Prompt: “Paralyzed by fear” for Bad Things Happen Bingo
Warnings: torture, mostly non-graphic violence, past minor character death, panic attacks, dissociation, some ableism against a sometimes-nonverbal character
Word count: 2.1k
Summary: Luce finds themself captured by a stranger with a grudge.
—
So. This is... bad. Fuck.
Luce generally tried to be a realist. But some situations called for preparation for the worst.
Case in point: being tied to a chair and having a knife brandished at you by some evil... oh, that chestplate, she was a Storm-Hunter. Whoops.
Maybe keeping the stolen cloak hadn't been the best idea. (Well, was it really stealing when they were already dead? And the Storm-Hunters had threatened and then nearly killed Vesca, which technically made them the aggressors, so Luce felt pretty justified.) And it was enchanted! Cloaks like that didn't just fall out of the sky every day.
Well, that was fine. Luce could deal. Even if this lady couldn't. Find out what she wants, give it to her, get out. Or distract her until Ari notices I'm gone. Easy as pie.
Which was a funny phrase, because Luce had seen Uncle Keren's pie recipe, and it did not look simple at all. Focus.
Appease, distract, mitigate. It was just another performance: find out what they wanted, give it to them, get out before they realize you'd emptied their pockets.
Showtime.
"Why... what do you want with me?" Luce aimed for halfway between confused and frightened.
"Where did you get that cloak?" the woman asked.
Ah. Easy. "Stole it out of some rich idiot's hotel room in Voiraux. You'd think they'd get better security with all their money, right?" They forced a laugh.
Really, Storm-Hunter or no, it was embarrassing that this woman had gotten the drop on Luce. Luce was supposed to notice if the people around them were dangerous. Can’t protect anyone without the basic ability to identify threats.
"I think you're lying," the woman said.
Luce widened their eyes slightly, and then pressed their lips together. "I'm not, I promise, I— do you want it? You can have it! I didn't realize anyone would— well, obviously I stole it, but rich people don't usually even notice if something goes missing, that's why—"
"Shut up!"
Luce snapped their mouth shut.
"I don't want the cloak, I want to know which member of your little cadre killed my brother in Atropos!"
Oh. Double fuck.
"Well. Um."
Luce squinted at the woman's face. She didn't look familiar.
New plan: distract. Her brother... possibly the boss. Fucker deserved what he got. Possibly some goon. Also deserved what they got. Worth guessing? Can't hurt.
"He was the... leader?"
"Yes," the woman hissed, "and he was going to make us rich. And renowned. And you fucked it all up."
Keep her talking.
"In our defense, he did trick and then nearly murder our friend. He tell you about that? I mean, not the murder part, on account of... yeah, but the seduction. It was a whole thing."
The woman turned her back on Luce, and exited the room. She re-entered holding a cocked crossbow.
"You know, carrying loaded weapons is—hnnf—"
"You don't get to speak about him."
Crossbow bolt to the stomach. That's a new one.
Luce tilted their head back, glancing at the ceiling. They couldn't hide the grimace on their face, but they could give themself the dignity of some false privacy while they schooled their face back into some semblance of calm.
"Could have just... told me."
"You're lucky I need you to tell me how to get to your friends, or that bolt would have gone into your chest. Or maybe not so lucky."
Luce affected a wide, strained smile. "Any day I'm living... is better than one I'm not."
"Let's test that, shall we?" the woman asked. She turned away again. Probably to grab more weapons.
Well, if that's how she wants to play it. "You could always... ask... your brother."
The woman screamed in rage and whirled on Luce, planting a heel in their stomach, knocking the chair onto its back. Pain exploded up into their chest, down their spine, burst across their skull where it collided with the ground. Their lungs were paralyzed, burning but unable to draw in air.
Okay. New plan. Fuck. Fucking ow. Avoid dying until Ari notices I'm gone. Piece of fucking cake. Then avoid dying when Isaure has to fix me. No, unrealistic. Avoid dying until Isaure can kill me herself. It's the least she deserves.
Anything to distract from the pain.
Luce didn't realize they'd shut their eyes until their head spun as the chair was hefted back upright. The woman was back. They'd missed her footsteps. Lot of use you are. Focus.
They grunted as the change in position jolted the crossbow bolt, still embedded in the back of the chair—and their torso. Couldn't help but wince, wincing made it hurt worse. Tears welled up in their eyes.
"Weak, aren't you?"
Like to see you get shot and tossed around and shed nary a tear, Luce thought, but their voice was no longer working. Fine. "Fuck you," they whispered.
"What was that?" You fucking heard me. The woman laughed. "Not so tough at all. Tell me where your friends are or I'll figure out a way to make you scream."
Luce glared up at her. If their hands had been free, they'd have had a lot to say to her, not that she'd understand any of it. "Not fucking scared of you," they whispered instead. "Figure out a fucking way."
The woman's brow furrowed. Take that. "Is that a challenge? No matter. You'll tell me, or you'll die in misery and I'll just have to hunt your friends down myself."
She hefted a metal rod—fire poker, should have noticed, oh fuck—and swung it down on Luce's forearm. Luce heaved out a voiceless gasp. Oh, Lady. This is only going to get worse.
More blows. Arms, legs. A couple to the chest, not too many, probably doesn't want to break a rib and risk collapsing a lung, so considerate. More questions. The stomach was the worst. Like being shot anew every time the poker made contact. Gonna be puking blood when this is over. Luce didn't answer. Didn't scream. Would have struggled to produce a full-throated sound, even if they'd wanted to. Broken speech is good for something. Bet she's mad.
Eventually, the beating stopped. Luce could hardly tell through the tears blurring their sight, but they'd bet good money that the woman's face was contorted in fury.
Their theory was confirmed when she growled, "Why won't you break!"
Luce offered up a shaky grin in response. Squeezing their eyes shut to concentrate, they whispered, "Untie... hands... I'll tell you."
The woman only snarled in response. Worth a try.
Luce kept their eyes closed, tracking her retreat with their ears instead. Leaving. Regrouping. Good. Time. Speed up, Maré. Need you.
They half-drifted, breathing in time with the pulsing in their stomach. Ari, Maré, Maré, find me. Don't tell Darnell, he doesn't need to see. Secret, safe, secret, keep it. Time. Give it time. Find me.
The woman returned. Her steps were slow and heavy.
"What," Luce murmured, head lolling to the side, eyes blinking open lazily. Weapon? Knife. Hunting. I'm the prey. Threat established, they closed their eyes again. It wasn't much, but the darkness was a slight balm to their headache.
"Everyone fears something," the woman said. "You don't fear pain, I'll give you that. But you fear something. Death, I can tell. You don't want to die." She paused for a long moment. "Fire, probably."
Luce couldn't restrain the slight laugh that escaped them. Fire. Nothing would be as terrible as the all-engulfing flame that had scarred them in the first place. No, they didn't fear fire.
"Not fire," the woman concluded. Whoops. Ah well, she deserves one for free.
"You're a peacock. If you weren't already disfigured, maybe a threat to your pretty face would get you to talk."
"Rude," Luce whispered. "Still pretty."
"Still, there's more than one way to skin a kobold. You still wear makeup. Hands?"
Luce did not freeze. Their breath did not hitch. They forced their lips to curl into a smile. "So sweet... you noticed."
She doesn't know. Don't let her know. She doesn't know, she can't know, don't let her know, hide, hide, hide-hide-hide.
The silence dragged on and on. Luce put all their concentration into looking as unconcerned as possible. They regretted closing their eyes. Wished they could see the woman's face, couldn't risk looking and letting her know they cared. Couldn't move, for fear. Rabbit in the open. Pretend it's on purpose, but could you move if you wanted to?
Head hanging. Eyes closed. Playing dead. Being dead. The dead don't feel fear. Remember, the best way to sell a trick is to believe it yourself. Nobody likes a jaded magician. But don't over-sell. Watch my hands. How does it feel to see something impossible? Good, use that. That's what you're selling.
"Ears," the woman finally continued. "I see you tracking me. Neat trick, with your eyes closed. And of course your smart mouth."
Smart mouth, Luce echoed soundlessly. The last of their voice was gone. They opened their eyes.
The woman was twirling her knife. The front of Luce's shirt was wet with blood, cooling and crusting over. Probably the back as well. Their stomach burned. Their limbs throbbed in time with their pulse, too fast. I just want this to be over.
Focus on the pain. Like that hit to your stomach. Hurts, right? That's why you can't go down. Stay up, keep fighting. Doesn't matter how much it hurts. You go down, you're out, kid. Fight's over. In the ring, it don't matter, but in real life, you die. Got that?
"Hands first, I think. Then your tongue, then your ears. We'll see if I can't make you scream before then. I doubt it, given your apparent... defects, but we can try nonetheless."
No, no, no, no. Anything else. Can't perform without my hands, can't fight, can't talk. Be useless. Change her mind. Anything else.
Lower your eyes, Luce, don't look so invested. Watch your breathing. Not too fast, but not too slow, either. Smile. Look confident. Remember, you have something that they want. Confident, not cocky, Luce. They have something you want, too. Make them feel good about giving it to you.
"Knife or club, do you think? Is it worse to have fingers broken beyond repair, or no fingers at all?"
Frozen. Neither. Anything else. No more magic. No more fighting. No more sign language. Trapped, voiceless, again, forever.
Use your words, Luce. Negotiate with me.
...I'm sorry, Mom. I can't.
Then there was shouting and flames, almost pleasantly warm, dancing at the walls, when did it get so cold? Shouting, orange and purple bolts of magic flying past, a familiar dry voice saying "buckle up, bud, this is gonna suck."
Luce exhaled through gritted teeth as someone yanked at the crossbow bolt. Hands on their shoulders, hands on their stomach, a hand holding their own, pressing reassurances into it, words like safe and home and free.
Voices were passing over their head, the words lost in the buzz of adrenaline, a wave of exhaustion crashing over them in the aftermath of fear fear fear. Where was Ari? There. Warm and soft and safe, crooning soft reassurances to Luce's low humming. I was afraid. I wasn't good enough. I waited. You found me. Be careful, she's looking for you, the Storm-Hunter. They tried to stand up but their knees buckled underneath them, a web of hands and arms catching them mid-fall, settling them gently onto the floor.
"The woman, she's a Storm-Hunter, she wants revenge," Luce signed.
"She's been taken care of," said Isaure, in her typical understated fashion. "And you're next."
She sounded like she wanted to say more. Luce raised their eyebrows at her. Isaure shook her head in response. She looked tired.
Bad, then.
"Ari," Luce whispered, and there she was, on their right, Darnell on their left, Tesla twining around the three of them. "Am I okay?" Don't lie.
"You're going to be," she promised.
Luce hummed in agreement. "Got me... just in time," they said. I was so afraid, they didn't say. "'M cold," they said.
Ari turned to look at Isaure. Luce's head swam. Tesla chirped his sound of distress. Why? Maybe because of the water. Yes, the water. It was cold, which was why Luce was cold. It distorted and clouded the shapes around them and muffled the sounds. But it was nice in the water. It didn't hurt so much. Luce slipped under the surface and let the currents tug them away.
Prompt: “Sleep” for day 3 of @whumpmasinjuly 2021
Warnings: Discussion of murder (like, SO much murder), toxic/abusive relationships, brief & non-graphic mentions of sex
Word count: c. 900
Summary: After Auvo leaves, Lilac dreams. An introspective character study.
—
In her dreams, Auvo begs. Please and I can’t and don’t ask that of me. Sometimes standing before her… sometimes on his knees. Always, she shoots him.
In her dreams, he says he’s breaking. Her waking mind, vicious, whispers good, break then, suffer like you deserve to for leaving me, for leaving me like this at the memories, but in her dreams, she’s only ever confused. What’s the problem? What’s wrong with this, with you, with us, with me?
So she fucks other men, lets them stay the night—reckless, her logical mind cries, stupid, says the part that’s kept her alive. She sleeps better with a warm body in her bed. Some of them she kicks out in the morning, listens to them walking out and wonders if this is what Auvo’s footsteps sounded like, the day he left. Some, she kills. It’s not enough. She wants more. She wants Auvo. She knows Auvo’s body almost better than her own, his strength, his scars—the ones he had before her, the ones her picked up in her service, the ones she inflicted herself. Those were her favorites.
She toys with the idea of finding someone just close enough, scarring him up, satisfying herself with a replica, like a cheap knockoff of a beloved toy. It would be easy enough to do: in her world, her whims are law, even without Auvo’s threatening presence at her shoulder. She could. She wants to, but there’s no guarantee the scars would heal the same.
Auvo never scarred her, never indicated that he wanted to, never even left bruises, no matter how careless she herself got. He was good like that—content in his place, happy to be hers without her ever saying she was his. What a fucking joke.
Would it have made a difference? If she had told him? She’d thought he knew anyways, but she’d thought he was going to stay too, like he’d said, so clearly she thought wrong. Was it simply not enough, like he says in the dreams?
Fantasy, that’s all it is. Her unconscious mind, spinning through ideas like a roulette wheel, fabricating conversations that they never had and never will, desperately trying to fill in the blanks between what happened, what happened, what happened?
If she sees him again, she will kill him. He must know this, because he’s disappeared. She’s killed him enough in her dreams that she thinks she wouldn’t hesitate, wouldn’t bother asking why; she’s heard every answer her subconscious can imagine him giving when he says I won’t and she asks why not and none of them were good enough to stay her hand, even in the dreams, where he hasn’t left her, betrayed her in the worst way possible, and where she still knows, down to her marrow, that he never will.
Auvo should have killed her. It would have been safer. It would have been kinder. He’d never had any problem killing (except in the dreams), so the fact that he didn’t—couldn’t—kill her tells her… something, something that she refuses to name, won’t acknowledge. Instead, she hates.
Her hatred burns, heat flickering across her body like she’s told her electricity does when she thinks of him, but it doesn’t warm her bed as his presence had, and she wakes up shivering. The men come and go. Always blond, always tall, never quite right. His scent fades from the sheets, and she sleeps better and then she sleeps worse. The dreams fade too, eventually, become rare rather than nightly occurrences, and she hates how much she misses them.
She never yells, in the dreams, not like she wants to when she’s awake. Maybe because she’d never let herself yell—not before, at least, not in the world where the dreams are set, where everything still makes sense and he will never leave her—and her subconscious knows this, won’t let her act out-of-character with Auvo right in front of her. In her dreams, she’s cold, even in the face of losing (killing) her second-in-command and bodyguard and lover all at once, but it doesn’t bother her—she’s strong enough not to let it bother her.
He didn’t let her kill him. That would have been easy. Instead, he left, and it has made her weak. She hates him, more than she ever did when she shot him—when she dreams of shooting him. And she hates herself. She knows herself: killing him would have been better. Death is something that both of them understand, something he would forgive her for. In some of the dreams, he has, choking on the words even as blood leaks out of his lips. She never cries when she kills him in the dreams, never even wants to. (When she’s awake—well.) At her hand, his loss is a necessity, a promise kept, a mutual understanding. It’s what they both signed up for, an inevitability for which they had already forgiven each other the very first time he knelt on her office floor and told her that he was hers until she no longer wanted him.
Pretty words that she’d been stupid enough to believe.
In reality, Auvo is simply gone, and there can be no understanding, no forgiveness. She sleeps in a cold bed, left freezing by the unwilling revelation of her weakness. Even the well-tended ember of her anger doesn’t warm her. Even the dreams are a cold comfort.
Prompt: “Cold-blooded torture” for Bad Things Happen Bingo
Warnings: torture with a knife, religious zealotry
Word count: 1.4k
Summary: Luce wants answers, and goes after them. With a knife.
—
Luce circled the bound man, lips drawn into a snarl, fangs bared. How long could it take someone to wake up? They hadn’t killed him; he was still breathing, after all. No damage to the head, they were experienced enough to avoid that.
There—a subtle shift of breathing. He was faking now, hoping that an opportunity to escape would present itself. It wouldn’t; Luce would make sure of that.
Luce paced behind the chair, out of sight, and cocked their ears for any more details they could glean from their captive.
His breathing was steady, but the pauses between the inhales and exhales were just a bit too long. He was nervous: good. Nervous meant he cared what was going to happen next, unlike the last one, who’d killed himself to avoid giving anything away and laughed as he did it. Tracking this one down had been hassle enough, they didn’t want to have to do it again. Not that they would tell him that.
“So,” Luce said.
The man didn’t stir.
Luce waited.
The man’s head twitched to one side, then froze. He was inexperienced, then, and hadn’t known that even a covert glance sideways could cause your whole head to move unless you forced it still. He knew now, though, and sat petrified, like a rabbit trying too late to escape the notice of a hawk.
Hunted prey.
Luce smiled.
They strode in front of the man. Their grin was lazy, amiable, calculated.
There was nothing amiable about their tone as they asked, “Where the fuck is Antoine?”
The man said nothing, simply staring into Luce’s eyes. Luce blinked slowly, and ambled back behind him. One moment of defiance meant nothing, in the long run. Besides, eye contact as a threat display only worked when you could back it up with your claws. Or knives, depending on one’s taste.
Luce hefted a dagger, absorbing the weight of it. This one was Navarian-made, if they recalled correctly. It had cost a pretty penny, especially for how rough-wrought it looked, and it made the messiest cuts they’d ever seen, ones that were near impossible to stitch or bandage and stung like seawater in an open wound. It was perfect.
They stepped to the left, forward, turned—and drove the dagger into the man’s left shoulder. He screamed.
“I asked you where the Prince is,” Luce said, twisting the knife for emphasis.
The man groaned in response. His face was scrunched up, as if by hiding the world from view he could somehow hide himself.
Luce pressed the dagger inward. “I don’t like to ask more than once,” they said. “Speak, or I’ll start flaying the arm.”
“I can tell,” the man gasped. “No sense of... patience.”
Luce cocked their head to the side. “I prefer to think of it as being proactive. Why wait when you can get results through action? For example.”
They drew the blade out roughly, eliciting another strangled moan, then sliced it diagonally down across the man’s collarbone. He hissed.
“Please,” he began, looking up at them.
Luce raised their eyebrows.
The man flicked his gaze downward.
Luce moved once more, positioning themself right between his knees.
“No, go on,” they said. “Please what?”
They raised their hand to the man’s cheek, stroked their thumb across it. He looked infuriated, torn between pulling away and pressing closer. There it was: his weakness, intimacy. Probably the first he’d gotten in some time. Heretic cults weren’t exactly hotbeds of physical affection, or so they presumed.
“Please what?” they said again, lower and deeper.
The man closed his eyes. A minor escape; one that they’d permit, for now.
“Please kill me quickly,” he murmured.
Luce withdrew their hand and stepped back, dragging their nails across his jaw as the went.
“Tell me what I want to know, and I won’t kill you at all,” they said.
“Yes, you will.”
Luce smiled, and knelt before him.
“Very well. Maybe I will. But maybe I won’t. Maybe I’ll grant your request if you grant mine—answer my questions. You might have noticed, I’m not in the habit of asking nicely.”
“I have no reason to trust you.”
“No, you don’t. But maybe you should anyway.”
The man said nothing.
“Besides, what’s the alternative? I’ll keep you alive until I have what I want. I know people who can heal you, bring you back from even the edge of death. They’ve done it for me,” they said, gesturing to the dramatic burn scar that covered the right side of their face. “I’m not the only person angry that your cult stole our friend, after all; I just happen to be the one with the largest collection of knives.”
“I’m not telling you anything.”
Luce heaved a theatrical sigh. “I was hoping you wouldn’t say that. Still, this is going to hurt you a lot more than it will hurt me.” They grinned again, or maybe it was a baring of teeth. An elated expression, either way. If only Mother could see me now. She’d be glad I finally outgrew that overblown sense of compassion, at least.
It was almost methodical, almost like playing an instrument. Luce stabbed, and the man screamed. Luce sliced, and the man gasped. Pulling the flat of the blade across the tattered edges of the gashes elicited a stuttering one-two of breath catching in his chest, while probing the tip into the depths of the incisions triggered a groan and a feeble attempt at recoil. Nothing was quite so pleasing as the desperate moans that resulted when they trailed their hands across his skin, slowly, gently, and then curled their fingers into the bloody troughs they’d carved into his body, relishing in the warmth and wetness. It was just like street magic, playing a crowd, managing their energy and expectations: a virtuoso’s performance for one.
They could tell he didn’t appreciate it, not properly.
The man didn’t tell them what they wanted to know, so they tuned out his begging and focused on their current act, the pattern they were carving across the back of his shoulders: three linked rings, the Lady’s symbol. The symbol of the goddess they had chosen to follow, to worship, whose divine Gift to the mortals had been stolen by these recreants, and for what? So they could use him, kill him, to incarnate a god of their own choosing?
No. Luce would not let it happen. They would find Antoine, rescue him, stop these heretics. It was their duty. And the Lady was clever, with the way she nudged her plans along; all outcomes were accounted for. While their failure to protect their Prince still stung, it was surely no mistake that they, who had run across Antoine unknowing of his true nature, seemingly by chance—the Lady’s domain—were also suited to the messy business of procuring information.
“Tell me,” they said, and realized they’d never gotten a name out of the captive, not that it mattered, “Will your god provide for you like mine does?”
The man did not respond. He was too busy choking back sobs, or as Luce liked to think of them, the indications of a job well-done.
I know it’s terribly cliche, but it’s a cliche for a reason... They couldn’t resist. “Where is your god now? The Lady is always with me, in the toss of every coin and the tide of every battle. She guides my way. What has your god ever done for you, that you are so desperate to raise them? What do you even know of their nature?”
“Nothing, nothing,” the man sobbed. “Please, I know nothing. I don’t even know where the captives are—I don’t know. I can’t tell you because I don’t know.”
Luce closed their eyes and breathed. There will be others. There must be others. Someone will know.
“Well,” they said, when they opened their eyes. “I suppose now is a good time to inform you that I am a liar by trade. Or, as we call it in polite company, a magician. And I am going to make you disappear.”
The man’s sobbing picked up again, and Luce was sorely tempted to cut his throat simply to shut him up.
“But not before I get my money’s worth out of you,” they added. “Clearly, my technique needs improving, if it’s taken this long for you to admit to me that you know nothing. And you are already so nicely tied up for me.”
The man was babbling again, but Luce paid him no mind. They were busy planning their next performance.
Opus 11, part 1: Office Vignette in Hurt-No-Comfort Major
Warnings: gunshot wounds, abusive relationships
Word count: c. 800
Summary: Lilac debriefs Auvo after a messy mission.
—
Once the bandages are on, Auvo doesn’t bother changing his shirt or cleaning the blood off his hands before reporting back to Lilac’s office.
He knocks on the door before entering. Although it’s a mere formality between the two of them at this point, it’s better not to upset Lilac with any further misbehavior.
She’s seated at her desk, making a good show of focusing on some papers, but Auvo knows his employer. She’s been following the field reports all day, even before the operation went sideways.
He shuts the door and stands patiently before her.
“You have a lot of nerve, walking back in here like nothing happened,” she finally says, snapping a folder shut and tossing it to the side. “I can only hope that getting yourself shot will be enough to teach you a lesson.”
The gunshot wound in his side aches at the reminder. Auvo ducks his head. He wants to agree, to confirm that he’ll do better next time, but it’s never a good idea to speak before Lilac indicates it’s his turn.
“You act like you have no idea what’s at stake.”
Auvo knows precisely what was at stake. He sat through the planning meetings for this operation with her, knows the exact value of the assets she has tied up in its success. Knows in perfect detail what he almost lost her, which is why he’s going to stand still and silent, and take any punishment she sees fit to administer.
“So far as I can tell,” she says, finally rising, “this fuck-up is entirely on you, but I wasn’t out there to see it. Is there anything I’m missing?”
He lifts his eyes to meet hers before he speaks. Deference is necessary when she addresses him, but it’s his turn now, and Lilac abhors a coward.
Auvo knows he could lie, and Lilac would take him at his word. It’s why they work so well together: he knows she’ll never doubt him, and in exchange, he will never give her any reason to doubt.
“No, ma’am. Nothing. It was my fault.”
Lilac nods, then walks over to him. She’s shorter than usual—probably kicked off her heels under her desk sometime earlier in the evening. It would be an adorable habit if she didn’t get so grumpy in the mornings when she can’t find them. He makes a mental note to pick them up when he leaves.
“Mm. Thank you for your honesty.” She takes his blood-tacky hands in her cold, clean ones. “I can always count on you for that—even if not for any other part of your job.”
Auvo doesn’t flinch or argue, merely accepts her judgment. He doesn’t make mistakes often, and he knows Lilac is aware of that, but in their line of business, even one mistake is one too many.
Lilac digs her nails into the backs of his hands. He doesn’t pull away. The slight pain is grounding; the contrast of her cold fingertips and the heat gathering in the curved imprints beneath them helps him focus, keeps him from swaying where he stands as the blood loss and exhaustion take their toll on his body.
His job is to be perfect. It’s difficult, but for Lilac, he’s willing to shoulder that responsibility.
She tugs downward briefly, and he folds to his knees, gaze fixed on her dispassionate face. The crescent indentations from her nails burn in an almost tender imitation of the burning in his side.
Lilac cups his face in her palms and hums, half-tuneless. She strokes his cheeks with her thumbs, and scratches lightly at his jawline with the rest of her fingers. Auvo doesn’t allow himself to relax into it; his punishment is still coming.
He doesn’t brace when Lilac lifts a foot, doesn’t try to dodge when she kicks her heel firmly into his fresh bullet wound. He falls, gasping, and lets the tears well up.
The rush of blood and his own panting fills his ears for a long moment, and he misses Lilac’s footsteps, unaware that she’s moved until her bare foot nudges him out of his curled position. Obeying her unspoken directions, Auvo finds himself laid on his back, with Lilac’s foot pressing gently down on the center of his chest.
He catches her eye, and she speaks, loudly enough to hear clearly over his labored breathing. “You may stay here as long as you need, but I expect you to get proper medical attention by morning. Turn the light off when you leave.”
She removes her foot and heads for the office door. Auvo hears her open it as he rolls back onto his side, curling in around the pain, stifling his groans in case she says anything else.
The last and only thing she says before closing the door behind her is “Good night, darling.”
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Fandom: Six of Crows Series - Leigh Bardugo
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Relationships: Kaz Brekker & Inej Ghafa
Characters: Kaz Brekker, Inej Ghafa, Minor Characters, Ensemble
Selected Additional Tags: Kaz Brekker-centric, Character Study, Harm to Children, Autistic Kaz Brekker, Mild Gore, Trauma, [...]
Summary: Kaz Brekker doesn’t dream about the lives he’s taken. An examination of how, exactly, Dirtyhands earns his reputation.
Chapter 1 of my inagural Six of Crows fanfic is up! I was disappointed by how much the narrative talks up Kaz’s reputation as an Evil Bastard but then never actually SHOWS us him doing anything to earn or maintain that reputation, so I decided to fix that by writing it myself.
Prompt: @whumpay2021 Day 1: “I thought you were dead” / “I wish you were dead”, featuring Caz and Imrah
Warnings: brief blood/gore, character experiencing unreality, past character death
Word count: c. 700
Summary: Caz is free, and Imrah is dead. Both of these things are true. Aren’t they?
—
Caz watched the twilight shadows deepen from the crest of the hill above camp, leaning back against a tree. The bark was fibrous and almost fuzzy against the back of hir neck, a sensation ze still hadn't gotten used to as hir hair started growing out again.
"Hey, stranger," said Imrah from hir right.
Caz didn't bother looking in her direction; she wouldn't be there. Instead, ze closed hir eyes and pushed hir neck back against the tree bark. That, at least, was real; it was too strange to be anything else.
"I thought you were dead," ze said.
Imrah's laughter came from the left this time. "Silly Caz," she said. "You should know better than to believe everything you see."
If I open my eyes, will I see you? Or are you a ghost, some type of spirit that I'm cursed with?
"You'll see me, Caz. Come on." There was a hand on hir chin, cool to the touch, but not icy like ze imagined a spirit’s would be. Reluctantly, Caz obeyed.
"Boo!" said Imrah, her face filling Cazimir’s vision. "See? Right here."
"So are you a ghost?" But even as ze asked it, ze knew the answer was no. Ghosts weren’t real. This was Imrah. Here, in the flesh.
"I mean, I could be," Imrah said, her tone teasing, in a way that usually meant no, of course not, what sort of dumbass question was that? It was familiar, soothing.
"No, you couldn't be," Caz said.
"No, I couldn't be," she agreed. "So. What are you doing all the way up here? Isn't there a revolution you should be helping with?"
Damn it all. "Fuck off, Merari. I'm not telling you shit." The rough-spun flax of hir prison garments itched at the back of hir neck. Grandmother would never have accepted spinning that shoddy, back home on the farm. Not that it matters now. Caz turned away, leaning hir side against the cell wall instead.
"That's a new tune, Cazimir, I thought we were friends."
Caz stared listlessly into the dimness. The lamps must be burning low, or maybe prisoners didn't even warrant the use of oil now, in wartime. Either way, ze couldn't rouse the energy to match Imrah's vicious false enthusiasm, or even speak in anything more than a monotone. "You thought wrong. I'm not your friend. I wish you were dead."
There was swishing noise, then a crunch of metal through flesh and bone, and Imrah gasped "Caz—"
Caz twisted around, stumbling awkwardly to hir feet. Imrah lay on the muddy ground, trembling. It could have been from the freezing rain, but rain didn't explain all the red, bleeding like rivers across the landscape of Imrah's form, flowing downwards to feed the trees when Imrah was right there and needed it more.
"No," said Caz, "no, Imrah, fuck!" Ze stooped and tried to cover the wound, but Imrah’s whole chest was wound, hot blood welling up and cold rain dripping down on Caz's hands in unbearable, almost painful contrast. "I didn't mean die here," ze insisted, but Imrah was already dead, and she stood up and walked away silently. You did this to me, her retreating back told Caz.
Cazimir was left alone, kneeling in the shoulder-high grass, except that wasn't right, either. The summer moonlight filtered purple-blue through the needlegrass stalks, but the air smelled of dead leaves and damp—autumn scents. Not the muddy, metallic scent that should be rising from hir hands right now, not even the halfway-to-straw scent of needlegrass after midsummer. Where am I?
Gone, the wind whispered back, and Caz startled, nearly falling on hir ass. Ze rubbed at hir eyes as ze stood up. It was darker in the forest than the field, the moon less than half-full where it hung in the sky. "Fuck," Caz muttered, running clean hands—hands that had never actually been dirty, at least tonight—through hir frustratingly short hair.
"Damn it, Imrah," ze said, louder, voice rising. "Fuck! I wish you'd stay fucking dead!"
There was no answer, only distant birdsong that Caz knew was probably also a lie of hir mind. With any luck, ze was far enough from camp that nobody had heard hir outburst, or ze had lost enough time that they were all asleep. Probably not, though, with hir luck, so ze braced for yet another conversation as ze headed back down the hill.
Whumptober 03: STICKS AND STONES MAY BREAK MY BONES BUT…
taunting | insults | “Who did this to you?”
Warnings: none
Word count: c. 500
—
“What the fuck happened? Who did this to you?”
El was a frightening mess of bruises, scrapes and blood spatters. Minah knelt next to where she was seated on the floor, leaning back against the wall right next to the door to their apartment. She had nearly tripped over her when she’d arrived home.
Now her groceries lay forgotten on the floor, apples rolling out of the paper bag from the farmer’s market, raspberries oozing juice that almost matched the blood smeared on El’s face and arms. She knew El was involved in some “shady shit” (El’s words, not Minah’s), but this was… unexpected, unpleasant, and, if she was being honest with herself, more than a little terrifying.
El turned her head to the side and spat another mouthful of blood onto the off-white linoleum floor. “Like you don’t already know.”
“I don’t know, so tell me!”
“Take a wild fucking guess.”
Minah rocked back onto her heels and groaned. “I don’t know, okay? I don’t have any guesses. I don’t know what you want me to say.”
“I want you to use your brain for more than two seconds. Come on, I know you can do it. Or I thought you could, anyway. But maybe I don’t know you at all.”
What does that mean? El was glaring, the anger in her face the type she usually reserved for military police and government broadcasts.
Minah grabbed her knees to stop herself from covering her face with her hands in—something. Exasperation, maybe, or embarrassment, because she had no idea what she’d done to incur El’s fury and she couldn’t help but feel that she should.
“What’s this all about? I just want to help. I’m not the one who hurt you, you know, and I don’t know why you’re acting like I am. Why all the—“ anger, derision, contempt, “—hostility?”
“Because there’s only one reason I can think of for why my drop point would be compromised, and that was if the person I’d told about it told someone else!” El jabbed a finger at Minah, then flinched. “Fuck!”
Minah wanted to defend herself, to say that she had no clue what El was talking about, but… El would argue. And then getting her any first aid would become a pipe dream, not just an uphill battle.
“El… Please, let’s come back to this. You need help. I can help you. I don’t… I know you probably don’t want to hear what I have to say, but please, please, let me help. You can yell at me later. You need to wash out your wounds or you’ll get infected. Please.”
El’s eyes narrowed further, but eventually she nodded. It was a small, skeptical thing, but it was there. Minah closed her eyes and sent a brief prayer of thanks to God.
“All right,” she said, careful not to show her relief on her face. Strong expressions of feeling tended to spook El. “Let’s get you up.”
El nodded again, and let Minah support her as they stood together and headed over to the bathroom.
