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lo-55 · 3 years

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Shattered Chains of Fate Ch. 12

Exit the Execution

Ichigo has to take a break somewhere in the eighth hour of fighting with the two other parts of him. It was good exercise and it kept him on his toes, but in the end they were all him. Fighting himself would make him twice as tired. Fighting two of himselves? Three times as tired. Ichigo was a man known for unreasonable stamina and stubbornness, but even he had his limits.

Ichigo sits at the roof of one of the buildings with Zangetsu standing just behind him and Neive sprawled out across the windows to his left.

It feels natural now, with the two of them. Like the empty feeling in his left hand is gone, so long as the three of them are together. Ichigo doesn’t know what to think of all of this. There’s still a lot he doesn’t know, and the fact that Zangetsu has assured him that time passes different within and without this place is only a small comfort. He was in the middle of a difficult battle, one to save Rukia, and now where is he? Unconscious somewhere, that much he knew.

Ichigo let out a breath.

“I think,” he begins, “It’s about time for me to wake up now.”

“Leaving so soon?” Neive rolls onto his stomach to turn yellow eyes on Ichigo. He should be more unnerved than he is. He wants to be. But he trusts Neive. Inexplicably and truly.

“Sorry,” he says. He can feel Zangetsu frowning behind him. “This is my second time here though. So I can probably come back?”

“You may return whenever you wish, Ichigo,” Zangetsu intoned. His voice was low and flat. Ichigo couldn’t quite tell what he was thinking. What was going on behind those sunglasses?

“You better!” Neive pointed at Ichigo, scowling. Was that what Ichigo looked like whenever he was being petulant?

“I promise,” Ichigo rolled his eyes. “Hopefully next time it won’t be because I've been stabbed by a walking reality marble. I wonder…”

“You wonder?” Zangetsu sounded weary. So he did know Ichigo. Neive, contrarily, grinned. They were both him. His reasoning and logic and his reckless willingness to take chances that might end in disaster.

“Do you think if I let out a strong enough burst of reiryoku I could break out of it? Like Excalibur or Clarant cutting out of one.”

“...I don’t think we have power enough for that. Not yet.”

“Not yet.” Ichigo repeats the words. Yet. These two… they believe in him. They believe he will one day be strong enough to shatter reality itself. Ichigo can’t help grinning.

“It’s time to wake up now.”

Orihime narrowed her eyes at the horrible, awful man in front of her.

Uryu was shooting at him, over and over to try to keep him from getting to her. They all knew she was the real target, he’d said as much at the start of this fight. When he’d tried to lure her close, and then nearly killed his own men to do it.

Now they lay around her, tired but not dead and no longer bleeding. And Uryu. Urya was scraped up, and poisoned, but he was still moving himself through sheer will and some kind of puppet strings he made with his soul?

Orihime’s life had never really been normal (normal people were raised by parents, not by a brother and then by a distant aunt who she’d barely even spoken to. Normal people didn’t have bright orange hair. Normally people didn’t know when ghosts were around) but it kept getting weirder and weirder.

Orihime’s knees hurt from kneeling on the cement. Her hands ached from holding them in place for so long and her soul aches from using so much power consecutively. She had only just figured out how to hold up a shield and heal people at the same time.

All the same. She can’t be finished yet.

Uryu is fighting so hard for her. He’s putting everything he had into this, into defending her.

Orhihime can feel the phantom imprint of teeth in her shoulder. The hot, sticky blood sliding down her chest and back. The scars are still there. She can feel Sora in her arms, a monster of horror and grief. She can feel Tatsuki, limb and cold and not herself. Blood on her skin. Blood on her hands. She had sworn-

“Can you actually hurt someone?”

She freezes. Her heart beats harder in her ribs and she looks at Kurosaki. The question stabs at her chest and threatens to burst the way the hollows attack had against Tatsuki’s skin. She had won that time, and blood had rained before it fluttered away in phantom light and sand. She opens her mouth.

“I-”

“If it comes down to you or them. If it comes down to them or me . Orihime, could you hurt someone? Could you attack with the intent of making sure they don’t get back up?”

She clasps her hands in her lap. “I-I can-”

“If you can’t,” he cuts in swiftly. “Say it now. When we fight we need to know you have our backs. Do you understand, Orihime? “

“Y-yes,” she bows her head. She understands his words. Tatsuki had taught her for years how to throw a punch, grapple and pin and fight. But whenever it came down to actually hitting someone else she always flinched. It was no wonder Kurosaki thought she was incapable of fighting. Maybe she really was.

But she came to save Rukia. If that means she needs to focus on healing and guarding she can do that. She can be content with that role.

Only now that role was getting in the way.

How could she stand by and watch Uryu fight and bleed for her sake? How could she do nothing while that cruel man talked about the horrible things he’d done to Uryu’s grandfather? Or to his own daughter? The solemn girl that broke her very body on his command.

She doesn’t understand. Rukia was so kind. So sweet and nice. How could she and him belong to the same group of people?

It makes her sick. Her hands start shaking again.

Aramaki, a man who had tried to take her and run, takes a step away from the captain. The force of his spirit, the gravity of his power, is crushing them both.

It’s nothing compared to Ichigo’s.

Orihime hadn’t been entirely sure when they first arrived, but now she’s certain of it. Ichigo is stronger than almost any of these shinigami. She hadn’t run into a single one who feels stronger than he did when he first made a miraculously bright canon ball that morning they went to Kukaku’s home.

A horrible creature crawls its way out of the captain's sword. Baby faced and cherubic, it frightens Orihime even more than the bone mask that had once hidden her brother's face from her.

Ishida glows like a one winged angel, to try to defend her.

Orihime closes her eyes.

No.

“-can you actually hurt someone?”

No.

“If it comes down to you or them. If it comes down to them or me. Orihime, could you hurt someone? Could you attack with the intent of making sure they don’t get back up?”

No.

“When we fight we need to know you have our backs. Do you understand, Orihime?“

Yes.

She will not be defended anymore.

“Tsubaki,” his name comes from her lips. Acid that she will bear, he flutters in front of her. She will only have one strike. She can’t hesitate. Not again. She will not let someone else fight her battles for her.

“Koten Zanshun!”

Tsubaki flickered into the golden glow of her powers and shoots like a dart. Straight through the horrible monster and it’s master.

The hole she makes is nothing. Just a couple inches across on both, but the glow still connects her to Tsubaki through them. An acid wire of destruction.

“Was that supposed to hurt, little girl-”

“ I REJECT!”

The wall erupts and matter splits. Two halves of a man fall in opposite directions. A grotesque caterpillar follows suit, spewing violet gasses as it goes. Orihime isn’t afraid. She calls on the others to undo the damage that the poisons cause.

When she reaches Uryu he’s leaning heavily against a wall with the girl that was once their enemy. Orihime would rather she be their friend, now that her father is gone.

She offers them both a hand in standing up.

* *

Ichigo opens his eyes to blood.

It’s not his, but a womans. She sits away from him, struggling to reach difficult gauges cut out of her back. Four scores that go from shoulder blade to the opposite ribs.

Ichigo sits with some difficulty. His whole body aches, and his chest throbs. It is familiar, but then again most pain is to him at this point in his life.

Ichigo reaches out with his senses. She feels familiar. Liquid shadow and silk fur, night-dark humor and wicked steel.

“Yoruichi.”

She doesn’t startle. He’d never had the silence of a Hassan at his side. Speaking of...

She looks a bit like Personas in her preferred form. Violet hair, dark skin, and built to fight and win . Neither one of them has the delicate build of Serenity, the poison mistress, but that didn’t stop Personas and it doesn’t stop Yoruichi from being lovely as sin.

“You’re awake. Good, I was starting to get worried,” she tossed him a smile over her shoulder.

“You’re the one bleeding,” Ichigo retorts. He rolls onto his knees and stretches his arms above and back until there’s about a hundred pops of his bones. His back feels warm, then cold before he straightens out to face her. “Let me help.”

“Do you know healing magic, oh magician?” Yoruichi’s smile was more fit for a cat than a human. Ichigo rolled his eyes.

“None that I can use right now. But I know how to use a needle and thread. Do you have my bag? What happened?”

Yoruichi frowns at him, but motions to his bag in the corner nonetheless. Ichigo rises on legs that feel like they’re more smoke than bone. Weak and hollow. His ribs aren’t much better and the dark mark of Scathach feels fresh again.

Ichigo does his best not to rub at it when he brings the bag back over and pulled his first aid kit out of it. Yoruichi stays still while he carefully disinfects the injury. The bleeding is sluggish and its covered in a thick paste that keeps it at bay until Ichigo carefully draws it away and starts to stitch the skin closed.

He knows these gauges. Sharp sword strikes, and less deep ones litter his own body, save his shoulder. He can see it in the clean split of skin.

“If I wasn’t a mage, I’d try to figure out how to use that healing crap Tessai has,” he said idly while he pulled out his silk threads and curved needles.

“If you’re a shinigami, you can use kido,” Yoruichi said with certainty. Ichigo frowns.

“Mages aren’t supposed to be able to use spiritual energy. They use life energy. Almost no one born after the separations of the worlds can do both.”

“You already do.”

Ichigo didn’t respond. He carefully closed her cuts and spread a cream across it to make sure it didn’t get infected later on.

“How’s that?”

“I had no idea your father taught you so much,” Yoruichi looked over her shoulder at his work as best as she could. She wouldn’t be as flexible as she was before for a week or so. Ichigo rumaged through his bag.

“He didn’t teach me a damn thing. There’s burns on your arm, let me see those two. Yoruichi, what happened?”

Yoruichi gave him her arm without a fight. She was smarter than a lot of warriors he knew. She didn’t fight a medic, even one as half trained as Ichigo was. He spread burn cream across it and wrapped it with firm, but gentle hands. Maybe when they got back he would ask Tessai about the healing, but considering how shit he was at regular spellwork he didn’t have high hopes for that. When he was done he sat back on his heels.

“Better?”

“Mhmm, much,” Yoruichi looked her arm over. She grinned mischievously at Ichigo and yanked him into a sudden hug, smashing his face into her bare chest.

“How good of you to take care of a poor stray cat, Ichigo!”

Ichigo’s face heated and he shoved her, but she was stronger than she looked.

“Don’t pull your damn stitches! I’m not redoing them got it?!”

“Aaaw, don’t be so grumpy,” she huffed at him, but he could still hear the near sadistic smirk on her face.

“Shut up. Put some clothes on before you freeze to death already.”

“Oh? Don’t tell me you’re a blushing virgin. Ichigo!” she sang.

Ichigo finally pried himself away from her with a grunt. “Shut up,” he said again. “That’s none of your business.”

Honestly.

Ichigo wasn’t a ‘blushing virgin’ or whatever the fuck. He was used to women who barely wore any damn thing. That didn’t make it any less weird when he was nearly suffocated in someone's tits!

Yoruichi laughed at him and finally fetched a shirt. Ichigo rubbed his shoulder, his fingers brushing against the new scar tissue. It was edged ever so lightly in white.

He wondered at it, but figured it was Zangetsu’s work.

“I’m surprised,” Yoruichi said when she returned in an orange shirt and black body suit. “I would have thought you would be hopping mad when you woke up. I did leave Rukia behind.”

“That wouldn’t be fair to you,” Ichigo shook his head at her. “Those two, Ukitake and Kyoraku, are way too strong for one person to take on alone. And don’t think I’ve forgotten that you didn’t tell me what happened. Yoruichi .”

She had the decency to look contrite.

“I’m out of practice,” she said at long last. “When I grabbed you and ran I didn’t realize that a trap had been laid by the omniskido, the stealth force. On top of that, there was lieutenant out for vengeance. She was convinced that one of us had killed her captain, and came after us for revenge. She was the one who managed to burn my arm. She wasn’t even that strong.”

Ichigo winced. That would have stung Yoruichi’s pride as much as singed her flesh.

“Fury makes for powerful adversaries, but anger runs cold eventually…”

“When did you get so wise?” Yoruichi teased, poking his cheek.

Sometime between Fuyuki and Babylonia?

“Don’t make me sound like I’m taking a journey to the west or something,” he brushed her hand aside. “We still have to get Rukia. I’m not sure how now. I couldn’t beat Kyoraku as I am, and you’re all banged up. Maybe…” If he tied a ribbon around Yoruichi’s wrist, could he push his power into her? How strong was she, anyhow? And the others, where were they? No one had died, he hadn’t felt anyone disappear. Were their disguises working?

“I should have brought walkies,” Ichigo cursed his own lack of forethought.

“Calm down, Ichigo. The way we rescue Rukia is simple.”

Ichigo glanced at her. “Oh?”

Her grin belonged on a cheshire cat, even if she wasn’t wearing purple stripes. “We make you stronger.”

“... oh. Is that all?”

* * *

Ukitake would admit it.

He had no idea what to think of these intruders.

Even though normally they would be confined to squad 6’s prisons he had managed to arrange for the ryoka to be brought to his own, under the grounds that since Rukia was his underling and they were here for her, they were his responsibility.

Yamamoto was more concerned with the return of the flash queen, Yoruichi, than a few humans she had managed to wrangle together and approved it with only a stern warning to keep an eye on them.

He had asked each and every one, from the ones he and Shunsui apprehended at the tower, to the pair that had nearly killed Mayuri, why they were there for a girl they barely knew.

The answer was the same.

Because Ichigo wanted to save her.

Ichigo. The one on the bridge that had looked so much like Kien. From the furrow in his brow to the proud tilt of his chin. Even his sword play was similar. Fast and powerful, he adapted to Shunsui’s games the way very few ever had.

And what he did to Rukia…

Ukitake had never seen anything like it before. In that form, he was sure Rukia could have frozen his own shikai if she’d had the mind to. It was terrifying.

Or it would have been.

If it weren’t for the fact that there was no malice in the boys eyes.

Anger, yes, but they didn’t bubble with hatred. He had no will to cut down any of them. And he hadn’t, no the lieutenants or the captains that stood in his way. He left them all living even it would have been safer and probably smarter to make sure they couldn’t come after him again.

Just what was he thinking? Was he really here just to save Rukia? And why was Yoruichi with him? Had one of the Ryoka really killed Aizen?

All of this circled back to the peculiar circumstances behind Rukia’s sentencing.

Execution was harsh. Moving the date up even harsher. And, why wasn’t he allowed to petition for a retrial? He was a captain, and a noble, as was Shunsui. They had both been barred at the gate despite these privileges.

It was about time that he got some answers to these questions. Ukitake was a patient man.

He was still no more a saint than Shunsui, who was equally eager to find something solid to sink his teeth into.

They would go to the Central 46 chambers and find answers, if it wasn’t so late that Rukia might truly die without someone to defend her.

The boy, Ichigo, was strong certainly, but not stronger than the terrible spear levelled at his young protege.

So, quietly, and under the cover of darkness, Ukitake went to Toshiro and spun a thread of suspicion for him. He agreed, as well as his lieutenant, to investigate the Central 46 chamber while he and Shunsui did something more reckless than they had in centuries. Yamamoto would rage at them when he found out what they were doing, but in his mind and in Shunsui’s it was necessary.

He never could have predicted what would actually happen.

* * * *

Ichigo had had some close calls before, but this was seriously cutting it down to the wire.

Fire licks along his wrists but doesn’t make its way past him. He holds the great firebird back with the edge of Zangetsu’s sword.

The spear screams at him, howling defiance. It is a tool of justice and death, the ultimate punishment, to burn away the sins of those who stand before it.

Ichigo cocks his head.

It’s more than that. He knows the heat, though this is lesser considerably, only yellow not blue. He knows the crushing force of duty and responsibility behind it, and the spear that birthed this one. The beak is only a shard of a lance he is very familiar with.

“Well,” he says slowly, blinking at the fiery eyes that hold on him. “Hello there.”

Rukia is a light weight under his arm, and he barely feels it when she elbows him in the ribs.

“I told you-”

“I know. I won’t ask you to forgive me, and I don’t expect you to thank me. I just expect you to survive, Rukia.”

The bird flaps back, and circles them slowly. If the lance he knew could destroy 1000 souls, this one can only destroy one. What’s more, it seems to recognize Ichigo.

“Ichi-!”

“It’s fine.”

The bird presses its burning beak into Ichigo’s knuckles and dips an avian bow low before it leaves them be. It lands again on the ground and with a scream to the heavens claps its wings above its head.

The flames disperse and a spear stands in its place.

Ichigo drops to the ground as well. People are looking at him again. That same look that says he’d just done the impossible. He was getting used to it.

“That works,” he says with a nod to himself.

“That doesn’t- how did- Ichigo what the fuck ?!”

“Dunno. Guess he just likes me,” Ichigo shrugs casually and hoists Rukia over his shoulder. “Ready?”

“Ready for wha- AAAAH!” Rukia screams bloody murder when Ichigo yeets he towards the ground as hard as he can, where Renji of all people is waiting. He’d shown up yesterday to tell them that execution had been rescheduled for a day closer, and that Kenpachi Zaraki had apparently gone AWOL and stolen a couple of Ichigo’s friends and was busting down Seireitei looking for a rematch.

He still wasn’t sure how much he believed when Renji told him that Orihime cut a captain in half.

Ichigo waves cheerfully from his perch atop the execution platform.

“Take care of Rukia, alright?”

He still doesn’t have a plan for when they’ve finally gotten away. Hide in the living world, he supposes. Take them to the clock tower maybe. Waver would be helpful, and he still has his gift from Marie.

Whatever.

He’ll take it one step at a time. No use fussing about the far future when he still has the present to fixate on. On top of that, something is happening below him. A separation in the ranks of the shinigami. Kyoraku and Ukitake seem to be standing off from the others, between the retreating Renji and Rukia. Ukitake has a shield of some kind, and Kyoraku has drawn his blade.

Ichigo jumps forwards, sailing downwards. Where is Kyo in all this mess? And that strange man, Gin? There’s barely a handful of heavy hitters down here.

Ichigo lands a few feet away from Ukitake. Zangetsu hangs in one hand, his bandages wrapped around Ichigo’s wrist. He keeps himself sideways, to defend from either side if he must, but he has a good feeling about this.

“Sorry to interrupt whatever’s happening down here,” he says casually, “But does this mean you’re helping to rescue Rukia?”

Ukitake’s smile is a phantom thing, equal parts guilt and honesty. “We’ve been trying since she was first brought back, in less… flashy, ways than you’ve chosen. She is, after all, one of my subordinates.”

“Honestly?” Ichigo tosses a grin at Kyoraku. “I’m glad I’m not playing with you this time, old man.”

“Old man! How cruel,” Kyoraku actually pouts at him. It’s a little disturbing. “Ah~ I prefer drinking to fighting anyhow.”

“Sucks that I’m underage then,” says the boy who spent years in time periods where wine was a safer alternative to contaminated water.

Ichigo has only a second to brace himself when a wave of heat slams into him from his right.

All around him, people drop like flies.

Ichigo scowls over his shoulder at the old man. Heat rises off of him like cement on a summer day, casting a shimmering crown above his bald head.

“Well that’s pretty damn rude,” Ichigo snaps at him. “You’re hurting your own subordinates more your enemies. What the fuck is wrong with you?!”

“You dare speak in such a manner? After the mockery you’ve made of our justice?”

“What justice?” Ichigo bristles, danger flaring through him. He presses his free hand onto the shoulders of the two people who had flanked Ukitake, and now fallen on their knees. His strength flows into them until their breathing eases. “You’ll execute someone who was only doing her best to help me? To protect my sisters?! Where is the justice in that?! No harm was actually done, until you decided she needed to die!”

He repeats his gifts with the girl with the glasses. All eyes are on him again. The pressure and the heat increases.

“It is the will of the Central 46. We will follow their orders, and you shall not interfere! That girl asked that you be spared your death, it was her dying will, but you have thrown that request into her face.”

Ichigo narrows his eyes at this man.

“You know something? Some of the worst things in history are done by people who follow their orders blindly.”

The Argonauts. The men who kept Astrious in prisoned in the labyrinth. Medb’s soldiers. The Knights of the Round Table. How many horrible things had been done to him and his friends by people who refused to think for themselves? Who saw what was being asked of them and never once said ‘no’?

“Do not presume to lecture me, boy!” The pressure bears down on him, a mountain of heat and anger. Ichigo doesn’t falter. “I have lived a thousand of your human lives. The impertinence of youth is-”

“You’re about two thousand years old, right?” Ichigo cuts in. “Or, more like twenty two hundred, give or take fifty years.”

“I am-”

“So you were alive before the end of the Age of Gods, right?”

He knows he’s stalling. He knows he should get out of here. Or get this fight underway. Or something. He can’t take this man in a fight, even if he can stand his power. He is, after all, just a man. He isn’t Ishtar, or Gilgamesh, or Orion. He isn’t a god or half divine. His heat is nothing compared to Karna’s. A convection over instead of a volcano.

Nevertheless, he has to ask this question.

The old man’s eyes crease open. There’s anger in them, and curiosity too. “I was.”

“Great. Then where the fuck is Ereshkigal?”

Silence descends. The old man is so surprised the pressure actually lets up a moment before doubling.

“There is a name I haven’t heard in millenia. The queen of Kur, the goddess of the dead. I didn’t think humans still knew of her,” he regards Ichigo with a new kind of wariness. Warranted, for certain. “All that is left of her is the Sogyoku, a creation from her own lance, holding the flames of the soul of a sungod.”

Ichigo doesn’t tell him that that’s not quite right.

“The heat of that spear should have incinerated you. I can’t say what magic you used to put a stop to it, but I intend to end this altercation before you do something like that again.”

The old man lifted his cane.

Ukitake and Kyoraku moved . Faster than Ichigo can keep up, they launch themselves at him. There’s a glance of steel and the sound of metal on metal. Someone shouts, a light flashes, and the three disappear.

Ichigo barely side steps a tiny flicker of energy.

A girl, no taller than Rukia with a captains coat, does her very best to cut his head off before Ichigo slams Zangetsu into her chest and unleashes a harsh Getsuga Tenshou. The problem with assassins, most of them are bad at taking hard hits.

He tears through the rest of the assembled crowd like they’re made of paper, before he stops at the woman with the braid. She reminds of him Nightengale, in the most frightening of ways. Her head tilts minutely at him. Something in her eyes sends a shiver down his spine.

“Aren’t you going to fight me, ryoka?”

“Ichigo,” he corrects mildly. His brows furrow. “Don’t take this the wrong way, miss, but I do my best to avoid fighting healers. If it’s not too much trouble, would you let me go on my way?”

She looks down at the people on the ground. Lieutenants, captains, and special guards all fallen at his blade. None of them have stopped breathing.

“I suppose I can honor that request. There is something else I must do regardless. Please stand back then, Ichigo.”

He takes a few steps back, until he standing next the three subordinates Ukitake and Kyoraku had left behind. She draws her sword and with a soft murmur it warps, twists, and expands like putty until a giant manta ray is standing on clawed feet.

Ichigo watches in horrified fascination as it eats the injured and flies off.

“...You all saw that too, right?” He asks the other three. He’s the only one who’s even remotely surprised.

Because that’s normal here, of course.

“Okay,” Ichigo dusts himself off. “I need to go find my friends. Are you guys coming with?”

“Captain left us here with you for a reason,” the eldest girl, the one with the glasses says primly. “So we will follow you for now, and make sure you don’t run into any more trouble.”

“Hey, what did you do when the Head Captain was crushing us?” The blonde girl asks, falling into place at Ichigo’s side. The man flanks her, looking just as intently at Ichigo. It feels natural to lead them down the hill, never mind that they’ve only known each other for a total of twenty minutes max.

“That? I just pushed enough of my reiryoku into you that you wouldn’t get squashed or burnt up. It’s not big deal,” he shrugged one shoulder.

“No- No big deal!? You can’t just transfer spirit energy like that!” The man argued, stumbling over his own shoes. “No one can do that! Even the fourth division has to use special kido for that kind of thing!”

Ichigo eyes him sideways. “I do impossible things all the time. You’ll get used to it.”

They made it all the way to the bottom of the hill, where his friends were waiting with Yachiru of all people, before something new slammed into his senses from the way they had come.

Kyo.

* * * * *

Gin pities Hinamori.

He really, really does. She’s been jerked around on a string so many times in the last few days as a part of Aizen’s mechanisms. First she had to deal with her grief. He was sure it was Hitsugaya that planted the idea that Gin was the killer in her head.

Sweet Kira had kept her from so much as singeing his shihakusho.

After Gin someone in the Onmitsukido had gotten her on the trial of the ryoka, who were really the perfect distractions in this case. She had attacked the ginger boy and Shihoin without hesitation and with enough vicious animosity and single minded determination that she actually got a few shots in. If she was more blood thirsty maybe she could have a decent subordinate to Aizen truly, instead of this puppet he was leading around.

A single letter from him and she turned on her childhood best friend.

A single word and her faith was restored before it was shattered completely with a hand through the chest.

Yes, Gin pitied the poor, foolish little girl for trusting Aizen so readily.

It’s okay, he wanted to tell he, I’ll make sure he pays for everything. One way or another.

He couldn’t, of course. He wouldn’t risk the position he’d spent well over a century cultivating. He would get his vengeance soon, and take back what was stolen from Rangiku. He just had to keep biding his time, like every other snake in the grass.

Unbidden, his mind turned to Ichigo Kurosaki again. Just how would the boy fair against Aizen? How much of a struggle could a single not-quite-a-human put up?

* * * * * *

#Zangetsu #hollow ichigo #Ichigo Kurosaki #bleach fanfiction #BAMF!Ichigo Kurosaki #Ichigo Kurosaki is Ritsuka Fujimaru #gin ichimaru #Merlin Fate/Grand Order #rukia kuchiki #yoruichi shihouin

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rwolf19 · 6 years

Text

Star of Spring (ACOTAR Fic) - Chapter 8

Length: 6863

Chapter Rating: M, SFW

Tagging: @ourbooksuniverse @bluephoenix222 @reallyangryrn @readingismycopingmechanism @alphaomegahybrid@illyrianinterrasen @wolffrising

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A/N: Looks like I have to whip the next chapter up real quick before ACOFAS comes and ruins all my SoS-canon. Hell. Thanks to everyone who has commented/replied (whatever tf it is), you guys make my freaking day. Anyway, enjoy, and try not to freak out too bad ;)

Mated

“What?!” Tamlin snarled, standing. Sera flinched. Eris growled, shooting to his feet as well. Azriel rose next. Night’s High Lady grabbed his arm to hold him back.

“Don’t you threaten her,” Eris said lowly. Sera reached for his hand. She did not shy away from the heat under his skin.

“Eris, I’m all right,” she said gently.

“Tamlin, I recommend you sit down,” hissed Cresseida. Her brother had one hand on his sword, though Amren snarled a warning at him.

Eris didn’t look away from the High Lord, and the High Lord didn’t look away from her. Sera refused to hide behind Eris, not if it meant he could get hurt. “Eris, please.”

“How do you know?” the High Lord of Night asked. Sera glanced away from Eris for a moment. Tamlin still looked poised to tear apart the world, but Azriel slowly sank back into his chair.

Sera’s voice refused to steady. “Beron made Eris’s mother take him to the cells.” Eris’s youngest brother—half-brother—let out a pained breath, his head bowing. Rhysand touched his shoulder. “She had me come with her. I had . . .” Sera took a deep breath. Eris squeezed her hand gently. “She thought—knew—that Beron . . . That doesn’t matter. Cervan left us with him. And she tried to tell him. To warn him not to mess with the Fae bane cuffs, because it was stifling their bond. Beron won’t be able to sense it as long as they remain.”

“But?” Helion promoted gently.

“He has your smile,” Sera said, meeting the High Lady of Night’s eyes. She quickly looked down at her hand in Eris’s. “And he didn’t even let Eris’s mother finish. He just said ‘I know’ and sat down in the middle of the cell to wait for Derren to bring her.”

“They’re still being held together then?” The youngest of the Illyrians said. Sera had heard his name but she couldn’t quite recall it on demand.

“Last we knew,” Eris answered. Sera wished he and the High Lord would sit. It felt like they were pulling the room off balance, even if there were more tenuous bonds than theirs. She squeezed Eris’s hand lightly.

“Did Casrien have time to access Derren’s mind?” Rhysand asked. Sera shuddered at the thought. She’d been given brief training on daemati in her youth, but the first month of her marriage had been nothing but bedding Eris and learning how to keep them out completely.

Sera looked to Eris for the answer. She had no experience with attacking or accessing others’ minds. And even the thought of her training was bringing inappropriate color to her cheeks. Eris just shrugged, though she thought his lips twitched to see her flush, “I wouldn’t know. He was healing for so long . . .”

“What did you do?” asked Vivianne slowly. Sera watched a smile curl across the violet-eyed male’s face. He was very handsome, and she’d heard tell of his sexual perversions. Eris’s thumb stroked along the back of her hand softly. She looked up at him once more and found a dizzying open look on his face. They weren’t alone and yet he was wearing his every thought there. He must have trusted the others a great deal.

“Well, if you must know,” Rhysand said, as though he was a peddler of gossip. Sera returned her attention to him, gooseflesh rising over her arms. His High Lady was watching Tamlin, a slight frown on her face. Sera had heard the stories. She wasn’t sure how they applied to her current situation. “Derren is going to prove more useful than ever.”

—:—:—:—

Lyssa was straddling his lap. He was sitting on the stone floor with his back to the wall, his hands on her hips. He still had the presence of mind that she wore her open robe. He had lost his boots but not his trousers.

Casrien was going mad from it. He needed to tell her quite a few things, but she was adamant in her distraction. He couldn’t bring himself to truly mind. She was captivating.

“They’ll be coming any moment,” Casrien groaned as she canted her hips against his. She bit her lip to hide her grin, but Casrien surged forward to kiss her. He would never tire of her tongue, of her mouth moving against his. It was like a dance only they knew, and her soft gasps a symphony.

“They aren’t here yet,” Lyssa murmured, her hands pulling at his hair. Her lips were on his again. He was starting to forget why his hands were shackled. It seemed to serve only to frustrate him. She tugged his hand between her legs.

“Well, then, he is like his father; he’ll fuck anything that breathes.”

Casrien had barely opened his eyes when Lyssa was thrown off him. She skipped across the ground like a flat stone on a lake. She crashed into the bars, stopping on her side, her back to Beron and her robe, thankfully, falling to cover her where she needed covering. Casrien’s mind quieted everything into little more than a dull roar. “Lyssa!”

But he couldn’t move.

Beron was standing opposite him on the other side of the bars. He was flanked by four male fae, each with dark hair and slightly uplifted eyes. They wore intricate maroon armor that was less functional than aesthetically pleasing, interlocking pieces that weren’t close enough to be as secure as the fish scales of the Summer Court. Wicked, curved blades hung by their sides, and the bulk of them spoke to their profession.

“No,” Casrien whispered, unable to move. Beron had him pinned with magic. “Lyssa?” She didn’t stir, though he could see that she was breathing out of the corner of his eye. But he could not turn to look at her fully. Something started to crack inside him. “Lyssa!”

“As you can see, he is quite capable in the area he is required for, and not opposed to bedding his enemies,” Beron drawled. The fae snickered at the bulge in his trousers which he could not hide. Casrien spat a curse at him and strained against the magic keeping him down. The Fae were Monteseran. Casrien let out a frustrated shout. Beron just chuckled.

“Lyssa!”

“He is much more manageable with the Fae bane. I recommend you keep it,” Beron said.

“We do not need a showcase of his abilities now,” said the one to Beron’s left. He smirked at Casrien. “We believe your testimony about his manipulation of your son.”

“No,” Casrien seethed. “Shut your lying mouth-“

“See if she knows about it,” the Monteseran gestured to Lyssa. Casrien couldn’t do anything. His powers were gone. His family was far away. There were no more tricks or games. He was out of options. He was out of time.

“Impressive shields,” murmured another Monteseran. Casrien tried to pull free vainly.

Lyssa’s mental shields were strange and beautiful, a twisting forest that sent one in circles and to dead ends, hills that rolled endlessly on, a singing willow that dragged one to sleep. Through it all, a well hidden path that allowed one to skirt the dangers and find her true mind.

“Get out of her head,” Casrien ordered lowly. Lyssa jerked as she stirred, starting to sit up. Her eyes found him, and they were her own. But she bowed her head, cradling it in her hands. A low moan rasped out of her. “Leave her alone!”

She flinched, her face falling into terror for a moment before a triumphant smile split her face. He did not know who had won. Casrien almost didn’t notice Beron enter the cage with them. Lyssa picked herself up, tying her robe shut with shaking movements. Casrien followed her every step as she approached Beron. The High Lord grinned.

She punched him.

He hit her back.

Casrien stopped seeing and hearing it all. He was watching her waver on her feet as her mind was again attacked. Beron smacked her, and then Casrien was trying to slam Beron into the bars, his head specifically. Flame erupted across his vision, sending him soaring backward into the stone. He crashed to the ground, groaning as his bruises only compounded on one another.

“Casrien!” Lyssa reached for him. Her eyes rolled into the back of her head and she fell to the ground. Casrien crawled to her. He couldn’t move his feet. He could hardly feel them. What had Beron done?

“Lyssa?” He gripped her arm, feeling her pulse throb at her wrist.

“She threw me out. Most impressive.”

“Lyssa,” Casrien whispered, smoothing her hair out of the way. He kissed her forehead, her lips. She didn’t wake. “No, no, Lyssa. Lyssa, please.”

She murmured lowly. Casrien put his mouth to her ear. “You just have to tell Derren that the time has come for the sun to rise. He’ll take you to Summer. Lyssa?”

“Sunrise,” she said. Casrien smiled, touching his forehead to hers, gripping her hand tightly. “Casrien?”

“Get out. Don’t come after me.”

“I think she ought to see you off, don’t you?” Beron crouched, grabbing Casrien by the scruff of his neck. Casrien tried to pull out of his pinching grasp. Beron took Lyssa by the arm.

Casrien didn’t know how the Monteserans got out. There were hundreds of them waiting. It took him a moment to realize his vision had doubled. But there were still hundreds.

Casrien thrashed at Beron’s hold as a team of Monteserans came forward. They were at some kind of dock. Three massive ships sat in the harbor. Two were being unloaded of precious stones. The last held more soldiers than Casrien could fight through on his own. He tried anyway, harming wherever he could, however he could. Mostly, he kicked shins and smacked people with his shackles. Lyssa was snarling and screaming, but she stayed Fae. Cervan grabbed her arm, and they disappeared. Casrien roared. Monteseran soldiers stepped aside and let Casrien be dragged aboard the nearest ship, cursing and spitting all the while.

He was nearly dropped into the sea. Casrien tried to crawl to freedom, scrambling to get up. He was smacked in the head with something that felt like wood. He wasn’t exactly sure until the fourth blow. He tried to clear his vision of stars as he was hauled up into the ship.

“Casrien!” Her voice came from too far away.

“Thank you, Lord Beron.” said the Monteseran. To another, he said, “He goes to the Thunderwing!” More hands grabbed Casrien. A sack was shoved over his head, which was just offensive. He’d already seen the ships and the harbor. “What of the other, Beron?”

Casrien snarled. They couldn’t take Israen. He wouldn’t let them.

“Do your part to draw their forces. They won’t let her join the assault. She isn’t trained for it.”

She?

—:—:—:—

“Devlon refused to give any more,” Cassian said, holding out the stones to his son. Israen gaped at them. “He thinks you might need something that doesn’t exist.”

“Three?!” Israen cried. “I haven’t worn three since I was seventeen!”

“I’m well aware,” Cassian said lightly. He was going to strangle Devlon. Israen just stared at the red stones.

“Fuck!” Israen turned on his heel, pacing back into Aelia’s room. Cassian stood in the door. They were gathering their troops on the Winter Court border at the moment. He really needed his son to help lead some of those troops, but letting him go without Siphons was probably worse than making him stay. Nesta thought separating him from Aelia was going to be bad. But Israen would do his duty.

So long as the Siphons held.

Aelia’s voice chimed lowly, but Cassian missed what she said. Israen grumbled back, “I can’t fucking believe this, fucking three of them?!”

“Israen,” Cassian said. “I’m not going to do jack shit with them, so would you please-“

Israen gave a long, suffering groan. Cassian looked around the door with enough time to see him flop onto the unmade bed. He’d certainly inherited Rhys’s flair for dramatics. Nesta snorted down the bond.

He gets it from you, you blind bat.

Aelia walked around him, the sheets draped artfully around herself. She came to the door, her cheeks bright. She held out one hand. Cassian deposited the Siphons into it. “You’d fit in with Helion’s lot wearing that.”

Aelia grinned sheepishly, retreating. Cassian turned away as she tripped on the sheet. Israen cursed, the door slamming shut so quickly it nearly cracked.

Cassian let out a low chuckle, rapping on the door, “Is she all right?”

Israen cursed again, louder. Cassian strained to hear. “What did you do? What did you do, what did you do, whatdidyoudo?”

“Israen?” Cassian called, pressing a hand to the door. He wondered if he’d be banned from Adriata for actual eternity if he entered the room and Aelia wasn’t decent. He shuddered at the thought. “Israen, what’s going on?”

The door swung open. Israen was wearing three giant opalescent stones, one on the back of either hand with the last over his heart. Aelia was still wrapped in the sheet. They were gaping at one another.

“Are those the Siphons?!” Cassian demanded. “Devlon’s going to kill you!”

“Da,” Israen said shakily, finally looking at him. He held up a hand.

A wall of pearl sprang up at Israen’s fingertips, translucent and glimmering. Cassian’s jaw dropped. He glanced at Aelia, then his son. “She- You changed the Siphons?”

“It feels like . . .” Israen’s smile spread quickly as his wall dropped. He whispered, “Remember when I stole all your Siphons, before I could fill one? It feels like that. Like . . . There’s just space, endless space.”

“That’s good, right?” Aelia whispered.

“Room to grow,” Cassian shrugged. He was only given Siphons because the camp lords feared him. He couldn’t fill an eighth Siphon, so he wasn’t given one. He’d never felt like his power grew. It was either full, draining, empty, or refilling. Israen was something new. Fuck if Cassian knew how to do things right.

Nesta was going to be over the moon. He called down the bond to her, sending an image of the way Israen and Aelia were looking at each other. She tugged back, Leave them alone.

I’m only here to deliver the Siphons. Cassian gestured to his son. He kissed him on his brow, then Aelia. He left after, smirking as he shut the door. I have no interest in seeing or hearing what happens next.

You filthy-minded bat.

Is that not what you meant? Cassian chuckled to himself, saluting Cresseida as he passed. She gave him an odd, almost offended look and kept going. Cassian cleared his throat, “I wouldn’t interrupt them.”

“Them?” Cresseida’s head tilted slightly. Cassian frowned.

“Israen’s with her.”

“Oh,” said Cresseida, touching her chest lightly. “Forgive me. It’s been a strange day.”

Cassian’s eyes narrowed, trying to break through whatever glamour Cresseida was casting over herself. Something was wrong with her. “Are you all right?”

“I’ll be just fine,” she said with a small nod. Cassian answered it in kind, turning away. He cast a glance over his shoulder as he left, trying to keep the paranoid feeling from overtaking him.

Last time you felt like this, the Goldaba nearly killed you, Nesta said, her voice soft and harsh all at once. Cassian acknowledged her words with a mental grunt. Monteseran magic?

Unless they have daemati, I’m not incredibly sure how they would manage that. It’d have to be close by, and Cresseida has enough skill to keep one out, Cassian said. Nesta indicated she was going to warn Tarquin and Rhysand. Cassian rolled his eyes. He didn’t know why she insisted on antagonizing her brother-in-law, but it’d been nearly a century of Rhys telling her not to use his full name and she showed no sign of giving it up.

I can hear you calling me unnecessarily stubborn.

I love your stubbornness. It makes things more interesting.

What things?

I am not going into battle with a raging hard on, Nesta. Stop.

If you get here soon enough, I can take care of it first.

Cassian leapt from the first balcony he found into the skies.

—:—:—:—

Lyssa bowed her head, cradling it against the screaming in her mind. They’d taken him from her. They’d shackled him and sold him and now they were in her mind again, keeping her from ripping out their throats.

Her mind was a maze. A labyrinth, but at the heart of it, there was nothing. There were walls of obsidian, each thicker and broader than the last. He was clawing at them, scratching them but only just. Only just.

Claws ripped out of her fingers. Her broken sob became a scream of rage as she shifted.

They should not have taken him from her.

She wanted Beron’s blood. She wanted Derren’s blood. She wanted Cervan’s blood.

And she would have it.

The Monteseran daemati cursed violently. Cervan had taken her and the blasted daemati up to the trees. The harbor spread out before her, five Monteseran ships laying anchor within. She could see Casrien struggling as he was brought up onto the center one.

She was a jungle cat, sleek and fierce and faster than the wind. Her sharp teeth tore into Cervan’s arm as he struggled to contain her. His shout was loud and wild. She lunged for the daemati next. His blood was sweet, but it was not what she needed. Cervan winnowed before she could return for his throat. She roared into the forest.

She leapt from the broad branch into the air, her form shifting as she went, becoming small and light and all-seeing. She dove, her falcon’s form quickest of all the birds she’d ever known. They had a sack over Casrien’s head, and his movements were uncoordinated. There was blood on his hands as she dropped, the wind tugging at her feathers. She gave a piercing cry.

A Monteseran grabbed Casrien, and they winnowed.

Lyssa scanned the ships for him. There was no flurry of movement, no sign that he was close. They couldn’t have winnowed him all the way to the continent. Not even Tarquin could’ve. Lyssa banked on the sea breeze, taking her wolf form as she alighted in front of Beron.

He wouldn’t know or care where Casrien was. Lyssa tore at him, growling. He’d done this, he was enjoying this. Fire sparked in front of her. Lyssa shifted, fur and skin becoming hardened scales, a clear lid sliding down over her eyes to protect them. The fire did not harm her, dancing around her skin without burning it. She snapped poison filled teeth, struck with claws and webbed arms, a spiked tail whipping around. She was taller than the ships as she took flight, screeching in agony as her senses still failed to find Casrien.

In the face of a brilliantly green wyvern, Beron shouted for the Monteserans to run as he winnowed. Lyssa shot higher into the sky, watching the world fall away. She could see everything and nothing. Not enough and too much. She could hardly think, her form telling her to hunt and hunt now.

She would find Casrien. She would kill Beron.

Find Casrien. Kill Beron.

Find Casrien.

Kill Beron.

Her cry tore over the water as she began her hunt.

—:—:—:—

“You are insane!”

Vivianne only laughed, steadying herself on top of the massive beast tearing into Autumn Court lands. With legions of Illyrians, Summer Warriors, Sun Guards, Spring Sentries and her own Winter Soldiers at her back, it was hard not to feel invincible.

Still, she was standing in the saddle of the great bear instead of sitting because Kallias, in his eternal wisdom, had suggested she stay in Adriata with Sonya and Aelia. But she was his High Lady, and if she wanted to do something incredibly stupid, that was her prerogative.

Nesta and Mor flanked her, her sister riding directly behind. Vivianne would’ve preferred to ride with Feyre as opposed to Nesta, but she’d have to do.

The Monteserans winnowed into a trap. They were already being flanked, shoved back into a mountain passage as Illyrians rained down death from above. Vivianne gave a fierce shout as her group plowed into the lines, jumping lithely from her mount. Mor and Dramina fought toward her, Nesta weaving through the legions to her mate.

“Come on!” Lucien’s shout pulled her attention. He was a sight to behold, glowing and burning like fire itself, a pillar of light ripping through the ranks carelessly. Rhys dropped from the sky to protect his back. Vivianne shook her head.

“Israen!” Cassian bellowed. Vivianne’s head whipped toward him. His son was taking flight, away from the battle, opalescent Siphons gleaming.

“Cass, I have it!” Vivianne shouted. As Israen soared over the mountains, Tamlin’s beast followed. Vivianne started to run, letting Mor and Nesta carve a path for her. She winnowed through the trees, tracking Tamlin as he tracked Israen through the sky.

They were already at the front steps when Vivianne arrived. Tamlin shifted into his Fae form. Vivianne looked up at the massive structure. It lay in the trees and beneath the earth, and it seemed to disappear if you looked away for too long. A shudder ran down her spine. It was too quiet.

The doors opened before they could decide to even climb the steps. Vivianne gasped at the form that appeared there. The girl was wearing a tattered and singed robe, a gash in her thigh. Her eyes seemed to glow as she took them in. She stumbled as she started down the steps, racing the thing that dropped from her grip. Tamlin rushed up the steps to her, cradling her against his chest as the object rolled to a stop at Israen’s feet.

Lucien’s brother. Half-brother. Cervan. His head, and his head alone.

Vivianne’s stomach curdled in spite of the knowledge that she’d seen far worse.

“They took him,” the girl was almost incoherent, sobbing and repeating the words over and over. “Father, they took him, they took him.”

“Where?” Israen demanded. Vivianne watched the girl carefully as Tamlin picked her up andcarried her back down the steps.

“Winnowed into the sea,” Lyssa murmured. “Beron’s going to take a female for Montesere’s prince.”

“Why wouldn’t he use you?” Vivianne asked carefully. Lyssa shook her head. Israen started up the steps, but Vivianne quickly grabbed his arm to hold him back, digging in her heels. “Where is Lady Autumn?”

“Aelia,” Israen said quietly. Lyssa looked at him, and the entire world seemed to pause in the wake of that stare. His Siphons gleamed.

“We have to stop them.”

“You didn’t think I’d given up so easily, did you?” Vivianne’s head whipped toward Beron.

Beron had his wife, son, and a Monteseran commander at his side. Vivianne could feel more foreigner’s winnowing in around them. They’d sent the inexperienced to battle without their superiors. Vivianne sent an accidental spike of panic down her mating bond as she dragged Israen away. He settled into a fighting stance with his back against hers. His wings were an odd feeling.

Tamlin retreated back toward them, Lyssa trying to push out of his arms. Tamlin let her down carefully. She dropped to her knees and vomited.

Amidst all the blood and bile was a finger.

“Where is my nephew, you utter sack of shit?” Vivianne snarled at the High Lord. Tamlin knelt by his daughter, tucking her against his side as he murmured comforts to her. She was still crying.

“They took him. He’s gone.”

Fire flared toward them. Vivianne met in with a crushing wave of ice and cold, whipping deadly spikes around them, moving her hands through the air to focus her energy. Soon, there was a hurricane of ice circling them, keeping Beron’s fire at bay.

“Fire always melts ice, young one.”

“Fucking bet,” Vivianne growled back.

—:—:—:—

“Aelia, go!” Cresseida ordered, pointing down the hall. She raised her hands and and a wall of vines sprung forth from the marble, curling over one another. Her cousin didn’t listen, stepping forward to touch the vines, “What are you doing, get out of here!”

She’d hardly touched Aelia’s arm when a wave of cold crept down her spine. The vines popped as they turned to some silvery metal that looked sturdy. Platinum perhaps. Cresseida didn’t care. She grabbed Aelia’s arm and started hauling her down the hallway. “You go to the vaults, you stay there until your father returns.”

“That’s awfully boring, isn’t it?” Cresseida raised her hands. Vines tore around the Monteseran bastard, immobilizing him. He winked at Cresseida, and she snarled. How had he gotten behind them? Fae couldn’t winnow someplace they’d never been—they tended to end up in walls or half in the floor. There had been no reported infiltrations back towards the end of the hall they were in.

“Now, Aelia,” Cresseida ordered.

“I want to try something,” Aelia whispered, stepping forward. “I can change vines, and those are alive.” The Monteseran squirmed. Cresseida flinched. Aelia had picked up a bit of Night Court terrorizing, it seemed. “Do you think I can change you, you murderous bastard?”

“I’m not here to kill anyone,” the Monteseran shook his head. “My name is Kegin. I’m here to . . . see the people.”

“Is Lucien’s eye gold, or bronze?” Aelia mused, glancing back at Cresseida. She shrugged. Aelia turned to the Monteseran. “Maybe, I’ll give you one of each.”

“Fucking the Illyrian gave you a spine,” the Monteseran grinned. Then he was gone. He shouldn’t have been able to winnow if Cresseida had him held down. They needed to get out of there. Something was very wrong with that male.

“What the fuck?” Aelia snapped, whirling to scan the empty hallway. Cresseida grabbed her wrist and shoved aside a painting, pulling her into the secret passageway. The painting swung shut with a soft click. “You know about-“

Cresseida tugged them back into a run, though Aelia probably could’ve outpaced her. “Honey, I’ve been sneaking out of this palace a hell of a lot longer than you have,” Cresseida answered, skidding to a stop and pressing through a fake panel. “The vaults aren’t far. Come on.”

“Is Mother already-“

“Yes, I got her first,” Cresseida said. Sonya had been much easier to convince. Aelia nodded, pushing past her as they headed down a set of spiraling stairs.

“I’m going back-“

“You aren’t a fighter!” Aelia caught her wrist as Cresseida let go. They came to a stop on the last few steps. Cresseida shook her head.

“I don’t care. I’d rather they take me than you,” said Cresseida blithely. “I don’t care what they do to me. But I’ll be damned before I let them touch you.”

“We do this together,” Aelia growled.

“I’m not your Illyrian,” Cresseida dropped down a step so she was eye-level with Aelia (even if her cousin was a step below that). “I’m not your friend. I’m your family, Aelia.” Cresseida dropped her voice as footsteps began to echo through the passages above them. “And that means you get to the vaults and stay there, and you let me protect you.”

“I can help,” Aelia insisted.

“You have a week of training, if that. I know they think that every second counts, but you’re more likely to get hurt,” Cresseida twisted out of Aelia’s grip and cradled her face in her hands. She kissed her brown. “Now, go.”

“Cress,” Aelia whispered. “I want to stay with you.”

“Sorry, Princess,” Cresseida answered, stepping away. “I outrank you. Get the hell out of here.”

“I love you,” Aelia said quietly.

“I love you, too,” Cresseida smiled and ran back up the stairs. She was wiping at her eyes by the time she reached the top. They hadn’t found the hallway to the stairs yet. Cresseida waited until it was quiet before slipping out of the fake panel. She sprinted through the passage way, dodging around Monteseran’s as they tried to catch her. She left them behind, calling a twisting vine to her aid, riding it to the end of the passage. She sprung out from behind the bust of Nostrus and kept running, up a grand staircase and into the guest wing. She could hear them giving chase. She blocked the passage enough that they would have to work to get out, but not so much that they would turn to go other ways. Cresseida swung to a stop as an Illyrian broke out of one of the rooms.

“Israen?! What are you doing here?!” Cresseida demanded shrilly. Cassian was going to kill him if he’d abandoned the battle, a she doubted her cousin could stop him.

“Where is she?!” he shouted. Cresseida wondered what he’d been told.

“The vaults,” she said, pointing.

She stared after him, shaking her head. She hadn’t realized he’d already replaced all six of his Siphons.

—:—:—:—

Kallias winnowed to his mate. Her recklessness was quickly becoming his dread. He loved her wild unpredictability, just as he loved every fiber of her heart and soul. If she lost a single hair on her head or an ounce of that untamable spirit, Kallias would never forgive himself.

A wall of ice ten feet thick and thirty feet high rose around them. Kallias clicked shields into place around Vivianne and Israen. The Illyrian was seething, half-wild with panic.

“They’re attacking Adriata,” Kallias said lowly. Israen’s eyes went truly mad. Kallias gripped his elbow, “Israen, look at me. Look at me!” Kallias waited. Israen looked. “Going back to her is instinct. But think, think what they will do if they find they can use you against one another. They put a knife to you and she does unspeakable things for them. Staying here is your best bet. Let’s get little Cas.”

“But Aelia,” Israen’s voice cracked. “She’s- I have to protect her.”

“This is protecting her,” Kallias said calmly. Israen’s brows furrowed. “This is protecting her, Israen. I promise, this is better than the alternative.”

“Okay,” Israen closed his eyes. Kallias kept his grip as Israen took several deep breaths. “This is for the best.”

“That’s right. Let’s focus on Beron,” Kallias released Israen carefully. He nodded, turning to face Beron through the wall.

You’re a father and we haven’t even conceived yet, Vivianne purred down the bond. Kallias cut his eyes at her. It wasn’t exactly the time.

“Baby, you’ll be all right, I promise, I promise, we’ll get you home,” Tamlin murmured to Lyssa.

“He’s gone. I can’t feel him. I can’t feel him. They took him.”

“Lyssa, please,” Tamlin’s voice broke.

“I let them take him. I couldn’t stop them.”

“Lyssa, it wasn’t your fault,” Tamlin said. “You’ve done enough, let us take things from here.”

“Promise me you’ll find him, Father. Promise me, promise me.”

“I- I swear it, Lyssa. We’ll find him, I promise.”

Kallias met his mate’s eyes for a moment too long. Tamlin snarled at them. Kallias just kept a neutral face, turning to Israen. “If you fly up, can you shield yourself long enough to catch a glimpse of what’s happening?”

Israen’s eyes went vacant for a moment. He shook himself, “My uncle says the Monteserans have surrendered. Tarquin and Helion are returning to Summer and-“

Darkness covered the forest before he could finish. Rhysand was coming there. Kallias banished the ice from around them. When the darkness cleared, Night’s High Lord and Lady were with them. Feyre knelt by Lyssa and spoke softly, “I’ll take her to the manor.” She winnowed away with the girl. Rhysand’s shoulders loosened minutely. Tamlin rose, his eyes glinting dangerously as Beron looked down at them. Rhysand’s wings were gone, his hands in his pockets, looking bored more than anything.

“Where is my son?” Rhysand asked, softly, for there was nothing that did not quiet at the dangerous edge in his voice and the power flickering out of him. It begged caution and spoke of glittering cold rage that Kallias knew all too well. He shifted toward Vivianne instinctively, though her attention was on Israen. Beron did not answer, and Rhysand drawled, “May I?”

“Go ahead,” Tamlin said. Kallias merely nodded, raising a wall of ice at their backs. He felt Rhysand’s power spear for Autumn’s High Lord, chills rushing down his back. Beron stiffened, and the Monteserans began to advance down the steps. Tamlin shifted into his animal form to meet them.

“Israen!” Vivianne called. Kallias followed Israen’s brief flight but could not stop him without hurting him. Israen moved through the Monteserans at Tamlin’s side. Blood gathered on the steps before the Forest House. Kallias stayed near Rhysand—though he trusted the High Lord to protect himself, he knew breaking into Beron’s mind would not be an easy task.

When Israen engaged Derren, the Autumnling gave an impressive defense. Fire raged against pearlescent Illyrian power, but Israen did not falter. Fighting up the steps was not to his advantage, but he took flight only briefly, summoning a spear and throwing it. Derren deflected it from his chest, but it landed in his knee instead. Beron’s fingers barely twitched at his son’s scream, but the Lady Autumn shouted as well. Vivianne sprinted up the steps, drawing her away from them.

“He’s still my son, he’s still mine!” She thrashed in Vivianne’s grip. “You have to stop, please! Don’t kill him, don’t– don’t do it . . .”

Israen hesitated. He let his guard drop, his conflict visible as he looked to Lady Autumn. Kallias surged forward, tackling Israen as fire raced from Derren’s fingertips. Kallias encased him in ice, shifting off of his nephew quickly enough.

“Kal!”

Beron dissolved into red mist, reaching still to slit Kallias’s throat. His wife screamed again, but Vivianne had released her. She fell to her knees, clutching at her own hair. Rhys wandered up the steps, watching Derren as he tried to break out of the ice.

Israen cried out in pain, clutching at his chest, just above his heart. Rhysand moved closer, but never got to ask what was wrong. There was sheer horror in his eyes.

“Aelia,” Israen murmured, and he winnowed before anyone could warn him not to.

—:—:—:—

“Take me back!” Feyre winnowed away from the girl’s slashing claws. They were on the gravel road, feet from the manor. It hadn’t changed. The sickening smell of roses still clung heavily to the air. And that was Hart, running inside, no doubt to find his Lady. Feyre again dodged Lyssa’s movements. “Let me help!” The girl dropped to her knees and vomited blood and gore, sobbing. Feyre nudged her mind gently. She flinched, then touched the girl’s shoulder, pulling back her hair as she continued to vomit. She stroked her back lightly. “Please, it has to stop. It has to.”

“You’re home. You’re safe here,” Feyre said softly, holding the girl up as her strength failed her. “There is no one to hurt you here.” Her eyes lifted as Arrianne burst from the house, her dress and hair streaming behind her. She ran barefoot across the gravel, narrowly avoiding the puddle of sick and blood before Lyssa.

“Oh, baby,” Arrianne pulled her from Feyre carefully, cradling Lyssa against her chest. “You’re home. You’re home.”

“They took him from me. I can’t feel him anymore,” the girl sobbed. Pure terror ripped through Feyre, such that she nearly toppled over. The girl continued to babble and repeat herself, switching between anguish and anger, vomiting sporadically all the while.

“May I?” Feyre asked softly. Arrianne nodded. Feyre pressed her mind to Lyssa’s. Casrien had been bound in fae bane. The Monteseran daemati who had tried to restrain Lyssa had torn part of her reasoning from her, like a bridge ripped up to drift downstream. Feyre carefully rebuilt it, keeping the girl from panic while she did. She tried to keep from invading too much of her privacy.

When she was done, the girl quieted. It was a long while before she said, “Cas isn’t dead, those cuffs are muting it.”

“Muting what?” Arrianne asked. Lyssa flinched, wiping at her mouth. Hart passed her a water skin before she could ask for it. She thanked him and rinsed her mouth, spitting onto the stones.

“They were taking him to a ship. It was too far out to see, but it can’t have been more than halfway to the continent,” Lyssa said, then gurgled water for a moment.

“They’d have to be moored, otherwise they’d move and whoever was winnowing would end up in the wrong place,” Feyre nodded, carefully rising to her feet. Her center of balance was all off.

“They were going to take a female. Israen and I believe Aelia is the clear choice, if Beron’s children have failed to prove their worth,” Lyssa drank, then coughed out water and blood. She cursed vilely and glared at the skin. “Especially since I’ve killed Cervan.”

“You’ve what?!”

“If we get to Aelia fast enough, we can find some method of tracking them as they take her,” Feyre murmured.

Beron is dead. Rhys said down their bond. Feyre signaled that he should wait.

“I can hide on her,” said Lyssa, glancing at her mother. “I could become something small, something no one would notice.”

“You’ll have to be quick,” Arrianne said. “Or your father will try to stop you.”

“Are you sure?” Feyre asked, offering her hand. The girl grasped it immediately.

“Yes.”

—:—:—:—

“Unhand me, you useless rats!” The door to the wooden cell opened and shut abruptly, a small form stuffed inside hastily. The lock clicked back into place. Casrien was still trying not to vomit. He hated boats and their ceaseless rocking. He had no control of it, not like when he flew. The female pounded at the door. She gave up when there was no answer. “You’re the one I’m meant to fuck?”

“I’d rather not,” Casrien answered with a groan. Lying down was better than standing, but his wings were in an uncomfortable position. He missed Lyssa, the call and answer in his blood and heart and soul. It ached strangely, like something left unfinished at the last possible moment.

The female sniffed at the air. “You’re mated.” Casrien didn’t answer. She slid down to the floor. “I just want to go home.” Casrien closed his eyes. He’d been within reach of home. Still, home did not mean Lyssa yet. Not until he convinced his and her parents. “You’re quiet, for a privileged male.”

“I found out perhaps a day ago that I am mated to the daughter of the male who killed my grandparents and aunt. She doesn’t yet know. Forgive me if I’m not entirely enthusiastic at my presence here,” Casrien said without opening his eyes. He didn’t know if it made sense. He couldn’t think through his nausea.

“I was supposed to be with Lin by now,” said the female bitterly. “She was supposed to—gah, why am I talking to you?!” Casrien said nothing in answer. “I may well talk to myself. I would, if you weren’t there. Gods, I hate this. I don’t need an heir. Father’s not even dead yet! And Kegin is the one who’s supposed to rule! It’s not fair!”

Casrien wished she would be quiet.

It was not granted him.

—:—:—:—

“AELIA!” Israen screamed. She was thrown over someone’s shoulder, her wrists and ankles bound, her mouth gagged. His aunt winnowed in beside him, but he paid her no heed, tearing after the bastard. His tattoo was burning into his flesh. He was failing her. He wasn’t going to let her slip away.

He winnowed over top of them, dropping onto the male. Aelia fell on a shield of his power as he twisted the male onto his back and straddled him, driving his fist through the male’s nose. The male flung him off, racing for Aelia. Casrien reached out a hand, his power slicing through Aelia’s bonds. She kicked the Monterseran away from her, scrambling to get up. Israen launched himself onto the male’s back, twisting him away.

“Aelia, get to my aunt,” Israen ground out. He was elbowed in the side but did not give up his hold. Aelia stumbled away. She leaned against the wall, panting and dazed. Israen seethed, “What did you do to her?!”

“Something about fae bane powder.” Fine blue dust clouded his vision. His power flared—then died. The Monteseran delivered a savage blow to Israen’s head.

“Israen!” His aunt shouted. He coughed, letting go of the Monteseran. He had to get to Aelia. If he could get to her, they could winnow. One touch, and the bastard lost his prize.

“Aelia!” That was her father. He couldn’t fail, he had to save her. He moved clumsily toward her, reaching as he did. Her hand brushed his, and he clasped it desperately.

There was a hand on the back of his neck, “Looks like I get both after all.”

“No!”

#acotar #acomaf #acowar #post-acowar #star of spring #acotar fanfiction #acotar next-gen #feysand #nessian #elucien #Vivianne x kallias #tamlin #beron #eris #eris x oc #tamlin x oc #prythian

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