An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Title: Mekaelin
Summary:
In which ghosts plague the brave captain within his lonely prison cell.
I did it! A very last minute attempt at an entry for the 2025 (2026?) Unsounded fanworks contest! It's been a rough few months on my end, so I didn't start working on this until, uh, [looks at calendar] a day and a half ago at 4am lmao.
I simply hope this is good enough to entertain! I just wanted to contribute something~
Also! Unsounded's direct sequel, The Red Cost, dropped its prologue today! So go check that out!
Anyway, I hope this at least entertains!
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Virgin snow blanketed the streets before him, muffling the usual sounds of his beloved city. His home. Night had fallen—or had the sun never crested the horizon?—leaving a scant few lamps to light the way. It was a dim glow, feeble, as if the darkness itself smothered each lantern’s attempts to chase away the encroaching void. In the distance, he could just make out the temple’s looming spire against the thick clouds hanging low overhead, Ssael Himself holding a hand outstretched, beckoning him forward.
Even now, God mocked this son of Ssael. ‘Come,’ He seemed to say, that loathsome statue colder than the ice beneath his boots. ‘Draw your sword. Perhaps this time you will strike true.’
His fist closed around the hilt of his blade, the metal gleaming in the faint light lining the empty streets. He stumbled forth, each step sounding with the soft crunch of fresh snow—and yet still Ssael remained out of reach, a mocking tilt to His stony lips.
“You killed that scary man, didn’t you, Papa?”
He turned to the voice, a head of lovely golden hair and eyes to put a jade gemstone to shame staring up at him. She was so young, dressed in the pale blue he knew she had left in her youth. Dried blood stained the cloak draped from her shoulders, her features wan with the familiar pallor of death.
“He won’t come for us again, will he?”
Assurances sat ready at his tongue, though no sound left his lips. She watched him, adoration plain on her sickly face. Nausea twisted at his gut, and he thought he might be sick.
“He’s gone forever,” she ventured once more, her voice almost pleading. A trickle of blood began to leak from the corner of her mouth. Behind her, a green mound made itself known in the snow, a priest’s mantle hanging from its skeletal form. It raised its head, its face rotten and gray with decay. Its empty gaze held naught but silent accusation. “Right, Papa?”
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The sudden splatter of icy water wrenched Lemuel Adelier from the nightmare with a ragged gasp. He sputtered loudly, a hacking cough that could only be the remnants from the battle over Litriya Shrine racking his frame. A terrible chill settled into his flesh as the frigid water dripped from his long since matted hair, the chains at his wrists rattling with each spasmodic shiver prised from his battered body.
“Rise and shine, snakefucker.” The clatter of a discarded wooden bucket followed the gruff greeting, though Lemuel only managed to parse the undoubtedly cruder portion. “Ugly mug like yours don’t get the benefit of beauty sleep.”
Lemuel huffed a short laugh, his lungs seizing painfully in his chest as another coughing fit took hold. The sound seemed to echo even in this small, barren cell.
“D–Difhut…” he stuttered hoarsely, his mind still muddled with the remnants of a fitful sleep. In the corner of the room, shrouded in shadow, he would swear a green-cloaked corpse sat in wordless judgment, a wright’s Thorns adorning its hands. “Vu iyann mu–”
An abrupt blow to the gut silenced him, wresting a pathetic wheeze from his lips as he struggled to take in air. His chest ached something fierce. Disturbingly so. He wondered if he might have a broken rib or two.
“I’ll not be having any of that Ald-speak,” his captor snarled, delivering another sharp kick to his side for good measure. The words needed no direct translation. He tried not to think about how much it hurt to breathe. “I want to know it when you start wailing for your mamma.”
Lemuel lifted his head from the floor with some difficulty, the high-pitched whistle of his every breath filling the thick quiet. A golden curtain of filthy, unkempt hair hung free about his face, obscuring his vision—but, even so, the silhouette of his tormentor stood above him in the dim, framed in the weak torchlight.
“You…” he slurred, his tongue thick and unwieldy in his mouth as he searched for the unfamiliar words. He chuckled lowly, the sound a deep rumble in his chest. “You lap at cunt of bi–”
Stars erupted before his eyes as pain exploded at his temple, knocking his skull back to the floor with an audible crack. The room seemed to tilt and sway beneath him, the walls undulating in a dizzying dance of flickering shadows. That corpse remained, indifferent to his torment. He imagined God himself watched on with similar disinterest.
“Bold little fucker, ain’t you.” The scrape of a boot along the stone floor signaled movement, followed by a burst of agony along his scalp as the guard fisted at Lemuel’s hair, lifting him bodily from the floor and onto his aching knees. “Awful mouthy, all things considered.”
Lemuel felt the corner of his mouth twitch upward, baring his teeth in a taunting smirk. He was vaguely aware of a trail of warmth oozing down the side of his face, his head throbbing in time with the rapid beat of his heart. Through the fog encasing his mind, he wondered for not the first time if Mikaila had made it back to Durlyne. If she was safe at home and ensconced within Leysa’s too tight embrace. How cruel of him, to deny them a father and a husband. Again.
“Maafit,” he goaded, a haughty amusement undercutting his lilting tenor. “Ilsrun–”
Another blow to the gut forced the air from his lungs, though only the slightest grunt was pushed from his throat as he felt the distinct snap of a rib giving way. He sagged forward, held up only by the guard’s steely grip upon his golden locks as his vision flashed a frighteningly bright white. As much as he longed for the oblivion of unconsciousness, he couldn’t bear to fall into that nightmare again. Not now. Not so soon.
“What did I say about that Ald-speak,” the guard spat, yanking Lemuel’s head up to meet his eyes. From this proximity, he realized the guard was a woman, dressed in the bitch-queen’s colors. She seemed young—younger than him, at least, from what he could tell—though a red-hot fury beyond her years simmered in her dark gaze.
Ah, he mused hazily, his mind muddled with the lancing agony of a pulsating head wound, she was present at Grenzlan, then.
She reeled back with her free hand, striking him with a backhand strong enough to nearly rip the hair she grasped so fiercely from the very roots from which it had grown. Oh, how his cheek burned with the impact, his jaw all but torn from its hinge from the force of it. A coppery tang coated his tongue, and he thought she might have cracked a tooth.
‘Mind your tongue,’ Duane had once counseled him. ‘You might yet find it swiftly removed from your person should you feel inclined to wield it so thoughtlessly.’
A dark, humorless chuckle left Lemuel then, though even to his ears it sounded more like a desperate sob.
“Don’t be fading on me now, Ald.” She struck him again, this time bringing her knee up to bash in his nose. A muffled groan was all he could manage as blood surged forth, dyeing his tattered rags the color of fresh wine. “I’m just getting started.”
He slumped forward in her grip before she finally released him, allowing him to fall back to the cold stone floor with a dull thud. He blinked bleary eyes as his gaze settled upon that corpse in the corner of the room, its sightless eyes piercing him like no blade ever could. His vision swam, the graying flesh taking on a lighter tone; its hair the yellow of the sun’s rays; its eyes the green of fresh pine needles.
Its tunic the flowing fabric of a priest’s mantle.
He’s gone forever. Right, Papa?
A true sob burst forth unbidden, his chest alight with a newfound agony as it heaved with the onslaught of raw guilt and grief.
“Dan paesabi, da aliaol,” he whispered, only dimly aware of his guard’s continued jeers. "Llachom efh."
Trapped with the Enemy | Elevator | Pushed Beyond Breaking Point for Lehala and Rasov
I have been FIGHTING this prompt for fucking WEEKS. I could not find a scenario that worked for it, despite how juicy it sounds. There are simply too many question marks in my mind where Rasov is concerned. I cannot properly write that man in A Situation when I am not sure how he feels about Lehala yet.
But then this past session happened, and suddenly I have Something. So, here, take this: how I think things might have gone had Lehala went with the party to find Mirasa in the Archives :)
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Walking through the doors to the Archives, Lehala immediately knew she should not have come.
The interior was quiet, the lighting dimmed to a comfortable glow, allowing those within to peruse the stacks in peace. It cultivated a calm, studious atmosphere, with only the shuffling of parchment and the occasional cough to pierce the otherwise serene silence.
And yet it all did little more than make Lehala want to tear through the nearest pile of books with her teeth in pursuit of her target.
Fury, potent and scalding, surged through her veins with a ferocity she had not known in some time. Her hands trembled where they hung clenched at her sides, her jaw tight as she ground her teeth to keep from screaming. Mirasa was in here somewhere—doing only the gods knew what in this fucking place—and Lehala was desperate to get eyes on her. She needed to know that she was here and not elsewhere in Sanctuary, stalking the few friends they’d gained in their time in this hellish plane.
Lehala’s nostrils flared as she scanned the immediate vicinity, her gaze sliding from one identical row of bookshelves to the next in search of a head of short black hair and ashen skin. That she had maintained some level of self-control up to this point was nothing short of a marvel. The horror that had shot through her at Ridi’s shop, the realization of who had given him that wolf figurine—had it not been for Char’s ever pragmatic approach, Lehala wasn’t sure what she might have done.
At least they’d given him a way to reach them. At least they knew. Lehala had clung to this as they left the shop, panic curdling in her gut all the while.
But then they went to the Cozy Kettle. And then the Gilded Hunters.
And then—
Dread clawed its way up her throat, leaving her breathless as her eyes darted from one aisle to the next.
“There,” Char spoke up next to her, drawing Lehala’s attention to a table not far from the entranceway. A woman sat there reading—short, ebony hair gleaming in the low lamplight; pointed, gray-skinned ears peaking through the dark tresses.
That dread burned away as a fresh wave of anger swelled within her. Lehala didn’t wait for permission. She stormed forward.
“You,” Lehala seethed, not bothering to disguise her approach. Somewhere behind her, an irritated sigh could be heard. It sounded distinctly like Celeste. Lehala did not even slow her step.
The elven woman in question simply continued to read even as Lehala came to loom over her, her back straight and unbothered. As if Lehala weren't even there.
Rage rippled through her, a dull pain blooming to life at her palms as nails dug into the sensitive flesh. “Do not ignore me, gaan’te,” she rumbled, her voice low, yet imbued with something dark and minacious.
A brief moment passed in tense silence, one in which Lehala thought she might simply rip the book from her hands and beat her to death with it—but then Mirasa paused in her reading, sliding her slender fingers between the pages to hold her place, as she languidly tilted her head to meet Lehala’s eye.
“May I help you?” Mirasa asked, a note of seemingly genuine confusion to the words. Her expression was placid, nearly tranquil—if not for the slight bemused furrow of her brow. Lehala wanted to bash her skull into the table’s edge.
“Do not play coy with me, keer’gaan,” Lehala hissed, her pulse like a booming war drum in her ears. “I am in no mood for whatever games it is you intend to play here. Not now.”
A vague discomfort seemed to fall over Mirasa’s features, her eyes darting around the room. As if in search of help. The sudden urge to laugh nearly overtook Lehala as she watched the display.
“I’m sorry,” Mirasa said, almost believable in her playacting. “Have we met? I’m not sure that I’ve seen you before.”
“You know damn well who I am.” Lehala leaned forward, bracing her hands atop the table as she glared at the elven woman. She nodded behind her toward her companions. “And my friends as well. It seems that you have been leaving some messages for us throughout the city.”
A brow raised as Mirasa’s eyes narrowed, only briefly glancing toward where Lehala assumed the rest of the party stood. “I’m afraid I don’t follow…” she said carefully, as if afraid to venture any further. Lehala was quickly losing what threadbare patience she still had.
“Listen to me,” Lehala started, her voice tight with rancor. “I do not care what vendetta your master has with us. Nor do I care what part we are meant to play in whatever trial it is you are to complete. That is between us. We are your targets. You are not to approach them again. None of them. Do you understand me?”
“Lehala.” Someone behind her. Ledo, Lehala assumed. She couldn’t tell. Not with the deafening roar of her blood thundering through her veins to fill the quiet. “Maybe we should–”
“No,” Lehala snapped, not bothering to turn toward them, her flinty gaze intent on Mirasa. She had learned from a young age to never take her eyes off a snake in the grass. “I am not done yet.”
There was a brief flicker of recognition in Mirasa’s black gaze, her brow raising in something like surprise. “Oh,” she said, as if realization had only just dawned. “You are Lehala, then.”
Lehala froze, her eyes widening a fraction as her muscles pulled taut beneath her skin. Instinct told her to brace herself, to prepare for the danger lurking in the brush. That recognition felt worse than her feigned ignorance, like a trap had been sprung.
“I was speaking with someone the other day,” Mirasa mused, her voice soft and far away. Lost in recollection. “He spoke highly of you. What was his name… Rasov, I believe it was.”
Something within Lehala snapped, a typhoon of panicked fury sweeping through her as Rasov’s name left Mirasa’s lips—and before she could think it through, before she could even think to try to stop herself, her hands were at Mirasa’s throat.
No. 3: “I look in people’s windows, transfixed by rose golden glows.”
Isolation | Candlelight | Found Family for Vaela
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The Arnor estate was lovely at night. The stars shone brightly in a darkened sky, the moon’s glow illuminating the grounds in thin beams as they pierced the thick tree canopy that loomed overhead. It was quiet, peaceful, and far enough from the main thoroughfare to avoid the hustle and bustle of what night life had developed since the country’s abrupt change in leadership.
But it was also dark—and Vaela hated the dark.
A soft, frustrated sigh escaped her as she sat at the foot of her bed, her gaze fixed on the candelabra set atop the nightstand. It was a fine thing—a golden shaft that seemed to sparkle in the gentle glow of the candlelight, accentuating the delicate, vine-like etchings that swept up and along each arm. But it did little to illuminate the space, casting deep shadows along the walls as the flames danced in the gentle breeze from the open window.
Pretty, but without any real functional value. Zaresh would have loved it.
A violent shiver shot up Vaela’s spine, tearing her gaze from the candlelight as she swallowed down the urge to vomit. It’d been a few weeks since Zaresh had finally met his end, and yet still his ghost seemed to haunt her. It was easier in the daylight, surrounded by her newfound friends as she set her mind to the task at hand—but once night fell and the shadows descended, she might as well be back in that cellar, gagged and chained and terrified.
Vaela shot to her feet, her skin crawling as a phantom burn sparked to life at her wrists. She rubbed at the scars etched into her flesh as she paced the floor, desperately fighting to calm the rapid beat of her heart.
“Fuck,” she hissed, her jaw clenched to the point of aching as tears welled along her lashes. It wasn’t fair. It just wasn’t fucking fair.
A knock suddenly sounded at her door, piercing the quiet and causing Vaela to jump. She remained silent for a beat, listening. Praying that whoever it was assumed she had long since gone to bed.
“Vaela?” No such luck, it seemed. “Y’alright in there?”
Vaela sighed, calmed somewhat as she recognized Riven’s voice. She roughly wiped at her eyes, sniffling lightly as she cleared her throat. “Yeah,” she called, a forced note of levity to her tone. “Yeah, just getting ready for bed.”
“Oh,” Riven replied, pausing for a long moment. “Well, if y’want, we’re gonna raid da’s stores t’make some sweets. Ori’s never experienced Aerenth’s superior dessert spread.”
Vaela laughed softly, the smile that pulled at her lips easy and genuine. “I think I could go for something sweet,” Vaela replied, sniffling once more. “I’ll be down in a minute. Just gotta make myself presentable.”
“Y’look fine!” Riven said brightly, a faux exasperation painting her words. “Y’don’t have to look pretty to get covered in flour, lass! Be down in five or we’ll start without ye!”
“All right, all right,” Vaela laughed, grabbing her gloves as she headed for the door. “I’m coming.”
Vaela hated the dark, this much was true, but maybe she didn’t have to fear it and what monsters it might hide any longer.
Lamb to Slaughter | Ceremony | Beg for Forgiveness for Addie/Lem
So @editoress, I know you requested Lem for this one, but since Melody requested Addie/Lem, I kinda just smooshed these requests together into one :3
Anyway, this is a scenario that I've wanted to play out for a long while—and is a continuation of this fic, but I don't expect anyone to do any backreading lmao—for which the inspiration came from this song. I hope you all can see my vision.
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To the denizens of Durlyne, nothing appeared to be amiss. The Lions prowled the streets, their blades gleaming in the gray morning light, as was their wont. If their glares appeared sharper, or their demeanor more volatile, no one gave it much thought—unless you were one of the unlucky Semon to cross their paths. Few had any love for the lowliest of the castes, but, even then, the brutality with which they were met seemed deliberate, as if the Lions had been ordered to set upon their Bronze brethren. As if they were on the hunt.
Addilyn pulled her hood lower over her face, careful to keep her eyes upon the ground as she weaved her way through the throng of pedestrians crowding the street. For once, she was grateful for the looming threat of freezing rain. At least she did not stand out so starkly in her makeshift attire of tattered cloth.
It’d been three days since she’d escaped the cells beneath the Lions’ compound, and yet still the Lions had not relented in their tireless search. She’d been warned not to seek passage out of the city until the patrols had their fill of blood. She needed them to think she had already managed to flee beyond the borders of Durlyne, leaving the roads out of the city relatively unguarded as they expanded their search. Simple enough in theory, but not quite so in practice.
Especially considering who was likely spearheading the search.
A sharp pang shot through her chest, some terrible amalgamation of fury and despair that left her breathless. No, Addilyn thought, forcing that too keen agony back into the depths where it belonged, even as the burn of fresh tears made itself known. She couldn’t afford to wallow in her misery, not now. Not with the Lions still gnashing at her heels.
A cold, humorless laugh left her, drawing more than a few odd looks her way as she roughly wiped at her eyes. How many had she hunted in all her years amongst their ranks? It was no small number, of that she was sure. Oh, how fitting an end to the Lioness’ tale, to be set upon by her fellows as if she were little more than a rat caught sniffing about the dinner table.
It wasn’t long before an old, crumbling building came into view. The windows were cracked and shattered, and its door only just barely clung to a single hinge, ensuring that it did little in the way of providing shelter to any who might choose to reside within. But she didn’t need shelter, only a place to hide.
It was one of the many abandoned homes along this strip—too close to Blue Boy Bridge, it seemed. Not many wished to risk living so near the ilk that inhabited what laid beyond it, especially as of late. But this building in particular had proven to be a much needed refuge these last few days. The Lions of Mercy had not seen fit to venture this far from the city’s center, though she could not for the life of her discern why. It unnerved her, to say the least, but she wasn’t one to question God’s good favor, not when she needed it most.
But still Addilyn glanced up and down the street, seeking the telltale sight of Ssaelit green and the dull sheen of standard issue plate armor. She was not so foolish as to think that God’s favor extended beyond her own wits. She had no doubt that Ssael’s patience would fade soon enough.
Once she was certain she hadn’t been followed, she slipped through the doorway and into the gloomy interior. The building had long since been looted of whatever valuables might have been left by its prior occupants, leaving only that which was too large or too troublesome to carry. A large table sat in the center of the room, simple but sturdy in its make. The wooden surface had begun to warp and splinter, yet was otherwise intact. It was all but useless to her, but at least it served to make the space feel less cavernous.
Addilyn moved to place her satchel upon the table, her spoils for the morning ensconced within. She’d managed to snatch a fresh meat pie from a harried vendor as he contended with a rush of patrons. It was probably the last decent thing she’d eat for a long while.
Ignoring the chill that seeped in through the rotten boards lining the window panes, Addilyn reached up to pull back her hood, allowing herself a moment to breathe. A few days. Just a few more days and they would decide that she wasn’t worth the effort. No matter who was leading the pursuit.
She let out a final, slow breath, her spine straightening as she forced her shoulders back, resolute in her bearing. It was as she reached inside her bag that something shot out from the shadows, the projectile missing her face by a mere hair as it embedded itself in the wall behind her. Addilyn immediately hit the floor, a long string of curses flowing from her lips. Never before had she so keenly felt the absence of her blade.
“You missed, maafit,” Addilyn taunted, weariness all but forgotten. She scanned the room for her assailant, her eyes snagging on a darkened corner far from the pale, gray light spilling in through the windows. There was a large figure crouched there, still and silent despite her scrutiny. Another curse left her. She was growing careless, stupid in her desperation.
The figure remained motionless, watching her, as if awaiting her next move. Addilyn’s gaze flickered between that darkened corner and the door. If she was quick about it, she just might be able to make it out—especially if she could manage to upend the table for cover. It wouldn’t be much, but it’d serve her better on its side than as it was now.
A beat passed in silence, a cold sweat soaking into the collar of her coat, before she sprang to her feet, pushing the table over as she moved. It hit the floor with a loud crash, piercing the quiet like a sudden thunderclap. She’d made it the four strides to the door when another projectile whistled through the air, its sharpened tip slicing a thin line across her cheek before burying itself in the old and splintering wood.
Addilyn froze midstep, her eyes wide in horror—though it had nothing to do with the thin trail of blood that now oozed down the side of her face.
The projectile—it was no crossbow bolt, nor was it any common dagger. It was a small, sleek throwing knife, forged to be a quick and precise means of taking down a distant foe. The freshly sharpened steel shined even in the dim, accentuating its razor edge.
And she knew it just as well as she did her own blade.
“Don’t, Theron,” an all too familiar voice rumbled. Addilyn immediately felt as if she might be sick. “You run out that door, I send up a flare that brings every Lion in the district down upon you.”
Addilyn remained rooted where she stood, her breathing ragged as panic began to claw at her throat. No. No, no, no.
“Theron,” Lemuel warned, the hardened edge of an officer’s command in his voice. She heard him take a step, the soft scrape of metal on metal filling the tense quiet as he moved. He’d come in his armor, then. “Don’t make me–”
“What are you doing here?” Addilyn hissed, forcing the words from her lips.
Lemuel was quiet for a moment, as if he hadn’t expected her to speak. “I’m here to take you back,” he said simply.
He took another step, the floorboards creaking beneath his weight. The sound snapped her from her stupor, years of training finally breaking the paralysis of shock and fatigue. She grabbed for the knife embedded in the door as she whirled on him, brandishing it as she would have any sword. Lemuel stood ten paces from her, his black, clawed gauntlets gleaming from beneath the dark cloak draped over his shoulders. He held his hands out in front of him, a gesture of peace. It was a laughable display. She could only hope that he didn’t see how her own hand trembled.
“‘Take me back,’” she sneered, moving away from the door as he took another step toward her. If nothing else, she wanted that table between them. “To await my turn at the altar, it would seem.”
“I come here as a kindness.” He spoke softly, as if coaxing a wounded animal into his snare. “If they were to find you–”
“I know what a Lion's mercy entails.” Fear and anger thrummed through her in equal measure, her heart beating out a rapid rhythm within her chest. “I've meted it out often enough, sir.”
He paused mid-stride, his brow drawn in slowly mounting frustration. “Then you know why I came here alone, rather than with a squad at my back.”
“You must redeem yourself somehow, I suppose. I'm sure all eyes turned to you when I vanished from my cell.”
“Don't do this, Addilyn–”
“They should only know that you never once set foot in those dungeons. Not after you left me there to await the butcher's call.”
“I didn't have a choice–”
“Said by many a coward when faced with his sins,” she spat, unable to quash the vitriol that surged forth.
Lemuel lunged at her then, his golden gaze alight with a simmering rage as he leapt over the upended table. Addilyn made to duck out of his reach, stepping back as his beclawed hand lashed out—only to stop short as her back hit the wall.
Lemuel was upon her in an instant, pinning her in place with a hand at her throat. The metal of his gauntlets was bitingly cold, the pointed tips digging painfully into the soft flesh as he pressed her to the wall. Reason left her as she glared up at him, her arm raised to slash at his face with his throwing knife—but Lemuel was fast, grabbing for her wrist with his free hand as he met her eye. As if daring her to break his hold.
“I did what was necessary!” Lemuel snarled, a righteous fury undercutting his words. “I did my duty.”
“You betrayed me–” She choked on the words, her throat tight with tears she would not dare shed in his presence. The anger was so much easier than the anguish, than the heartache. “You threw me to the wolves and never once looked back.”
“I gave you a way out. I gave you a choice.”
“You gave me no such thing,” Addilyn shot back, relentless in her wrath. She felt his grip on her throat tighten, outrage clearly written upon his pale features—though still she did not falter. “You knew I would never take the Third Option. You knew. But with my refusal, I absolved you of whatever guilt might have plagued you as you handed me over to the Lions. My life their last, desperate gambit to pacify the Geffies in their pursuit of Ssaelit blood.”
“We cannot afford the likes of you furthering the Gefendur agenda, Addilyn.” Desperation began to line his features, that hardened mask he so loved to don cracking beneath the strain. “You are a liability, and will continue to be as such so long as you draw breath.”
“Then do it,” she dared, her teeth bared. Her neck ached, a faint wheeze sounding with each breath she took. “You claim to have come here as a kindness. A mercy. Dole out that infamous Lion's mercy, then, sir.”
She brought her free hand up to wrap around his armored wrist, adding to the pressure against her throat. His eyes widened, visibly flinching at her touch. A brief flash of panic flickered across his face, realization dawning as her words registered.
And yet still he held fast, a cold resolve falling over his features as his eyes hardened.
The hand at her neck tightened its grip, forcing a pathetic whimper to tumble from her lips as he suddenly threw her to the floor. A heaving gasp was the only sound to leave her, only just realizing how her lungs had burned with the need for air. Her head swam, the floor beneath her seeming to tilt and sway as she attempted to regain her bearings.
But before she could even push herself up onto her knees, the unmistakable rasp of a drawn blade filled the eerie quiet.
Addilyn went rigid, her every muscle pulled taut as she slowly shifted her attention back up toward Lemuel. He loomed over her, sword in hand and poised to strike. It hovered mere inches from her neck, as if he had abruptly stopped mid-swing. She stared up at him, her breathing coming in short, quiet gasps.
If he expected her to beg, to plead for her life, he would be sorely disappointed.
Lemuel stood motionless, silent, his breathing deep and even as he leveled the tip of the blade with her chin. The steel was cold enough to burn against the warmth of her skin, even at just the slightest touch of its sharpened edge. Darkly, she couldn’t help but wonder which sword he had drawn. Was it Ataret that would send her to her next life? Or was it Kossaul?
That familiar, black dread pooled within her belly, twisting at her gut until she thought she might vomit. But even as her arms shook and her mouth ran dry, she didn’t look away, her gaze locked with his. If he was so sure that the world must be rid of Addilyn Theron, then he could damn well look her in the eye as he bled her dry.
When he finally moved, it was sudden and without warning, a furious roar piercing the air as he reared back to strike her down—
—only to then throw down his sword, the blade hitting the floor with a cacophonous clatter.
Addilyn flinched, scrambling back from him as he turned away from her, his head in his hands.
“Go,” Lemuel rasped, his voice small. Mournful. Anguished. “Go, before they find you here.”
Addilyn simply gaped up at him, disbelieving. Still her hands shook, bile churning within her gut as terror's grip slowly began to fade. “Lem–”
“Go!” he shouted, his voice like thunder.
Addilyn didn’t dare to challenge him a second time, pushing herself to her feet as she grabbed for her satchel. She rushed for the door, colliding with the overturned table in her haste to flee—and as she crossed the threshold, a tentative freedom within her grasp, Lemuel’s parting words called to her, following her out of the building and onto the gray, rain slicked street.
Send me a number and I’ll write a micro story using the word or phrase
This is but a hope—nay, a dream, even—of what I yearn to occur between them with this new sword Lehala has.
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15. trembling hands
Even an hour after the fighting had ended, Lehala’s hand still burned like hellfire.
She stared down at her palm, wincing slightly as she flexed her trembling fingers. The skin was raw and blistered, as if she had pressed her hand to a scalding hot cauldron, and any attempt to so much make a fist was enough to wrench a pained gasp from her lips. She’d lost track of the days, hadn’t realized how much time had passed since she’d last wielded her new blade against a foe—but it seemed that said blade was not nearly as forgetful as its owner.
Maesk’ti, she thought bitterly. She had to be more careful.
“Hey.”
Lehala glanced up toward the familiar voice, almost flinching where she sat on the ground as she realized that Rasov stood over her, an eyebrow cocked in curiosity—or perhaps concern. She hadn’t noticed his approach, so consumed by the thoughts of her folly. She had to resist the urge to hide her hand from view, a strange sense of guilt beginning to curdle within her stomach.
“Hey,” she replied simply, the corner of her mouth twitching upward in spite of herself. Just his mere presence was almost enough to make her forget the perpetual throb working its way up her arm. Almost. “Is everything all right?”
“I was going to ask you the same thing,” Rasov said evenly, his gaze shifting slightly downward. A sharp, pained hiss escaped him. “What the hell is that from?”
Lehala cringed. Sul. Apparently it wasn’t quite dark enough out here to hide the damage from him. Or the injury was truly just that bad. She really hoped it was the latter.
She sighed, averting her eyes as she gently turned her palm over—only to immediately regret it as the abused flesh met with the rough fabric of her trousers, just barely managing to swallow the yelp that nearly burst forth.
“It is nothing,” she said stiffly, setting her hand back down to lay palm up on her thigh. It continued to shake despite her best efforts to calm the spasms. “Just need to get used to the new blade.”
Rasov knelt down beside her, a forearm resting upon his knee as his other hand grabbed for her wrist. She immediately made to rip her arm from his grasp, but his hold remained firm, his attention fixed on the ugly burns scorched into her palm. A deep frown pulled at his mouth as his brow furrowed, a fearsome scowl taking shape.
“Lehala.” His voice was soft, but far from gentle, drawing out her name slowly, as if that in itself was a warning. “Last I checked, a weapon should not be hurting the person that wields it.”
“I am fine,” she insisted, trying once again to yank her wrist free from his grip. She might as well have been trying to pry open the jaws of a dire wolf. “It is just a little burn. It will be better by the morning.”
Without missing a beat, Rasov pressed the thumb of his free hand to the center of her palm, ripping a ragged cry from her throat as she fought to pull away from him, a string of curses following in its wake.
“That doesn’t sound like ‘a little burn’ to me,” he said flatly. She glared at him, her teeth bared as red hot fury began to pulse through her veins in time with the renewed throbbing in her hand. He didn’t so much as flinch, his jaw set as he met her eye with a glare of his own.
“Rhet’ti,” she ground out, that single word filled with all the venom of a viper’s bite as her voice cracked with the pain. Still he held fast, unmoving in his torment. “Let go of me.”
“Sure,” he said curtly, removing his thumb from her palm as his arm came to rest atop his knee once again, his point thoroughly made—though he didn't move to release her. “If you’ll stop using that stupid sword.”
“Ne skula,” Lehala snapped, the newfound ache grinding her patience into dust. “I do not see you giving up your stupid knife.”
“My stupid knife doesn’t give me second degree burns if I don’t use it for a few days,” he said frankly. There was a flash of something in his face, some softer emotion she couldn’t name, but it was gone just as quick, his features hardening once again. “You’re going to get yourself killed, at this rate. You’re going to falter in a fight after it gives you a good zap, and some guy is going to come along and take advantage of it.” He paused, bobbing his head as if in consideration. “That is if the sword doesn’t do the job for him first.”
“I will be more careful,” she insisted, finally giving up on freeing herself. “I just lost track of time. I was not expecting it to take so long for us to reach the outpost—”
“I’m going to make this very simple for you,” Rasov cut her off, his voice a deep, furious rumble, his eyes hard. Lehala immediately fell quiet, cowed beneath his flinty stare. “Either you stop using the sword, or I take it from you and break it against the nearest rock.”
Lehala’s eyes widened, panic sparking to life within her. "Wait, what? You cannot just—"
“Don’t think I will do it?" Rasov pushed on, effectively silencing her. "Try me. You want to make this harder? You’d better be ready to put that fucking thing through my heart.”
With that, he finally released her, pushing himself to his feet. Lehala simply stared up at him, mute with shock as her already pain-addled mind struggled to process the ultimatum. Surely he was kidding, right? Or at least exaggerating. He’d never resort to something so drastic, not over a sword.
“I want your answer by morning,” he said gruffly, dusting off his pants. His gaze purposefully avoided her own as he turned to leave, resolute in his bearing. “Make sure you’re prepared for whatever choice you make. I will be.”
For but the span of a heartbeat, he paused in his step, as if he might turn back toward her, as if there were something more he wished to add—but he only shook his head with a sigh as he continued on to join the others at the center of camp, leaving her alone to make her choice.
EXTENSIVE SCAR RELATED PROMPTS! Requested by @vampxrebarbie. bitch.
"Is it alright if i touch this scar?" for, and I quote, "this one for you know EXACTLY who ( ￣▽￣)"
I, unfortunately, know exactly who for. Lays down.
I kinda did what the prompt asked? Neither of these two would so blatantly ask to touch the other's scars, so I had to work within the realm of possibility here.
**********
It wasn't an uncommon occurrence for Rasov to get lost in his own thoughts. He would grow quiet, his gaze faraway as his brow furrowed in contemplation. Sometimes a quiet muttering would accompany this, usually in his mother tongue, as he navigated whatever ponderous musings had consumed him so.
But there were those rare moments where such solemn ruminations were preceded by no familiar tells, catching Lehala off-guard in the midst of their training.
"Did it hurt?"
Lehala faltered mid-strike, stumbling as her foot placement shifted slightly with the sudden interjection. Rasov simply caught the poorly aimed punch with his hand, as if she'd done little more than lightly toss a child's toy his way.
"Excuse me?" Lehala stepped back to fall into the proper stance once more, though she made no move to continue with the exercise.
Rasov appeared to snap back to himself, as if only just realizing what he had said. He straightened, dropping his arms from a defensive stance as an almost sheepish expression fell over his features.
"Ah, sorry, sorry," he said, his usually jovial tone of voice tinged with a shade of embarrassment. "I was—I was just thinking..." He trailed off, hesitating a beat before gesturing up toward his head. "Your horn. Did it, ah, hurt?"
Lehala stood motionless for a moment, nearly stupefied into paralysis before she, too, straightened, her hands coming to rest at her hips. She had no doubt that a genuine bewilderment had taken shape upon her face.
“Well, it was not pleasant,” she said with some measure of curiosity. Where had this come from? “Why do you ask?”
A curt hum of acknowledgment left him, as if he still warred with the discomfort of having voiced his thoughts so plainly. “I was thinking—about your story,” he quickly clarified, clearly worried she would assume something else had brought this to mind. “If a battleaxe cleaved through my skull—well, I would be dead, for one.” A soft, self-conscious chuckle escaped him. “But let’s say I somehow survived the blow. It would’ve hurt. A lot. Don’t think I could defend against any sort of follow-up attack after that.”
“Ah,” Lehala said simply, though she still wasn’t quite sure why this had been plaguing him so. A short laugh rushed out of her as she shook her head. “I cannot imagine that a battleaxe to the skull is quite the same as one chopping off a horn, but I see your point. It was—” She searched for the word, her brow furrowing. “Disorienting, I would say. A lesser warrior might not have recovered in time to dodge the follow-up strike. Although, that could possibly be attributed to that uncanny ability of mine to take a blow.”
Another hum, this time accompanied by that familiar, faraway look. “So, it doesn’t pain you then?”
“No,” she replied, with no shortage of amusement. “Not anymore. I barely even notice it these days.” She gestured him forward. “Come, give me your hand.”
“Ah, no, no,” Rasov quickly said, holding up his hands in the hopes of warding her off. “That’s not necessary. I don’t need—”
“Come,” she insisted with a more emphatic wave of her hand. “I will prove this to you, otherwise I worry you will hold back when trying to punch me.”
It looked like he meant to argue further, but instead allowed himself an almost nervous chuckle as he took a step toward her. To his credit, he did not so much as flinch as she took hold of his wrist and raised his hand up toward the broken horn. As his fingers brushed against the jagged surface, she could feel the hesitation in his touch, and she thought that he might actually pull away—but when the lack of a reaction from her appeared to register, a low laugh slipped from his lips.
“I would say that you’re putting on a brave face,” Rasov said as he slowly lowered his arm down to his side, the timbre of his voice suffused with something like diffidence, “but I worry you would hurt me if I said as much.”
“You would be right in that assumption,” Lehala laughed, a small smirk curving at the corner of her lips. “Are you satisfied? Can we go back to me trying to hit you now?”
That pulled a genuine laugh from him, wiping away whatever remnants of discomfort remained in his features.
“Yes, yes,” he said, that affable tone of voice returning as he slid back into a defensive stance. A smirk to mirror her own took shape. “Though it would be nice if you could actually land a punch sometime soon.”
Lehala laughed heartily as she launched herself at him, only for her strike to be easily caught and diverted as Rasov's own laughter echoed in the small space.
I'm finally biting the bullet and splitting this second chapter I've been working on for [looks at calendar] six years into two separate chapters. Maybe this will finally kick my ass in gear to finish it.
At least now I can give the world even more of my Mando OCs.
***
A brisk wind blew through the sparsely populated streets of the old, decaying mining town, the slate gray clouds casting the already dreary surroundings into a colorless palette of ashen stone buildings and coal dusted roads. The few people that milled about stood hunched against the ancient crumbling walls of whatever hovels they called home, their clothes tattered rags that hid their faces from prying eyes.
The town was obscure and forgotten, its inhabitants broken and reclusive. The perfect place for their target to hide.
But he had to come out eventually.
Cassie Theron stood in the shadow of a burned out building, the gravel crunching lightly beneath her boots as she shifted her weight from one leg to the other for the fifth time in as many minutes. She had been watching the same section of street for the better part of four hours, the alley providing a scant amount of cover from prying eyes as she scanned the sensors in her helmet’s HUD.
Her mark still had yet to show himself, and time was growing short.
“Haar'chak,” she hissed under her breath, rolling her shoulders in an attempt to stave off the inevitable ache in her muscles. The barest sound of metal on stone could be heard as she did so, the heavy steel pauldrons of her dark blue beskar’gam scraping against the wall she leaned against.
“Still nothing?” A light, feminine voice filtered through the comms built into her helmet.
“Not a thing,” Cassie replied, unable to rein in her frustration.
A heavy sigh filled her ears. “Maybe we missed him.”
“I’m offended, Suri,” a man interjected, his tone lighthearted and teasing. “My intel is never anything less than impeccable.”
“It’s not your intel I doubt, Caed,” Suriya replied, the words tinged with barely restrained irritation, “but he could’ve been tipped off. It’s not like a couple of Mando’ade sniffing around a decaying, worthless town on the edge of the galaxy would turn heads or anything.”
A low whistle came over the comms. “Someone’s cranky.”
“Ne'johaa, shabuir.”
“Anything on your end, Vys?” Cassie quickly cut in, silencing the squabble that would have undoubtedly unfolded. Her sister was easily riled up, and Cassie was in no mood to play mediator. “Any activity at the landing pad?”
“Nothing,” the low, gruff voice of Vys’kydir answered. He almost sounded disappointed. He probably was, honestly. He had been hoping to test out his new sniper rifle from his position in an abandoned bell tower to the north. “If the chaavla left town, he’d have had to dig himself a way out.”
“Then where is he?” Suriya snapped.
“Suriya.” Cassie didn’t bother to temper her annoyance, her tone sharp and commanding. Her younger sister immediately quieted, her silence laden with the embarrassment of a child scolded in front of her friends. Guilt immediately began to eat its way at Cassie’s gut as she took a deep breath, her tone that of a patient, soothing elder sibling. “Udesii, vod’ika. We’re all anxious for this job to be over and done with.”
“C’mon, Sur’ika,” Caedyc chimed in, clearly trying to bring some levity to the conversation. “Just think about that new speeder you’ll be able to buy with the credits from this job.”
Suriya didn’t reply. Cassie pictured her sitting with her arms crossed, her lips pulled into a deep frown beneath her own helmet. Caedyc would likely catch hell later.
“Huh,” Vys’kydir said. He sounded perplexed.
Cassie immediately perked up. “What’s up, Vys?”
“Do you know if this mark was exclusive?”
She could practically hear the rest of the squad bristle over the comms. “It should have been. Why?”
“Because it looks like we may have some competition.”
Cassie ground her teeth, cursing silently as she pushed off of the wall to fall into a low crouch. As silently as she could manage, she inched her way toward the mouth of the alleyway. “Where are they? What am I looking for?”
When he spoke again, Vys’kydir’s agitation was apparent. “One of us.”
“You’re kidding,” Suriya deadpanned. “They have another Mando on this job? Four wasn’t good enough?”
“Well, five is definitely better than four,” Caedyc said drily. Suriya merely scoffed. He fell quiet for a beat before hesitantly adding, “… It is just one, right?”
“From what I can see,” Vys’kydir sounded uneasy. “He should be coming around the northwest corner any second now, Ver'alor. He’ll be at your eight o’clock.”
Cassie tried not to scoff at the use of her rank as she peeked out from her hiding place. Ranks meant nothing nowadays. With the clans spread so thin, hiding out on whatever backwater planets they could find, such titles were just about as worthless as a hunk of plasteel.
But still her squad insisted on continuing to address her as such. She had been their leader for all these years, keeping them alive and safe even through the Empire’s reign, when their survival had been at its most uncertain in decades.
And yet still they all lived like rats, hiding out in whatever inconspicuous hole in the wall they could find, a shadow of the mighty warriors the galaxy had feared and respected for millennia.
No rank or title could fix that.
Cassie adjusted the audio in her helmet with a rapid series of blinks, listening intently for the telltale clink of beskar on beskar, the heavy footfalls of reinforced combat boots. “Do you still have eyes on him?”
“Yeah, but I’ll lose sight once he makes that turn.”
“You sound worried, Vys,” Cassie replied, unable to keep the wry smile from her face. “Remind me to chew you out for that later.”
“You’ll see why when he turns that corner.”
This time it was Suriya who spoke up, her anxiety clear. “What is that supposed to mean?”
Cassie was about to tell them both to shut their mouths when she saw him, the polished silver of his helmet gleaming brightly even in the dim, gray lighting as he sauntered into her line of sight. His beskar’gam had seen better days, the rust colored steel bearing the scars of countless skirmishes, while the threadbare, dark brown cloth that hung from his shoulders billowed out behind him like the waves of a murky lake in a storm.
He cut an imposing figure as he made his way down the street, his strange, long rifle strapped to his back and in clear view of any who looked his way. And that said nothing for whatever other weapons he had hidden on his person.
A curse fell from Cassie’s lips once again as she quickly slid back out of sight. She knew him, all right. And he could very well snatch this bounty right out from under their noses.
“I’m gonna kill that ge'hutuun the minute we get back to the bounty depot,” Cassie ground out.
“What is it?” Caedyc asked.
“Nothing I can’t handle,” she bit out. “But definitely something I wish I didn’t have to handle.”
“I’m coming down there,” Suriya said. Cassie could hear her grunt slightly as she pushed herself into a standing position.
“No,” Cassie said, that single word coming out more forcefully than she had intended. “Hold your positions. If the mark is out there and he sees a bunch of Mandos booking it down the street, he’ll bolt.”
“If he hasn’t already,” Caedyc added.
Cassie ignored him, daring to glance over her shoulder to track the newcomer’s progress down the street. He seemed unconcerned with his surroundings, which didn’t say much. They all knew to put on an air of confidence and utter certainty in their every movement, no matter the circumstances. “I said hold your positions. That’s an order.”
A brief pause. But then three voices responded in unison, their reluctance evident. “Yes, alor.”
“Good.” Cassie pushed herself to her feet, blinking a few more times to tune her HUD to the Mandalorian’s gait. It was the easiest way to track someone. “Did you lose sight of him, Vys?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Vys’kydir said. “The buildings on that street are just a few stories too tall for me to see either of you.”
“All right. I’m tracking him right now. Maybe he can lead us to the mark.”
“And then what?” Caedyc laughed incredulously. “You gonna fight him for it?”
Cassie pressed herself back against the wall as the newcomer passed by her hiding spot, praying that the blue of her armor was dark enough to seem like nothing more than a shadow. “I’m gonna pretend like that was said with the utmost respect for your alor and her abilities.”
“All I’m saying is there’s probably a reason why he got assigned a bounty we’d already signed on for.”
“Good for him,” she said, her shoulders sagging slightly in relief as he passed without incident, some of the tension she hadn’t realized had built up within her easing its way from her body. “But he’s not getting this one.”
A sigh came over the comms, her HUD telling her it came from Caedyc, but it was Vys’kydir that spoke. “Your pride is going to be the death of you, ma’am.”
A small smile pulled at the corners of her mouth as she eased her way out of the alleyway. The few people that had loitered around the area had vanished as the Mandalorian made his way down the street. Clearly he was in no mood for subtlety. “Then let that be what is said over my funeral pyre.”
A scoff, then Caedyc’s amused voice. “Utreekov.”
“I’m on the move.” The smile faded from her lips as she carefully moved out into the street, her steps silent even on the gravel laden ground before her. “I need radio silence for now. I can barely even think with you lot yammering on in my ear.”
The three of them immediately fell silent as they muted their outgoing comms, leaving Cassie alone with the sound of her deep, even breaths and the steady footfalls of her new quarry.
Body Horror | Tattoo Gun | Spirit Possession | “Let the bedsheet soak up the tears.” (Apparat feat. Soap & Skin, Goodbye)
Okay. So. Hear me out. This is an incredibly self-indulgent crossover/AU. I started writing it back in December of last year, and slowly chopped away at it. When I saw that there was a Whumptober prompt that (loosely?) applied, I forced myself to get to the finish line.
And so this was borne of my friends and I saying "Surely Lemuel would allow a sadistic, hedonistic demon to share his body if it meant he got all of the power that came with it?"
Anyway. You can read this if you want. But. Yeah. <3
***************
There was a shift in the air as Addilyn approached him. She had no talent for pymary, no sense for the khert and its delicate intricacies—and yet the air felt heavier here, thicker in a way she could not explain. It was as if the khert had shrunk away from this place, unwilling to be tainted by the slaughter that had occurred. Blood and viscera had turned the earth to mud, her every step sounding with a revolting squelch as her boots sunk into the fetid sludge.
And in the middle of it all stood Lemuel Adelier, drenched in gore and bits of flesh, a grotesque grin splitting his features.
A laugh then pierced the quiet, the sound grating and manic, and Addilyn froze. It was not at all the charming chuckle she’d become so familiar with. Even when dancing on the edge of madness, she’d never heard Lemuel emit such a shrill cacophony.
“Oh, what a day,” he said, the laughter tapering off into an almost euphoric moan. He sounded wrong; that delightful tenor dipping into a sinister baritone. Had she not known any better, she would have sworn that an entirely different man stood before her—but his golden hair shone bright in the light of the setting sun, Ataret and Kossaul in hand and streaked with Gefendur blood.
And yet her blood turned to ice in her veins as she watched him, her skin prickling with unease.
“Captain,” she tried, her voice low, hardly even a croak as her too dry throat forced the simple word from her lips.
Almost lazily, Lemuel turned to face her, a strange expression crossing his blood spattered face. It was akin to irritation, but with the slightest undercurrent of curiosity.
Her confusion only mounted as he stared at her, unrecognizing.
“If you’ve come to grovel, your head’s a bit high for my liking,” he said, the words cold and lacking any playful bite.
“Sir,” she tried again, her heart stuttering out a staccato rhythm as a thin trickle of fear began to slither its way down her spine. Wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong. “We’re regrouping to the north. We need to head out if we’re going to link up with the battalion.”
He stared at her for a beat longer, his annoyance seeming to momentarily morph into something closer to anger, but it quickly vanished, and at last there was a flash of recognition in his eyes.
“Ah,” he said simply, that monstrous grin returning, and Addilyn had the brief thought that she rather preferred his ire. “The Lioness. And here I thought I’d never have the pleasure of a formal introduction.”
A nervous laugh was all she could muster, her body going rigid with the inexplicable urge to flee. “Very funny, sir. Never heard that one before.”
“You haunt his every thought,” Lemuel continued, stalking forward with the preternatural grace of a predator on the hunt. “It was fairly fucking irritating that he worked so hard to keep me at bay where you were concerned. You and his doe-eyed brat.”
The sun hung low in the sky, but still painted the area in a bright, crimson glow. The shadows grew long and deep and dark as dusk loomed, and so Addilyn had not questioned the shadows that seemed to fall over Lemuel’s features.
But as he drew closer, she realized it was neither shadows nor streaks of quickly drying blood that coated his face, but solid black markings. They lined his jaw, symmetrical in their placement, starting from the corners of his eyes and ending at his chin. A single slash of ebony crossed the center of his nose, while a strange symbol sat painted upon his forehead.
It left her speechless, and she fought the urge to step back as he closed in.
“But it looks like he didn’t account for how hard it would be to shove me back in my cage once he deigned to set me loose,” he drawled, his voice entirely unfamiliar. At this proximity, she realized that his eyes glowed an insidious shade of red, their warm, golden hue entirely absent. “Such is the usual gambit borne of human desperation.”
Addilyn moved to draw her blade, muscle memory taking hold as alarm bells rang out loudly in her mind.
WRONG WRONG WRONG WRONG
The sword was scarcely out of its scabbard when he moved, nearly too fast for her eyes to register. One moment her blade was in hand, the next a loud clang resounded through the piercing silence, a sharp pain shooting up her arm as the weapon was knocked free of her grip. It fell to the earth with a dull splat a few feet from where she stood, the heavy steel sinking slightly into the putrid mixture of mud and viscous fluid.
And all the while, she stared up at Lemuel in horror. She knew how he fought down to her very bones. There was strength behind each movement, though there was always a thoughtless precision that came with each slash and parry, drilled into him from decades spent on training grounds and battlefields.
But there had been no finesse in how he had disarmed her, no elegant violence, merely raw power.
A horrifying realization dawned, and it left her near paralyzed with utter terror.
“What are you?” she demanded, a pathetic tremor undercutting her words.
The creature wearing Lemuel’s face grinned lasciviously and raised Ataret to her throat. Just beneath each eye, a second pair of smaller, crimson colored irises stared back at her. “A question your dear captain probably should have asked, Lioness.”
Not him. Panic gripped at her lungs tight enough to burn. Not him, not him, not him.
Addilyn didn’t think, couldn’t allow herself to think. She ducked back and out of reach of the blade’s tip, knocking the scarlet stained steel away with her armored forearm. She turned to bolt, unsure of where to go, only that she had to get away. Away from this thing that had claimed Lemuel’s visage as its own.
But it hardly mattered, a deranged cackle splitting the air as the creature reached for her. Her head jerked back as she felt its fingers bury themselves in her hair, the clawed tips of its gauntlets digging painfully into the flesh of her scalp.
“Now, now,” it chided, tugging her back toward it. She latched onto its wrist, desperate to wrest herself from its grasp—but its hold remained solid, immovable. Even without Lemuel’s plate armor in the way, she doubted her feeble attempts would have amounted to much. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I haven’t dismissed you yet, Private.”
“Where is he?” she ground out, her jaw clenched to the point of aching. Tears welled in her eyes from the pain along her scalp, blurring her vision. “What have you done to him, nuofhen?”
“Ever the loyal little soldier,” it crooned, its free hand coming up to grip at her chin. “More sacrificial lamb than fierce lioness.”
Belatedly, Addilyn realized it no longer wielded Lemuel’s blades. It had likely discarded them when she tried to run. In a stroke of hysteria induced insanity, all she could think about was how furious Lemuel would be to see his prized swords festering in a pool of blood and entrails.
“Answer me.” Her voice continued to tremble as she glared at it, warm rivulets of blood beginning to soak into her hair where the gauntlets had cut through skin. Nausea ate away at her gut as she met its gaze. She had never seen such gleeful malice etched into Lemuel’s face before.
“He lurks,” the creature said, the claws at her chin digging into the sensitive flesh as it angled her face upwards. “He’s been quiet since the culling began. Willing to sit back and let me have my fun.” It chuckled darkly, the sound an ugly and repulsive thing. “Oh, the sins etched upon his soul, little lamb. So ready to do whatever is necessary, the consequences be damned.”
It pulled her closer, its nose nearly brushing her own. It smelled of death, of sickly sweet rot and the metallic tang of blood. There was no lingering scent of vliegeng musk, no heady aroma of sweat and hodo. It was as if the creature had snuffed out Lemuel entirely, like a flame smothered beneath a woolen quilt.
“Though every human has a line they won't cross. No matter their resolve.” The creature licked its lips, and Addilyn’s stomach turned, the urge to rip the flesh from its face all consuming. Anything to tear away the depravity carved into Lemuel’s features. “Why don't we find his?”
A fresh agony burst to life at her scalp, ripping a strangled cry from her lips as the creature forced her to her knees. The panic that had curdled within her veins melted into white hot fury as thick, pungent muck soaked through her trousers. Fury at the debasement, at the shame that flooded her like a burst dam. And all at this creature’s hand—this hellish thing that appeared to her wearing Lemuel Adelier’s face.
The throwing dagger was in her hand before she even thought to reach for it, torn from the sheath built into the armor at Lemuel’s hip. Rage clouded her mind, her eyes unseeing as she drove the knife into its thigh, relishing in the give of flesh beneath a freshly sharpened blade.
But the creature did not cry out, nor did it so much as loosen its hold upon her. A low chuckle instead filled the silence, fiendish and foreboding in its tenor, chilling the fire that had sparked to life within her.
“And so the claws finally come out,” it rumbled, its gaze never wavering. Its eyes unblinking. Addilyn’s hands began to shake. “Brazen little wretch.”
It struck fast, swift as an adder as it sent her sprawling with a backhand that made her vision go white. She fell to the ground, her ears ringing with the force of the blow as she struggled to push herself to her feet. Her cheek burned like hellfire, and she realized it had likely sliced at least one sizable gash in the skin.
But then there was a sudden weight at her back, pushing her down into the putrid muck. Pressing the air from her lungs. Dragging a pitiful mewl from her throat.
“Bleat away, little lamb,” the creature said, its breath tickling the shell of her ear as it dug its knee further into her spine. Addilyn clawed at the earth, trying not to think of what slimy bits were tangled between her fingers. “He’s yet to stir.”
“Maafit!” Addilyn bit out, only for a ragged scream to leap from her tongue as it stabbed the throwing knife through her hand, piercing the meager armor lining her glove.
“Careful, girl,” it purred, the tips of its clawed gauntlets dancing up the length of her arm. Addilyn could only sag where she lay, her fingers twitching helplessly as the dagger continued to cut through muscle and tendon with each minute movement. Bile churned within the depths of her stomach and she swallowed the urge to vomit. “You’d do well to mind who you bare those teeth to.”
The crushing pressure suddenly lifted as the creature rolled her onto her back, allowing her a brief moment to suck in a greedy breath—only for its weight to settle at her hips. Straddling her. Trapping her.
And then its hands were at her neck, its teeth bared in depraved delight.
Logic fled as instinct took hold. Addilyn thrashed beneath it, her feet struggling for purchase in the slippery mud. Her back arching in a vain attempt to escape. Her fingers tearing at its steel bracers. Desperate to dislodge its grip. Desperate to get away. Desperate to breathe.
“Writhe all you like,” it said, its voice like honey. Deep and sultry. Though its eyes were wild. Manic. Addilyn dimly thought of how frighteningly familiar the expression seemed on Lemuel’s face. “It seems he’s left you to your fate, Lioness.”
A soft wheeze was all she could manage, her lungs spasming violently within her chest as her vision narrowed. The hands at her neck were cold, the armor like ice against her feverish skin. She tried to pry them away, but her fingers had grown numb, her limbs like unwieldy lead blocks as that dark void loomed, pulling her under…
“... —ilyn!”
“...dilyn!”
“Addilyn!”
Addilyn jolted upright with a gasp. The earth seemed to tilt beneath her as she choked and gagged and heaved, only adding to the vile concoction of bodily fluids seeping into the ground. Her throat throbbed in time with the erratic beating of her heart, the muscles beneath the abused flesh aching with an intensity that could only suggest severe bruising was yet to come.
And then there was a weight upon her back, the touch gentle and tentative—and she immediately knocked it away with a strangled yelp, moving to scramble back from it. She had to get away. She had to—
“Addilyn!” Lemuel grabbed for her, keeping her in place. “Addilyn, it’s me. Stop it. Stop!”
Addilyn froze, daring to meet his gaze, her hands trembling as she tried to keep herself from crying. From begging and pleading.
But his eyes were a warm, welcoming gold, and his face devoid of the black markings that seemed to signify the presence of the creature. The only sign it had been there at all were a pair of small scars below each eye. Where that extra set of scarlet irises had stared back at her.
She gaped at him, shaking like the last leaf on a dying tree. Her horror must have been clearly written upon her face, as Lemuel’s gaze softened, his brow furrowed in what she could only assume was concern.
“Are you all right?” he asked, his voice soft, thick. A far cry from the malicious drawl that had come from his lips before. “Say something, da lledeol.”
Lemuel reached up toward her face, as if to brush the hair from her eyes or to wipe the blood from her cheeks, but she flinched back, a pathetic whimper leaping forth unbidden. He froze, something like hurt flashing across his features. Hurt, and maybe the slightest hint of guilt.
“Addilyn, I—”
“What—” she rasped, a violent coughing fit wracking her body. It hurt to talk. It hurt to breathe. Each breath akin to a thousand shards of glass shoved down the length of her throat. But still she stared at him, unwilling to rein in the fear. The anger. The revulsion. “What did you do.”
His face fell, and he let his arm drop back down to his side. She expected shame to be reflected back in his gaze. Shame for what he had done. For what he had almost done.
But his eyes only darkened, his mouth set in a firm line as he pushed himself to his feet. And in that moment, she could see a shadow of the creature that had so delighted in her torment.
Shoulder to Cry On | Giving Permission to Die | “It’s not your fault.”
Do not read this <3 I cannot stress that enough <3
***************
Winter’s bite had begun to fade by the time Mikaila was well enough to be out and about. Patches of green poked through the slowly shrinking piles of snow, and once near absent songbirds could be heard even within the densely populated streets of Durlyne. It was as if Ssael himself wished to welcome his favored daughter back to the land of the living with a splash of color.
But Addilyn couldn’t help the frown that pulled at her lips as she spied the girl’s pallid features, her tell-tale Soud green eyes dull and lacking that familiar mischievous gleam.
“Oi, lass,” Addilyn said, forcing a playful lilt into her voice. “Don’t you be scheming over there. I won’t have you spelling my sword soggy when I have to assist in training later.”
Mikaila looked up from where she sat on one of the stone benches lining the temple’s pathways, the barest smile painted upon her pale lips. Even so, it didn’t quite reach her eyes. Addilyn’s heart nearly split at the sight.
She hadn’t seen the little spellwright since the weeks following that harrowing night, and even then Mikaila had spent much of it in a fitful slumber, burning with fever and writhing in terrible pain. Addilyn had felt so helpless, the vibrant little troublemaker at death’s door with naught but prayers to be said in the hope that the doctor could keep her from the khert’s grasping hands.
But the wee lass was strong, a fighter if she had ever seen one, and she’d beaten back the very same khert that had taken her father.
And yet the sight before her left Addilyn at a loss. It wasn’t grief or fear that lined the girl's features. She seemed… troubled. Haunted.
Addilyn hadn’t known what to expect when Lemuel announced that he’d be bringing his newfound daughter to the temple, but this somehow felt worse than a hysterical child’s weeping.
A sigh escaped her as Addilyn moved to sit beside Mikaila, the stone’s cold surface seeping into her trousers and making her shiver.
“You’ve been awful quiet since your doting uncle left you in my care,” Addilyn said with an air of levity. “And here I’d been ready to be wowed by tales of your valiant victory over the Crescian invaders.”
Mikaila’s small, gloved hands clenched into tightly balled fists, her gaze averted to the ground. “Can I ask you something, Addie?”
Addilyn blinked in surprise, her brow raised. “Of course.”
A quiet moment passed, one in which Addilyn could hear the distant sounds of a hound’s baying. “Do you think I did enough?” Mikaila finally asked.
“Enough—?” Addilyn was struck speechless. Among the short list of things she expected her to ask, that was not among them. “What do you mean?”
“Everyone talks about that night like I did something special. Like I fought them off and saved the day.” Her voice was low, but sharp as a knife’s edge. “But I could have done more. I know I could have. But Papa was hurt and there were so many of them and—”
Mikaila trailed off then, her little shoulders trembling. Addilyn thought she had begun to cry, expected to see tears streaming down her pale cheeks as hiccupping sobs built up in her chest—but her eyes were dry, and there was a deep anger and frustration in her brilliant green gaze.
“It’s all my fault,” she said darkly, and it was with that that she sniffled softly, though Addilyn suspected she would blame it on the still brisk air. “Had I not been there, Papa would still be here.”
“Miki—” Addilyn tried, but Mikaila cut her off.
“Had I been born a boy, Papa would have taught me how to fight. He wouldn’t have told me to run. He would have told me where to aim.”
She said it with such rancor, such bitterness. Addilyn had thought the girl would be wailing for her lost Papa, but instead she harbored a profound guilt for his demise.
“Miki,” she tried again, reaching out to place a hand upon Mikaila’s uninjured shoulder. There was little she could give her in the way of comfort, and even this felt like a paltry offering. “Your Papa didn’t like me much. Especially when your uncle would bring me around you. But even I know that he loved you so very much. Fiercely enough that he fought to the death to keep you safe.”
Mikaila sniffled again, her eyes still trained on her hands. The gloves were new. A darker blue than her old pair.
“And,” Addilyn continued, sensing a rebuttal building upon the little wright’s lips, “I would never dare say that he’d have done anything differently had it been a lad at his side that night, rather than his beloved daughter. He’d have told that boy to run to find help, to find the guard, to get home. Just as he did you.”
It was then that a stray tear finally spilled over Mikaila’s lashes, and her hands began to shake. Addilyn did not hesitate to pull the girl toward her in a tight embrace.
“It wasn’t your fault, Miki,” Addilyn said gently, but with an edge that brokered no argument. “You scared off a horde of Crescians all on your own. And you fought your way back to us. You are strong and bright and so very brave.”
Addilyn pulled back slightly, a small half-smile upon her lips as she brushed the stray tears from Mikaila’s cheeks. Mikaila met her gaze with a watery smile of her own.
“Never doubt that you did more than most lads older than yourself would have managed,” Addilyn continued. “You sitting here right now is proof that you did more than enough.”
Mikaila sniffled again, nodding stiffly as she buried her face in Addilyn’s tunic, her voice muffled as she simply said, “Thank you, Addie.”
Convenience Store | Loneliness | “Leave no trace behind, like you don’t even exist.” (Taylor Swift, Illicit Affairs)
***************
Looking up at the night sky, Saya tried to find something familiar in the stars. In their patterns, their alignments—hell, even in the twinkling gleam that so taunted her from the surface of this strange planet.
But there was nothing. She double and triple checked the constellation maps she always kept on hand, looked through numerous systems and their suns and moons, and yet she could not find a single thing to indicate that this was the same sky she had grown up learning to navigate.
She sighed heavily, sitting against a tall, sturdy tree on the edge of a clearing. At least this felt familiar. Many a night was spent on watch leaning against a tree just like this one, her squad fast asleep and oblivious to the world around them. All because they trusted her to keep them safe, to do her duty should someone come upon them as they dozed beneath a moonlit sky.
Saya’s throat burned with the threat of impending tears, and she could only sniffle loudly as she shut her eyes tightly, willing the tears to recede.
“Are you all right, Guardian?”
The kind, tinny voice of the droid—no, Ghost, he called himself—broke through the silence, and another sigh left her as she did her best to rein in the anger blooming within her chest.
“Stop calling me that,” she snapped, the briefest flicker of guilt clutching at her heart as the small, droid-like creature seemed to flinch back where he hovered in the air before her. “We’ve been over this.”
“Sorry, Guar—Saya.” He hovered silently for a moment, a soft whirring noise coming from whatever servos kept him aloft. His shell shifted a few times, something that Saya had come to associate with the Ghost being deep in thought, until he finally said, “You’re sad. What can I do to help?”
“Find a way to get me home,” she bit out without hesitation. There was no point in pretending there was anything else on her mind. “I need to get home to my clan.”
He was quiet for a beat, his shell shifting a few more times. “You know that’s beyond my capabilities, Saya.”
“You claim to be able to raise the dead,” Saya said with no small amount of scorn, “and yet a bit of interstellar travel is beyond you. What good are you to me, then?”
The Ghost did flinch back at that, his single glowing eye downcast as his shell seemed to actually sag. Saya immediately wished she could take it back.
“I’m sorry, ad’ika. I didn’t mean—”
“You miss your family,” he said suddenly, though his eye still seemed to be pointed toward the ground, casting a faint blue glow on the grass laden earth. “You’re worried about them.”
She swallowed thickly, her voice hoarse as she said, “Yes.”
He seemed to nod in understanding. If bobbing in the air indicated such a motion. “I can’t get you back to them—at least, not right now. Not on my own. But…” He trailed off, as if considering his words. Then he looked up at her, his voice gentle and sure. “I’m here for you, Saya. No matter where you go or whatever happens, I’m here for you.”
Saya felt her lips quirk upwards, her eyes stinging with the burn of fresh tears. She was grateful for her buy’ce in that moment, hiding her expression from her little companion.
“And I’m glad for that, ad’ika," she said, reaching out to pull the Ghost to her chest. He trilled softly, as if happy for the embrace, and Saya realized that she needed the contact more than she had known. "Truly.”
Slurred Words | Passing Out from Pain | “I can’t think straight.”
Don't read this one <3
**********
Addilyn tried to bite back the scream. She focused on a point across the street—a faded advertisement for Farold’s pasted up on the side of a building. It was ripped and peeling, with the simple word PISSMOPS written across it in a hasty hand—
She bucked against the sudden pressure applied to her middle, accidentally biting her tongue as she fought to contain the pained yelp that sat at the back of her throat. Though the yelp might have been better than the pathetic, broken cry that escaped her instead.
“I’m sorry,” Lemuel said, his voice hard. Focused. But she could hear the ragged edge in each word. “I called for a healer. We just need to slow the bleeding until he gets here, all right?”
He shifted his weight slightly and a piercing pain shot through her abdomen, causing an abrupt white flash to engulf her vision. She didn’t even get to scream that time.
It wasn’t until Addilyn felt a less than gentle slap at her cheek that she realized she must have blacked out. And, even then, her line of sight had grown frighteningly narrow.
“Hey,” Lemuel snapped, all of the authority of an officer in that single word. “Stay with me, Theron. You’re not off duty yet. Not even with a hole in your gut. Eyes up.”
A weak laugh escaped her—which she instantly regretted, her hand clutching at the fabric of his sleeve as she struggled to keep the encroaching abyss at bay—and managed to croak, “Sorry, sir. Won’t happen again.”
Lemuel looked over his shoulder, the movement causing her to whimper. Absently, she realized his cape was missing. Glancing down between them, she saw that he had ripped it off to stem the considerable flow of blood from her abdomen.
Damn, Addilyn thought dully. There’ll be no getting that stain out.
“Where are they?” Lemuel called out to someone she couldn’t see.
“They should be on their way, sir,” a man answered. Probably someone on the patrol. She didn’t recognize the voice, though she didn’t really try to recall its owner. “We sent up the signal.”
“Send up another,” Lemuel said, no small amount of frustration present in the order. He turned his attention back to her, wincing slightly as he looked her over. She tried not to read too much into the way his brow furrowed in obvious concern. “Just a bit longer, Theron. Keep your eyes on the streets.”
Addilyn felt him apply more pressure, the sickening squelch of wet cloth reaching her ears just as her vision faded once more, coupled with an overwhelming nausea that had her gagging violently. The spasm was enough to leave her gasping as she struggled to stay conscious.
She tried not to notice the coppery tang of blood coating her tongue.
“Easy.” Lemuel reached up to brush a lock of hair from her face. The cool metal of his gauntlets against her clammy skin teased the ghost of a smile from her lips. “Just a bit longer.”
They’re not coming, she thought. How she wanted to say the words to him, to warn him. Prepare him. The Lions would never pass up an opportunity to rid themselves of Addilyn Theron, not when the blame could easily be shuffled off onto Gefendur miscreants.
But, try as she might, the words never came, so focused was she on fighting against the inky blackness clawing at the edges of her vision. The pain was constant, unbearable. As if the blade that had run her through was still lodged in her gut, twisting and cutting and slicing at her innards. Though she doubted the constant pressure Lemuel applied to the area helped much. Had she the strength, she might have even tried to push him off of her, if only for a moment’s reprieve from the agony scuttling beneath her flesh.
“Anything?” Lemuel called out, though his eyes didn’t leave her.
“Nothing yet, sir.”
“Goddamnit,” he muttered softly. She could see the desperation beginning to creep into his golden gaze. And perhaps just the hint of a dawning realization. One that he clearly did not want to consider. “Send someone to the temple. Bring back one of their healers.”
“But, sir—”
“That’s an order,” he snarled, leaving no room for argument.
He pressed just a bit harder on her stomach, leaching the last of the self-control from her body. She cried out, loud and uninhibited as a broken sob wrenched itself from her throat. The hand clutching at his sleeve grew weak, her fingers uselessly numb as she finally lost her futile battle with the looming darkness.
And it was the anguished cry of her name that followed her as she at last fell into the rapacious void.
Broken Window | Bruises | “Frame me up on the wall, just to keep me out of trouble.” (Fall Out Boy, Irresistible)
**********
“You truly have the most charming smile,” said Zaresh, a charming smile of his own curling at the corners of his mouth.
The girl giggled prettily, a faint blush coloring her pale cheeks. “Must you say that every time you come by my stall?”
“And deprive myself of that delightfully musical laugh of yours?” He leaned forward over the stall’s display, gaze intent upon her. Her rounded, human ears grew pink in embarrassment—yet she did not move to step back from him. Zaresh only just managed to keep his smile on the right side of civil. “Perhaps you’re a crueler woman than I had assumed.”
“So dramatic,” she said, though her eyes twinkled with mirth. A dull hazel color, more honey gold than deep green. A twinge of annoyance flickered in his chest. “And such a charmer, at that. How often does that line work?”
Zaresh shrugged, a practiced cavalier veneer falling over his features. “Often enough. Though never used with such candor, my dear.”
“Is that so?” she teased, smoothing out a non-existent wrinkle in her apron. A lock of her hair fell over her forehead—a bright, coppery red. Not the deep burgundy he so cherished. He felt a muscle in his jaw twitch. “Quite the ladykiller, aren’t you?”
A deep, throaty chuckle escaped him. The first genuine thing to leave his mouth. “Oh, you’ve no idea, darling.”
“And does this ladykiller have a name?” She crossed her arms over her chest, a smirk painted upon her soft lips. Her brow was raised, as if expectant, though undercutting a genuine want.
And Zaresh knew he had her.
He extended a gloved hand to her, the fine, black leather creaking slightly with the movement. “Zaresh,” he said. “A pleasure.”
She hesitated for a beat, watching him, her eyes piercing. For but a moment, Zaresh thought he might have overdone it. That he had pushed too hard too fast. But then she extended her hand toward him, any lingering uncertainty vanishing into the beckoning twilight.
“Amalié,” she said. He took her hand within his own, bringing her knuckles to his lips in a long rehearsed gesture of gallantry.
And, like all the rest, he heard the soft intake of breath as he kissed the back of her hand. A familiar thrill rushed through his veins, and he was unable to smother the wolfish grin that began to take shape.
“Lovely,” he purred, releasing her hand after gently caressing the feverish skin with his thumb. A visible shiver shot up her spine, and Zaresh thought of how easily she could be made to come undone.
Ah, yes. She would do. She was no Vaela, not by any stretch. Pale as a ghost with hair the color of a flickering flame—to compare her to his most precious trinket would be an insult to his carefully curated collection.
Isolation Chamber | Forced to Stay Awake | “Leave the lights on.” (Coldplay, Midnight)
**********
Vaela sat at the edge of their little camp, her knees drawn up to her chest as she stared out into the inky darkness. The dying embers of the campfire glowed a pale orange, casting eerie shadows upon the cavern walls as she kept watch. Riven had offered to take first watch, Vaela’s haggard appearance eliciting no small amount of pity—but Vaela had waved it off with a weak smile and a solemn promise to wake her friend for the next shift.
But that time had come and gone, and Vaela couldn’t bring herself to move from that spot, her fingers tightly curled around the ornately carved wood of her bow.
She ground her teeth until her jaw ached, the pain shooting up into her temples and making her wince. Gods, fuck the Underdark. And everything in it.
She had known that this little trip would be hard—hells, she’d been dreading it from the moment this insane plan had been hatched—but now she was beginning to wonder if she hadn’t made an enormous mistake. Zaresh was barely in the ground a week, and already she was being dragged into the very abyss that had birthed him.
And all to find the bastard’s father.
Angry tears burned at the corners of her eyes, undercut only by the terror that ran rampant through her veins. The mere idea of facing the man that brought that monster into the world made her chest tighten to the point of breathlessness. Erosen claimed he was the reason he and Riven were able to escape the drow city of Cicecta, but Vaela had her doubts. Zaresh had never done anything out of the kindness of his heart. Everything had an ulterior motive. Why should his father be any different?
Vaela dug the fingers of her free hand into her forearm, only just barely holding back the tears that begged to be released. She just wanted to get out of here. She just wanted to go home.
A sudden weight upon her shoulder nearly ripped a scream from her lips, muscle memory taking hold as she moved to draw her bow—
Only to be met with the steady, soothing gaze of Erosen. Even in the dying light, she could see the sympathetic frown that pulled at his lips.
“When did you sleep last?” he asked softly and without preamble.
Vaela shrugged, averting her eyes. “I’m fine,” she lied.
Erosen said nothing, staring at her silently for a beat before he came to sit beside her. “Would you be opposed to some company?”
She kept her eyes averted, ashamed of the tears that spilled down her cheeks. She shrugged again.
A thick silence fell over them, broken only by the shifting of a rock or the distant cry of an unknown creature.
“You need not shoulder this burden alone,” he said after a moment, his tone gentle. Understanding. “Remember that.”
Vaela simply rested her chin upon her knees, her gaze steady on the dark cavern before them as she sniffled softly. She offered him no reply—and yet still Erosen sat quietly by her side for the rest of the night, steadfast in his vigil.
Unconventional Weapon | Magic with a Cost | “It’s us or them.”
**********
Bright spots flashed in Saya’s vision as she fell to her knees, her lungs seizing in her chest from the force of the blow. Nausea immediately curdled within the depths of her stomach, the acidic tang of bile burning at the back of her throat as she fought the urge to vomit. That she hadn’t been immediately paralyzed was a good sign, but the tips of her fingers were numb, and the spot at the back of her neck where the trooper had smashed the butt of his rifle was screaming in agony.
Not good, she thought dully, trying to force herself to her feet—but she didn’t get far before someone shoved her forward. She lost what little sense of balance she had and wound up face first in the snow, the cold quickly seeping into the fabric of her kute as she tried to push herself upright.
But the scout trooper was already there, a boot planted on her back to keep her in place.
“Where are they?” he snapped. Saya heard the faint whine of a blaster rifle being prepped to fire. If it didn’t feel as if her skull were being bashed open from the inside with a sharp rock, she might have laughed.
“Utreekov,” Saya muttered, the word slurring slightly on her tongue. She fought to find the words in Basic, but her brain simply wouldn’t supply them, as muddled as it was. “Usen'ye.”
“Don’t fuck with me, Mando.” He applied more pressure to her back, forcing a slight wheeze out of her. Beskar’gam was good for many things, but having its considerable weight pressed into your spine was not among them. “Where’s the rest of your patrol?”
This time Saya did laugh, a sad and pathetic sound that could have been mistaken for a hiccup. Ayala had warned her about covering up her tracks when scouting the area, especially on a day like today. The wintery gales had worked to their advantage so far, scrambling Imperial sensors and comms, leaving them blind in near white-out conditions.
But they had an added bonus, as well.
The near constant snowfall meant that any tracks left by scouts were gone in mere hours, sometimes even minutes, depending on the conditions. Ayala had always been careful to plan their patrols around the weather whenever it was feasible, ensuring that any tracks left by their verde were wiped away long before any Imperial troopers could catch sight of them.
But things had grown desperate as the siege wore on, and they couldn’t wait for another storm to come around to run the necessary recon for the next push.
And so today had been still and clear, the ground covered in a pristine white coating of undisturbed snow. And Saya had fucked up.
She had thought her section of the forest clear, having scoured every inch of it for signs of an Imperial presence. She had thought it safe to head back, giving no thought to the tracks she left in the snow.
She had not stopped to think that maybe she herself was being tracked.
The weight at her back lifted, giving her but a brief moment to breathe uninhibited before she was hauled up to her knees, the world spinning violently on its axis with the sudden change in perspective.
And just as she had started to reorient herself, the barest assessment of her situation forming at the edges of her mind, her buy’ce was ripped from her head.
“I won’t ask again,” the scout trooper snarled, pressing the muzzle of his blaster rifle to the back of her head. “Where. Are. They.”
The piercing ache at the base of her skull faded to a dull throb as a white hot anger surged within her, all sense of reason fleeing the moment he dared to lay his aruetii hands on her sacred armor.
And so Saya didn’t think twice as she spun around, quick as a whip as she grabbed for the barrel of his blaster rifle and pressed the muzzle to her armored sternum. In his shock, the scout trooper pulled the trigger, the recoil causing him to stumble backward and onto his backside in the snow.
Saya only just barely managed to keep herself upright, the force of the blast nearly laying her out on her back. But, worse than that, her ears rang with a violent intensity, leaving her near deaf as she fought to get her bearings. She hadn’t fired a blaster without her buy’ce in years, and she had forgotten how loud the sound was when not filtered through her armor’s audio system. A fierce dizzy spell took hold once more, her equilibrium well and truly fucked as she scrambled to pull herself up onto all fours.
She nearly fell over as she attempted to push herself to her feet, the earth seeming to tilt and teeter beneath her with increasing intensity. The scout trooper was still sprawled on his back, his shoulder armor cracked and splintered where the butt of the blaster rifle had shot back with the force of the recoil—but he still had a firm grip on the weapon itself.
Staggering forward, Saya caught sight of a smudge of green out of the corner of her eye—her helmet, discarded and forgotten by her captor.
She grabbed for it, moving to place it back over her head. To fully ensconce herself within the safety and security of her beskar’gam.
But then the scout trooper stirred, trying and failing to aim his blaster rifle once more as he struggled with an undoubtedly dislocated shoulder. The sight made her pause in her movements, her grip upon her buy’ce tightening—and something dark sparked to life within her.
With the ferocity of a hungry strill, she leapt upon him, pinning the hand still holding the blaster to the ground with her knee, and brought her helmet up and over her head. It was then that the ringing in her ears began to quieten, the muffled sounds of the world around her trickling back into her awareness.
Along with the desperate pleas from the scout trooper beneath her.
"Wait!" His voice was muted, as if shouted from under a thick quilt—though the panic in that single word was as clear as the blue sky looming over them. "Please, wait—!"
And yet all she could do was smile as she brought her pure beskar helmet down upon the trooper’s head, bashing at the plasteel armor of his own helmet again and again.
And again.
And again.
Until the desperate pleas faded into a thick silence, and the pristine sheet of snow beneath her was stained a deep crimson.
Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms | Healed Wrong | “It’s not my blood.” for Zack
This is probably the most self-indulgent thing I've written so far. A very specific AU in which the Jenova cells took root in Zack, and a Sephiroth who knows what is to come decides to get a jump on things.
**********
He could feel it inside him. Squirming, pushing, prodding—driving him forward. Through the Wasteland. To Midgar. To the church.
To Aerith.
He stumbled through the streets of the Sector 5 slums, kicking up dust and dirt with each shuffling step, his body moving of its own accord. This is wrong, he thought, even as the church steeple came into view, even as an end to his torment seemed to be within reach.
But still it pulsed within him, pulling at his limbs with the precision of a master puppeteer. It whispered to him at times, the words nonsensical, but its tone soothing. Alluring. There was a promise of freedom somewhere in its sweet nothings, the chains that bound him to Shinra’s might rusted and brittle with this newfound power coursing through his veins.
And yet still he resisted, tugging at the strings that drove him ever forward, wrestling for control over his own body.
A pain like a dagger piercing flesh lanced through his skull as he yanked at those strings, causing him to cry out. He nearly fell to his knees, his already hazy vision going white—but it wouldn’t allow him even a moment’s reprieve, locking his limbs in place to keep him from tumbling face first into the dirt.
This is wrong, he thought again. The burst of white dulled to black spots that danced before his eyes, but even then he could see the droplets of blood that had soaked into the ground beneath his feet, the crimson streaks that lined his bare arms.
Huh. It was the only word to break through the fog engulfing his mind. Had he fought something on his way into the city? Had a monster taken him for easy prey? His memories were a muddled mass of snapshots, and to try to parse them only made that dull ache in his head flare to a searing agony
It wasn’t until he stood before the church doors, his hands pressed against its sturdy wooden surface, that a sudden clarity overtook him. The shroud that had so encased him lifted, and as he stumbled through the doorway and over the threshold, found himself staring at the one person he had so yearned to see again.
“Zack?” Aerith came to her feet with a start, her bright green eyes wide in disbelief. The front of her dress was smeared with light brown stains. Dirt, from her garden. The flowers always did love her so. “Zack, is that you?”
His eyes came into focus, gaze intent on her dress. On the jacket she wore. On the ribbon in her hair. Pink, he thought. Just like she promised.
“Sorry I’m late,” he said, his voice weak, though with a forced note of levity. He lurched forward, leaning heavily against one of the empty pews. “Guess I got tied up at the office.”
Aerith ran toward him, her arms shooting out to catch him before he could topple over onto the hard stone floor. Funny, he didn’t feel this unsteady before.
“Are you all right?” Her voice was even, composed, though he could hear the tinge of panic beginning to color each word. She was always so calm, so brave. Even when the worst came barreling through her front door. One of her hands fell away from him, and he watched as she stared at it. Watched as her brows shot up in alarm. “You’re bleeding.”
“Not my blood,” he bit out, swallowing down a coughing fit that threatened to rack his body. Even as he said it, he realized it was a lie. He could feel where a bullet had ripped through his abdomen, where a rib had shattered. Maybe he’d gotten into a fight after all. “You know how it is, being a First Class SOLDIER and all.”
“Zack,” she tried again, slowly lowering him to the floor. Her hands were shaking. “I’ll go get help. Just stay here—”
“No.” He grabbed for her wrist, holding her in place as he knelt before her. “Please, just wait.”
“You’re hurt,” she pleaded, her voice cracking slightly. He could see the tears welling in her eyes. A terrible ache that had nothing to do with the blood soaking his uniform tore through his chest. “You need help.”
“Just—just wait a minute.” He reached out for her face, his gloved hand cupping the soft flesh of her cheek. “Just let me say something real quick.”
Her free hand came up to cover his, her gaze fixed on him. He’d always loved her eyes. As green as the lush jungle that surrounded his hometown. A reminder of what he’d left behind for the gray, industrial monstrosity that was Midgar.
Maybe that was why he’d always felt so at home at her side.
“I—” A pained yelp erupted from his lips, his eyes wrenching shut as he doubled over. It pulled at him again, wresting back control of the strings it had allowed to go slack. He had thought it gone, banished to whatever corner of his mind it called home—but now he felt himself slipping away, his vision narrowing as it pulled him under the black abyss that had birthed it.
And that voice—once so strange, yet so comforting and beguiling—was suddenly all too familiar.
Let me take it from here, it said, a rich and deep timbre flooding his mind. His eyes shot open, a mocking chuckle echoing in his ears. The briefest flash of slitted, venom-green eyes overtaking him. You’ve played your part.
“Aerith.” He forced her name out through gritted teeth, panic like he’d never felt before sparking to life in his gut. “Aerith, I—”
She leaned over him, tears spilling forth with abandon. He vaguely noted that he had smeared blood on her cheek when he’d touched her, and a wave of shame washed over him.
“Zack, what’s wrong?” Her voice was pitched slightly higher, her hands searching his body for some wound she had missed. The strings tugging at him pulled taut.
He reached out to her, his body moving of its own accord.
I love you, he thought desperately.
His hand inched toward her. A hair's breadth from the delicate curve of her neck. The burn of fresh tears stung at his eyes, her angelic features becoming nothing but a faint blur.
I love you. I love you.
IloveyouIloveyouIloveyou
“Aerith,” he ground out, his vision narrowing to a pinprick. And Zack Fair felt as the creature within him finally dragged him under. “Run.”
Healing Salve | Heatstroke | “If my pain will stretch that far.” (Lottery Winners, Burning House)
This is for me and @editoress and that is all.
**********
“You’re hurt.”
A gruff, familiar voice stopped her dead in her tracks. She cursed softly. She didn’t have time for this.
“I’m fine,” she bit out and moved to continue on her way up to the cliffs above Malleolus’ villa. She had to get there before Ulpius jumped. She had to save someone today. Already she had failed Iulia, and Fabia lay crushed beneath the stone pillars of a collapsed temple. Again. She couldn’t handle another failure, another wasted attempt to set things right. She couldn’t handle another death.
She felt a hand grab for her forearm, ripping a pained yelp from her lips.
“Apologies,” Horatius said, quickly releasing her, though his eyes remained fixed on the fresh burns marring her skin. She gently cradled the arm against her torso. He frowned. “You must go see Lucretia. A burn that severe will only fester.”
Nausea gripped at her gut. If she had to see Iulia’s lifeless body one more time, she might very well cast herself into the chasm.
“No—!” she snapped, and Horatius flinched slightly at the outburst. A familiar guilt clawed at her chest. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—I just have something I need to do.”
She tried to leave again, only to have Horatius block the way. She stared up at the sky—what she could see of it, at least. The sun had yet to crest the top of the cliffs that trapped them all in this hell. She still had time—but just barely.
“Please—” she tried again. Horatius stood firm.
“I’ve seen men live through fearsome, bloody battles, surviving blade and spear and arrow, only to be felled by a fever caused by an untreated wound.” His gaze softened ever so slightly, the severity of his words giving way to something gentler. “We’ve lost enough people in this little community. To lose another—a newcomer, at that—would be a blow that we’d never recover from.”
Her heart splintered at the earnest entreaty, undoubtedly borne of Sentilla’s disappearance. It weighed heavier on him than she had realized. But still the sun rose higher, and Ulpius’ demise drew ever nearer.
“You don’t understand, Horatius, I—” She froze, realizing her mistake too late as he stared at her, his eyes wide.
“How do you know my name?” he asked, uncharacteristically bewildered. He stared at her openly, his brow furrowed. “Have we met before?”
She winced, his scrutiny nigh unbearable. “Galerius,” she quickly said. “He said there was a legionary by the name of Horatius in town. I just assumed…”
She trailed off, holding her breath—though there was no need. Horatius immediately relaxed, a look of vague irritation written into the lines of his face.
“Galerius,” Horatius muttered, a note of vexation in his voice, though that was all he said on the matter. He looked her over with the calculating eye of a soldier, a sigh escaping him as he appeared to come to a decision. His hand drifted to a small pouch hanging off his belt. “If you won’t go to Lucretia, at least take this.”
He held out a small object, smaller than even the palm of her own hand. Tentatively, she reached out to take it with her good hand, studying it closely. It appeared to be a clay jar of some kind, the cover sitting loosely atop it. It felt frighteningly fragile in her rather clumsy hands.
Unable to contain her curiosity, she asked, “What is it?”
“My girl—she never did trust the gods with my life.” A soft, fond chuckle escaped him. “She gifted me that bit of salve the last time I saw her. Couldn’t bring myself to tell her that it wouldn’t amount to much if I were to be gutted by a barbarian’s spear.”
“I can’t take this,” she immediately said, but Horatius held up his hands, taking a half a step back from her.
“She’d want it to be put to good use,” he said, a small smile pulling at his lips. “Not collecting dust in a forgotten pouch on my belt.”
She wanted to argue that it had clearly been far from forgotten, not with how fast he reached for it, but the sun continued to climb, and the minutes continued to slip through her fingers.
“Thank you,” she said simply, gently tucking the jar into the front pocket of her pants as she sidestepped the legionary. “I gotta go, Horatius. I’ll see you around, okay?”
She didn’t wait for a response as she took off at a run, her arm throbbing in time with the pounding of her heart.
-----------
"THE MANY SHALL SUFFER FOR THE SINS OF THE ONE."
That terrible, booming voice echoed throughout the small city, signaling the end of yet another failed loop. Her heart sank as the sky darkened, though she was quickly jolted out of her anguish when the golden statue next to her came to life.
And so she ran.
What had it been this time? Had it been something she’d done? Something she hadn’t done? What had she missed?
Goddamn it. Goddamn it all.
Tears welled in her eyes as she ran up the stone steps leading to the shrine of Proserpina, all the while ducking golden arrows shot by ghastly golden statues. The temptation to simply stop, to allow one of those cursed arrows to hit home, was stronger than she wanted to admit.
But she climbed those last few steps to the shrine, leaping over Sentius’ skeletal remains at the entrance as she dove for the portal he had summoned. Again.
And so she fell through time and space.
Again.
-----------
The shrine was just as she had left it: pristine marble floors and stone pillars, all gleaming in the early morning light. The sun shone brightly as it rose somewhere beyond the cliffs that encased them within this forgotten little city, casting long shadows along the ground and high, rocky walls.
She took a deep breath and forced herself to stumble down the shrine’s steps, spurning the ever cheerful Galerius and his usual greeting.
She tried to ignore the hurt that flickered across his face as she dismissed him, as much as it pained her to do so. But she had work to do. She had people to save. She had a curse to break.
Her arm continued to throb as she descended the stone steps. She gently prodded at the reddened skin, hissing as it smarted at her touch. If only she’d been more careful. If only she hadn’t fallen upon that lit brazier.
If only.
If only.
She looked up to see Horatius standing guard outside the magistrate’s villa. His usual spot at this time on this day. She could feel the outline of the jar he had given her in her pocket, the delicate little thing somehow having survived a leap through time. A terrible melancholy fell over her as she caressed its rough surface. He had given her something so very precious to him, something that had been gifted to him by someone he clearly loved very much. Someone he might never see again.
And he didn’t even know that he had. Not anymore.
His gaze flickered toward her, and, unable to stop herself, offered him a small wave and a smile. He nodded briefly in acknowledgement, but paused, his eyes fixed on her.
“You’re hurt,” he said, not unkindly.
She froze midstep, staring at him. His dark eyes were soft, his brow furrowed in concern beneath his helmet.
And then her heart shattered, and she couldn’t help but burst into tears.
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