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thefirstknife · 3 years

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Iron Lord Saladin Forge

Season of the Lost dropped some major lore about Saladin and I love every piece of it so I will make a huge post detailing stuff about and what's important.

The lore is on Iron Banner armour which you can see in-game when you go to the armour section. The lore is the same on each class so it doesn't matter which one you read. It's in the order of how armour is set, so helmet -> arm piece -> chest piece -> leg piece -> class item. There's some extras on Iron banner weapons that I'll add as well.

The rest under the cut due to length and also spoilers!

I'll link to the Hunter gear because I'm a dirty Hunter main and I read it from there and that's what I have open because I couldn't remember the names for other two classes, but the lore is the same on all of them. The set is called Iron Forerunner.

We haven't really had any substantial Saladin lore in D2 besides few lore pieces from Chosen and Splicer. Not nearly enough I think, especially since he wasn't properly introduced in D2 at all and it was kinda assumed that everyone would know about him from the Rise of Iron expansion in D1. He had plenty of voice lines, but with no real context. His voice lines in Season of the Chosen were interesting, but also made a lot of people think he's a bad person and a warmongering coward who sat on his butt during the Red War and was then preaching action for action's sake.

The situation is obviously more complex, but I've always said that it's Bungie fault for not explaining more about him prior to his involvement in the Season of the Chosen. Well, now we got some really interesting information at last!

Anyway, helmet first!

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"Some know the legend. We threw ourselves on the blades of tyranny so others may live free." —Lord Saladin

This is referencing the Iron Lords' fight against the Warlords in the Dark Age. Saladin is heavily influenced by his time in the Dark Age. It seems like some really old Guardians never get over the trauma of living through that (Drifter is another example). Side note: this could also be referencing the battle against SIVA since Rasputin is also known as "The Tyrant." It's not fully relevant tho, as Saladin was equally affected by both periods in his life.

This first entry details something we don't really think about when it comes to Guardians: death. It's a temporary thing with them so it doesn't really matter. But Saladin recounts how he remembers his deaths and how each one felt. Despite the fact that he will be brought back, the pain and struggle of dying are very real. There is also the associated trauma of the realisation that you will go through this over and over and over:

He laughed when his Ghost reassembled him. Then, he cried.

It's not something mentioned often, and definitely wasn't a point raised with Saladin. It gives some context to how seriously he takes combat, training and the lives of his fellow Guardians.

Saladin remembers the day he stopped counting deaths. "Something about you is different," Jolder had said, and put her hand on his.

This explains that his worldview of the role of Lightbearers changed the moment he was invited to become an Iron Lord. It's also important to remember that he loved Lady Jolder very much (in whichever way you want to interpret it) and that watching her make the choice to die a final death has had a heavy impact on him.

Saladin remembers all this and more when he looks at the Crow. He feels rage form a hot pit in his belly when Osiris tells him about the young Lightbearer's suffering at the hands of his fellow Guardians. Osiris asks him if he can keep a secret.

"I don't like secrets," Saladin says, and that's the end of it.

Saladin doesn't really say this during Chosen and his interactions with Crow, but it's evident from this that he cares deeply about the young Light who suffered in ways Saladin only remembers people suffering during the Dark Age. It's also important to note that the Osiris he speaks to here is Savathun. Saladin seems to be uniquely unaffected by Savathun's schemes. This will repeat itself again later.

Second, arms piece.

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"Some know the legend. We were forged in the fires of a burning world." —Lord Saladin

Same thing as before. Referencing the post-Collapse Dark Age. The lore tab details a really tragic story of the Iron Lords burying bodies, including the implication of Saladin burying the body of a child. He recalls that these people were victims of Fallen Raiders.

"It's a vicious circle," Efrideet had said as she tied off a funeral shroud with great care. Saladin remembers the bundle being very small. "One day, I'm going to break it."

Saladin remembers how easily the body fit in his arms, how light it felt as he laid it in the grave. He remembers, with shame, pretending not to hear Efrideet's words so he wouldn't need to respond to them.

He remembers not having anything kind to say.

He obviously regrets not having a stronger stance on this in the past. Where Efrideet seems to have always been keen on ending the cycle of violence, he clearly thought differently and is now ashamed of it. This transitions into more about his relation to Crow:

Saladin remembers all this and more whenever the Crow talks back to him. Sometimes, he bites down on the inside of his cheek. Sometimes, he looks up to find his Ghost focused on him with a knowing look.

He doesn't say anything to his Ghost either.

Because Crow was saying things that reminded him of Efrideet. Breaking the cycles of violence, extending a friendly hand, not treating everyone like an enemy. It's evident that this turmoil is still inside of him as someone who spent most of his time fighting for survival, only to be told by those younger than him that there's a way out of that war. It's a very common struggle of people dealing with trauma and specifically PTSD to not be able to imagine and/or live in a world of peace and to outright reject the possibility of peace ever existing. Saladin is very clearly dealing with that and here, we see it from his own POV: despite sometimes being harsh to Crow, there were times when he chose to say nothing because deep down he knows that Crow is right. Accepting that is a long process though.

Third, chest piece.

Flavour text:

"Some know the legend. We rose from the ashes of a dying world to save humanity from itself." —Lord Saladin

Same again, but this is an interesting way to phrase it. He's talking about humanity being a danger to itself, not about any external threat. Ultimately, the Traveler's gift was the first thing that harmed humanity post-Collapse, despite later being the thing that saved it.

This leads into Saladin's thoughts on the Red War, something we've been sorely missing for a very long time.

Saladin remembers losing his connection to the Light. He remembers thinking that the Traveler must have discovered his most secret doubts; the darkest thoughts he shared with no one—not even his Ghost. He remembers the strange sense of relief that had washed over him until his radio crackled to life just moments later.

His deepest secret? Probably that Light is a burden. When he lost the connection to the Light, he specifically thought it had only happened to him and then felt relief. Freedom from the eternal war he has to keep waging. I'm sure he feels incredible shame for thinking it would be better to just lose the Light and die a final death, but alas, he is bound by duty. Especially a Titan's duty.

He stands there thinking about it for a while before finally deciding to embrace that duty. And now we know what he was doing during the Red War:

"Saladin," his Ghost said again, and Saladin remembers moving. He remembers clutching his radio and rallying survivors—those strong enough to make the journey—to the Iron Temple.

It's been abbreviated as him "sitting out" the Red War because he didn't fight. Of course it was strange that the last remaining active Iron Lord did not show up to the City to fight alongside all the others, both Guardians and ordinary humans. That Lord Saladin, someone who endured so many hardships and fought so many battles since the Dark Age, hasn't come to help humanity in its time of greatest need.

But now this hits different. He didn't fight, yes. He couldn't. Losing the Light wasn't just something that made him scared (like all Lightbearers): it was something that made him scared of how he might actually enjoy dying a glorious final death. To end the trauma and the memories of all the horrors he's been through. So instead of throwing himself into a reckless death, he chose to stay in the Iron Temple and protect survivors.

So yeah, he didn't fight, but he did something equally important. The Iron Temple is an extremely well protected fortress that's very difficult to reach and breach, so any survivor he gathered was perfectly safe there until the Red War ended. Sometimes "sitting out" is more noble than fighting.

Saladin remembers all this and more whenever the Crow challenges him on his cowardice during the Red War. He wants to break the young Guardian's back to teach him a lesson about what it's like to feel helpless, but something stops him.

He remembers hearing stories about the Crow's life on the Shore before he arrived at the Tower, and does not raise a hand against him.

The lore entry ends with telling us that Saladin was clearly very agitated about Crow's teasing. But in the end, he remembered what Crow has been through and realised that Crow already knows what it's like to feel helpless. He did not need a reminder and Saladin decided to take the teasing without a response. It truly frames some of those voice lines in a different light, knowing this background.

Fourth, leg piece!

Flavour text:

"Some know the legend. We crossed a burning world with sword in hand, bringing justice and blood." —Lord Saladin

Once more, we are told that Saladin was mostly forged (eheh) through his experience in the Dark Age.

The lore page details a bittersweet memory Saladin has of him with his fellow Iron Lords and friends enjoying some good time over a meal and song.

He remembers Radegast asking him to sing the song taught to them by the people of the blacksmith's village, but agreeing only when Jolder and Perun promised to join in. Their voices rose like wolves in the night and were so raw by morning that none of them could speak.

This is honestly heartbreaking. Saladin being this happy and free to sing and enjoy himself: compared to how he is now. But even with that, he has retained the need to do it again sometimes, if he ever finds people to be comfortable around.

Saladin remembers all this and more when Zavala tells him Amanda has taken the Crow out to drink in the City's streets. He wonders what song they'll sing, if it's anything like the one he's heard everyone humming lately—even though he hasn't tried it himself.

I love how he projects his past joy onto the two young people and wonders if they'll do the same as he did once. Here we also get another hint about Saladin apparently not being affected by Savathun's viral chant. It might be a point relevant in the future.

Finally, class item!

Flavour text:

"Some know the legend. We crushed the Warlords beneath our heel so that they may never rise again." —Lord Saladin

Nothing new here. Just Saladin recounting how hard they went against the Warlords.

The rest is a very poignant lore page that details the relationship between Saladin and Zavala. Zavala studied under Saladin who was his mentor and it's been repeated often that Saladin has retained a "soft spot" for him.

Saladin remembers the first time he met Zavala. He remembers thinking that the Awoken had regal bearing like the stags he once hunted on the Steppes. His shoulders were broad, and his chin held high. When he moved, he did so with the strength and purposeful deliberation of someone with the power to determine his own place in the world.

"You'll never have a son," his Ghost had said, "but it isn't too late for you to take an apprentice."

I love when non-Awoken describe Awoken, there's always something ethereal about it. But I'm mostly putting this part here because of what Saladin's Ghost says.

First, I am incredibly soft for older Guardians adopting younger ones as kids and teaching them. Easily my favourite dynamic ever. Saladin seeing Zavala as a son makes me cry a thousand tears.

And second, is this finally a full confirmation that Guardians cannot bear children? It's kind of a strange place to put it, but it seems to be the implication. It makes sense they wouldn't be able to, but it's also nice to have some direct lore information about it in case it pops up as a question. I'm sorry if this ruins anyone's fics.

Saladin remembers their sparring matches. He remembers how Zavala always got back on his feet, no matter how many times Saladin put him down. He remembers refusing to offer the younger Lightbearer a hand up. Until the day Zavala finally bested him in combat.

He remembers lying flat on his back, left shoulder dislocated and ribs shattered, a strange pressure on his chest that made it difficult to breathe.

"Finish it," Saladin had commanded because that was the way of things. His Ghost would revive him.

Saying nothing, Zavala hauled him to his feet instead.

I love how this is placed at the end, paralleling the beginning of Saladin remembering his deaths and the pain of dying. But instead of "finishing it," Zavala pulls him back up. It's definitely something Saladin hasn't experienced before, especially not before becoming an Iron Lord, when all of his deaths were just gruesome ends to a struggle. Then seconds after, he'd be back up. He took the revival for granted, until Zavala offered him the alternative. Again, an interesting perspective about something we don't usually think about much. I do wonder how Saladin healed afterwards though.

Saladin remembers all this and more when his former apprentice calls him into his office and tells him about the face behind the Crow's mask. Zavala says he knows that Saladin doesn't like secrets; that it's unfair to ask him to keep one of this magnitude, but there will come a time when the Crow needs someone—the way Zavala needed Saladin.

"You never needed anyone," Saladin insists.

Zavala only smiles.

This page ends with the two bonding again. Despite their differences and disagreements, there's mutual respect between the mentor and the apprentice. The father and the son.

And Saladin thinks Zavala never needed him, but that is obviously not true and Zavala tells him so. He also tells him that Crow, and implied Guardians like him, will need the same guidance.

It gives us a full circle back to Saladin's musings about his purpose as a Guardian and Lightbearer. He may have doubted his place in the world before, but seeing as he's still here with us and actively participating and helping; training us through Iron Banner, helping with the Eliksni, refusing to side against the Vanguard despite the difference in opinion, now serving as Zavala's ambassador for the Cabal and easily bonding with someone he would've considered an enemy not long ago...

I think Saladin knows his place. He's one of the strongest Lightbearers and most principled among them. He is not swayed by lies and deceptions, he does not abide by them and speaks plainly. He has deeply rooted beliefs in justice and he will not compromise himself, even if it means conceding his position to make peace with a former enemy when that enemy proves their worth, honesty and good intentions to him.

He is a Guardian.

He is an Iron Lord.

#destiny 2 #lord saladin #lore vibing #long post #more iron lord lore bungie please?#iron temple as a social space?#please?#anyway i love this new lore about him so much #i wish we had it before people formed some crude opinions about him #but hopefully this can retroactively clear certain things up

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starr-fall-knight-rise · 4 years

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Humans are Space Orcs, “Medal of Honor.”

Ok that second to last part was hard to write, damn. Anyway read to the end to get an idea of where the next arc is going :)

A gentle breeze cut over the open field outside UNSC headquarters. Blue UN flags whipped lightly in the wind, and the sun shone down, though its rays beat against a crowd of somber figures all dressed sharply for the morning, men and women alike.

Camera crews had set up just off to the side of the stage, where Admiral Kelly stood in her dress greys along with white gloves and cords at the shoulder, her hands resting against the lectern as if searching for support somewhere.

“And it is with great regret that I must report Commander Vir of the UNSC Missing in Action.”

This was not news to the assembled crowd, so there was no gasping, no cries of alarm, only solemn silence.

“Commander Vir was…. a … a true representative of what it means to be human, and what it means to be a member of the UNSC. He was brave, loyal, diligent, and, from personal experience, I can vouch for his character as one of the best men I have ever known. He was a man who…. Wasn’t afraid to be himself, kind, trusting, and fun-loving. There were at times were members of the UNSC wondered if he was ready to command a ship. There were times when we questioned whether he was even capable of leading, but it is more than safe to say that Commander Adam Allen Vir has proved himself without a doubt. Two nights ago, the U.N.S.S Harbinger was set upon by a burg surprise attack. Commander vir took charge of the fleet admirably, though sources and footage report a linking of 40 kree satellites that created some sort of…” She paused here, “We aren't entirely sure, a black hole, or wormhole, or warp, tunnel. Commander Vir’s ship was caught in the pull.”

Kelly straightened up, “And in an act of great honor and selflessness, commander Vir initiated the shatter protocol. Because of his efforts, the rest of the harbinger crew made it out alive with only three casualties, and one life pod still missing in action. The ship itself will undergo reassembly at the Europa station. “ More flags flapped, and behind her on the stage, five other Admirals, the secretary of intergalactic affairs, the GA representative, and the UN President sat heads bowed slightly.

“Commander Vir, remained in command until his signal was lost. Efforts are currently being made to determine what the device did, so we can definitely determine what happened to Earths favorite hero.”

She turned stepping back a little as the UN president stood and walked forward clearing his throat two assistants walking behind him off to the side of the stage a man was brought up. He wore a well worn-but finely tailored suit, though is eyes were red. The UN president straightened his back and turned to look at the man as cameras flashed , “After deliberation with the UN council and members of the GA, we have determined that Commander Vir’s actions in battle are of the highest degree, and would thus award him the UNSC Medal of Honor.” The two assistants Flipped open the two identical cases as pictures snapped, and the boxes were eventually handed over to Jim Vir who took them in shaking hands.

“The UNSC and the GA thank your son for his service, and we will do everything in our power to get him home…. No matter what.”

The man’s face remained stoically flat, though in the bright light of the sun golden tears rolled down his cheeks, and dripped onto the velvet interior of the case. He was led from stage as admiral Kelly returned to her feet, “The burg have harassed and harried the GA and the UNSC almost since inception. Their actions over the Kree home world are reprehensible, and as of now the GA has declared open war on the Burg, a decision that the UNSC unanimously supports. We will not bow before tyrants, and it is now that we ask young men and women of earth, of Mars and of the colonies, tot take up arms like commander Vir in defense of earth, and in defense of the galaxy. Let us not, allow his sacrifice to go meaningless.”

***

“No, he’s not dead!” “Mrs Vir.

“He's not dead! I would know if he's dead, and I know he’s not dead!”

Maverick stood in the center of the Vir family living room her hands clasped before her. This was her least favorite duty as ship chaplain, but she hadn’t wanted anyone else to do it.

Martha Vir walked in a tight circle ringing her hands.

“Ma’am.”

“Don’t you ma’am me! We should be out there looking for him! He could be sick or hurt or or…

“Ma’am, the UNSC is doing everything in their power. As of now he is only considered Missing in action, not dead.” She reached out a hand to rest on the woman’s shoulder but took it back at the last moment, “Things are not without hope.”

Across the room Jim Vir stood staring out the window back hunched head bowed. His hard calloused hands were balled into fists at his sides.

Jeremy sat on the couch looking dumbstruck shaking his head, “no…. No i’m sure hes alright, that bastard could survive anything he…. Hes like that, our little brother.”

Across from him David stood with his partner Jordan. David’s cheek twitched hard eyes filling up with moisture that he tried to hold back as he looked up at the ceiling. David wrapped his arms around him, and as soon as that happened David broke dropping his head into one hand body shaking silently.

Maya sat shell shocked in her father’s favorite chair .

There was silence for a long moment and then, “This is bullshit!” Everyone turned to where Thomas had stood knocking over a chair in the process. His scruffy hair was in disarray, “This is some fucking bullshit!”

“Thomas!”

“No! Don’t THOMAS me, this if bull- shit! You should be out there looking for him! Because he's fucking alive, so fuck you and, and all of your stupid….” His voice cut off, and he stood there mouth opening and closing for a moment before he turned and raced out the door slamming it behind him as he went.

Everyone was silent.

“I’m sorry about Th-” “It's ok…. I get it, and I feel the same way.”

Outside Thomas paced around the front yard before sitting on the front step head in his hands.

Sobbing quietly.

***

Cannon had to pry open the door from the outside. The frame had been warped and bent at some point, and that made it difficult to get inside. His heart was pounding as the other marines worked to help him. Jamming his spear into the crack, and with all four of them resting their body weight on it, they were just able to pop the seal.

There was a sharp hiss as the interior of the compartment pressurized to the air around it. Cannon rammed his shoulder into the door once twice, and then finally it popped inward the warped damage to the inside fixed enough for the door to slide open.

Deep blue light filtered in from the docking bay of captain Koslov’s ship and into the interior compartment falling on a figure kneeling at it’s center.

Cannon went to rush forward hands outstretched to the figure but paused in horror. The room was covered in blood, orange like the rising sun over Anin. A broken steel spear shaft lay on the ground snapped in half like a stick over a child’s knee. At the center of this carnage, She knelt blue carapace marred with blood hands twisted into claws torn and bleeding The metal about the room had been dented beyond repair, long scratches marred the metal.

“Sunny,” He whispered softly

When no answer came, he stepped forward into the room and walked over, slowly kneeling down before her.

Both sets of her hands rested on her legs, and her head was bowed eyes closed.

He reached out resting a hand over hers, “Sunny?”

Slowly her eyes opened, and she tilted her head up to look at him. Little droplets of blood speckled her face though the expression was completely dead, dead mostly but for the burning rage behind her golden eyes. He sat back in shock.

He had only ever seen that look on one other person in his life.

On the face of General Cosma after the death of their father.

“I’m going to kill them all.”

***

KIA

Olivia Wild - Engineering

Chris Hallis - Marine

Trevor Lane - Pilot

MIA

Adam Vir

Dr. Krill

***

Waffles waited on the tarmac at Fort Harmony airbase, and waited, and waited. She stood, walked around for a bit, then sat down.

She waited resting her head on her paws and staring up at the sky.

She waited as the sun grew high into noon and then sunk downwards towards the distant ocean. She could smell it on the air, a salty tang.

She waited as the sun dipped towards the horizon.

Waffles stood picking up the dusty white captain’s cap in her mouth and walking over to a patch of grass where she sat and continued to wait. The smell on the hat was still strong. Off in the distance engines roared, and she perked her ears up, standing on the tarmac and watching as an F-90 darkfire rolled down onto the field. Her tail began to wag and she broke into a trot towards the taxiing plane. Her body wiggled and her nose twitched with excited sniffling.

The canopy opened, and waffle’s tail dropped sagging towards the hot tarmac that burned her paws a little. She let the dusty cap drop from her mouth and onto the hot surface flopping down beside it, her nose resting where, with every breath, she could smell the familiar scent.

She whined quietly, looking up as a figure walked forward over the tarmac.

It was a distantly familiar smell but not the one she wanted. Chief Palmer stopped next to her and knelt down, running a gentle hand over her ears. His voice was soft, “Still waiting, huh girl?”

She beat her tail half-heartedly against the ground.

He stood, “Come on girl, lets go inside.” She didn’t move

He whistled, and her ears twitched, but she didn’t come. He sighed and walked over sitting next to her, “Well, maybe we can wait together for a little bit. It grew dark as they waited, and he stroked a gentle hand down her back.

After a bit, he reached over gently pulling the cap from under her snout. She lifted her head, “Promise I’ll give it back.” he said taking a moment to dust the dirt from the white top before handing it back.

‘“I have to go ok.” He said standing, “But I understand you have to wait.”

She whimpered softly. He bit his lip and turned away wiping at his eyes with the back of his sleeve.

The sun sunk lower, lights flicked on over the tarmac. Men in orange vests passed by patting her on the head and whispering soft things to her as they did. One man came by with a blanket, draped over her form the cold.

A figure in white billowed behind her its strange human voice inside her head waiting with her.

The night got colder, and Waffles looked up at the sky whimpering softly at the stars, waiting, still waiting.

***

The inky blue sky was alight with fire as debris rained down from above. Animals raced over the sandy dunes across an inland sea in fear and shock as great pieces of metal crashed to the ground with fiery explosions.

A small metal ball with the lines. LIFE POD 37 on the outside crashed towards the sea.

Overhead the night sky was dominated by the glowing rings formed about the planet, and the glowing orbit of Seven moons, some barely pinpricks against the night.

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theriseofreylo80 · 4 years

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Stay With Me pt.1

Overview: Kylo Ren is the most powerful man in the the galaxy. You are a rouge bounty hunter looking out for themselves. You meet by chance trying to find a part for your ship. He is a supreme leader and you are outlawed. But for some reason you are the thing he needs.

Hi guys I’ve wanted to write a Kylo Ren x reader did for a while now. And after rewatching the films and the Mandolorian I’m inspired! This isn’t my first fix on my other account @bewitchingwitch I have fantastic beast fanfics so feel free to check it out! But anyway I’m really excited to share this with you and I hope you guys like it! Btw the beginning may be a little rocky but hang in there please!

Word count: 1250

"Dammit Love, you've got to work! Don't quit on me now!" You banged on the control panel trying to stop the blinking of various warning dials. After hitting it for a sixth time the blinking stopped and you smiled to yourself. "Now that's more like it Stagrazer."

Stargazer was a remastered ship that you had rebuilt with found pieces. You had had a perfectly well standard issue ship that was stunning but after betraying the Bounty hunter community your status was stripped and so was your ship. So you escaped with barely your life and luckily your helmet. You had found The stargazer about three days after exile. It was half buried in sand, a ship even older than the empire. It wasn't pretty but it flied and that was all that mattered.

Now it was your home, the only time you stopped on planets was for the occasional meal or for a job. Even though you were outlawed you were still one of the best in the business. And people payed heavy fees for your service. Your last kill had payed real well and you had stashed enough supplies aboard your ship so you wouldn't have to stop anytime soon, or so you thought.

The control panel began to beep again this time

louder and more urgently. You cursed to yourself. Looks like you were gonna have to stop, you hesitated wondering if crashing into oblivion was really all that bad. But you thought better of that and made an emergency landing on a nearby planet. Your landing was shaky and you felt your teeth vibrate as the nose of your ship buried itself deep into the ground of landing.

You hopped out of your ship to examine the damage. Your helmet was hot and suffocating in the desert atmosphere of the planet but you made no move to remove it. You squatted at the side of your ship running your hand along the body noticing every bump and flaw you needed to fix. After a while of hot wiring and tinkering it was clear The Stargazer wasn't going anywhere soon. It needed a whole new engine and the central command board was completely fried. Even if you found parts it would take a miracle to reassemble it. At this point it was better to just forget it but you could never do that.

You leaned back on the ship and held your head up high trying your best to hold back tears. It had been 4 years since your exile from the bounty hunter community and since then the stargazer had been your only friend. Human connection was long forgotten and at times you felt more at home with your half assembled droids and ship then you did in the company of others.

There was no time for tears, you needed to find parts. Chances were you wouldn’t because of the outdated parts the Stargazer had but you had to try. You kicked yourself off your ship promising to be back soon and telling your commander droid to keep watch.

You boots sunk in the sand after five steps and it was clear you would still be going very far on foot. You turned back to your ship and took out your Land Rover. Kicking it to life you took off towards the rural town in the distance.

You felt panicky being close to so many people. You pushed your way through the crowd, muttering excuse me as you moved past. You saw a vendor in a hooded cloak at the far end of the street surrounded by various engines. You made you way over to him. “Excuse me sir do you happen to have any parts for a Stargazer?”

The vendor looked up at you with big hooded eyes, his appearance toad like, his hands were wrinkled and they only had three fingers, he moved it up to his ear. “I couldn’t hear that.” His voice was raspy as if he hadn’t used it in a hundred years. “ I think there’s something wrong with your transmitter.”

You tried again and he said he couldn’t hear any thing but static. “Why don’t you take that helmet off it would be easier to speak with you.”

You shook your head in a no and took out a universal tool from your belt. You fidgeted with the transmitter on your helmet and your voice began to come through but it broke in certain places. You smacked the side of your helmet and the vendor winced in sympathy pain.

“One two... one... two... am I coming in? Am I coming in?” Your voice transmitter cleared up and you nodded in approval. You twirled the universal tool between your fingers and slipped it back into your belt. “I said do you have any parts for a stargazer.”

The vendor seemed to hide in his cloak but you swore you saw a hint of a smirk and a gleam in his eyes. “A stargazer. My my my, why are you looking for something like that.”

“It doesn’t concern you.” You answered flatly.

A frown slid across his face before it was replaced with that coy smirk. “A stargazer you say. Those ships were made before the Empire and have long since died out.” He stroked his wisp of a beard. “A part for that wouldn’t come cheap.”

You tossed him a few coins. “Believe me vendor money is no issue.” He examined the coins and slipped them into his cloak. “Very well.” He turned and rummaged through his collection of parts, you tired to lean over to see but he smacked you away. At last he pulled out a small part and held it out for you to see. It was red and it glistened in the streaming sunlight. Liquid that looked like blood sloshed in the narrow tube.

Your breath caught in your throat. “An earth crystal. I haven’t seen once since...” you reached your hand out to touch but the vendor pulled it back into himself.

“Yes an earth crystal the heart of a stargazer. It is the hardest part to come by and so rare that various other metals and jewels are often substituted for it. Only the highest of classes have ever possessed one. With one of these any other parts of any other ship can get a stargazer flying again.” The vendor held it gingerly in one hand and held his other out towards you.

You dropped a bag of coins into his hand and it dipped under it’s weight. He tossed you the part and you examined it closer, heart beating fast.

“How did you come across it.”

“None of your business Mandolorian.” He shot back at you, raking his hands though the bag of coins.

You huffed. “I’m no mandolorian.”

“Really?” The vendor looked at you with interest. “Then why do you wear their uniform.” He looked you up and down his eyes coming to stare into the blackness of your visor. You didn’t answer, instead you kept quite. “What’s a matter supreme leader got your tongue.”

At once the vendor seemed to be pulled into the air and you stepped back in shock. He seemed to be choking. You took another step and you felt yourself fall back into someone. You quickly turned to see who you had ran into. You came face to face with the supreme leader himself. He cocked his head at you and his transmitter crackled to life. “Hello... Mandolorian”

#kylo ren x reader #kylo ren x y/n #kylo ren x you #kylo ren fanfiction #kylo ren smut #ben solo #ben solo fanfiction #ben solo x reader #the mandolorian #star wars the last jedi #star wars fanfiction #fan fic stuff #fan ficiton #new fanfic #kylo ren headcanons

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post-itpenny · 5 years

Text

We the Drowned

So many perspectives. @clownsgobeepbeep @grotesquegabby

There was a circus.

It is not a circus like you think.

It has secrets.

It’s workers are not human.

It’s ringmaster is most definitely not human.

But they are definitely a proud parent.

As the show goes on and the ringmaster performs their beloved is curled up asleep with two small beings.

There is a twinge, a shudder runs through her as well as the feeling that something terrible has happened.

Calliope sat up with a hand over her heart.

Magpie was dead.

She was, wasn’t she? She felt it but… at the same time she didn’t. What did that mean?

But the ache was there, regardless something terrible had indeed happened.

Calliope laid down and curled up under her blankets. Did Maggie or Vespers know?

Calliope could discern what had happened, the thing Blackwood had foreshadowed to her no doubt. Poor Magpie, Calliope could only hope she was at peace.

There was a rush of something. Two forces in combat. Moving through the atmosphere above with rapid speed.

Oh no.

Calliope jumped up. She could feel the waves of chaos echoing from one point on the edge of the city. Waves of bad luck.

She moved to get dressed only stopped short, looking at her sleeping children. So unaware of what misfortune was taking place. Calliope could not leave them, would not leave them.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Vespers was snuggled close to Cosmos and Phoebe. They had both felt it, a shudder that ran through them like something awful had happened. Outside the sky had grown frightfully dark and it seemed like everything was trying to go wrong.

Lighting struck the house, plates shattered, Cosmos at one point tripped and opened his eyes nearly making eye contact with a startled Vespers. Something was wrong, something was very wrong.

“Aunt Pie must be upset, it’s the only explanation I got.” Vespers concluded with a nod. Cosmos turned to him in surprise. “Your Aunt is doing this? She’s not even here!”

Vespers shrugged, “It doesn’t matter, she can affect anything in a couple miles. She must be having one hell of a bad day.”

Vespers pulled his cell phone out of his pocket, preparing to call his aunt when his phone started to ring.

It was Juno.

“Have you seen Auntie?”

Vespers frowned, “n-no what’s going on?”

“This town is going to shut that’s what!” Juno shouted from the other end of the line. “I just watched all the lampposts on our street rust to ruins in ten second flat! And we keep getting hail.”

Vespers started to panic, “hail? Geeze Juno where the heck did she go?”

“I don’t know! Help me dammit!”

Vespers hung up and turned to Cosmos, “I have to go find my aunt. I’m going to fix things ok?”

Cosmos frowned and took his hand, “Are you sure it’s her? Vesp I just have this crazy bad feeling.”

“I know me too,” Vespers answered with a nod. “But yes I know it’s her, Juno thinks so too. Stay with Phoebe and keep her safe. I promise it’s going to be ok and this time I’ll tell you one hundred percent everything when I get back.”

Cosmos clearly didn’t like it but gave Vespers a kiss on the cheek nonetheless, “please be careful.”

“I will, love you spaceman.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Billy was having a bad day to say the least.

Maggie was gone, no warning no anything.

He stormed through the streets following her scent. Ignoring the chaos that happened around him.

He knew, he just knew this had something to do with whatever the plan she had mentioned was.

“Why must she be so damn reckless?!” He shouted to know one. Not that anyone could pay attention, the streets were filled with panic. Car wrecks, accidents, thefts, breakups, a woman nearby broke her stiletto heel. What the hell was going on?

Billy was glad he had left Amaranthus with her grandfather, on this night, everything seemed to be going to hell in a handbasket. He was absolutely positive a certain redhead was somehow involved. What if she was hurt? How could she just leave without saying anything?

Granted, had he not done the same just some weeks prior?

“But I wasn’t pregnant!” Billy shouted to himself in response.

“You weren’t what?”

Billy turned. Vespers and Juno looked at him in confusion. Then, both parties started questioning at once.

“Have you seen our aunt?”

“Have you seen Maggie?”

Juno scowled, “so their both gone? Fan-fucking-tastic.”

Billy rolled his eyes, “must you be so vulg-“

Crash!

Above them a window shattered, glass raining down.

Billy moved to duck out of the way when a shadow crossed over him.

Juno stood with a massive set of butterfly wings unfolded, shielding both her brother and Billy. She winced in pain as glass pierced her delicate wings and exposed back. But not the smallest shard touched the boys.

She gave Billy a smirk, “You’re welcome ya damn Ken Doll.”

Billy scowled But said nothing. Now was not the time. “I take it your we’re following your aunt’s trail?”

Vespers antennae twitched, “Yeah she went this way.” He answered, pointing down the sidewalk.

Billy gave a sigh, “funny that’s were Maggie’s scent leads.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

She was falling, for how long she had no idea, she was drowning in nothing. It was so dark, the feeling of some deep and primal fear coursing through her.

Where was she?

Who was she?

What was a “she?”

Had it asked that question before?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

They found the collapsed remains of a warehouse. The smell of both human and deadlight blood was strong. Billy noticed the neck fluff of both Juno and Vespers had puffed up, but then again his own nails had started to sharpen to a razor tip.

Inside was an odd mix of damage. Human remains, thorn bushes, piano strings. Why such a combination?

Juno gasped, “what the fuck?”

Billy and vespers rushed to join her. Taken back by the same sight.

There was an open door. It lead to a swirling collision of light and color, and absence of anything dust and small debris was being pulled inside. At the door stood of all things an old woman.

Billy growled, her aura was ancient and powerful. She was not human, but there was a familiarity to her. Why?

The old woman turned to the trio. She was blindfolded.

Billy gave a shout, recognizing her from description.

The old woman gave a small smile and stepped through the door. Slamming it shut behind her.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Why is this familiar?” The thing asked itself. There was something important, what was it? There was something so, so important the thing was supposed to do.

“Protect,” answered The Void.

Protect, the thing mused. Protect something, something, something, what something?

The thing noted it’s… hand on its… stomach. Wha-

The baby!

The thing gave a shout. A bay! It’s baby, hers!

Her name was Maggie.

There was a deep sigh from within The Void, as if to say “at last”. Maggie felt her wings grow within the darkness as she few up. She thought it was up.

“Where can I go?”

“Go?” Asked The Void.

“Help me!”

“Help yourself. You are after all ready.”

“Ready for what?!”

Maggie screamed in frustration, clawing at the surrounding darkness.

A hand grabbed hers.

“Well this is what happens when you lean towards a self-taught method.”

Maggie knew that voice.

She was pulled up through the darkness.

It was so unnerving to stand before Bridgette in person.

She was incredibly tall, something Maggie had never noticed when they conversed in her dreams. She had a scent that Maggie could not pin down. Sulfur, sugar, raspberry, seared steak-

Mmm, steak.

Bridgette frowned, “I just hauled you up for being trapped in the void that lies bet dimensions and you have the gal to have pregnancy cravings?”

Maggie blushed, how did she ... never mind. Of course she knew.

Bridgette huffed and wrapped an arm around Maggie to pull her away from the edge of the void. Shielding her from the howling winds as some force tried to drag Maggie away.

She looked up.

A black hole was surprisingly bright, you would not think it had light but it really did. And it swallowed everything. How Bridgette could withstand the force Maggie didn’t know, but she was grateful for an anchor.

Around them thousands of Time strings were sucked up. Soon there would be nothing left.

Bridgette looked so tired.

“I’m sorry,” Maggie sobbed, “I tried I really did. I just wasn’t fast enough.”

Bridgette shook her head, “you did exactly what I knew you would do. Excellent job child.”

Maggie froze, “what?”

Bridgette turned to her with a small but sad smile. “When I said you getting rid of the fixed point would help I did not mean it would stop my death. On the contrary it ensured it.”

Maggie felt her stomach drop. “What?! W-why would you do that? Why didn’t you stop me?”

“Because it had to happen,” Bridgette insisted. “Jack is being ripped apart molecule by molecule every time his body tried to reassemble. Soon this whole dimension will succumb to Magpie’s destructive force and his timeline will fall apart, and soon so shall I.”

Maggie shook her head. She couldn’t believe what she was hearing.

Bridgette continued, “don’t worry they flow of time will continue, this place is just a viewing platform. You should still be able to see the future though it will be much more difficult. But you are as ready as you could be child. You have grown and will continue to grow into your new roll. You will be fine. As will he,” she finished with a pole at Maggie’s stomach.

She could not process what she was being told. She had caused Bridgette’s death, Magpie was gone, the strings would be gone, all of it gone.

…. it’s a boy?!

Bridgette reaches over Maggie’s shoulder, opening a door. “Good bye.”

Bridgette shoved Maggie through the door.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Billy had been closing and kicking the door ever since that damn elder had slammed it in his face. He was not ready for when it slammed back open again, this time Maggie falling through.

He shouted in alarm as he caught her. Maggie was covered in bruises and cuts. Her skin ice-cold.

“Maggie? Maggie!” Billy screamed as he wrapped her up in his arms.

The door was starting to slip close.

Vespers moved to keep it from closing when someone shoved him aside. Maggie was ripped from Billy’s arms as the stranger and carried her back through the door which once again slammed shut.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Bridgette could honestly say she felt relieved. She was dying, her body starting to break up under the force of the black hole and destruction of a dimension that had been her everything.

It had been a mistake to turn the boy into a fixed point. Her desire to find a loophole around the one thing she could not observe had gotten the better of her and all she had created was a gluttonous monster. One that had wrecked the timelines of The Creator’s descendants and changed that of her own. Now it was above her trapped in an endless cycle of life and death. Just barely pulling together a handful of molecule last before being ripped apart again. A bittersweet end to her lifetime indeed.

“Hope you don’t mind the party crashing darling, but look I brought a guest!”

Bridgette whipped around, there stood Blackwood with Maggie in his arms. He grinned, “hello Madam Seer!”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

They were in Blackwood’s “office.” The top of the highest wall in his castle. They were surrounded by stars and twilight.

Maggie had zero desire to be alone with the elder bit she needed to speak with him. Away from the others, away from Magpie.

“So up till recently she’s been trapped in a pocket dimension,” Maggie finished in her long explanation of what had happened to her guardian. “How did you not know?”

Blackwood stood up and screamed to the sky above.

The world in the space of a second bent and warped. Magpie trembled in fear as stars fell around them and stone crumbled.

As quick as it started it ended.

Blackwood stood shaking in silence. He glanced towards a terrified Maggie and gave a smile.

“I’m done little Seer, just needed to… get that out of my system.”

“What will you do? Knowing. What you now know?”

Blackwood looked away, “I’m not certain I’ll need time to think. But more pressing is the event of Bridgette’s demise.”

“Magpie will do it. She’s going to-“

Blackwood held a hand up, “Do you have a plan?”

Maggie nodded, “it’s really stupid.”

Blackwood turned to her with a grin. “So much like your elder. “Always needing a plan, always needed to know what the future holds.”

Maggie rolled her eyes, “I’m. It like Bridgette-“

“Are you certain?”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In the end Blackwood became Plan B, should Magpie become a black hole as Maggie had foreseen.

The elder of creation set Maggie down with surprising care before looking at Bridgette. “You tried to use one of my own to clean up your mess. How sloppy of you Madam Seer, I thought you knew better.”

Bridgette backed away, the winds of the Black hole tearing at her clothes and hair, ripping off her blindfold to reveal a large crack that ran across her face, within one could see the emptiness of the void itself.

Blackwood charged at her, the two clashing in a force that gave the sound of thunder. They tore and clawed at each other. Anything Blackwood summoned Bridgette would doge. Two ancient Beings that were equal in strength.

Maggie made herself as small as possible, the force of the black hole above lifting her up.

She screamed.

The winds suddenly shifted, Maggie was set back down.

She looked up in surprise, how?

Maggie looked towards the battling elders. Blackwood was struggling to get ahead of Bridgette’s sight but the old woman was slowin down. Her body starting to fall apart along with the world around them.

Maggie looked up. The winds had such a peculiar sound to them. Like, like-

Screams.

Maggie gasped in surprise. Magpie’s death had not created a back hole. She was the black hole.

“Stop!” Maggie screamed. “Stop, stop! Please!”

The winds howled but did not change.

Maggie felt tears of desperation in her eyes. “Magpie please stop. You can let go now, it’s ok!”

The winds slowed.

Bridgette gave a gasp, Maggie turned to see the elder was still falling to pieces and had fallen to the ground. She watched Maggie with a look of… pride.

Blackwood snapped his fingers.

The black hole began to fold in on itself. Releasing the atoms that made up the strings of time which inturn began to reform.

“You’re fixing it,” Bridgette whispered.

Black shook his head, “I’m ending the black hole. It’s Magpie that’s fixing everything. Using the last of herself to do so I suspect.”

Bridgette shuddered, her own end looming. “I- I don’t know what is going to happen next.”

Blackwood smiled and took her hand, “it will be alright, I promise.”

As Bridgette faded away Blackwood scooped up her lights. As he stood up-

Maggie slapped him in the face.

Blackwood stumbled back, her nails had scratched into his skin, no doubt leaving a scar. Blackwood rubbed the injured spot, they were going to have an interesting working relationship no doubt.

He sighed and handed Maggie one of Bridgette’s lights. “She would have wanted you to have it.”

Maggie looked at the powerful light uncertain, did she actually want it?

As humid sensing her hesitant the light floated up from Maggie’s hand before ramming itself into her forehead.

Maggie screamed and fell to the ground, her mind feeling as if it was melting and reshaping itself. She was drowning and yet so alive at once. She was drowning, she could see so much now.

Blackwood watched as the girl thrashed about in pain. Her feathers fall out of her head and resprouting at the sides of her eyes.

Ah, new hairstyle then.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The door opened, The trio watching in anticipation as Blackwood climbed out with an overwhelmed Maggie in tow.

There was something in Blackwood’s arms, a strange glowing mass shaped like-

Shaped like a body.

Maggie fell into Billy’s arms sobbing uncontrollably. Billy himself trying his hardest to keep together at the sight of seeing Maggie in such a state.

Juno observed the thing in Blackwood’s arms, at last catching the sighs of the deadlights that floated around in the glowing mass.

Juno screamed.

Realization flooded through Vespers as he fell to his knees. “Is- is that? Please no.”

Blackwood nodded solemnly. “It’s a bit of an explanation and one I don’t have time for as I need to get this one stable. This mass of Stardust is what is left of Magpie, now her lights are still present and seemingly aware even. I- I’ve never done this before… don’t know if I truly can… but I will put her back together. I just… I just need time. He turned to Maggie who was still in hysterics as Billy struggled to calm her down. Blackwood gave a sigh. “Tell Lady Life that the new Madam Seer will explain everything when she is able to. She’ll want an explanation as will all of you.

Vespers looked to Maggie in confusion, “Madam Seer?”

Blackwood chuckled, “oh yes. Personally I think she’s ready.”

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unapologeticallyaisha-archive · 5 years

Text

Scrying

WARNINGS: creepy images, mild gore and violence

Summary: Loki investigates some magical mirrors and has a terrifying encounter.

Word count: 2500+

Author’s note: Pre-Thor and not part of my fanfiction series (for now)

The ancient art of scrying is prevalent in many cultures across the cosmos. This technique is utilized to divine the past, the present, or possible futures. Scrying tools are not limited to mirrors. Any reflective surface can be used for scrying: metal, stones, water, fire. What the scryer sees may be personal to them, or it may have nothing to do with them at all.

“Are you hoping to see your future lover?”

Loki looked up from his book. A grinning Thor was leaning over the desk, threatening to mess up Loki’s piles of carefully-taken notes.

Loki was interested in a wide variety of topics, and his curiosity was not superficial. A topic could be subjected to intensive research for weeks, even months. The latest one to catch his eye had been mirrors.

Mirrors were surrounded by numerous superstitions. They were said to show visions. Breaking them was considered bad luck. Some believed they could trap people’s souls, especially the souls of those who were dead. With magic being as diverse as it was, Loki held to the notion that not all such fears were irrational.

And mirrors held a special meaning for Loki. Because of his ability to cast illusions, he knew better than anyone how images could fool people. He startled himself when he walked in front of a mirror while disguised.

Thor had heard many of the same rumors, but he didn’t believe any of them. For him, mirrors were just tools for vanity.

Loki was planning on visiting a place called the Vale of Mirrors. Stories about it varied and many sounded exaggerated, but they all agreed that the Vale held some very mysterious mirrors, possibly the most powerful in the universe.

Loki wasn’t interested in scrying or seeing any deep truths. He just wanted to experience the mirrors for himself.

Loki gave his brother a bored look. “I would not waste my time asking such empty-headed questions.”

“You may find out that your sweetheart is a lizard,” Thor continued. “Or a troll.”

Loki’s eyes dropped to a drawing on the table, depicting a man cowering from a storm of whirling leaves. His mother had warned him about delving too deep into powerful magic, but the temptation was just too great.

“You should be careful in the Vale, brother,” said Thor, taking his hands off the table. “You might accidentally summon a Fire Demon that will gobble you up!” Chuckling to himself, he left Loki in the shadowy corner of the library.

The distant planet Loki landed on was largely uninhabited, so nature flourished freely. The planet’s three faraway suns gave off a comfortable light through the blue and gold trees. Furry animals with long snouts leapt through the branches, and worms twined around the trunks. Colorful rocks crunched beneath Loki’s boots.

Strangely, many of the trees were broken near the tops, with the severed branches lying in a heap around them.

Loki plucked some leaves off the ground. They were very soft, like velvet.

Placing the leaves in his coat, he continued on through the forest, following a faint but undeniable tug of magic.

At last, he reached the grove he had seen so many times in illustrations. The trees here looked as if they had been pruned. In the center of the grove was a perfectly circular pond with worms swimming in it.

Wondering if the pond was one of the mirrors, Loki peered into the water. However, it was so clear he could see right to the bottom.

Loki walked around the pond and found the ground sloping down into a pitch dark cave. He lit up his hand with yellow magic and went in.

The tunnel led to a circular room with nine large mirrors on the walls, each a plain sheet of glass.

Loki studied the mirrors. He could only see himself from several different angles. Nothing unusual.

Loki then noticed that everything was still. The sounds of rustling leaves and animals had stopped. There was invisible magic in the cave, but it was static, unmoving.

Maybe he had to focus. He drew closer to one of the mirrors. Still nothing changed.

Just as Loki was wondering if he needed to use a spell, the eyes in his reflection darkened, and the face became longer and narrower.

Loki stepped back and noticed that all the reflections were changing, growing broader or thinner, their hair morphing into other colors, until each one was a different person. All of them turned to face him.

“Who are you?” Loki asked.

“Why have you come here?” one of them asked back.

“I am here to see the magic of the Vale.”

“We can show you a great many things,” said another man.

Each of them was standing in another cave, also full of mirrors. It was his own world, multiplied a myriad times.

Maybe the mirrors were windows into other worlds, ones he could see but not touch.

Or maybe he was the reflection, and the others were reality.

Loki summoned up his courage. “What do you have to tell me?”

“Are you afraid of your future?” one of the reflections asked.

Fate was not something Loki considered very often, because it unsettled him. The conviction of most Asgardians was that no matter what came to pass, they would face it courageously.

Loki was not nearly that confident. Still, if that was what they offered, he would take it. “What do you know of my future?”

The magic in Loki’s hand extinguished itself, but the mirrors remained lit with their own eerie light.

“If you are not afraid …” said the reflection.

“You should be,” all of them hissed.

The cave and the mirrors disappeared. It was very dark, but Loki could see the faint outlines of trees. Leaves were falling around him – some silver, some a ghostly blue. The gleaming tips of creature’s snouts darted in and out of sight. Luminous worms as large as snakes swarm in a murky black pond in front of him. The whole place gave off the stench of wet leaves and dirty rainwater.

Loki heard a crackling noise that grew progressively louder. Ice was creeping over the forest floor and up the trees. Pinpricks of red light appeared in the rocks, like a million eyes looking up at him.

Terror gripped Loki. Every muscle in this body wanted to run. But just as that thought crossed his mind, a wind blew him onto his knees.

All at once, the trees broke at the point where their trunks forked, as if a giant scythe had cleaved off their tops.

Loki looked into the pond. The reflection looking back at him seemed melancholy.

Then his reflection’s arm grabbed the front of his tunic and pulled him into the dark water.

Loki barely had time to gasp.

But he wasn’t drowning. He didn’t even feel like he was underwater. The other him had vanished, and he was floating in empty blackness.

It isn’t real, he reminded himself.

His toe hit something solid, and he fell onto hard ground.

Loki’s head was on its side, and he could see that he was on a patch of rocks that smelled vaguely metallic. Beyond the rocks was a thick black fog. It was extremely quiet.

Loki tried to push himself up, but he couldn’t move a muscle. Even his eyelids had been forced open.

Something oozed up from between the rocks, flowing over Loki’s fingers and seeping through his clothing. The scent of blood filled Loki’s nose. He tried to get up again, but to no avail. His magic wouldn’t respond, either.

The blood kept coming, and Loki wondered if it was his. He thought he could see ghoulish faces in the rocks, screaming silently. Maybe they were the ones bleeding.

Just as Loki thought he would be trapped forever, the rocks turned to dust beneath him, and the liquid vaporized.

Loki twitched his fingers and found to his relief that he could move again.

He got to his feet shakily and wiped the blood off his face. The fog was gone, and he was on a barren plain. He stood there, legs apart and eyes alert.

The wind picked up, and dust got into Loki’s eyes and clothes.

Loki then thought he saw something hovering in the distance, unmoved by the wind. A spark of flame, small enough to fit in the palm of his hand. Was it a friend or an enemy?

The bits of dust started to twist themselves into cable-like strands. One end was anchored to the ground, while the other end waved in the air. Instead of attacking Loki, they started converging on the tiny flame.

The flame could be his only aid in this place He started running toward it.

Immediately, some of the cables started moving towards Loki. Their ends became pointed, like spearheads.

Loki pulled a dagger out of his coat and sliced through the cable closest to him. The cable exploded, its dust spraying over Loki. However, no sooner had it burst apart then it reassembled again.

The cables slashed, making small cuts on Loki’s hands and face. One of them darted straight towards his chest, and he dodged it.

If Loki had been facing a conventional opponent, he would have known how to fight. But these were very different entities. Stooping down, he put away his dagger and unleashed a blast of magic.

The magic scattered the pieces of dust much better than his dagger could.

Loki charged towards the flame. As he cupped his hands around it, it grew slightly larger, lighting up his face with its orange glow. It was pleasantly warm.

Loki smiled a little, but he knew he had to be careful. Fire was fickle, and not easily controlled.

Similar types of magic were attracted to each other, Loki remembered. He conjured a small flame of his own and held it steady.

The cables were advancing on him.

He strengthened his magic, and the flame grew along with it. He unleashed them both as one fiery blast. The cables were disintegrated instantly.

Loki grinned proudly. He extinguished his own magic, but the small flame stayed.

The ground quaked, making Loki almost lose his balance. The plain began turning into sinking pits of dust. Soon, only the patch of ground Loki stood on remained.

Many voices whispered all around him, speaking as one. “Will you join us? Or will you be the one to escape?”

Burning white objects, like stars, began showering from the sky. Loki had nowhere to run to, so he shielded his head.

He hated this. He had fought hundreds of enemies before, but none of them could compare to the forces of nature.

The flame spread out above him, incinerating the objects as they came near. But he could feel the flame weakening.

Fight nature with nature, he thought.

Some of the objects grazed Loki’s arms, scorching him through his clothes. When they fell around Loki’s feet, Loki saw that they were leaves, sharp as glass and smoldering with white fire.

Images danced in the flames. A blue crystal mounted in gold. An army mounted on winged horses. A rift in the sky that was full of stars. A long sword stained with blood.

Just as suddenly as it had began, the bombardment of objects stopped.

Loki took his hands away from his head, and the orange flame shrunk again.

Rocks rushed out of the pits, and as he watched, the cave walls rebuilt themselves around him.

There was a flash of lightning and a thunderclap that made Loki cover his ears. He was almost certain the cave roof had split open.

Then it was absolutely silent.

The flame was gone. The leaves were gone. Except for the nine mirrors, the cave was empty.

After a few heartbeats, Loki hurried back through the tunnel into the open. The sunlight blinded him, and he fell to his knees.

When his eyes refocused, he realized he was kneeling by the edge of the pond, which was clear again. The sun was warm on his back. He watched the rippling water and fluid movements of the worms, and gradually his heart stopped pounding.

Loki gingerly reached up to touch his face. There was no blood, no dust. All his wounds had healed, but the sensations still remained.

He had to laugh at himself. He, the illusion-caster, frightened by false images. Nearly all sense had departed from him in the cave. He had always prided himself on being the rational one in his family, but it seemed fear always triumphed over intelligence. He knew the best thing to do was to go home, talk to other people, and remind himself that reality still existed.

He pictured Thor coming to him and asking, So, did you see your future lover? and him answering, Yes, and it turned out to be myself. Now please leave me and my books in peace.

Loki saw that more of the trees were broken than before. Perhaps he had actually left the cave during his vision.

The blissful scenery suddenly seemed to be overlaid with sinister images. Anything – from the ground to the plants to the sky itself – could turn against him at any moment.

Loki backed away from the pond. Then he reached into his coat and took out the leaves he had picked up. They were still blue and gold, and as bright as ever.

What had the Vale been trying to tell him?

Here’s a piece of music to go with this story (lyrics in description)

#loki #thor #son and brother #fanfiction

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ayearofpike · 6 years

Text

The Last Vampire 4: Phantom

Pocket Books, 1996 179 pages, 20 chapters + epilogue ISBN 0-671-55030-6 LOC: CPB Box no. 357 vol. 4 OCLC: 34651186 Released May 28, 1996 (per B&N)

Sita wakes up from her miraculous transformation ready to start a new life as a human. Even more miraculous: Ray, the resurrection of her long-passed husband, has somehow survived his terrible demise and is human again as well. She’s excited to be normal with him, renting a house, making friends, and having a baby. Only the baby progresses at a supernormal rate, and has the same powers and appetites Sita had as a vampire. They’ll soon find out she’s much more than that, though.

This was a storyline that I’d totally forgotten about until I read the back-of-the-book copy. Sita has a baby! The baby is a monster! The book ends on a realistic cliffhanger! Only reading all of these in one shot do I realize that here’s your goddamn Cold One II: Seedling right here. I mean, look at it: the lady is impregnated by an undead monster and gives birth to a precocious and beautiful dark-haired child named after the Hindu goddess of death, and what happens next? Pike claims he’s not going to tell us, but Last Vampire 4 and 5 got you, G.

Also, I neglected to mention this in the last entry, but you probably noticed: Not only have they done away with the horrible die-cut letters on the covers, but now they’re not even faking it anymore. I imagine that the cover artist (and maybe Pike too) got annoyed that they were hiding most of the artwork in an inside flap that people weren’t even inclined to flip to now that it didn’t peek through the letters. (The Lost Mind and The Visitor both had actual full cover art, hidden on another piece of cover stock just inside the front cover, with what would have previously peeked through printed on the letters. Maybe I should go back and shoot those, plus the ones inside the die-cut covers, for this blog. Let me try to catch up with the reading first, though.)

The story itself starts right where the last one left off, as has become par for the course in TLV so far. Yeah, dig it: since Sita first murdered a detective in Oregon, maybe six weeks have passed up to the beginning of this story. She’s awakened from her transformation nap by pounding on the door, along with a familiar sounding voice that is not Seymour (the only one living who is supposed to know who and where she is). She doesn’t answer, and the knocker goes away, but a little while later Seymour does show up. He’s bummed that Sita has given up her immortality, but excited at what it means that she’s a human about his age. Like, maybe she won’t make him a vampire, but maybe now they’ll get down. It’s not that far-fetched a wish, I guess, considering she is more truthful and thorough in talking to him than she is anyone else (and probably more than anyone else Seymour knows), but still. Dude.

They have to get out of Dodge, though, because Sita doesn’t know who’s still alive and trying to reach her. They drive to LA and set up in a hotel, and after Seymour falls asleep Sita goes for one of her customary nighttime walks. As per usual, she gets accosted by some scum of the earth who plan to rape and kill her, and as per usual she lets them catch her. Only — oh yeah! She doesn’t have her vampire powers and abilities anymore. What she does have is a pistol, and she uses it to cap both would-be attackers in the head. How is this better than crushing skulls and drinking blood? Sita doesn’t think it is. In fact, she has a breakdown walking back to the hotel and has to take a break in a coffee shop to try to get her wits.

And all of a sudden Ray walks in. How is this possible? Last time we saw Ray, he was lighting a stream of gasoline on fire — a stream that was pouring directly on him. He tells Sita that in the time between the explosion and when she murdered New Vampire, the latter had gathered up the scattered pieces of Ray and reassembled them, trying to bring him back to life by feeding him blood. Sounds fake, seeing as New Vampire would have only had two days to do this, yet here is Ray. He also tells Sita that it was him knocking on the door in Vegas, and after she left he went in and found the crystal setup and laid in it himself, so now he’s human again too. She tells him what just happened, and obviously he wants to get her out and clear of the area. But what about Seymour? Sita’s already told him to go home, and Ray says if she just bails maybe he’ll get the point.

So she gathers up her crap without waking him and goes with Ray all the way to ... Whitter. Yeah, almost 30 miles from where she killed two guys, that should be far enough, right? They build their normal life together, and it’s two months later that Sita discovers she’s pregnant. She meets another heavily pregnant woman while shopping for baby books, a single mom-to-be who works in a nearby Catholic church for whom Sita finds an instant affinity. But they can’t hang out too much right away, because Sita’s pregnancy goes way faster than it should. In fact, even though she wasn’t showing at all when they met in the bookstore, she has a full-term baby five days later, a baby with an unusual calmness and coldness. Sita names her Kalika without even thinking about it: “she who destroys.”

The baby grows fast, too. Two days later, she’s a year mature and biting open Sita’s nipples to drink blood instead of milk. Looks like two ex-vampires couldn’t help but give birth to a vampire after all. It’s not too long before Sita can’t handle it, and they’re not sure what to do. Ray suggests that Sita go lure in a source of food with her feminine wiles. Which is weird to her, because a) he was always the squeamish one about drinking blood and b) he flat-out refuses to even try to get someone himself. So Sita ends up at a nearby park, where she cons one of the basketball players into following her home and inside on the pretense that her violent ex sometimes breaks in. Once she’s got him inside, it’s a small matter to knock him out and tie him up, even though that fucker Ray still doesn’t show up to help.

She has to go out to get supplies to drain blood for Kalika, as it’s not so easy as ripping open a vein and healing it with a drop of her own blood anymore. While she’s out, she calls Seymour, who is pissed about being ditched but still listens as she tells him what’s been happening. He’s not sold on the ethical justification going on — is her child’s life, a potentially destructive new force, worth Sita messing with her new human karma to hunt food? Only problem: a daughter is the one thing in the world that Sita has wanted since she was taken from hers five thousand years ago, and she can’t just let her die. So they’re left at an impasse, and Sita goes home to drain a cup of B-Baller’s blood for Kalika, who chugs it and immediately wants more.

She has to leave the house after feeding the baby, but where to go? She first prays to Krishna at the spot where she sunk the original vampire in the ocean, then ends up at the Catholic church to pray some more. Her buddy shows up and accepts that Sita can’t talk about her problem right now, but promises to be an ear when she’s ready. Then she leaves, and Sita curls up in a pew, where she has the purple-spaceship dream again. This time Krishna tells her a parable of only doing what we’re asked by God, and not feeling like we have to sacrifice everything of ourselves to feel like we’re properly giving to our faith.

Three more days pass, and Kalika is now basically five. She wants to go find another source of food, as B-Baller is weaker by the day and not able to fully sate her hunger. She tells Sita to go pick up a dude at a nightclub and she’ll tag along in the backseat and do what needs to be done. At the club, she meets a lawyer who invites her back to his place, only when she gets there she smells the decay of death. Obviously this dude has had other victims. They get into a scrap, but Sita left her gun in the car and has to rely on her martial arts, which don’t help when Not-Laywer pulls his own gun and gains the upper hand. Lucky for Sita, Kalika walks in right at this moment, and totally ruins Not-Lawyer’s shit.

So now Kalika can hunt her own food, and five more days pass, by which time she’s the same apparent age as Sita (as in, they both look about twenty, not five thousand). So Sita wants to let B-Baller go, but she’s afraid he’s going to run straight to the cops. Neither Kalika nor Ray wants to leave where they are, as they are weirdly invested in New Friend’s coming baby. Ray says she should just kill B-Baller, which is more proof that whatever has made him alive now has drastically changed who he is. Conveniently, a pair of cops show up right at this moment looking for B-Baller, on a tip that he was seen here last. As Sita is trying to figure out how to non-suspiciously turn them away, Kalika says she saw him nearby and offers to show the cops where. And that’s two more bodies that will never be found.

The phone rings just then, and it’s New Friend, in serious labor. Sita takes her to a fancy hospital rather than the nearby one, I guess trying to hide the baby as much as possible, and eight hours later a boy is born — a boy with lots of hair and a peaceful demeanor and no name, as New Friend has never thought of one and doesn’t seem to think this is weird. And then! Sita. Calls. Home. If she’s trying to hide, she sure is doing a shitty job of it. Kalika answers and demands to know where the baby is. Sita says no, so Kalika gives the phone to B-Baller and lets Sita listen as she gruesomely murders him. Like this is going to make Sita more inclined to introduce Kalika to a BABY. But then! Kalika puts Seymour on the phone. What the fuck is Seymour doing here? Apparently Kalika called him and said he needed to come right away. This is an important person in Sita’s world, so she makes a deal: she’ll bring the baby to the end of Santa Monica Pier in 24 hours.

Obviously Sita has no intention of doing this. She does get the baby out of the nursery, and while the nurse’s back is turned she swipes his blood sample. Then she takes him to New Friend and asks for the circumstances of her friend’s pregnancy, because all signs are pointing to this not being a normal baby. It seems that New Friend was out praying in the desert one night, when a bright blue light shot out of the sky and overwhelmed all her senses until she blacked out and woke up in the morning, still in the desert, untouched but feeing larger. A god? Maybe, but it’s becoming more crucial that New Friend become scarce. Sita tells her to take the baby and a stack of money and run. Sita doesn’t want to know where they’re going, but she gives New Friend a phone number to call in a month. Meanwhile, she has to figure out how to face Kalika.

What if she was a vampire again? That’s stupid, there’s no more vampires. But there is an ice-cream truck around the block from the warehouse she burned down a couple months ago, one where Original Vampire was held captive and tortured. Miraculously, it’s still there, and a homeless dude has kept it running and freezing, seemingly knowing she was coming back for it. There’s a nice big glob of frozen blood just inside the door, and she sticks it in a thermos and drives back to Vegas, planning to use the old alchemist’s setup to reverse her transformation and be able to fight again.

Guess who followed her, though? It’s Ray! Although he didn’t so much “follow her” as he has “been a product of her human imagination and a wish-fulfillment fantasy.” Yep — Krishna’s teachings and concerns about being able to give up desires as illusion have manifested in this ghost that Sita has been so convinced is her love. But what is Kalika then? Apparently she did bang the alchemist that night in her hotel room (Pike does hint at this after all in TLV3 — I thought he specifically excluded it), and his lingering humanity mixed with what he got of her vampirism was enough to create the fetus. But now Sita knows that Ray isn’t what she wants, and she has to banish her illusion. She has to kill him. So he hands her a knife, and she stabs him through the heart, and there’s gore and anguish and screaming and then he’s gone, along with any blood, any body, any trace of him having been there.

There’s an unnecessary chapter where Sita tells B-Baller’s parents about his fate, but then we learn more about her transformation. Specifically: it worked, better than she could have expected. Now that she’s operating from purely the blood aura of Original Vampire, she’s even stronger and more aware than before. But beyond that — maybe because she impulsively dripped in a couple drops of the baby’s blood — she feels like fortune will turn things her way. Let’s find out.

She finds Seymour and Kalika at the pier and talk about the nature and necessity of killing. To Kalika, it doesn’t matter, because the soul will be reborn until it’s ready to reach nirvana. Sita doesn’t see it that way: if there’s no reason to kill, it’s cruel, never mind the ultimate end for the soul in question. The ideals are at odds, so Sita knows she has to act. She darts forward to kick her daughter into submission, but Kalika grabs Sita’s foot and breaks her ankle like nothing. Then she chucks Seymour off the pier, where he at least lands in deep water and starts swimming toward the shore. Kalika still wants to know where the baby is, and Sita obviously can’t tell her, but Kalika forces some kind of hypnosis onto her mother and gets her to give up the phone number and the plan.

As she leaves, Sita demands to know what’s so special about this baby. Kalika responds by ripping up a board from the pier and throwing it into the water — straight through Seymour’s back. Sita dives in, determined to save him, but by the time they get to shore it’s too late. He’s lost too much blood to even be able to be turned into a vampire. (At least, I guess, without the tools made handy by the creepy sociopath in TLV2 that allowed her to turn FBI Dude, who was similarly close to death.)

So she builds him a funeral pyre, but something stays her hand with the match. Instead, she gets out what’s left of the baby blood and pours half of it onto the wound and half of it down Seymour’s throat. Five minutes later, he’s alive and awake and alert and ready to move on. Only not right now, because this is the end of the book.

For the first time in this series, I actually don’t feel like Pike is forcing a cliffhanger ending. It seems like he genuinely had too much story and character-building to put into just one book, and did some pre-planning in spreading this story over two. (I don’t remember if it keeps on into the sixth, but I feel like it didn’t. Although these three Sita books popped out within five months of each other, so the plan was there even if the connection fades.) The tone and sensation here is more in keeping with what I came to expect from the first two, rather than the Matrix/Blade progenitor that was the third story.

And I’m not annoyed by “to be continued” this time! I’m even kind of looking forward to reading the next one. Let’s see if he can keep me invested through five more books about Sita. (Spoiler alert: I doubt it.)

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capnjay21 · 7 years

Text

bring walls down, hear my sound, 2/3

Ten happy years after the events of 'the boy that stood by the sea', and Henry Cassidy is no longer the little boy he used to be. Unused to the unpredictability of raising a teenager, his sudden wayward behaviour becomes a source of mystery to all the adults in his life. When things begin to spiral out of control, Killian and Emma must decide what sort of parents, and partners, they wish to be - of course, where Neal Cassidy is involved, nothing is ever simple.

link to the boy that stood by the sea || ao3 || part one

Rating: T A/N: Please adhere to the content warning for this chapter: there are mentions of a previous miscarriage for Emma. While it is by no means the focus of the chapter, I understand it may turn some readers off, so know I adore and respect each of you regardless. <3 To those continuing I will say it is NOT graphic, and the mentions of it are minor but relevant to the story as a part of Emma and Killian’s past. I went back and forth for a while over whether to adjust these aspects in the narrative, but in the end decided to go forward to preserve the integrity of the story I’d like to tell. That said, fandom is a special place and I want everybody to feel safe and comortable while reading and sharing fic.

I spend a lot of time in this ‘verse pushing my writing and these characters to places I’ve never gone before, and as always I appreciate every single ounce of support I’ve received. You guys are wonderful, and I hope you enjoy this chapter!

PS, when you get to the end of this chapter and feel the urge to throw heavy objects at me, please remember I only ever deal in happy endings!!

Killian can’t stop thinking about trigonometry.

Not in an interested fashion, no, he finds it difficult to even feign interest in any sort of math beyond the basics, anything other than what he uses in his day to day life. Mainly where balancing the books at the Rabbit Hole is concerned. Yet there it is. Trig, just — again, and again, and again. Trig. The longest side of the triangle being the hypotenuse, the other two the adjacent and opposite sides. That’s about as far as his memory takes him, high school was such a long, long time ago. Sine, cosine. Tangent. Just trig.

“Killian?”

What was he saying about tangents?

“Are you sure Henry didn’t say anything else to you last night? Anything that might be useful?”

The longest side of the triangle is the hypotenuse, that was what Killian had said when Henry had come to him asking for homework help. Trigonometry was kicking his ass, that’s what he’d told him, and he wanted a little assistance. But try as he might, Killian couldn’t wrap his head around the math. Sin, cos, tan.

I’m sorry, lad.

Useless.

It’s all Greek to me.

“He wasn’t here this morning,” Killian hears himself saying, although he feels like he’s a hundred miles away. Floating, suspended above his own body and squeezed into angles of sizes he can’t discern. “I told you, we had an argument last night about his not attending school so this morning I was going to drive him there myself. His door was locked from the inside.”

Must’ve climbed out the window, clambered down the fire escape. It’s what Killian would have done — well. He’d certainly performed the similar when he was that age.

‘All Greek’, ha ha. Very funny.

“And you’re sure he didn’t just find another way into school?”

“We already called them, David.” Emma’s voice. “Henry isn’t there. Hasn’t been there for ten days, actually.”

Killian sits on the sofa in his living room, forehead pressed into his hands as he stares blankly at the carpet underneath. Cream. Emma’s insistence, the old one was worn and almost threadbare by the time she moved in, and even then it had taken another three years to get round to being rid of the damn thing. By now it had lost most of its softness, a few odd stains soiling it in places and, more recently, a track of boot imprints travelling from room to room.

David had arrived in uniform, expression grave and concern imprinted in the curve of his brow with his deputy, Humbert, standing just over his shoulder. They’d immediately investigated Henry’s room for any clues relating to his disappearance, trawling through papers and drawers that he and Emma had already turned upside down once they realised he was missing. David keeps firing questions at him, a stickler for procedure.

But Killian can’t stop thinking about trigonometry.

He can’t stop thinking about trig and the first time Henry looked at him and realised he didn’t have all the answers.

Oh. Okay. I’ll just google it, then.

(Useless.)

It’s all Greek to me.

“Listen, it’s early days yet,” David is assuring them, and Killian can feel Emma’s hand reach out and squeeze his shoulder, but he keeps his gaze on the floor. “The chances are he just spent the night at a friend’s house to cool off.” And avoid you, the silence says, so Killian appreciates his friend not lending the thought a voice. “You’ve got the number for that Malcolm kid, and Grace; ask them if he’s there first. If you don’t have anything by this afternoon call me again and I’ll have everybody in the precinct on it — I promise.”

David is as earnest as he always is, enough so that Killian lifts his head to meet his eye and offer a weak smile.

Which side was the hypotenuse, again?

“Thanks, David,” Emma says quietly, releasing Killian so she can walk he and Humbert to the door. If Killian had been in possession of all his faculties he might have bristled at the way Humbert’s gaze lingered unabashedly on the curve of her ass, but as it is all he can think about is the disappointed look in Henry’s eyes the day he couldn’t solve a blood trigonometry question. The way the corners of his mouth had dipped, confusion knitting his eyebrows together. All Killian can think about is the day he stopped being Henry’s hero.

You are not my dad.

The words rattle around in his skull, occasionally bouncing off the rim of his bones before shattering into a thousand pieces and reassembling, an irritating little rat-tat-tat like a burst of machine-gun fire. Not my dad, not my dad. Ten years of devoting his entire life to that boy, but never mind that — he isn’t the real dad. Never mind any of that, his highness Henry Cassidy has spoken.

In a violent sort of cognitive abduction, visions of Emma now surge before his eyes, blood dripping from her hands and creating devastating stains on the lovely cream carpet. Scarlet is everywhere, it’s all he can see, her eyes are like black glass —

Don’t make me go through this again.

Then suddenly the sofa squeaks in protest as the real Emma drops down beside him, wrenching him unceremoniously from the rapid spiral of his thoughts. She slips her arm around his, linking them as she rests her head against his shoulder. Killian can slowly feel himself beginning to sink back into the real world, finds himself present enough to drop a feather-light kiss on her brow.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, and it’s the first thing he’s said since he found Henry’s bed unslept in at six o’clock this morning where he felt like he was inside his own body. Their boy ran away in the night and it’s all his fault.

You are not my dad.

“This isn’t on you,” Emma says back, fiercely. “And he’s a tough kid. I’m sure he’s fine.”

Worry coils in his gut and he wants to vomit. Henry is missing and all they’re trying to do is offer themselves useless clichés, how Henry can handle it, how he’s cooling off, how Killian blowing up at him the night prior apparently doesn’t make it his fault the boy ran away.

God. He can’t do anything right.

Especially not sodding math.

Killian finds Emma’s hand and squeezes tight, then brings it up to his lips so he can place a kiss on the back of it.

“I’m going to call Jefferson and Grace.”

He leaves her on the couch as he walks over to the kitchen, where he left his cell. Before he can even pick it up it begins to buzz, and Neal’s name illuminates the screen. An even greater guilt begins to churn in his stomach, mouth running dry as he tries to picture telling Neal about the fact that Henry is missing. By this point he’s too tired to even bother putting up a fight.

He slides his thumb across the screen to answer the call. “Yep?”

“He’s here — in New York. I’m sorry, you guys must be worried. I’ve got him.”

Relief rushes forth like a tsunami, a pressure that makes his legs tremble until they give way beneath him.

-/-

Neal touches the screen to hang up the phone, an odd mixture of indignation and remorse each vying for control as he watches Killian’s name vanish from the screen. Henry had been missing since last night, he knew that since the rain-soaked boy had turned up on his doorstep, but since Emma and Killian had found him gone they hadn’t even thought to call him. They’d called the police before they bothered to check with his father to see if he'd ended up there. Although perhaps in their position, he might’ve done the same. Neal wasn’t normally in New York, after all, they might’ve just forgotten that he’d flown out of California for the conferences spanning a couple of weeks. They couldn’t know about the missed calls on his phone, the unanswered texts.

When are you coming home? x

Another stellar example of Neal Cassidy knowing fucking nothing at all.

Like why the hell Henry had even come to him in the first place. Killian hadn’t exactly been forthcoming on the phone— they’d had an argument, that was all he said. Neal’s suggestion that Henry stay with him for a few days, then, hadn’t exactly been frostily met, but it became clear it certainly wasn’t a welcome one. Still, he’d agreed.

(That’s how Neal knows it must be bad — Killian didn’t even mention the boy missing school once.)

His phone buzzes once more across the countertop in the kitchen, and Neal glances at it briefly.

I miss you, Bae. x

Before his stomach can twist itself too badly in knots, he hears the click of the lock from Henry’s old room. Neal busies himself with the breakfast preparation, dropping the bacon into the already sizzling pan and darting backwards to try and avoid any hot oil. When Henry emerges, he sees the boy has tried to squeeze himself into pyjamas a few sizes too small, and belatedly realises he must have forgotten to bring any with him and grabbed whatever was in his old room — the flannel top with the sword sewn into the chest is an item of clothing Neal hasn’t seen him wear for years. It aches, just a little. Especially when he sees the way it rides up to his stomach.

Henry has grown up just fine without him.

He masks his discomfort the same way he usually does; with humour.

“Jeez, Hen, the noughties called. They want that shirt back.”

Henry scowls. “Shut up. I forgot to bring mine.”

It doesn’t stop Neal from grinning. “You could have asked. You’re — what, nearly my height now? A little slimmer down below but I’m sure I’ve got something that’d fit better than that.”

“Thank you,” he says, but it’s tight-lipped; a clear request to end the embarrassing line of conversation. “What’s for breakfast?”

“Candied bacon on toast.”

“Got any coffee?”

Neal turns, arching an eyebrow. “You drink coffee now?”

Henry shrugs, looking mildly defensive. “I always drank coffee.”

“Stuff’ll kill you, y’know that right?” Killian gave him that diatribe for years, back when they’d been living in the same city. It must have been Emma that got his kid into drinking it, then.

“You drink it.” Henry points out.

“Some of us can’t function without performance enhancing substances.”

Henry merely spreads his hands, making a gesture at himself. In the tiny, sword-embroidered shirt, it’s beyond comical. Neal grins as he turns back to the food.

By the time he thinks to bring up why they’re there, coffee brewed and bacon fried, they’re sitting across from each other at the island counter. It could’ve been any normal Friday, father and son sharing breakfast together in an apartment overlooking the city — except that it isn’t. He can’t ignore that.

“So,” he starts, around a mouthful of toast. “You’re here.”

Henry glances up from his breakfast only briefly. “Well observed.”

“Spur of the moment thing?”

“Nope.”

Emma liked to think she was all that, and maybe she was, always able to spot Neal or Henry in a lie during the time they’d been living together — her superpower, she’d called it. With his own son, Neal liked to think he had a superpower of his own. He could at least tell when Henry was lying through his teeth, if only because the boy was so bad at it. Avoiding eye contact, pushing his food aimlessly around his plate. Textbook.

Neal tries to make his calling out a little playful. “You forgot your pyjamas.”

“I had a lot on my mind.”

What, he’s desperate to ask. Although the innerworkings of Henry’s thoughts have always been something of a mystery to him.

“I called Killian and Emma,” Neal says, watching closely for his reaction. Barely perceptibly, the boy stiffens. “Told them where you are.”

Henry shovels more bacon into his mouth. “Very responsible of you.”

Something about it feels like he’s being made fun of, but he lets it go.

“Said you could stay here for a couple days. Sound good?”

Henry finally looks up, reaching for his coffee mug. Neal can practically hear the cogs turning behind his eyes.

“Yeah,” he finally says. “Sounds great.”

They finish eating in silence, Neal waiting to see if Henry will bring up why he’s there at all — they must have had a falling out, that’s all he can discern. Over what, he has no clue. Emma had seemed so chilled out about the boat thing, he couldn’t imagine it was anything to do with that, but he couldn’t think of anything else that lent logic to such a move from his son. Not that he isn’t appreciative, it fills him with all sorts of warmth that Henry sees him as somebody he can go to when he wants to weather a storm.

He just wishes he’d confide in him too.

Waiting for information is like waiting for a stone to produce water. As Neal places the cutlery neatly on his plate, he finally decides to ask.

“You gonna tell me what happened?”

“Wanna catch a movie?”

Neal barely has a chance to finish his sentence before Henry gives his suggestion — loudly. Henry’s eyes are wide, innocent almost, but he knows what he’s doing. He’s more than aware of it. After all, he picked up most of his tactics in diversion from Neal himself. Although he scrutinizes his son’s expression, it gives away nothing.

Neal takes a long moment to swallow the remaining dregs of his coffee.

Because fuck everything, his son wants to spend time with him. He can’t even remember why he’s trying to probe for information — who cares? He’s here. He’s here in New York with him, not Killian. Something inside him stirs that he’d tried to put to sleep a long time ago. These past ten years have never been a competition for Henry.

But then, Neal has never won before.

“Yeah,” he finally says, grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Sure. Let’s catch a movie.”

-/-

Two lines.

Two pink, vertical, faint (but almost certainly there) lines.

Emma wishes the second line would fuck the hell off.

The faint smell of urine pervaded the air over the usual sharp scent of disinfectant — Killian is always meticulous about making sure the bathroom is cleaned with the appropriate materials at least twice a week. She’d learnt a lot over their eight years of living together, particularly the fact that Killian liked everything to have its proper place. Only once it was there, it took considerably less effort to move a mountain than it took convincing Killian to shift it somewhere else. The task of blending their lives together had been considerable to say the least, although it got a lot easier once she finally convinced him to let go of the faded, stained cream carpet in her third year of living there.

I like all its little imperfections. Gives it character.

It’s a carpet, Killian. The only ‘character’ it should be having is of the Disney animated variety in Henry’s room.

They’d taken that carpet out too, eventually.

(Emma can’t work out why she’s thinking about carpets in the face of some potentially monumental life altering news.)

There are very few occasions in her life that she can recall feeling genuine fear — the time she lost Henry in the crowd when they went to watch he Christmas lights turn on, before finding him perched atop the hotdog stand entertaining the vendor with his light up sword. When she first moved to Boston and realised she’d stolen the car of some bigshot businessman while he’d been lying in the backseat; her first meeting with Neal Cassidy. At seventeen when she’d heard her son crying in the delivery room and wasn’t sure she’d be brave enough to let him go.

She counts now among those moments.

Her hands grip the edge of the sink so tightly her knuckles are stained the same shade of the porcelain, palms going numb from the coolness of the touch. She can’t do this, not again. Not when every other time she’s seen those two pink lines staring back at her it’s ended in heartbreak and torment. She forces herself to keep breathing, to let the air flow in and out as smoothly as it can as she tries to will that second line away; it persists, staring obnoxiously back at her next to the three other tests that complied obediently to her demands and came up negative.

But one test is positive. Amid all the drama with Henry, it’s the last thing they need.

She can’t even privately admit the fact to herself, what those two pink lines might mean. That they weren’t careful enough, that despite everything life put them through it wanted to keep the punches rolling. They hadn’t even talked about the possibility of kids in years. Not since — well. Not since the last time.

Damn it.

That familiar sting tugs at that space behind her nose, and she can see the sheen on her eyes begin to brighten in the mirror. She can’t. She can’t do this. She can’t do this on her own and Killian is a thousand miles away. Somewhere in New York with Henry, somewhere inside himself doubting and loathing and burying himself away where she can’t find him.

She needs him.

There are three rapid knocks on the door. “Emma?”

Killian’s voice.

“I’ll be out in a minute,” she says, pleased that there isn’t a single wobble in her voice. She hurriedly sweeps the tests into the wastepaper basket, covering them up with a good foot or so of toilet roll, before pressing her heels into her eyes. She looks back into the mirror, blinking rapidly to try and erase any sign of the emotion slowly tearing away at her insides.

To finish, she sprays around the room with the air freshener Killian leaves on the windowsill, hoping to leave no trace of the last half hour.

When she emerges, Killian is sitting on the sofa flipping his way through a magazine, although he stands when he hears the click of the door. She allows herself a moment to admire the full image, the figure he can still cut in a tux no matter how much time passes. The navy shirt and black suit combination is one of her favourites, and despite everything she can’t help the thrill that runs through her.

“You were a while,” he says, concern flickering across his brow, “everything alright?”

Emma merely offers a teasing grin. “You think this,” she gestures to her face and the subtle curls in her hair, “happens in five minutes?”

Killian’s answering smile is one of relief, as he leans in to press his lips to her cheek. The gesture loosens some of the tension in her chest.

“We don’t have to go out tonight,” she tells him gently, “with everything going on — August will understand.”

“Nonsense,” Killian waves her away. “It’s the launch of his first novel. He’d want you to be there.”

“But I can go alone. I mean it.”

He smiles like he doesn’t hear her, and the deep blue in his eyes is almost entirely vacant. “You get changed, I’ll just mill about here for a few minutes.”

Emma changes her mind at the last moment about her dress choice — the one hung on the door to their closet is a conservative number, navy to compliment Killian’s suit, with a cinched waist that flared out to just above her knee. She’d been so happy when she found it, figuring she was thirty-three now and most of the dresses she still found comfortable were starting to make Henry uncomfortable; she’d heard the word MILF being thrown around his friends on the odd occasion. And while she chose to take it as a compliment, the last thing she wanted to do was embarrass Henry. Striking a balance between that and wearing things that made her feel confident and attractive had become something of a challenge in recent years. Something at which Killian had privately voiced his own protests.

Given Henry was supposed to have been joining them at August’s book launch, tonight’s dress is demure, yet lovely.

Emma discards it in favour of something shorter. An old favourite, the pink bodycon dress she had worn on her first official date with Killian. Although the hemline is a little higher than what is probably decent for a simple book launch, she wants something that’ll get his attention. At the very least, distract him from Henry’s whereabouts for just a night, and grab something of her boyfriend back.

Maybe she just wants something that’ll distract her, too.

Two pink lines.

When she steps back into the sitting room, tugging self-consciously at the hem, Killian is nowhere to be seen. The bathroom door is open, and a cup of tea just brewed lay untouched on the counter in the kitchen. It’s only as she passes back down the hall that she realises where he is — Henry’s room. Emma’s heart clenches painfully as she peeks around the door, observes him running an absent hand along the desk. Suddenly the dress seems silly and immature when confronted with his melancholy.

Gently, she knocks on the door to alert him of her presence. “Hey, sailor.”

He turns quickly as if she’d startled him, and almost instantly she watches as his eyes drop from her face to rest of her figure. His lips part, pupils blowing wide as his gaze lands on her upper thigh, and Emma knows a pleased flush must be colouring the skin near her collarbone, and she can’t quite suppress the immediate smile at his scrutiny. She can’t help it. It’s the most present he’s been for weeks, watching her as if it were the first time he’d seen her in just as long — like a starved man staring at an oasis, trying to discern if it’s real.

“Emma, you look…”

She smirks, cocking her hand on her hip in a joking pose. He follows the movement closely. “I know.” When he manages to tear his gaze away he moves to shut a drawer that had been hanging open. Emma steps cautiously inside. “What’re you doing in here?”

His cheeks redden with what she can only assume is guilt, and his hand moves to scratch behind his ear. A nervous tick she had identified a long time ago.

“I just wanted to, ehm…” Killian waves a hand as Emma reaches him, touching a hand to his arm reassuringly. Finally, he sighs. “He didn’t take any of his pyjamas. Or he forgot them, I don’t know. And he only took two changes of clothes. I thought it might mean he was only — or, well, I’m probably overthinking…” He trails off, letting out a long breath. “I’m pathetic, aren’t I?”

“You’re not,” she says quietly, rubbing his arm soothingly. “But he’s safe, alright? He’s with Neal. He’ll be well looked after. I mean, he’ll be sleeping naked, but that’s something of a rite of passage for a sixteen-year-old anyway.”

At her jest he allows a small grin to push through, and loops his arms around her to pull her in for a gentle hug.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

She almost tells him right that second, as he rests his chin on her shoulder and his arms tighten around her. A wave of nausea suddenly surges upwards, her heart plummeting at the thought of adding to his burden, of getting themselves into an argument or forcing him to come back to her when he needs to do it on his own.

She’s just — sad.

Her arms squeeze him a little tighter, and he drops a kiss onto the curve of her shoulder. “You really do cut quite the figure in this dress.”

A thrill runs through her at the compliment, and she turns her head to press her lips to his cheek in gratitude.

“And it’s not the one you left hanging on our closet, either.”

Her entire body hums at the timbre of his voice, suddenly far gravellier than it had been only moments before. He kisses her shoulder again, only this time he lets his lips linger on her bare skin. Emma’s nerves become highly attuned to that particular spot.

“Very perceptive of you,” she murmurs, brushing a hand across his shoulders to linger at the back of his neck, twirling her finger into hair at the nape the way she knows starts to get him riled up.

She just wants to not feel sad. Just for now.

Killian hisses in response, slowly beginning to move, leaving a trail of featherlight kisses all the way to her collarbone. Once there, he nips gently at her pulse point and her heart rate immediately begins to accelerate. She can’t remember the last time they had sex — hell, or the last time they even bothered to make out — and her body’s reaction to Killian’s ministrations is instantaneous. A fog of arousal curls through her, and she finds herself tugging his head up so she can crash her lips into his.

Like he’s read her mind his lips immediately part, tongue thrusting its way into her mouth so he can deepen the kiss, his hands skimming down her back until one of them lands on her ass. Emma audibly gasps, arching into him and she can feel a low chuckle rumbling from his chest. His mouth continues to slant against hers, even as his hand drops lower in an attempt to lift the hem of her dress up to her waist, and Emma eagerly moves to assist him.

God, the sex with him is good. It always has been. Never with anyone else has she been as satisfied emotionally and physically as she is with Killian — it’s her proof, she’d decided that long ago. Some divine testimony to her let her know that this is right, this is perfect, that there isn’t any other time she’ll find herself in greater synchronisation with another person than when she is making love to Killian Jones.

It only takes the barest touches of his calloused hands for heat to have shot right to her core, her body already gearing itself up for the sensations she knows that he can awake in her, and if the stiffness pressed into her thigh is any indication she is doing the same to him. Emma takes one of her hands from his hair so she can palm him through his trousers and he groans into her mouth, doubling his efforts to get her dress out of the way. It’s frantic and it’s scorching but she’s horny and he’s here, he’s in this moment racing right along with her and it’s the first time he’s felt tangible in days.

Emma reaches hurriedly for his belt, fiddling with the clasp as quickly as she can until the abruptness of her movement overbalances her. With her body pressed as close to Killian’s as possible, her centre of gravity is higher and she stumbles, tugging him with her by the front of his pants. Their combined weight knocks backwards into something solid, and as a few objects crash onto the floor she’s wrenched immediately from whatever heady moment had overtaken them.

This is Henry’s room.

She releases Killian and he mirrors the action, puffing out a few quick breaths and running a hand through his hair. Emma can spot the moment he realises just where they are and what they’d almost gotten carried away with; the furrow that had been at his brow for weeks returns with a heavy frown.

“I — sorry,” he says, and it’s so despondent that it makes her heart clench. Her pulse is still thudding in her ears, the tightness of her arousal lingering and she distracts herself by stooping to pick up the items they’d knocked to the ground. “I don’t know quite what —”

She knows she’s being silly. It just feels like he’s apologising for touching her. As if stepping outside of his gloom, even for her, is unforgivable.

He kneels down to help, ever the considerate one, and emotion springs to her eyes, making her jump back to her feet as quickly as she can manage in her heels.

“I think I’ll change,” she says, and she forces some humour into her voice, “wouldn’t want some publisher walking in on — well. That.”

She knows he’s watching her retreat in confusion, but she ignores him and hurriedly swipes at her eyes as she leaves the room. He’s gone, again. Lost. There are one positive and three negative pregnancy tests stuffed at the bottom of the wastepaper basket in the bathroom and Killian Jones is five fucking universes away.

Ten seconds ago she was horny, and now she’s miserable.

Fucking hormones.

-/-

Killian is only a little sorry to see her return in the navy dress she was originally planning on wearing, but can’t quite find the words to remark on it — it’s like his usual easy access to teasing, lascivious remarks has been entirely cut off, like there’s a part of himself that he can’t quite get to. She watches him like she’s almost expecting him to comment, and perhaps she is. In that case, he disappoints them both.

Instead he fumbles with an excuse about needing to freshen up before they can leave (there’s a goddamn innuendo in there too, but it sits just out of the reach of speech) and slips into the bathroom, trying to work out what exactly happened just now — or didn’t.

They’d nearly bloody banged in Henry’s room. Something inside him had gone from nought to lusting rogue in less than ten seconds and he’s still reeling from the speed of the transformation.

He’d been waiting for her to change when it suddenly occurred to him that Henry might need a few things while he was at Neal’s; how were they to know how productively he’d packed? Then before he realised it he’d been rifling through drawers and taking inventory of his belongings. Perhaps unconsciously he’d been looking for a distraction from the morose turn of his thoughts and then she’d walked in, looking like that and sodding well knowing she did and it had spiralled out of control.

Come to think of it, he can’t remember the last time they made love. Before all this business with Henry, surely.

And she was disappointed, he knows that much.

Emma has never been difficult for him to understand. They’ve always employed a policy of complete honesty — but then, he’s not sure he can expect her to be transparent with him when he knows he’s been holding things back. Like just how much Henry’s acting out has shaken his confidence. As a guardian, as a partner, inadequacy swells from every turn. He can’t tell her he’d rather sink himself into a bottle of rum than look her in the eye and own up to his failure. She deserves better, Henry deserves better.

Maybe he’s found better. With Neal.

Killian can’t get Emma’s crestfallen expression out of his mind — he knows he’s letting her down, he just can’t work out what he’s doing. What he’s not doing. It makes him want to panic, his breathing seizing at the idea of losing her, and the only goddamn person in the world he has always turned to with problems in his relationship with Emma is a state away and not talking to him.

He just wants to talk to Henry.

Killian sits on the lid of the toilet, reaching into his jacket pocket for his cell and brings up the boy’s number. He rubs his eyes tiredly and hits dial before he can talk himself out of it.

It rings.

And it rings, and it rings.

And the longer it rings, the lower his heart sinks, and his eyes begin to sting and he doesn’t even bother trying to stop the emotion from spilling down his cheeks. He just wants Henry. His best friend. His hero, his conscience, more often than not the only thing in his life that makes a lick of sense.

Hi, this is Henry, if you leave your number and a message I’ll get back to you as soon as possible. Or, I won’t. Depends if I like you or not. If this is Grace, you owe me twelve dollars.

Click.

He takes a shuddering breath.

“Please, bug. I’m sorry. Just come home.”

-/-

It’d been a strange day, to say the least.

To start Neal had called in sick to work — perhaps not that responsible, but he couldn’t exactly bring himself to care. How often did his boy take a nearly four-hour train journey to turn up at his doorstep in the middle of the night? Henry had never really asked him for much, but this he could at least do. They’d spent most of the morning on Neal’s old 360 (something the boy had ripped into him endlessly about for not upgrading to the Xbox One — Neal couldn’t quite find the words to explain the only person he’d ever played video games with was him), waiting for showings at the cinema a few blocks away to become more frequent.

Evenings in New York have always been his favourite time of day; the sky scarcely had a chance to fall dark before it was entirely lit in effervescent light, whites and blues and neon yellows carrying the city through until morning. If anything, it felt more alive the closer the rest of the world drew to sleep.

Neal had ushered Henry into one of his favourite pizza places, urging him to look past the fizzling red sign out front, some letters blanked out and others sparking dangerously while waiting to disappear entirely.

“Best pizza in New York,” he’d promised, and he’d meant it.

The diner is lit in a bleak orange, and Henry stares doubtfully down at the boxes Neal puts down before gingerly helping himself to a slice. After he takes his first bite and lets out a loud noise of satisfaction, his father takes it as victory.

“I still can’t believe you wanted to see La La Land,” Henry says around a mouthful, throwing him an amused look.

Neal shrugs. “Was it or was it not a triumph of cinema?”

“It was cheesy.”

“You liked it,” Neal teases, taking a bite of his own slice.

Henry wrinkles his nose, attempting to look nonchalant. “It was a romance.”

“What about those fairy-tales you used to love so much?” Neal points out. Henry used to spend hours pouring over that storybook of his, nothing could tear him away. “I figured you’d have a hard-on for true love.”

“You’re gross.”

“I am,” Neal grins, offering one of the boxes towards his son, “onion ring?”

“Please,” Henry reached across to take one. “I just didn’t realise you were such a romantic.”

It’s easy. It feels like the earth is about to start spinning backwards or the undead are going to start crawling out of manhole covers, but bantering with Henry is the easiest thing in the world. At somepoint while he wasn’t looking the boy had turned sixteen, near enough to adulthood to keep up with him. Neal isn’t mincing his words or trying to work out what’s appropriate to be said around a child, he’s just — himself. Some irrational part of him wishes Henry could have just been born this way. Fully grown, ready to be his pal. That sure would’ve made life easier.

“Are you kidding? I’m the most romantic guy you know.” Doubtful, but he says it anyway.

Henry takes a long slurp from his carton of coke. “How are things going with Tink, anyway?”

Neal’s heart leaps into his throat under Henry’s keen eyes. God, he can’t own up to anything. Not like this.

“They’re great — yeah, they’re pretty great.” He keeps his eyes averted, just in case Henry can spot something in them he doesn’t want to reveal. At least not yet. Christ knew there was somebody awake under Henry’s veneer.

When he looks up he sees the boy is watching him closely. “And she’s okay with you being away from home for so long?”

“It’s work, buddy,” he hastens to say, “it’s not like I’m doing it because I want to.”

How many times had he said that to Henry while he was growing up?

He’s saved from any further pursuit of that line of questioning by a loud buzz, and both their gazes are drawn to Henry’s phone as it begins to vibrate against the table top.

‘Killian calling…’

Neal’s eyes immediately flicker up to Henry’s, but once the boy observes just what is making his cell phone ring he makes a point of ignoring it, paying special attention to his slice of pizza. It continues to thrum between them for a number of seconds, Neal waiting to see just what his son will do — if anything. It leaves a sour sort of sensation in his gut when he realises it may be nothing.

“You gonna answer that?” he asks lightly.

Henry’s response is impassive. “Nope.”

Neal hesitates, just long enough for the phone to stop ringing.

‘Killian Jones: new voicemail message (1).’

“C’mon, Henry,” Neal says, trying to urge him gently into talking. “You can’t just freeze him out.” His son merely shrugs, using the food in his mouth as a reason not to speak. “What happened?”

Henry shakes his head, a frown pulling his features together as he swallows. “Can we just do something?”

“What?”

“Can we just be us?” Henry pleads, his eyes wide and imploring. Neal already feels his resolve start to weaken. “No outsider talk. Just you and me Dad, like the old days. Can we do that?”

Neal shifts uncomfortably in his seat, but far be it him to deny the sixteen-year-old anything he ever wanted. That had never exactly been his strong suit.

“I… yeah, okay.” It feels dirty even as he agrees to it. “No outsider talk. Cassidy Crew only.”

Henry grimaces. “Please, never say Cassidy Crew again.”

Some semblance of the earlier lightness returns, and Neal lets it wash over him.

“Emma Stone would let me say what I liked,” he grumbles as petulantly as he can manage.

“Emma Stone gave up on love for fame,” Henry points out. “I thought you were a romantic?”

Neal lets out a loud groan. “You literally missed the whole point of the movie.”

Just then the table begins to vibrate again, and although they both turn to Henry’s phone he’s surprised to see the screen still inky black — it’s Neal’s own cell that’s buzzing now.

‘Tink calling…’

Neal practically leaps to reject the call, hoping Henry didn’t have a chance to glimpse the screen before it turned dark again. When he looks up and sees Henry’s eyebrow arched (in an almost perfect imitation of Killian Jones that makes his chest tighten), he knows he wasn’t successful.

“Things are ‘great’, huh?” his son says dryly.

Neal scowls. “I thought we said no outsider talk?”

This Henry reluctantly concedes, and returns to his dinner.

-/-

The door to their apartment is unlocked and that already sets off warning bells in Killian’s mind.

“Emma?” he calls, frantically. “Emma?”

He pushes open all the doors, a hurricane of panic and hysteria, but he can’t calm down. Not after that phone call, not after the utter desperation in her plea.

“Emma?”

It’s then he notices something deep crimson seeping out from the door of the bathroom and his heart fills with dread. His feet are moving before his mind can catch up and he has flung open the doorway before he can even think — and she’s there.

Everything is stained scarlet, it’s all he sees.

Her eyes are like black glass.

-/-

Killian wakes already gasping for air.

Heat impresses upon him from every direction, and for a moment he thinks Emma must be huddled in close to his side, but as he slowly rouses himself and looks sideways he sees her curled up on the other side of the bed, facing away from him. The sheet is pooled down to his waist and a sheen of sweat covers his chest and abdomen, rapidly rising and falling as he tries to catch his breath. That dream again. The horror of a memory that for some reason has designs on worming its way back into his thoughts recently.

He considers reaching for Emma, circling an arm around her waist and pressing a kiss into her shoulder, begging her to let him absorb some of her light. His left hand lingers in the space between them, wanting. He doesn’t move it any closer. Instead he sits up, pushes the cover back as gently as he can and pads towards the hallway, avoiding the creaky floorboards in the process. Something between them is already fragile, he doesn’t care to touch it in case it shatters entirely.

The clock on the DVR tells him it’s only half-past midnight; he’d scarcely squeezed in a couple hours sleep before the nightmare roused him to wakefulness. He goes about his normal routine, stopping in the bathroom to splash some water on his face to cool down, then heads down the hallway to his study and grabs a few inventory forms to bring out into the sitting room. It’d be a lot easier to complete at the Rabbit Hole, but he’s gotten used to working from memory — he enjoys the distraction. Once he’s worked out just what they’re running low on he can submit an order for more to Jefferson, who’ll pass it along to their suppliers.

He snags a glass and the bottle of rum they keep in one of the upper cabinets, pouring himself a generous measure to take over to the couch with the paperwork. As an afterthought, he grabs the bottle too. He lets the cold, white light from the kitchen illuminate where he’ll be working, choosing not to switch on any of the lamps in the sitting room — he knows the glare from those reaches far under their bedroom door, and he doesn’t wish to wake Emma. Not when all he’s doing is trying to distract himself enough from seeing her face, ashen white, while he dreams.

He works in the near dark, keeping his rum intake measured but consistent, only wanting to reach that warm, contended state that would allow him to fall asleep far easier, his mind fogged and tired and out before his head hits the pillow. After an hour, he hears the click of their bedroom door and looks up as Emma steps into view, pulling the knot on her dressing gown tight and taking in the room curiously.

Her eyes find his and he tries to smile, like none of it is out of the ordinary.

“What are you doing up?”

Killian gestures towards the paperwork laid out on the coffee table. “Just, ah, going over some stuff for the Rabbit Hole.”

Her eyebrow arches. “In the dark?”

“Just thought I’d… conserve,” he offers weakly. At her disbelieving look he shrugs. “I didn’t want to wake you.”

“Ah, I see,” her knowing gaze lands on the glass and the bottle as she steps around the sofa, dropping down into one of the armchairs. “A midnight rum party. Where was my invite?”

She’s in a confrontational mood, he can spot it from a mile off; ten years with this woman has taught him that tone of voice is as much of a challenge as it is an observation.

“Just go back to bed, Emma,” he says quietly, silently begging her to leave him in peace.

He makes a show of picking up another sheet of paper and making a few needless scribbles with his pen. A dismissal, calling her bluff. She doesn’t waver.

“No. We need to talk.”

Killian doesn’t lift his eyes from the paper. “About what?”

“Henry.”

Finally, he sighs, rubbing an eye tiredly and dropping the sheet back onto the table top. He forces a bright smile, hoping it’ll be enough to sidestep her ‘superpower’, as she liked to call it.

“You said it yourself, Swan,” he shrugs, “the lad is fine.”

“But you’re not.”

He’s not.

Emma crosses her legs. A distracting action at any other time he is sure, but he can’t bring himself to really let his eyes rake over her form. Not tonight.

So he merely meets her gaze evenly. “What makes you say that?”

“You’ve been moping around here for days,” she starts, and the challenge is dropped for something altogether more — tender, almost. Concern. “Weeks, even. You don’t sleep, you barely eat. You know August went around telling people you hadn’t read the book because of how miserable you looked the other night?”

“It wasn’t that good anyway,” he bites.

Emma narrows her eyes. “You’re upset, so I’m going to let your casual insult of my friend go by.”

Killian sighs. A heavy, languid thing, and he can feel the effects of the rum urging him to shut his eyes, to not listen to her — not now. He just wants to not feel exhausted anymore. Then he can talk to her. Then he can talk to her and not see the horrified, contorted version from his nightmares.

“What is it you want, Emma?” he asks tiredly. “I’m too knackered for a fight.”

“I want you to get a grip,” she says, and although the words are harsh they’re spoken gently. “Stop beating yourself up, slinking off to drink rum in the middle of the night, this isn’t… you.” He considers lashing something about him begging to differ, but it’s the taste of alcohol lingering around his loosened tongue that prevents him — he knows better than to add fuel to her fire. “Kids can be hard, okay? They can be ungrateful and they bite back, but you can’t let it totally knock you out like this.”

Her words are like ash, noiselessly blowing over him. They mean nothing.

“Kids are ungrateful, yes,” he says, and he knows it sounds petulant before he’s even finishes his sentence, “Henry isn’t.”

“That’s because Henry isn’t a boy, he’s an angel in human form,” she clicks her tongue, “the last few weeks notwithstanding.” It lingers in the air for a few moments, so Killian boldly reaches forward to screw off the cap of the bottle with one hand, letting it drop to the table as he splashes rum into his glass. Emma watches the movement closely. “You had a fight,” she continues, “so what? Just… let him be a teenager without taking it so hard, please.”

He takes a long gulp because he doesn’t know how he can explain it to her. He doesn’t know how he can make her understand the creature that’s taken up residence inside him, this unwavering tide of inadequacy that claws at his heart for every moment Henry isn’t there. He doesn’t know how to make her see that he isn’t enough, he can’t be enough; there aren’t sufficient nuances of language to explain how not enough he is for every single second the boy is in New York. With his real father. Making his own choices.

He can’t tell her he knows he isn’t enough for her, either. She’s too good, too kind, she’d dispute him if he dared give the errant thought voice, and that would only hurt more. It’s only a matter of time before she reaches the same conclusion, that she can have what she needs outside of him, until she leaves and takes the final piece of his heart with her.

Fear suffocates him. Every minute, every second. Every breath. He isn’t taking it hard, as she so plainly put it, he’s shattering, and it doesn’t stop, won’t stop, not until he’s little more than sand against the earth below.

He drains the glass because he doesn’t know how to make her see.

“I have given that boy everything,” he says, and he knows his voice cracks as he sets the glass back down. His heart, his life. “Since before he could even open his bloody eyes, I was there, I have been there for him through every sodding thing.”

“What, and I haven’t?”

He’ll later blame the rum, but the truth is he was wound so tight there was no other way for the coil to spring. It's a misdirection of anger, of his frustration, but she's the only target the darkness can find.

“Not for all of it,” he snaps, “no.”

Emma blinks, taken aback, and for the hurt that flickers across her jade eyes he regrets it immediately after he says it. If he could snatch the words back from where he’d so carelessly spit them, he would, but he can’t; so he waits with bated breath for her response, studiously keeping his gaze locked on the table.

“So these last ten years…” She can barely get the sentence out past her astonishment. “Mean nothing?”

Killian winces. “I didn’t say that.”

“My role in Henry’s life is worth less than yours, is that it?” She’s angry now, but then that had always been her instinct — to take what hurts her and make it her strength. He just wishes she wouldn’t turn it on him, not when all he wants is to shut his eyes and not think about anything.

“Stop twisting my words,” he protests.

Emma scoffs, folding her arms and dropping back in the chair. “You’re worse than Neal.”

Killian’s gaze snaps back to hers, trying to discern if she means it. Because he is worse than Neal, he’s already trying to reconcile himself with being an inferior alternative to that man, but he doesn’t want to be told it. Not by her, not when she’s saying it to hurt him. One look at her steely green eyes and he knows she meant it to sting. They know each other so well; they know exactly how to make each other bleed.

Whatever tenuous control he had over himself ruptures.

“You know what?” he starts. “You’re so relaxed about the whole business, him being in New York, so maybe he does mean less to you than I.”

He doesn’t wait for her response this time, springing angrily to his feet and snatching the bottle and the glass before stalking in the direction of the kitchen. Emma is hot on his heels and he knows he has to start bracing himself for a fight; she’d never take a remark like that lying down.

“How dare you?” she growls from his shoulder, refusing to let him escape as he enters the room. “I’m not falling apart because unlike you, I know what it’s like to be that kid!” Killian storms over to the sink, slamming the glass inside and begins methodically putting away their washed dishes from a few hours earlier, anything to keep his hands busy so he doesn’t have to look at her. “To feel lost and helpless and like you need to fight your way out! That even when you’re surrounded by people taking care of you, it’s easier to act out, to take and take not give a shit who you hurt.”

Killian sets his jaw, he knows this. He knows about the way she was brought up, but he can’t find her experiences and Henry’s comparable in any way, not when Henry always had people who loved him.

“Kids need to make mistakes, Killian! It’s how they find out what matters to them — it’s the only way they learn!”

“If that’s the way you feel then I’m glad we never had kids of our own.”

Apparently, he can’t hold anything back tonight.

Don’t make me go through this again.

She’s silent for a number of seconds so he turns, folding his arms and resting on the kitchen counter, his entire posture closed and tense. Emma stands with wide eyes a few feet away, one hand probably unconsciously fiddling with the knot on her dressing gown.

“Is… what?” she gets out, expression scrunching in confusion. From her cheeks all the way down to her breastbone, an angry flush lingers on the surface of her skin, and apparently his one-eighty has thrown whatever furious diatribe she was about to lay on him completely off course. She blinks in disbelief. “Are you seriously bringing that up now?”

Everything is stained scarlet, it’s all he sees.

Her eyes are like black glass.

“Let’s say it’s been on my mind.”

Emma still appears entirely nonplussed by the turn of conversation. “Did you even want kids?”

“Of course I wanted kids!” Killian bursts, and he’s angry now although he doesn’t really know at whom. He’s frustrated and he’s tired and he’s fed up of being the only loser in this situation. “I just added it to the long list of things I was giving up because I wanted to be with you!”

Emma gapes. “Long — like what?”

“I wanted to marry you,” he fires off instantly, throwing an arm out widely, “and I gave up on that.”

“How is that my fault?” Emma retorts indignantly. “You never asked!”

“Well I knew how you felt about the whole concept after Neal, so I had an inkling about how you might respond.”

Somewhere in his foggy, irate mind, he knows he’s treading dangerously close to a line he’s never touched before, an imperceptible divide between what is right and what is easy. Giving voice to these desires, these hidden, desperate things, is never something he planned on doing — Emma always meant more to him than all of them. And he’s never blamed her, not for a millisecond, but the idea that if he’d just asked he could’ve had everything is a little too much for him right now. Not while the world is off balance, not when nothing feels right and he keeps saying things he doesn’t mean.

He’s just hurt. And he wants to not feel this way.

“You seem to know a lot about what I’d say for someone who’s never consulted me,” Emma says, her voice low and dangerous. “And as for kids? I did not tell you to put something like that off the table, don’t you dare pin that on me!”

“You did, Emma!”

Don’t make me go through this again.

The acrid air. A fervent plea.

“The day you…” Killian’s heart stutters to a stop. He can’t even bring himself to say it. The words crumble like dust in his mouth before they can fully form. His breathing comes shallower and he knows he’s broken their unspoken pact; to never mention it, to never confront it, but he’s thrown it out there ugly and sad and there’s nothing he can do to take it back. “You said… you asked me not to put you through it again.” His voice is weaker now, the fight entirely draining from him and leaving him feeling boneless and frail. “So I…” His voice cracks. “Didn’t.”

He knows the moment understanding dawns, knows when he sees her jade eyes flash, watches as the colour fades from her cheeks and she swallows.

Killian had lived his life by her whispered plea, only wanting her happiness above all else. He’d thought that was how she would be happy.

Had he been wrong?

Emma turns from him, blonde hair falling around her face as she touches the counter for support. Her expression is now shielded from him, and he thinks his chest is going to implode for the length of her pause. His heart hammers so loudly in his chest that he feels she must be able to hear it.

He licks his lips, nerves reaching their breaking point. “Emma?”

Without a word, she whirls around and walks out.

It takes him a split second to follow, finding her in the hallway rummaging through the coats hanging by the door, and only emerging when he hears the metallic jingle of her keys.

“Emma —”

She holds up a hand to stop him from making a move towards her. “I... I can’t even look at you right now.”

She shrugs on her coat and zips on her boots, and with the hem of her dressing gown the only fabric between them she looks ridiculous, even given the circumstances.

“Where are you going?” It was nearly two in the morning in the middle of January.

“Don’t you dare call me.”

The door opens quietly, and is shut again before he can muster up a response.

The silence rings around the apartment. The inventory forms are still strewn across the coffee table, a circle of condensation visible from where the bottle had been resting, a coaster momentarily discarded in his distraction. Like a train that couldn’t break in time before the tracks gave way, he feels suspended in the air, almost as if when his mind catches up he’ll crash into the ground.

It doesn’t take a genius to work out he handled that badly.

For a long time he just stands there, waiting. Seeing if she’ll come back. He scrubs a hand across his jaw, his mind almost completely numb in the aftermath.

Then he sits. The clock on the DVR reads 2:15am.

He doesn’t move until the sky turns pale pink with the early morning light.

-/-

At around 2:15am, as the sound of traffic from the outside filters in and a single slither of artificial light escapes through a crack in his blinds, Henry finally gives in and reaches for his cell. Before he can think better of it he dials up his voicemail.

“Please, bug. I’m sorry. Just come home.”

Unable to sleep in an unfamiliar bed, with everything he knew over two-hundred miles away?

Fuck, he wants nothing more.

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extraplanaire-blog · 7 years

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i want the k aaaaaaaaa

time to die meme ! // accepting // @mujonainu5) eyes gouged out eye gore my favourite ☆ ～(‘▽^人)

this is really long i got excited.

Constant regeneration is very exhausting, but of Lovecraft has one use it’s dogged perseverance.

A skill which Akutagawa does not possess.

The mafia hound stands hunched, one head of [rashomon] taking guard of his stomach and providing support for the boy that leans over it, the other still managing to stay upright, eyeing Lovecraft threatening.

Lovecraft does not like dogs, and these fabric mutts are no better. (They take even larger bites out of him than flesh dogs do, they’re worse.) The fabric dogs have done their best at their master’s command, taking off limbs (and head, once, which actually gave Lovecraft several minutes of pause as he attempted to reform it), trying to run him though, so forth. Reforming his body always worked, and the poor, stupid child always left large enough pieces of Lovecraft where it did not take him long to reassemble himself from a temporary death.

(Mark the number of people in this city who have killed him up to two, and Akutagawa did it over & over & over & over & over–

but fortune does not favour bemired strays, now does it.)

Akutagawa coughs violently, doubled over his pet beast and spattering the ground with crimson when he finally moves his hand away from his mouth. Lovecraft almost manages to feel pity on him– would it not be easier to die? Would it not be easier to simply subject to what Lovecraft has been tasked with? Lovecraft has already stated he is not going to kill Akutagawa, but the boy’s response seems to have nearly killed him already, before Lovecraft could properly act.

Pride, or something similar, an open maw at Akutagawa’s back to kill him if he runs.

What a waste (he rather liked this boy).

(He liked the boy’s pride, too, but ah well.)

Lovecraft continues his dogged path forward, holding one dissolved arm half-up, the tentacles emerging out of his coatsleeve gathering to attention and making their way much quicker to Akutagawa. He stares, eyes solid black, his human form in shambles. (It’s too much effort to ensure he is correctly reforming time after time after time. It’s easier to just let the muscle fibers in half his throat remain tentacles.)

Akutagawa coughs again, hard enough to only narrowly avoid retching. The rashomon behind him readies itself, then darts forward, maw open.

Teeth connect with tentacle, ripping yet another chunk away from Lovecraft’s body. But there’s more, there always are, and the ones that Rashomon missed curl just behind its head, more follow further down its neck.

Lovecraft beheads it, and the beast crumples to a shred of coat in the wind.

“I am so tired…. Tired, hungry, let’s get this over with.” Lovecraft’s voice is hoarse, and the words are out of sync with the minimal movement of his mouth. “Hold still… it’s not death.” The one consolation he has to offer in the hopes of making this boy stop being so violent, though he knows it’s really not going to work.

The only reason the rashomon head isn’t back and continuing to bite at his is because Akutagawa doesn’t have the energy to reform it, it’s too much effort to stay standing that no room is left for fighting more directly.

Akutagawa spits blood at him in between ragged breaths.

Lovecraft is unaffected.

Persistence hunting is such a hassle.

Work is such a hassle.

Lovecraft mutters such to himself as he trudges to Akutagawa, who has receeded as far as he can go amongst the port. When he’s only a few meters away, he hears Akutagawa curse, mutter something. The hound in front of him disappears, running into the ground, and Akutagawa is left hunching over himself, wheezing.

The coat runs up in spikes, ramming through Lovecraft’s feet and anything else they can get high enough to reach every few steps. It doesn’t hurt. He’s too far gone for things to hurt, Lovecraft only notices it in the tugs of resistance as he tears skin through around the spires, tentacles wearily tugging themselves out of extradimensional space into his body to repair the wounds so he can continue walking.

Tentacles curl towards Akutagawa, their mass mindless and unaffected by the spikes that keep emerging to puncture through them as they wind around Akutagawa’s feet and upward until he’s restrained.

Akutagawa bristles as Lovecraft approaches– quite literally, the fabric of his clothing becoming sharp and abrasive in a last resort that does nothing. Lovecraft stops to stand in front of the mutt.

Akutagawa glares at him, the inability to fully reform Rashomon and the blood left smeared around his mouth not a deterrent at all to his fury.

“I’ll kill you, I–” he rasps, cut off by a sharp hack.

“You already have,” Lovecraft replies. How many more times must the kid try and kill him. “Leave it alone, I need to rest….”

Akutagawa would not have left it alone, were it up to him. It is not up to him. Lovecraft digs in his coat pocket, unconcerned as a tentacle winds its way nicely over Akutagawa’s mouth.

A nice muzzle.

A better muzzle once Lovecraft’s tentacle has enough grip to curl over his teeth, take purchase about his lower jaw and wrench downwards until there’s a nicely effective crack.

He won’t have to deal with Akutagawa talking, this way, and all he gets now is muffled screaming at him.

Lovecraft can deal with that.

No situation is perfect. Sometimes things have to be noisy.

It’ll stop being a problem once he just finishes his job. It is merely a simple maiming. Only difficult in that killing people is so much easier and requires so much less complexity, but he’s already here.

He pulls a borrowed switchblade out of his pocket. “This is a warning,” he informs Akutagawa absently, looking at the blade as it flips outward. Lovecraft sighs. Yes, that is all Akutagawa is– though the mafia will probably kill him themselves.

Or something.

That’s not his problem.

Lovecraft squints at the mass of tentacles around Akutagawa. Ah. Yes. That’s where his other hand went. He needs more fingers, though, they have nicer purchase than tentacles. A few seconds before his right hand reforms, rising out from where it vaguely should be within his coatsleeve, tentacles parting and more wrapping around Akutagawa from under Lovecraft’s coat body to account for the ones that left to make Lovecraft’s hand.

He flexes fingers experimentally. There we go. It works.

New hand lies against Akutagawa’s face, despite the boy’s best efforts to angrily shake him off. Lovecraft pulls Akutagawa’s face back, pulling eyelid open as the boy screeches muffled threats and whatever other panicked nonsense at him. Lovecraft doesn’t pay attention, instead noting that fingernails are quite useful in keeping the kid’s eye open.

The wonders of humanoid anatomy.

The knife is pressed against the outer corner of Akutagawa’s eye; the kid leaning backwards doesn’t do much to help him. The kid tears up involuntarily, unsurprising, but still keeps the anger in his eyes and gaze fixed on Lovecraft, which is more surprising. He’s a strong kid. Too bad.

Switchblade digs in, popping open sclera. It is not the cleanest enucleation ever done, blood and vitreous fluid waste little time falling down Akutagawa’s cheek as Lovecraft wiggles the blade further in. Messy and imprecise, he’d very much like a smaller knife. A scalpel would be nice.

But he’ll work with that he has, and what he has is digging a thin knife in an arc around a kid’s ocular orbit until he scrapes bone. Something-something cut the ocular nerve without jarring it too badly.

It bleeds a lot, blood dribbling out of the socket and taking pieces of eye with it. It shows no sign of clotting, either, after Lovecraft finally procures one incredibly mangled eye.

The remains of the organ are flicked to the ground among the rest of the blood pooled around Akutagawa. Lovecraft wonders to himself if the kid’s going to bleed out before the mafia finds him or not (a question only relevant because if the kid’s going to be dead when found, all the effort put into mangling him would be quite a waste).

Irrelevant.

Instructions were to maim and blind, and he’s not done with that yet.

It’s only the subdued rocking of the kid that shows Lovecraft that he hasn’t passed out yet, blood loss taking its toll on Akutagawa’s already-exhausted energy. He mumbles against muzzle, something muffled and uncertain in tone (fearful? angry? Lovecraft will think angry).

Lovecraft sighs and moves on to the next eye. He mutters in return to Akutagawa about being tired as the kid’s muffled noises increase in volume and frequency.

He pats Akutagawa’s cheek once before wrenching the kid’s eye open, in some poor facsimile of consolation. (It’s what people do, to convey some emotion right? Yes. A consolation– you’re an alright kid, too bad you were decided to be the sacrifice.) It’s more difficult the second time, Lovecraft has to wipe blood off his hand, then Akutagawa’s cheek where his thumb left it, as things keep slipping. The entire lower half of his hand is coated in blood and it makes things much more difficult than they need to be, in terms of gripping things. Not much time is wasted, because Lovecraft’s starting to be concerned about the continued dripping of blood from Akutagawa’s right eye socket (it will be such a waste of effort, such a waste of effort, if he exsanguinates before Lovecraft can set him on his merry way to the nearest Mafia hive.

It’s messy, Lovecraft doesn’t care. The knife makes a neat, deep arc after being shoved into Akutagawa’s left eye, to renewed noises from the kid. Another pull downwards, scoring against the skull, and about three-fourths of Akutagawa’s left eye joins the right on the ground.

“That’s good enough,” Lovecraft murmurs wearily to himself. It’s not like the third of the retina left could do anything. He did what he was told. The mafia hound is blind. Blood wells up in the socket, falling around Akutagawa’s eyelid as it drops with Lovecraft’s release hold.

A little like crying, but thicker. More colourful. The blood overwhelms the real panicked tears, anyways.

Lovecraft’s hold on Akutagawa lessens, and the boy does nothing but murmur, barely conscious, and buckle forward. He’s narrowly spared from falling facefirst to the ground and, in all likelihood, drowning in his own blood (if anyone were to have that fate, Akutagawa’s destiny would find a way to ensure it was him). Lovecraft frowns. Must everything be left up to him? When will he be free to rest… there is so much work to be done.

He listens to Akutagawa’s breathing as he picks the boy up about the midsection, tentacles dragging him off as a parcel behind Lovecraft.

Where to go… he was told to make a statement, but without the boy to wander off (humans are less resilient than he thought), Lovecraft isn’t certain where to go.

(If only he read Alcott’s reports on where the Mafia seemed to localize.)

He settles for where he dimly recalled the guild ship last being docked, before it exploded. It’s nearby enough, and still within port mafia territory.

Trailing Akutagawa’s blood behind him, Lovecraft wanders off until he finds a building he’s pleased to set Akutagawa against.

He regards the boy carefully. He’s still breathing, but not very well. Lovecraft pushes his head back to see if it’ll make the unconscious body sit up straight, but that fails predictably. Oh well. A message was written, a message was sent. Not everything can be arranged nicely.

Red still sticks to his heels, leaving tracks as he ambles off back to the ocean, job effectively completed. Mafia’s move now.

#fun times #eye trauma cw #eye gore cw #gore cw #this is 2k words and made tumblr slow down like twice #mun writes #akutagawa is akutadeadwa #oh well #a noble sacrifice #mujonainu #asks

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