Rosemary ✩ 19 ✩ She/They ✩ Writer ✩ INFP-T ✩ That Sawyer Henrick Blogger ✩ On hiatus
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• DNI: Minors, and any bigotry (especially TERFs. Get outta here). Literally, I don’t care — don’t be an asshole to others. I don't tolerate shit like that, and if you're a fan of FW, then neither should you. Call me the Woker, I guess. Fuck ICE, and love your neighbor.
if rebecca yarros really wants to make money she should just make ridoc and bodhi go at it for like three chapters yaoi does way better than character death
here's my impression of a guy who has an old timey contraption of a knee brace: aah fuck my knee brace won't buckle properly this morning because it's an old timey contraption of some kind
Happy Pride specifically to Sawyer Henrick. He’s straight, but if he was able to get drunk enough to hook up with Rhi, he probably has hooked up with a man at least once.
Had a dream a dragon mutual sent me a dm like "hey i jusr wanted to let you know you should kill everyone in your situation" followed by a "sorry the dragon rage took over"
People think of Xaden as a ruthless shadow-wielder and the leader of a revolution, but the new bonus chapter proved that deep down he’s just a guy in his twenties who wanted to sit next to his crush in class and missed her when she was away. Who also loves chocolate cake.
✨ magical healing ✨ that’s necessary but so horrifically painful.
it pulls the character from a dead faint. they arch off the bed/floor, they’re screaming, they have to be held down and when it’s finally done they go completely limp again.
everyone’s relieved it’s over but it’s not a perfect fix. magic can seal a wound, stop the bleeding—but it doesn’t replace the lost blood, heal the wounds that aren’t physical. it’s a band-aid at best.
the character still has a long road to recovery, just floating there, in and out of consciousness, the friends/found fam/team alternates sitting by their bedside waiting for them to come back.
then, when they do wake up, they’re disoriented, dizzy, unsteady. confused by their already scarred over wound. maybe they wake up fully when no one is around and try to get up too fast and end up in a heap on the floor—you know the drill. so much whumpy potential.
Ten spears go to battle, and nine shatter. The war did not forge the one that remained—it simply identified the spear that would not break.
— Oathbringer by Brandon Sanderson
—
My jaw hurts from clenching it for hours while Markus and I packed up Lillian's things. I was released from RSC interrogation just in time for her parents to send back word about her body being sent home with all of her belongings. Now we're standing in the middle of the road in Chantara, outside Skinsmiths, trying to build up the courage to go inside.
I hate delivering bad news.
"Come on," I sign to Markus, and he follows me inside the body art parlor.
All of the artists look up at the bell ringing above the door, but once the other three recognize us, they all turn to the fourth in the room. Skye stands up from her work table, and given her splotchy cheeks and red-rimmed eyes, she already knows what we're here to tell her.
Doesn't make this any easier.
She meets us on the other side of the counter, but she walks back out the door we just came through, forcing us to follow.
Her arms are wrapped tightly around herself when she finally stops in the alley next to the shop and turns to face us. "I know," she croaks out. "They post the death roll in the courtyard." Then she chokes back a sob. "At least I don't have to keep checking it and worrying."
I pull her into a hug, because there isn't really anything else to do. Markus joins us a second later, managing to wrap both of us up in his arms, and it's nice, getting to stand in our grief with people who understand.
She wipes her eyes when she eventually pulls away. "Thank you both, for coming to tell me in person."
"Of course." Markus squeezes her shoulder. He pulls a piece of parchment out of his pocket and hands it to her. "This is her parent's address, if you wanted to reach out."
She looks at him with wide eyes as a small smile creeps onto her face. "Thank you." She tucks the paper into her own pocket, then looks between the two of us. "Do you want to come in? Get something done?"
"Only if Joan has an idea on how to memorialize Lillian for us," Markus teases.
I roll my eyes and jab him in the ribs with my elbow, which only makes him laugh. "I haven't thought about it yet." Doesn't mean I didn't bring my small bag of money from my room, though.
"I've got that covered," Skye says gently. "Come on back."
She pulls out a drawing of a sunrise—"It's not a sunset. Don't give me that look, Markus, I don't know how they're different, I just know that they are"—cresting over the horizon, with long sunbeams coming off of it. "Lily wanted it for after graduation." She gives us both a stern look. "So wear it proudly when you cross that stage, or whatever the fuck it is you riders do when you finally make it out of there alive."
"I can do that," I sign back. There's no guarantee I'll make it to graduation, but I'll wear the art proudly as long as I live.
"Which will be a very long time," Astar reminds me.
"Any changes you want to make?"
I shake my head, eyes tracing over the lines slowly, reverently. "Will you do it in gold?" For my first friend in the quadrant, too, that Lillian reminded me so much of.
Aurelie—golden.
We decide to get it on our right biceps, just above the crook of our elbow; easy enough to keep covered while it's healing, and not easily agitated.
"You know, for my first tattoo, it's a good one," Markus says as we exit Skinsmiths, our hearts and pockets lighter.
"It's a good contrast with your relic."
"Exactly." He flexes both arms, which makes me roll my eyes, but his face goes slack for a second before he clenches his jaw. "Third years are being called to fill the midland posts. I have to go."
I furrow my brows. "Is everything okay?"
"Hopefully." He shakes his head, then gives me a wide smile. "Hold down the fort while I'm gone."
There's a bad taste in my mouth as I sign, "Be safe."
"Always am." Then he's taking off at a run for the college, and all I'm left with is a sore arm and a pit in my stomach.
—
The knock on my door before the sun has completely risen is never a good sign—and given the defeated look Imogen is giving me on the other side of the wards, it's about to get worse.
I pull her into my room with no resistance on her part. "You're back."
She nods. "Third years got back last night." Then she clenches her jaw. "Markus didn't make it."
The pit in my stomach rises until it's a lump in my throat. Fuck. I knew this was going to happen, and I didn't say anything, I didn't warn him—
"How the fuck did Varrish get to him all the way out there?" I sign, mostly to myself, but Imogen still sees.
"What the fuck are you talking about?"
I arch a brow at her. "All of my squadmates have been dying, Mo."
"Yeah, I know that, Jo, it's hard not to. What does Varrish have to do with any of this?"
Oh. That—that's a much bigger conversation. "Do you have any other plans this morning?"
She shrugs. "Violet's in land nav, your ribs are broken, and I'm not running by myself."
I tell her everything that's been going on—how Desmond had been dead before he hit the ground during flight training; how Varrish sent Trevor Mendenhall after Geoffrey before he tried to kill me; how Mikayla and Lillian both died with their throats slashed exactly like mine; how Varrish had me in RSC interrogation training twice as long as anyone else; and now, how Markus is dead after the third years got called to the midlands posts, even though that's supposed to be a relatively safe assignment.
Imogen rubs at the back of her neck, a frown on her face. "I would say you're reading too much into this, except he actually admitted to you that this is all his doing." She runs her hand down her face next, then straightens her shoulders with resolve. "So let's put a stop to it."
I give her a long look. "And how do you propose we do that? Report him to the General and tell her we gave her a bold-faced lie at Graduation? So she can, what, have all the rebellion kids killed for treason? Fuck no."
She just rolls her eyes back at me. "So what's your big plan, then, Jo? Isolate yourself from everyone to keep them out of harm's way? Because that's been working so well."
"I don't know, okay?" My chest heaves as I finally take a breath, the anger I didn't realize was building under my skin slowly dissipating into a steady thrum of guilt. "I knew this would happen, so I have to live with it, and I don't know how to fix it."
She pinches her eyebrows together as she leans toward me, putting a hand on my shoulder. "Whatever it is, you don't have to do it alone, okay?"
I meet her eyes and swallow thickly around the lump in my throat, ignoring the way the tattoo on my bicep aches. "Okay."
—
Third Squad, Flame Section, Fourth Wing is the smallest squad at formation. After Gauntlet and Presentation today, we'll still be the smallest, but then it's only two more days before all Third Squads will be disbanded to bolster the numbers of the other squads.
Thank the gods.
Captain Fitzgibbons finishes the death roll, and then it's time for the final Gauntlet run. All of the dread I've been feeling for today increases tenfold now that we're actually moving toward it. First Wing starts through the western gate first, followed by Second, then Third.
"Fourth Wing!" Dain calls out from near the gate. "Move out!"
We file off; Flame Section, then Claw, then Tail. Second Squad goes before us, so I'm right behind the last two in the squad: Aaric and Sloane. I hate that I'll have to watch the last of my first years, my brother, and my dead boyfriend's sister all climb the death trap that claimed Aurelie's life a year ago, but it's in my job description. At least Rhi will be there with me.
It takes over an hour for the other wings to get through their first-years, and then First Squad is up. There's not much I can tell my first years that they don't already know, but I still sign a couple words of encouragement. "You've all done this ten times already. You can make it eleven."
Lizbeth looks a little green—almost the same color as her hair—but she nods. "Will you be watching?"
"From right here."
"Oh good," Everett says with a roll of his eyes. "That brings so much confidence."
Kit slaps him upside the head. "Fuck off, Dosirla."
He scowls at them, but keeps any more comments to himself.
Second Squad starts up the Gauntlet, and Rhiannon and I are both holding our breath. She murmurs the name of each of her first years to me, since I don't know any of them, but the only ones I remember are Visia—because she was a first year with us—and Lynx.
Sloane is second to last. She slips on the buoy balls and the chimney, but she makes it to the top without touching any of the ropes.
Then it's Aaric.
I never got to watch any of his practices, but he always assured me he handled the Gauntlet just fine. He never told me he practically sprinted up the whole thing with hardly a sweat. He runs at the vertical ramp, then throws himself over the edge and lands on his feet beside Dain without even a glance in his direction.
"I think he broke Liam's record," Rhi whispers to me, and I think she's right. "Maybe even the Gauntlet record."
"Don't let him hear you say that, his ego is big enough," I sign back with a slight smile.
Professor Emetterio calls up Third Squad, and lines them up accordingly: Kit first, Everett second, Lizbeth last. Kit goes through without issue—I wouldn't say they fly up the course, because they're very meticulous about their actions, but they never falter. Everett slips considerably on the chimney, but he makes it to the top and up the vertical ramp eventually. Lizbeth does well—she's worked on her footwork every week during our gym time, and it's obvious. She hardly looks down for the log staircase, her feet are sure and fast, and she even laughs as she starts up the chimney.
She slips at the same spot Everett did, but unlike Everett, she doesn't find a new grip. She slips again, and before she can adjust her hands, her foot falls off the wall entirely and she falls to the bottom of the cliff, her scream wrenching through the air.
Her body is unmoving once the dust settles.
"I'm so sorry," Rhi whispers beside me, but I barely hear it.
Only three of us left.
At least there are designated attendants to transport the bodies to the morgue.
I follow Rhiannon up the stairs on the side of the ridgeline to the flight field and stop to hug Sloane and Aaric—congratulating him on the new Gauntlet record and his freshly earned 'fastest Gauntlet run' patch—before I continue on to my squad.
All two of them.
"Stay at least seven feet apart," I sign to Kit and Everett. I know Bodhi and Aura will go over all of this with them again, but I can't just send them into Presentation with nothing. "Straight walk through. Don't be stupid and you'll be fine."
Famous last words.
—
Third Squad, Flame Section, Fourth Wing is one of the first squads to walk through the meadow—one of the few times having a small squad is beneficial. I stand beside Bodhi as Everett and Kit start through the meadow to the one hundred and seventeen dragons waiting for them.
A roar sounds past the trees, making me jump and Bodhi swear under his breath. "That's the third one today, and we're only on the fifth group."
"They're testy."
"You can say that again," he mutters, then juts his chin out toward where Second Squad is lined up. "I bet you're excited for Aaric to bond."
A smile tugs at the corners of my lips. "You have no idea. I can bother him in his room, instead of him bothering me in mine."
He throws his head back and laughs, and I'm inclined to join in, but the smile dies on my lips as soon as I see Everett run out of the meadow.
Just Everett.
That's two.
I meet him halfway, Bodhi right on my heels, and catch him by the shoulders as he trips. "What happened?" he asks him.
"Kit attacked me." His voice is hoarse, and he coughs deeply into his elbow. "We were almost out when they got me in a chokehold. I—I managed to get out of it and step away, then this Orange stepped out of line and torched them." He holds up his arm and I hiss at the burned-away sleeve and the blistering skin now exposed. "I barely got out of the way in time."
"Glad you did," I sign, then look at Bodhi. "I'll take him to the healers."
He nods at the pair of us. "Let Cuir know if you need me."
"I will." He walks off to escort Second Squad, and I stick to Everett's side. "Need help?"
He shakes his head, his brown hair singed at the tips. "I can walk."
I worry at my lip the entire walk back, mulling the story over in my head. Everett easily had four inches of height on Kit, and at least twenty pounds. Maybe if Kit was walking behind him, but even still, Everett never had any trouble breaking out of chokeholds in our mat time. So why the hell was there a struggle?
Why the hell would Kit attack him in the first place?
We get across the field and all the way down the stairs when Everett speaks up again. "I can't believe there's only two of us left."
I frown. "I know."
Then he nods. "Don't worry—it'll only be one of us shortly."
What?
He swings at me, and the only reason the dagger he's holding doesn't end up in my chest is because I twist out of the way enough it gets buried in my arm instead.
What the fuck is he doing?
"Secrets die with the people who keep them," he mutters, then he rips the dagger out of my arm and swings again. "I'm glad that dragon stepped out of line when I attacked Kit—it made the clean up so much easier."
I see red. Aetos got to one of my squadmates. How long has Everett been planning this? Since the beginning? Is it only recently?
Instinct more than anything throws me backward, away from his dagger. The force with which he's swinging concerns me, but it seems he didn't learn enough from Lillian before she died.
All power, no precision.
I grab his wrist and twist, forcing him to drop the blade, then I grab it for myself and stab it into his neck before I can think twice about it.
Oh gods.
I killed him. I killed my squadmate. He was my responsibility, and I just put a knife through his neck.
That's three.
"He attacked you, Little One. You defended yourself against a murderer. You are blameless."
Everett's body falls to the ground, and I scramble back, staring at the blood on my hands. "Cuir..."
"Help is coming." Astar pulses warmth down our bond as he retreats from my mind.
I look up at the stairs, and Bodhi is making his way to me, deep lines set between his eyebrows as he runs. "Jo..."
"He attacked me," I sign. "I swear, Bodhi, it was self defense."
He squeezes my elbow, his eyes unmoving from mine. "I believe you." Then his eyes move down. "Fuck, Joan. How's your arm?" He brushes his fingers against my left arm, murmuring an apology at the hiss it pulls from my lips. "It'll need stitches."
I nod, pulling myself away from his grasp. "The body?"
"I'll take care of it." His lips turn down in a frown, but his eyes are still soft. "I'm...I'm really sorry, Jo."
"Me, too." I nod again, then Conceal myself and continue on to the healers for a completely different reason.
Sempel, one of the healers from my land nav team, greets me at the door and leads me to one of the few empty beds. "You okay with me doing your stitches, or do you want someone higher up?"
"You stitched Ashton up just fine," I sign back, my left arm moving as little as possible. "I'll let you handle this."
"High praise," he murmurs. "Get comfortable, I'll grab what I need."
I prop a pillow up behind me and sit against the wall, uncaring of any dirt I get on the sheets from my boots. He gives me a long look at the mess I've made, but when I just stare back at him, he takes a seat beside me without further comment. "I need to clean it first. Here." He hands me a vial of pain tonic, and doesn't balk when I only drink half of it. "This is going to sting."
All things considered, Sempel works quickly and quietly. He doesn't bother with idle small talk, he just sits, does the work, and lets me leave with instructions to come back in two weeks to get the stitches removed, or sooner if it starts to get irritated. "Keep it clean, keep it wrapped, and you'll be just fine."
I start back up to the Riders Quadrant with only one thought on my mind:
Everett was right—there's only one of us left.
—
a/n: am i entirely pleased with this chapter? no. am i so excited for the next one? abso-fucking-lutely. reblogs and comments are always appreciated :)
summary: jo is finally taken for interrogation training, and it's worse than she ever expected.
warnings: torture, violence, blood, injuries, non-consensual mending, mending used as torture, threatened torture, threatened murder, non-sexual nudity, swearing, hurt/comfort
a/n: this one is heavy. pls read at your own discretion. and shout out to @theseinfernalangels for being the best beta reader a girl could ask for, love you so much babes <3
masterlist | ao3
—
The things that happen behind closed doors in the Riders Quadrant in order to turn young cadets into full-fledged riders are enough to turn even the staunchest of stomachs. Those prone to queasiness should not pry.
— Major Afendra's Guide to the Riders Quadrant
(Unauthorized Edition)
—
Everything aches. It feels like I got tossed down a flight of stairs and hit every step on the way down, then a horse decided to run over me a couple times for good measure. I lift my head and slowly open my eyes, and my entire body goes on high alert as I look around the unfamiliar room.
There are mage lights above me that leave long shadows of the manacles attached to the wall and highlight every dried spot of blood on the stone at my feet. I'm strapped to a wooden chair, the leather cutting into my wrists, elbows, and ankles where I'm bound, and from what I can tell, I'm alone.
That fact is not as comforting as I want it to be.
A door opens behind me, but the chair is placed strategically and bolted to the floor that I can't see who opened it, no matter how much I twist and turn—not until they wrap around to my side of the room.
It's two riders, a man and a woman. The woman arches a brow at me, and the man folds his arms over his chest. "Your friends ratted you out, Cadet."
"We know you're hiding something." The woman steps forward, almost leering over me at the new angle. "Tell us what it is, and we'll let you go."
My blood goes cold. What do they know? I try to pull away to talk to Astar, but I've already been dosed with the signet blocker. I'm cut off.
Fuck.
"I think she needs a little persuasion," the man says. "Do you want to do the honors?"
The woman grins. "I'd love to." Then she slams her fist into my cheekbone.
They take turns asking me questions and trying to beat an answer out of me, which either means they have some idea of the truths I could tell, or they have no idea what I could say and they really want to know. Either way, they don't know anything I don't tell them.
I hear a distinct crack with her last punch at my torso, and even the man flinches at the noise. When I don't make any move to sign, the man straightens to his full height and pulls the other rider with him. "Give her a minute—she'll soften up after a couple hours like this." They walk out of the cell and leave me with a single mage light to see with. No windows to the outside, nothing to gauge the time by—just me and my injuries until they think I've sat with them long enough to make me spill all of my secrets just to get some relief.
Not likely.
Pain I can live with; I'm no stranger to it, and an aversion to healers and menders in general means I've made my peace with injuries healing on their own. Add my inability to keep an entire vial of pain tonic down, and you get a recipe for constant states of discomfort. No, the pain and discomfort are almost old friends—it's the waiting that's unbearable. The anticipation and dread of not knowing when they'll come back, of what they'll do to me when they realize their efforts have gotten them nowhere, of how far they're willing to take this to get what they want.
Of how much I'll have to endure before they accept that I won't break.
They come back and ask their questions and take their frustrations out on my body when I don't give any indication of being willing to answer them.
"Stubborn, aren't you?" the woman asks, though it's more a statement than a question. "Don't worry; everyone talks eventually."
If they really wanted me to talk, they wouldn't have bound my hands.
"Maybe you need some incentive," the man says. He holds up a waterskin and arches a brow. "One answer for one sip."
Even with my throat scratchy and sore from the lack of water, I won't accept anything they offer, food or water. I've learned my lesson with land nav—it has to be forced in me or I'm not taking it. I just stare at him, and his smug expression quickly drops.
"I'm getting tired of this." He drops the waterskin, takes two steps toward me, and punches me right across the temple.
I don't bother trying to stay conscious.
—
My left eye doesn't open when I finally gain consciousness again, so I only see the man in front of me, his arms at his sides as he stands at attention.
"She still hasn't said anything?"
I choke on my breath at the familiar voice. Varrish.
"No, sir," the woman answers.
"Don't they usually give up a personal detail by now?"
Personal detail? What the fuck is he talking about?
"They do, sir."
"It seems your skills are lacking, Lieutenants." Varrish walks around the back of the chair until he's directly in front of me, but his eyes stay on the other two riders in the room. "This is now the second time you've taken too long to get information out of someone."
I can't help the way my head tilts at the words. Second time? What is he…? My eye goes wide. Is this…is this for RSC?
My entire stomach drops. No. No. No. It wasn't supposed to be like this. I was supposed to be paired with my land nav group, I'm not supposed to be alone. Even being tortured with Jack Barlowe and Caroline Ashton is better than this.
I don't want to do this alone.
The woman's voice is tight as she says, "We're using standard interrogation protocol, sir," bringing me back to my current predicament.
Varrish finally looks at me, and while his face stays impassive, his eyes flash with something almost excited. "That won't work on Cadet Graycastle—she doesn't fear pain." He looks back at the riders that have now migrated toward the door at my back. "Leave us. And I'll be having a word with your superiors."
As soon as they're gone, Varrish lets the mask drop and grins at me. "Finally. I've been looking forward to your time in here so much that I made sure you were the last one to be brought in. Do you know why?" He leans in close, his hands bracing on my forearms. "Because I want to take my time with you. I know exactly what is going to break you, Cadet Graycastle, and then you are going to tell me all of your secrets."
A third emotion fills my lungs alongside the fear and panic already coursing through me: hatred. I hate his voice. I hate his sneer. I hate his willingness to roll over like a dog for Colonel Aetos. I hate how much pleasure he takes from causing other people pain, and I especially hate how he looks at me like I'm a puzzle to solve.
Fuck him.
I throw my head forward and smirk at the satisfying crack! that rings out as Varrish's nose breaks under the force.
He reels back, pressing a hand to his nose, but when he pulls it back to show me the blood gushing down his face, he's smiling at me, his teeth coated red.
"You and I are going to have so much fun together."
—
He takes a few minutes to clean himself up, then he's back in the interrogation room, looming over me, inspecting the work of the other riders. "Where did Riorson take your squad after War Games?"
The question surprises me, and I try not to let it show on my face, but I'm sure he catches the way my breath hitches. I don't make any move to answer, so he asks again.
"Where did Riorson take your squad after War Games?"
When I don't answer this time, he hits me in my already-swollen eye, breaking skin and causing blood to drip down my face.
"Where did Riorson take your squad after War Games?"
This time, he punches at my bruised ribs until another crack echoes in the room.
He asks again, I don't answer, and he attacks a different injury until it worsens—my bruised jaw is now dislocated, my dislocated elbow is now broken—sharpening all of the dull aches to hot brands of pain.
I still don't answer.
He backs away from me with a sigh, then pulls out a handkerchief to wipe at the sweat on his forehead. "Standard interrogation protocol is all well and good for training purposes, but when you really want information from someone, you need to get personal." He tucks the cloth back into his pocket, takes a step forward, and wraps a hand around my throat, pinning my head to the back of the chair so I can't try and hit him again. "How personal will I need to get with you, Cadet?" His fingers tighten ever-so-slightly. "Should I bring your squadmates in here?"—more pressure—"How about your friends?"—ven more pressure—"Maybe I'll have your brother brought in." His hand closes entirely around my throat, cutting off all of my air. "Tell me what I want to know."
He wants a reaction from me, and I won't give it to him. Even as I run out of oxygen, even as my brain starts to panic from my lack of air and the potential that Aaric will be brought down here, too, I just stare back at him, unflinching.
Right as I feel my consciousness slipping, he lets go with a scoff. Air invades my lungs, and I watch him look me up and down with a determined gleam in his eye. "Sit tight, Cadet. I'll have a guest with me when I return."
It doesn't matter how much air I just breathed in—all of it is punched out at the implications of his words.
No. No. Not Aaric. Please, not Aaric.
—
I manage to doze off again, only to wake up with hands on my neck. But when I open my eye, I thrash back, trying and failing to get out from under the mender's hands on my skin.
Nolon.
I feel relief for all of two seconds at the fact that it isn't my brother in the room with me; then it's replaced with even more panic than before.
"You should have better manners for a guest, Graycastle," Varrish chides from his spot leaning against the right wall. "Colonel Nolon's come all this way to mend you, you should at least have the courtesy to sit still and let him do his work." Then he moves over and crouches down beside the mender. "Where did you and your squad go after War Games, Cadet?"
I just ball my hands into fists and glare at him.
Varrish nods at Nolon, and the older man puts both hands on my face. I try to squirm away from Nolon's touch, but the restraints don't give me an inch of wiggle room. I bite my lip to keep my gasps of pain and tears at bay, but he mends my jaw back into place, and it rips a silent scream out of me.
"Where did Riorson take you after War Games?"
I don't answer. Nolon mends another inch of injured skin. He asks again. I don't answer. Nolon mends me. It's a cycle of never-ending pain as my body is put back together against my will, just for Varrish to take his time breaking it again.
"I'm not sure how much more she can take, Burton."
Varrish hums, looking me over. "You're right. I think some time to think will be good for her."
And then they both just walk out, leaving me restrained on the chair in the center of the room to rot.
—
Varrish is by himself the next time he walks in, and I don't know if that's better or worse than Nolon being here. Because while I hate being mended without my consent, I hate not having a witness in the room, either.
"How does it feel, knowing there's nothing you can do to stop your friends from dying?"
Elara's laugh, Mikayla's smile, Lillian's eyes; all the memories of the friends that have died because of him flash through my head. His face is the perfect picture of innocence, but I see the truth in his eyes—he enjoys this. Taunting me, torturing me, playing with my emotions to the point of panic. He lives for it.
I want to gouge his eyes out.
"Tell me what I want to know, Cadet. Tell me what happened during War Games, where your squad went after the battle, and the deaths will stop." He grins when I involuntarily tilt my head at the offer. "Your life will be yours again. Your friends will be safe. No one will touch a hair on your brother's head."
I strain against the leather holding me down at that. How dare he even insinuate that Aaric is in danger? How dare he hold that promise over my head?
Because nothing will assuage the guilt of letting the offer pass.
My life, Aaric's life, my friends lives; none of them are worth the end to the war, and that's exactly what I'd be giving up if I tell Varrish where we went after War Games. The revolution, what they're trying to do, is too important—it's everything I set out to do by joining the Riders Quadrant. I'm not going to betray them just on the slim chance that Varrish might stop his killing spree. Any of my friends dying in the future because I don't tell him what he wants to know is a burden I'm willing to bear for this.
Despite the guilt threatening to claw its way out of my throat, I don't move to sign anything at the Vice Commandant.
He clenches his jaw, and I can't help the small bubble of pride that flares in my chest at visibly frustrating him.
"Well, then, I suppose I have to give Colonel Nolon something to work with." His fist pounds into my ribcage—the last place Nolon mended, when he was running out of energy. The bones give on his second punch, but he keeps going on the same spot. Over, and over, and over—
The door slams open, stopping Varrish right before he can swing again. "Vice Commandant."
Varrish stands up straight as the corners of his mouth dip in a frown. "Professor Grady. You're early."
"I would be, if Cadet Graycastle had been brought in at her designated time. But the two Lieutenants assigned to this training portion told me you had her brought in almost thirty-six hours ago; and since each squad is only subject to eighteen hours of interrogation in their first training exercise, I'm actually late." He steps further into the room, then turns his back completely on Varrish and crouches down in front of me to remove the restraints around my ankles, elbows, and wrists. "C'mon, Cadet, you're done here."
He ushers me out of the room, and has to catch me when I nearly fall back seeing Colonel Nolon waiting in the antechamber.
"Professor Grady summoned me to mend any injuries you have," he explains.
"Don't fucking touch me," I sign at him, and he steps back like he's been slapped.
He at least has the decency to look guilty.
Grady stops me at the desk by the door and hands me my weapons before handing me a waterskin. "The antidote," he says to my unsigned question.
I only take a quick sip, still not trusting him, but it's enough for the faded feeling in my head to clear. "Az?"
"I will melt the skin off their bones!"
I take one step outside, and almost fall to my knees as Astar lands in the small clearing, shaking the ground.
"I will turn this building to rubble and melt the stone within! How dare you hurt what is mine!"
Professor Grady steps outside, and the air starts to burn as my dragon readies his breath. "This will not happen again."
My hand tightens into a fist against his scales. "He can't hear you."
"His dragon can."
Professor Grady bows his head. "I understand." Then he meets my eyes as he backs away, toward the college. "I'm sorry."
Astar keeps his eyes trained on the building, ready to pounce on the next person that comes out, but his head suddenly whips to the side, and then he's lunging through the air. A pained screech echoes around me, and my heart leaps into my throat at the thought of Astar being hurt. I follow after him, stumbling as I go, until I see him standing over Solas, pinning the Orange Daggertail to the ground with his neck between his teeth.
"Az!"
"Since your rider is too cowardly to come outside and face his death, I will leave you with a promise." His jaw tightens, and the Orange lets out a wheeze. "If you or the Gealtair come within fifteen feet of my rider, I will kill you so quickly you won't even have the chance to scream. Even if you run, there will be no corner of this world I will not find you. Every breath you take is at my mercy. Do you understand?"
Solas must agree to the terms, because Astar loosens his grip—not enough to let go of him completely, though. No, Solas has to rip himself off of Astar's teeth to free himself, tearing his own flesh open to escape.
He doesn't stick around to suffer any more consequences.
Once the Orange flies out of sight, Astar turns to me and lets out a low, pained whine deep in his throat. "Little One."
"Az." I stretch my arms across his snout, immediately matching my breathing to his. "You came."
"I was worried." He lets out an affectionate huff. "You did well. You stayed strong."
"I didn't break."
"I know." He nuzzles my cheek, pouring endless amounts of love into the bond. "Let's go home."
He takes the long way back to the Citadel, looping around the mountains, flying as slow as possible to extend our time together. He needs the comfort of my presence as much as I need his, and I'm happy to spend as much time as possible in the open air with the sun on my skin.
I expect him to land in the courtyard, like he has before, but he lands beside the Gauntlet instead, sending at least five first years scrambling back. One of them, though, stands firm, even as the wind from Astar's wings threatens to blow him away.
Aaric.
"Thank you," I whisper to Astar. Even when I don't say it, he always knows exactly what I need.
"I love you, Little One."
"I love you, too."
I dismount slowly, then, after one more nudge of his snout to my cheek, Astar clears the area. As soon as I'm close enough, I throw myself into Aaric's arms, broken ribs be damned.
"What's wrong?" he asks as he buries his face in my neck. "Are you okay?" I shake my head against his skin, and that's all the answer he needs. Without a word to Emetterio or his squad, he picks me up off the ground and starts walking back to the Citadel. I Conceal us as soon as we're alone; I don't want any more prying eyes laying witness to me letting myself fall apart with the one person I trust to help me put myself back together.
He carries me all the way to my room, then he sets me down on my bed and runs his hands up and down my body to check for injuries. I hiss and flinch as soon as he touches my ribs, and his eyebrows furrow. "Let me see."
"So bossy," I sign—because I need something to feel normal—then put every dagger in its place on my weapon rack before slowly pulling off my uniform top.
It looks as bad as it feels. The entire left side of my torso is black and purple, with red freckles of broken capillaries dotted along the ribs I know are broken. There are yellowing bruises on other parts of my body where Nolon didn't fully mend me before Varrish had him move on to a different injury, and—
Oh gods, I'm going to be sick.
I barely make it to my wastebasket in time to empty the contents of my stomach. It's barely anything at all, mostly bile, but it sends a fresh wave of tears down my cheeks from the pain. Aaric is at my side in an instant, crouched beside me with one hand rubbing gentle circles into my unmarred skin while the other wipes my cheeks.
"What happened, Joey?"
I just shake my head. He's not supposed to know about RSC, and even if I did tell him, how do I explain that even my own hands feel foreign on my skin? That my body doesn't feel like mine right now?
"Will you stay here tonight?"
"'Course I will." He cups my jaw and kisses my forehead, and I lean into his hand, into the familiarity of it—the only touch that feels like a balm rather than a brand. "Do you think you can handle a shower?"
I nod. "Probably not standing, though."
The corner of his mouth quirks up. "Who said anything about standing? It's not recommended, who knows the last time those floors were cleaned, but we'll just let the hot water wash off any diseases before you go in."
"Okay."
The water is hot enough to burn, and it still doesn't erase the feeling of Varrish and Nolon's hands on me. But the soft reassurances Aaric murmurs every time I choke on a breath is enough to get me washed, dried, and dressed without completely falling apart in the middle of the bathroom.
Back in my room, Aaric pulls back the covers on the bed and helps me sit down. "Do you need anything? Pain tonic? Migraine tea?"
I wouldn't turn down either, but I don't want him to leave. "Stay."
His eyes soften. "I'm not going anywhere."
He joins me on the bed, and we sit in silence for…I don't know how long.
"I just…" The sigh I let out could bring down mountains. Just because I can't tell him about RSC doesn't mean I can't say something. "He had me mended."
His entire body goes taut, the weight of the signs sitting heavily on his shoulders. "Fuck, Jo."
I can't help the couple of tears that slip down my face. Gods, I'm so tired. "I just want to feel safe, for a little bit."
"Okay." He pulls back the covers and lets me get situated, then he sits atop the bed and leans against the headboard. "I'll keep watch."
He threads his fingers through my hair, playing with the short strands, and I lean into the touch. "I love you."
"I love you, too, Joey. Get some sleep, I'll be here when you wake up."
—
a/n: i'm sure astar's threat won't come back to haunt jo in the slightest. codependency for the win! reblogs and comments are always appreciated :)
big fan of when a character is dead and the narrative frames them in a very angelic, soft, gentle manner but then it turns out not only are they still alive (plot twist) but theyre alive in the most gruesome and horrific way. your loving kind mentor who motivates you to fight in their memory came back wrong and theres blood and dirt under their fingernails from clawing they way out of the grave.
what if we stopped making Ambiguously Brown Character and started actually thinking about the race and ethnic features of the characters we made? what if instead of drawing a character that looks like you painted a white character brown, we started varying noses, lips, eyes, and hair? just a thought
