Back rooms in exclusive clubs where it would not be suspicious to find any of them. That was where the majority of Bellatrix’s assignments had been received. Not yet important or trusted enough to be brought into the fold, she was relegated to these venues. The numerous side rooms and back entrances might make it ideal for ensuring no one was seen coming or going together that might raise questions, but she longed for more than these quick briefings. New recruits and those who would likely never rise beyond the outskirts; that’s who was brought here for information. She hated being associated with the latter group in any capacity.
Tired of the system as she might be, Bellatrix always came without complaint. She would take anything she could get her hands on and use it to excel. Partnered off and reminded her time would come as she went out for another bout of training with someone who had truly nothing to teach her beyond whatever details she could negotiate out of them that she wasn’t supposed to know. Some were more stubborn than others, but she knew it would prove valuable. She would do whatever it took to get there.
It was in her standard dark cloak that she entered one such place now. In theory, it didn’t raise suspicion. For the men involved, it was the perfect system. She wished to slip in as unnoticed as possible, waving off the offer to take the layer from her and entering the outer room of high backed lounge chairs and the smell of cigar smoke. From one of them came a comment about how she should get comfortable, stay a while. One of the Pureblood elite social clubs that didn’t see many women. A space for husbands to escape to where they could smoke their pipes and sip scotch and allegedly make some of the greatest business and political deals of their time.
That didn’t keep her from stopping for a moment, turning back to fix him with a cold, withering look. He immediately shrunk under it—she knew her presence She knew how to project it even when faced with strangers. If she had more time, perhaps more would have come, but as it was, she wasn’t quite as early as she preferred to be for these and had to be on her way. He was hardly worth her time, forgotten about the second she set back upon her path.
The stairs were tucked in the back, almost invisible in the low light casting shadows on dark wood. If she hadn’t been looking, she could have missed them. There was every chance there was magic involved to ensure that. Interesting.
Her hand hovered over her wand as she made her way up; she knew better than to have it drawn. More than likely, it was her field senses—paranoia?—catching up with her. Nothing to worry about. No need to be on edge.
She was met by another sign too quickly, a man clearly standing guard at the top of the flight. It happened for particularly sensitive missions or when enough of them were summoned that an outsider might try to follow. Coupled with the disillusionment charm, it pushed her to think precautions but still far more than usual, particularly inside the building. These places were chosen with their compulsory discretion in mind.
When she met eyes with the guard, he nodded, clearly recognizing her and indicating one of the doors down the hall. A few steps in, movement in the corner of her eye caught her attention. She looked back just in time to see the stairs disappear behind a brick wall. She suspected the bottom now looked similar, completely invisible to the naked eye and designed to hide something. It seemed to be her luxury to find out what.
She had about ten steps to make her assessment. This all seemed so curated; she couldn’t afford to delay. There had been times she’d been beat to such meetings, but she was never last. For that matter, she was considerably early now, yet it seemed like no one else was expected.
Was it set up for her? She was out of time. That answer would have to come on the other side of the door.
Bellatrix slowly turned the handle with her left hand, right wrapped firmly around her wand. Not drawn, not yet, but it could be in a second if she needed it.
The hair on her arms prickled at the tangible shift in atmosphere as she entered. She knew it well, the peculiar bite of dark magic. It didn’t spook her; she could feel the raw power of it as cleanly as if she performed it herself. It had to be exceptionally powerful to get past the muddled twinge she often felt with the residual trace left by others. This was sharp. She wished to close her eyes and bask in the uninhibited strength, to see how she could harness or contribute to it, but she was not alone.
A cloaked figure stood behind the desk, head down and fingers pressed against a stack of papers. Without invitation, she didn’t dare move further into the room, and to her credit, she didn’t as much as flinch at the sound of the lock setting. For a fleeting moment, she wondered if they were being locked in, but that had to be illogical.
When he looked up, she met his eyes for all of a second before dropping her gaze. She should have known. She didn’t know how she could have given that she’d only been in his presence twice since that initial meeting and never alone, but it still felt like a shortcoming. Especially when everything she had ruled abnormal made sense in hindsight.
She should have known.
“My Lord,” Bellatrix said. Her hands fell by her side now, no longer ready for what had felt like an imminent fight. Combativeness surely wasn’t going to help her with whatever this was. “How can I be of service to you?”
“I have an assignment well suited to your abilities. Should you be up to it.” Bellatrix looked up again, recognizing the challenge in the words and neither taking offense nor backing down.
“Of course,” she answered. It came out more firmly than she felt in this moment, caught off guard by this sudden change. She had to find that balance of confident with enough submission to signify respect without weakness. She could. She knew she could, but she much preferred to know when she was walking into it.
“There is a hitwizard who has given some trouble, besting three on the fringes of our rank,” the Dark Lord said.
“How do you know it is the same person each time?” she asked, realizing she wouldn’t get anymore without it. There was no way of being certain she was asking the right questions, but feeling out the scope of their information gave her room to work off more than it instilled doubt in the intel. She hoped.
“He leaves a calling card,” he explained. Apparently, she was in the clear. “The fourth fingernail on the right hand has always been half removed. In isolated incidents, it could be written off as a brutal struggle.” She could have guessed at that, but she held her tongue. There was a time and place to push on such things, and this was not it. “He and his family live in York, traced back from a sliver of information found in a file duplicated from the office of a Spanish ambassador. Your orders were to just take them.”
“They were,” she confirmed as secure in her decision as she had been in the moment, “and the ones I presented were the originals. However, I watched that house for three nights, waiting and understanding. The goal was creating a small fission in relations as well as gaining the information, but too big of a blow would close doors to us later. Without the documents, there was every chance he wouldn’t have taken the meeting at all. I left an exactly duplicated copy that should have vanished from Ministry files after he left, leaving to either ask if he had taken them with him and risk exposing their blunder or having to go without. It did not seem like coincidence my senior partner was replaced on the last night with someone I could more easily convince to take that route. I saw a chance I had to take.”
“Clever.”
She allowed a ghost of a smile to pass over her features at the even stilted compliment. Her pride would take anything, particularly when the first explanation had not gone over nearly as well. She suspected he knew the effect it would have on her. For better or worse, she could feel out later.
“The hitwizard,” she redirected, unwilling to bask in it even a moment too long. “You want me to take care of him.”
“I want,” he said sharply, making immediately clear in her mistake in phrasing, “to find out what he knows.” Bellatrix bit the inside of her cheek, effectively steadying her nerves and holding her tongue. “If it is coincidence that these three had ties to us and it was a random selection or if he was contracted by someone who may know. We need the names of those who paid him, no matter what it takes.” He picked up the papers and walked around the desk before holding them out to her.
Bellatrix took them hesitantly, the close contact chilling her further. There was no time to linger. That was absurd. She stepped back and looked to them, quickly scanning the first page and starting to formulate her plan. His two children and wife. A mistake for anyone in such a risky line of work to have any documented ties like this. They could so easily be used against him. It was exactly what she intended on doing.
“Of course, anyone who you come into contact with will have to be disposed of.”
“Of course,” Bellatrix said. She didn’t need to pretend the implications of that statement didn’t bother her as much as they should. She was there naturally.
“You will pull together your team. Three along with yourself; those you can think of should be complacent. I expect it completed in no more than four days at which point, you will return here for further instructions. Any specifics you need should be included there. Questions?” There was a certain malice to the way he asked it that she knew what her answer would be regardless of the truth.
“No, my Lord.”
“In that case, you may go.”
She nodded once and steeled herself before saying, “Thank you.”
He gave her a dismissive wave and turned towards the desk. It was only then she realized not only had she not been asked to sit, but there were no chairs in the room. Her one lie: she had endless questions. None of which she would have the chance to ask, and she turned to the door, interrupted right as she touched the handle. It was still locked, against her.
“Bellatrix,” he said. She felt the tumblers disengage under her hand but turned back slowly to find him seemingly examining her. “I am watching.”
Well, on that note, Pheres, why don't you like greenbloods? You DEFINITELY have a grudge against them, Emerel aside.
| Mm | Can You Believe I have been Asked This Before | ? | It was Foolish Then | And I am Afraid to State that It is Still an Incredibly Silly Question | But Very Well |
| I do not Sell to Greenbloods | Because They do not have the Funds to Make Such an Endeavour Worth the Time | Unless They have a Quadrant of Cerulean or Higher | That has Nothing to Do With Them as People |
| And Really | I have no Issues with Greenbloods on a Personal Level | They’re Safer than Bluebloods | They’re More Entertaining than Maroons | If I had to Say Anything About Them | Mm | It would just Be | | |
| They’re a Bit Spoiled | Aren’t They | ? | Look at Miss Imnots | She Has Left Her Hive to Live in the City | at least Partially | She is a Functional Member of Society | Moreso than She Once Was | She will Rise to Places that are Worthy of Note | I Have No Doubt |
| But She has not Especially Worked For It | Has She | ? | She Takes Advantage | She Neglected Her Use to the Fleet for Sweeps | But Now that She has Deemed It Useful and Interesting To Her | She will be Able to Garner Her Silly Goal of Colony Keeper | Or Whatever It Is | with Scarcely a Modicum of Effort |
| It’s not Especially Fair | It’s Understandable | with Ceruleans | and Even Teals | And the Higher Castes | They’re Rare | But Olives are as Common as Yellows | And They’re Scarcely any |- DIFFERENT -| from Yellows | It’s as if the Lime Gap Alone Makes Them Think They are Better | But They Serve no Unique Purposes | Their Stipends aren’t Even That Much Higher |
| So | Why are They Owed Better Treatment | ? | Ahh | That Sounds Untoward | That is Not My Intention | It is Just | A Touch Frustrating |
Otherwise known as Cecilia is being self indulgent because she’s sad about her gastroparesis diagnosis and her back. Potential to continue. also here
Adam knows Ronan will never admit it, but there are lasting effects of nearly being unmade.
Matthew is fine, so are Opal and Chainsaw. He watches Matthew teach Opal how to swim behind the farmhouse, decidedly not looking at the way Ronan flexes his fingers over and over like they hurt.
They do. Adam knows they do.
Ronan is slower and stiffer than he was before nearly being torn apart. Sometimes walking up the stairs looks like a challenge, Ronan’s hips and back rigid. His hands swell in the morning. Adam ran a hand over his back the other day, a light touch, and Ronan hissed and flinched away from his fingers.
“Sorry,” Adam had murmured. Ronan had rolled over, pressed a kiss to Adam’s jawline in forgiveness. They didn’t talk about it.
Matthew is spending the summer at the Barns, and Declan comes down for the 4th of July. On the actual date, an hour before Henry, Blue, and Gansey and probably most of Fox Way flood the house, Ronan still isn’t out of bed.
“Ro?”
Ronan is curled in the center of their bed, not quite asleep and not quite awake. Opal peeks her head in the door around Adam’s legs.
“Kerah?”
Ronan pats the bed tiredly, and Opal jumps up and butts her head against Ronan’s bare chest. Ronan flinches.
“Gentle, brat.”
“Ronan, did that hurt?”
Adam sits on the bed, starts combing his fingers through Ronan’s dark curls. Ronan nods and grimaces, tucking his head into his chest. Opal scoots against his belly, one of her little hands tugging on his shirt.
“Kerah doesn’t feel good,” she announces, somber like she’s intoning a funeral dirge. Adam snorts. He can see that pretty clearly, but there’s a part of him that knows Opal doesn’t just mean today. Adam thinks back over bad headaches, Ronan actually sleeping through the night, naps Ronan thinks nobody knows about, the flinches, the stiff walk.
“Ronan-”
“Help me up, Parrish.”
Ronan groans and stumbles into Adam’s chest, head falling to rest on Adam’s shoulder. The muscles beneath Ronan’s tattoo are tense and knotted.
“Does it hurt if I touch your back?”
Ronan grunts, shaking his head.
“Just hurts.”
“How long?” Adam murmurs, Ronan’s ear tilted toward his mouth well enough to hear him.
“Since...Since Cabeswater.”
“Jesus Christ, Ronan.”
“I know.”
Ronan must be feeling absolutely shit, Adam thinks, because he doesn’t push off the frustration in Adam’s voice with sarcasm, just wraps his arms around Adam’s middle.
“I could tell- I mean- It seemed like you were always sore or in pain, but part of me wanted to put it off to farm work.”
Part of me wanted to forget that you almost dying ever even happened, Adam’s brain hisses. Even if it meant brushing off your pain.
“S’fine.”
He wants to argue, but instead he just eases Ronan back against the mattress. Ronan goes easy, dropping his head into his hands and rubbing along the sharp bones around his eyes. He has a headache, his eyes are doing that thing where they tighten around the corners because they want to close. Opal stops making a nest of their comforter and climbs into Ronan’s lap, her tiny, grubby fingers pressing against his cheek.
“Kerah?”
Ronan wraps his arms around Opal, pressing a kiss to her head. Adam shoves his shoulder lightly, scared to cause him any pain now that the true magnitude of the pain has set in.
“Lay down. Take a nap. I know you want to.”
Ronan rolls his eyes, leaning back on the mattress. Opal shrieks and cuddles up against his side, closing her eyes and fake snoring dramatically.
“What about Gansey and Sargent, and, fuck’s sake Jesus Mary Christ, I forgot about Declan and Cheng-”
“Ronan. I have it under control. Rest, so you’re not a fucking bastard all afternoon.”
Adam kisses the tip of Opal’s nose, Ronan’s cheek, and turns out the light. Tomorrow he’ll call the doctor. Tomorrow he will let the very real anxiety of Ronan’s pain settle into his chest.
Because I have no self control I’m currently writing a oneshot in which being shredded by a demon bee gave Ronan fibro??? (I’m dizzy and my shoulder is bothering me. Let me be self indulgent)
