow, but up until very recently, well-kept and neat.

The flowers in the few pots that stood either side of the front door and under the windows were dry and in need of a little care otherwise they would be dead before long. If anyone had cared to make their way around the back to peer into the garden they would have seen meticulously set out rows of herbs and ingredients, now beginning to be threatened with being overrun and choked by faster growing weeds. It was as though the house had been inhabited, cared for until a few weeks previous, whereupon the owners had suddenly vanished, leaving the house and garden to their own devices.

To further the impression of emptiness, there were no lights on, no fire, despite the freezing, dark winter's evening. The house was cold, the only illumination coming from the flickering bulb in the lamppost across the road. A fine layer of dust covered the comfortable, though simple furnishings. The air was still and musky with the scent of disuse. Yet, for all that the house seemed abandoned, there was still life inside.

One of the armchairs that sat in front of the fire was inhabited. Around it lay the evidence of long occupation, empty bottles, dirty dishes, a few scattered tomes, none of them volumes you might find on the shelves of Flourish and Blotts. There was the remains of at least one shattered glass, thrown in anger, or perhaps grief. It was hard for the figure that sat there to tell the two apart, they'd gone hand in hand for him for so many years.

He'd barely left the chair for days, even sleeping there, only leaving the room to use the bathroom; not the shower, although he desperately needed one. He'd sat and brooded for hours in silence, occasionally jumping up to pace round the room in a fury, only to slump back down when he burned out once more. He refused to cry. It had been a long time since he'd done so, and had made no difference then. That had been over a woman too, although a different one than was the root of the problem this time.

The air of neglect that hung around the house was not the same that it had been 10 years previous. Then the furniture had been shabby and worn, the carpets threadbare. The house had been rarely cleaned since he'd spent most of his time at Hogwarts. The gloomy oppression had been alleviated somewhat with the refurbishment, although it had never fully left. There were far too many bad memories in the house for that, not all of them decades old.

The redecoration had been all her idea, of course. He couldn't have cared less whether the furniture and manky carpets stayed or went, as long as he didn't have to fork out for it, and he'd told her so when she asked for permission. The only things he'd told her to leave alone were his books and bookshelves, and his lab under the stairs. She'd never been allowed down there anyway, and the only thing she would have ever considered doing with the bookshelves would have been to add more.

So she'd thrown away anything she'd not been able to transfigure, and bought the rest, in what he'd recognised as a vain attempt to make herself feel less miserable in this house. That most, if not all, of her unhappiness had been his fault was not a fact that was lost on him. He'd driven her away, she'd only stayed as long as she had because of that damn Ministry law, although she'd been all too eager to marry him in the first place.

The seat opposite his, where she'd usually sat alone in the evenings, had born the worst of his anger. He'd slashed the material, broken the wooden frame so many times over the past few days, but always, once his anger at her desertion had abated, he would repair it once more. Why, he did not know. His hope that she would return to him was yet another futile wish that this house had watched wither and die. It seemed to collect such things; unhappy memories and destroyed hopes and dreams.

He had dreamed once, of a girl so beautiful and bright, so utterly different from the darkness that had always lurked in his childhood home. He had hoped for so many years to win her love, only to have his worst enemy steal her from him. His wish then, had been to protect her, and when he had failed at that, to protect her son. At least in this he had succeeded, although the victory would always be bittersweet for him. He'd cared nothing for the boy, only for her. He had survived his own death through foresight and skill in the craft he had always been so talented at, and later been found innocent of his crimes, this second time with the help of the boy.

And then the Ministry, in its wisdom, had decided that the population had been so affected by the second wizarding war, that they quickly and quietly introduced and passed a marriage law. Due to his longstanding friendship with someone in the know, he had learned a few months beforehand about the new law. When he realised that he himself would be required to find a bride, he had known at once who it would be. Not because he felt anything for her, but because he was enough of a bastard not to care whether she was happy or not. He'd been completely selfish in his choice, assuming that someone as young and as inexperienced at life as she would be easier to manipulate, especially as it was not all that long since he had held authority over her as her teacher.

The fact that their marriage would horrify Potter and his redhead sidekick had filled him with glee. If only they had known the dirty little fantasies she had concocted about her potions professor during lessons. It had been far too easy to slip into her mind in idle moments to watch her imaginings, and despite the fact that she was clearly inexperienced, he had often had to hide behind the desk until the students left and jerk off quickly between lessons. It had been one of the highlights of his week, as between the Dark Lord and Dumbledore, the rest of his life had been pretty miserable. Of course he hadn't been a complete hermit, occasionally sweet talking some of the Dark Lord's followers, or wives into bed when he was in the mood. He'd only bothered to satisfy them if he thought them worth a repeat visit.

Of course, they were nothing like her, young, sweet and pure, despite all the horrors she'd been though. After his role as a spy had been made public he'd been a hero, collecting his Order of Merlin even as he planned how to use it best for his own advantage. He'd enjoyed a few of the women that had thrown themselves at him then, usually the married ones as they were less likely to want more or to go spreading tales. As soon as the marriage law had come into effect he'd not touched anyone besides her, he was too focused on getting her, and didn't want her hearing rumours about his flings with other women.

Up until then he'd kept her at arm's length, not wanting to actually take her to bed as he knew she would be one of those women who wanted more, but at the same time he hadn't wanted anyone else to have her. So he'd struck up a sort of friendship with her, occasionally flirting and carefully keeping her interested. He'd purposefully begun courting her before the news of the law came out so that she would believe him sincere. It hadn't taken much for her to believe herself in love with him, and he'd shamelessly encouraged her with no regard for her feelings.

She'd been his only choice, far better than the worn out hags that pursued him, and judging by her so he'd wooed her furiously. Her innocence only meant that she would have few expectations of him, and he hadn't cared less about taking it from her in such a selfish act. The world had treated him badly for years, and now he was only getting what he deserved. He would have the darling of the wizarding world, one of the golden trio and a hero in her own right as his wife, and he would laugh in the faces of all those who, over the years, had called him names, treated him like dirt, and only thought the worst of him.

In hindsight, he now realised that even then he had already started to feel something for her, although he had dismissed it as just wanting to deny anyone else the pleasure of plucking her. As soon as they'd married he'd changed, no longer the solicitous and caring friend – then fiancée. He'd been so careful not to show her who he truly was until then, that his 'performance' during his time as potions master was actually nothing of the sort. He was a bastard, mean and selfish, and didn't really care, as long as he got what he wanted.

And then it had all gone wrong. When exactly he had missed his chance for happiness he wasn't quite sure, although he was fairly certain he wouldn't be getting another. Perhaps it had been the day they had married. His cruel response to her declaration of love that evening hadn't been the first and certainly not the last foul thing he had done or said to her, although it was the first since he had decided to court and win her.

It had soured every moment of their marriage afterwards. She had never said anything outright, yet she'd never been a pushover. In all other aspects of her life she excelled, in her job, at keeping his home and everything else. She'd argued with him when she felt it was needed, over money, over work around the house that needed doing, but she'd never again mentioned feelings, or expected anything from him on that score, not even when she did her duty in his bed. But in every look or word she gave him he could see her anguish and hopelessness at her situation. She was skilled enough at hiding it, but he'd long been an expert at reading between the lines.

The Ministry, under pressure from a large number of witches and wizards who were unhappy in their marriages, had eventually repealed the Act a few years later, and agreed to dissolve any union upon application. It was only then, when she had brought the form to him to sign, that he had realised his mistake. He had taken her for granted. What he had believed to be familiarity and habit he now realised were actually some stronger emotion, something that he dare not look too closely at, in case he didn't like it.

So he'd not taken the chance to ask her to stay, and had said nothing to keep her from going. She had taken the completed papers with her, giving him one last sad look and opening her mouth for a moment as if she wanted to say something, but hadn't. He'd realised later that afternoon that she'd already emptied her room, taking nothing else from their shared life together. She'd made their home comfortable, but other than that he'd not let her leave her mark anywhere in the house. The books, the old pictures on the walls, the few items that stood on the mantelpiece were all his. He'd sat on the bed to take a moment to look around the room he had barely stepped foot in since they'd married and heard a crack beneath him.

Pulling the item out from beneath the blankets he'd found the one personal item she'd left behind, though whether by accident or design he didn't know. It was a framed photo, the glass now creaked clear across. Their wedding day. She'd looked up at him with a smile as he bent down to kiss her. The couple then had turned to the camera, his bride grinning with happiness, while he'd smirked nastily when she couldn't see.

Why she'd kept and framed such a photo he didn't know, although he could understand why she wouldn't have wanted to take such a reminder with her when she left. It now stood on the mantelpiece where he could see it in his own misery. Perhaps they were the same in that it had reminded her of what she couldn't have, as much as it presently did for him.

He'd realised then, as he'd looked down at that photo for the first time since their wedding, that the strange emotion he'd not wanted to examine was love. He, Severus Snape, was in love with the wife that he'd ignored and mistreated for years. But she had already had him fill out the papers, and could be filing them at the Ministry at any time. Once their marriage had dissolved she would probably never want to see him again. In a flash he decided to go after her, beg her for one last chance before she completed the divorce.

He would prove to her that he could be the husband she had longed for. He would prove how much he loved her. He should have realised how he felt earlier, and taken the chance to treat her better. It surely wouldn't have taken much to have won her over. The occasional bunch of flowers and some chocolates, all women loved those sorts of romantic gestures. She was probably so starved of affection that it wouldn't take more than that. Maybe he could be a little less selfish in bed as well. He'd try anything, as long as it got her back where he wanted her.

But he'd just been leaving the house when he had felt his wedding ring burn and slip off his finger. She must had gone straight to the Ministry from his house for it to have gone through so quickly. He'd picked up the platinum band before retreating back inside, and not left the house since. The only reason he'd eaten anything was that for some reason Minerva had started sending a house elf with food. How she knew to do so, he didn't know, as she hadn't been in to see him. There had been one or two bangs on the door at some point, he remembered, but he'd not even got up to look to see who it was, and they'd just gone away each time. The wards he'd set on the house were fairly impenetrable, unless you were as skilled as he in the Dark Arts.

He knew, on some level at least, that he would have to stop wallowing and get on with it at some point. His potions business, while profitable, would not run itself, and there were at least a few contracts that he'd already missed the deadlines for. It was far from the professional standards he was usually strict to maintain.

But for now, he wasn't ready to stop moping and sober up. The entirety of the past few years seemed to be paying over and over in his mind, like a pensieve stuck on repeat with no way out. He'd tried and failed to think of a way to win her back, but nothing seemed to him to be enough. He'd tried apologising once before, to his first love, but she'd refused to speak to him again, all over a single word. How much more would he have to do for a couple of years of neglect and abuse? Perhaps it wasn't possible.

He reached for the last bottle that lay by his feet and opened it. Taking a long swig he grimaced as it burned his throat going down. Maybe once he had nothing left to drink it he would decide what to do next. But for now, the best he could hope for was to find oblivion at the bottom of his bottle and try for just a short time, to forget her.

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