#the anguish that actually drags her to her knees in the mud

[dont-blame-it-on-the-kids]

The Hollow of My Bones

When Lin is killed in action, Tenzin has to face a world without her.

TW Major Character Death

/Ao3 x/

#my writing #tenzin #tenzin pov #Lin #Lin’s death hc #Talk to me about how she dies please #talk to me about how the Krew and Gaang jr react #let me talk your ear off about how korra realizes just how poorly she treated Lin #and how much Lin meant to asami and mako #let me tell you about Suyin #torn apart with grief. #toph seeing it happen through the vines #the anguish that actually drags her to her knees in the mud #as she tries desperately to feel for Lin’s heartbeat only to find nothing but cooling metal armor echoing back to her

[wingsofkpop]

Hiraeth - I.X: Was it Worth it in the End? Part Two

pairing(s): Hybrid!Im Jaebeom x Reader, Witch!Mark Tuan x Reader, Werewolf!Jackson Wang x Reader, Vampire!Park Jinyoung x Reader, Supernatural!Got7 x Reader

genre: Supernatual!AU, Dark Magic!AU, very heavy Angst, eventual Smut

warnings: Mature language, violence, explicit descriptions of fighting and injury, weapons, blood and gore, brief mention of a mutilated animal corpse, minor character death, description of trauma and mental illness, brief mention of suicide, mentions of murder, satanic themes and ritual, etc. 

Trigger Warning: This chapter does contain graphic and explicit themes regarding violence, trauma, and death. Please do not read if this will harm you. This is your final warning.

word count: 10,6k

synopsis: How far are you willing to go to find out the truth about Moon Dye Bay?…

chapter directory

The nighttime is hushed, almost anxious as Minho maneuvers his way past gravestones and overgrown shrubbery. It’s almost like nature itself is too afraid of accidentally provoking the witch, sensing the torpedo of dark magic and violent sorrow stirring through his veins. He peers up at the crimson moon, grateful for the illumination it provides, and continues down his path—ignorant of the cold air bleeding into his flesh. 

Minho knows this is probably not the best time for a visit, aware that his ex-covenmates are likely plotting some sort of mission to overthrow him, but he doesn’t care—he can’t care anymore. A part of him, the shameful, guilty part of his mind. actually hopes they will succeed, at least then, he would no longer have to endure the pain that comes with bearing this black magic. He can feel its poison rushing through his veins, seering his body from the inside out, killing his soul over and over and over again… 

But isn’t this what he wanted? Revenge? Retribution? Minho performed that spell to hurt the very friends that hurt him—to hurt Mark, and he got his wish… so why does it feel like the world is caving in around him, swallowing him whole? 

Once he reaches his destination, Minho collapses to his knees, unable to bear the weight of his burdens. His eyes burn with tears, but he doesn’t allow himself to cry. A silent gust of wind strokes his cheeks, painting his skin red with bitterness and anger. He welcomes the cold air, accepting the punishment, before lifting his hand to splay his fingers against the even colder surface of the headstone. 

“I’m sorry…” Minho whimpers, “It didn’t have to be like this…” 

The silence heightens his anguish—deepens the wounds in his heart. 

If he could take it all back, he would… but he can’t. 

“I wish you were here, noona…” 

His murmur is lost to the wind, but it doesn’t matter. He climbs back to his feet before sparing one final glance at the burial place of his lost friend. After a deep inhale and a wordless goodbye, Minho turns and hastily begins back toward the mausoleum. 

He was allowed this one moment of weakness—now he must get back to the horrible reality he manifested for himself. 

☽ ☽ ☽ ☽ ☽ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾

“Can you be any more obvious…?” 

Mark quickly awakens from his mindless trance, discovering, to his dismay, Dahyun looking down at him with a single raised, all-knowing eyebrow. He fakes a cough into his elbow before shrugging his shoulders, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“You’re kidding me, right?... You literally haven’t taken your eyes off of her since we met up in the forest.” 

Heat immediately rises to Mark’s cheeks. As if on instinct, his eyes trail back to his subject of interest, watching as you wipe the sweat from Jaebeom’s girlfriend’s forehead and neck before shifting to do the same to Felix. It’s such a simple action, but you somehow look so ethereal—almost like an angel sent from heaven. 

He curses himself for his own cheesiness, then releases a defeated sigh. 

“We got into a pretty big fight earlier.” 

“Then don’t you think you should—I don’t know—talk to her instead of staring her down like a creep?” 

“I think the last thing she wants to do is talk to me.” Mark drags a hand through his hair. “I… said some really stupid shit in the heat of the moment. She probably hates me.” 

Dahyun scoffs, “God, you are such a fucking idiot.” 

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” 

“It means you need to get your ass over there and apologize to that girl.” 

Her harsh tone doesn’t falter beneath his glare, nor does her tenacious expression as the two proceed with their silent staring contest. After a minute or two, Dahyun breaks off the competition with a long, heavy sigh. Her eyes are soft when she looks back at him, and suddenly Mark finds the dried mud on his shoes a lot more interesting. 

“Mark, anyone can see how much you care about her—how much she cares about you.” Even when a gentle hand caresses his shoulder, the witch keeps his attention to the floor. “(Y/N) could never hate you—no matter how much stupid shit you pull.” She snickers, “And you pull a lot of stupid shit, so that has to account for something.”

He can’t help the amused chuckle that falls from his own lips. 

“Thanks, Dubu.” Mark says, tilting his head to finally meet the warmth of her gaze. 

“She’s a good one—a really good one, Mark.” The wolf hums, “Don’t let it be your fear that pushes her away.” She doesn’t give him a chance to reply further, pacing to a nearby corner to join a conversing Bang Chan and Yugyeom. 

Sparing the wolf trio one final glance, Mark musters up the remaining courage he has left and pushes from his perch against the kitchen countertop. He forces himself to walk in your direction—each step releasing more butterflies into the confines of his stomach. Once he reaches you, close enough to touch your turned back, he almost chickens out, content with spending the rest of the night watching you like hawk, but the sound of Felix’s breathy voice locks him in place: 

“—Channie-hyung and I have always wanted to go to Chicago… Is-Is it as windy as they say?” 

“Even windier.” You say with a laugh. “I can’t tell you how many scarves I lost, and don’t get me started on how freaking cold the winters are.”

Felix laughs too, although it resonates as more of a wheeze than anything. 

You shrug, “It’s a gorgeous city though—probably my most favorite place I’ve ever lived.” 

“Then why did you leave? If you loved it so much?” 

Mark’s interest piques when he notices how your figure grows tense at the young boy’s croak. He’s heard his fair share of stories of your heartfelt time in the Windy City, but he never quite figured out why you ultimately decided to move to Moon Dye Bay. You’ve always been reluctant to reveal certain details from your past, especially regarding your time in the foster system, but even then Mark has been able to pry the worst memories from your brain. 

This subject, however, has been a brick wall. 

“Because I couldn’t stay.” You finally answer, “It’s complicated, but something happened and basically I—” 

“(Y/N)?” 

He silently cusses as Felix interrupts your explanation, but his annoyance dissipates at the panicked expression etched along the teenager’s sweaty face. 

“What is it, Felix?” You shift your position on his bedside to better face the boy, leaning forward to place a gentle hand on his forehead. Mark can only imagine how hot the skin is to the touch. 

Felix’s words crack as they leave his lips, slicing at the witch’s heart like a dagger: 

“Am… Am I gonna die?”

“Of course not.” You immediately say, but Mark can sense the uneasiness in your tone. “Everyone is doing everything they can to help you, okay?... You’re gonna get through this, and one day you and your brother are gonna go see Chicago yourselves and try not to get blown away into the next century.” 

Felix sleepily chuckles, “Thanks, (Y/N).” 

“You should get some sleep.” The moment the command leaves your lips, Felix is already closing his eyes and diving headfirst into dreamland. Not wanting to startle you, Mark waits a couple seconds—partly to give you time to regain your composure, and partly to give himself time to think of what to say. However, he doesn’t have much of a choice when you suddenly turn, growing aware of his presence. A frown overtakes your face, and he instantly regrets ever leaving his countertop. 

“Did you need something?” 

“No—yes, I mean—shit.” Mark buries a hand in his tresses to tug at his roots, attempting to juggle between putting together the right spoken words and reminding his body to breathe. “(Y/N), I—” 

“If you came to apologize, I don’t want to hear it.” He helplessly watches as you rise from the bed before tossing your used rag on a nearby table. “I think you made yourself pretty clear back at my apartment.” 

“I shouldn’t have said what I said—” Before you can storm away, Mark latches his fingers around your wrist. “—please. Just give me a chance to explain.” 

Your shoulders rise and fall in a heavy sigh, but you make no move to tear away from his grip and he takes it as a chance to continue: 

“After my mom died, I was so fucking angry…” Mark notices your surprised gaze when you lift your head, but he doesn’t meet your eyes. “I was angry at the world, at her, at myself… and when my magic began to show up, things got a whole lot worse.” He shakes his head, “I thought about just ending it—jump into the bay or maybe drink myself to death—but then I met…” 

“Then you met Jackson.” 

“He taught me how to deal with the anger—to use it as a tool, not a weapon.” His eyes begin to burn at the countless memories that reel through his mind. “It was because of him I learned how to control my powers, and I was able to bring the coven together—hell, he was the one who told them to nominate me as Regent, which right now, seemed like the worst fucking decision on the planet.” 

Mark takes a moment to blink away his tears before taking a seat on an empty cot. He still can’t find it in himself to glance at your face, keeping his eyes trained to the wooden flooring. 

“But when Jackson had an idea, there was no stopping him.” He chuckles sarcastically, “The bastard was as stubborn as a goddamn mule.” 

“What happened to Jackson, Mark?” Your voice is both a sweet lullaby and a screeching siren against his ears. “How did he die? Really?” 

“The initial plan was to infuse enough magic into Jackson’s werewolf form so his venom would be lethal to the Primes, or at the very least, to Jinyoung. It all went smoothly in the beginning, I was able to channel enough power to complete the transformation… but something went wrong—

“—Jackson was different when he shifted. He was ruthless… He didn’t want to just kill the Primes—he wanted to slaughter every vampire along with those who protect the secrets of their existence… no matter if they were witch, werewolf, human—they all deserved to die…

“The combination of his determination and the bloodlust drove him fucking mad… If Jaebeom hadn’t ripped out his heart, there’s telling what he would have done—who he would have killed…” 

Mark leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees, attempting to hide his shame beneath the curl of his bangs. “—Jaebeom may have dealt the final blow, but Jackson died because the dark magic I used turned him into a monster—he’s dead because of me…” 

Silence encompasses the room like a vice grip to the throat. For a moment, Mark believes you left him, too disgusted and ashamed to even breathe the same air as him, but the entrance of your worn boots into his vision proves otherwise. The image is replaced by your face when you kneel in front of his broken figure, laying your hands over each bicep. He notices your touch is gentle, but not hesitant, and warm—always so warm. 

“You can’t blame yourself for his death, Mark.” Mark doesn’t realize he’s crying until you wipe a tear from his cheek. “How could you have known what that spell would do? You couldn’t have—”

“Magic always comes with price—especially dark magic.” He whispers, unable to hold back more liquid sadness as it trails down his skin. “(Y/N), if I ever lost you the same way I lost Jackson, my mom, I—” 

Mark’s voice cuts out into a sob, and once your arms wind around his form, he completely breaks, releasing every ounce of repressed sadness and despair and pain into the crook of your neck. He knows he’s selfish for melting into your embrace—for consuming your comfort like a demon expelled from the heavens—but he doesn’t care. 

When you guide his eyes to meet your own, Mark can spot the glassiness of your own orbs in the artificial light—along with enough compassion and ardor to send another flood of tears down his face. 

“I’m not going anywhere, okay?” You affirm, your tone unwavering and stern. “I’m here—and no matter how many times you fall, I’m gonna be here to pick you up…

“I’m here, Mark… Do you understand me?” 

He nods with a sniffle, tightly squeezing your hands between his own. 

“I’m sorry.” 

You smile at his apology. 

“I’m sorry too… for everything.” 

“Just… No more secrets. For real, this time.” 

“For real, this time.” Mark’s heart rate picks up when he suddenly notices how close his face is to yours. From this angle, he can count the constellations glistening within your eyes and map the delicate curves of your facial features. If he were to lean just an inch closer, just one tiny inch, his lips would be on your own—

“Sorry to interrupt, but we have an issue.” At Yugyeom’s statement, you and Mark immediately wrench away from one another, almost as if having been caught engaging in forbidden territory. Mark pretends he doesn’t miss the weight of your hands inside his own as he rises from the cot, making sure to put an appropriate amount of distance between his and your shoulders. 

He clears his throat before humming, “What’s going on?” 

“Chan wants to go and find Chaeyoung’s body.” Although Yugyeom’s face remains neutral, Mark can see the sadness lingering within his eyes at the mention of his fallen packmate. “He doesn’t remember exactly where she was, so him, Dahyun, and I are going to search the forest.” 

You immediately shake your head. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. Sunrise isn’t for at least another hour, and we have no way of knowing Youngjae broke the curse yet.” 

“I’m with (Y/N) on this one, Gyeom.” Mark agrees, “We’re safest here in the bunker.” 

“We can’t just leave her out there. I mean, she—” Yugyeom cuts himself off with a heavy sigh, before continuing in a softer tone, “You know how it feels to lose someone, hyung… Chaeyoung is—was… our family.” 

Mark takes a moment of silence to ponder, conflicted between his common sense and Yugyeom’s pleading gaze. As you said, sunrise is an hour away—but Youngjae, the coven and the Primes should have overthrown Minho by now, right? Plus, he literally blew Changbin’s head off with that shotgun. There’s no way his body could regenerate that quickly… 

“We’re all staying together.” He finally says, moving toward the kitchenette to grab his weapon from its perch on the counter. “And if anything seems shady, it’s an immediate retreat.” 

Yugyeom delivers a nod before heading off to gather the other wolves. Mark moves toward the bunker exit, but is stopped by your form. A heavy sigh cascades from his lips—just from your expression, he knows this conversation isn’t going to go his way. 

“(Y/N)—” 

“If you’re gonna tell me I can’t go with you, don’t even bother.” 

He shakes his head, “It’s too dangerous…” 

“If someone tells me that one more goddamn time—” He can’t help the tiny smile that spreads across his face at the sassy way you roll your eyes. And he doesn’t protest when you move to follow Dahyun up the ladder. 

☽ ☽ ☽ ☽ ☽ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾

Youngjae inhales a deep breath, taking the moment to feel his lungs expand, before releasing the air in an even deeper exhale. Even with the relaxation attempt, his body remains tense and his thoughts disorderly. He can’t help but feel as if Minho is waiting somewhere in the darkness of the crypt, ready to pounce on him like a predator to its prey. 

Would he toy with his catch first? Or would he skip the pleasantries and go right in for the kill? 

A hand appears on his shoulder, wrenching Youngjae from his morbid daydream. He angles his head to meet Lia’s concerned gaze and immediately tries to mask his fear beneath an expression of indifference. Unsurprisingly, the female witch sees right through his facade:

“I’ve known you practically my whole life, Youngjae. Whatever it is, you can’t hide it from me.” 

His shoulders sag in defeat as a sigh blows past his lips. 

“I’m just… worried about Mark-hyung. He’s powerless out there.”

“Mark is smart—he’ll know what to do if he finds himself in trouble.” 

“And if he doesn’t?... I-I mean, what if Minho or Changbin found him before he could warn the pack? He could be dead for all we know—” 

Lia silences his desperate quip with a shake of her head, “You shouldn’t think like that right now—” 

“What else am I supposed to do?” Youngjae runs a frustrated hand through his hair before gesturing toward the main exit of their underground penitentiary. “Even with yours and Jisung’s energy, I don’t have enough power to take down the barrier spell.” 

“Help is on the way—” 

“How do you know that for sure?” 

Lia remains silent, simply continuing to stare at Youngjae. He feels almost uncomfortable beneath her gaze, resisting the urge to shrink back and become one with the shadows. 

“I don’t know… but I have faith.” She murmurs after a brief moment. “We’ve lost a lot, but I still believe that we’ll all somehow manage to come out of this alive. You should try doing the same.” 

With that, Lia leaves to speak with a dangerously quiet Jisung. Youngjae spares the pair a single glance before heading toward the crypt entryway. A single beam of moonlight illuminates the exit stairway, almost as if mocking him about his inability to escape the dingy prison. 

Youngjae knows Lia is right—of course she’s right. Worrying about the possible pitfalls of this plan won’t help him, or Mark, or anyone. He can only pray that his mentor safely found his way out of the cemetery and is sending backup right this very moment. 

He needs to have hope, if nothing else. 

“What if we somehow lure Minho down here?” Youngjae’s thoughts quiet at Lia’s suggestion, angling his head to meet her gaze. “Technically Youngjae just needs to touch him to siphon his magic… so why don’t we bring him to us?” 

“Minho-hyung won’t step past the barrier.” Jisung dissents, dragging his fingers through his already tousled hair. “He probably knows we’re planning something against him, so there’s no way he’ll believe whatever ruse we try to pull.” 

“Then we have no choice. Youngjae, are you sure you can’t take down the spell?” 

Youngjae sullenly shakes his head. 

“Is there something else you can siphon? Maybe the crypt itself?” 

“The crypt was built by humans.” He answers, “I can only draw power from the supernatural—”

“Then it’s a good thing my dear brother and I weren’t turned into superwolf bait.” 

Youngjae, along with the other witches, nearly leaps a foot in the air at the sudden voice. He whirls around to face the stairwell, which to his surprise, is now occupied by the last person he ever expected to see: 

Im Jaebeom. 

Jisung chokes, scurrying backward into the shadows as the hybrid approaches the trio. After taking purchase against the doorway, he offers his signature sly smirk. 

“Evening, Harry Potter and friends… Funny meeting you down here.” 

“Now is not the time for games, hyung.” Youngjae breathes a sigh of relief as Jinyoung’s voice echoes throughout the stone walls. Seconds later, he comes hustling down the staircase before shoving Jaebeom out of the way. The vampire then peers into the crypt, his gaze burning with the determination of a man at war. “Is anyone hurt?” 

“No. We’re okay.” Lia steps forward. “If you’re here, I’m guessing Mark reached the wolf pack?” 

“Your guess is correct.” Jinyoung nods, placing a hand against the invisible doorway. “My brother and I will do everything we can to help disarm the rogue, but I think it’d be best to free you all first.” 

Youngjae joins the conversation. “I can take down the barrier spell, but I’ll need to draw energy from one of you to do so.” 

“Let’s do this quickly then.” Jinyoung goes to roll up the sleeve of his white shirt, but is halted by his immortal companion. Surprise filters through Youngjae’s veins as Jaebeom shrugs the leather jacket from his shoulders with a huff: 

“With my luck, he’ll drain you dry and I’ll have to deal with this voodoo fucker myself. I think it’s best we use my energy—sorry not sorry.” 

“Alright, then.” Youngjae hums, “I’ll need you to push through the barrier just enough that I can touch you… It’s gonna hurt. A lot.” 

“Good thing I’m a sadomasochist.” Jaebeom snickers at his brother’s unamused expression, “Too much?” 

“Move your hand through that goddamn barrier before I throw you to the superwolf myself.” 

The hybrid rolls his eyes, but follows Jinyoung’s instructions and proceeds to force his limb past the invisible blockade. He remains silent, but Youngjae can spy the uncomfortable twitch of his eyebrow and the tension along his stone-cold features. Blood begins to bud along his knuckles like a patch of blooming roses before flowing down his pale skin the more he presses against the barrier.

The siphoner raises his hand in preparation. “Just a bit more.” 

A mere couple seconds later, Youngjae feels Jaebeom’s bloody flesh brush against his own. The skin-to-skin contact is slight, but enough, allowing the hybrid’s energy to spread through his veins like wildfire. Youngjae almost cries in relief as the magic conquers his entire body—a new kind of hope sparking somewhere within his chest. 

“Phasmatos Siprum… Emnis Abortum…” Youngjae murmurs, positioning both hands against the invisible wall. He feels it crumbling beneath his fingertips, unable to withstand the power flowing through his figure. “Fasila Quisa Exilum San… Fasila Quisa Exilum San…”

A proud grin stretches along his features as the barrier buckles, then completely shatters. With Lia and Jisung in tow, Youngjae beelines out of the crypt and into the stairwell where Jaebeom, who’s cleaning the crimson from his knuckles, and Jinyoung reside. The latter nods, which Youngjae is quick to return. 

“‘Kay, they’re free… Now what?” 

“Now we find Minho and end this once and for all.” Lia answers, not sparing the hybrid a glance as she dashes up the stairs. Youngjae and the rest of the group try to keep up with the female witch as best as they can, not faltering until they reach the surface. The cemetery is quiet when they emerge from the crypt, Youngjae notices—almost too quiet. 

He takes a short moment to breathe in the fresh night air before turning to a tense Jinyoung, “I need to get close enough to siphon Minho’s magic to perform the counterspell. You think you and your brother can find me a way in?” 

Jinyoung nods. “You can count on us.” 

“Stay close…” Lia warns with a sigh, “I wouldn’t be surprised if the bastard already knows we’re free—” 

Lightning suddenly strikes a mere few feet from where Lia is standing, earning a chorus of screams and surprised gasps from the witch trio. Youngjae watches as Jinyoung speeds forward, grabbing Lia just in time to avoid being burnt to a crisp by a second bolt. With Jisung at his side, Youngjae quickly takes shelter underneath the overhang of a nearby tomb as even more lightning bombards the earth. He surveys the area, searching for the perpetrator responsible for the weather abnormalities. 

“Minho!...” Lia screeches from behind a large tree, her tone far less than friendly. “Quit being a fucking coward! Come out here and face us goddamnit!...” 

Youngjae huddles closer to Jisung as the wind suddenly picks up, ripping at his hair and clothing like a vengeful spirit. He moves to speak to his younger companion, but his words die on his tongue as the subject of the hour waltzes into view. The heavy gusts don’t seem to affect him, though that’s no surprise since the wretched weather is his doing. 

Minho smirks, “They say lightning never strikes one place twice… You must be really special then, Lia.” 

“Oh fuck off! We’re tired of playing your stupid games!” 

“This only ends one way, Minho—” Jinyoung says, cautiously moving from Lia’s side to approach the powerful witch. His steps, however, are halted by another vicious bolt of electricity. Youngjae attempts to make out Jaebeom’s form through the blurriness of his wind-induced tears, but the hybrid is nowhere to be found. “—so we can do it the easy way, or the hard way! The choice is yours!” 

“Last I checked, this isn’t your fight, Prime.”

“It became my fight the moment you threatened my family and my friends!” 

Minho snickers, “Trust me, I had every intention of ridding this town of you and your brother’s filth.” 

“Was it also your intention to kill an innocent werewolf girl!?” Youngjae’s heart drops at the vampire’s following statement. “Son Chaeyoung is dead because of Changbin—because of you!” 

“Every war has its casualties.” 

“And what of Felix!? Will his death just be another trivial loss in your obsession for revenge!?” 

This time, Youngjae notices the cockiness melt from Minho’s features into something akin to trepidation. The wailing of the wind picks up to a screech, nearly drowning out the dark-haired witch’s weak inquiry, “What are you talking about?”

“Felix was bitten… and is dying as we speak!” Jinyoung shakes his head frantically. “Do you believe he deserves this, Minho!? Do you believe Chaeyoung deserved to die!?... You can fix this—make this right!” 

Minho remains silent, and for a moment, Youngjae wonders if the witch will actually come to his senses and call off this whole ordeal. But just as soon as it appeared, the pained look along his features transitions into something more sinister.   

“We’re all gonna die someday, so what does it even fucking matter!?” 

“Are you hearing yourself!?” Lia screams from behind a nearby tree, “Look what you’ve become, Minho! How would Nayeon see you right now!” 

“Don’t bring her into this!” Minho’s hiss blends with the moans of the wind. Massive raindrops begin to pelt down against the earth, immediately soaking Youngjae to the bone. For the first time, he notices the dark witch’s position in relation to his own. Realistically, Youngjae can be at Minho’s side in mere milliseconds, before he has a chance to blink. If only he can get him to move a bit closer… 

As if reading his thoughts, Jinyoung attempts to coax the witch another step forward. 

“Please, Minho… I don’t wish to hurt you.”

The latter shakes his head with a chuckle. “It’s too fucking bad that you think you can.” 

Minho raises his hand, harshly forcing the vampire down against the muddy earth. Youngjae watches in horror as Jinyoung’s limbs begin to contort and rearrange against his own will—the sound of cracking bones and the vampire’s pained groans filling his ears like a haunting melody. He forces his gaze away from the gruesome sight and prepares to advance on the dark witch, but Jisung stops him with a hand to his shoulder: 

“Not yet, hyung.” 

“But Jinyoung—” 

“Trust me.” His eyes are wide with determination—Youngjae can’t remember a time he’s ever seen Jisung so fierce. “I have a plan. Wait here until my signal.” 

Though filled with confusion, Youngjae does as the young witch requests and stays in place while Jisung himself carefully maneuvers his way through gravestones and buildings, attempting to remain out of sight. A sudden burst of lightning cracks through the atmosphere, and at first, Youngjae fears Jisung has been caught, but quickly realizes Minho has his sights set on another party: 

“I was wondering when you’d join the fun—I looked forward to tearing your bitch-ass apart.” 

“I would say I’m flattered, but I rather like my ass.” Jaebeom saunters across a nearby rooftop. In the midst of the storm, he almost reminds Youngjae of a superhero—or more likely in his case, the psychotic supervillain. “Look, you’ve had your fun, kid. Now I suggest you release my brother and cut out all this petty-teenage bullshit before I break your body in places you never thought possible.” 

“That’s it?... And here I thought you’d want the antidote?” 

Jaebeom’s face darkens. 

“...So there is a cure?” 

“Of course. Every spell has its loophole.” Minho finally lowers his hand, ceasing the painful reconstruction of Jinyoung’s skeleton. Youngjae watches in confusion as the former retracts something from his pocket—some sort of vial, it seems—and offers it toward the hybrid. “The blood which Changbin drank to turn—it’ll heal anyone fallen victim to his bite.” 

“You better hand that over before I rip your teeth from your skull.” Jaebeom growls darkly, hopping down from his overhead perch.

The witch shakes his head, “Not so fast, Mr. Wolf… See, there was only so much left—enough to heal one lucky soul.” 

“You’re a sick fucking bastard,” Jaebeom spits. “You wanted this to happen—”

“Your little bloodsucking girlfriend is dying, isn’t she?” Minho tosses the vial toward the hybrid, who effortlessly catches it between two trembling fingers. “If you want to save her life, then I suggest you go before the venom does its job.” 

“Jaebeom-hyung, don’t—!” Jinyoung gasps, slithering across the muddy earth like an earthworm lost to the world. 

“You know she doesn’t have much time—” 

“We can’t do this without you—we need you!... I need you, hyung!”  

Jaebeom, staring at the tiny container in his grasp, doesn’t reply to his incapacitated companion. Youngjae curses the smirk that spreads across Minho’s face—a sign of victory—and attempts to spot Jisung and Lia somewhere between the ferocious raindrops. He has no such luck, and instead decides to pray for a miracle instead. 

“If you hadn’t fucked around with the few people I care about, I might have actually liked you.” Jaebeom murmurs with a sigh before tucking the vial into his pocket and sending the dark witch a malicious sneer. “Well isn’t that too fucking bad.” 

Youngjae leaps almost ten feet in the air as lightning strikes for what seems like the millionth time, although this time, it’s inches from where Minho is standing. After searching the area, Youngjae discovers Lia and Jisung across the way, hands clasped, eyes bright with passion, uttering some sort of offensive charm. Minho attempts to sprint in the opposite direction, but Jaebeom easily tackles the witch before he can get far. 

“Now Youngjae-hyung! Do it now!” 

At Jisung’s cue, Youngjae takes off into the rain. The bitter feel of Mother Nature’s tears against his skin quickens his movements, wanting nothing more then to end this hurricane, both literally and figuratively, once and for all. He reaches Minho in what seems like hours and hurries to grab his wrist—but just like the tides during a storm, the tables quickly turn. 

At the wave of Minho’s hand, Jaebeom goes flying across the cemetery, crashing into a stone statue and collapsing into the resulting rumble. White-hot pain spreads through Youngjae’s veins like a poison, freezing his muscles and immobilizing his limbs from any further movement. He collapses to the ground, where mud immediately clings to his clothing.

Minho rises to his feet before stepping on Youngjae’s hand with a cackle, “Don’t you fuckers get it!? I’m untouchable! You can’t fucking win!” 

“That’s where you’re wrong, Minho…” Youngjae chuckles, curling his fingers around the tread of the dark witch’s boot. Minho realizes his mistake as soon as the former’s hand begins to glow, foolishly attempting to squirm from his touch. 

Thunder roars in the distance as Youngjae grins in triumph: 

“Because unlike you… we’re not alone.” 

The last thing Youngjae sees before he loses consciousness is a flash of white and the bewildered face of the dark witch as he collapses beside him.   

☽ ☽ ☽ ☽ ☽ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾

“I take it Mark apologized?...” You nearly leap out of your own skin at the sudden inquiry. With a less than agitated frown, you turn to acknowledge the culprit for your almost heart attack. If you didn’t know any better, you’d swear some of these supernaturals have powers of teleportation or something… 

“Goddamnit, Dahyun. Not all of us have superwolf hearing.” 

“Sorry, dearie. Force of habit.” The she-wolf offers an apologetic smile, moving forward to hook her arm with your own. She allows Yugyeom, Chan and Mark to gain a bit of distance ahead before repeating again, “So Mark…?” 

“We both talked it out and apologized… so everything’s okay now.” You hum—the tiny fib leaving a bitter taste in your mouth. 

Truthfully, your encounter with Mark left you conflicted. Of course, you’re more than glad he finally opened up about his past, and even more glad that he trusts you enough to reveal his lingering feelings of trauma, but there’s still a pretty big fucking elephant in the room—one involving his dead best friend and the fact you can talk to him beyond the grave. 

You should have told him then and there—right after you promised to abolish all secrets—but something inside you couldn’t do it… and you don’t know why. 

“Why are you so interested in Mark and I’s relationship anyway?” You utilize your curiosity as a distraction from the guilt breathing down your neck, angling your neck to peer at Dahyun’s side profile. “Is there… history between you two?” 

“No, no—nothing like that. Mark and I have just known each other since we were kids. Our moms were close friends, so Mark, Yugyeom and I pretty much grew up together.” 

“He never told me that.” 

“Don’t take it personal, sweetheart. Mark doesn’t like to talk about his past—” Dahyun sighs, “—too many bad memories between his dad and the bullshit that happened with his mom. He’ll come around eventually… he just needs more time.” 

“I know his mom passed when he was a teenager, but Mark never actually mentioned how she died…” You bite your lip, sending a curious glance to your wolf companion. “It’s really not fair to ask you, but—” 

“Mark found her in their own kitchen with her entire throat ripped open.” Dahyun’s blunt answer leaves your throat dry, unable to speak another word if you wanted to. “The sheriff ruled it as an animal attack, but I’m sure you’re smart enough to figure out what really happened.” 

Your heart sinks, and you choose not to say anything further. 

“Dahyun! (Y/N)! Don’t get too far behind!” Chan’s voice echoes from somewhere up ahead. With the black of night beginning to fade, you can just make out his, Yugyeom, and Mark’s silhouettes a couple dozen feet away. Dahyun gives your forearm a gentle squeeze before releasing your conjoined limbs to catch up with her packmates. You do the same, meeting an armed Mark about halfway. 

His eyes glitter with concern underneath the fading starlight. 

“Everything okay…?” 

“Yeah, Dahyun and I were just catching up.” You inhale a deep breath before releasing it in an even heavier exhale. “But there is something I need to talk to you about—about Jackson and the whole resurrection thing.” 

Mark shakes his head, “You have every right to make your own decisions, (Y/N), but I wish you and Youngjae would have come to me.” 

“I know that, but it was more complicated than that—” You try to gather your thoughts while also attempting to make sense of your words. “I couldn’t tell you because, well—because Jackson told—” 

“Mark-hyung! We’ve got an issue!” Yugyeom’s warning immediately cuts off your explanation. Mark shoots you an apologetic glance before hurrying the two of you forward to join the wolf trio. It only takes seconds for you to distinguish the cause of the beta’s distress. 

A deer carcass lays precariously on the forest floor, and albeit it’s practically torn to shreds, you can just make out a single word carved into its bloody flesh: 

Die. 

“Shit—we need to go. Now.” 

“We’ve already come this far. Chae should be around here somewhere.” Chan ignores Mark’s directive, stepping over the animal corpse to traverse further through the forest. He barely takes a step before the witch is grabbing his wrist. “Let me go, hyung.” 

“Don’t be an idiot.” 

“Don’t tell me what to—”

“Shut the fuck up. Both of you.” Dahyun quietly hisses, “Listen.” 

You try to do as the she-wolf says, but all that meets your ears is the combination of your own labored breathing and uneven pulse. Judging by the confused expression along Mark’s face, he’s probably dealing with the same situation. 

“What is it?” 

“We’re being watched.” Yugyeom answers Mark’s inquiry in a whisper. “Mark, you and (Y/N) need to find somewhere to hide right now—Chan, Dubu, get ready to fight—”

As soon as the command leaves Yugyeom’s lips, Mark takes you by the arm and drags you behind a broad tree trunk. You fish Jinyoung’s pocket knife from your pocket while Mark cocks his shotgun in preparation. Who knew the day would come that you’d actually be grateful for the presence of two dangerous weapons…  

“If anything goes wrong—you run like hell, got it?” 

You shake your head at Mark’s demand. “I’m not just going to leave you—”  

“Yugyeom! Above you!” At Chan’s warning, you’re suddenly shoved to the ground by the witch, watching in horror as a deranged Changbin descends from the treetops onto the beta himself. His skin is a sickly ashen shade, and his black veins so prominent it would make a nurse weep. There’s no human emotion left inside his dark eyes as he strikes Yugyeom over and over again with his lengthy sharp talons, tearing open his skin like a birthday present—he’s a complete animal. 

“Bin, stop!” Chan throws his arms around Changbin’s shoulders in an attempt to pull him from Yugyeom, winding a tight arm around his throat before thrusting a knee against his spine. “Think about what you’re doing!” 

With Dahyun’s assistance, the two wolves manage to separate the dark wolf from that of Yugyeom’s wounded self. Even so, Changbin clearly does not appreciate being stolen away from his prey. He easily escapes from Chan’s hold, landing a couple heavy hits against the latter’s nose before shoving him to the ground. Dahyun takes the moment to strike, bringing the dark wolf to kneel with a harsh kick to his knee, but the action does minimal damage. Changbin punts the she-wolf a dozen feet away as if she weighs nothing. You wince as Dahyun connects with a nearby tree trunk with a vocal thud before dropping to the ground with no movements of rejoining the fight. 

“Shit…” You curse to yourself, “They won’t be able to take him down by themselves—he’s too fucking strong.” 

“Watch your ears.”  You notice Mark aiming his gun toward the dark wolf, waiting for an opportunity with his finger on the trigger. At his discretion, you cover your ears just in time for him to fire a first and second shot. A ferocious growl echoes through the trees, spreading goosebumps across your flesh like wildfire. 

You watch both Chan and Yugyeom take advantage of Changbin’s distraction. The alpha delivers a swift, yet heavy hit against his wounded shoulder while the beta goes for his legs. Similar to Dahyun, they manage to pin Changbin to the forest floor. For a moment, you almost believe the fight has concluded in your team’s favor—but the tides shift. In the blink of an eye, Chan is impaled with a large jagged branch and sent tumbling into some foliage whereas Yugyeom is dealt punch after strike after kick, unable to escape the barrage of Changbin’s wrath. He eventually, like the former two, collapses to the earth and makes no move to rise. 

Changbin cracks his neck before stalking toward where you and your companion stand. 

“Mark—” 

“I got it!” Mark quickly feeds another couple shells into the shotgun barrel, cocks the weapon, then aims down sight. He manages to sink a bullet into your target’s abdomen, followed by another in his bicep, but Changbin merely releases an annoyed snarl and continues charging forward. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck—(Y/N), move!” You leap out of the way just in time to avoid a powerful strike. Changbin’s hand splinters the trunk of the tree, sending pieces of bark in every direction. A particular shard catches the bridge of your nose, causing blood to warmly cascade down your skin. You quickly wipe the liquid from your right eye, ignoring the nausea fluttering inside your gut, before focusing back on the situation at hand. 

You look up in time to watch Mark swing his shotgun harshly against Changbin’s skull. Taking advantage of his disorientation, you rush forward to stab your pocket knife into the wolf’s back. Changbin practically roars in fury, angling backward to land a hit to your face before you have time to react. The force of his strike throws you to the ground, a sharp pain lingering in your left cheek. 

“Don’t fucking touch her!” Mark throws himself against Changbin, delivering hit after hit to anything and anywhere. Still, Mark’s human strength does little to outbeat the dark wolf, and you watch in horror as Changbin effortlessly pins the witch against his chest with a bloody hand around his throat.  You desperately search for something, anything, in hopes of saving Mark from whatever deadly fate awaits Changbin’s bloodlust, but fate doesn’t seem to be on your side.

“Changbin—please don’t do this!” You cry, praying to some type of deity that the wolf is sane enough to understand your words. Even so, your confidence is low, seeing as talking clearly had no effect during your last encounter, but you’re fresh out of options at this point. “You know this isn’t who you are!” 

To your surprise, Changbin actually answers, “You don’t know anything about me.” 

“Maybe not, but I know you don’t actually want to hurt anyone…” You cautiously rise to your feet with a shake of your head, wary of the tight hold Changbin currently has on Mark’s jugular. “Your thoughts are all sorts of fucked up right now because of the dark magic, so why don’t you just let Mark go and we can—” 

“Don’t you fucking get it! This fucker—” He yanks at Mark with more force than necessary, “—took everything from me! He took my pack, my alpha—the only people I ever felt safe with!” 

“I understand you—” 

“No, you don’t!” Changbin wails, “You can’t even imagine how I feel! How fucking hard it is to wake up in a world you know you’ll never belong! How much it fucking hurts just to go on and pretend like everything’s normal when it’s fucking not!” 

“Tell him it’s okay to feel angry—” You whirl your head around to find a seemingly exhausted, yet wild-eyed Jackson Wang at your side. “—but none of this was Mark’s fault.” 

You’re mortified at first, having never encountered the ghost anywhere outside your bedroom—but whether it’s the desperation etched along his features, or the flush of purple that overtakes Mark’s complexion—you quickly transfer back to reality: 

“Changbin, it’s perfectly normal to feel angry and cheated, but this wasn’t Mark’s fault—deep down, I think you know that.”

“What does it fucking matter anymore? I’m all alone anyways.” The pure agony etched along his face has your heart splitting in two. 

You’ve never seen a creature so strong and so powerful look so… vulnerable. 

“You said the exact same thing to me when we first met…” Jackson murmurs softly.

“You told Jackson you were alone at one point too…” 

An obvious wave of tense silence washes through the forest, making the beat of your heart that much more prominent in your ears. 

Changbin’s whisper is dark—dangerous. “How the fuck do you know that?” 

“Because… Because he’s here, Changbin.” You say, your eyes meeting Mark’s as the words leave your tongue. “You’re not alone because Jackson is still here.” 

You don’t know what kind of reaction you expected from your revelation, but it certainly is not the heinous laughter that spills from the dark wolf’s lips. 

“You must have lost your goddamn mind… Jackson-hyung is dead!” 

“Maybe physically, but his spirit still remains.” 

“You mean—” You turn to discover a bewildered Yugyeom unsteadily leaning against a tree, “—his… ghost? You—You can see his ghost?” 

You nod.   

Changbin sneers with a low growl. “I don’t fucking believe you.” 

“There’s a cliffside back along the bay about twenty miles from the lodge,” Jackson begins, his tone a blend of nostalgic and sorrowful. “Changbin and I used to go there to watch the full moon rise before we turned into our wolf forms… I-I’ve missed that so much…” 

“You and Jackson would always watch the full moon rise on a cliff overlooking the bay before you transitioned,” You repeat. “He says he misses those moments with you…”

“Stop it!” Changbin frantically shakes his head, “You’re lying!” 

“He’s here, Changbin… He’s really here.” You move forward again, more confidently this time, and raise your hands in a sympathetic gesture. “And the last thing he wants is for you to make the same mistakes he did, so please—let Mark go and let us help you…” 

It’s as if time freezes for a moment. Changbin seems to fight a battle with himself—countless emotions rushing through his teary eyes. You watch the dark wolf glance toward an unconscious Dahyun and Chan, then to a silent Yugyeom, before finally setting his focus back to you. You can only pray your face reflects the hope swirling throughout your veins—pray that Changbin will do the right thing. 

To your delight, the blackness of his veins gradually begin to fade and the sharp claws protruding from his fingertips recede. You don’t realize you’ve been holding your breath until Changbin finally retracts his hold from Mark’s neck. You’re quick to take the unsteady witch in your own arms before sending the now normal wolf a thankful smile. 

“Thank you, Changbin…” 

He nods shyly before wiping a couple tears from his cheeks. You watch as Yugyeom cautiously makes his way toward the younger boy, murmurs something, then tugs the latter into a tight embrace that pulls even more liquid sadness from his eyes. The sight has your heart melting into a puddle of warmth—the emotion doesn’t last though, not when Mark’s dark croak enters your ears:

“You… can see Jackson…” 

You shrug sheepishly, “I wanted to tell you, but he said not to… He didn’t want to hurt you anymore than he already had.” 

Mark remains silent. You try to search for his features for some kind of anger or disappointment, but are only awarded with his surface level blank stare. Worry flooding through your veins, you look to Jackson for any possible guidance, but the ghost merely shakes his head. 

After a couple tense seconds or so, Mark finally murmurs, “Jack… I—I’m so sorry. For everything.” 

“You have nothing to be sorry for.” Jackson says immediately, “If only I had listened to you, then maybe things would have played out different.” 

“He says it wasn’t your fault—he should have listened to you.”

“We both made some pretty shitty mistakes.” Mark hums, “I miss you, man. So fucking much.” 

You don’t wait for Jackson to reply, already knowing his answer. 

“He misses you too, Mark. Just as much.”

“How is this even possible…?” You and Mark turn to find the shocked gaze of Yugyeom, who is closely followed by the despair of that belonging to Changbin. “Supernaturals can’t even see spirits, much less mortals…” 

“We never exactly figured that out. Jackson said he felt drawn to me from the Other Side—he kind of just showed up in my bedroom the night after Mina and Momo died.” 

“Any contact with the dead usually requires some sort of spell or medium.” Mark bites his lip in confusion. “I’ve never seen anything like this before, not even in any of my mother’s grimoires—”

“Jackson!” Your body grows rigid as Jackson suddenly collapses to the ground with a pained groan. You hurry forward, kneeling next to the man, and reach for his shoulder. The realization of his phantom existence hits you like a bag of bricks when your fingers phase through his form. You settle for calling his name again instead, “Jackson—what’s wrong?” 

“What the hell is going on?” You hear Changbin stress from somewhere behind you, but your focus is completely on the ghost in question. 

Jackson lifts his head with a gasp, revealing a line of blood dripping from his nose. “I-It’s the witches!... They know about our plans—they’re trying to force me back to the Other Side—”

“(Y/N)?” 

You shake your head feverishly, “It’s, uh, it’s the witches on the Other Side—they don’t like Jackson crossing over, so they’re trying to bring him back…” 

Mark nods. “Witches, dead or alive, will do anything to maintain the balance of nature.” 

“(Y/N)—shit—I don’t have a lot of time—” Your chest tightens at the urgency behind Jackson’s words. “I know so much just went down, but—” 

“Don’t worry, Jack. I won’t let you disappear again.” You affirm before climbing to your feet to face your new subject of interest. “Mark—I need you to perform the resurrection spell.” 

“Woah, wait—” Mark shakes his head, “(Y/N), I can’ t—” 

“If we don’t resurrect him now, then Jackson is gone forever!” Your warning spreads a new tension across the atmosphere, manifesting in the form of sullen and panicked expressions. “Please, Mark—we have a chance to bring him back!” 

“I can’t do the spell because I don’t have any magic…” Your heart sinks at Mark’s revelation. “Minho absorbed all my magical energy back at the graveyard… I’m so sorry, Jackson…” 

“Hold on, you told me that there’s different types of magic…” You push, “Can’t you draw energy from something? Like the forest, or the moon, or, or—”

“Or me.” You turn, discovering the speaker of the response to be none other than a determined Changbin. “Minho-hyung’s spell may be gone, but I can still feel the magical energy lingering through my body.” 

Mark hesitates, “I-I don’t know if it will work… and if something goes wrong—” 

“Do you want Jackson-hyung back or not?...” 

A moment of silence passes after Changbin’s question. You keep an eye on a repeatedly wincing Jackson, and the other on the witch’s face, attempting to decipher his thoughts inside the glow of his gaze. For a moment, you wonder if Mark will even provide an answer, until the words finally leave his lips: 

“Fuck the balance of nature. I’ll bring you back, Jackson—I promise.” 

☽ ☽ ☽ ☽ ☽ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾

Jinyoung stares at the sun as it gradually rises past the horizon, bathing his skin in a warm, celebratory light. His gaze wavers across the cemetery to the notorious mausoleum, where he watches Lia and Jisung carefully assist a barely conscious Youngjae past the doorway. After this crazy night, the siphoner definitely deserves a good, long rest. Then again, so does everyone else. 

He releases a heavy sigh before shifting away from the witch trio. After sparing one final glance to the sunrise, Jinyoung allows his feet to carry him through the early morning glow, past countless tombstones and other structures, and settles beside a second figure in front of a particular burial site. He silently reads the engravings along the headstone before addressing his companion without so much as a glimpse: 

“I assumed you would be halfway back to the bunker by now.” 

Jaebeom doesn’t respond, not that Jinyoung really expects him to. He peers at the hybrid through the corner of his eye, attempting to seek meaning beyond his blank features. Centuries later, Jinyoung still can’t predict the workings of Jaebeom’s inner thoughts. Especially when it comes to the situation at hand. 

“Mark called. Changbin is no longer affected by Minho’s spell.” He explains, “They’re also preparing a ritual to resurrect Jackson Wang—” 

“Tzuyu…?” 

Jinyoung’s chest tightens as the name falls from Jaebeom’s lips. 

“Their youngest, Ryujin, is looking after both her and Felix.”

“So she’s still alive…?” 

“It seems so.” 

A brief moment of silence passes between the pair. The earth grows brighter and brighter as the seconds roll by, reminding Jinyoung that time is a friend to no one. 

“Hyung, did you… truly switch off your humanity?” 

“I did, at first.” Jaebeom’s answer is quiet, and Jinyoung can detect the subtle hint of vulnerability hidden beneath his gruff tone. “But I guess I can never completely turn it off.” 

“It’s alright to feel, hyung—be it anger… or passion… or fear…” 

Jinyoung notices Jaebeom shift uncomfortably before glancing down at the glass vial in the palm of his hand. For once, he can actually distinguish the emotions present within the hybrid’s dark eyes. The knowledge only jabs at his heart. 

“Everything is taken care of, right?” 

“The night has ended, and Minho is safely sealed away in the crypt.” Jinyoung nods, “We live to see another day.”

He watches his companion tuck the precious vial into the pocket of his jeans before turning away from the headstone. Jinyoung is not sure where the urge comes from, but he abandons his perch, grabbing Jaebeom’s shoulder before he can leave the cemetery. He ignores the hybrid’s confused expression and pulls him into a tight embrace. 

“Thank you for staying, hyung…” Jinyoung’s murmur is slightly muffled against the fabric of his jacket, but he knows his companion heard them loud and clear. 

Jaebeom hesitates for a moment, clearly taken aback by the sudden act, but eventually winds his arms loosely around Jinyoung’s back with a gentle murmur of his own:

“You will always be my family, Jinyoung… Always and forever…”  

☽ ☽ ☽ ☽ ☽ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾

“I’ve never used magic like this before, so I can’t promise this will work.” Mark glances to where he assumes Jackson’s spirit is located inside the white circle makeshifted out of a bag of flour Dahyun managed to find in a bunker cabinet, before glancing to the companion at his side. “You sure you’re up for this? It’ll feel like I’m literally sucking the life force out of your body…” 

Changbin nods, “If it means bringing Jackson-hyung back.” 

“Okay, then.” Mark turns to the surrounding crowd next, “In order to do this, I’ll need to lower the veil to the Other Side. This will create a temporary door that Jackson can pass through to physically enter our realm. Once he crosses over, he should become mortal again.” 

“Seems easy enough.” Dahyun snickers, although the sound is dry and forced. “Anything else we need to know?” 

“Whatever happens, do not enter the circle.” His eyes drift from the she-wolf to your silent form. As if sensing the scrutiny, your gaze connects with his own, and knowing he has your attention, Mark continues in a darker tone, “Just as spirits can pass into our realm, we can cross to the Other Side… so for the love of god, don’t do anything stupid.”

Your and Mark’s staring contest ceases when your head snapes toward the circle. Seconds later, you break the tense silence with a soft murmur, “Jackson says it’s getting worse. He can feel the witches trying to drag him back.” 

“Then I guess that’s our cue.” He sighs before nodding toward the circle one last time, “I’m gonna do my best, Jack. Just hold on.” 

With one final glance to the grimoire you gave him earlier, Mark inhales a deep breath and takes Changbin’s outstretched hand into his own. He closes his eyes, focusing every part of his brain on the electrifying sensation of the magical energy coursing through the wolf’s body. Bit by bit, he feels Changbin’s power bleeding into his own veins, awakening the slumbering supernatural nature of his soul. Once he’s sure enough he’s acquired enough magic, Mark opens his eyes and begins the incantation: 

“Vita mortem, mortem vita est… Partis inferioris velum, partis inferioris ante illum vetum…” Almost instantly, the wind picks up while the air grows uncomfortably cold. He ignores the violent shivers wracking through his limbs and proceeds to repeat the words as the temperature continues to drop. With each spoken syllable, Mark’s head becomes dizzy and his flesh feels as if it’s being scorched off, but he continues. 

No amount of pain could ever dull the hope of seeing his best friend alive once more.

“Holy shit—it’s actually working!” 

Mark doesn’t realize he had shut his eyes until he opens them, nearly yelping in delight when he discovers the image of said friend standing in the center of the white circle. Jackson looks no different than the day he last saw him, and he can’t decide if he wants to laugh out of irony or burst into tears. 

“The veil is down! I’m gonna start the spell to cross you over!” Mark yells over the howling of the wind, clutching Changbin’s hand tighter as he transitions to the next phase of the spell. “Ohto eestanay as vazat esvet ohnaz eespalit… Ohto eestanay as vazat esvet—fuck!” 

A brutal force comes down against his head, almost resembling that of a punch, before spreading hot fire down his neck and to the rest of his body. Mark doubles over with a wheeze, attempting to fight against the painful sensations by grounding himself in Changbin’s touch. However, as soon as the first wave concludes, a second, even more excruciating one follows. He feels as if someone is trying to crush his brain—to kill him from the inside out. 

“Mark-hyung! What’s wrong!?” 

“It’s the witches!...” Mark is thankful that Jackson answers Yugyeom’s panicked inquiry, “They’re trying to break the spell!” 

“Like… hell they will…” Mark hisses, righting himself with a pained groan before grabbing Changbin’s other hand. “I’m not going down without a fight—hold on!...” 

He jumps back into the spell, weakening the manipulated pain through the absorption of more of the wolf’s energy. Borderline high off the power, he pushes everything he has into the ritual, determined to see it through to the end. After a minute that passes like a decade, Mark detects a shift in the atmosphere, indicating the near completion of the spell, and shouts: 

“Jackson—get out of the circle! Get out now!” 

As if in slow motion, Mark watches Jackson quickly move to escape the white border. But just as soon as his toe brushes the edge, he is wrenched away and lifted from the ground. 

Dahyun cries, “What the hell is happening!?”

“They won’t let me cross over!” Jackson squirms and writhes, attempting to escape whatever invisible grip is holding him hostage. His efforts are futile, and he continues to rise higher and higher off of the ground. 

“Hang on, Jack!” Mark releases Changbin’s hands and raises his own palms in Jackson’s direction. However, the same torturous pain from before returns once more, hitting his nerves like a sledgehammer to a brick wall, and throws him to the earth. “Shit—no! H-He has to pass through the circle!” 

“(Y/N)! Don’t!” 

Mark raises his gaze at Dahyun’s shriek, only to watch in horror as you rush past the flour boundary and grab hold of Jackson’s hand. A blinding light immediately erupts from your clasped palms, expanding through the area until all Mark can see is white. 

After a long moment, his vision eventually returns, and he finds the forest completely silent. The temperature is no longer frigid, he notices, and the strain within his brain is gone. For a moment, Mark is filled with prowess, victorious at the fact he successfully carried out an ancient resurrection ritual, however, his triumph is temporary, especially when he notices your form laid motionless in Dahyun’s arms. 

“(Y/N)—fuck!” Mark hurries to where you lay, stealing your figure from the she-wolf to cradle you in his own hold. “Shit, shit, shit—she’s not breathing! Fucking goddamnit!” 

His panic only grows tenfold when he hears the murmur cascade from Dahyun’s lips: 

“Mark… where’s Jackson?”

☽ ☽ ☽ ☽ ☽ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾

Jaebeom scales the final rung of the ladder before making his way toward the corner where the snoozing trio resides. He moves cautiously, mindful not to awaken the young werewolf caretaker, yet eventually finds himself perched on the edge of a familiar cot. His heart thunders inside his chest, and he cannot tell if it’s out of anxiety or hope. Though at this moment, Jaebeom can really care less to find out. 

“It’s about time you showed up…” He winces at the broken husk of his companion’s voice, attempting to keep his expression as neutral as possible. “I thought you were actually going to leave me to die in the hands of a neurotic teenage wolf…” 

Jaebeom doesn’t respond to her quip—he can’t find it in himself to do so. 

Tzuyu raises an eyebrow, “What’s with the face? Did you take down the witch or not?” 

“We did.” He hums, “The spell is broken.”

“Good thing—” The vampire pauses to cough, and the sound is like broken glass against his ears. “—you and your brother are safe for the eternity to come.” 

“Tzuyu… I found the cure.” 

“What are you waiting for then? My consent?” She snickers playfully, “We fuck for over a century and this is the most gentlemanly behavior I’ve ever seen from you, Beomie.”

Again, Jaebeom remains silent. 

Recognizing the obvious tension in the room, Tzuyu’s face falls. “But… I guess it’s more complicated than that, hm?” 

“There’s only enough for…” He’s unable to finish his sentence, not when his companion’s eyes are gazing at him with such sullenness and sympathy. Jaebeom has to look away for a moment, though the action does little to relieve the tightness of his chest. 

“Ah, I see.” Tzuyu hums, glancing across the way to a slumbering Felix. Her pale lips twitch, as if attempting to upturn to a smile, but it instead appears as a weak grimace. “You know, I really never meant to hurt (Y/N)… or you.” 

“Tzuyu—”

“I’ve known you for decades… but I’ve never seen you look at someone the way you look at her.” Another violent cough wracks through her body, expelling a mass of dark blood past her lips. Jaebeom is quick to wipe the splotch from her skin with the blanket, trying not to dwell on the fact that her skin is ice cold. “I’ll admit, I was jealous at first… I’ve always wanted someone to look at me like that… 

“I know you’re afraid to care—to love, Jaebeom.” Tzuyu murmurs sadly, lifting a hand to rest against the hybrid’s cheek. “Especially someone like (Y/N)… and you’re right to. She’s too good… too human. 

“One misstep and you could lose her forever.” 

“I want to be selfish…” Jaebeom whispers, “I want to be selfish so fucking bad—”

“But you can’t be, Beom. Not with her.” 

“Then let me be selfish with you.” 

Tzuyu smiles. 

“I’ve lived over three lifetimes, and he is barely a ways into his one—so you’re going to give the cure to that damn kid, Im Jaebeom.” He leans further into her touch as she caresses the apple of his cheek. “Promise me that you’ll stay away from her—to keep her safe?”

He nods.

“Good… Can you hold me for a moment? I’m cold.” 

“I’ll hold you as long as you want me to.” 

And so Jaebeom takes Tzuyu into his arms. However, it’s not until the vampire grows still does he allow a single tear to cascade from his eye, staining the bloodied bed sheets with the agony of a heart that has been broken too many times to count.

#got7 #got7 fanfic #got7 fic #got7 imagines #got7 x reader #got7 angst #got7 smut #got7 au #im jaebeom #im jaebeom x reader #im jaebeom fanfic #mark tuan #mark tuan x reader #mark tuan fanfic #jackson wang #jackson wang x reader #jackson wang fanfic #park jinyoung #park jinyoung x reader #park jinyoung fanfic #kpop fanfic #kpop au

[loquaciousquark]

All right, kiddos, gather around for a completely necessary metatextual analysis of the most painful sentence in the Queen’s Thief series by @meganwhalenturner​, driven primarily by my recent reread and the fact that I can’t get this sentence out of my head or my heart, and that means you all must suffer with me.

Is it: “Please, please,” as if his heart were breaking.”?

Is it: “Oxe Harbrea Sacrus Vax Dragga Onus Savonus Sophos At Ere.”?

Is it: “Who am I that you should love me?”

Is it: “It was a kiss between a man and his wife...”?

NO IT IS NOT. I submit to you, dear readers, that the most painful sentence in the entire Queen’s Thief series is the following:

Attolia explained. “He had to be forcibly dissuaded from strangling his son.”

“So have we all from time to time,” Eddis said seriously.

MAN ALIVE WHAT A BLOW TO THE HEART, AM I RIGHT OR AM I RIGHT

I see you doubt me. READ ON.

As I’m sure all of you perfectly remember, during the events of The Queen of Attolia Eugenides gets his hand cut off in gods-approved punishment by the woman he’s in love with. Awkward! More awkward is that at the end of the book, he goes through a great deal of trouble to win her hand in marriage (hoping desperately this will help convince her he loves her), only to have his gods yank the rug out from under him one more time. His war party is routed; the kidnapped queen is freed; the whole lot of them are returned to her court where the entirety of Eugenides’s surviving company are chained together and deposited wholesale on the fancy floor together to await judgement and execution. 

And then, this gem:

In the megaron Eugenides sat on the stone floor with his knees pulled up, leaning back against a red painted pillar. His eyes were closed. Like the other Eddisians, he was wet through, and from time to time a shudder shook him, as if a ghost had walked over his grave. The high collar of his uniform tunic hid any marks on his neck. Teleus, standing with the queen at the side entrance to the megaron, pointed him out as he explained to the queen, with Nahuseresh standing nearby, that the lieutenant, in passing, had noticed that the Thief was quietly being strangled in the chains of the prisoner just behind him. The prisoners had been chained in rows and then ordered to sit on the stone floor. The lieutenant, in haste to save the Thief for Her Majesty’s pleasure, had kicked the other prisoner in the head.

OUCH. Not convinced yet? Let us consider even further:

“Teleus, you say your lieutenant kicked one of the prisoners in the head?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” [...]

“Well, let’s have that one, then.”

The guards brought the Eddisian she’d chosen [to deliver her message of acceptance to Eddis] to stand before her. As she’d guessed, it was the gray-haired man who’d fought beside Eugenides on the mountain.

and later:

“The messenger I sent to Eddis, you didn’t recognize him,” Attolia said.

“Should I have?” the Mede asked, his eyes on the field below.

“He was Eddis’s minister of war,” Attolia said. “Eugenides’s father.”

The words took a moment to penetrate Nahuseresh’s concentration. He turned slowly, like a defective clockwork, to look at the queen.

Fair enough. We have now confirmation that after that last disastrous battle, Eugenides was chained next to his father, and that at one point during the wait for the Queen’s decision his father had to be stopped from strangling him. Except...it’s not just a “wow, kid, you screwed the pooch on this one!” strangling, is it? It’s the action of a man who knows what happened to his son the last time his son was in the power of this woman, who knows exactly what is about to happen to him now that he’s been caught a second time.

Shall we review?

In the evenings, before dinner was served, the court gathered in the old throne room. Four officers who had already drained several cups of watered wine joked about the threats of the queen of Attolia, lately reported by Eddisian spies. In a sudden silence, their words carried over the crowd. “...send him into the afterlife blind, deaf, and with his tongue cut out as well...”

Eyes turned to Eugenides, standing across the room in a group with several of his uncles. Everyone knew that Attolia had been speaking about him.

And shortly after, speaking with Eddis: 

“Eugenides, we can’t afford to have you disappear in a fit of despair just now.”

“Do I look sunk in despair?” he asked, holding his arms out from his sides.

“I assume you’re hiding it to maintain pretenses.”

“It’s worse than despair I am hiding,” he said, sounding suddenly very bleak.

“Is there something worse?” she asked.

“Oh, yes.” He shifted his weight and looked around the empty room. He turned away from her and appeared to take a great in the interlocking gold squares painted around the walls near the ceiling. “I’m terrified,” he admitted.

And let us even glance ahead to King of Attolia, where Eugenides says to Attolia, post-nightmares:

The king sighed. Forgetting Costis standing nearby, forgetting possibly that anyone or anything else in the world existed, the king said shakily, “Tell me you won’t cut out my lying tongue, tell me you won’t blind me, you won’t drive red-hot wires into my ears.”

As stated previously, ouch. Eugenides spends this book frightened down to his bones. He loves Attolia, but she has cut his hand off; he knows that if she had him in her power again she might do more than that. His existence is a threat to her throne & the Mede are a threat to her sovereignty; which is one she can actually mitigate? She sure can’t unseat the Mede by herself, but Eugenides she can make an example of. What a blow to Eddis, to remove the greatest tool she has and the only direct continental check on Sounis’s warmongering in one stroke. And here Gen is, sitting neatly in her power with not a bargaining chip in the world.

And Eugenides knows it. And Attolia knows it, and so does the minister of war, Eugenides’s father, and every single man in that company. The routing of the war party isn’t just a tactical loss. It’s the consigning of the Thief of Eddis to the most horrific torture any of them can imagine, a slow and agonizing death, with no reprieve in sight.

“You’ll be chained by the neck to two other prisoners,” she told him. “if you and they live to reach my megaron at Ephrata, the other two will be safely returned, without ransom, to Eddis.” Eugenides didn’t move. His hope of heaven could have been in the dirt at her feet, so fixedly did he stare there. “Do you understand?” she asked.

“Yes,” he answered.

“What will you do now? “

“Oh” --he tried unsuccessfully to keep the tremor out of his voice-- “grovel, I suppose.”

“I’ve heard you do that before,” said Attolia, briefly amused in spite of herself.

Eugenides swallowed. “That was begging,” he said with a better effort at lightness. “There wasn’t much opportunity for groveling last...time.” He stumbled, then added evenly, “I am very good at groveling.”

“Anything to save your skin?” Attolia asked.

“Nothing is going to save my skin,” Eugenides said flatly.

Oof.

Attolia wasn’t surprised that the mask that hid his feelings was gone. His training hadn’t been in fear and diplomacy; it had been in silence and stealth. As he looked at her, his eyes were bright with anguish. He had heard of her threats, as she had known he would. She could see that he had no expectations of mercy from her. No hope that she would be something other than ruthless and cruel.

Eugenides was afraid and he was a fool and he knew it. He had forgotten what it felt like to be at the mercy of the queen of Attolia. The blood pounded in his ears, and his entire body was rigid to fight the trembling in his knees. He was sick with it. He remembered that feeling but thought it had been caused then by the pain in his head. Now there was no pain, but the same feeling in the bottom of his stomach. He would beg, he knew, for any mercy she would show, but he thought there would be none. [...] A shudder he couldn’t stop shook the Thief. He would lose his sight, and his hearing, his power of speech before he finally died. Dead is dead, he had told himself over and over. Dead is dead. But worse than dying was knowing that she would be the one to take those things from him. Because she hated him.

Oof.

My God, he thought, I am so frightened. O my God, if you will not save me, make me less afraid. He fell on the steep trail.

He hit face first, and the stones in the mud cut into his cheek. He had fallen so quickly that he’d dragged down the two others chained with him. They at least could brace themselves with their chained hands as they tried to get to their feet. Eugenides’s arms were bound to his sides, and his feet, seeking purchase, slid across the wet ground. One of the men made it to his feet, but he rose too quickly. Eugenides choked as the chain pulled hard against his collar, and his weight pulled the other man off-balance to fall again. [...] The man got to his feet again and this time, while still leaning down, helped Eugenides up. [...]

“Sir,” whispered the man beside him, “at the next cliff, we will jump with you.”

Eugenides turned to look for the first time at the men chained on either side. Both men nodded to assure him that they were willing to sacrifice their lives, but Eugenides shook his head. [...] Eddis would need every soldier if she was going to survive his failure.

Eugenides is going to die. Every person in his country knows he is going to die, and die badly, and it is going to destabilize three countries and invite in the invaders in the process. It’s the first step towards the beginning of the end, and there’s nothing anyone can do to save his life.

Eugenides’s father is with him the whole time this is happening.

It’s such an easy thing to forget, but the minister of war has been there since the beginning. He’s watched his son grow up and follow in his mother’s footsteps, and his mother’s father’s footsteps; watched him give up the sword and a position as a soldier to be this flighty, ascerbic, clever thief who’s as reliable as a shadow.

Watched Eddis send him too quickly back to a country that wanted him dead, a country that cut his hand off and sent him back closer to dead than alive. Watched his son hide in a library for a year rather than face the world and the war in it because it was too hard and he was afraid, Gen who’s spoken with gods and stolen from kings and queens and danced on the edges of rooftops without fear.

The minister of war was there when Gen came back to Eddis at the end, when he outlined the plan that led to the kidnapping of the Attolian queen and his marrying her in order to stabilize her country and Eddis’s. This woman tortured and mutilated his son and drove him into a year of despair, and now his son wants to marry her. And the minister of war agrees. What I wouldn’t give to have been inside his head when Gen first presented this idea!

Except...it goes wrong. It all goes wrong, and they’re caught, and the minister of war watches his son’s best, most carefully laid plans be torn to shreds. Good men die. The Medes win again. He watches the woman who mutilated his son go up to him when he is in chains and taunt him again when he is powerless, sees his son afraid to his bones because they all know what this means.

I don’t know if the minister of war is one of the men who agrees to jump with Gen. I kind of feel like he isn’t, because I think Gen would have acknowledged that in the text, but that doesn’t change the fact that when they reach the megaron he’s chained close enough to Eugenides to wrap his chains around his son’s neck and begin to quietly strangle him.

Like I said, it’s not a kind thing. He’s killing his son swiftly so that he can’t be tortured to death.

And Gen lets him. Because everyone knows what this capture means, and he knows that his father loves him, and he knows that the sheer enormity of this failure means that there’s not a thing in the world his father can do for him now except minimize his suffering.

That’s bad enough. Man, that’s bad enough. But you know what’s worse?

Attolia knows the minister of war has done this. Attolia knows why he has done this. Attolia must look her future father-in-law in the eye and tell him that she knows he feels death is preferable for his son rather than another instant of interaction with her, and she is going to keep his son anyway. She knows that she is going to marry a man whose family hates her in the visceral gut-deep hatred that destroys people, because she took from them what they loved and broke him and is now going to take him again forever.

No one thinks Attolia is redeemable except Gen. Not his father, not Eddis, not Irene herself. He is the only person in the world who sees her as something more than a barbaric, vicious torturer, and she cut his hand off and mocked him and belittled him and let him think he was going to be torn apart at her hands, and that it would be better to let his father kill him than be touched by her again.

And Attolia tells Eddis this to her face. Everyone--the minister of war, Gen, Irene, Helen--every one of them knows what it meant to fall into Attolia’s hands, and Attolia tells Eddis to her face that she knew the minister of war thought it would be better for Gen to be dead than with her, and that Gen agreed.

She’s going to marry him anyway. She will have to face for the rest of her life the agonizing truth that she loves a man she has maimed and tortured and broken, and that his family hates her for it because they also loved him, and that there will never be enough grace in the world to make her worthy of the fact that he still loves her anyway.

So.

Attolia explained. “He had to be forcibly dissuaded from strangling his son.”

“So have we all from time to time,” Eddis said seriously.

Attolia tells Eddis the truth. Acknowledges the enormity of what she’s done and what she’s still about to do, and that she knows what it’s meant for everyone Gen loves.

Eddis could respond bitterly. Could turn away and not answer at all, because she knows as well as Attolia does that the minister of war thought the best thing he could do for Gen in that moment was kill him.

But she doesn’t. She doesn’t--minimize it, exactly, but she eases it, just a little, and whether she means to or not she lets Irene, just a little, into the circle of those who love Eugenides. It’s not forgiveness. It’s barely acknowledgement. But it’s an understanding and a a brief, brilliant kindness to a woman who’s gone decades without it, one infinitely small step towards her instead of away.

Eugenides loves Irene, so there must be hope. Or-- Helen must hope because Eugenides loves Irene, and in the end it all comes down to the same thing. It’s the offering of mercy and grace where none is deserved, not because she loves Irene but because Eugenides does, and Helen loves Eugenides, and maybe between the three of them and the minister of war and the fate of three countries hanging in the balance, they can find a way to open the cage Irene has been trapped in since her brothers died. To save Irene is to save Eugenides, even if no one realizes it but Eddis.

Three countries’ worth of love and grief and terror and hope all wrapped up in twenty-three words, with nothing but blind faith in Gen to keep them together.

And that’s why that’s the most painful set of sentences in the entire Queen’s Thief series.

#queen's thief #megan whalen turner #meta #hoo boy things i did not expect to write today but that i feel very strongly about #eugenides #attolia #eddis #the minister of war #needs his own supplementary compendium #just saying #GOSH i love him very much

[fairyguks]

007 | actor!taehyung

a/n: this got way longer than i expected but pls enjoy! also i’m definitely pleased with how the number of the prompt fit well with the actual ‘drabble’. basically action star!tae + drama star!y/n.

summary: when kim taehyung and you were chosen to be the lead couple of the next action/romance blockbuster film for the summer, fans were already in line to see their favorite stars finally cross. unfortunately, you and taehyung could not be more different than the sun and moon. 

word count: 1,401

“well that’s tragic.”

kim taehyung. the greatest action star of his generation, adorning each movie poster with big blocky letters of the title underneath his fierce gaze. if he wasn’t walking away from explosions, he was jumping off buildings and shooting the bad guys. the red carpet was constantly beneath his steps and there seemed to be an award in his hands with a speech ready to be spoken eloquently by the deep voice that had everyone swooning.

except you, the greatest actress of each tear-jerking film and drama of the century. you were always the lead and no doubt the favorite of each director. in your experience, your partner absolutely adored working with you and endless praise was given (while this fed your ego immensely, you chose not to acknowledge it). roles were constantly handed to you and your talent was never ignored.

the both of you were polar opposites in the entertainment field, a definite clash between personalities as well… so whose grand idea was it to have the both of you star in the same movie?

“i won’t do it.”

those four words left your publicist and manager stumped. shocked expressions were identical on all their faces as they nearly dropped all their devices to turn all their attention to you (something they haven’t really done in a while).

“and why not?” your publicist, chaeyoung, stuck a hip out with a hand perched upon it as an immaculately groomed brow arched. “this is a big deal for you, dear. something… extraordinary. yes, it’s a little different than the heartbreaking movies and shows you’ve done but this is a big step! plus the plot seems great! a man desperate to find his family finding a woman with the same goal… except their only obstacle is the gang that holds their loved ones hostage.. i’d watch it.”

your manager, lisa, sighed and took a seat beside you. “it’s out of your comfort zone but it brings growth! more space to improve and maybe earn some new awards, hm?” she reasoned, sounding a bit more gentle than the slight aggression that chaeyoung had to offer. you pursed your lips, ready to give in or at least consider the role but you caught sight of your partner’s name on the script and you stood up.

your hands took the thick packet right out of your publicist’s hands and you stared blankly at the name written (obnoxiously) before yours.

kim taehyung.

“you didn’t tell me he’s my partner,” you said incredulously, recalling each time you saw him at the awards, smirking and smiling as if the world owed him every praise. arrogance oozed out of his every being and you were repelled by each wink he sent out to the audience. “now i refuse to take the role.”

your sudden exclamation had the other two exchanging confused glances. “have you met the man?”

“i… no, not personally,” you confessed weakly but you powered through. “but he’s insufferable! he thinks just because he’s an action star, my genre of movies and dramas are meaningless! you’ve seen that interview! have you seen how he is? of course you have, the both of you are practically glued to my sides… but listen, he’s—”

the two women laughed in harmony, arms linking like best friends as they made their way to the door of your dressing room. “there’s going to be a script reading tomorrow at 7 am. if you aren’t ready by 6:30 when we arrive, we’ll be dragging you out of bed and into the studio with exactly as you are,” chaeyoung ordered despite her voice as light and casual as a feather, wiggling her fingers in goodbye as lisa laughed beside her.

while the idea of hiding from the two of them was tempting, you knew they were serious with their threats.

-

“good morning, sweetheart. you look much more beautiful in person than the movie screen.”

it was early, in your book at least, and you managed to dress decently in a beanie to disguise the mess beneath and a large jacket and leggings to fight the cold winter air. only minimal makeup was applied, leaving your terrible eye-bags out for all to see. in other words, you were definitely not ready for the day to start yet. hearing a slick compliment from taehyung himself grated your nerves like no other… especially when he knew it would piss you off.

you chose to not reply and sipped at the free coffee being offered instead. steam curled upwards to warm your cheeks, resulting in a soft shade of pink to rise and taehyung took full advantage.

“no need to blush,” he winked, taking a sip of his coffee as well. “i know i’m pretty handsome.”

growling beneath your cup, you stomped away without another word to the table of producers and directors. you couldn’t wait for it all to end.

but frustration nipped at the back of your head as you listened to each compliment and praise from the directors once the reading was over. while you loved being showered in them, you despised how they were being directed to you and taehyung. the chemistry between your roles were undeniable and for a second, you almost believed the lovesick character he played.

but once the director called cut, the sweet mild-mannered boy disappeared completely and slipped back to the arrogant man you knew.

“perfect,” the director gushed. “i was a little worried on who would play this film… but i knew you two would do marvelously. an actress who knows how to provoke tears and an actor who knows how to jump buildings? amazing. we’ll see you next week on set.”

four months into filming and you wondered why you were so intimidated by the movie. the action scenes were terrifying but within the given time for training in basic martial arts, confidence reigned as you executed each fight scene. you even managed to slip into your character with ease when the cameras started to roll and the rest of the cast was just wonderful… except for the other main lead.

“… and action!”

artificial rain poured from the sprinklers above, soaking the mangy sweater that hung off your frame. fake blood streamed down your cheeks that mingled with the tears that came so easy to you. your feet moved shakily, mimicking the actions of exhaustion as taehyung’s deep voice called out from behind.

“don’t go!” his character cried out and you followed the script, sparing a glance over your shoulder just in time to see him drop to his knees. mud stuck to his ripped jeans and he lifted his head to give an expression of pure anguish. it had taken you aback at how easy emotions seemed to flit by his features; you were used to the same face in all his action films. he was much more diverse of an actor than you had originally thought. “please, i need you.”

you shook your head, ignoring the pull in your heart at those three simple words, and took one more step forward. “no, you don’t,” you whispered and moved on.

“cut!” the rain immediately stopped pouring and taehyung stood from his position. you walked over to the makeup artists that retouched the fake cuts and wounds on your cheeks. he followed you with a cheshire grin, one that said that he was obviously proud of his own performance.

“listen, if we aren’t reading a script, we aren’t talking,” you snapped once the artists were out of earshot. you hoped that your harsh comment would drive the actor away but instead, it made him plant his feet in his spot and leaned against the vanity that housed all the makeup.

“ouch.” sarcasm dripped from one word as he placed a hand upon his chest. “it’s a good thing i don’t care.” frustration returned at an alarming rate and you couldn’t hide your genuine annoyance.

“what do you want?”

“you.”

you were taken aback at the blunt confession. luckily for you, acting came easy and you schooled your features into an expression of slight incredulity. it prompted him to explain himself but before he could even get a word in, you raised a finger to say, “well that’s tragic. you can’t get everything in life. now move along before i use my newfound skills in martial arts to kick your ass."

#bangtan bookclub #bangtanwriters-net #boygroupwritersnet #bts scenarios #v scenarios #taehyung scenarios #*taehyung.writes #*mywriting #*promptchallenge

[thisideofthegalaxy]

need to get out of here

Jyn Week rescue mission continues- chapter 4 | [Ao3 link] - updates daily | 1030 words | contains mild canon-typical violence

The planet is known as Annith, ruin of the lost Annithian civilisation and abandoned since the Jedi Wars. Enveloped in thick jungle, Bodhi has to land by sight, navigating by what stone temples are still left visible. Hanging vines scrape the hull of the craft as they descend, and when Bodhi glances beyond the cabin, vapor from their engine hisses against the fog.

“You do know why this planet is unoccupied, don’t you,” K-2 inquires.

Cassian waves a hand to hush him.

“Yes. Yes. Over,” Cassian finishes, replaces the communicator back on the side of the ship.

“Well?” Jyn whispers. When Cassian nods, Bodhi feels a shot of relief punch from his lungs.

“They’re buying, for now. We’ll meet east of the Sun Tomb.”

Jyn gets up, tightens the holster she’s already tightened. Kaytoo checks the energy-gauge on Bodhi and Cassian’s blasters.

He’s already done that several times too.

“Prisoner exchange,” the droid intones, his calibration veering on dubious. “The statistical probability of Imperial allies actually agreeing to a prisoner exchange, just so you know, is less than-”

“Let’s save the pep talk for the way over,” Cassian growls. Bodhi pats Kay on the arm.

“We’ll be alright,” he murmurs, more confident than he feels. K-2 swivels his head to look at him, dims his eyes a fraction when Bodhi squints.

“Alright,” Kay says quietly. Then, as if to try for something more heartening, offers Bodhi the blaster he’s been working on.

“If they try to reprogram me, I’d rather be shot, dismantled, or turned into one of those irritating gadgets that humans blast noise out of,” he concludes.

“That’s nice, Kay,” Bodhi says weakly.

“Radio K-2SO,” Jyn agrees, strangely close to affectionate. “Catchy.”

They keep up a hushed stream of chatter as they walk, it’s one way to squash the nerves. At the point where they have to split, Cassian pulls Bodhi into a one-armed embrace, his grip firm and sure across the pilot’s back. For a moment Bodhi thinks he’s supposed to say something- something about looking out for the others if it all goes wrong. Instead they only stand a little longer, and Bodhi slowly realises why this all feels so unfamiliar.

Cassian Andor is his Captain. And Cassian Andor trusts him, without reserve and without a doubt, he would place his life in Bodhi’s hands. Bodhi nods, holds his stare.

“Watch out for trip-wires,” Kaytoo says crisply. “And don’t make me come and rescue you.”

Bodhi raises his hand as they disappear in separate directions, then turns and keeps pace with Jyn. Her jaw is tucked down, stare hard, she doesn’t blink or glance back. Ahead lies what was once a vast pyramid, now prised apart by a canopy of roots.

“You okay?” Jyn says gruffly, Bodhi manages a grin. The ferns cling sticky round his ankles, the air seems to drip down the back of his throat. Jyn’s using her knife to cut through the worst of it- a little more vigorously than seems to be necessary- but they’ve still barely looped around the temple by the time Cassian signals on the comlink.

“There,” Jyn murmurs, they crouch behind a ledge of carved stone.

“I don’t see Baze or Chirrut,” Bodhi says worriedly, Jyn’s grimace tells him she’s thinking the same.

Through his binoculars, Bodhi watches as Cassian steps out from the forest. Waiting for him are three sentries, all cloaked in heavy camouflage. Their hoods conceal their eyes, lower faces smeared with warpaint.

“Right,” says Cassian, the listening device crackles as Jyn and Bodhi both lean in. “Let’s get to it. Where are they?”

One of the sentries makes a brief gesture, the sound is out of range.

“Two of us for two of them, was not the deal,” Cassian repeats. They’d anticipated this too, Bodhi feels a tentative hope rise in his chest.

The sentry to Cassian’s left shifts forward- their cloaks all appear to darken as a shadow passes behind the trees.

“Why isn’t he saying anything?” Bodhi mutters. He adjusts his binoculars, focuses on the blurry silhouettes through the leaves.

“Baze?” Jyn whispers, wary, they both flinch in dismay as the captive is dragged from the murk, limbs scraping across the ground.

Kaytoo.

“Caught in a wire,” says a rough voice, close enough to Cassian that it carries. The droid is twitching- they’ve done something to him. When he manages to crawl to his knees, he’s swiftly kicked back to the mud.

“No,” chokes Bodhi, he can feel his pulse quickening, his windpipe turns to ash. “No, no, no.”

A bead of moisture splashes from above, cool and saplike, Bodhi can feel the slimy tentacles unfurling across his skin. All of a sudden he’s lightheaded, freezing, the colour leeches out of his vision.

The sentries are reaching for something- a restraining bolt? A data probe? Bodhi bites into his cheek, trembling, he can taste blood and he can hear fire, the memories surge unbidden.

Bor Gullet will know the truth.

“No, no, no no no-”

Kaytoo shudders violently, his metal palms graze over the dirt as a metal tool is jammed behind his neck.

“Don’t watch-” Jyn hisses, clutches Bodhi’s arms as he tries to fight himself free. He can still feel the creature, strangling, asking, searching...

Bodhi coughs, tells himself this must be Cassian’s plan too, some part of it he couldn’t share. When he struggles back, sees Cassian’s face- cold, impassive- it hits him in a bolt of anguish that it isn’t.

Cassian has never looked so broken.

K-2 reaches, makes a last, indiscernible sound. Bodhi doesn’t look away.

“Kay,” says Bodhi, his mouth shapes the word but it comes out in a sob. “Get up- I need to- we need to-”

Too far away, Kaytoo turns to him across the cockpit, his tone genuinely impressed.

“Well done,” he offers kindly. “You’re a rebel now.”

“Bodhi,” gasps Jyn. The sentries have lowered their hoods, for a moment they scan the horizon. “We need to go.”

She fumbles for his hand, holds him up from the waist when Bodhi pitches over to be sick.

“We need to go,” she urges, her face is streaked with tears. “We need to go.”

#jynweek #therebelcaptainnetwork #jyn erso #rogue one #star wars #bodhi rook #k-2so #cassian andor #flash ficlets

[sadlittlenerdking]

No Mercy For the Living

The magicians, Quentin x Eliot

word count: 4,228

Summary: Post season 2 finale. Angst. Warning for major character death. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

They're working on a solution to bring back magic when it happens. Not Julia's sparks, or any of the other stuff she can do that nobody else can. They're - Quentin, Julia, Josh, and Kady - in the library working on one of Dean Foggs essay assignments.

Quentins reaching up, arm stretched out, standing on the tips of his toes, when all the air comes rushing out of him in an angry gasp. He falls to the ground, knocking books off the shelf on the way, most of which come tumbling down on his head and shoulders. He's reaching up, grabbing at his chest and throat, gasping for air. The taste of iron floods his mouth as he bites down on his tongue and his knees crash down on the ground with an aching crack.

Someone rushes up behind him, kneels next to him and rubs his back, says something he can't hear.

He's not even sure what it is; but it's like something's ripping and tearing at his lungs, and it radiates through to his heart like an electric shock. Or like something's stabbing him and digging around for something that they can't quite find.

He falls forward, trying to grab fistfuls of the ground beneath him, gasping and trying fitfully to get air, or for the pain to stop, he's not sure which he's fighting for more. Something presses into his back, drags up to his head, and a scream comes hurtling out of his throat laced with agony.

And then it's over, and he's slumping down on the floor, forehead pressed up against the cold hardwood. There's a hand in his hair, a soft warmth at his side. Breaths come hoarse and ragged, itching through his dry throat. He coughs, a horrible hacking sound. His palms are flat against the hardwood, but his fingers bend, nails scraping against it softly.

The hand in his hair drifts down to his neck, stays there as sound slowly comes drifting back. "- the dean! Hurry!" The person leans down, and the long locks of brown hair that drift at the edges of Quentins vision tell him it's Julia. She pressured her cheek to the side of his head, "Its okay. We're getting help. You're okay, Q."

He coughs again, turns his body so he can sit up against the shelf, and she grabs onto his upper arm to help him.

Kady's staring at him. "Jesus," she says, and suddenly she's crouching down in front of him. "That book got you good." She reaches up, dabs lightly at a spot on his forehead, and her hand comes back coated in blood. She stands up, wiping her hands on his jeans, "I'm gonna go find a first aid kit. You got this?"

Julia nods, squeezing Quentins shoulder. "Yeah. Go ahead."

He closes his eyes, rests his head up against the shelf. A full ache radiates through his chest in soft dancing echoes. He's not sure what it is, but there's something very, very wrong. Maybe with him, maybe with the world. Or maybe this is just another unforeseen consequence of killing a god. Who knows anymore?

"Q," Julia shakes his shoulder and he opens his eyes again. He furrows his brow, sitting up, because he's not in the library anymore, and the light shining through the window in the cottage is moonlight rather than the soft sunshine he'd seen when he closed his eyes. Julia looks at him, concerned. "Here," she murmurs, leaning forward to help him sit up on the couch. She reaches past him and grabs a glass of water, "Drink this."

He shakes his head, pushing it away.

Something inside him feels wrong. He can't explain it other than as emptiness. Like something's been ripped out of him, but he has no idea what it is. It's different than the depression. A dull, drumming ache in the center of his chest that feels wrong in every way. Like a heart attack but smaller and unending.

"Q," she says, soft, pulling her knees onto the couch with her as she sits to face him. "You have to drink something. Whatever that was . . . We don't have magic to heal you."

"Something's wrong," he whispers, voice hoarse and cracking. "Something's really wrong."

"What is it?"

He shakes his head slow and unsure. His vision goes blurry as tears well up, "I don't - something's wrong, Jules. I - oh my god. I can't -," he stops, taking quick, deep breaths and bringing a hand up to his chest, scared that whatever it was that happened earlier is happening again.

She wraps her arms around him, brings him in so his head is on her chest, and pets her hand over his hair. "Q, calm down. You're going to have a panic attack. Breathe."

It doesn't take long for his breathing to level out, as she rocks him back and forth on the couch. Tears stream down his cheeks in slow, lazy rivers, despite the confusion of not knowing. They sit there until the sun peaks over the horizon, casting pink and orange rays into the sky - the closest any of them get to magic most days - and through the cottage windows. She pulls away, wipes his tears with her thumbs and holds his cheeks in her hands.

"Are you okay?"

He swallows, wincing because his throat is still raw and shrugs. "I - I don't know." He reaches up, wraps his fingers around her wrists. "I think something happened. Something terrible, Jules."

She nods, wipes at the tears that start falling again with her thumbs, "We'll figure it out. Whatever did this to you is magical . . . So there's magic out there somewhere. We just have to find it."

"What if we find it too late?"

"It's only too late if we're dead, Q."

He doesn't tell her that he thinks, maybe, somebody else might be dead already. Because that's his weight to bear, and now isn't the time to add the stress, or this pain, on anyone else's shoulders.

*

It's another two months before they make any progress, and find a way to break through the universes. To get back to Fillory, to their friends. The landing isn't perfect, they're too far from the castle, too lost in the scorched woods.

When they break through the barrier with Julia's magic, land on the dirt, Quentin collapses with a gasp. That hole in his chest, that's grown larger and larger with each passing day, swallows him up. He lies on the ground, Kady, Julia and Penny - who appeared when they broke through the first magical barrier, surprisingly alive and healthy - stand above him. It's common at this point, for it to send him spiraling. But he episodes pass, and are never as bad as the first or second ones, and then he's okay enough to move on.

The first episode Penny sees nearly gives him a heart attack when Quentin collapses with a scream, into his lap and starts shaking uncontrollably, gasping for air and sobbing in the same second. He's seen six since, knows what to do now, like Julia. So when Quentin stops shaking, he reaches down, pulls him up by the shoulder, gentler than he would have in the past, and offers him support until he can walk on his own.

But something's wrong, which means they're in the right place. Dean Fogg predicted that the closer they get to whatever's doing this to him, the stronger the effects would grow until Quentin comes face to face with the magic inside him. So nobodies surprised when he falls to his knees an hour later, even with Penny's arm holding most of his weight, and screams like his soul is being ripped from his body. The sound is broken, and angry, filled with the anguish that inhabits the hole in Quentins heart. It lasts nearly a minute, until Penny kneels down next to him, pulls him into his chest, and holds him as he sobs open mouthed into his scarf. When his sobs soften to whimpers, and his body stops shaking so violently, Penny loosens his grip, looks down at him and asks, "You good?"

Quentin swallows, nods. But he doesn't say anything. His tongue is heavy lead, immovable, and his throat is red hot lava, raw and blistered. He hasn't actually been able to speak in days. The episodes have stolen his voice, and if he's at all honest with himself, maybe even his will to go on. He spends most days wondering if he's cursed, if the gods are repaying him for murdering Ember, but then others, he's too distracted to think at all. Because something in the world is missing, and it's not magic. He's lost something, something important, and it's eating him whole.

Halfway to the castle, they run into a local who warns them to stay away, that the queen is merciless. But the my trek on, I afraid of what Margo might do to them. Though, it's clear that her power has driven her crazy without actual magical power.

Nobody takes the time to wonder why Eliot hasn't kept her in check.

It takes them nearly a week to get across Fillory to the castle. When they do, they're covered in mud, Quentin can barely stand, and they're all desperately hungry and thirsty. But they approach the castle doors, weak and ready for a decent nights sleep, when three fairy guards appear, and poof them into the throne room. They land fast and hard on the floor, Quentin falling before Penny and Julia can catch him. They panic for a moment, check to make sure they're all okay, and then look up to the throne.

A woman with white hair stares them down. "Now how did you get here?" She asks, seemingly as perplexed as they feel. Her eyes flick down to Quentin, even as Penny tries to help him up, "I see the spell does not travel as well as we had assumed. I supposed I should apologize." A small half smirk appears on her lips, "You did free us Quentin Coldwater, I did not intend to harm you."

Penny's gaze snaps up to her, buts it's Julia who speaks. "You did this?" She demands, taking a forceful step forward. "Fix him!"

"He must accept the truth before it will pass," the fairy queen murmurs, "Most often it is a clear truth. The spell is intended as a small mercy for the family of soldiers."

"What the fuck does that even mean?" Kady asks, as Penny pulls Quentin to his feet, staggering under the weight of him.

The queen sighs, "You've come for your friends."

Quentins legs buckle, but Penny holds him up, groaning as he slips his grip a bit. Quentin clears his theist, wincing as a stinging pain runs through his esophagus. He moves his tongue around, attempts to make a sound at the queen. She watches him, curious, tilting her head.

Penny sighs, turning his attention in the queen even as he tries to hold Quentin up. "He's trying to say we've come for our family. Not friends."

Her eyebrows lift and she slowly stands from the throne. "Family? The former king and queen you abandoned are your family?"

Quentin nods.

"They're important," Kady agrees, even if a bit reluctantly, "Where are they?"

"The one eyed former queen of Fillory is locked away, safe and sound," the queen says, "She's gone a bit mad, I'm afraid."

Penny turns to Quentin, "Can you shut up for five seconds? I can't fucking hear anything if you think a thousand questions at a tim - okay. Okay." Quentin glares at him through half lidded eyes as he turns his attention back on the queen. "What did you do to him? This spell. Fix him."

"Only he can fix himself, traveler." She moves towards them, steps gracefully, almost as if she's floating just above the stone. She watches Quentin carefully, tilting her head. "You would like to know the spell?" She asks, "It may hurt more to know than the sorry state you now find yourself in."

"Honestly lady," Julia says, exasperated, "What the fuck can hurt more than what he's gone through? He can't speak. He can barely fucking breathe. He's weak, and he cries so often none of us know how to sleep because we need to be there for him. It doesn't get worse than what he's going through."

The queen nods, raising her eyebrows, "I see." She turns her attention on Penny, "Set him on the floor, traveler." Penny looks at Julia and Kady, they both nod, so he slowly leans down to set Quentin on the floor, kneels next to him to hold him up so he doesn't fall to the side. "Very well. You wish to know the spell." She moves forward, stops just a few feet in front of them, and looks down at Quentin, almost like she pities him. "Your king had many requests. But, there was only one that we could grant."

She takes a step closer, leans down in front of him. "The spell did not go as it should have, I suspect your worlds lack of magic as a fault, but I will accept responsibility for what I've done to you. I apologize for what you're too experience."

"Just tell him the damn spell!" Penny exclaims.

She sends a glare in his direction, "You speak to me with respect or you face a fate worse than death."

"Worse than his?" Julia questions.

The queen makes a face, turning her attention back on Quentin. "The spell is to quell the curiosity of a soldiers family. Should a soldier meet his fate on the battlefield, their significant love, those with which heart and soul is shared, will experience the loss. It is a grieving spell," she says, "So those who love don't live on hoping the dead that they love return."

They stare at her for a long moment, before Kady steps forward, demands, "What the fuck does that mean?"

The queen doesn't respond; she keeps her eyes locked on Quentin.

"It means," Julia says, soft, "She killed Eliot."

The queen smiles up at her, then, nodding. "I did. The high king must die before Fillory will accept a new ruler. Even without her god."

They stare back at her silently. None of them dare move. The only sound in the room is that if Quentins raspy breathing, in, out, in, out. One by one, each of them turn their eyes down on him. They know what this knowledge is doing to him, they're just waiting for him to react.

The queen stares at him, watching, waiting. "Quentin Coldwater," she says after a few minutes of drawn out silence. "Eliot Waugh, high king of Fillory was executed three earth months after you, and your friends, abandoned him here."

"Wait a fucking minute -,"

"Silence, traveler. He needs to know everything otherwise he will not be able to pull himself from this." She snaps her gaze up to him, "Or would you prefer your friend live on in agony for the rest of his, shall I say - short, life?" An eyebrow perks, and she looks back down at Quentin. "As royalty he had a choice in the method in which he was executed. He did not choose."

Julia takes a hesitant step forward. "H-How -,"

“How did the former high king die?” The queen responds, without bothering to turn her curious gaze off of Quentin. “He drowned. We burned the remains, and placed them in the tomb with all former high kings.” She glances up for a moment, “His death with noble, and he did not give up his kingdom without a fight. He was an honorable king.”

Penny takes a step forward, letting go of Quentin, with a ferocious glare on his face, and the queen eyes him warily, but before either of them can say anything, Quentin makes a small sound, easing itself out of him. A low, heart wrenching whine, as he slowly forces himself to his knees.

And then he says the first thing he’s said in weeks: “You . . .” he gasps, his tongue heavy and thick, and throat fighting every motion other than breathing, “B - Bitch!” The word comes out as a forced, almost scream, as he works his way to crawl towards her, painfully slow as his heart racks against his ribs in fast, angry pumps.

“Q,” Julia says, “Stop -,”

The queen holds up her hand, watches Quentin with mild amusement. “Your king is dead, Quentin Coldwater. Say this truth, and you will be free.”

“Y - you’re -,” He hacks a cough, crawling closer to her, tears streaming down his face.

The darkness that swallowed his heart is working it’s way through his body. The hole, so black and angry, is stealing every part of him that his mind can reach. Steals the smiles, and the laughter. The nights of drinking, the jokes. The talks in the middle of the night at the cottage. The hugs and lingering touches. Stares across campus, things said to the whole room that are directed at one person, and one person only. Late night kisses in the middle of a war, featherlight touches, and desperate pulls for more.

It aches in ways Quentin never imagined possible.

The tears slide down his cheeks in a frenzied rush, desperate to make room for more, as half grunted sobs that he can’t control work their way out of his throat. Every part of his world is caving in on him, crushing him, but if he just gets to her, gets her to admit she’s lying, because Eliot’s here - in this castle, he has to be - then it’ll be okay. He crawls across the floor, pulling himself by his elbows as she takes slow, deliberate steps backwards, taunting him. He screams, the sound echoing through the throne room, an ugly sound filled with every unsaid thing, and every wasted moment.

It feels like his heart is being ripped into a million shreds inside his chest.

Penny, Kady and Julia watch on, unsure of what to do.

“Y - you’re l - l,” His hands shakes where they attempt to grip onto the stone floor, tips of his fingers starting to bleed where they’ve clawed against its rough edges. “L - lying,” he sobs.

Penny looks at Julia, suddenly much more worried.

The queen stares down at him, curiously. “The spell has had adverse results,” She says, “Much worse than I could have predicted.”

“Why the fuck would you do this to him?” Kady exclaims, waving a hand at him, “Look at him! How could this spell ever be anything less than disgusting and cruel?”

“It is meant to initiate immediate grieving. Once you accept that you have lost the one you love, the spell fades and you move on.” Her eyes flicker over to Kady, “It has been used to soothe the pain of war for longer than you can imagine. We did not anticipate -,”

“But why cast the spell?” Julia asks, “Why cast the spell at all?”

“Your former high king requested his friends not live on hoping that they may reunite with him. It is a noble request, and we chose to honor his death. He fought valiantly, and deserved a soldiers death. The only two affected by the spell, it would seem, are Quentin Coldwater, and the former high queen.”

Julia nods. “Which begs the question - why didn’t you kill Margo?”

The queen takes one of the steps up, stares down at the bloody, sobbing mess of Quentin. “She proved useful,” She murmurs. “Until she went mad.”

Finally, Quentin stops pulling himself forward. Goes limp on the floor, blood seeping into the crevices of the stone, and into the material of his clothes. His messenger bag lay forgotten, as Penny’s feet, and he stares up at the queen, broken and empty. The tears flow freely, and his mouth hangs up, throat working as he tries to form words.

“Q?”

“Silence,” The queen says, tilting her head down at him.

He stares at her with unseeing eyes. The light shining through the back of the castle turn her into a silhouette, reminiscent of all the times he’d walked into this room, and smiled up at Eliot’s ethereal shape. Commented on how he almost seems like a fallen angel, standing at the balcony, all darkness surrounded by the light. How Eliot had laughed and said he wasn’t too far off. Their hug goodbye, just up the stairs next to the thrones, just hours after he’d killed Ember. Before they knew there were consequences for killing gods.

And the vision morphs, dancing until there’s a figure in the distance, laid back on the stones outside the front of Brakebills, basking in the soft sun, as he smoke a cigarette. The quiet, contemplate stare as he looked Quentin over, before deciding he was worth his time. Soft curls dance in the sunlight, tousled by the wind. He can almost hear Eliot’s quiet sigh of indignation, the mutter curse, wondering if he can spell the window to leave his hair alone. Chiming laughter, as Margo joins him, stands by his side, looks up at him with that smile just for Eliot, and makes a quip.

Beneath the screaming pain, he feels his heart flutter with the memories of laughter. He is a leaf on the wind, waiting to fall, and find itself crushed by nature and all that life is.

And then, the stunning revelation that stops his heart, and stills his lungs. He’s the reason Eliot’s gone. He chokes on the very thought, as every good memory is sucked away into the light, disappearing into the queens dark silhouette. He coughs, desperate for air, but no sound comes out. Bloodied hands come up, grab at his throat, claw at the skin of his neck, desperate for air. The edges of his vision go red, and he thinks, for a moment, this is it . . .

Eliot’s kneeling in front of him, nothing more than a mirage, blurry and muffled, but his hand ghosts along Quentin’s cheek, and he offers that small smile that he saved just for Quentin. “Breathe, you utter idiot,” He whispers, though he sounds as if he’s under water, far away, and in just the next room, all at once. He gasps in, long and withholding, the sound angry and desperate as he sucks in air. The mirage of Eliot stays for just a moment, before he blows away with the wind, and Quentin’s heart slows. It isn’t the first time he’s seen him in the past few months, but he has a feeling it’ll be the last.

He forces himself to breathe: in, 1, 2, 3, out. Repeat. Slow, and stuttering until his vision clears of everything but the tears.

He rolls onto his back, stares up at the decaying flowers up on the ceiling, the vine work that Eliot had pointed out to him a dozen times, wondering if it were alive, wondering if it could, see everything that happens in the castle. Quentin’s breath come heavy and tumbling through him, he’s shivering, shaking as he pulls his arms around to cross them over his stomach, which aches with more than hunger.

He can hear the others speaking to the queen, but his blood rushes through his ears, heart pumping hard, as he works his way through the fog. He breathes in deep, tries desperately to get a hold of himself. The tears continue to seep, sinking into his hair, and as they slip into the strands, it almost feels like hand, gently raking it’s fingers through to comfort him. Like Eliot did.

Eliot.

He curls up on his side. The excruciating darkness is slinking away, hanging on to the shadows, waiting to strike again, but he thinks the thought he can’t bear to think, thinks it as loud as he can, and then, in between soft sobs, between the tears and the shuddering of his body, he says it out loud:

“Eliot’s dead.”

The words are but a whisper on the wind, but they linger in the air around him, force themselves into his heart and soul, works through every inch of blood stream. They sing a chorus with the wind dancing around the room. And then there are three people crowding in around him, kneeling next to him. One of them pulls him into his lap, pets his hair, holds him as his body shakes. A paid of hands holds onto his left arm, squeezing comfortably, while a second paid grabs his right hand, allows him to squeeze as tight as he can.

Above him, just beyond Penny’s face, he sees the silhouette of the queen stare down at him, watching, waiting - for what, he doesn’t know.

The words crawl up his skin, sink into him. And he says it again, the words broken, and he’s not even sure if anyone can understand him. Eliot’s dead. Eliot’s dead.

Eliot’s dead.

And he closes his eyes, tries to imagine a world where it isn’t true. But the darkness has faded, and with it, it’s taken the smiling mirage.

Eliot’s dead.

#the magicians #queliot #quentin coldwater #eliot waugh #penny is a good friend #angst #i wrote a thing

[fallenidol-453]

@beccaylaa @luxxyb

Title: No Fire Without Fuel

Excerpt??? From Wolf’s Crown??

Edit: Edited for more savagery of the below the belt kind

Runa walked through the ruins of the main seat of Aifeatas. Two large fires burned in the distance, spewing black smoke and filling the air with the smell of charred remains. Homes had been gutted by still smoldering flames. Those that had been spared by the torch had their doors kicked in and the inhabitants’ belongings scattered. Runa wouldn’t be surprised if some looting had taken place despite Arona’s strict orders against it.

What shook Runa to the core was that besides herself, Lirah, and a few of Arona’s soldiers in the distance, there was no one else here. Had everyone fled before and during the battle? Or had they left earlier, when Orrin stormed through with his army?

Arona had mentioned that they had been lucky to catch both Orrin and Gerant at the same time, but as Runa considered the damage done, she wasn’t so sure. The citizens could rebuild and have a halfway hospitable main seat by the next year, but that depended on whether people wanted to return after being displaced by battle.

But she wasn’t here to reflect on what had been her home for nine years. With Lirah following close by, she made her way to a makeshift clearing where two bound men, Lelwy Arona, and a crowd of onlookers were.

“Is that them?” Lirah inquired quietly. She nodded at the men.

“Orrin and Gerant? Yes.” Runa confirmed. “I asked for them to be taken alive… if possible.”

“I would have just killed them in battle.” Lirah remarked. “Considering the damage they’ve done to you and your children, they deserve it.”

“They’ll die after I’m done speaking with them.” Runa stated patiently. “But I must ask them a few questions first. Wait here.”

Lirah headed toward the crowd as Runa walked away. She was surprised Runa wasn’t angrier at her brother in laws for the crimes they committed. They had committed fratricide and stolen the birthrights of her daughter and son, all in the name of petty revenge against their brother. But… perhaps Ciardha was to blame as well. She only knew of one incident between the three, where Ciardha had lured Orrin and Gerant into drinking with him and ordered them castrated when they were too drunk to move. 

But in her opinion, if Ciardha had wanted to ensure a swift end for both bastard brothers, he should have opted for something other than sending them to battle and removing a part they dearly treasured.

Runa stopped in front of her brothers in law. They were kneeling in the mud, stripped of their armor and weapons, and their limbs immobilized with rope tied to stakes in the ground. Orrin was barely recognizable; dried blood caked his face, most of it from a grim scar that sliced through his right eye. The rest of his face that wasn’t covered in blood was swelled and painful. The long brunette braid Runa remembered him sporting had been hacked off and lay discarded at his side.

Gerant wasn’t faring any better. One arm still bled heavily despite a rudimentary cloth bandage. Under the grime and mud caking his face, he sported a bloody nose that was either due to a cut or a brutal punch to the face. Blood seeped out of one corner of his mouth. As Runa watched, he spat out a bloody tooth. Arona left their sides to stand next to Runa.

“Are you surprised I’m still alive?” Runa asked.

Orrin shook his head.

“Saw you… slip away… couldn’t find you,” he wheezed

Runa could only nod. She swallowed heavily. She had told herself over and over that she was ready to face them again, but the sight of Orrin made her blood run cold. She wanted to run away, even though there was no possibility of him getting out of his bonds and strangling her and her children like she’d overheard him promise Gerant.

“I know you murdered Ciardha,” she said instead. Her voice came out harsher than expected. “What did you do with his body?”

Gerant craned his head to look at Orrin. Orrin lowered his head and refused to look at her.

���Answer me,” Runa demanded. She felt tears forming and did nothing to wipe them away. “D-did you salvage his body and burn him?”

No answer from either brother. Runa trembled with grief and rage as Arona steadied her.

“Answer me!” Runa screamed. Arona tried to stop her, but she stepped forward and slapped Orrin as hard as she could.

Orrin spat out blood, but he refused to answer.

“We… we beheaded him and tossed the head in the Inan Strait,” Gerant confessed. “We fed the rest of him to the pigs and dogs.”

Runa fell to her knees in the mud. She screamed a wail that echoed around the clearing and made the hairs on Lirah’s neck stand up. She desperately tried to push through the crowd, but they refused to move for her. Through the gaps in the bodies, she saw Runa’s body shake with sobs as Arona knelt beside her. Finally, she gave up trying to push through and walked around the crowd to reach the very front. By the time she reached it, Runa had stopped crying and was standing without Arona’s help.

“T-Tell me,” Runa sobbed. “Is there anything of his I can have to honor him? A-A scrap of cloth? Anything?!”

The brothers were silent as they looked at each other, and then they hung their heads.

“No…” Orrin whispered.

Runa stood there, dumbfounded. Arona grabbed her just in case she fell again, but she regretted it as Runa wrenched out of her embrace and grabbed at her belt.

“Runa, no!” she shouted, but it was too late.

Lirah watched, horrified, as Runa unsheathed one of Arona’s knives and slashed at the brothers. Her gut-wrenching scream mixed with Orrin’s agonized yell as he helplessly struggled against his tight bonds. Gerant remained upright, though his forehead was bleeding profusely.

“Rot in hell, both of you!” Runa shouted. She threw the knife to the ground as Orrin continued to howl in pain. She’d slit his remaining eye and cut the bridge of his nose. “I wish you the same fate you gave my husband!”

She turned around and stormed off toward the temporary encampment, deaf to the murmurs of the gathered crowd and the screams of Orrin. Arona and Lirah ran after her, catching up with her just shy of the camp entrance. Runa blindly fell into the arms of one of them and started sobbing into her chest. She didn’t care who it was. She sank down to her knees again, taking the two women with her.

Lirah grunted as Runa dragged her down and winced as the wet mud soaked through her skirts. She moved out of the way to avoid putting pressure on what remained of Arona’s left arm. Runa was sobbing into her chest and Arona was muttering phrases too softly for her to hear properly. Not knowing the best choice of words to comfort her, Lirah awkwardly smoothed Runa’s long hair back from her face and shoulders and allowed her to cry herself out. Hardly anyone in front of them paid them attention, and the people from the crowd said nothing as they quietly tip-toed past the trio.

With a final, heaving sniffle, Runa raised her head and wiped her eyes with her sleeve.

“I-I’m s-sorry…” she said hoarsely.

Lirah bit back a retort. Runa had nothing to apologize for, even though the front of Lirah’s dress was wet with snot and tears.

“We need to get you cleaned up,” she said instead. “Come on.”

“I’ve got her left side,” Arona muttered. “Lirah, can you support her on the right?”

“Already on it,” Lirah answered. “This isn’t hurting your left arm, is it?”

“No, I’m using my right arm to support her. I’m going to stand on the count of three, all right?” Arona replied. “One… two…”

“Three!” Lirah finished.

They stood up, adjusted Runa between them, and began walking back to her tent.

--

Lirah sat down on a closed chest and set a clean dress down beside her. Runa was asleep in her bedroll, a cool cloth resting on her eyes. Arona was sitting on a low stool nearby, cleaning the knife Runa stole from her. The tent entrance was tied shut tightly, though sounds of cooking and a buzz of conversation intruded.

“Lelwy Arona, may I ask a question?” Lirah asked quietly.

Arona glanced up from polishing her blade. “Do you need help changing into another dress?”

“Thank you, but I don’t.” Lirah stood up and started unbuttoning the front of her soiled dress. She struggled with the long, horizontal horn buttons as she spoke. “It’s about what I witnessed earlier.”

“I’ll try to answer as best as I can,” Arona replied. She placed a rag she’d been using to clean aside and picked up a whetstone. “What questions do you have?”

Lirah waited to speak until she finally managed to undo the final button of the dress and slipped the garment off. “What did Lelwy Runa mean when she asked Orrin and Gerant about… having something of her husband to honor him?”

Arona mulled over her response. How Votgardt and Veltan handled their dead could be different, and the last thing she wanted to do was offend Runa’s… well, servant. Who was actually a guest pretending to be a servant? She angled her clean knife on the whetstone and sliced against it five times as Lirah changed in front of her.

“We burn our dead. After the burning, family members of the deceased are usually given ashes from the pyre,” Arona finally replied. “However, sometimes locks of the deceased’s hair are given to them, or scraps of their funeral clothing are given instead.”

“So… Orrin and Gerant didn’t do that?” Lirah struggled to pull the fabric she was man-handling close enough for the thick, horizontal button to get through the hole.

“Do you need help with that?” Arona asked. “Is the dress too small?”

“No, I can manage. I just need practice,” Lirah replied. “Answer my question.”

“No, the brothers didn’t do that. By cutting Ciardha’s head… off…” Arona faltered, her voice catching. She didn’t want to acknowledge it. “… and feeding his body to animals, they’ve denied him the proper burial he deserved.”

Lirah stopped buttoning up and stared at her, shocked.

“That’s…”

Arona set her knife and whetstone aside. She nodded, trying to hide her anguish.

“I… Yes. I know Ciardha didn’t… get along with his brothers,” she said thickly. She inhaled sharply and wiped her eyes. “B-but this is a level of cruelty I did not expect them to do.”

“You’re going to execute them, aren’t you?”

“With what they confessed earlier, how could we not?” Arona stated harshly. “We might do it tonight, but it does threaten to rain later.”

“How are they doing to die?” Lirah inquired. Arona shrugged.

“It’s up to Runa. However, I don’t think she’ll be awake until later tonight or tomorrow morning.” she said. “By then, they’ll be dead. Besides… she did wish them the same fate they dealt Ciardha.”

Lirah busied herself with the dress buttons as she tried to think up a response. She was halfway done and not willing to acknowledge that this dress was too small for her. As she wrangled with closing a button below her chest, she couldn’t stop thinking about the cremations done to the deceased.

“Lelwy Arona, is everyone cremated? Does it matter what their social rank is?” she asked. “Are executed individuals cremated?”

“Everyone is cremated, Lirah. But some pyres, depending on social rank, can be more elaborate than others,” Arona replied. “Criminals are granted cremation rights, but their bodies are left to burn alone. Do you have suggestions for the executions?”

“I do, actually. But before I voice them, how would you carry out the executions?”

Arona went quiet for a minute. “I’d… give them a similar fate as Ciardha like Runa wished. Decapitate them and throw their bodies into the forest for the animals to eat, because I doubt the pigs here can digest another human. What’s your idea?”

“You’re going to think I’m being cruel, but…”

Arona listened. Her mouth dropped open at the crux of the plan and she hastily closed it.

“That… that’s very fitting for them. A twist on tradition. Did you say you wanted to carry it out yourself?”

“I did,” Lirah replied.

“Traditionally, criminals are beheaded and then cremated immediately after by the executioner without ceremony,” Arona stated. “But with your plan, we may not need an executioner after all.” She quieted for a minute before speaking back up. “But how are you going to carry this out?”

“I don’t want to reveal my plans just yet,” Lirah replied. “But Runa’s children… will Breda see it? Padraig’s usually put to bed after sunset.”

“I saw my first execution when I was eight, and my first funeral when I was three,” Arona replied with a shrug.

“But Breda isn’t you. She’s almost four years old.”

“My younger sister Gwinna saw her first execution and subsequent cremation when she was four years old,” Arona countered. “It was our older brother. She had questions, yes, but she wasn’t scared.”

Lirah did not want to know the circumstances behind that execution.

“I’m just worried no one will be able to keep an eye on her when I carry out my plan,” she said instead. “Runa’s asleep, and I can’t carry out my plan and watch Breda at the same time.”

“Gwinna and I can watch her for you,” Arona offered. “I can also arrange for someone to keep an eye on Runa until the executions are over.”

Lirah was silent as she thought the plan over. It was sound enough, providing Arona chose someone she trusted to look after Runa. Having her and Gwinna watch Breda would also let her be free to work without distraction.

“All right. Your plan sounds better than mine would have been if I voiced it,” Lirah stated. “We’ll use it. When are we going to hold the executions?”

“Executions are typically held at sun down. Gwinna and I will get you when everything’s ready.” Arona replied. She paused as she scrutinized Lirah’s appearance. “Can you come a little closer?”

Lirah walked up to her, and tried to stand in a more lighted spot. “What’s wrong?”

Arona seized the dress front and pulled her closer. “This dress is too small for you. I know you wanted practice buttoning up these awful things, but it’s no good walking around and having it rip at the seams unexpectedly.”

Lirah’s face reddened. “I didn’t grab something belonging to your sister, did I?”

“No. She’s smaller and thinner than you right now. Is Runa allowing you to wear her clothing?”

“…Yes? Well, some old dresses her foster mother gave me to wear. Lelwy Eig—Eigyr?”

“Lelwy Eigyr. That’s how you pronounce it,” Arona corrected. She let go of the dress and stood up. “Wait here. I think we’re more or less the same size, so I’ll give you some of mine that I was going to cast off.”

“You don’t have to!” Lirah protested. “I think this is the only one that’s too small. The others fit me well enough.”

“Hm. Very well, how about this: I give you one of my cast offs, and in exchange you can give the one you’re wearing to my sister,” Arona suggested. She looked at the garment critically. “It’ll be slightly big on her right now, but she’s growing like a weed. In a month or so I think she’ll fit it perfectly.”

“I like that arrangement much better,” Lirah stated. She sounded relieved, but Arona smacked her hands away when she started to unbutton the dress.

“Don’t touch those until I get back. I’ll show you a trick to fasten the dress together easier,” Arona chastised. She walked toward the tent entrance and began to deftly untie the opening. “Go check on Runa, but don’t wake her.”

--

At sundown Arona, Gwinna, and Breda came for Lirah. As promised, Arona had given her one of her cast off dresses to wear. Lirah had expected yet another garment that had to be shrugged on and buttoned up, but she was pleasantly surprised that this wasn’t the case. She only had to pull it down over herself and smooth any creases left behind. It was a dress made for a larger woman, but a makeshift belt made it fit easier. Before leaving, she had grabbed a bucket of oil and then covertly opened a chest to grab one of Runa’s cloaks. She didn’t want to wake Runa and ask to borrow it. She would only wear it tonight, anyway.

The four of them strode out of camp. Breda walked next to Gwinna, clutching her hand tightly.

“Is that Mommy’s?” Breda asked. She pointed at Lirah’s dark grey cloak.

“Your abasa let me wear this tonight,” Lirah lied.

Arona and Gwinna stared at her, confused.

“I—I meant mother,” Lirah corrected. “Breda knows what I said…”

“I don’t,” Breda replied. She looked up at Gwinna as Lirah tried to cover her shock. “Where are we going?”

“We’re going to the field where I taught you to make flower crowns…” Gwinna replied.

Lirah didn’t listen to the rest of Gwinna’s words as they approached the clearing. She hung back a little and let the three walk ahead of her. It was difficult to tell just how many people were present, though visually it looked as if everyone had turned out. But the coming nightfall made it hard to see. The only source of light was a ring of torches, widely spaced out around the perimeter of the gathering.

When Arona, Breda, and Gwinna had disappeared into the crowd, Lirah began walking again. She pulled the hood over her head and kept her pace slow. The gathered crowd parted for her as she approached.

Orrin and Gerant were still tied in place, though they were surrounded with kindling and straw. Lirah stepped through the parted crowd and clutched the bucket of oil. Orrin raised his head at the noise. Lirah tried to not recoil at the sight of his ruined eyes.

“Who are you?” he asked hoarsely.

“You don’t need to know who I am,” Lirah replied.

She approached the men and began pouring the oil all over them. Lirah didn’t necessarily need it, but she wanted to maintain an illusion that she was going to do a cremation the proper way with torches. Gerant squirmed as oil trickled down his back. Lirah tried to not pour the oil onto Orrin’s face, but he squirmed and subsequently cried out as the oil she was trying to pour on the back of his head dribbled down his face. When she was satisfied with how covered the two men were, Lirah stepped back and set the bucket down near someone’s feet.

“Lelwy Runa informed me that cremation is how the people of Votgardt respect their dead,” she announced. Her voice carried throughout the crowd. “In the place of Lelwy Runa, I sentence you both to die for the crimes you have committed against your brother, your niece, and your nephew.”

In the crown, Breda tugged on Arona’s sleeve.

“What did he do to me?” she asked. Arona crouched down beside her.

“You were supposed to rule Aifeatas and Padraig was supposed to rule Mhoibh,” she whispered. “But Orrin and Gerant took them from you when they killed your papa.”

“Am I getting Affy back?”

“Yes you are,” Arona replied.

She stood back up, using a stranger for support. Breda ignored her and began peppering Gwinna with whispered questions. A woman stepped forward and tapped Lirah on the shoulder.

“If you’re going to burn them, they should die first,” the anonymous woman stated when Lirah turned around. She held out a small knife. Lirah shook her head.

“I won’t need it. Please, stand back,” she replied. The woman looked confused, but she reluctantly complied.

“W-who are you?” Orrin sobbed.

“I am the last thing you’ll see before you die.” Lirah responded coldly. “Lelwy Runa also extends her condolences for what you lost last year, and hopes you’ll be reunited with them in death.” 

She closed her eyes and envisioned the two men bursting into flames, but she quickly retracted the thought before it became reality. It was too easy to do. They deserved something more subtle. She took a deep breath and focused on how the two brothers were outlined in her mind. She envisioned small flames breaking out on them, almost like lighting a candle on a candelabra, and channeled her energy into that instead.

“What are you doing?!” Gerant screamed.

Lirah opened her eyes as the crowd behind her gasped. Orrin was struggling against his bonds, and the smell of burning hair filled her nostrils. Another flame burst to life on him as she blinked, this time on the hem of his soiled tunic. Gerant howled in pain as his oil-soaked skin caught fire and spread up his injured arm.

“Why?” Gerant sobbed. Lirah could barely hear him over Orrin’s deafening screams. “We’re still alive!”

“You dishonored your brother’s body after his death,” Lirah responded. “I’m giving you two the proper burial you denied him.”

As she spoke, more flames erupted on the men and their screams filled the night. The onlookers began shouting lurid, hateful phrases at them. They were words Lirah had no translation for, but the way they were spoken was enough to get the message across. She felt slightly nauseous now; a brief spell of light-headedness that only required her to rest.

Arona stared at Lirah in shock. She had not explained this—this calling fire out of thin air. How had she done it? Was she one of these mages Runa’s father wanted for his army? Arona wanted to demand an explanation from her. But supervising Breda with Gwinna was a higher priority. In the press of the crowd, surrounded by the shouting men and women, she watched Lirah walk away.

--

Lirah walked away from the twin infernos, away from the taunts and screams. In the quiet of the camp, she slipped into Runa’s tent, shooed the servant Arona sent to watch over her, and crawled into the bed without a second though. The last thing she felt was feeling Runa turn in her sleep and curling up closer to her.

#crown quartet ref #just votgardt things #my writing #julia's writing adventures #lirah #runa