= a-z challenge for R U N says the D E V I L
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= word count: 403
= T R I G G E R W A R N I N G for mentions of suicide & death
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What looked like the remnants of a fight marred the path to the clinic, spiraling out of the Blind Owl and spilling onto the street like eviscerated intestines. Soldiers and drunks alike milled about; red dripping from the latter’s lips like booze, matching the stains on their knuckles. The guards eyed Devi suspiciously, recognizing the Devil with ease. In an alley, tucked next to the bar, lay a crumpled lump of blanket. A body. Right across from the clinic.
Fear yanked at Devi’s knees as she approached one of the guards standing by the corpse.“What happened?” she asked, throat dry.
He looked at her with some disdain, silent even as he sneered.
Devi gestured at the body with her foot, hands tucked into herself for warmth. “A patcher?” She didn’t get an answer beyond the slightest twitch in his gaze, and panic latched onto Devi’s heart. Was it Ahava? She prayed it wasn’t a tell. “I’m Insensitive, same as you. Just curious, is all.”
The guard sighed. “A riot started and the witch got caught in the center of it—they were pretty much torn to pieces. Can’t say they didn’t get what they deserved, though. The folks we’ve asked say they were practicing.”
Practicing. God, it couldn't Ahava under that blanket, could it? She was smarter than that. Had her eyes faded yet? Was Ahava safe? Where was she right now? The clinic?
Devi tried to hide her panic even as she looked back at the clinic. No light came through the shuttered windows. “Are they an Aeran patcher?”
He grunted. “No idea. Their eyes were gouged out.”
Devi nodded numbly, before turning away from the scene, heading towards the clinic. First Barachiel and now this? Her skin itched, fists clenching by her side as Devi did her best to keep walking forward, rather than running back to the corpse to rip off it’s blanket, claw at its face until it told her the truth. Was it Ahava?
What would the doctor’s face look like, gold eyes hollowed out by violent, indulgent fingers? Blood dripping from dark pits and claw marks down her cheeks. Would there be bruises on Ahava’s knuckles, signs that she died fighting? Or would she be barely recognizable, just a body beaten and bruised and torn; limp as a doll? Would she cold, skin pale and unfeeling beneath Devi’s calloused fingers? No longer sunlight, no longer warm.
Please, Devi thought, as she tried to stifle tears, please let her be alive. Devi didn’t know what she’d do if Ahava died. Maybe she’d kill herself.
The clinic door was locked and the windows were bolted and Devi didn’t have a key. Too bad for Ahava. Devi began pounding on the door with vigour, not quite desperate enough to start yelling yet. She was scared, yes, but attracting the attention of the Guard wouldn’t help anyone.
There was the sound of movement from inside the clinic, followed by the flashfire light of a lantern being brought to life. Devi heard a thud, several small things clattering to the floor, and Ahava cursing loudly.
The Devil quietly thanked whatever gods existed for saving the doctor.
“Who is it?”
Devi took a moment to collect herself, feeling impossibly shaken as her breathing came in uneven, relieved gasps, wet with grief. “It’s Devi.”
Thanks for asking! (And for waiting) Loving the idea for a more lighthearted piece so I hope you enjoy this blurb featuring Devi and Ahava.
19. “According to this survey, most people agree you are, in fact, a gigantic asshole.” - Prompt list (send one in!)
Word count: 749
Devi sat in the clinic’s med bay, nursing a cheap beer dragged over from the Blind Owl, Ahava’s sat on the counter, dark glass glinting in the moonlight. It was strange to not be the one getting patched up but Devi had the night off and Ahava was always up late, consistent as the moon. So when Devi couldn’t sleep - adrenaline burning in lungs, expecting a fight, twitchy as an insect - Ahava’s seemed the logical place to go. The night was softer there.
Some idiot punk, fresh from a bar fight sat in the chair as Ahava ground together some herbs, gold eyes flashing with irritation. Two other casualties from the same fight sat outside in the main room. Their soft bickering fluttered against Devi’s ears.
“This is going to sting like a mother fucker,” Ahava announced, idly, “but it will stop the burns from getting any worse if you’re consistent with it.”
The patient - Adeinn? - didn’t seem too enthusiastic about that, his shadowy silhouette hunching in the tiny chair as he made a face.
Devi, out of the loop and curious for a story, leaned forward in her chair. “Burns?”
Adeinn squirmed sheepishly.
“You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to,” Ahava shot, before turning to Devi. “Play nice, adjya, can’t have you harassing my paycheck.”
“Oh, like you’re not curious.”
“Never said I wasn’t.”
“I don’t mind telling the story,” Devi could see the glint of a smug smile spreading across Adeinn’s face, “especially not for two lovely ladies such as yourselves.”
“Another comment like that and I’ll hit you,” was Ahava’s only response.
His smile faltered. “Jeez, sorry…”
“The story!” Devi pressed as Ahava huffed.
“Okay okay, so I’m sitting in the bar, minding my own business.”
“That’s how all bar fights start,” Ahava grumbled under her breath.
Adeinn scrunched his nose at her, before rolling his eyes. “Anyway, I’m minding my own business, and Jasper comes in - big blond bloke - and his brother Jacob - bigger blonde bloke - they’re twins.”
“Is Jacob the evil twin?”
“Devi!”
Adeinn laughed at Devi’s comment despite Ahava’s chiding. “He is the evil one; a fucking patcher!”
Devi felt her mouth go dry. Patcher was a disgusting word for magician and Ahava, a non-practicing magician herself, tensed in Devi’s peripheral. Devi’s shoulders stiffened as Ahava just stared dead-eyed down at the mix, her gentle stirring grinding to a halt. God, she hated these anti-magic pricks.
The patient, oblivious to the sudden tone shift, continued on undeterred. “So we’ve been rough ever since I found out Jasper’s brother was, well, like that and he actually had the nerve to be like ‘you’re a giant prick’ and ‘what’s your fucking problem’ like he doesn’t know what my problem is. So obviously I told him to go fuck himself which only made him more pissed. And, well, next thing I know a goddamn lantern’s being smashed in my face.”
He stretched in the chair, staring up at the ceiling as he groaned. “What an asshole.”
“I hope you don’t mind my saying,” Devi hissed lowly, “but I think you’re the ‘asshole’ here.”
“Hey, you can’t say that I’m a paying customer!”
Ahava shifted as if to turn to him, but stopped, staying fixed at the counter instead. “Devi can say whatever she wants - she doesn’t work here.”
“Then what’s she doing in the med bay?!”
“Moral support,” Devi said, taking a sip from the previously forgotten bottle of beer she was holding. It was lukewarm at this point but she drank anyway. She had badass appearances to keep up, damn it, couldn’t blink in the face of the enemy.
“She translates my anger,” Ahava elaborated, finally allowing herself to turn around and lean against the countertop. “For example, I too think you are an asshole.”
Devi hummed in solidarity, nodding.
Adeinn blubbered for a bit. “Oh fuck you guys too. No better than the jackasses out there. I’m not an- an asshole!”
“Oh, Really?” Devi mused. “Because according to this survey,” she gestured between herself and Ahava jerkily, “most people agree you are, in fact, a gigantic asshole.” She took a swig.
He blinked at Devi, before jerking to face Ahava. “And you’re going to let her say that to me?”
Ahava shrugged. “Yeah.”
“Bitch. I should have taken my money somewhere else.”
The doctor’s stare was cold as ice. “Yeah, you probably should have. Now get the fuck out of my clinic.”
= a-z challenge for R U N says the D E V I L
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= word count: 258
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As Devi moved to sit down, she peered over the table at Barachiel, reassessing. Critical. She was looking for further fault in his exterior beyond ‘messy’. Barachiel had always been described as some variant of beautiful, despite the deep scars that split his face in half.
Time had done its damndest, but Barachiel could still pass for the twenty-two-year-old she’d first met, and the deeply coloured apparel matched the vivid youth in his features. Spun in Barachiel’s signature jade and silver, the tunic was fur lined but still managed to take advantage of the more sleek, more predatory, aspects of his lithe figure. A fitting outfit for a man of his standing. The silky fabric and sable fur announced Barachiel’s status like a herald.
A flash of hot jealousy spiked in her stomach, and Devi became acutely aware of how greasy her hair was. She couldn’t recall a single time she’d felt pretty. It didn’t help that part of Devi still missed the elegant wardrobes prosperity had once afforded her.
As if noticing her stare, Barachiel moved to fuss with some of the new stains on his sleeves, before giving up abruptly. Pink tinted his cheeks in the firelight.
“Forgive my saying so, but you’re a bit of a mess, Barachiel. I do hope it’s only because of the cleaning, and not because you’ve gotten into another bar fight.”
He flushed a whole shade deeper. “I haven’t… had any major disagreements with civilians as of late. I’ve been avoiding the bars, I’ve been trying to monitor my drinking.”
= from C H A P T E R 1 5 . 5 / see O T H E R E X C E R P T S
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The pot had only been on for a few minutes when some vague grumbling, possibly meant to sound like good morning, sounded from behind Devi. She glanced over her shoulder and saw Ahava standing in the doorway, looking like the walking dead.
"Sorry, did I wake you?"
Another strange collection of noises sounded from Ahava, and she slumped against the doorway, posture slouched and lazy.
"I'm making a vegetable stew; figured you could use the nutrition, miss magician."
The doctor considered this for a moment, before nodding, and aggressively shambled over to Devi. As she approached Devi, the doctor leaned over to inspect the contents of the stew critically. A happy, surprised noise came from Ahava's chest and Devi laughed, fond. She'd forgotten how healing the doctor's presence could be.
"Did you sleep well, having solved the mystery of my tattoos?"
Ahava took a moment to process this, and Devi could see the gears in her head spinning groggily.
"Actually," Ahava began, voice sleep drunk and eyes soft, "they reminded me of this fairytale I read a little while ago. Can't believe I didn't think to bring it up last night..."
Devi waited for a moment, but Ahava didn't continue. She glanced over her shoulder at her friend again. The doctor looked completely zoned out, huddling a blanket around herself, same as Devi.
"How'd the story go, Ahava?"
She didn't blink, and Devi had to refrain from rolling her eyes. The doctor should have just gone back to bed.
"Ahava?"
She jerked, startled. "Wha-?"
"You look exhausted, miss magician."
"I'm not," Ahava pouted
"Is that so? Then I suppose you wouldn't mind telling me what that story was about."
"It was about a Construct and its lover."
Devi glanced quizzically at Ahava, before going back to stirring the stew. She wasn't sure if she liked the premise, after how strangely Ahava had reacted to the topic of Constructs last night.
"A girl fell in love with a Construct that worked for her as a servant, but it couldn't feel. It didn't know how. So she..." Ahava paused, remembering. "She would take it out with her, everywhere she went. Into the garden, and the forest, and the town - introducing it to all the places and people she loved. And the construct knew happiness."
Devi nodded absentmindedly, encouraging Ahava to continue.
"And knowing happiness, the Construct told the girl she made it happy. So the girl asked the Construct to marry her; because that was what people did when they made each other happy. The Construct said yes, and on their wedding day, the girl kissed the Construct, and Construct knew love." Ahava's voice hitched slightly on the last word, and Devi shot the magician a concerned look.
"Are you okay?”
The doctor nodded, and continued, "And knowing love, the Construct spent the rest of its days with the girl, never ageing, and never growing old, even as the girl grew gray and wrinkled. So she died, and it didn't. But the girl took all the Construct's happiness and love with her, and so without happiness, it knew sorrow, and without love, it knew loneliness. And knowing happiness, and knowing love, and knowing loneliness, and knowing sorrow, the Construct finally learnt its final lesson; he knew that he was human."
Devi had stopped moving. She knew this was the part where she was supposed to get the moral, or tell Ahava it was a lovely story, or ask if it was Aeran or not, but she couldn't bring herself to open her mouth. Images all-too-human skulls collapsing in on themselves like paper mache filled her mind, followed closely behind by the strong grip of Amator, hurriedly dragging her away from a pile of non-corpses, drying in the badland sun like dead plants. She heard Amator's voice, low and hushed, telling her not to look, to keep walking. Devi dug nails into her palm, rolled her wrist slowly, attempting to ground herself. But all she could think about was the way the pop sounding from her joint sounded exactly like the snapping of a Construct's stony finger underfoot.
"You good, Devi?"
"Yeah," she croaked out. "Your story just got me thinking, is all. Remembering and the likes." The ex-bruiser forced a smile onto her face. "You know how it is."
The corners of Ahava's lips twitched up, but her eyes were sad, concerned. "A good memory, I hope?"
Devi shrugged, beginning to stir the stew again. She didn't want to worry Ahava. "It was of Amator."
The doctor nodded. There was a pause. And then, "What was he like?"
It was Devi's turn to hesitate.
"You don't have to answer I just-"
"No, no it's fine. He was just complicated."
"Most people are," Ahava offered, leaning into the table.
Devi nodded. "He was a good man. Absolutely crazy, knew exactly what he wanted and believed entirely in that ideal. And he had these... projects. Crazy, wild ideas that no one could ever shake him on. He wanted to revive the dead, properly, not just reanimated corpses. And he wanted to unite Mezilon, peacefully, something not even Desdemona managed to do. He would have done this nation proud, done magicians proud. Amator even campaigned for the rights of Insensitives, speaking frequently with representatives in an attempt to balance things out, at least in Querevage. He couldn't do much for the other states."
Devu laughed, but it was distant. "In some ways, I was a project of his. I could have been something entirely different, Ahava, but he saw potential in me. He took me in, gave me a home and a purpose and a family. Things I'd never known before. Amator did so at his own expense, facing judgement and weakening his reputation, but he never let it bother him, despite his political ambitions." Devi paused, swallowed. "And he was my best friend; the closest thing to a brother I ever had."
There was warmth on Devi's back, and Ahava's arms slunk around Devi's waist. The ex-bruiser tried not to stiffen or involuntarily scare off the welcome embrace. "He sounds like a great man."
"Thank you," she breathed. "I just hope I haven't lead you astray, it's been so long I barely- I just- I often fear I remember him more fondly than he deserves. Barachiel hates him, I'd hate it if spite has changed the memories any. Not to mention time. The memories get fuzzier every year."
"Do you miss him?"
"Every day." Her voice was hoarse, and some strangled noise caught between a laugh and a sob escaped her chest. "I still feel like I have so much to learn from him. He was- he was always so active in his life. There wasn't a single decision out of his control. And, heavens, Ahava, I'm so passive. I let Barachiel violate me and my privacy, I've let this godforsaken country take away everything I loved and... everything you loved. I didn't do anything to stop Barachiel from taking away the rights of magicians; I was just resigned to it. Years and years of abuse and I'm still so fucking resigned to it all. I-" she stopped, choked. "I think I'm done being passive. I'm sorry I ever was."
Ahava laughed behind her, fond and happy and surprised. "Welcome to the club.”
= from C H A P T E R 1 4 / see O T H E R E X C E R P T S
= ask or interact here to join the T A G L I S T
= after (regrettably) going out for drinks with Barachiel, Devi is forced to walk the monarch to the palace lest he gets hurt, but before she can make her own walk home Barachiel has something he wants to say first.
= word count: 603. TW: non-consensual kissing and semi-NSFW imagery
A few guards gave the pair a second glance but frankly, there wasn’t much debate over the identity of the two people. Between Barachiel’s outfit, his drunken swagger, and the increasing frequency with which Barachiel got hammered with Devi, the answer was obvious, and one the guards were accustomed to. The king stumbling home drunk wasn’t even newsworthy at this point in societal decay.
Barachiel teetering beside her as they approached the gate. The bars cast harsh black shadows that stuttered along Devi’s face, and the silhouette of two of the Royal Guards marked the end of her journey.
“This is where I leave you.”
Barachiel stared down at Devi from the scant two inches he had on her. “Won’t you come inside?”
She scoffed. Didn’t take her eyes off the gate. “You know I’m not allowed.”
There was the scuff of boot against cobblestone. He was shifting beside her. “Devi…”
The bruiser made the mistake of turning her head to face him.
Lips crashed against hers, and she would have staggered back if not for the hands holding her head still, slipping around her face like snakes. Something wet and warm - a tongue - managed to find its way into the crease of her mouth. And Devi, out of fucking habit, opened it, as the spell circles on her back burned with the wrongness of it all. This was a threat a threat a threat and she wasn’t doing anything.
And it wasn’t even a kiss. She just stood there, mouth hanging open like a fish, accepting the reality she was presented with - or rather - standing, and being unable to fight against the reality she saw. Nodding along like a muzzled dog. She was helpless, frozen, and mute. His tongue moved against hers, skimmed against her teeth, slipped along the roof of her mouth, and had she had any control of herself, Devi would have bitten it off.
His hands fell away from her face as he finally pulled away. Devi snapped her jaw shut, mechanical, and tried not to think about the number of people who would have killed her for that moment. According to Ahava and her rumours, there were quite a few.
Barachiel pressed his face against hers, nose sliding down her cheek as he sighed, content. “I’m sorry,” he laughed, breathy and light against her skin. He nuzzled at the space just below her ear, exhaling softly. She could feel the creases of his scars, the heat of his breath, the press of his lip as he spoke, mumbling and drunk. “You still taste like him.” There was a desperate, lonely whisper in his voice. The kind of thing only heard moaned into pillows at two in the morning, slipping from the tongue of someone alone in their bedsheets and missing the other half of their soul.
You still taste like him.
Amator.
She shoved him off, fury and shame burning in her cheeks. It was bad enough when he’d used her back then - when it was just a quick fuck before crawling back to the necromancer. But now, when Amator was dead, it was dehumanizing on a whole new level. Devi wouldn’t insult her friend’s memory like this. She wouldn’t insult herself like this. “Go back to Desdemona, you skank.” She took a step back, body shaking.
Devi swallowed around the grief-made gag in her throat. “Or did you forget that you chose her. Not me, not Amator, but her. You killed him. Now you have to live with it.” She stalked away, proud of her legs for not collapsing beneath her weight.
It was twelve past midnight when the Devil walked in.
These trips to the hospital were unavoidable. Devi’s profession would simply not allow it; the bruisers of Querevage’s underground Arena were not prone to leaving matches uninjured, and Devi had stopped trying to resist the call of the ring a long time ago.
Ahava’s clinic was untidy the way a vulture was; untamed and unnatural, yet not unkempt. Sitting on the edge of the city centre, it was the only thing someone like Devi could truly call a hospital for four square miles. Inside, clay pots covered every space not occupied by a box, or a bottle, or a book. Inscriptions ran along their sides, dates and ingredients and names. Forgotten bundles of herbs and flowers dangled from the ceiling in bunches. The medic would claim they were drying. At present, the normally buzzing waiting room gaped with the emptiness brought on by the late hour as moonlight filtered through decrepit shutters and dirty glass. The rest of the city scum would crawl in an hour or two later; Devi’s match had started earlier tonight. A small blessing.
The night sat strange in Devi - something was different. Perhaps it was in the people. A full moon always brought out the worst of Querevage. Brutes to begin with, an excuse for mischief was never passed up, and the beck and call of a supernatural mistress was beyond tempting, but tonight’s twilight was soft as it settled into the city; a god all its own in the way it claimed the streets. It curled and whispered against the edge of the fiendish towers, her winds a gentle touch, carrying with them songs of a thousand desperate men. Maybe that was it. In Querevage - in the Capital - tenderness was a rare commodity that unsettled the bones. And not all had havens to retreat to, not like Devi had Ahava’s.
It wasn’t like she deserved the doctor’s help to begin with. Especially not when she insisted on showing up at this hour. Nerves crawled up Devi’s spine as floorboards creaked under her pacing boots, steel toes clicking along the wood in time to the pulsing rabble of an unsleeping city. Waiting for Ahava to appear was never an easy task. She had wounds that needed tending to and, with each rattling inhale, Devi got more and more tempted to crawl out a window. What it would be charge into the night on her own - bloodied face and all. Bliss? Maybe. Anxiety wriggled in her stomach. Maybe Ahava was sleeping? She needed her rest too. No, Devi reassured herself, Ahava was never far from death, and Devi - bleeding, gasping, and limping - stunk of it.
It only took a few more moments for the good doctor to descend from the staircase, much to Devi’s relief. Her curly hair was pulled back in a bun so sloppy it could have been mistaken for a nest. She must not have taken it out before bed; the rumpled medic’s garb she wore supported that idea. It made Devi feel worse about waking Ahava up so late.
The doctor looked her up and down, clearly counting injuries, measuring the damage; assessing which wounds needed to be tended to first and which were life threatening. She wouldn’t accurately know until Devi stripped out of her armour, but first impressions were important, and Devi wasn’t in a position to complain. She could do that later. As if sensing her plan to be a nuisance, Ahava fixed her with an exasperated gaze, and sighed. Devi just laughed, some broken sounding rattle, before choking out, “You should have seen the other guy.”
Ahava’s face flashed with concern, but she said nothing; it was the same bitter comment Devi made every time she was handed a look like that - the routine they’d built insisted upon it and Devi, a creature of habit, was in no mood to change it any time soon. And the doctor, bless her, had accepted that part of the gladiator long ago, just as she had accepted their silent agreement: she was not to criticise the bruiser for reappearing each night. In these moonlit hours, her only job was to treat Devi’s wounds, not prevent them. Friend or not, Ahava had to respect that.
It didn’t stop Ahava’s gold eyes - dark and faded and full of rotting magic - from turning cold when they found nastier wounds. Devi took no offense, it was so very like Ahava to become stern when faced with an uncooperative patient - whether they were ignoring prescription or common sense, and Devi was a sure convict for the latter. But what was Devi to do? She needed the money from the Arena as much as she needed the adrenaline. A known enemy of the state didn’t have choices, especially one so addicted to the high of the fight. Especially one whose most common moniker was ‘Devil’. At least Ahava had managed to keep some dignity about her despite being an ex-magician.
“Devi,” Ahava greeted, tone careful. “Please wait for me in the other room while I get ready.” The speech was so mechanical it almost made Devi wince.
“What, am I bleeding all over your floor?” The words were joking, if weak. Ahava, it seemed, needed some brightness right now.
“Yes, actually,” The doctor shot back, sarcastic to a fault, an overdramatic sneer scrunching her nose, “It’s rather unsightly. If you could do it in the other room I’d really appreciate it. Less mess to clean up before I dispose of the body, y’know how it is.”
Devi gave an amused huff, before grunting in acknowledgment. Relief made heavy limbs light, but it took a brief struggle to get moving again. She gave Ahava a quick peck on the cheek as she walked by, an affectionate but outdated form of greeting, one that made the doctor grumble unhappily. But Devi knew deep down Ahava appreciated the sentiment.
As she stepped towards the doorway to the side room, her companion remained outside, materials shifting as Ahava pawed her way through the mess, seeking out the package made specially for Devi’s visits. If the bruiser walked straight into the doorframe they wouldn't mention it till next morning, when teasing was welcome and more than expected. Right now, the clock was ticking too fast for anything more than light banter. Devi’s injuries needed stitches, and fast.
A blood-coated cough shook Devi something terrible, drawing Ahava from her search, fear flickering over her features for a fraction of a second. Anyone could tell that the wet noise was not a good sign. Swaying on her feet now, Devi was barely able to look up when Ahava spoke, “I’ll be with you in a minute, lie down and stay there.” Despite the harsh tone, they were comforting words. Devi couldn’t blame her for the mistake; Ahava was perpetually new to the whole friend thing.
She settled into her cot without complaint, and allowed herself to nestle into the fresh sheets, and sighed for a moment, taking in the nook that seemed to get smaller with every visit. The side room was not Ahava’s traditional examination area, much more akin to a storage closet with a bed in it. But it was Devi’s room. For Devi’s examinations. And the gods knew she didn’t have enough things to call hers anymore.
A soft patter of footsteps hailed the medic’s approach. Their work began.
The cot was small, the going was slow, and the time was late, so tan hands pressed stitches into Devi’s dark skin and a rhythm was created in time to the soft tune Devi hummed. It was quiet, but at least it kept her mind off the push and pull of the needle and the rattle in her ribs. Ahava, she knew, appreciated the melody too; kept the tremor out of her hands. The song was a soothing thing; an old lullaby that managed to hold its nostalgic charm despite the ragged, off key notes that clawed their way out of Devi’s throat. She’d forgotten its name ages ago, but she knew it was old; it had been taught to her before Amator had been assassinated, and it was a reminder of better times - of wealth and glory and friends. The song had become just another private memory.
The sky faded like an old dye outside the window, light beginning to settle into the room, glinting off the needle. It made her spine itch. In the morning there would be crowds, and the sultry masses would give her no privacy - each desperate for an easy target. She had founded this nation alongside Barachiel and Amator before the latter had shamelessly been murdered, and she had been kicked to the gutter like trash. The fighter’s fall from grace had been a public spectacle that none were keen to let her forget. Despite the many years that aged its memory, the incident had even given life to her nickname in the Arena; The Devil. Half of its permanence in the public mind was Desdemona’s doing. After all, what better way to remind the people of Querevage that she had slaughtered its founder than parading around his partner like a caged tiger. To think she was all that remained of Amator’s legacy… Appalling.
Devi left with the moon, skulking off to the withering shack she still refused to call home. A painful endeavour with the state she was in - Ahava could only do so much for her aching bones without the use of illicit magic - but both knew there was nothing more to be done. Devi would tear the stars from the skies before she gave up this fix. An addict she was, but the call of the Arena was too great to be denied, no matter what the doctor suggested.
Devi knew that if she chose to, Ahava could detach herself from the situation entirely, reign in her emotions and just mend the wounds she was presented with - if she chose to mend them at all. Ahava was a doctor. Professionalism was the first rule of the trade; too many died to get attached, so their agreement was a precarious one - based initially on pity, and only later a genuine fondness that had grown between the two dark-skinned women. But fondness didn’t disguise the grief stooping in the doctor’s gaze as the door shuttered behind Devi as she escaped into the veins of the city, a small packet of hormone pills clutched in one hand. Streets and avenue and cobblestones spreading out before her in the night, branching out from the beast that was the ancient Montgomery Street.
Devi huffed, watching the fogging breath drift off in the breeze. Montgomery Street, sunless, was cold but not necessarily lifeless. Bar chatter seeped out of the cracks in the walls of the Blind Sparrow, just across the street. Its lit windows shone like cat’s eyes, and she felt vaguely like she was being watched. For a moment, she met its gaze, heard her pulse in her ears.
She had survived the Arena, her heartbeat a testimony to that. She had survived. She was alive. What a beautiful, insignificant miracle. It took her breath away. Alive, what a concept.
The bruiser moved on, shaking off the sudden reverence with a shudder. Devi padded down the cragged street, looking for her exit. The clinic wasn’t her last stop tonight, and she couldn’t keep Alphonse waiting much longer. With luck, she could take the alleys and get there before the magician broke another pair of glasses.
Alleys were the only real way to travel in Querevage, even before Desdemona’s takeover.
Taking her usual route, Devi found herself cramming her way through a particularly narrow street. Most would be unnerved in the claustrophobic setting, but for better or for worse, the fighter had become particularly acquainted with the nooks and crannies of the Capital. Cool walls draped themselves along the passageway, bricks wet with the night. Cobble stones with runes scratched into them ran against her vision as she moved, only half of which had been painted over by the Night Guard - a new staple in all Quereven cities. Moonlight spilled over her back as she scurried down the alleyways. She could taste the magic in the air, illegal and beautiful in how it was still alive despite Desdemona’s hard working hands. It made her laugh and her cheeks flush, better times dancing in her head. Some part of her could tell she was more than a little delirious with either shock or blood loss. Who knew. Who cared.
The bruiser’s dark skin all but melted into walls of the backstreet, a disguise built into her form. She’d appreciated it more and more over the years, this inlaid ability to sink into the dark backdrop of the city, her only spotlight the moon. Haloed and aglow in the dawn, she forged onward. There was a destination in mind, a definite course set for her senseless wandering, but not the place she’d led Ahava to believe. Ahava was a friend, yes, but the doctor was too lawful to be trusted with the secrets of the Hive and the magicians that lived within it. Alphonse had only told Devi because he trusted her. She wouldn’t betray him to a woman he didn’t know, no matter how much Ahava meant to her.
If her wounds were left untreated, she'd be unable to move the next morning, and she'd have to be dragged back to her shack before she unnecessarily spent time there, but with the help of Alphonse and his magic she’d be fully functioning in an hour. And with his help, the hut could stay as distant from her life as possible; exclusively for sleeping and storage and sometimes not even that.
Devi could always trust that Alphonse would help, he was a blessing too good for this earth and she was lucky to have met him before the Guard forced him and all other practicing magicians into hiding. The Hive had saved Quereven magic from extinction and Alphonse from the jaws of death. It was tucked between the fabric of here and now, a nontruth that wasn’t actually real according to any natural laws, and had entrances that didn’t exist unless you already knew they were real.
In short, the Hive was a magical, semi-sentient collection of spaces called Fantasies, things aptly named for their unique nature of being entirely conjured realities. Taking a variety of shape and form, a Fantasy could be as small as a single bedroom or as large as a city, all the while using no physical space, merely taking advantage of the illusion of it to explain its own existence. A fourth dimension, if you will. Realities within reality. They took a complicated network of spells to make and a great understanding of magic, not to mention an obscene amount of luck and skill. Alphonse had all of the above, and had built many of the Fantasies that stemmed off the main tunnel of the Hive. Many were now empty.
Magic had disappeared, but the persecution of it had not.
Ahava had chosen to give up magic in exchange for a life above ground, where you could interact with real, actual objects, eat real, actual food, and listen to the sound of real, actual rain. The doctor hated falsities, and thus she refused to live one. Devi would have to side with Ahava at the end of the day. She loved Alphonse, but even his familiar Fantasy was unsettling in a primal way. The food tasted foreign, never quite right. Telltale signs for the mimicry it was. And the sounds felt flat. It sat heavy in the bones and watched like a cat. Living in a Fantasy was isolating. It was just you, and the world, and the knowledge that the only pulse on this plane was yours. Most couldn’t live with that.
Devi, peering into the Portmans Avenue entrance, knew she certainly couldn’t. She stepped into the tunnel, and felt it swallow around her. The Hive was a winding thing, a living being that breathed and pulseed, though she couldn't say if it physically pulsed or magically pulsed, even though she had one hand on its wall, trailing down the easy dips and peaks that rippled down the tunnel. She wasn’t sensitive enough to magic to tell the difference. Al’s Fantasy - Trinkets - was the third opening to the right.
The gateway opened to a countryside manor settled comfortably atop a glassy lake. The water sprawled out in front of her, painting a mirror image of the canopy that towered above her. Only floating knots of islands disturbed an otherwise flawless reflection. Trinkets’ red brick emerged from the charcoal trees like a dragon, seeming to breathe with chimney smoke and stare with shuttered eyes. It was the only warm colour in this place, homey like a mother’s wrath amongst the cool tones of the sunken forest. Trinkets itself rested on the very cusp of the water, serene in its untouchability.
Fake, all of it, but God, how beautiful.
Parts of the house flickered in and out of vision like a dying flame, shrouded in the mist rising from the water. Though, admittedly, the opaque liquid wasn’t water at all. It held no weight where it clung to her boots, and it wasn’t cold. It was warm. Eerily and surreally so. She always hated walking over to the door, the pooling sky cut her feet off by the ankles, and she'd lose them wherever she stepped. Below the water, nothing existed. Nothing had been programmed to exist below the water, just as nothing had been programmed to exist beyond the thick layer of fog encircling the manor.
Alphonse, here, was God. And God had not wanted to lie to himself with fake creatures. Nothing here breathed but her, and Al, and his husband. And thus this place belonged to the three of them. The husband in question, Kimon, could be seen in the greenhouse bulging off the side of Trinkets like a blister. She waved to him, and in turn Devi saw him nod in greeting at her, before his silhouette dipped back inside the house. It was good to remind herself that isolation did not mean alone.
She wondered, briefly, if Kimon and Alphonse ever got used to the feeling. The Devil supposed they must have, over the years. With nothing but each other for company, conversation must be hard to come by. Or, she mused, perhaps not. Each quirky and sporadic in their own right, Kimon and Alphonse got on like a house on fire. Their bond was something Devi could only hope for. Kimon could leave at any time, abandoning Alphonse to the loneliness of solitary existence, something that would undoubtedly kill the social man. And yet he stayed, warm and tucked away here with the love of his life. Universes would bend under their determination, and this sanctuary proved just that. Trinkets was private, and Trinkets was Alphonse’s, and Trinkets was Kimon’s.
Devi was just a guest.
While Alphonse was like Devi, a criminal by law, Kimon was a beast of a different kind. As a coliseum mage, Kimon was charged with exploration of the Quereven badlands, and combating the monsters that inhabited them. It was a position of power, one that allowed Kimon the ability to practice magic despite the laws against it. Amator had been a coliseum mage before they had founded Querevage properly, back when it had just been a bunch of mercenaries squatting in tents. Those had been some of the most blissful days of Devi’s life, when she had him and Barachiel by her side she’d felt like she could take on the world. She had never seen the same appeal in the crazy world of politics that had followed just a few years after. Give her a pulse, a sword, and a monster any day. However, she was glad that part of Quereven culture had carried on.
Some things were so signature to the nation that not even Desdemona could erase them. The status that came with being a coliseum member was one of them. That, and the need for a coliseum mage to ensure the survival of the troop meant that Kimon had the most idealized life one could have in Querevage, both before and after Amamtor died. He was a lucky man. And she believed Amator would have liked Kimon, which was what was most important to her, what with Kimon being the current holder of Amator’s first title. The two men were kindred souls, both having a fearsome appreciation for magic and for their partners. At least she could trust Alphonse not to try and murder anyone, much less his husband. Who she was now face to face with.
Kimon, holding the door open for her, looked deathly tired. Bags were stamped under electric blue eyes, unusually dull against his tan skin and dark lashes. Several scratches littered his face, with two nasty ones clipping along his cheekbone. He was typically an attractive man but his slouch and the grime coating him took away from that. Kimon was careful about his appearance, to see him in such disarray was especially concerning. Hopefully nothing had happened to Alphonse.
“Rough day?” She asked, stepping into the house. The Coliseum was a one-way ticket to fame and success, but it rarely left one feeling anything but battered and exhausted. She wouldn’t be surprised if that was the cause of his disorder. Devi, still aching from her match, could sympathize.
“Yeah,” He said, bluntly, closing the door behind her, “And we got a letter. Didn’t help.”
Devi wiggled her toes as she shook water from her pants, it was good form to make sure all of them were still there after a trudge through the water. “Pardon my asking, but who from?”
A dismissive grunt. “Gemini. It’s about her promotional ceremony.”
Officially the young woman had been serving as general for over a month, the celebration was merely a formality, but it was still the most highly anticipated event of the season. Public events celebrating military grandeur were an excellent way to reassure the masses, after all, so the monarchs put extra time into ensuring their success.
“What’s the matter with that?” Devi asked.
“I’ve been formally invited. Alphonse on the other hand… has been… asked not to attend. Formally.”
“Oh.” Devi knew things had been tense between Al and his eldest child but she hadn’t thought it was that bad.
“Yeah,” Kimon nudged at the floor with his shoe. “He’s rather torn up about it. She said it was because she didn’t want him getting caught. Which is admittedly a risk, and a reasonable one at that, so I can-“
The bruiser almost laughed. “Al? Get caught? Magic smothering is a temporary enchantment, yes, but heavens he’s better than that. You and I both know that she’s just embarrassed to admit her father is a witch.”
“Watch it,” Kimon snapped. “You all but raised her. I was hoping you’d be able to translate for her, not make her look worse. She doesn’t mean to hurt him. Alphonse needs to remember that.”
Devi huffed. Gemini had changed when she’d gotten her first taste of life outside of the Hive. She’d been a sweet young girl but now she reminded Devi scarily of Barachiel. Too much so to be a coincidence. It wouldn’t surprise the Devil if he’d actually started mentoring her.
“Devi,” Kimon pleaded, putting a gentle hand on her shoulder, “Promise me you’ll talk to him. It’s… awkward when I do it.”
She met his eye, and hissed. “I will not lie to him.”
“Then don’t. The only person who knows her better than you is Alphonse. You know she doesn’t mean it like that.”
She tensed, agitated.
“Please. He can’t lose any more family.”
A beat of hesitation. “I’m getting my damn stitches fixed first.”
Kimon beamed. “Knew I could count on you.”
“Where is he, anyway?” They could both tell she was making small talk as she wandered over to the living room door, “I usually can’t get him off me long enough to have a proper conversation with you.”
“Hiding,” Kimon answered, bounding after the woman’s longer strides, “Think he wants to surprise you.”
“Oh? Alphonse nearly scared me half to death the last time he ‘surprised’ me.” She stopped just outside the door frame, turning to look at Kimon, a smile playing at her lips.
“You were only paralyzed for a week, Devi.”
She scoffed, playful. “Does he still tell the story?”
“To anyone who’ll listen.” The corners of Kimon’s blue eyes crinkled happily as his mouth tilted, fondness glowing in them.
“So every night over dinner, then, when you two sit down to eat?”
Kimon laughed pleasantly, “You know him too well.”
“Just promise me this surprise doesn’t involve alpacas. I’m still picking fur out of my teeth from my last encounter with them.”
The mage shuddered, the memory fresh in both of them. “No alpacas.”
“Great.” Devi stepped through the doorway. And screamed.
Al, always one for dramatic entrances, had dropped down from the air like a bat, and upside down shrieked; "If it isn't the great and powerful Devi!" His smile spread bright, "You're home!" And she was.
Ah yes, how could Devi forget his highness knew about her profession. Legally, she didn’t have a choice about answering him. She was an enemy of the state, and alive purely because he wished it. Gesturing to her armour, half of which now rested on the creaky table, she stated; “Obviously.”
The amount of snark in her voice was going to get her in trouble.
“Oh.”
Oh. Was that all he could say? As Devi picked and choose her words with painstaking care so she didn’t die, all he could say was ‘oh’? Devi huffed, exasperated, a habit she’d picked up from Alphonse.
“It doesn’t look like you were too badly injured. Was it an easy fight?”
Devi didn’t look injured at all, actually. Alphonse’s magic was reliable, trustworthy, thorough. She just perpetually looked like a wreck. The bruiser laughed, tugging her hair out of the tight knot at the back of her head. “No,” she hummed, “It was rather difficult, actually.” Devi shook her hair out. It fell around her face in some mangled poof of thick bunches; curly and wild and matted.
“You fared well, regardless, then.” Barachiel laughed, tension leaving him. She cocked an eyebrow at him in response to the noise, barely able to see him through the mess. “Sorry, I’m still unused to your hair doing that. Going from bun to…” He waved a hand, searching for the right word, “Bear, I mean.”
Devi snorted, offended enough to push some of the tangles behind her ear, restoring her vision. “Personally, I’d rather have bear hair than a scarecrow man-bun.”
🏡 - your favorite piece of description | Ask me for an excerpt!
This excerpt is from Chapter Six! Devi decided to do some sleuthing into Kimon’s social life to see if she could find out anything to convince Al of the affair, and ended up cornering his Coliseum trainer - her Arena benefactor - behind the Coliseum Dispatch Center (CDC) to see if she could get any gossip. The description that follows is definitely one of my favourites.
“ The back of the CDC was dark and quiet and tight. They were pressed up against a cliff face made smooth by magic, a situation only made more awkwardly intimate by the grandness of the building itself. Blooming patterns, cast from gold and silver and gemstones Devi couldn’t name, shimmied down its stone sides like scales and rippled against the pale bedrock it had been born of. The magnitude of its intricacy was only matched by the building’s size. Its shadow was so colossal, it was said to hide gods. Magical feats, in the very literal sense. No sane artisan would attempt to recreate its detail, not in this modern age of anti-magic laws. ”
