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dysthanasia-series · 7 months

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Phagophobia Part 19

Words: 3,364

Summary: They took him out to the forest to die. That would turn out to be their first mistake.

Content Advisory: Blood, gore, body horror, broken joints, violence (knife, gun, physical, magical), biting, abusive authority figures, begging/pleading, bad bargains, undead, being trapped, field first aid, nobody gets out unscathed, it's trauma all the way down

A/N: All right, this will take a bit of explaining. Since it became apparent that the rewrite is going to change many, many things, I decided to skip straight to the end. What you need to know to fill in a few gaps between this part and the last:

-Isaac and Renato leave Breezy's house together the next night. They head back to Renato's clocktower apartment. The plan is to pick up Dorian and start the trip up north toward Walsh's territory.

- Problem is, they notice the enforcers entering the clocktower lobby. Though Renato tries to stop him, Isaac gets out of the car and gives himself up to the enforcers as a distraction. He figures this will buy some time for Renato and Dorian to slip away, and that he's less likely to be harmed if captured.

- He's right about the first point.

- Watts and his team keep Isaac under guard back at their own hotel, trying to pry more info out of him. It's clear the enforcers are divided on what to do with him. Watts and Yi are firmly on the side of letting the Coven higher-ups determine Isaac's fate. Quinn, Zamora, and Curry want to force answers out of him by any means necessary.

- After a couple of days, they're tired of waiting for orders. With the help of Curry, Quinn and Zamora shove Isaac into a car. They intend to interrogate, then execute him.

Lastly, I integrated a couple of ideas in from the first few chapters of the rewrite. Namely the ouroboros chasing Isaac, and Isaac referring to Renato by last name. Oh, and I moved/repurposed a bit of scene from chapter six. You'll know the one when you see it probably.

With all that out of the way...I hope you enjoy this finale, rough as it is. And thank you for reading this far. Expect a wrap-up/epilogue chapter in the near future.

They took him out to the forest to die. Isaac wondered if they’d tailored that extra layer of cruelty for him or it was just the most practical place to murder somebody. Maybe a little of both, he decided.

Zamora sat with him in the backseat, gun in her lap, while Quinn drove. The sound system remained off. Nobody talked, not even to gloat. Isaac wished he could come up with some last words. An epitaph that would haunt them forever. Empty fantasies, of course. At best, the enforcers believed they were doing the Coven, the world, a favor. At worst, they just didn’t care. No matter where their reasoning fell, he was trash to them. Something to be buried and never thought about again. So, he stared out the window at the shadowy pines flashing by and didn’t waste his final breaths.

His heart migrated up into his throat when Quinn turned off onto a dirt side road leading deeper into the forest. Not long now.

Isaac jumped at the sensation of something wriggling against his hip. He looked down to find a thin black shape emerging through the gap between the seat and the side of the car. Coming from the trunk. The tips of fingers with short but immaculate nails appeared behind the thing, pushing. Jiggling it to get his attention. Isaac’s eyes went huge.

A folding knife. He took it from the offering fingers. Ran his own thumb over the etched rose and looping thorns on the handle. His attention darted to Zamora, then Quinn, but neither paid him any mind, as if he were already a corpse. The car was bumping along the dirt track too fast to jump out yet. Isaac needed to choose his moment wisely. Wait for them to come to a stop. Get out of the way quick and let Dimas—the stowaway couldn’t be anyone else—take care of the fighting.

The deer that bounded out of the treeline and smashed into the hood offered an opportunity sooner than expected.

Impact turned the windshield into an opaque web of fractures. Quinn stomped on the brakes. Isaac’s whole body cracked like a whip and slammed against his seatbelt. The world went black. Adrenaline slapped him conscious again. He gawked down at himself. At the air bags wedged between him, the door, and the back of the front passenger’s seat. Isaac patted himself down. His quaking fingers came away with no blood. No sign of splintered bones. Okay. Okay, he was okay.

But he wouldn’t be for long if he didn’t run.

“Oh, no you don’t, you fucking weasel,” snarled Zamora as he threw off his seatbelt and gripped the door handle. Her gun no longer waited in her lap. Dropped during the crash maybe. So, instead, she lunged, grabbing at his hair and arm.

Isaac fumbled the knife open while she clawed at him. Didn’t aim as he turned. Just brought the blade slashing down. It buried itself in her upper thigh with a sickening little jolt of impact. Zamora, shrieking, turned her hands into fists. Howled again when Isaac ripped the knife out but never stopped whaling on him. He scrabbled at the door while shielding himself as best he could, shoved it open, and tumbled out onto the ground. Isaac pushed himself up, a layer of dirt coating the blood smeared across the knife and his hands. The trees cast a phalanx of long, distorted shadows away from the car’s headlights. He doubted Quinn or Zamora’s night vision was any better than his. Dimas could take care of the rest while he hid.

A stomach-dropping series of wet pops and crunches kept his feet locked in place. Isaac spun to find a shaggy figure towering over the car. Antlers as long as he was tall crowned its head. The deer—no, the elk that had crashed into them. It stood fully reared up on its back legs, the fore ones stuck straight out like a caricature of a sleepwalker, and watched him with a glassy black eye. Twitching tremors gripped its massive body. Something rippled, pushed, bulged within its belly. Hands, gaunt and sinewy, erupted through the barriers of flesh and hair. They peeled the skin apart to reveal a bald head with burning scarlet eyes and a sneering mouth filled with piranha teeth. Like a monstrous mythical birth, the ouroboros emerged from the animal as it crumpled, shrank, and retracted into its rightful place on the patchwork cloak. Drawing its hunting knife, the necromancer leveled its black-flecked blade at Isaac and gave a cannibal smile.

He didn’t need any more encouragement. Isaac ducked behind the car and pounded a fist against its side. “Dimas! A little help!”

On cue, the trunk sprang open. The bloodborn rolled out and landed in a crouch, rumpled, disgruntled, but service pistol in hand. Glinting eyes landing on the ouroboros, he bared his fangs and let out a hackle-raising hiss. The undead sorcerer returned the greeting. Pleasantries exchanged, they rushed in for the kill.

Isaac shielded his ears from the worst of the close-range shots fired. His vision wasn’t so lucky. Dimas and his opponent became pale streaks smeared across a black canvas, appearing in a spray of kicked up dirt as they stopped to grapple in one spot. They crashed into a tree under a rain of pine needles and cones in another. Isaac gasped and went sprawling on his ass when they collided with the car, busting the opposite side windows.

Zamora, still partially hanging out of the open passenger door, rocked with the impact. Her bullet splintered pieces off a distant tree trunk instead of Isaac’s skull. He didn’t give her a chance to adjust her aim. Pushing himself up, he grabbed the door and slammed it shut. Didn’t even care that her gun hand got caught in between. Zamora screamed curses and thrashed in an attempt to free herself. Isaac kept his weight against the door until he’d pulled the weapon out of her grip. Better arrmed, he scuttled away to the tree line.

Quinn shouldered open the driver’s side. A small, roundish something dropped into view from under the car. Isaac’s neck hairs stood on end when the object sprouted squiggling little tentacles. They burrowed into the ground, disappearing from view. Isaac clambered to his feet at the first tremor that rolled through the earth. It didn’t slow down Dimas or the ouroboros, though. Not even when tendrils began worming up from a patch of dirt near the car. Dozens turned to hundreds at a breathtaking rate, spreading out in a wave, writhing, seeking, size and reach growing by the second. Vines, Isaac realized. A living net of vines. The rustle of countless, tri-pointed leaves made an ominous hiss as they slithered over one another.

On a mysterious cue, they lashed out and caught hold of both combatants’ legs, no longer willing to be ignored. Necromancer and bloodborn went from battling each other to fighting to move at all. No matter how fast they ripped, stomped, and slashed, the vines grew more quickly. Both were entombed in woody stems and quivering leaves. The unnatural growth slowed. A hush fell over the forest.

Isaac lifted the gun when the enforcers dared to get out of the car, but their attention wasn’t on him. Quinn and Zamora watched the pair of botanical mummies for any signs of life. He jumped along with them when the ouroboros’s bulged and twisted. A series of snaps and flying bits of vegetation announced imminent failure. An arm, thicker than a human torso and coated in dark fur, burst through. Claws like railroad spikes sheared through the remaining restrictive vines. A full-grown grizzly bear emerged from its green cocoon, gave its massive bulk a shake, and roared.

The enforcers couldn’t dive back into the car fast enough.

The undead bear dropped to all fours, causing a minor seismic event, and charged. In two great bounds it bulldozed into the side of the car, crumpling metal and glass. Crouching back on its haunches, it hooked its paws below the chassis and lifted. Screams came from within as the vehicle flipped, then increased in intensity when the beast pulverized and pounced on the undercarriage, its added weight causing the roof to buckle.

Isaac’s brain shrieked at him to flee into the trees. Disappear into the night and never look back. His heart and body overruled the impulse. He dove and crawled into one of the shattered windows, chips of glass and shattered plastic biting into his chest. A dazed and bloodied Quinn grabbed his outstretched hands. Isaac joined in the general sounds of terror as he helped yank em out of the doomed vehicle.

His attempt to go back for Zamora was thwarted by a jarring crunch. The roof collapsed further, crushing the side windows until they were too narrow to pass through. With a satisfied huff, the bear backed off. On four legs again, it paced around the demolished car. In no hurry. Confident its prey wasn’t going anywhere. With its cinder-red eyes fixed on Isaac and Quinn, the ouroboros didn’t catch Dimas, smeared in green from tearing his way out of the vines, creeping up behind until the bloodborn leapt onto its back. Jabbing fingers put out the sullen light of the necromancer’s eye on the right side. Bellowing in fury, it lurched to its full height. Its arms were powerful enough to crush bone into powder but not nimble enough to grab the tiny predator still ripping and clawing at the soft parts of its face.

Isaac cut the wires to his blaring self-preservation alarm system. While the monsters fought, he scrambled into the more accessible back window of the car. Zamora, huddled against the inverted front seats and cradling a likely broken wrist, bared her teeth at him. She kicked at his offered hand.

“Look,” he panted, blinking stinging sweat out of his eyes, “I know you’re scared and in pain—”

Like a cornered raccoon, she uncoiled and lunged. Her nails raked burning lines down Isaac’s cheek. Gasping, he squirmed a hasty retreat. Clumsy but with no shortage of spiteful determination, Zamora pursued by crawling on elbows and knees. Not how he’d planned it, but he wasn’t about to argue with results.

The bear was in the process of deflating from the head down when Isaac pulled himself from the wreckage. Dimas crouched several feet behind the reverting necromancer, jaw shivering and teeth softly clacking like a cat watching an unsuspecting bird. Ready to pounce at the first wrong move. Dizzy, trickling blood from a dozen scrapes, Isaac scooted just out of reach of the emerging Zamora. He checked to make sure the safety on the gun was still off before resting his head on his knees. Whoever attempted murder next would have to come to him. Because he was exhausted and not getting back up until he caught his breath.

Ursine form neatly folded into a patch on its cloak once more, the ouroboros turned to face Dimas. With both eyes intact, Isaac noted, although their smoldering glow had cooled into an eerie, ash-gray. Its posture had completely shifted as well. Spine erect, shoulders squared at prim angles. Any trace of feral glee had been smoothed from its expression, leaving it aloof beneath the grid of scars.

“Bloodborn,” the new, gray-eyed dead thing said.

Dimas’s teeth stilled. He rose partway out of his crouch before thinking better of it. “Hawthorne?” The shock in his voice was still audible beneath its hoarse rasp.

“Your sire and I have reached an agreement. You’re under new orders. Is Mayer’s pawn alive?”

Dimas’s gaze led the ouroboros to Isaac. He tensed, prepared for violence. But Hawthorne only glanced at him before moving to Quinn.

“Why is there a second here?” A downward tick of the mouth as its eyes flickered to Zamora sprawled halfway out of the ruined car. “A third?”

“They’re enforcers. They were going to execute So—Mayer’s agent.”

“On whose orders?”

“Their own.”

“Loose ends then.” Hawthorne gave a bored wave of its borrowed hand. “Kill them, bloodborn. Then bring the pawn to the common house. His loyalty must be assured.”

“No!” Isaac would’ve launched into a speech about how if the others died he wouldn’t cooperate. That they’d have to get rid of him too.

Except Quinn interrupted by wrapping one arm around his throat from behind and shoving eir gun against his temple. “I’ll spray his brains across this forest as fertilizer if y—”

Mass slammed into Isaac, sending both of them bowling over. The roar of the gun going off reduced one ear to receiving only a tinny whine. Even so, he could still hear Quinn’s screams before he rolled over and got a look at the cause.

Dimas had the enforcer pinned to the dirt, jaws clamped on eir shoulder. There was no romance to the scene. No seduction or grace. He snarled and shook his head like a (giant wolf on two legs) dog mauling (his dad, his tía, his cousins) a shrieking rabbit. Quinn’s clawing and thrashing just tore eir wounds wider, deeper. Blood bubbled around Dimas’s lips, splattering his cheeks. Teeth still clenched, he jerked away, ripping fabric and flesh to ribbons. He darted back down to seal his mouth over the hemorrhaging fountain he’d created. Quinn’s sounds ebbed into more sob than scream.

He had Zamora’s pistol this time instead of his dad’s rifle, but Isaac figured it would do him the same amount of good against a bloodborn as it had with a werewolf. Thought faded away after that. He pounced on Dimas from behind. One arm wrapped around his waist for stability while his free hand darted to the bloodborn’s face. Fingers delved against hot gore. Wormed their way under snarling lips, aided by the life spilling out of Quinn. Sharp teeth split his skin, but Isaac tugged. Gentle but insistent.

Dimas rumbled with a warning growl.

Another tug. “Don’t,” Isaac whispered against the back of his neck. “Please. Don’t do it. You don’t have to. Please, please, please.”

He gave a tiny pull again. Wondered if bone was showing through his fingertips yet.

An elbow to the ribs knocked him from his perch. Dimas was on him before his skull had finished bouncing off the ground. He managed to get his already injured arm up to intercept incoming fangs. The bruising pressure made him cry out more than the sting of his skin breaking. Breathing through his nose and praying he wouldn’t pass out, Isaac brought the pistol to the side of the bloodborn’s neck.

“Don’t make me do it. You fucking asshole. Why don’t you do something besides hurt me?”

Dimas’s stare locked with his. The nocturnal-green glint hid any spark of recognition or humanity. But, by degrees, the jaws latched to Isaac’s arm slackened. With a full-body shiver, the bloodborn shut his hungry eyes and released his grip. He sat back on hands and knees, panting. A steady rain of red dripped from lips and chin.

“I see I’ll have to complete the chore myself. Typical.”

Face as animated as a mannequin’s, the ouroboros stalked toward Quinn. Shock left eir skin pale enough to glow against the darkness. The enforcer didn’t uncurl eir tall frame from its fetal ball if e noticed the footsteps of eir approaching death at all.

Isaac wobbled to his feet and staggered into the necromancer’s path. His arm shook so badly he doubted his ability to raise the gun.

“I won’t let you—” he began anyway.

Hawthorne blurred forward. Hooked fingers dug dirty nails in a ring around Isaac’s solar plexus. He believed he’d experienced the cold before. Midwinter winds howling down the streets back home. Digging his car out of four feet of fresh snow. The shock of jumping into a fast-flowing stream after the spring melt. A touch from the ouroboros, though, forced a spreading sheet of ice beneath his skin. Frost thrust razor-tipped crystals through his chest, skewering his lungs and heart. His senses distorted, dimmed, connection between mind and body glitching. It wasn’t slipping into the deep end of warm oblivion like with Kinslayer, no welcome release. This hurt. And, somehow, he knew Hawthorne hadn’t really taken the gloves off yet.

A hellish hiss drew the necromancer’s gelid attention. It caught Dimas by the throat mid-lunge with its free hand. No expression flickered over its scarred face, even when the bloodborn sent an uppercut into its tricep and forced its elbow out of joint with an obscene pop. It simply glanced back over to Isaac.

“Pawn, do you wish me to show mercy to my servants?”

He gave a short, affirmative gargle.

At that, the barest hint of a smile curled the ouroboros’s gray lips. It launched him and Dimas away with deceptively casual shoves. Hitting the ground on his back shattered the paralysis caging Isaac. Mind and aching body reunited in a fit of coughing and shivering.

“Very well. I suppose I can find use for them. One at least shows minor potential.” Another horrendous snap and the necromancer’s elbow bent at the correct angle once more.

Isaac waited until his heart rate approached something close to normal to speak. “Quinn needs a hospital.”

“Noose will tend to both of them.”

The ouroboros’s name, he realized. Or what passed for one. “You swear they won’t be hurt?”

In reply, Hawthorne bowed its head. A shudder rolled down the cloaked form from head to toe. The red reignited in its eyes, burning off the lifeless gray.

“Goddamnit,” the ouroboros said through a grimace. “Are you happy? I’ve been demoted to babysitter.”

“Are you going to help em?” Isaac pointed to Quinn.

“Don’t have a choice, do I?” It—Noose—jerked the hood of its cloak up and stalked toward its new ward.

The shock had faded enough for em to turn a terrified stare in its direction. With a whimper, e pushed emself into a painful crawl. Isaac winced at how much dirt must be invading eir wounds. He stepped forward to offer some reassurance if nothing else.

A vicious yank on his jacket collar dragged him back.

“We’re done here.” Reason had returned to Dimas’s eyes if not humanity. He scratched a flaking streak of blood from around his scowling mouth.

“No, I have to—”

“What, Soto? What are you hoping to accomplish? Clearing your name? Getting an apology? Gratitude? Do you think either of these humans are about to call you their hero?”

Isaac looked back over at Quinn. Noose had grabbed em by the scruff of eir own coat, forcing em to roll over. It slapped away eir attempts to fend it off and started pinching the edges of the nastiest gash together. Though ugly, puckered, and still seeping, somehow the wound remained shut. A temporary measure, and probably no good against infection, but better than nothing. Better than anything Isaac could have done.

“What’s going to happen to em? And to Zamora?” he asked Dimas.

Rather than answer, the bloodborn seized Isaac’s arm. With fingers as gentle as his expression was severe, he rolled up both torn jacket and shirt sleeves. The bitemark he’d given Isaac qualified for neither neat nor pretty. A bruise had already spread out beneath the broken skin in a dark halo.

“Hold still,” Dimas told him. “I’ll put a few drops of my blood on it so there won’t be any scarring.”

As he moved to prick his thumb on one fang, though, Isaac wrestled his arm free.

“Yeah, I bet you’d prefer not to have any reminders.”

They locked stares. Hypnosis didn’t have a real chance to take hold before Dimas pulled his tab from his pocket and turned away.

“We’ll be picked up out on the main road.” Airy. Detached. Like they’d been discussing which restaurant to pick for breakfast. “Let’s go.”

A last look at the people he was abandoning to an unknown fate eroded the last of Isaac’s will to fight. Aching all over on the outside but numb everywhere else, Isaac limped toward the future he’d wrought.

#dysthanasia #urban fantasy #vampires #writeblr

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eve6262 · 3 years

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seizure | epic battle fantasy 5 fic

Despite appearances, it was obvious that Lance cared. So Nat thought, anyway- she saw the quiet concern whenever she got siphoned or fell in battle, emotions clearly running a bit deeper than a mere concern that the healer was down. She never said much about it; surely Matt and Anna saw it too, and Lance would never admit to liking anyone but Nolegs, but she was sure of it.

Today she found out she was wrong.

“Ass...I’ll bet he’s just trying to ambush us in his tank or something.”

“He wouldn’t, I’m telling you. Something’s wrong.”

Lance had been missing that morning. That was already disconcerting, but not implausible. Lance occasionally left to obscure, inhabited areas in the dead of night, gunblade and usually Gungnir in tow, and simply existed for a few hours. She knew because she’d once panicked when his thin form wasn’t visible on the couch after a nightmare, only for him to return not 20 minutes later almost looking at peace.

It was possible that he’d fallen asleep wherever he was going (no, never, not a man who would wake at the sound of an out of place breath) but that possibility had come and gone when it was halfway through breakfast and he still hadn’t shown up.

At the moment, though, only Nat seemed concerned. Anna simply didn’t care, almost seeming happy he wasn’t there to dampen the mood. Matt probably thought the same, but kept quiet for fear of angering the mage.

Nolegs was also being quiet impatient, though that could mean anything. The cat had always been quiet excitable over nothing, usually calming down once they set out for the day.

“He’s pretty capable. I’m sure he’s okay. He could’ve just gotten caught up with something.”

“For this long?”

“Maybe he’s smoking- you did say you didn’t want him smoking inside.”

“Then he’d be just outside, and he isn’t.”

Matt, having finally finished his meal, patted her on the shoulder. “He’ll be okay! Even if he did get in trouble, he’s got his own healing skills and stuff. Maybe he can’t beat everything, but he can certainly run from whatever’s threatening him.”

That got her to calm down, if only a bit. “That’s true...” For a moment, she allowed herself to calm, if only a bit.

Then Nolegs jumped at her again, meowing quite loudly. She started petting the cat’s head, hoping for some comfort. Instead, it he promptly jumped off her lap and nudged at the door.

“You want to head out?”

“Well, breakfast is over. Let’s go look for this ambush, yeah?”

“He’s not going to ambush us. He’s probably...Something.”

“Fixing that tank after a fight, maybe?”

“Sure. Hopefully.”

Nat was prepared to take the lead, the other two clearly not (she knew, of course, that’s not true, from the way Matt would use the familiar dark colors on Lance’s coat to calm himself after going berserk or the way Anna would go out of her way to use the more industrial bows just to see the almost pleased look on his face) invested in this quest.

But Nolegs, for once, had other plans. The moment the door opened the cat was bounding across the rickety wooden bridges holding so many Greenwood keepsakes and something in the back of Nat’s mind told her this was a bad sign.

“Guess the cat’s leading.”

And so they followed him, letting him leap at the small non-threats. Yet absent from his combat were the usual flourishes and twists in the air; only just enough to get them out of the way and nothing more. Not even a regard for himself- Nat and Anna both focused on healing at some point, just to keep the cat alive and well.

Finally, Nolegs hopped just out of sight and started loudly meowing in place.

“What is it?”

A quiet, almost inaudible groan from behind that rock. But she recognized it- oh how she recognized it.

“Lance?”

No response.

She peeked to the other side. There he was, sitting against it, side stained in blood, coat abandoned next to him and hat hanging loosely on his head. His gunblade, as always, in his right hand; his left was clutched tight.

“Lance!”

Immediately she rushed over to help him, healing magic bursting from her fingertips. Before she even surveyed the damage, a quick spell to keep him alive. It seemed to work, though she couldn’t tell what was currently bleeding and what was already stained red.

God, she could remember the days she’d wake up in the earliest morning, padding downstairs or into the kitchen dependent on their stay that night, and see him loosely using his coat as a blanket, white undershirt almost faded to a cream. Now it was soaked and red, like the medal on his coat or the glow of his favorite gun.

“Hey. Hey, I need you to stay awake, okay?”

His eyes were fluttering, unfocused, straying from her to the cat to the ground and back again. He barely nodded.

The other two were worrying behind her, but that wasn’t a part of the picture anymore. She immediately undid his shirt, knowing he’d lament its loss, and looked at the damage properly.

There was still a deep gash in his side, and burn marks (they looked like vampire bites, two little dots, made probably with some dual- pronged electric rod or perhaps they really were fangs) on his neck. His arm jolted every now and again. His entire body was practically limp- impossible. Something was much more wrong than the crimson pool beneath him; Lance was as stiff as a board even when asleep.

“Can you tell me what happened?”

His arm jolted again, his leg joining this time. He shook his head a little, eyes struggling. When he opened his mouth to speak it was raspy and started a fit of coughing before he could get a word out.

“Alright. Alright. Here, hold on.”

Her dress, a favorite, red that’s just a bit risque without being ridiculous and quite classy, swam in his vision. Red, more red- more blood? Or satin fabric that felt nice against his electrified skin? Both, he surmised; blood must feel like satin (no, that’s wrong, blood feels like oil mixed with honey and a splash of hate, what’s happening).

Anna’s green hair stood out in his vision. So did the yellow of the sunset- no, wait, it’s much later in the day than that. Matt’s hair? None of his swords were that dark and thick, a black square in his hands. How long had he bled out for? How long was were his limbs shaking with no control, his mind fading and coming back just to leave once more to a realm of nothing but shadow?

Nat could carry him. This had always been true- but usually he was a bit heftier than the lightest of Matt’s swords. The Celtic Cross was a bit heavier than him, actually, provided he wasn’t wearing his coat and guns. It was sometimes worrying.

Now he felt lighter than the Slime Staff, maybe even a feather; if she wasn’t already running she’d be moving faster at the mere thought. Anna and Matt rushed to keep up, and the cat, finally satisfied, lagged behind to snag a snack here or there.

She felt his leg jolt against her, and a tiny piece of her brain said some kind of mana affliction? But Lance couldn’t catch that so easily- he casted through guns and amplifiers and machinery, not as purely as her or Anna or even Matt at times (though she suspected he could fell an entire village if he’d simply use his magic to the fullest extent, but no one else ever seemed to notice and something always seemed off about asking him to do so even in difficult fights).

The majority of her mind was occupied with getting him to safety and patching up his wounds, of course, but another part of her brain said remember the electric burns? And she was convinced it was right by the time she’d burst through the door and set him down on the couch.

He seemed able to keep his eyes open for more than a moment, at least, but still in terrible shape. She patted his shoulder twice and stood up.

“Stay here, no fighting, healer’s orders. I’m getting you some water.”

The glass was already half full (half empty, said the optimistic part of her) when the others made it in the house. From her spot she could see him; his limbs were twitching still, occasionally, but he made no move to fight her orders. He made no move to do much of anything, really; the command was a bit overboard, considering he probably couldn’t.

Almost immediately she was back at his side.

“Here. Drink.”

He drank, but barely more than a few sips. His face was pained, eyes still fluttering closed, and what were those burn marks on his neck?

“Just a little more, please. Then you can sleep, okay? I’m here. You’ll be okay.”

He obliged, though it looked difficult. Finally, she laid him down, telling him to rest. The cat, seeing a new purpose, leapt to the couch armrest where he stayed whenever he wanted to stay with the gunner, curled up as if he was just as tired.

She looked to the others. Anna looked almost guilty, probably remembering breakfast. Matt kept stealing glances behind her, looking at the gunner’s limp form, his coat in the swordsman’s hands.

“I can look after him, if you guys need to go get supplies.”

The offer was surprising, but Anna jumped on it.

“Yeah, come on. I don’t know what we need for...what, twitching?”

“Neither do I.”

A silence and awkward looks followed.

“Maybe he’ll know when he wakes up. Either way, somebody’s gotta deal with the cat when he wakes up.”

“But-”

“Nat, you’re gonna worry yourself to death.”

“It’s justified!”

“And gonna kill you. Come on, if you let Matt come with me we’re gonna end up with way too much beer.”

“Hey!”

“It’s the truth.”

“Alright.”

And she begrudgingly let Matt stay with Lance, heading off to get supplies with the other girl.

The moment the door closed, he put down the coat on the back of the couch and moved to get a better look. He’d been farthest at all times, grabbing the coat and Nolegs while using Anna to keep track of Nat’s position, and barely even knew what was wrong.

Now he saw. At the very least, the gash in his midsection seemed fine- healed already via magic and a little bit of time, he knew. There was a tiny trace of blood still there, when it was closing up; he wiped that away with a tissue from the kitchen and threw it in the garbage.

His gunblade, even in his sleep, was still tightly clutched in his right hand. Unsurprising, considering the man.

His left hand was open, and something glinted from its spot between the two planes of the couch. Kleptomaniac that he was, he swiped it up without thinking (he felt a little bad, because he knew Lance hated that sort of thing, but nobody had to know if it was unimportant and hey maybe it could help calm Nat’s nerves).

It was a small metal plate of some sort, though it seemed quite thick, with two little nubs that reminded him of a baby’s fangs just starting to grow in.

Important, probably. He pocketed it for when Nat came back, and sat down, trying to calm his racing heartbeat.

there will be a part two, probably hopefully

and man I’m glad I wrote this instead of working (half kidding. half I haven’t written anything in a while because of stuff and god it feels good to write again, half man I should really be doing that thing)

~Eve6262

#epic battle fantasy #epic battle fantasy 5 #fanfic #lance #natalie #matt #writing

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ashsilla · 5 years

Text

Someone Else

Book: The Elementalists

Ship: Beckett Harrington x MC

A/N: In which Beckett attends a game of Thief to congratulate his favorite Thief player on her stellar plays — but ends up seeing some things that make him more than a little jealous. (IN THIS STORY THE MC IS FEMALE AND A SUN-ATT/METAL-ATT)

Rating: PG

He’d never been much of one for sports.

But for her, he’d make an exception.

He leaned against the edge of the stands, trying to get a clear look at her. The game had just ended — thanks to her terrific playing, he might add — and the team would be exiting right by where he stood in a matter of seconds.

Beckett’s hand began to sweat around the little metal trinket in his hand.

He’d fashioned it late last night after he had compeleted his homework and studying. It had taken him most of the night to get it right. Beckett had never spent much time making things that served no practical purpose, so thinking creatively while using his magic had proved to be a good challenge.

Other players began to pass by him, jostling each others’ shoulders and letting out loud whoops, each quickly echoed in the stands. Beckett frowned. Where was she?

He became aware of a high, melodic laugh drifting towards him from under the stands. Under the stands?

He turned his head to look through the scaffolding underneath the stadium seating. Two figures stood beneath, leaning over a small ball of flame.

“It’s not hard to manipulate it,” the taller one was saying, and the flame stretched out into a curling ribbon before coiling back. With a start, Beckett recognized him as Everett Merkseyer, the captain of the Penderghast Thief team.

And he was talking to her.

“I know it’s funny because I’m a Sun-Att...but Fire spells have been pretty hard for me.” She gestured at the flames. “Not sure if I’ll ever be able to do that.”

“Nonsense,” Everett replied easily, and the flames took the shape of a dog, bounding across the air and around her shoulders. She laughed again. It pranced back into his hand and the fire winked out. “I bet you can do all kinds of advanced Sun spells.”

Beckett craned his neck, trying to make them out in the dark. What were they doing under there? What was she doing under there? And with Everett Merkseyer, of all people?

“Well...” Her voice was soft, playful. Beckett bristled. All of a sudden, light flared from beneath the seats — light that was pouring straight from her skin.

She was glowing.

Everett watched, his mouth opened slightly, eyes wide. “That’s incredible,” he finally said. One of his hands reached forwards, touching her cheek next to her eye.

Beckett stared, feeling overheated and slightly sick. What was Everett playing at? Even if he was a senior, the Thief captain, someone everyone knew and adored...what did he think he was doing going around and looking at her that way? Touching her that way? A sort of dark, clawing sensation unfurled in his chest, bringing the sound of his heart’s pounding loud into his ears.

“It’s nothing,” she said in reply, and blushed. Blushed. Something in Beckett’s gut howled. He felt his lip curl into a snarl.

“You’re something else,” Everett murmured softly, so softly that Beckett almost missed the words. And then, in horror, he watched as the Thief captain leaned forwards, his head tilting downwards as her chin tipped backwards, her dark waves sliding further and further down her elegantly curved back —

A clatter sounded as the metal trinket fell from Beckett’s fist. It echoed loudly through the stadium — when had everyone left?

“Beckett?” she said, and he caught sight of her shocked and reddened face before the glow emanating from her skin went dark.

His own cheeks burned. A feverish feeling was spreading down his arms, his legs, making his fingers shake. He pressed his left hand to his leg to stop it and bent to retrieve his creation with the other.

“I—“ he started, his voice cracking. Beckett steeled his features and cleared his throat. “You played...well. This is for you.” Before he could lose the nerve, he tossed the object in his hand towards her and turned away before he could see her catch it. “I’ll...I’ll see you tomorrow.”

As quickly as he could, Beckett began to retreat, so fast he was almost jogging. God. More than anything he felt embarrassed. Sure, she had flirted with him. But that was probably more her personality than her actually liking him. After all, he couldn’t measure up to somebody like Everett Merkseyer — next to him, Beckett was a nerdy freshman who had arrived at school with no friends. Actually, that was him compared to anyone. A spear of hurt pierced through his heart anyways, twisting deeper and deeper the faster he walked. Blood rushed in his ears, and his surroundings blurred. Why had she made him feel like this? It was throwing him off his game. And he hated being thrown off his game.

In his mind, he imagined her calling after him, her voice faint. Beckett finally broke into a run, trying to put as much distance between the stadium and himself as possible. The faster he went the less he could think, and thinking was the last thing he wanted to do right now —

“Beckett!”

He slowed. That voice was...not in his head. It echoed his name again and he turned slowly.

She was jogging up to him, still in her Thief uniform, the dusk sky overhead casting a serene purplish glow over her. Her dark hair was slightly tangled around her shoulders, her eyes wide and confused.

Beckett thought she looked beautiful.

She stopped in front of him, propping one hand on her hip, the other tucked in her uniform pocket. “Where are you going so fast?”

“Um...just...the library? I mean...yes. I’m going to study...at the library,” he finished lamely, wiping his sweaty palms against his slacks.

One of her slender eyebrows lifted. “Beckett, you are going in the opposite direction from the library.”

If possible, his cheeks heated more. “Right. Well then.” He turned in the right direction and tried to smile at her. It came out more like a pained wince. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said again.

“Wait, Beckett.” She stepped closer, and pulled her hand out of her pocket. “Did you make this?”

He stared at the object dangling from her delicate hands. It was made from golden metal shaped into a sun, cut in a way that captured the light and seemed to glow with a light of its own. A small chain welded to the the top disappeared into her palm.

“Oh, um...yes. I understand that you are not able to wear jewelery during matches of Thief, but there is nothing in the bylaws that states that one cannot carry onto the field with them a charm of good luck —“

“And you made me one,” she cut in. And smiled. Beckett felt like maybe he was dying slowly.

“I...did.”

And then she was really grinning, and throwing her arms around him. She smelled good, even after a game of Thief — like wildflowers and white tea. He startled, stiffening. Then, slowly, tenatively, he placed his arms around her.

“I love it,” she said into his shoulder, and pulled back to look him in the eye. A smile still tugged at the side of her mouth. “Now tell me why you ran away before I could thank you.”

His mouth became dry. “I didn’t want to intrude,” he said slowly, his voice montone.

“Intrude?” She turned her head to the side, and a confused line appeared between her eyebrows. “On what?”

She was really going to make him say it. Another wave of heat descended on his face. “On you and Everett.”

“On me and — oh. Oh.” Her eyes widened, turning to round dark moons in her face. “Beckett, what did you think I was doing there?”

“I only saw...some of it,” he said gruffly, and forced his eyes to the tree to her left, pretending to be intensely interested in the patterns of the bark. Which, to be fair, were pretty interesting.

“He’s just been helping me with Fire spells.” She sounded mystified. “I figured because he’s a Fire-Att and a senior he’s good help. And it’s always dark under the bleachers, so it’s a good place to practice —“

“I’ll help you,” Beckett said, and before he could stop himself, he reached to take her hands in his. “I’ve studied to the end of next year in Fire spells. Anything you need, I can do it.” He was desperate to touch her. He was even more desperate to kiss her.

She looked away. “That’s okay. I understand that you’re busy.”

“No. Let me help you.” Some sort of pleading undertone had infected his voice but for some reason he couldn’t even be disgusted with himself. “Let me.”

She gave him a funny look. “Look, Beckett, I appreciate it, but Everett—“

And before he could think beyond needing to make sure he never heard her say Everett’s name again, before he could compose himself, he was grabbing her shoulders and pulling her into his arms and kissing her.

A small noise of surprise escaped her and he drank it in the way a dying man drinks in his last breaths. All he could feel now was a sort of fierce satisfaction that she was here, with him, in his arms instead of someone else’s.

She started to laugh against his mouth, the sound light and nearly disbelieving. “Beckett,” she gasped, leaning back. “Are you jealous?”

He only pressed his lips into a thin line.

“Oh my God.” She reached up to rest her hand on the side of his neck. “You are.”

“Don’t laugh,” he said stiffly. “It’s not funny.”

“It so is.” She pulled him down for another quick kiss, which was far too short for him. Her lips retreated after a mere second, leaving him leaning down into her like a buffoon. “But don’t worry, Beckett. You’ve got no competition.”

A bolt of shock froze him in place. “I...I don’t?”

“No.” She began walking her fingers up his chest, toying with the lapels of his blazer. “Do I have any competition?”

“Would you kiss me again if I said yes?”

She punched him lightly just below his shoulder. “I’d kiss you again anyways, nerd.”

Relief swept through him, so strong that his knees nearly buckled. He was pretty sure he was smiling stupidly, because his cheeks sort of ached from it, but in that moment he didn’t care. “You have nothing to worry about.” His smile softened as his tone became serious. “You’re all I want. You’re all I’ve wanted since I met you.”

“You seemed to hate me when you met me,” she replied teasingly.

“I didn’t.” He tucked her hair behind her ears, and allowed his fingers to caress her cheeks. “I was...jealous of you. But I’m not anymore.”

“Really?” Her eyebrows flicked skywards.

“No. I’m just really,” he pressed a kiss to her left cheek, “really,” another to the right cheek, “really proud of you.”

“Oh?” Her words ghosted over the skin of his neck.

Beckett grinned. “After all, my girlfriend is the best Thief player that Penderghast has ever seen.”

She swatted him on the arm with a snort. “Is that what I am?”

“Do you want to be?”

Her eyes glimmered. “God, Beckett. I thought I already was.”

#the elementalists #pixelberry #pb #playchoices #choices #te #beckett harrington #beckett harrington x mc #fanfic #fanfiction #fic

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