I just realised that a couple days ago was the 10 year anniversary of the wolfverse!!!
Next ask:
actually, i’m just hopeless at reading dates, it is in a couple months 😅 anything special planned?
Haha, I was going to say! As you sussed out, the tenth anniversary of wolfverse is July 2 (7/2), not February 7 (2/7). And I do have plans, as it happens! I'm working on typesetting the 15 existing fics as a 6-volume series that I'll be able to print on Lulu and put on my very own bookshelf. I'm also planning to share the files with any of you who might want to print copies for yourselves. It's over 700K words at this point, so I'm very glad to have until July! 😄
The knife stops cold. She looks down and finds his hand wrapped around the blade, slicing through glove and skin alike. The blood pouring from his fingers and palm shouldn’t be a shock, but somehow it is. She’d seen Ascians die before. Had she ever seen them bleed?
"Do you honestly think that'll kill me?" Emet-Selch drawls, sounding bored. That, too, is a surprise.
She has her full weight driving against the hilt, so much so that her grip is slick on it. Here he was, not flinching and not even angry — at least not angry like Lahabrea or Nabriales before him.
"No," she finally answers, too quiet for her own ears, too soft. She grits her teeth to disrupt the affect.
He laughs and the sound rankles her.
"I have a dagger to you and you laugh?"
"You have a dagger, yes. That I allow it in proximity to my person is of my own volition."
"Says the man bleeding."
The corner of his upturned mouth begins to lose its languid glee. This close to him, she can see when precisely the mask starts to slip. She can see the worn lines in his face and the shadows beneath his pale eyes, which now drop away from hers, trailing her face with lax inspection.
He stops at her mouth.
"Why go through the trouble if you knew it wouldn't kill me?" Emet-Selch asks, sotto voce. His head cants and his short hair sways with the movement.
"Some punishments are worth the trouble."
"Some pleasures, too."
"Yes-"
Before the word is fully formed, his hand releases the blade. It sinks through his fine attire and makes its home in his gut. She's braced one moment and crashing forward the next, so caught off-guard by his stunt that she only has him to hold for support.
Fable finds her nose no more than an inch from his. His breath is warm against her lips; she can almost feel the sly curve of his mouth, but it's her hand that draws all sensation. It's suddenly warm and wet and she knows if she looks down she'll see it coated in crimson.
It takes a moment more to register how loud she's breathing — practically panting and sweating while he remains wholly unrattled.
"Feel better now?" he has the gall to ask.
She can't find her voice let alone the answer to that question, so she twists the knife instead.
"Ah...!" The noise he makes is not quiet a yelp, but it has the makings of discomfort. That he should react with the trace of normality sends a thrill licking up her spine. Eager for more, Fable curls her wrist and this time he moves to stop it.
"I think you've had your fun-"
"Wait."
He stops, brows drawn with perplexion. She doesn't study his brow for overlong, and instead finds herself watching his eyes. They're brighter around the rim and fade into muted yellow. No other color disrupts the hue.
Then she pulls the knife out, letting blood pour with it. Emet-Selch hisses his breath through clenched teeth.
His hand snaps to the wound, jamming his fingers to stave the tide. His expression darkens and suddenly he's on his feet, and she on the retreat. She loses the knife in the process, can hear it clatter to the ground even if she doesn't remember dropping it. He hounds forward, and though hunching she's made aware of the differences in their size, their heights. It's now she that cranes her neck to look up at him.
"Consider this between us a show of good will," he grounds out, his voice rough with the shadow of pain. "I could kill you here and now, but I won’t."
"Could you? Even Lahabrea couldn't-" she begins to say, ready to list off his villainous kin with a pride that feels borrowed — and then his bloody hand takes her by the chin.
She takes his forearm and wrist in turn, nails digging and readying every defensive measure she knows, but there's no moving a solid creature like him. She's left staring into eyes growing more thunderous by the second.
"Ah yes," he murmurs, low and silken, "Lahabrea and Igeorhym alongside him. Nabriales found his end at your hand, too, did he not?"
The warning is unspoken but clear: do not speak ill of the dead here.
Her fury fades little by little, ebbing back like a sheet drawn from its bed.
Emet-Selch watches her unblinking and seemingly unbothered by the loose hair falling into his eyes. He licks his lips and she's struck by how pink his tongue is, how real. Perhaps she expected that of a serpent's, forked and all.
The corner of his brow flares upward and then he finally asks, "Shall we call it even?"
He means the Incident. Her stomach churns.
"No. Not even close."
"Pity." He doesn't sound remotely let down by this news. "Alas, save some of that fire for the Light Wardens, won't you?" He wiggles her chin, the gesture both mild and downright patronizing.
Then he steps away, and leaves through a gasp of shadows.
She's left standing there, blood on her hands, her chin, and pooled at her feet. His blood, her mind reminds her after a moment. She's wearing his blood.
