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rosethornewrites · 3 years

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Fic: a grain of millet drifting, ch. 3/3

Relationship: Niè Huáisāng & Wèi Yīng | Wèi Wúxiàn

Characters: Wei Ying | Wei Wuxian, Original Characters, Nie Huaisang

Additional Tags: Assassination Attempt(s), Introspection, Regret, Travel, Post-Canon, POV Third Person, POV Wei WuXian

Summary: Wei Wuxian reaches the Unclean Realm and talks to Nie Huaisang.

Notes: See end

Chapters: 1 | 2

AO3 link

———

Wei Wuxian wasn’t accustomed to having nothing to say, but as they entered the Unclean Realm he found himself searching for words. He’d always been able to fill silence, even with nonsense, but Nie Huaisang had perfected the facade of nonsense over the years, and he felt a little as though he was approaching a stranger.

His old friend was fanning himself as he descended the battlement and approached them, the same fan he’d first carried during the Cloud Recesses lectures in that sweet summer before their world descended into hell. If he tried, he could almost pretend this was a visit from that august period—but only almost.

“Aiya, Nie-xiong, I only caught your disciple when he took out the fifth assassin, he said,” Wei Wuxian finally settled on. “Someone seems to be spending quite a bit of money trying to kill me again—I’m almost flattered.”

Nie Huaisang’s eyes seemed to narrow slightly over his fan, but when he snapped it closed he was smiling, the narrowing actually crinkling.

“Wei-xiong, it was so nice of you to send Jiang-zongzhu a letter. He came to ask about it personally, and I think he was happy you thought of him.”

Wei Wuxian kept his face in a careless smile, though that cut at him a bit—he hadn’t seen Jiang Cheng since the Guanyin Temple debacle, and doubted his once-brother wanted anything to do with him, particularly after having learned about his deception regarding the golden core. He’d only sent the letter on the off-chance that it would impact Yunmeng or Lanling, as it was the least he could do after destroying the Jiangs.

“Jin Ling will have enough problems leading that awful sect without surprise assassins,” he said with a shrug, “so of course Jiang-zongzhu would be concerned.”

The look Nie Huaisang gave him was almost pitying, but he said nothing in response, only ordering a couple of disciples to take Little Apple to the stables.

“She prefers apples, but likes other fruit just fine, it seems,” he told them, letting them take the reins and lead her away.

He didn’t bother with the saddlebags, knowing they’d wind up in whatever room had been set aside for him.

Nie Hengxiang wasn’t quite able to stifle a snort of laughter when the donkey deliberately stepped on Wei Wuxian when she moved past him. Nie Huaisang’s lips twitched before he managed to get his fan up.

Wei Wuxian almost made a crack about how the women in his life treated him, but none of them were still in his life, and shijie had never…

“There’s good food and wine,” Nie Huaisang said, somehow closer than he had been before. “Really, Wei-xiong, you don’t look like you eat nearly enough!”

He knew he’d lost some time, Nie Hengxiang in the distance following Little Apple, having apparently excused himself at some point during his fugue.

It shook him, but it was easier to follow his old friend without comment, focusing on the changes in the Unclean Realm since his last visit over a decade before. It looked bustling, and there were more gardens and color, artwork and tapestries brightening the stonework.

Anything to avoid thinking of his many mistakes and the people who had paid the price for them.

Nie Huaisang kept up a running commentary about different pieces of art and their artists, about the tapestry industry he had worked to get started in Qinghe, trading for specially dyed silk thread from various places.

The food was good and the wine was better. They were deep in their cups, still talking of frivolous matters, when Nie Huaisang sighed.

“Wei-xiong, what on earth are you doing, wandering around?”

The question seemed to come from nowhere, and signaled a shift to more serious conversation that Wei Wuxian wasn’t certain he was ready for. So he pasted on a grin.

“What’s so wrong with wandering, Nie-xiong? My parents were rogue cultivators, so why shouldn’t I be one as well?”

The look Nie Huaisang gave him was unimpressed at best, and certainly implied he didn’t buy Wei Wuxian’s smile.

“You didn’t stay in Gusu. I thought you’d stay with Lan-er-gongzi.”

“He’s Chief Cultivator. Associating with the Yiling Patriarch would only make his job harder. He’s already got enough of a mess to clean up—he doesn’t need my messes on top of it.”

And, anyway, if he’d stayed he thought Lan Qiren would actually qi deviate, and he didn’t need that on his conscience.

“And, anyway, where else would I go?” he asked, tiring of the game where they talked in circles.

“Yunmeng. Here.”

Wei Wuxian took a big pull of wine, mostly in response to the first suggestion, which he’d rather not address.

“I threatened you, so I figured you’d prefer I stay away.”

“It’s not like I didn’t deserve the warning, Wei-xiong,” Nie Huaisang said with a sigh. “I put far too many people in danger, and got others killed.”

He sounded almost sad.

“Mo Xuanyu?” he couldn’t keep himself from asking.

He was grateful for the second chance at life, such as it was, but the cost grated at him.

“Mo Xuanyu had seen dage’s head in the treasure room, but… He didn’t want to live, even if I brought him to the Unclean Realm.”

Nie Huaisang twirled the wine jug in his hand, his expression morose.

“I’d gotten to know him when he was in Lanling. I visited often enough to harass Jin Guangyao, after all. He was a gentle soul, and loved the arts. But his mother’s suicide broke what was left of him when that viper was finished with him.”

Wei Wuxian didn’t know what to say, but he could tell his old friend knows the true cost of that spell—that Mo Xuanyu was gone from all realms, his soul destroyed. Nie Huaisang, he could see, was well aware of that.

“There was nothing I could do for him except offer the chance of vengeance.”

In the end, that was essentially all Nie Huaisang had gotten out of the whole ordeal—vengeance, justice, whatever they wanted to call it. He wondered if he would have preferred to bring his brother back instead of Wei Wuxian, but knew better than to ask. It would have been impossible, with Nie Mingjue’s soul trapped asunder in the scattered parts of his body.

Wei Wuxian suspected his own soul had been shattered at his death, but it hadn’t been tied to his body. That, after all, had been destroyed, leaving the pieces of his soul to scatter to the earth. But the spell could fuse the pieces back together in the sacrificed body, so long as they hadn’t faded to nothing.

Truly, he had to be grateful to Mo Xuanyu.

“No, I regret Qin Su’s death,” Nie Huaisang said. “Though her reputation would have been in tatters had she lived.”

There was no knowing if she had taken her own life with that understanding, or if she had been another victim of Jin Guangyao, controlled somehow by her husband and helpless but to watch herself plunge a knife into her own breast. Either way, whether a suicide or murder, it had arguably been caused by the letter Bicao had written at Nie Huaisang’s behest.

“And I regret putting the juniors in danger,” he added. “Though I really didn’t mean Jin Ling to be at the temple. I didn’t plan for that.”

But he had endangered them by luring them to Yi City, and Xue Yang would have killed them without remorse, and enjoyed it.

“I wish you hadn’t involved them, too,” Wei Wuxian said. “It was dumb luck they survived until Lan Zhan and I got there.”

“They have skills,” Nie Huaisang protested weakly. “Not like the two of you at their age, but sufficient to survive, at least.”

He had a point there, at least about the Lan juniors and maybe Jin Ling and Ouyang Zizhen, who seemed to have his head on straight. The rest had at least known to follow orders from a senior.

“I don’t regret bringing you back, though,” Nie Huaisang said after the silence stretched a bit. “I missed you, Wei-xiong. You never treated me like I was useless, even when I was, and we had fun. I didn’t have any friends once you were gone.”

Wei Wuxian’s first inclination was to protest that Jiang Cheng was his friend… but he knew full well that shijie’s death had broken his once-brother. That had probably put a damper on any friendships he’d had.

And Nie Huaisang had been alone after his brother’s murder, after the discovery that it had been a murder.

“I’m sorry you were alone,” he said, though it’s not his fault—he was dead at the time.

Nie Huaisang offers a smile that looks exhausted, probably the first true one Wei Wuxian has seen from him.

“You know, he taught me the song—the one he used to poison dage—so I could play it on a piccolo.”

A chill raced through Wei Wuxian as he realized what that meant, just how deeply Chifeng-zun’s death had impacted him—like how he’d been made into an instrument of his shijie’s demise.

“He made you complicit,” he whispered.

Nie Huaisang’s smile turned bitter.

“If he’d just killed dage, he’d just be dead. But between the killing, the desecration, and that… I had to destroy him, Wei-xiong.”

Jin Guangyao had set up Jin Zixuan’s death, had caused the situation in which shijie had died… Wei Wuxian could understand Nie Huaisang’s desire for revenge. But revenge cycled over and over and just led to more death—had led to his own.

“I know,” he said.

But it didn’t bring back the dead—even he couldn’t really do that. Though people thought that was what he’d done with Wen Ning, it wasn’t quite correct. His body had been actively dying when he’d reanimated him with resentful energy, which had essentially put him in a sort of stasis. He was in between life and death.

“But dage’s still gone,” Nie Huaisang said, as though reading his mind or seeing a tell on his face. “As are all of the other victims.”

Wei Wuxian set his bottle of wine aside, no longer having the taste for it. All he could focus on was the bitterness of it, and he took no pleasure from it now.

“More bodies pile up, more blood is spilled. All we taste is gall,” he murmured, thinking of a poem he once read, one that romanticized war.

Much was written on the idea of just wars, often the defensive or punitive kind. But most people felt their wars were somehow just, and the opposing side or sides unjust. And regardless of the writings, he’d seen himself how non-combatants were massacred despite the philosophies of both Mengzi and Xunzi stating the execution of even one blameless person was inhumane and unrighteous. So much of the end of the Sunshot Campaign had been filled with acts of injustice, a disregard of jus in bello.

He found himself suddenly tired, feeling the weight of everything—his hubris, the people who died because of him, who continued to die because of him in service of someone who wanted him dead, his own death.

“Is it so wrong to just want peace?”

He’d thought, having died once, that perhaps his sins—those he was guilty of and those he was falsely credited with—had died with him. If so, they had been resurrected with him, because even if some of the air had been cleared, he was expected to die again.

Now he was just so tired, and there was nowhere he could go where he could just exist and rest. Anywhere he went, people would find reason to take offense to his existence, to make rest impossible.

Wei Wuxian hated that sometimes even now, despite Mo Xuanyu’s sacrifice to resurrect him, he wished he was still dead. He didn’t remember anything of the years that had passed, only a sort of peace that had perhaps come from nonexistence.

Times like these he felt like his skin was too tight.

“Wei-xiong?”

Nie Huaisang was looking at him with concern, which was almost funny. Before his death, Wei Wuxian would have said he wouldn’t understand what he was concerned about. Now… even he had scars.

“Too much wine,” he demurred. “I should… I guess I should sleep it off. I’ll be out of your hair tomorrow.”

That got a frown.

“Wei-xiong, I’m still looking into the assassins. Please at least stay until it’s handled?”

Right. They hadn’t addressed it. Wei Wuxian had assumed Nie Huaisang had already handled it, which he supposed said something about how high his expectations of his old friend had become, now that he knew his role in Jin Guangyao’s downfall.

“It’s pretty peaceful here, and we have a lovely library, and good food and wine, and you can rest and get a nice bath,” Nie Huaisang rambled, his tone at the end implying he thought Wei Wuxian needed one.

His old friend’s words, about not regretting bringing him back, came back to him, and Wei Wuxian was belatedly gratified that more than one person was glad he was alive again. He’d left the other one in Gusu. Well, maybe there were more than two—A-Yuan and Wen Ning counted.

“All right, all right,” he said, waving his hands to get him to stop. “I’ll stay, at least until the assassin thing is dealt with.”

Nie Huaisang’s smile was so full of relief and hope, it was almost heartbreaking to think he’d spent so much time alone with his revenge.

“I wish you’d told me, though,” he said, schooling his voice into petulance, hoping to lighten the mood a bit.

“If I’d told you about the assassins you might have thought I was threatening you,” Nie Huaisang said, pouting.

That was fair. After all, he’d threatened Nie Huaisang at the Cloud Recesses, and was used to getting threatened himself. It wasn’t what he was thinking about, though.

“Well, maybe. But I meant when Lan Zhan caught you at the man-eating tomb. Couldn’t you have just told us everything then?”

“If I told you and Lan-er-gongzi, he might have told erge,” his old friend pointed out. “And if he tipped off Jin Guangyao, all bets were off about whether any of us would have survived.”

Wei Wuxian remembered the way Lan Xichen had been taken captive, the garrote against his own neck and then Jin Ling’s, the death of Qin Su and the fact that Jin Guangyao had killed his son, father, brother, and cousin, Nie Mingjue, and likely hundreds of other people to rise to power.

Here all Wei Wuxian had wanted to do with his own power, the power everyone was convinced he’d use for ill, was farm potatoes (not radishes) in a mass graveyard and protect the people he’d rescued. He’d acquired power out of necessity, to win the war, not because he wanted to babysit the cultivation world—that sounded fucking exhausting and he felt bad Lan Zhan was now stuck in the role.

“True,” Wei Wuxian mused. “We caught him relatively by surprise and he still managed to kidnap the juniors and organize another siege of the Burial Mounds.”

Plus the situation at the Guanyin temple in Yunping had been very touch-and-go. There had been so many ways it could have gone badly, and nearly did. He was still amazed no one had died—aside from Su She and Jin Guangyao and their peons, but he didn’t care about them.

Nie Huaisang finished his wine and set the empty jar aside.

“In the inn, when I told you about the issue with the sabers…” he started, then sighed.

Wei Wuxian knew what he was asking.

“As the foremost expert on demonic cultivation and resentful energy, you’re hoping I’ll see if I can solve your qi deviation issue while I’m in the Unclean Realm,” he said, not without mirth.

“I know you like puzzles, Wei-xiong. And you get bored easily.”

Nie Huaisang wrinkled his nose at him with a knowing smile, and Wei Wuxian remembered, back in Cloud Recesses, pushing his friend off-balance and into the freezing cold stream out of boredom. He couldn’t help but laugh.

“I’ll do less damage with something to occupy me, as you well know. I suppose I can take a look.”

“Excellent!” Nie Huaisang said, fiddling with his fan in a practiced way, but not bringing it to his face. “Now, we’ll discuss your compensation tomorrow, after you’ve gotten a nice bath and some rest. Your quarters are fully furnished, and I took the liberty of stocking it with some better quality and less threadbare robes…”

As Wei Wuxian feigned righteous indignation, he realized the prospect of staying here made him feel more centered, like he had found a place he actually could rest in this new world, somewhere where he wouldn’t be a burden, where he could maybe do some good.

He thought maybe Nie Huaisang had recognized that in him, but maybe also in himself—that they could help each other in what amounted to a time of transition for them both.

Wei Wuxian could rest here for a while, taking in a refreshing breeze, before he continued wandering this terrestrial world.

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The poem Wei Wuxian is thinking of is Wei Wang’s “Song of Mt. Yanzhi,” which is more a celebration of war, but it’s a remembered line that hits him here.

Regarding the issue of just war (and aggressive vs. defensive vs. punitive war), there’s a lot written on it in multiple cultures’ philosophies. Famously, Mengzi/Mencius resigned his post in the Qi dynasty when the Qi army killed non-combatants and plundered wealth. There are some really fascinating papers on this issue. Jus in bello is a really fascinating concept involving the responsibilities an invading army has to the inhabitants of the area they are invading. Yes, I read scholarly research articles when writing this chapter, because that’s how I roll.

The last line is a reference to Su Shi’s “First Ode on the Red Cliffs,” same as the title.

Nope, we don’t know who sent the assassins, but Nie Huaisang is working on it, so you know it’ll be resolved (hopefully in less than a decade this time). This fic is about their reconciliation, with that being an unresolved thread. Wei Wuxian’s feelings about Lan Wangji are also unresolved, as is the status of his relationship with Jiang Cheng. If I get inspiration, I might make this a series and handle those in the future. We’ll see!

#the untamed #mo dao zu shi #chen qing ling #cql #mdzs #wei wuxian #wei ying #nie huaisang #untamed fanfiction #untamed fanfic #untamed fic #cql fanfic #cql fanfiction #cql fic #mdzs fanfic #mdzs fanfiction #mdzs fic #my fanfiction

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clansayeed · 4 years

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Bound by Circumstance ― Chapter 21: Come Hell and High Water

PAIRING: Nik Ryder x trans*M!MC (Taylor Hunter) RATING: Mature

⥼ MASTERLIST ⥽

⥼ Bound by Circumstance ⥽

Taylor Hunter (MC) has made it good for himself in New Orleans; turns out moving to a new city fresh out of college to reinvent yourself isn’t as hard as people make it out to be. Things only start to get confusing when he finds himself the target of a malevolent wraith. Good thing someone’s looking out for him though — because without Nighthunter Nik Ryder as his bodyguard he definitely won’t survive long in the twisting darkness of the supernatural underworld he’s tripped into.

Bound by Circumstance and the rest of the Oblivion Bound series is an ongoing dramatic retelling project of the book Nightbound and the rest of the Bloodbound series. Find out more [HERE].

Note: Circumstance only loosely follows the events and plotline of Nightbound, and features a separate antagonist, different character motivations, and further worldbuilding.

*Let me know if you would like to be added to the Circumstance/series tag list!

⥼ Chapter Summary ⥽

Please, please let this work.

[READ IT ON AO3]

“Even with what you now know you would bring them here — together.”

Catching the Elders by surprise wasn’t a part of the plan for good reason; thinking they could get one over on the people who have been planning this for who-knows-how-long would just be arrogant.

Doesn’t make the sharp cunning of Elder Daniels’ glare any less intimidating.

“Do you think it too much to hope they understand why this is necessary? What part they played in the inevitability of this?”

Elder Vion remains silent; his opaque gaze observing both everything and nothing — but where does it focus?

“You remain as blind to the present as ever, Millet.” chides Daniels.

Elder Millet’s shoulders slump. The only one to show any kind of remorse — genuine or otherwise. “A little optimism never hurt anyone…”

Elder Daniels doesn’t deem her worth a response. Focuses instead on looking out over the garden party with a forced disinterest; the mask of her neutrality firmly in place.

But Taylor can see through the gaps and cracks now. To the edges that curl around her real emotions. Contempt, disgust; as though the choice to gather despite knowing the Coven’s plans is a personal attack on her careful cultivation of the future.

He’s the first to address them properly. Down the steps to the decorative gravel the Lamrian decorators sprinkled with crushed gemstone.

“Thank you for coming, Coven Elders.” He’d step closer if Nik’s steady hand doesn’t stop on his shoulder — hold him at a distance. But they can’t seem hesitant if this is going to work. “It wouldn’t be a Council party without everyone on the Council attending.”

He still has no idea if this is going to work. Please, please let this work.

Elder Millet shuffles her tarot deck like a nervous habit. Daniels steeples her claw-like fingertips together in front of her and, like an unspoken signal, Vion’s grip on his staff grows pale-knuckled tight.

Power pushes out from them in an invisible wave. Just once; but once is all it takes. He feels it, Nik feels it — everyone feels how the pressure changes in the air; how something old like the mantle of the earth tastes at the backs of their throats.

Let the countdown begin.

“Explain this little… gathering,” demands Daniels with a sneer.

Only it’s Tonya who answers. She stands on shivering legs with Vera’s help but to call her feeble would be to call the wraith itself a minor inconvenience.

She may no longer have the Touch but Lady Smoke is far from powerless in their presence.

“You’re the one who ought to be explainin’ themselves, Ophelia Daniels.”

The women stare one another down. It’s obvious every second spent standing is agony but hell if Tonya Reimonenq is going to lose even in her current state.

Vion steps forward and stays his companion’s hand. That familiar tingle of empathy down his spine makes Taylor shudder; makes him see Cassiopeia’s blood stained up to leathery elbows — falling to the ground in a drip. drip. drip.

“If the Council has an accusation, let it be heard.”

Isadora hisses from across the garden, “The gall of you, traitors and murderers…”

“Such stinging words to your claims!”

“One of many!”

“Have you witness or evidence?”

“Aw hell,” the lumbering figure of Kristof breaks the growing threads of tension by stepping forward — strangely the calmest he’s been insofar, “cut the crap, will ya? We know you’re the ones tuggin’ that hellspawn’s leash.”

It’s instinct, he doesn’t mean to. Looking away from their very dangerous guests of honor Taylor catches Cadence’s eye for only a moment before snapping back forward. They can’t risk anything longer catching the Elders’ attentions.

“Do you now?” asks Daniels coolly, “I regret to inform you that knowledge will not give your sacrifices any amount of dignity.”

“There is more at risk within this city’s borders than the dignity of the few, Ophelia.”

It must be magic; how Elric speaks clearly and is undeniably heard despite the fireworks that crackle overhead; without even raising his voice.

The sharp curve of Daniels’ smirk is a malicious one. “I will not suffer a cowering outcast to speak to me of dignity. You still breathe only because your hidden city’s wards have protected you.”

“I am not cowering now, am I?”

“The night is young.”

Anger hangs thick and stifling on the edge of every word and Taylor — god — he can feel it all.

The Coven’s unwavering conviction, Isadora’s desire for revenge, Kristof’s refusal to die anywhere but on his hind paws. The strangely smug way Lady Smoke feels like she should have seen all of this coming and the fierce protectiveness Elric projects at him without shame.

But hidden in the woven tapestry of them all is a single thread, sour and ill at ease but no less recognizable. He’s no longer a stranger to what fear feels like.

“If you would, then — indulge us the most obvious of questions;” even with the distance between them Elric, towering at least a foot taller than Daniels and her power-stilettos, looks down his nose at her, “why?”

“You’ll have to be a tad more specific.”

“Are you fuckin’ kiddin’ me?!” Kristof rages. “They’re playin’ us fer fools!” Yet his monstrous howl of rage is silenced by the elf lord’s pale hand raised; staying him.

“That may be, Jensen, but surely I am not the only one here who wishes to understand. Who wonders why the formerly reasonable Coven would change so abruptly. And why they would decide to act now—of all times—and with such vicious intent.”

“It’s not the Coven that’s changed.”

At first Elder Millet’s voice is lost, timid, on the wind. Like a spectre from the beyond there to bolster a claim. But no one misses when she stops shuffling her deck, flips over the top card to reveal a gruesome and bloodied tyrant.

The Emperor reversed.

“There have been signs more than what we witches witness. Signs in the earth and skies, in the lifeblood that runs through our city. But you — your Council — have been complacent; content to ignore them. Focused instead on your own gains and greed. We considered every option, please believe it.

“But this was the only way our city might stand a chance of surviving the coming darkness. A unified voice, when divided, would only serve to hasten our downfall.”

“If you had approached the Council — shown us the signs we so easily missed —”

“When did it become the duty of the Coven to play prophet to the willingly ignorant?!” Daniels interrupts loud and unashamed. “To the immortal and oh-so-wise faire folk, or the creatures of dark magic who should have felt the gathering storm in their bestial bones! Or to you, Lady Smoke, with ears in every room on every block.

“Admit your guilt — not that it will save you. Admit your hunger for power and wealth led you into the blind fog that the Council should have been beyond the reaches of. For the downfall of New Orleans would have been your burden to bear.”

“Had you not stepped forward and assumed some sort of divine control, you mean?” demands Isadora.

“Make no mistake — we chose this course of our own free will. Because we were the only ones left untainted; loyal to this our sanctuary city.”

Elric steps forward, not without caution. “There has been enough death, Ophelia. Stop, now, at the threshold of a fall you will not survive.”

“Every death has been and will be a necessary one.”

Something about the victory in her claim riles Taylor from the inside out. Makes the words throw themselves out of him unbidden—

“Even yours.”

It’s probably the closest Daniels has ever come — and will ever be again — to a look of surprise. A dozen thoughts half-formed on mute lips before she schools her expression complacent.

“An unseen complication indeed.”

But that doesn’t make Taylor recoil as it once did. In fact he’s kind of proud of it. “How about instead of demanding everyone else admit some imagined guilt because of your desire for power, you three do the admitting? Admit you know this isn’t the so-called only way and try to muster up a little bit of humanity— Try and feel even the tiniest bit of remorse for what you’ve done because deep down you know it was wrong.”

Nik tenses behind him. He can feel it where they’re connected; his guttural hissing thought of think about the plan, Rook.

And maybe it wasn’t how they originally hoped to get the final piece of the puzzle but maybe—just maybe—it might go in their favor.

For the first time the Coven Elders part; Daniels breaks away in even, purposeful strides to close the distance between them.

Taylor feels the way Nik tenses, readies himself for the inevitable attack.

But it doesn’t come. Not physically, anyway. Only the look the witch gives him that may very well will him out of existence.

“Your blind stumbling has gotten you far little halfling. But you’ve come far enough, I think.”

“You wanna know what I think?”

“Not particularly.”

“I think that’s not really your call. The same way I think deep down you know you’re just as greedy as you say everyone else is. You’re just pretending to think about the greater good.”

Then there’s a movement; so fast it’s a blur. A stinging pain on his cheek and a sensation akin to tears rolling down his face.

Everything that follows still comes as a surprise despite having been building in the tension on both sides. The night air harsh on his open wound and a crisp ache in his shoulder as he’s yanked backwards and behind Ryder; a leather-clad shield.

Movement in his periphery and Nik goes flying backwards. Hurled by a tornado of unseen power.

“Nik!”

“This ends tonight!” Daniels raises her outstretched arms high to the heavens. Draws clouds from nowhere and everywhere to blot out the moon and the stars. The darkness within consuming the world outside her soul.

“You’re damn right it does—!”

Katherine pulls out Nik’s crossbow from underneath a nearby folding chair; wields it weightlessly as she aims at the witch and pulls the trigger.

Daniels deflects it with little effort. Sends the bolt flying towards the outer brick wall.

Behind their companion the other Elders whisper curses into the very wind. Once-solid ground ripples like water and their influence takes hold.

The trees around them bend and twist; their natural states resisting the witches’ call with an eldritch orchestra of groans before they yield. Roots torn up and fallen leaves and broken branches coming together; an army.

“Ah hell, not again!” shouts Cal; voice distorted with the wolf already pushing against his skin.

There’s hands at his arms — Taylor looks up to see Cadence struggling to drag him backwards towards… what? Towards safety? There’s no such thing anymore.

Still he scrambles up and back. Ducks just as the windows at the back of the House shatter under Elder Millet’s will. Just as she sends the broken shards hurtling in a transparent flock coming directly for him.

Above him comes a barely-restrained cry of pain; Taylor looks up to see two pieces lodged deep in the vampire’s shoulder.

“Cade!”

“I’m fine!” Like he’s trying to prove a point he shoves Taylor backwards, stumbling; “Go check on Ryder! Keep to the plan!”

Wet tearing noises fill the clearing as Kristof the wolf pries free of his skin — Octavia right at his heels. Together they howl at the cloaked moon and take off on all fours towards Elder Vion.

But with a limber motion his withered body shouldn’t be capable of the witch fights back. Whips his staff out; sending roots from the nearest tree to his aid. They lash, sentient, at the wolves’ hind paws — one hits home and ropes around Octavia’s flank, squeezes and sends the Beta crashing snout-first into the gravel.

The Beau-Keyes Garden is in chaos but Cade is right. They should have expected this. He needs to find Nik.

Taylor takes off in a mad dash towards the hedges where the Nighthunter had been thrown. Catches the tail-end of Vera and Ivy pulling Tonya out of the fray and into the House.

A cluster of something dark scurries on the whipping wind towards them, right at Ivy’s back. “Ivy, watch it!” Voice catching in his lungs — but its enough.

Enough for Ivy to turn around with bright burning eyes at the incoming horde. Her peeled-back lips move in silent words and her hair lifts around her in a neon-tipped halo. The incoming swarm — Millet’s tarot deck — stop mid-flight; repelled by whatever curse the revenant has conjured.

The cards shudder, then begin to crumple and squeeze themselves into balls. One last flick of Ivy’s lace-laden wrists and they spontaneously burst into a dozen individual flames, hot-pink heat licking at the air and casting her ghoulish grin of glee in flickering light that burns bright before they are consumed — nothing but ash scattered at her platform-raised feet.

A hand closes tight around his wrist and pulls him back. Catches him in half a scream when he turns and sees the stern pull of Elric’s brow.

“What are you thinking; standing here exposed?! Get to cover!”

“Not without—incoming —” he pulls them both to the ground just in time for a large branch to soar overhead and crack against the trunk of another tree, “— Nik! I have a plan, remember?”

“If your life is the cost —”

“It’s not!”

“Then please, find safety!”

“I’m not leaving them behind!” He meets Elric’s eyes in a long look — ignores the cacophony around them and clasps their hands together. Can’t tell which of their palms is slick with sweat; maybe both. “I need you to trust me, Dad. I can do this.”

And they’re no longer in the midst of the fight but back in time; back to a mere hour ago when he asked Elric to trust him once; now again. “I can do this.”

The fae inhales; nods and rasps, “What do you need from me?”

Thank you. “Get the Elders on the defensive. They need to summon the bloodwraith.”

“What?!”

“You said you’d trust me!”

It’s a struggle, but Elric swallows down his protests and nods. “Very well. Find your Nighthunter; do whatever you need to prepare. Leave the rest to me.”

One last squeeze and they part. Taylor’s already halfway across the garden when he hears Elric shout strong and clear; “Garrus! Lend me your hand!” And it’s such a shock that he almost trips; almost.

Mustering up the last of his energy Taylor vaults over the farthest hedge; goes crashing into the lawn on the other side to find Nik lying limp and still.

No—no no nono…

He moves through the pain. Blinks through the tears piercing pain at his wounded cheek and pulls the hunter to lie on his back where he can check for injury—for a pulse—for anything.

“Nik wake up,” and fighting through the violent shaking in his hands is hard—near impossible—but he manages two fingers to the man’s pulse, “Nik—please please wake up. We can still do this — but there’s no way in hell I’m doing it without you.”

But he can’t tell what’s a possible sign of life and what’s his own blood pounding through every vessel in his body like his blood wants freedom. He tucks a hand under dark hair and can’t help the strangled noise he makes when he feels slick wetness matted at the crown of his head.

“Oh no—no no no…” Fuck now he’s scared to turn the man over; to make it worse. “This isn’t happening, this isn’t happening…”

And he’s not being entirely truthful — not even with himself. The plan surely could work without Nik at his side but why would he want it like that? He doesn’t — he can’t even imagine it.

Taylor looks up and around. Wildly searches for someone who can help — someone who knows more, someone who can do something. But they’re all too far.

He isn’t sure he’d be able to call out to them even if they were.

It’s an actual effort to manage Nik’s limp head into his lap. What the fuck is he supposed to do? Slap his cheek, shake his shoulders like in the movies? Only those aren’t real head wounds on film — just actors with fake blood squirting in packs like ketchup and prosthetic makeup making them look battered and bruised.

Nik is battered and bruised. There’s nothing fake about it. This isn’t a movie; they aren’t on a set and his tears aren’t eye drops. They’re real. Everything about this is real.

“Oh fuck—fuckfuckfuck…”

When he pulls his hand back to the sight of red smeared on his fingers, he almost comes undone. Stays sane only because one fleeting thought, more of a background notion really, rattles in an echo around his skull in a voice that isn’t his own.

Those who seek to change destiny never understand how to bring it closer.

His rational mind is right: this isn’t a movie. Everything that’s happened has been real—from the smallest arguments to the biggest tragedies.

Nik is real. Cal is real—werewolves are real. Vampires, shapeshifters, revenants and spirits and even witches are real. Fae are real. Fae halflings — yup, real too.

And if there were times where Donny wasn’t saved, or the Council did fall to the Elders and their plan, or Taylor died in the cemetery that night, then didn’t that mean there were times that Nik didn’t survive this encounter, too?

But Donny was saved. The Council won’t fall to the Elders and Taylor didn’t die that night.

He refuses to let this be the one thing that can’t be changed.

“Breathe, Rookie, breathe…” Taylor whispers, forces his voice to keep calm and his hands that cradle Nik’s skull to go still. Because he knows how to change destiny this time; he’s done it before.

He doesn’t need to feel a pulse under the man’s skin because when he closes his eyes; reaches down inside his chest he can feel something there. Dim and flickering but so very present. A flame that wants to grow; it just needs to be fed first.

If there’s an incantation he doesn’t know it. But he knows how badly he wants Nik to heal; how bright he wants to feel the man’s soul inside.

There has to be a reason he is the way he is. Why can’t it be to save Nik Ryder?

There’s a flash against his closed eyelids; bright like someone turned on the sun in the middle of midnight. A switch flicking a lamp to life; or logs thrown on a campfire to keep him warm.

And when he opens them he has to squint through the burn of brightness but that’s not a bad thing. Not where that light filters through Nik’s hair askew and tingles at Taylor’s palms. Warms them in rays of daylight soft and flecked with dust motes, wipes them clean of dirt, clean of tears; clean of blood like it was never there to begin with.

Looking down at Nik’s slackened face; searching every scarred inch for some sign of life he knows is there; treading water just below the surface.

His heart skips a beat. Nik’s eyes flutter open; awake and alive. And the sight of color and life on his face is so fucking beautiful that it makes him start to cry all over again.

Around them fades to dim night but Nik still looks up at him with a strange wonderment. Reaches up and drags the calloused pad of his thumb across Taylor’s cheek to catch his tears before they fall.

“C’mon now,” comes that familiar throaty whisper; he doesn’t have to see the smirk to know it’s there like a kiss at the edge of the man’s lips, “sure as hell you ain’t sheddin’ those tears for me, Rook, are ya?”

“‘Course not.” Taylor teases back — bends himself practically in half as he leans down to take that offered kiss because he can.

Because Nik is alive.

They part — Nik holds himself up on a wobbly arm and reaches, feels around his head where even the ghost of his injury is a fading dream. And when his fingers pull back clean and without blood Taylor’s heart stutters back to life.

“Should I ask?”

But he doesn’t even know how to start explaining what happened — doesn’t quite understand it himself except for the fact it was instinct like he’s never known. “Maybe when this is over.”

“I’ll hold you to it.”

Make sure you do, he wants to say; instead touches the curve of Nik’s jaw because he’s there and he can.

Reality crashes back around them; suffocates what’s left of their bewilderment in the large form of a wolf.

It comes crashing through the hedges just shy of them. Taylor peers over the protective form of Nik’s shoulder just in time to see the shine of the werewolf’s yellow eyes before they roll backwards and Octavia slumps down; limp and unconscious.

“Why the hell ain’t they summoned the fuckin’ wraith yet?”growls Nik. He uses what’s left of their cover to survey the fight; locks his sights on Elder Daniels as she pulls at invisible strings and sends a fallen branch forth to sink home in Isadora’s belly.

The vampire hisses and collapses, catches herself just shy of impalement and desperately claws for her freedom.

“They’re trying to take out the Council on their own —” Taylor cuts himself off as he searches the fray in panic for any sign of Elric.

“That ain’t a part of the plan, Rook.”

“You think I don’t know that?”

“Then what the hell’re we supposed to—holy hellfire!”

But it isn’t hellfire — not quite. Burns just as hot but Taylor’s pretty certain hellfire isn’t made of pitch black flame that shimmers iridescent as it races in tendrils towards the Elders; presses them against one another back to back in prowling circles that scorch the earth at their feet.

The mere sight of it captivates the entire Garden. Causes the witches to hold their combined magics out to defend their ranks against the fiery lashes.

Elric commands the stream of fae grimfire like a natural extension of himself. Raises his hand to send another wave in that raise the walls and keep the Elders pinned together.

“Accept your defeat, Elders of the Garden Coven, lest justice be swift and without mercy!”

But he isn’t alone. With sleeves rolled up to the elbow Garrus coaxes the grimfire at the witches’ heels. Sweeping movements of his arms drag the vestiges of it away from the rest of the Garden and tighter against their commanded foes.

This is it. This is their final chance.

“Where’s Vee?! It’s time!”

“Go —” Nik pushes him up and forward; makes Taylor stumble over a pulled-up root now rendered lifeless; the Elders’ magic contained in spectral fire, “— if they’re cornered, they’re desperate. They’ll call him forward soon.”

But Taylor can’t even comprehend the thought of leaving Nik’s side. Of not being there — not keeping him safe. “No way.”

“Now ain’t the time to argue!”

“There’s no way I’m leaving you again!”

“Rook.” And its just one word—one stupid little nickname he doesn’t even like—but he pushes so much meaning into it that Taylor’s feet move with a will of their own. Carry him out from safety’s cover with Nik hot on his heels until he veers into the Beau-Keyes House gone dark.

It takes literally everything in his churning gut not to follow.

Instead he breathes, stomps down the unease building inside — threatening to crest and consume him — and joins Elric in front of the Elders.

Every attempt the witches make against their ethereal prison is consumed and rendered powerless. If he didn’t know better — if he wasn’t hoping for this to be what forces their hand — Taylor might almost believe they’ve won.

“Enough fighting, Daniels. Please.”

The woman turns her head in a lash. Nothing but unbridled rage in empty eyes.

“Your persistence is no longer amusing, little pest.”

He knows his pleas are falling on deaf ears but… but doesn’t he owe it to everything they’ve lost to try?

“Look— you said part of the reason you decided to act was because the Council was so divided. But—but here everyone is! You brought them together. Can’t that be enough?”

It’s a useless question. He knows it, Elder Daniels knows it too. He can see it in her eyes.

“We are beyond the point of peace.”

“We don’t have to be.”

“Your ignorance will be your undoing.” She turns her back on him; on everyone. Joins Millet and Vion in clasped hands and bowed heads as though the grimfire is nothing more than an illusion.

This is what they wanted— what they’ve been waiting for ever since the Elders appeared tonight. But hearing the familiar incantation harmonized between them is no less haunting.

“Claw and blood, claw and bone. Bloodied flesh, endless stone…”

“They are summoning the abomination!” Isadora shouts. Her voice cracks as she gives one last violent pull; wrenches the branch free from her body and hurls it aside. “Stop them, burn them!”

But the plan isn’t to stop them. Still, Taylor understands. Feels it, too. The sickening wrongness in his gut only made worse by the familiar smell of foul and rot that seeps in like a putrid fog.

The effort it takes to hold the grimfire steady shows on Elric’s pallid face. “Are you sure about this?” he asks through gritted teeth. And he’s really not—can’t be sure of anything anymore—but that isn’t the answer he gives.

“Yes. Let them do it.”

“Soar with the zephyr, shriek with the crow. Life renewed we now bestow.”

Elric looks ahead to where the strain of their casting has Garrus ready to collapse. He gives the man a silent nod, and almost in relief and a perfect mirror they pull clenched fists apart to end the conjuring.

The grimfire eats itself from the bottom up. Dissipates at the edges of itself until the multicolored flames are only a remnant burned on the insides of Taylor’s eyelids. Beside him Elric begins to sag sideways as the exhaustion takes hold; he throws the man’s arm around his shoulder to keep him standing steady. He watches in relief as Krom refuses to let his fae collapse; catches him in strong stone arms and with unheard praises.

But the Elders continue their wicked chant; they either don’t notice or don’t care with victory within their reach.

“Arise hellbound soul! We beseech and command Fell our enemies with your cursed hand!”

Around them the wind begins to gather — pushes aside the cloud cover overhead and bathes the Garden in moonlight. Just like the last time they stood here gathered. Just like that night in the cemetery.

“Ryder!” Katherine calls; tosses the crossbow the short distance as he approaches with Vera on his heels. “We sure this is gonna work?”

Nik looks up at the sky with a grim resignation. “I think it’s a bit too late for doubts.”

As one the Coven Elders turn to face their accusers. The wind lashes Millet’s hair in tendrils and billows Vion’s robes; blows Daniels’ collar this way and that yet they remain rooted to the earth.

They stand with their convictions until the very end.

“Perhaps in number you can overpower us,” Daniels sneers, “but whatever scraps of this little front survive the wraith’s touch will be easy pickings.”

Over their heads a shadow passes over the moon. The telltale whip of burial wrappings hisses in their ears — followed by the unholy shriek they know all too well.

Daniels’ hands raise to the sky as the bloodwraith approaches.

“Come wretched creature; come accursed traitor! Pay your oath in the blood and bone of our enemies! Know no rest until our great work is done!”

The bloodwraith descends slow; places itself between the Elders and the rest as a shield grotesque. This time is no different than before — the very sight of it makes the hairs on the back of Taylor’s neck stand and scream to run, flee, there is no salvation here.

He used to think nothing could equal the void and despair where Death itself burns black in its eyes. But now that he sees them in the same space, he sees the same lifeless purpose like a stain over Daniels’ face.

But knowing what he knows now has Taylor looking at the wraith in a different way. Still with the same revulsion natural of the living to the violent dead — but he tries to imagine the face that once framed that skull as the same one from the photograph in Cadence’s office.

Familial features shared by both Tonya and Vera now twisted, warped by bloodlust and the unnatural.

And even worse — finds himself searching for some hint of the first victim to all of this madness. How could something so evil come from a soul like Cassiopeia? He didn’t even know the girl and yet those brief moments sharing a piece of her soul — her last moments — gave him a grief he felt tasked with bearing the burden of.

Behind him there’s a rustling; a bundle wrapped in cloth passing from Cade to Vera’s bare hands.

“What are you doing?”

Vion’s croaking voice breaks through the tense silence. Matching looks of wary apprehension barely restrained as they pass between each of the Elders.

Their confusion is understandable. Nothing has stopped the bloodwraith in its grisly pursuit before.

But this time is different. Whatever mangled bits are left of Derek Reimonenq’s soul feel it. Taylor feels it; behind him his companions feel it too. The Elders are just the last to notice.

“What are you waiting for?” but Elder Millet’s voice isn’t as strong as the others — her concern betrays her; “You are tasked by your summoners. Go forth!”

Hackles rise when the creature inches forward only just. But Taylor stands his ground.

“That’s not right though, is it?”

“Silence halfling!”

No, no more silence. “It wasn’t you that summoned it. Not the first time. That was Cassiopeia—you remember her?” — there’s no denying the recognition, the last bit of life that flickers and dies behind the Elders’ eye s— “The witch who you were supposed to protect and care for, who was so scared of what she could do… but cared more about thanking you for taking her in when no one else would.

“She was willing to do anything, even the thing that scared her the most. And you took advantage of that.”

“How dare you speak of such things—” says Millet. Elder Millet who she trusted, who she looked up to; who led her like a lamb to the slaughter.

“Who else is gonna speak for her? Certainly not you!”

“The girl’s sacrifice was a noble one, you will not diminish that!”

“She didn’t even know there was a sacrifice to make. Admit it,” and it’s awkward, ducking his head around the bloodwraith that hovers between them like a horrible marionette waiting for the puppet show to begin, but he has to look her murderers in the eyes because Cassiopeia never got the chance.

“You knew what you were doing was wrong. That’s why you dragged her out of her bed in the middle of the night, placated her like she was doing something good. Because it was the only way to get her to agree.”

The tiniest shame bubbles up from Millet’s direction. Makes it all the more important that he stares over that skeletal shoulder right into her eyes.

“She may not have known the extent of what we needed of her… but she did do good for the future of the Coven; for the future of this city.”

“She didn’t know because you didn’t tell her.”

A scoff drags his attention away to where Elder Daniels has rounded on her companion — a fist clenched in the barest show of restraint. “Do not lose your conviction now. At the accusations of this—this ignorant child!”

She rounds back on Taylor every inch a wraith in her own right—reaffirms what invisible tether ties Reimonenq the wraith and the Coven together with palms raised to the sky; “Enough of this! Kill the halfling first! I command you!”

The bloodwraith’s neck cranes back at an unnatural angle and it howls to the wind, bloodstained talons reaching out and forward; compelled to attack.

His breath catches in his throat and Taylor squeezes his eyes shut. He braces himself—

For the pain that never comes. The icy grasp of a fate worse than death that he still can only imagine; still must only imagine.

Peeks a tentative eye open to the sight of Cassiopeia’s severed hand stretched out in Vera’s quivering grasp.

A firsthand witness to how the small and humble sparks in Vera’s breast ignite into a blaze that consumes her soul.

“You will not.”

#nightbound #nik ryder x mc #nik ryder #cal lowell #playchoices fanfiction #vera reimonenq #katherine nightbound #oc: cadence smith #mc: taylor hunter #nightbound mc #garrus #ivy #krom #oblv: bound by circumstance #oblv: new chapter #; my fics

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