#chapterfive

[afterdarkbydel]

✦ PULSE POINT ✦

PULSE POINT • 05 • FRACTURE

Summary: Under pressure, a critical moment forces everything into focus. A call is made, a line is crossed, and the cost of losing control becomes impossible to ignore.

Warnings / Content Notes:

workplace tension

medical procedural stress / near-miss

emotional distress

slow burn

mild language

medical emergency (trauma)

central line procedure (femoral access)

medical error / near-miss

emotional distress/breakdown

intense confrontation

Previous Chapter(s): | Chpt. 1 | Chpt. 2 | Chpt. 3 | Chpt.4 |

Recommended Reading:

The Reader: Liability – Lorde

Jack Abbott: Stop and Stare – OneRepublic

Bonus Track: exile - Taylor Swift ft. Bon Iver

Chapter 5: Fracture

It had been a week.

Long enough that your body knew before your brain did.

Not long enough for anything outside the department to change in a way that mattered, but long enough for the shift to feel it anyway. Long enough for habits to rearrange themselves around. something no one was naming out loud.

You don’t notice it all at once. Just in where you expect someone to be—

And who is there instead.

Long enough for you to notice that nothing had gone back to the way it was supposed to.

You didn’t track the days. You just knew.

It showed up in the small things first—the extra second it took to focus on a chart, the way your eyes skimmed without settling, like they didn’t want to land, the way your thoughts felt just slightly out of sync with your hands. It wasn’t enough to stop you from working.

Not yet. But it was there. Persistent. Unwelcome. Growing.

The shift was already in motion when you stepped onto the floor. There was no clean beginning. No chance to orient. The board was already filling. Triage was already backing up. Lena was already irritated enough to be efficient about it.

“Room four’s behind, seven’s a disaster, and if anyone asks me how tonight is going,” she said without looking up, “I will make your life hell.”

You dropped your bag and logged in, scanning the board quickly—

Too quickly. You missed something.

“Read it again,” Ellis said. No edge. That was worse.

You blinked. “What?”

She didn’t soften. Didn’t joke. She just waited.

You looked again. Slower this time. The mistake was immediate. Obvious.

“Got it,” you said, too quickly.

She held your gaze for a beat longer than necessary. Then leaned back. Like she’d made a note she wasn’t going to share yet.

Across the station, Crus was already talking.

“I’m moving my bet up.”

“Shut up,” Ellis said, though there was less bite in it.

“I’m serious, this is—”

“Crus.”

Shen didn’t look up. “It’s not subtle anymore.”

You didn’t ask. You already knew. You looked anyway. Abbot stood at the far end of the station, reviewing charts with Bridget. Focused. Controlled. Exactly where he should be. And not where you keep expecting him to be. 

“Room six,” Lena called.

“I’ve got it,” you said, already moving.

Movement was easier than thinking. Room six smelled faintly of sweat and antiseptic, the air stale in that way it always was when a patient had been waiting too long. You stepped in. Instinct took over before your thoughts could catch up.

“Vitals?”

“Trending wrong,” Rowan answered from your right.

You didn’t startle. That part should bother you more than it does.

You adjusted automatically. “Okay. Let’s move.”

He was already moving with you. Already aligned. Already there. It worked. That was the problem. Everything about working with Rowan worked. His timing was clean. His responses immediate. His presence was easy in a way that required no adjustment. He didn’t make you feel watched. Measured. Evaluated.

He just matched you

And that should have been a relief.

It wasn’t.

You caught yourself looking toward the doorway—before you could stop it. 

Abbot wasn’t there.

You turned back to the patient. Forced yourself to focus. By the time you stepped into the hallway, the case had stabilized. Nothing catastrophic. Nothing you couldn’t handle. Still—something about it felt off.  Abbot was at the far desk. Same posture. Same focus. Same distance. Not absence

Absence where it mattered.

The shift pressed forward. Problem over problem. Nothing falling apart. Nothing clean.

Room nine was where it finally broke.

The patient wasn’t crashing. Not yet. But the numbers didn’t line up. Vitals trending.

Response delayed. Something didn’t fit.

“Something’s off,” you said. “Pressure’s trending, but the response doesn’t match.”

“I see it,” Rowan replied.

You stepped forward. The room narrowed. “Prep for central line.”

You were already moving when you said it. Peripheral wasn’t holding. The IV in his arm is sluggish, backing up instead of flowing clean. You needed something faster. Bigger. Reliable.

“Femoral,” you added. Closest. Fastest. No time to fight for a cleaner site.

Rowan was already pulling the kit. Drapes. Line. Syringes. Laid out in the order you needed. You stepped in. Fingers pressing at the groin. Finding landmarks through muscle memory.

Stay medial. Avoid the artery.

“Pressure’s still dropping,” Rowan calls. 

You insert. Advance.  And hesitate. Not enough to stop. Just enough to feel it. That flicker of doubt. That second voice that used to meet you there—Nothing. You adjust anyway. Push forward, your angle drifted. Slightly too lateral. The trajectory wasn’t clean. A fraction.

“Wait—” Rowan starts. Too many voices. Too late.

You adjusted—

And then—

His hand closed around your wrist. Firm. Immediate. Stopping you before you could advance.

“Not there.” Abbot’s voice from behind you. Low. Sharp. Only for you.

You feel it instantly. Not wrong enough to see. Wrong enough to know.

Your stomach drops.

If you’d pushed, you would’ve been in the wrong vessel. And fixing it wouldn’t have been clean.

He lets go immediately. Like he stayed a second too long. “Continue. Dr. Hayes.” He commands.

Flat. Even. Contained.

Rowan steps in. Corrects. Re-centers. This time, it goes clean. Flash. Thread. Secure. The monitor climbs. Slow. Then steady. No one speaks. You step back. Gloves coming off harder than necessary. The snap echoes. The patient stabilizes. And the room feels wrecked anyway.

You don’t stay. You walk out. The hallway hits too hard. Too bright. Too loud. Too normal.

You make it to the wall. Stop. Your hands are shaking. Not subtle.  Not ignorable. You press them together. It doesn’t help.

“You okay?” Rowan again.

You nod too quickly. “Yeah.”

He doesn’t believe you. “You’re not.”

A weak laugh. “I’m fine.”

A beat. 

“I messed that up,” you say.

“That room was a mess-” He begins

You shake your head, cutting him off. “It wasn’t the room. It was me.”

Footsteps. You don’t turn. Abbot steps into the hallway. Stops. He takes it in at a glance. Rowan. You. The space between you.

“You need to be back on the floor,” he says. Professional. Controlled.

“I know.” You don’t move.

“You handled the call,” he adds.

You look up. “That’s not what happened.”

Silence stretches. “Then what did?”

You open your mouth.

Stop.

Because saying it feels worse than anything that happened in that room. Because it means admitting that you were looking for him. That you hesitated because of it. Something in your chest tightens, sharp and immediate.

You hate it.

You hate that it mattered.

You hate that it threw you.

You hate that your read, your call, your instinct, wasn’t enough on its own. 

You swallow it down anyway.

“You weren’t there,” you say instead.

His jaw tightens. “I’m your attending. I don’t need to step in every time you expect me to.”

“I didn’t expect—” You stop. Because you had.

He sees it.

“You hesitated,” he says.

Silence.

“Rowan fixed it.” You hate how that sounds. 

You feel it land. Harder than anything else. Something in him shifts. “That’s his job.”

“And yours?” You ask. The air changes.

“My job is to run the department.”

Not you. You feel that.

You look away first.

“Get back in there.” He turns.

And then it breaks.

A sound slips out.

You don’t recognize it at first.

Then you do.

A sob.

He stops. Turns back. And for one second—everything he’s holding in place is visible.

“I’m fine,” you say. You aren’t.

He doesn’t move closer. Doesn’t leave either. Just stands there. Held between both choices.

You turn and move back into the fray. Back at the nurse’s station, everyone is watching.

Ellis looks up. “You good?”

“Yeah.” Your answer is short, you push down another sob.

“You’re not.” She says. 

You don’t answer.

She watches you. Long enough to matter. “That wasn’t just about the line,” she says.

You pause. “I know.”

A beat.

“You want to talk about it?”

“No.”

Another beat. 

“Okay.” She doesn’t push. That’s worse. Ellis glances once toward Abbot.

Then back to her screen. Says nothing else. That’s worse, too.

You sit there. Hands still. Eyes fixed on the screen.

You can feel it now.

Him stepping back.

Rowan stepping in.

And you—

breaking in the space between them.

For the first time—

It doesn’t just confuse you.

It hurts.

@nosebeers, @777bambi777, @saibaxoxo

[typewriterkisses]

👑 𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓖𝓲𝓵𝓭𝓮𝓭 𝓒𝓪𝓰𝓮 🕯️ Chapter Five (5/43) ════════ ⋆★⋆ 🥀 ⋆★⋆ ══════════

✨ Some doors, once opened, change everything.✨

════════ ⋆★⋆ 🥀 ⋆★⋆ ══════════

The rest of the day passed in a blur of last-minute instructions to his substitute for Monday (because, of course, a sudden engagement meant a sudden "honeymoon," however fake), hurried goodbyes to his students, and a vague explanation to Tasha about needing a few days off for “personal reasons.” She gave him a knowing look, but thankfully didn’t pry.

By six o’clock, Emilio stood in front of his closet, which contained precisely one decent pair of non-jeans slacks, a slightly faded button-down shirt, and the aforementioned $12 tie. He opted for the slacks and a simple, dark-colored polo shirt. He tried to brush some of the dust off his one pair of slightly scuffed dress shoes. He felt like an imposter even before he’d left his apartment.

The subway ride felt endless. Each stop brought him further into a world he didn't belong in, until he emerged into a tree-lined street of imposing, elegant homes. Damien's address led him to a formidable gate that slid open silently as he approached, revealing a long, winding driveway.

The house was all glass and sharp angles, bathed in the cool glow of evening lights. It was vast, impersonal, and intimidating. He rang the doorbell, his heart hammering against his ribs.

A moment later, the door was opened by a woman in a perfectly tailored black suit – Ms. Albright, no doubt. Her dark hair was pulled back in a severe bun, and her expression was as unyielding as her voice had been on the phone.

“Mr. Torres,” she stated, her gaze assessing him from head to toe. It felt less like a greeting and more like an inventory check. “Please, come in. Mr. Langford has been waiting for you.”

She led him through a cavernous, minimalist foyer. Every surface gleamed, every piece of furniture looked like it belonged in a museum. There were no finger paint smudges here, no stray glitter, no smell of apple juice. It smelled of expensive wood polish and something sharp, like ambition.

“The study, Mr. Torres,” Ms. Albright announced, opening a heavy, dark-wood door.

Damien sat behind an enormous desk, bathed in the soft glow of a desk lamp. He wasn’t wearing a suit, but a perfectly fitted dark sweater and dress pants that somehow still managed to look more formal than Emilio’s best clothes. Sophie was nowhere in sight.

Damien looked up, his pale eyes meeting Emilio’s. There was no greeting, no pleasantry. Just that familiar, unreadable gaze.

“Have a seat, Emilio,” Damien said, his voice flat. He gestured to one of two leather chairs facing his desk.

Emilio sat, sinking into the plush leather that felt too luxurious for him. This wasn’t a meeting; this was an interrogation. This wasn’t a proposal; it was a contract. And he was about to sign away his life, or at least a significant portion of it, to this man.

Damien gestured to Ms. Albright, who efficiently placed a slim, leather-bound folder on the desk between them. It looked less like an agreement for a marriage and more like a hostile takeover document.

“Thank you, Elena,” Damien said, his voice clipped. He didn’t look at her, his attention already fixed on Emilio.

“As I mentioned, this arrangement is temporary. The primary objective is to present a stable domestic environment for Sophie’s upcoming custody review. The duration will be approximately six to twelve months, or until the court’s final decision is rendered and deemed irreversible.”

Emilio stared at the folder. Six to twelve months. A year of living a lie. A year of living with Damien Langford.

“This document outlines the terms,” Damien continued, his tone devoid of emotion. “It details our public narrative, your responsibilities, and the financial compensation.”

Ms. Albright slid the folder open, revealing several pages of dense legal text. Emilio’s eyes skimmed the jargon, his head already spinning.

“We will do the public narrative first,” Damien said, leaning forward slightly, his forearms resting on the desk. “We met through Sophie, naturally. A casual acquaintance that blossomed into a deep, meaningful connection. You’re charming, kind, good with children – all true, I presume?”

Emilio bristled. The forced compliments felt like thinly veiled insults. “I am a good teacher, yes.”

“Good. We will announce our engagement next week. A small, intimate ceremony will follow shortly after. You will cease your employment at the kindergarten for the duration of our marriage – it will appear as if you’re focusing on our new family dynamic. Sophie will be homeschooled by a private tutor for this period, to further support the narrative of a focused, stable home environment.”

Emilio’s jaw dropped. “Cease my employment? But—Sophie? She loves school. She loves her friends!”

Damien’s pale eyes hardened. “This is not a negotiation, Emilio. It is a necessary component of the illusion. Her attendance at school, particularly with you as her teacher, could invite too much scrutiny, too many questions from other parents. And your continued presence there would make it difficult to maintain the public image of a newlywed focusing on family life.”

════════ ⋆★⋆ 🕯️ ⋆★⋆ ══════════ ✨ Stories that ache, burn, and bloom. 🥀 💌 Read The Gilded Cage on Wattpad: https://www.wattpad.com/story/399724043-the-gilded-cage ════════ ⋆★⋆ 🕯️ ⋆★⋆ ══════════

[adversaryproject-blog]

Flightless Birds - Chapter Five

Summary: There was a man in the Trench today. His presence has stirred up confusion in the whole camp, including inside Clancy and his partner, Porter. Will they be able to discover the true nature behind the purpose of Dema and the Trench? Do they want to? East is up.

Warnings: This story will contain content of a serious nature. Including the following: deep personal fears, torture, and heavy emotions.

Want More? Try here: @yviegordon @marieporter @lillylincoln

Read previous parts: Part One - Part Two - Part Three - Part Four

Word Count: 1403

Enjoy!

Chapter Five - The Ground Taunts My Wings

Gordon froze as her eyes locked with Tyler’s, the man from Trench. There was a sudden tearing feeling in her head that caused her to drop the firewood she had been carrying. Her mind was flooded with overwhelming memories.

The first time they met, collecting their food rations for the day. He had bumped her, causing her to drop her bread all over the ground.

The first time he gained the courage to ask her if she ever thought about the future.

The first time she admitted out loud that she had.

The secret whispered meetings. They would dream about leaving Dema, about being free.

The time she had been caught trying to look beyond the wall, and he had taken her lashings from the priest for her.

The first time she realized he had a light in his eyes, and that she had one in hers to match.

The night they made plans to leave Dema. To escape the dreamless world of muted light.

The night they made their way through the underground tunnel. Her hand tucked in his.

That was it. That was where her memories stopped. The next thing she remembered was waking up in Trench.

Tyler stood from where he had been crouched on the ground, “Yvie.”

Tears began to fill her eyes. “Tyler,” she breathed taking a step forward.

“Yvie!” he called, his voice breaking.

“Tyler!” she held her arms out towards him.

“Yvie!” he broke into a run, colliding with her as his arms wrapped around her small frame.

Tears continued to fall down his cheeks, “I thought I’d lost you!”

“I forgot…” she was gasping, tears rolling down her cheeks. “I forgot. I forgot. I forgot.” She was beginning to tremble. “I forgot you,” she pulled back and looked up at him, “how could I forget you?”

“Your head,” he looked at the healing wound, “you hit it so hard, and I...” his voice caught in this throat, “I couldn’t carry you and get away from the Bishop.”

Yvie’s brow furrowed.

“If I carried you, he would catch us both,” Tyler sighed shakily, “but if I managed to hide you, then maybe - just maybe he would only find me.”

“Tyler,” Yvie breathed and wrapped her arms around him again. “You sacrificed yourself for me.”

“I did,” his grip on her tightened, “and I was punished for it.” His voice was low, weighted with guilt. “The woman in Trench,” keeping his arms around Yvie he turned to look at Sheridan, “who was she?”

“What woman?” Lincoln frowned.

Josh’s breathing was ragged as his hands fisted around her blanket and pulled it from under the broken frame of her cot.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, pressing the blanket to his cheek. “I’m so sorry.”

I don’t want to lose the light in my eyes.

Her words echoed in his mind. And the anger inside him shifted.

I don’t want to go back to how it was.

He had promised her. He promised that he wouldn’t leave her alone. And he wouldn’t. He slowly stood and gently folded her blanket before resting it on his cot.

“I’m coming, Marie,” he whispered to the emptiness of their tent. “I will bring you home.”

Sheridan sighed and stepped forward, “Porter.”

“What do you mean Porter was in Trench?” Lincoln’s voice was tight.

Lily’s eyes darted around the camp, “where are they?” Her voice was panicked, “where are Clancy and Porter?”

Movement from their tent drew all eyes towards the yellow-haired man.

“Her name is Marie,” his voice was low, “and I’m going to bring her back.”

“This is crazy,” Sheridan crossed his arms, “I don’t like where this is going.”

“What do you mean you’re going to get her back?” Lincoln frowned at Josh.

“I mean I’m going back into Dema and I’m going to get her back.” His face was set, his jaw tight. “I will go alone if I have to.”

Tyler squeezed Yvie’s hand.

She nodded in reply.

“We’ll go with you,” Tyler stepped forward, “she was taken by Nico, the Bishop of Fears. He will punish her in my place as if it is her third escape. He is cruel and unrelenting. You’ll need help.”

“I’ll help too,” Ruthie stepped forward so she was standing next to Tyler. “If it wasn’t for her, we would be back there now. Besides, I’d love to stick it to Nico one more time.” Her blue eyes danced with a fierceness Josh felt mirrored in his own.

Yvie turned to look at Lincoln. “Will you be okay while I’m gone?”

Lincoln’s eyes were on the ground, her mouth turned down. “I should help.” She shook her head, “no, I have to help.”

“Lincoln?” Yvie reached for her friend.

“My name is Lily,” she pulled away from the touch, “and I…”

“It’s okay,” Josh said, “take your time.”

“I know how to get us in,” she breathed and closed her eyes, “I know how to get us in and back out.”

Yvie’s brow furrowed, “but you were from a different district, wouldn’t Tyler and Ruthie be able to-”

“I was a priest,” Lily’s eyes finally raised and met her partner’s, “I was a priest before I left Andre district. I know how to get in and out of all the districts and how we can get away with it.”

“You were…” Yvie’s voice was quiet, “you were a priest?”

“Yes,” Lily’s gaze returned to the ground. “I know that might…” tears rolled down her cheeks, “I know that might make me not welcome among you anymore, but I can’t just ignore the fact that I could help get Porter-”

“Marie,” Josh interrupted, “use her real name.”

Lily sighed shakily, “if I could help get Marie out.”

“Lily,” Yvie stepped forward, “you will always be my friend.” She took the girl’s hands in her own, “no matter your past.”

Lily fought back tears.

Ruthie made her way to the pair and stared at Lily. Her finger curled under the crying girl’s chin lifting it up so their eyes met. “It doesn’t matter what you were inside Dema,” her voice was soft, comforting, “we were all held under the Bishop’s rule. All that matters now is that light in your eyes and your Bandito heart.”

“Fire,” Lily breathed, her eyes still locked with Ruthie’s, “we have a fire here and they have little to defend against it. We could burn the district and possibly get more people out.”

“That’s it,” Josh turned and walked towards the benches that surrounded the burning frame, “tonight we will plan, tomorrow we will burn the place to the ground.” He placed a foot on the seat of the bench and heaved himself up so he was two feet above everyone else.

“For too long we have hidden in the safety of the forest. For too long we have lived in the ever-growing fear of the Bishops. We let them reach us even here and rule our lives.” He took a deep breath. “I’m done letting them decide my fate for me. My name is Josh and I come from Keon district and I was a metal worker there. I met Marie at the meetings our group had before we left, but I didn’t understand how important she was…” his voice broke, “how much she would mean to me.” He clenched his jaw against the pressing tears, “I will bring her home, and I will try to pull as many out as I can when I do. I know the idea of returning to Dema is terrifying, but we can’t allow the Bishops to continue to hold sway over all we do. So I will ask you only once, who’s with me?”

Banditos who had hidden away in their tents, or were lingering on the outskirts of the camp now stepped forward.

“I will,” a soft voice came from behind Josh.

He turned to see Seneca standing near the frame.

“My name is Jennifer and I’m from Reisdro district,” she pulled in a breath, steeling her confidence, “and I will help you bring back Marie.”

One by one Banditos raised their voices, joining the cause.

“Very good,” Ruthie nodded looking around, “that’s…”

“Twenty-one,” Josh stepped down from the bench, “twenty-one of us.”

“Twenty-one sounds good,” Tyler smiled and held out his hand, “feels right.”

“It does,” Josh smiled and took his hand, “it does feel right.”

[lumin0usfox]

~bendy the ink demon has something very special he wants to say to everyone

Bendy: “CHAPTER FIVE IS TOMORROW!!!!” >:V

Inktober2018 prickly, day 25

~Enjoy!

[cagedbycravings]

Of Blood and Fire

Title: Of Blood and Fire

Word Count: 3,998 

Musical Suggestions: Felxprod Your Dark Side, Halsey’s Gasoline 

Warnings: Get ready, it’s gonna get dark. Sexual Assault, Violence, Abuse, Malnutrition of a Minor, Angst (though that was a given), Foul Language

Notes: Okay, so I’m doing this a bit different. The dual version of this chapter has already been posted. It provides the same major plot points and background as this chapter, just without the more vividly traumatic scenes. If you prefer to read that version, click here. 

@itshaejinju, @xnoctits, @atarostarling, @ka-za-ri, and anyone else who wants to be tagged. Let me know. 

If you’re still reading, brace yourselves. Avarice is by far the darkest character I’ve ever written. 

 Of Blood and Fire 

Chapter Five

Avarice exhaled a puff of smoke into the night air, grateful for the quiet that swallowed up the noise of the festival. The final day of the festival concluded as the more pious Infernians retreated into their homes to present offerings to Ifrit for a better year to follow. Avarice internally scoffed. Such a damn waste. Reaching the center of the enclosed courtyard, she eyed Mother’s throne, resisting the urge to sit. It had been nearly a decade since she first kneeled before this throne. Her hands had been bloody. Her eyes gleamed with madness. Images blurred her sight as she allowed herself to travel to the past.

When her hair didn’t cover her glimmer grey eye. She’d been so young, so naïve in the High Tower. The only daughter to the Commander, her birth had been celebrated with far more exuberance than her brothers. Her father’s large hands lifting her up into the air. Giggles spilling from her lips, eyes gleaming with joy. She’d been so oblivious to the resentment her step mother and brothers shared. Her father’s love for her knew no bounds as she was dressed in the finest silk and wore the brightest jewelry. There was no luxury too grand to be bestowed on her. She shared more than her father’s physical appearance. She shared his wit, his cunning, his ability to never coerce—but to persuade those to do his bidding. It’d been yet another day in her sheltered life. She’d been in the hall when it happened. Her long raven curls flowing behind her, her oblivious grey eyes lit up with the same haughtiness afforded to someone of her privileged status. One grip was all that was need for her small frame to vanish from the hall. Time slid to an agonizing pace, her heels ripped from her feet, her eyes wide in panic. Her arms were pinned to the side as her kicks and swears were ignored as she struggled on the table. Trepidation overwhelmed her as she bit and scratched at the men restraining her. She recognized her brothers, each pinning her down.

“Hold her still.” The disembodied voice caused her to freeze. Grey eyes met with the woman who shared her father’s bed. His whore. A holster for his cock. Nothing like her mother who died in childbirth.

“Let go of me, bitch! I’ll see to it that your burned at the stake!”

A dark chuckle reached her ears as Avarice glowered.

“Oh, Avarice. You’ve always lived up to your namesake. Selfish, inconsiderate. Greed’s incarnate.”

Nimble fingers swiped away from her wild raven locks from her eyes. “Consider this your greatest lesson in humility.”

The iron rod used to stoke the fireplaces burned an eerie orange as Avarice’s eyes widened in fear. Struggling beneath the various holds on her arms, legs, and head, the preteen released a bloodcurdling scream as the iron seared her right eye.

Unable to move from the pain, tears fell from only one of her eyes as she whimpered and trembled on the table for hours. When she gained the strength to find her father, she expected his usual embrace. A kiss on every tear, a caress to her singed cheek. Instead, he took one look at her, and grimaced. Cringing at the sight of his once perfect creation. Avarice recognized the disgust on his face as she felt the world around her fade, her young psyche shattered. A twisted smile reached her lips that day. An depraved look in her eyes as she began to seek revenge.  She’d cut her hair, angling it to cover her blind eye from the insufferable stares in the Tower. The whispers turned to jeers, only adding to the contempt she bore for the Commander and all who served him. She’d just need to wait for the right moment to present itself. And when it did, she’d be ready.

One moonless night, she waited for one of the Commanders Lieutenants to enjoy just a bit too much alcohol on his latest trip to the Bloom. Avarice had been aware of his love affair with her step mother, and was nearly giddy when she discovered his affinity for straying.  She’d trembled with eagerness, hidden in the shadows, as he reclined from his orgasm. Blissfully unaware of what was to befall him. The chloroform had taken effect as he lied there, defenseless to the plucking of his own eyes. Avarice had already reached the rooftop whenever the screams of the blossoms reached her ears.

An all new evil rippled in her soul whenever she presented both her tithe and blood shed to the Matriarch. The inexpressive woman had been astonished, uncertain as to how to receive the daughter of the man who enslaved her people. Permitting Avarice to enlist among the Rogues was one of the proudest moments of her life as her time as a runner, led to lead interrogator before receiving the honorable title of Daughter. The day she’d met Emniya, she’d licked her lips similarly to a beast eyeing its prey. Emniya had been a couple years younger, eyes wide with inexperience, ears so believing of the “truth” Mother spoon-fed her. Avarice had been present for Emniya’s Trial of Fire. Her chilling screams mirrored her own as Avarice extended the first hand to Emniya as she crawled from the pile of embers.

Having the daughters to the Matriarch remain so close in age, benefitted more than just the Mother herself. Avarice and Emniya had to share a room together. To build the connection between them, Mother had insisted. Avarice could remember sharing a bed with Emniya and not quite feeling close enough to her. Despite developing early, Emniya still needed more experience to be up to par with Avarice’s mentality. That night, Avarice decided to offer a helping hand in more ways than one. Emniya had been babbling about her latest tonic inspired by Ifrit, whenever Avarice silenced her with a kiss. When her sister tried to pull away, Avarice summoned some of that strength used to pin her down that fateful night in the High Tower. Emniya didn’t stand a chance and despite her best efforts, failed to keep Avarice’s determined digits from entering her. Emniya knew better than to scream knowing full well what Avarice could do with her infamous blue blades. The healer resisted often by pushing her face into the pillows, fisting the sheets, until the day orgasms erupted from her unexpectedly. The muffled screams of pain and pleasure brought Avarice to the edge time and again. As Avarice’s need grew, the topic of knife play entered their sessions. Watching Emniya tremble under her blades brought unparalleled joy to the fighter. The same glints of pleasure in her eyes mirrored the same wench who blinded her. That night, Avarice coined a phrase that would stick with them both for the rest of their lives.

“Everyone pays with a piece of their flesh in the land of Ifrit. It’s not so much a matter of how much you pay, rather who you pay it to.” Avarice had vowed to never pay with her flesh again. Unlike Emniya, who looked for ways to sacrifice herself for those around her, Avarice didn’t see the point. A hand extended to give is a hand extended to be stabbed.

Avarice had received the inspiration to dye the blades with a poison after watching Emniya use her abilities to save someone from a daemon’s bite. Historically, the Daughter of Ifrit sacrificed others to create tonics blessed by the Gods. However, Emniya didn’t care for that idea and argued that the act was open to interpretation.  Her perspective had been honored in exchange for her use as a test subject. Mother too had been curious as to the extent of her new abilities. As it turned out, there were a couple major limitations to her gifts. The first, Emniya’s body was still bound to her physical limits.  The second and perhaps the most cruel, The time to heal must not exceed the time remaining in the afflicted life. Avarice had mastered the art of pushing Emniya to her limits as their nights often consisted of her blades resting on topaz flesh, waiting for the writhing healer to react to the poison to affect her. Eventually, Avarice didn’t need to cut into her flesh to gain the reaction she wanted.

A hum fell from her lips as Avarice thought of her sister. To her knowledge, Mother never knew of their activities and seemed almost bothered when Emniya moved to the clocktower. A fire dipped into her stomach at the thought of pressing her body against the glass of the clock’s face, her squirming and pleas to never stop. We’re cut from the same cloth. Why else would we be so evenly matched? There’s no one I’d rather fuck senseless.

The wind blew as Avarice overlooked her shoulder. A thought suddenly occurred to her as a dark chuckle fell from her lips. She wouldn’t have kept her pet in the clocktower. That would be careless even for Emniya…

The sound of footsteps caused her to sharpen her gaze at Kostya. The boy’s eyes were darkened, as she could practically hear the anger radiating from him.

“Hey kid.” Avarice sat at one of the concrete tables, continuing to smoke her poppy pipe.  “You ready for this?”

Kostya nodded emphatically, squaring his shoulders.

“You have a target in mind, then?”

Chestnut eyes sharpened as venom filled his tongue. “There’s this foreigner…”

Avarice raised a brow, waiting for the boy to elaborate. “Who?”

“He’s the man we rescued from the old chapel.”

Grey eyes narrowed as she took another puff. “Go on…”

“He’s been in the clocktower this entire time.” Kostya huffed, kicking a rock in frustration. “He’s an intruder who…” Images of Ignis thrusting into Emniya made his blood boil. “Keeps taking what doesn’t belong to him.”

Avarice nodded, her suspicions confirmed. Rising from the table, she leaned over to him, connecting their foreheads. “I’m glad you told me this, Kostya. You’ve just earned yourself a very important role in the Rogues.”

“Yeah?” His eyes lit up in childlike wonder. “As what?”

A twisted smile curved her lips as she leaned to whisper something in his ear.

“Really?!” Kostya beamed. “That’s great! When can I start?”

“Easy, there. There’s still protocol to follow. Are you up to date on your tithes?”

He nodded.

“And you’re prepared to spill blood for the name of our family?”

He nodded slowly this time, reservation in his eyes.

“Now then, have you any secrets or know of any secrets that the Matriarch should know?”

He thought a moment, images of Emniya sharing their culture and language with that bastard foreigner.  His browed furrowed. But that doesn’t mean that she’s shared Rogue secrets…does it?

“Kostya,” Avarice lifted his chin, grey eyes piercing his uncertain chestnut eyes. “There is no secret worth keeping from the Matriarch, you understand?”

He nodded. “But what if I wasn’t the one to initiate the secret?”

Avarice kneeled, offering a façade of understanding. “Then you won’t be in trouble. That said, the Matriarch cannot effectively guide our family without complete honesty.”

Kostya averted his gaze, his stomach turning with uncertainty. He knew the laws the Rogues abided by and yet, betraying Emniya still didn’t feel right. Gripping his arm nervously, he worried his lip. “I don’t want Emniya to get hurt. Just him.”

Avarice’s feigned ignorance, eyes widening. “Him?”

“Ignis Scientia.”

Tilting her head, Avarice listened to the boy vent over how close Emniya had become with this stranger. His face flushed with anger as he revealed their most intimate moments. “And he is still there now?”

Kostya nodded but before he could reiterate that Emniya wasn’t to blame, Avarice rose and grabbed him by the wrist. “Come, it’s time for your Initiation.”

Ignis swept up the remainder of the shattered glass on the floor as Emniya slumped in one of the chairs.

“Emi.” He cupped her face, peering into her devastated violets. The shattering of her heart nearly reaching his ears. Swallowing a cry, she forced a response. “Yes, Ignis?”

“I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but what did you mean by...” His voice drifted off as he struggled to use the Infernian phrases he’d just heard. Emniya nodded, understanding what he was saying.

“He…” She paused, to wipe tears escaping from her eyes. “I do not think there is a word in your language. The closest translation is…your life bears no worth.”

The words struck him as he realized he’d misunderstood just who Kostya was projecting his anger towards.  The boy had finally snapped before storming out of the apartment leaving Emniya in shambles. Her pained expression caused his heart to sink, eyes filling with sympathy, his arms tightening around her. Regaining some composure, Emniya let out a shaky sigh. Her eyes lifting to meet his, he pressed a gentle kiss to her tear stained lips. “Emi,” He cautiously began, not wanting to place any more weight to his words lest her glassy composure shatter completely. “What did you mean by life outside the blood walls? Can you not leave on your own volition?”

A surge of emotion filled her eyes as he caught saw trepidation in her eyes. Realizing there was but one option at this point, Emniya heaved a shaky sigh. “No, we can’t. No one has been able to leave since the start of Isolation fifty years ago. Even with it recently coming to an end, the Commander wouldn’t let any-” Her heart painfully pounded against her chest as she contemplated her words. Could she trust him enough to hold Rogue secrets? Worrying her upper lip, she felt the words climb up her throat, attempting to claw their way out. Biting her tongue, she watched as Ignis gave her a knowing gaze.

“Does this have to do with those wanted posters you burned?”

So he did see them. Her shoulders dropped in defeat as she realized there wouldn’t be any fooling him of their family. “How much do you know?”

Ignis shifted, his mint green eyes gazing out the clocktower window. “I deduced that you were part of the resistance as soon as I saw your…attire. However, I am still curious as to why you brought me here in the first place…”

Emniya shifted, her eyes drifting to the floor. Ignis narrowed his eyes, her decision wasted precious time he didn’t have. Regardless of how fond he was of her, Ignis reminded himself of a cruel fact. She is only temporary. He needed to remain objective which meant he didn’t have time for niceties. Especially if she knew he’d been sent as ambassador.

“It’s not what you think. The night we found you, you were hidden in an abandoned part of the city.”  

He nodded, waiting for her to continue. “Do you care to elaborate?”

“Elab-or-ate..” Confusion registered on her face as frowned.

“Do you care to explain why you didn’t take me to a hospital? Or call for a doctor?”

Emniya shook her head. “We aren’t permitted to see a doctor. The Commander forbids it.”

“Because you’re a band of criminals?”

She flinched at his words. “Ignis…I know not what life is like where you come from, but I can tell you that we Infernians do not have a lot of the same privileges that we used to. They were stripped away when the Commander took power. We have done what was necessary to survive.”

Ignis sharpened his glare. “I came here for a reason, Emniya.” When she didn’t respond, he released an exasperated sigh. “Would you at least explain what happened to me?”

Emniya sighed. Her ambergine eyes drained of their usual brightness.  “When we first found you, your blood had been poisoned. Do you recall whether your mouth felt like it was burning or if it was metallic?”

His brows knitted, as Ignis thought a moment. He could still feel where his body had been slashed, his shoulders, ribs, and chest suddenly hot. Surely, he’d be able to place the taste in his mouth. His eyes closed, his mind taking him back to the iron gates. To when the first blow struck him. His mouth had opened before a hand clamped over it. His mint green eyes widened feeling someone force something down his throat. It dissolved quickly as his chest felt close to spontaneously combusting. “It was a burn that gradually became hotter.”

Emniya nodded, her violet eyes lifting to meet his. “Then you were likely given one of the Commander’s toxins. Its purpose is to literally melt the body inside out. It’s especially harrowing because the afflicted person tries to physically remove the toxin from the outside, in.”

Ignis stared in disbelief at her words. His mouth parted as he struggled to process what she’d said. “But that would imply…”His voice dropped as his mind tried to process what he’d heard, the images replaying in his head. If what she claimed was true, then there weren’t necessarily a bunch of thugs who attacked him. His wounds had been self-inflicted. Why would the Commander have him poisoned after agreeing to discuss an alliance? It didn’t make sense.

Emniya waited for him to reach his conclusion watching his eyes fill with disbelief. “What evidence would you have of this?”

She frowned. “You believe me to be a liar?”

Ignis felt anger creep into his face as he breathed, regaining his composure. “You’re making a serious allegation in a situation in which too many lives are at stake.”

“And you think bringing you here benefitted us in anyway?” Violet eyes flashed in anger. “Do you have any idea what it would cost me if anyone found you were here?” She shot up from her chair, fists rounded to tightly her knuckles cracked.

“This isn’t a matter of a life or two. There is a myriad of lives caught in the crossfire.”

“And you’re wanting to what, help the man who has already slaughtered thousands of his own kind?! What could you possibly get from that?!”

“I’m not to be involved in what savagery your people have brought upon themselves! I-“ He caught his tongue too little, too late as he saw the utter devastation in her eyes. She bit her lip to prevent the tears welling in her eyes as turned slowly to look out the clocktower.

“Very well.” Her voice was brittle, as Ignis could hear the glassy composure she’d mustered, shatter. “I will take you to find evidence of the Commander’s doing. From there you can decide if you should stay or leave.”

The weight of her words wore heavy on his shoulders as Ignis felt shame burn his cheeks. His lip quivered as his mint green eyes were down cast. He’d heard of the discrimination and contempt the East held for their neighboring region. How their barbaric practices clashed with the puritanical, leaving their government vulnerable to a coup. As a result, anyone who’d escaped and sought refuge were deemed savages. Regret seeped into his heart, his stomach nauseous with disgust at his actions. He resented the source of that discrimination as images of his parents mistreating their Infernian maid flashed before his eyes. Rounding his fists, he internally cursed himself. He’d broken the one vow he made the day he left to live with his uncle. To not be like them.

He wanted to say something—anything to atone for his impudence.

Emniya turned suddenly as she grabbed her sandals, storming out of the apartment.

Kostya inhaled sharply as the Matriarch finished her rousing speech about family, the power of Ifrit, and the sacrifices necessary to ensure their success. He swallowed his nerves, glancing up at Avarice who playfully winked at him.

“And now, dear family. Our newest member, young Kostya, future runner!” Mother pulled him in front of her, hand on either shoulder as the uproarious applause seemed muffled to his ear. Kostya could feel his lips force into a smile. This was everything he ever wanted and yet his happiness was nowhere to be found. The previous morning crept into his mind as he swallowed. Perhaps there was something to Emniya’s words…

Kostya shot up from his chair, his heated gesticulations amplified by his words. He could feel Ignis watching from the sleeping nook, further infuriated that he couldn’t even have a private conversation in his own home.

Emniya rounded her fists before drawing in a shaky inhale. “He represents life outside the blood walls. He is proof that we don’t have to live as Rogues.” She leaned down to his level, placing her hands on his shoulders. “We can have a better life-.” His scoff cut her off as he forced her arms from him. Venom thickened his accent as he repeated the same words he’d heard Avarice utter in the past. They seemed so light as they flowed through the air. However, as they left his tongue he realized the exact weight of what he’d carelessly repeated. The blow of his words caused her to step back, as he saw her violets fill with tears.

Breaking the stare, he stormed out of the apartment, slamming the door with as much force as he could muster. Images of the past played in mind like an old movie reel. She was the one introduced to him to wishing on a star. She was the one who encouraged his ideas no matter how outlandish. She was the only person who looked and him that day in the market. He’d held her gaze daily for nearly a decade.  Her affections and patience, her dedication and effort, her pride and love were his.  

She’d betrayed him. She’d given away his place in her heart to that…foreigner. A dark laugh escaped his lips as Emniya’s voice filled his mind. No matter what happens, Kostya. We will always be family.

His ears perked up at the sound of Emniya’s shaky breathing as the air struggled past her muffled sobs.

Forcing himself from the door, his footsteps felt heavy as his persistent memories continued. He wasn’t expected to survive to toddlerhood, meaning he was fed, bathed, and remembered last in the orphanage. There was a day where he’d wandered outside. Hungry and dazed, he stumbled into the street where the vendors had set up shop. His matted shaggy hair blinded him as his frail legs wobbled until he collapsed. He couldn’t recall how long he’d lied in the sun, or how many people ignored him as they walked past. The urge to cry remained despite his dehydration, as he parted his chapped lips. A sense of impending dread filled him as he felt death’s cruel grip around his throat as a strangled whimper escaped him. He flinched at the warm touch on his skin. Nimble fingers carefully smoothing the hair from his eyes. Her voice was soothing, as he felt the taste of cold water at his lips. The refreshing coolness brought some light back into his eyes as he soon felt the taste of bread at his mouth. It was sweetened with jam as he slowly chewed. Gaining enough strength to see clearly, his eyes locked with a comforting smile. The words spilling from her lips were muffled as he struggled to lift himself. When he couldn’t, he felt her tender embrace around him, as she gently cradled him. His body left the ground, as he instinctively latched to her chest, head tucked over her heart. For the first time in his life, he felt…loved.

He’d learned, laughed, lived because of Emniya.

It was Avarice’s weight on his shoulder that brought him back to reality. She’d hovered over him, as he looked up. The glimmering grey that had once attracted him left him feeling nauseous. She was everything Emniya wasn’t. Cold. Intimidating. Predatory. Those eyes filled him with dread as his stomach twisted.

“Come now, we have much to prepare and I want you present for every step.”

[halftoness]

picturing tragedy: the civil war and photography

war photography is still extremely popular today. whether it be from the strange romanticisation of war or just because of genuine curiosity and the desire to document, images of war are widely spread across social media. even from the beginning, i think the popularity of war photos has desensitized many americans. most don’t blink an eye at photos of war or of extreme violence. 

even though photographers of earlier conflicts exist, the american civil war is considered the first major conflict to be extensively photographed. fearless photographers ventured onto the battlefields and produced images that were widely displayed and sold in large quantities nationwide. 

photographers such as matthew brady, alexander gardner, and timothy o'sullivan found audiences of americans whose interests were piqued by the realistic medium. for the first time in history, citizens at home could view the carnage of the far away battlefields and face the reality of war. these photographs devastated the victorian-era romance around warfare. 

photographs taken on the battlefield were difficult to capture and extremely time-consuming. photographers would carry all of their heavy equipment by wagon. the wet-plate process was the most popular developing process at the time so the process was done exclusively by photographic professionals.

[halftoness]

Andrew J. Russell Scene of Battle, Fredericksburg, VA [Caissons destroyed by federal shells], May 3, 1863

9⅞ × 12⅞ inches. albumen silver print

[halftoness]

Unknown Photographer African-American Teamsters [Contrabands] near the Signal Tower, Bermuda Hundred, Virginia, 1864

3 ⅝ × 4½ inches. albumen silver stereo card (one side)