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dragonswithjetpacks · 3 years

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I’ve done it. I’ve done the smut. If you have any feedback, please feel free to dish.

The Quiet Closet

-dragonswithjetpacks

Summary: Ferelith has doubts about her current relations with Astarion. But he refuses to listen to her unless she abides his rules. Notes: NSFW

Read here on Ao3.

Ferelith never had the strength to force a body into a place of her choosing. But Astarion was a more than willing volunteer, believing of course he was being shoved for eventual rewarding purposes. In realizing this was not the case, he still refused that a small chance was better than none. She locked the two of them hastily into a small storage room of the tavern, hoping they were not watched or followed. Looking around, it bore nothing of great value. Two sacks of flour, one crate of potatoes, and a variety of other small containers littered the area and the room was dimly lit by a small window at the top of the furthest wall. The sound of rain pattered softly against it.

"If this is your idea of discretion, I'm afraid I'll have to disagree," he grumbled flatly, eyes still shifting about the room.

"With your subtle bragging, I'm fairly certain the others have a solid of idea despite my request for discretion," she hissed with a daunting scowl. "Whether you agree or not to my standards is the least of my concern. We're in here because I find it quiet."

"Quiet," he laughed, his attention now committed toward her. "An odd request coming from you - if I recall our previous encounter correctly, and I do recall it often. It's even a bit foolish, really."

The condescending tone was enough to rile her insides, but Astarion was not done patronizing his lover. Her chin was grasped firmly between his finger and thumb, which he rubbed across her bottom lip. Ferelith rose her hand quickly to reject his affections. Though not entirely aggressive, he took offense, his eyes widening with despair. Still, the natural hostility that Ferelith carried aroused him to a certain degree.

"I'm not here to seduce you, Astarion."

"No?" he appeared to be genuinely surprised, but Ferelith knew it was a ruse. "In a small room? With complete privacy? You mean you don't want..."

The trailing of his voice allowed him to step closer, peeking the curiosity of the sage. Her wits faltered under his gaze but somehow still found confidence in her thoughts. Astarion smirked at his nemesis, the stubborn will that existed within her. Always fighting, always biting back, even when it was not needed. Ferelith shuffled backward feeling the abrupt stop the wall put to her steps. His stride was slow, but he stopped, recognizing a cornered attempt was a poor one. He halted his advancements.

"I wanted to discuss what happened," she tilted her head with one curious brow.

"What happened?" he questioned, stepping forward once again at the hint of her softened expression.

"The night at the camp," she paused as he became dangerously close. "When we..."

"Go on," he placed a hand on the wall next to her.

"When we met in the forest..."

"What did we do?"

"Stop it," she chided up at him. "You can't just seduce me to avoid a serious conversation."

"Alright," his tone was low, the vibrations from the bass in his voice buzzing in her ear. "Let's make this interesting, shall we?"

He was hovering over her, stalling to entice the feeling of anticipation in order to get a reaction. Ferelith was not a patient woman. The more aggravated she became, the more hostile she was. With lips in a straight line, her eyes were sent rolling into the back of her head. She closed them and exhaled slowly from her nose. This was the sound of resentful compliance. She would never intentionally admit it aloud, but Ferelith was fond of games and riddles. Unfortunately, she had mentioned it to Astarion on one occasion. And it appeared he had not forgotten. He lowered his head to the nape of her neck, his lips grazing her skin. She accepted him with her hands smoothing the shirt over his chest, enjoying the tickling sensation of the air from his lungs.

"You may have my attention for this discussion of yours," he said speaking softly against her neck. "And if I am able to comprehend the meaning of it before I am finished, then you can have the rest of the day to yourself."

There was a long pause where she listened to the sound of his breath while awaiting further instructions.

"If you don't, then I will have you. And you can try again another time."

Ferelith's hands tightened, pushing up while clenching his shirt to draw his eyes down to her.

"This defeats the purpose of what I wanted to discuss," she looked up at him with a menacing stare.

"But you're agreeing, nonetheless."

"I suppose I am."

"Then you better start talking."

As the words made their exit, he reached up with one swift movement, grasping the wrists of both her hands. With them pinned above her head and face full of shock, he felt his need to taunt her satiated. It was when her face dropped to glower at him he found the fuel to press on. Ferelith was never a disappointment. Even as he leaned forward, granting her the warmth of his lips to her skin, he could feel her fighting the enjoyment of it. There was an initial small sigh of satisfaction that escaped through her slightly parted mouth. But it was cut short by the inhale of a breath before speaking. She was humoring him, but not yet broken.

"I wanted to clarify that it wasn't a mistake," she said softly.

"I was under the impression neither one of us thought it was," he spoke against her, gripping her wrists tighter with irritation from her statement all while knowing she said it from spite.

"The natural curiosity we both felt has been satisfied," she craned her neck upward.

"You can't just admit you wanted me. You've always wanted me."

"What I wanted was to stop being so drawn to you. And to stop questioning why."

"Remind me how that went, again?"

"It drove me insane," she smiled, feeling one of his sharp teeth graze her.

Her back arched, the tinge of pain combined with the sweet wetness of his tongue sending delightful shivers down her spine. Astarion leaned heavily over, placing his knee directly beneath her while she was lifted. Ferelith took it generously as she lowered herself down upon it, instinctively squeezing her thighs over it and swaying her hips forward.

"I was puzzled by your advancements before. But I can no longer allow you to distract me," she clenched her fists, unable to move them. "I have.... a responsibility... I have... boundaries..."

The feeling of his hand sliding down her waste slowed her speech. It traveled along the curve of her stomach, down the slope of her naval, and into the band of her breeches, the tips of his fingers just barely touching the bare skin beneath.

"I can't..."

She could feel their length stretch across her like a dark cloud rolling over an open plain. The tension in her wrists told him she was anxious. He drew up on them further up the wall, pulling her away from his knee. The tips of her toes pressed tightly against the floor to keep her balanced. And when she became dead weight to plant them, she still felt as if she were hanging there by his hand. The top of his knee just barely grazed her between the thighs. And his palm was still planted firmly on her stomach. Teasing her was a great risk. But Astarion had a philosophy on such things - great risks have greater reward. Making her wait longer would mean she would eventually give in to him. A slow stretch forward and his fingers were just long enough to reach her. She endured each finger tip tap teasingly against her like an impatient hand on a desk.

"I can't let my guard down," her voice was rigid.

"Then don't," he replied into her ear.

"The others can't know the extent of ... this."

Her eyes had struggled to remain open. And for a moment, she thought she was able to keep them wide enough to see the ceiling above her. Her assumption was wrong. For her to compare it to the calm before a storm would be a cliche, yet accurate description. Though she hated using common expressions, she was aware the pause made her want him even more. It made her want him to the point she gave in to the irritation growing inside, the same that he had planted. She was tired of being toyed with. Of Astarion never listening to her. Of his teasing. Of his disregard. Then the thunder rolled and the lightning cracked as a finger slipped down, stroking the inside of where her desires lay. A startled moan escaped from her mouth, but he was quick to quiet it was a soft kiss.

"I thought you wanted to keep this quiet," he said, the tip of nose brushing against hers.

"You," she growled. "You make me weak."

"You like it," he whispered teasingly, his finger massaging her below.

"I hate it. I despise it. I despise you."

Astarion laughed, slipping a second finger over her. She attempted to sink down again to feel his knee, but found his grasp on her wrists were far too tight. She looked up at them helpless, leaving her neck open for his taking. He caressed over it, licking it to taste her flesh and biting slightly over her throat, thoughts tempting his darker nature. But he had sworn it wouldn't happen again. No matter how much he wanted her, no matter the circumstances, he would only take what she gave. Ferelith may have enjoyed losing control in that moment, but that didn't change her need to command other things. It seemed a bit odd to his taste, but all the same fascinating. And he wanted to explore it further.

"Tell me more," he demanded. "Tell me how much you hate me."

She dropped when he loosened his grips, her back relaxing down the wall. With a gentle nudge, his knee rose up to meet her and he felt her hips sway against him. He moved his fingers in motion, straightening them as she came in like a rolling tide.

"I hate how charming I find you," her eyes closed and her voice sound as if she were in a trance. "I hate that you make me laugh."

She inhaled quickly as he pressed harder into her core, her head hitting the wall as she reared back. He felt her body tighten and urged her forward with his knee.

"Go on," he said, baring witness to the moments of joy on her face.

"I hate the sound of your voice," she lowered her brow with concentration. "I hate how attracted I am to you."

The heat from her body was making him crave her, now, and he could feel himself growing excited at the quickness of her breath. Her spite made it all the better. The more anger she released, the stronger her movements became, and the longer his strokes became. It became difficult to hold onto her and her hands slipped through his grasp as he tried to ground himself, his hand slamming onto the wall.

"I hate this constant desire I have for you..."

Her hands dug into his hair, feeling the back of his skull. The sensation of her nails scratching against his scalp brought him closer. His hand skipped up the wall as he faltered for a moment, his face buried in her hair. The fragrance she gave was enticing, as it always was.

"... this desire to feel you. Next to me. Against me. Inside me..."

Slowly, her hands slid down to his shoulders. One remained, gripping tightly. While the other slithered up his neck, her fingers finding their grasp on either side of his face. He did not fight her pull to bring him to her gaze.

"Still... If I believe for one second you'll betray me..." she said through heavy pants, "I'll kill you."

He stopped for a moment to look her sternly in the eyes. Everything else was in a state of pure bliss: chest heaving, neck vulnerable, lips parted. But even through that, she was able to depict how serious her statement was in just the eyes alone. It was a marvelous gift she had, being able to announce her meaning through the looks she bestowed. He cherished it as he did her honesty.

"I hope it never comes to that," he replied.

"You hope?" her brow collapsed.

"If I can help it," he paused, slowly starting the motion again. "I'd much rather be traveling with you. Getting into trouble like this. It's by far the best choice I've ever made, my love."

"Astarion, you bas-"

There was no time to finish as he covered her mouth with his, cutting her words with a kiss. His hand slipped further, bringing his fingers down inside her. Ferelith's hand lurched from his face, catching him at the throat with his chin in the cusp of her hand. She moaned into his mouth and tightened her grip. He dare not tear away, now, for the others would surely hear her cries of pleasure. She thrust her body forward, moving when his fingers curled and beckoned for her. He kissed her harder, his mouth opening around hers and dipping his tongue inside. She met it with her own, closing down onto his bottom lip and biting hard. This made him create a deep sound she had never heard before. Something between a growl and a exhale of satisfaction. He threw himself forward and felt his hand digging into the wall above her. Her body shook and she could feel the sensation building below. With her thumb on one side of his jaw and her middle finger on the other, she pulled him away.

"I believe I've won," she said on his lips.

"Should I stop?" he asked, his fingers still pumping into her.

"No," she struggled to catch her breath.

"Then let me give you a reward."

At this, he lowered himself, now hunched over with his entire hand underneath her. She felt the full length of his fingers inside her, making her gasp. He kissed her again to keep her quiet, but the grasping at his shoulders told him she was going to have a difficult time. He lowered his hand from the wall, clutching her backside to keep her steady as he thrust his fingers upward. Ferelith still found herself swaying, though she felt the movements were under his control. Each flex he made, she sent her hips forward. And as her body grew weak, he began to push and pull with his hand squeezing and pulling at her from behind. The swelling of her ecstasy was near and he could feel it as she tightened around him. He groaned, lifting and throwing her into the wall with the compulsion to be inside her. The sudden collapse made them separate, and in that moment, she felt a bursting from inside. An abrupt, but sweet, cry sounded from the storage closet.

Astarion, unable to determine if this outburst was something to be proud of, continued to to move his hand against her as she melted into him. Her head leaned forward into his chest, her arms clutching him for stability. With his hand still beneath her breeches, he could feel her pulsing into his palm with shaking knee. Finally, he removed himself, his fingers wet with her proof of pleasure. As she looked up, propping her back against the wall with steady pants, she watched him lick each finger delicately.

"As I suspected," he said with a villainous grin. "Absolutely delicious."

Ferelith closed her eyes and allowed herself to chuckle, if only a small amount.

"I look forward to the full coarse."

The thought of Astarion's face between her thighs sent another chill down through to her core, ceasing her ability to tie the string on the front of her breeches.

"Would it be available... tonight?"

She looked up in surprise. Most of Astarion's advancements had felt half hazardous. As if he only meant them if they were a benefit somehow. This question, however, felt sincere. He tilted his head, eager for an answer.

"No," she stepped forward. "I'm afraid it won't."

His face dropped in disappointment, despite the mischievous look Ferelith had given him. He should have known better. Because the moment she grew close, she reached out, grabbing him where he was distinctly showing his longing to be inside her again. She gave it a firm grasp, feeling him throbbing beneath the leather.

"I'll be having a taste of what you have to offer... tonight. If that's alright?"

"Wh- I uh..." her forwardness caught him off guard, but another slight squeeze brought him back. "Yes. My goods are very open for tasting, my darling."

"Good," her eyes looked him up and down. "Then I'll see you when the moon is high."

Astarion let out a deep breath when she left the closet. But he felt he needed another. He looked down, seeing himself rather proud and attentive. Ferelith's touch had not helped matters. But he would see that would be taken care of later. After all, he wanted to give her whatever she wanted to take. It was only fair...

#astarion #astarion smut #astarion fic #astarion writing tag #ferelith writing tag #dwjp writing tag #bg3 baldur's gate #be gentle it's my first time #ferelith #astarion x ferelith

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crookswithbooks · 3 years

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Pay Attention To Me

Notes: Finally! Sorry this came out so late, I was busy with Christmas plans and other projects and everything just got so behind, but here it is at last. Merry several days late Christmas everyone, and Happy New Year’s Eve!

Day Twelve - Lestat is feeling overlooked so he goes out on the town to find his own entertainment.

The world was covered in twilight. Trees became villains reaching out and the moon illuminated menacing shadows on the pavement. The air smelled of rain, and even then tiny droplets pattered against the ground. Slowly they melted the scattered patches of snow lingering on the rooftops of buildings and covering the cobbled streets. Inside their tiny house, Louis sat curled on the couch, a book held upright in his hands with his eyes roaming the pages absently. He toyed with a wineglass, twisting it between his fingers and occasionally lifting the glass to his lips. Mostly, though, he sat, and Lestat could not take it anymore.

“Louis.” There was no response, not even a tilt of the head as acknowledgment. “Louis? I know you can hear me and this little charade you are keeping up is ridiculous and childish.”

Louis sighed, a long and suffering sound that dragged on Lestat’s ears. “I can hear you fine. As you can see, I am otherwise occupied.” He held up the book in evidence and promptly returned to it.

Lestat watched him from his chair, an old chair he had found in one of the antique stores the modern era was so fond of. It reminded him of the old days when it was just the two of them and Claudia and they were happy. His sharp nails tapped against the wood impatiently, eyes narrowing at Louis’s continued dismissiveness.

Finally he could stand it no longer and stood up, stalking over to the brunet. He kneeled beside him, wrapping his arms around his shoulders and pressing his mouth to the nape of his neck. If Louis registered the movement he hid it well, not so much as blinking at the action. Lestat opened his mouth, softly suckling the sensitive skin contained there.

“Lestat.”

Lestat grinned against him. “Yes my love?”

“I know what you are doing and I am not in the mood. I would like to continue my reading in peace if you don’t mind.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Lestat replied innocently, gently digging in his teeth. He could feel the shudder run through Louis’s body, though he tried to repress it.

“Lestat,” he breathed and closed his eyes. He did not, Lestat noticed, try and stop him.

Lestat’s teeth dug in just a bit more until he had pierced skin and he could feel the warm sensation of blood coiling against his tongue. He savored the taste, gently sucking the liquid from his neck until finally Louis gasped and reached a hand back, gripping Lestat’s hair and pulling him back.

“That’s enough.”

“I don’t think it is.” Lestat moved to take more but Louis turned at last, dropping his book and grapping Lestat by the front of his jacket, pulling him close.

“I said,” Louis hissed, not breaking eye contact. “That’s enough.”

Lestat smiled deviously in a way that could not fail to provoke and raised an eyebrow. “And what will you do if I don’t?”

Louis considered him for a moment and then, to Lestat’s great disappointment, released his jacket and settled himself on the couch once more, picking back up his book. “I shall leave and then you’ll be alone, something I know you hate far more than boredom.”

Lestat snapped his teeth impatiently, rising to his full height. “You’re dreadfully boring, you know? I do all these nice things for you, build you this house, provide for you, fill our lives with fanciful wonders that most people only dream of, and the only thing I ask is that my lover pay even the slightest attention to me but you cannot do even that.”

Louis marked a page in his book, placing it besides him on the couch and turning a glare on his partner. “You bought this house, Lestat, from a shady man you met in an ad, and the entire thing is falling apart as it is.”

“It’s called an antique,” Lestat sniffed haughtily.

“I provide for myself, thank you very much, unless you mean the little boys you leave littered around the house like some kind of deranged cat, bleeding all over our carpet that I bought. And your fanciful wonders, as you call them, are nothing but meaningless trinkets you forget about the day after. For goodness sake Lestat, there is a boar’s head hanging on our wall!”

“Well excuse me for trying to bring something of the outside world into our home, or else you would never see it!” Lestat began to pace the room and Louis watched him with an expression of reluctant interest. “You spend all day cooped up in here, and I am tired of it! You need to live!”

“I already lived.”

“No,” Lestat corrected. “You were alive. There is a difference, in case you weren’t aware. You spend these centuries sulking like an insolent child and the only thing that excites you now is death. You dream of it, staring longingly at flames and daggers like a fool. Yet you never have the courage to go through with it, because in the end you are a coward. Scared of living, scared of dying. And I, for one, am sick of it.”

Lestat turned around, whirling out the doorway in a huff. Louis watched him for a moment, before picking back up his book and turning a page.

Lestat was enraged.

He found himself in a small town miles away from the house he had stormed out of. He was not entirely sure where he was, merely that it was somewhere where Louis was not which was enough for the time being. He strolled the cobbled streets, watching bundled humans hurry back to their houses for the night.

Lestat couldn’t believe him. He did everything he possibly could for Louis’s sake and still he found himself scorned in the end. He was willing to ignore all of Louis’s little rebellions, all the times he ran away from him, tried to kill him, replaced him with someone new—he was willing to ignore it all because that’s what you did when you loved someone. You forgave them. Unfortunately, it appeared that Louis had not received that message.

He wanted entertainment. The thought came to him seemingly on a whim, but as he examined it further he realized that the desire had been there all along. If Louis was going to continue to be obstinate and ignore him, than he would seek amusement elsewhere.

The scent of blood was heavy in the air. It always was during the wintertime, heat brought quickly to the surface as their frail human bodies fought to keep them alive. Lestat inhaled, his path following the particularly alluring smell of a dashing youth in his twenties with dark hair that curled in the most lovely fashion about his ears. He made sure to keep a decent amount of distance between him and the boy, twisting in and around patrons of the tiny city.

The boy appeared to be rushing somewhere, his steps hurried and anxious. He cast furtive glances to either side as he slipped into a small alleyway, disappearing into the darkness. Lestat narrowed his eyes, a predatory grin glinting on his features. He had always enjoyed the chase, far more than the others had.

He kept close to the wall, tracking the boy’s coattails carefully as they flapped in the hurtling breeze. He heard the murmur of voices and peered around the stairwell he had been clutching at. It was then that he realized that the boy was not alone.

A girl, maybe ten years older than him, smiled lovingly as the boy pulled out a bundle of flowers he had been concealing under his cloak. She had beautiful auburn hair that fell about her shoulders in wind-swept waves. As he watched her examine the flowers and then the boy with a critical eye, he recognized the same cold gestures that Louis often reserved for him, only more calculating than Louis’s bland apathy. She was toying with him. That much was obvious. It made sense, what with the age difference and shady rendezvous in back alleys.

“I picked these especially for you,” the boy explained in excited whispers, clutching her slender fingers in his own, wonderingly. “I thought you might like them. They’re red like your hair.”

Lestat had done much of the same thing once for Louis. A young man with the most beautiful green eyes, black hair slinking down to his chin, much the same as Louis himself, had been left in his bedroom as a gift. Louis had not taken kindly to it, to say the least.

The woman accepted the gift with disdainful eyes, but pressed them close to her heart. “Thank you. I will treasure them. Do you have the rest?”

There was a moment when the boy, so spellbound by the woman was he, did not take notice of her words. The next moment he blinked, snapping himself back into action, and reached inside his cloak again to pull out a bundle of herbs that Lestat recognized as a very rare type of medicine. “O-Of course! Here you are.”

The herbs were regarded with much more care than the flowers had been and she tucked it carefully into her bosom, far beyond the prying eyes of strangers. “Thank you. Father will be ecstatic to have these.”

“And now?” the boy asked anxiously, licking his lips. Lestat felt something inside him surge at the simple action, but he held back for now, desiring to see where this would go first. He had wanted to be entertained after all. “What you promised in return?”

“Of course.” The woman slipped her hands from the grip of the boy, placing them securely on his hips and tugging him closer. She leaned in till they were only inches away, his face flushed with expectation, their combined breath mingling. Silky lips met his and Lestat allowed himself to watch the spectacle for a couple seconds more before springing into action.

Lestat was fast in the way that shadows were fast, there one moment and gone the next. He held the woman tight in his grip, ripped cruelly away from their kiss. He held one arm around her waist, securing her to him, and the other hand tilted her head back firmly, revealing the pale expanse of her neck.

“Olivia!” the boy exclaimed, anger and panic mixing on his features. He turned on Lestat, taking a step forward. “What are you doing, sir?”

“Saving you from what is sure to be a nasty relationship,” Lestat answered, lowering his lips to her trembling skin, his own curls falling over her revealed shoulders. “She is quite the beauty, though, I will agree.”

“Let me go!” the woman cried impetuously, struggling against his hold. “You can’t do this!”

She stilled instantly as his lips were replaced by fangs, pressing sharply into the skin. “Oh but I believe I can.”

Louis was not on the couch when he returned home. Lestat carefully placed both bodies on the sofa, taking a moment to trace a loving stroke down the unconscious boy’s cheek. “Louis? I’ve brought us dinner.”

He frowned at the lack of reply. He swept from the parlor room, searching the house for any sign of his undead lover. When he reached the bedroom finally and there was still no sign of him, he started to think that maybe he had gone out, angry as well after their fight. What he was instead met with was the sudden presence of a body pressed up against his own, their stance quite mirroring that of Lestat’s earlier in the alley. Lestat stiffened, a thrill of pleasure rushing down his spine.

“Hello Louis,” he said pleasantly, casting a glance back at him. “Finally come around, have you?”

“I have finished my book.”

Lestat closed his eyes as Louis peppered his shoulders and neck with gentle kisses. It was then that he remembered that he was mad at the latter and slipped out of his grip, turning around to glare at him with crossed arms. “And just why should I forgive you? You treated me horribly earlier, and now you expect me to come crawling back into your arms?”

“It’s Christmas,” Louis pointed out. His cheeks were flushed, evident of a recent kill, and his eyes sparkled with a lustful desire that always served to weaken Lestat.

“We’re heathens, Louis,” Lestat responded dryly.

Louis merely shrugged. “Okay. Well if you don’t want my company, I suppose I will go find something else to do. There is another book by this esteemed dead writer that I’ve been meaning to get to—”

Louis found himself pinned against the bed in the next instant, the bedframe rattling in protest. “You will be doing no such thing,” Lestat snarled, leaning down to press hungry, envious kisses against his lips. “You will stay here with me and if you’re lucky I might let you go in the morning.”

Louis smiled, the clear winner. There were would be other battles, but the round of that night belonged to him. “That’s what I thought. What about dinner.”

“Fuck dinner.”

“Gladly.”

“Git.”

Later Lestat would remember that he was mad at the other, but for right now he chose to exemplify it in the forming of violent sex, a love language they both understood well.

Neither one of them could be really mad at the situation, in the end.

#interview with a vampire #the vampire chronicles #louis x lestat #fanfiction #iwav #lestat de lioncourt #louis de pointe du lac #twelve days of ficmas #christmas

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anghraine · 4 years

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pro patria: chapters 36-42

Logan nodded thoughtfully. “It’s got to be someone else in the Ministry—someone with money, power, and ambition.” “That doesn’t exactly narrow it down,” he said.

title: pro patria (36-42/?) stuff that happens: Althea and Logan track down the enslaved survivors of Falcon Company.

verse: Ascalonian grudgefic characters/relationships: Althea Fairchild, Logan Thackeray, Deborah Fairchild; Ailoda Langmar, others; Althea & Logan, Althea & Deborah, Althea & Ailoda & Deborah chapters: 1-7, 8-14, 15-21, 22-28, 29-35

THIRTY-SIX 1 “Does the haven often fall under attacks like that?” Dansky seemed startled; whatever she might have expected, it was doubtless less inane. “Not quite like that,” she said. “Those bandits caught us off guard, but”—she frowned—“they didn’t steal anything. It was as if they just wanted to kill people.” I took a deep breath. “I suspect they were here to kill you.” 2 She stared at me. “I’m investigating accusations of treason related to the fall of Falcon Company,” I said. To my own astonishment, she grinned. “You have no idea how glad I am to hear that!” she told me. “I always suspected Tervelan was rotten, but I had no proof.” I still held myself ready for danger—this was Kessex, after all—but tension drained out of my body. “What made you suspect him?” 3 She exhaled, her brief exuberance gone. “Falcon Company,” she said, “was the finest unit I ever served with. If I hadn’t been recovering from an injury, I’d have been with them that day.” I almost brought up Deborah, but I didn’t want to distract her; at this point, perhaps it would be better if she didn’t know I had a personal interest in the case. “You must know something,” I said urgently. “Tell me, did you ever see Tervelan meet with a minister?” She shook her head. 4 I’d never felt such a weight of disappointment in my life, and I wasn’t sure I could ever again. I nearly turned away; but some instinct told me to wait. “My job was to deliver messages for the Seraph,” she said, dropping her voice further. Something of Hal’s haunted anxiety seemed to touch her. “The ones I brought from Tervelan were addressed to ‘Minister Arton’—but I know for a fact that Arton never got those letters.” My head snapped up, Arton’s pained dignity fresh in my memory. It’d been so odd—what if— 5 Dansky blinked rapidly. “After Falcon Company fell,” she went on, “I found out that the guy I’d been delivering them to didn’t even work in Arton’s office. Nobody’d ever seen him before.” She took off her gauntlet and rubbed some dirt off her face. I chose to believe it was dirt, anyway. “I delivered Falcon Company’s last patrol to that guy, too. After the unit was attacked, I put it together … and I just couldn’t stay in the Seraph.” 6 “Understandably,” I said. “Do you know the route they were to patrol?” She brightened a little. “Sure.” Luckily, I’d brought a map with me to help make my way through Kessex Hills. She drew me over to a table, and inked out an oblong shape in red. I stared down at the route, struggling to believe my own eyes—all this, the work of a day, after so many years of grief and confusion. 7 “One more thing,” I said, my voice hoarse. “Is there any chance that part of Falcon Company could still be alive?” Unlike virtually everyone else, she didn’t immediately reject the idea, instead looking thoughtful. “If the centaurs took them captive,” she said at last, “they’d sell the prisoners to human slavers. There’s a bandit camp to the east that dabbles in the slave trade—you could look there.” Hope, so relentlessly quashed for so long, blazed within me like a star. I said, “Thank you for your help.” THIRTY-SEVEN 1 I sent another, slightly more detailed message to Logan, not expecting much more than quick affirmation that he’d received it, and an injunction to proceed carefully. Instead, minutes ticked by while I waited, anxious and increasingly impatient, for his reply. I had just decided that if I didn’t hear from him soon, I’d go ahead anyway, when an exhausted Seraph came running through the gates. “A message from Captain Thackeray, for the hero of Shaemoor,” she gasped out. The Lionguards glanced at each other in bewilderment, then at me. I sighed. “I’m the hero,” I said. 2 I tore Logan’s message open, then stared. Althea — Head to the bandit camp in an hour and a half from the sending of your first message. I’ll be there. Do not assault it on your own. An hour and a half left just twenty-five minutes to reach the camp—and I had no idea how Logan could make it from Divinity’s Reach so quickly. Then again, I had no idea how Logan got anywhere, really. I shoved the note into my pouch and with a garbled thanks, rushed out of the haven. 3 Once I found the camp, I snuck around its edges—and unsurprisingly, Logan was already there, skulking behind some trees in full armour, his white and gold surcoat all but glittering. “Captain Thackeray, you made it,” I said, as professionally as I could, and caught him up on what I’d learned from Hal and Dansky. I concluded, “Minister Arton’s not guilty; someone was framing him to take the fall if this treason was ever discovered.” Logan nodded thoughtfully. “It’s got to be someone else in the Ministry—someone with money, power, and ambition.” “That doesn’t exactly narrow it down,” he said. I couldn’t disagree with him there. 4 He went on, “Destroying Falcon Company weakened the Seraph, and turned public opinion against the queen. It was a clever plan, and it almost worked.” It had worked, for a time. I dug my nails into my palms. “I want to see if these bandits have any answers,” I told him, “and, if Dwayna is smiling on us, find my sister. Let’s go.” We crept closer. 5 We paused among a nearer stand of trees, where I—less obtrusive in blue and grey clothes—peered around to check for scouts. “I don’t see any, just a couple of guards,” I said, hiding in the trees once more. Logan shook his head. “So it’s come to this—people turning on each other when we need to be working together. If we can’t trust each other, we can’t possibly face the dragons.” I’d done my best not to think about the dragons, in perfect honesty; it wasn’t difficult, with centaurs and bandits and Charr and gods knew what else at our throats. I supposed it was something of an honour that he’d bring them up to me, of all people—if rather an unfortunate moment for it. 6 “There will always be villains,” I whispered, thinking of Zamon, Tervelan, the camp just ahead of us. “I suppose that’s why there needs to be heroes.” “Like me,” said Logan, his smile wry, but he sobered as he added, “and like you. You’ve done tremendous deeds for Kryta. They won’t be forgotten.” I smiled back at him. If we didn’t make it out of this—I couldn’t see any way to attack except a frontward assault—then there were worse notes to die on. 7 “Thanks, Logan,” I told him, genuinely grateful, and peered around again. Several figures stood guard at what looked like another cave system, braced by wooden beams; to go by the rocky hill beside us, it couldn’t be nearly as deep as the one I’d fought through with Faren. Neither guard had particularly good posture; one of them yawned, saying something in a bored drawl to the other. It must be nearly the end of their shift—I hoped. “Is it time?” murmured Logan. Sure enough, two figures emerged from the cave, speaking to the two tired ones. “It’s time,” I said. THIRTY-EIGHT 1 We rushed forward, Logan’s sword slashing at the guards, my own gleaming with aether as I blocked pistol fire with one hand and lashed chaos with the other. “Intruders! Wake up!” one guard screamed, just before I killed him. With that, we had a real fight on our hands, and an unpleasant one. Bandits, pistols, and small enclosed spaces made for an unfortunate combination at the best of times, and in this case, we had to do our best to shield the slaves in cages—gods—and others coughing and working at the rear of the cave. I finally dodged behind Logan and switched out my sword and sceptre for a tall staff: a weapon I always carried, but almost never used. The others helped channel my magic; the staff distilled it, ordinary spells concentrating into near-uncontrollable blasts of aether—but if there was any time to use it, that time was now. 2 With a shout, my magic spread throughout the chamber, purplish lightning crackling as it struck down at our enemies. Only our enemies. With sweat pouring down my face, I bent the spell to my will for as long as I could, then cut off the flow of magic before it could threaten anyone else. Logan was methodically cutting the throats of those struck down by the spell, holding off others with his shield, sword and shield ablaze with blue-white fire. I’d forgotten that he had magic of his own; it looked like he was pulling out all the stops, too. “Stay here—don’t let them through,” shouted a large bandit, who seemed to be the leader. “Get up and fight!” 3 The surviving bandits rushed us, but it didn’t matter; Logan shouted something that lit half of them on fire, while I cast through the staff again, my magic pouring out even as blue light flashed out to protect us, the blue and purple lights mingling. His sword and my clones did the rest of the work. In the back, someone cried, “I need your help!” It seemed a bandit had the clever idea of holding someone hostage; I sent a clone after him, and with a flare of light, he dropped to the ground. Logan was holding the last surviving bandit at swordpoint. He demanded, “Who were you working for? Who set this up?” 4 “Caudecus,” she grunted, clutching at her stomach. “But you’ll never … prove it …” She collapsed on the ground. I checked for a pulse, but she was gone. Caudecus—of course! Zamon, Tervelan, all of it: they weren’t just signs of general corruption, though they’d certainly had their own guilt. This was Caudecus’s handiwork—all of it! 5 “Curse it all,” snarled Logan, as angry as I’d ever heard him, “that bandit’s testimony was the only evidence we had!” “At least we know the truth,” I said, and remembering his weak spot, added, “and we can protect the queen. It’s not enough, but … it’ll have to do.” He immediately calmed. “You’re right. We’ll figure out what to do after we free these prisoners and get them back to the city.” I closed my eyes, fighting for my own calm, then opened them again; it was time to see who lived. 6 I slung my staff over my back and started opening cages as we headed towards the rear of the cave, where groups of slaves huddled or staggered. My heart thudded so hard that it felt like it might crack something, but this was more important. I took out my sword and started cutting bindings and shackles, while Logan cast a series of spells that flashed white light and left injured prisoners standing upright again. I helped brace them as they struggled to their feet, I supported those with remaining injuries, reassuring one after another. They all mattered, not just—if she were here—somewhere— Near the right-hand wall of the cave, another prisoner bent over with a coughing fit: a terribly thin woman, with faded blonde hair, and when she straightened up again, clear grey eyes. “Deborah!” 7 She peered through the gloom, her face drawn beneath layers of grime and weariness—but I knew her, I’d know her anywhere. “Althea?” she whispered incredulously, her eyes wide, and stumbled forwards, nearly falling into my arms. I caught her, dropping my sword and keeping my grip as gentle as I could; they all had bruises running up and down their arms and legs. “Merciful gods,” I said, hardly able to believe my own eyes, my own hands, “you’re alive!” Deborah—Deborah!—coughed into my shoulder. “It’s going to be okay,” I promised, stroking her hair. “I’m here.” THIRTY-NINE 1 I’d no sooner spoken than I remembered what sort of person I’d been when she got captured—how consumed with trivialities, foolish, near helpless. I’m here might not do much to reassure her of her safety, at least not until Logan made his way over. Deborah didn’t say anything about that. She just lifted her head and whispered, “Am I dreaming?” She coughed again. “Is that … Grenth torment me, is it really you?” “Yes,” I said, almost crying, “it is.” 2 My senses quickly returned. If she was in a condition to think me a hallucination, then— “Wait here, Debs,” I said, and ran for Logan. At his startled glance, I gasped out, “I found her, she’s alive, but … I don’t know, she needs help, she—” Without a word, he followed me over to where Deborah leaned against the wall. “You’re safe now, sergeant,” he said in his most official manner, but nearly staggered, himself, as he cast his glowing shield again. “Can you tell us what happened to the Falcons?” 3 As soon as he spoke, her tired eyes lifted up, widening at the sight of him. “Captain Thackeray?” Somehow, she scrounged up the strength for a respectful salute. “Sir! We were ambushed by centaurs.” After another gasping cough, she went on, “They knew our patrol routes, our tactics—everything!” The shield burst into scattered light, and Deborah finally drew a clear breath. 4 “It’s all right, Debs,” I said, clasping one of her hands. “We’ll make sure all of you get back to Divinity’s Reach. The nightmare’s over.” I could scarcely believe it myself. She nodded, rubbing tears out of her eyes with her free hand. “Thank you. And thank you, Captain Thackeray.” 5 She looked from Logan back to me, still wide-eyed. “You’re both heroes.” I could only imagine what it must be like for her: months of capture, suffering, and enslavement, and then out of nowhere, a Seraph and a lady showing up, wiping out the captors in a bloody battle, and then the Seraph turning out to be Logan Thackeray himself, and the lady—me! In her place, I’d be even more stunned than she seemed to be; as it was, I just tightened my grip on her hand, unable to think of a single thing to say. “I’ll take these Seraph home and inform the queen so that Minister Arton can be released,” said Logan. “No more innocents will suffer from this treasonous plot.” I hadn’t thought of Arton, the poor man—but I certainly agreed on the latter point. 6 With that, he started to turn away, but then jerked back to look at the two of us. Abruptly, he said, “Good work—hero.” Hero, I realized, meant more than Shaemoor now. I nodded my thanks, still at a loss for words. “The truth came out and these Seraph were saved,” he went on, “all because of you.” I was not normally one to refuse praise, but I could only reply, “Not only me, captain.” He paused, then inclined his head. 7 I led Deborah over to the other Seraph; it was time for her to go home. On the way, she murmured, “You never gave up on me.” But I did. We got that letter from godsdamned Tervelan and I believed it and did nothing until Logan asked me for help— “Thank you,” she went on, turning her head to meet my eyes. A shade of her old humour flickered into her face. “I’m lucky to have a hero in the family!” FORTY 1 “I can’t begin to imagine what you’ve been through, Debs,” I told my sister. My sister, alive. “You are stronger than you know.” Deborah gave a smile—a faint one, but it was there. “I missed you, Althea,” she said simply. I squeezed her hand. “I missed you, too.” 2 She re-joined her fellow soldiers, quickly taking the lead in their conversation and gesturing this way and that; Logan’s magic had done much of its work. One soldier crept forward to peer out the cave entrance, then returned, reaching out to shake my hand. “Sure am glad to see the colours of the Seraph,” he remarked. “If you and Captain Thackeray hadn’t shown up when you did, there wouldn’t be anything left of me to rescue—thanks!” He was still wheezing. “It’s okay,” I told him, “you’re safe now. Don’t try to talk.” 3 Another former prisoner, leaning against the back of the cave, grinned outright and said, “Tell those centaur slags I ain’t dead yet—they beat me, starved me, tortured me, and tried to sell me as a slave, but I’m still upright … with a little help from this wall here.” To my horror, I almost laughed. “Everything’s going to be all right,” I assured her. “You’re safe now.” She nodded, turning grave. “Deborah always said her family’d never forget her.” That much, I couldn’t deny, and had no desire to; of course we hadn’t forgotten her, couldn’t forget her—but if the thought had brought her comfort, then I was glad. 4 “There ain’t much left of Falcon Company,” the woman said, “but we’ll be back … thanks to you.” Overwhelmed, I could only say, “She was right. Get some rest, you’ll be home soon.” I’d scarcely uttered the words than Logan returned, a good strong cart following him; I had no idea how he’d acquired it out here, but had long since given up wondering about such things. Logan and I both hurried to help the now only moderately-wounded Seraph into the cart. “Nice work,” he told me, as if he hadn’t lavished me with praise already. “The Seraph will transport these injured soldiers to Divinity’s Reach—they’ll be given a hero’s welcome.” 5 “Thanks, Logan,” I told him, and felt my eyes burn. But I didn’t want Deborah to see me cry—least of all here and now. Instead, I held out my hand to him, bracing myself for his steely grip. He took his gauntlet off and shook my hand, as if we were ordinary people meeting in the halls of the Maiden’s Whisper. But we’d never be ordinary again, would we? I glanced at Deborah, then met his gaze squarely. “We’ll never forget what you did for us today.” 6 Logan looked exactly as I felt: gratified and very deeply uncomfortable. But it had to be said. “It wasn’t just me,” he told me. “You said it—we did this together. And whatever comes, well, we’ll do that together, too.” It had not, for a single moment, occurred to me that we might not. “That’s right,” I said firmly. 7 With that, we got back to work, hoisting the last of the soldiers into the cart, and paying the Lionguard driving it (I didn’t ask). She would take us to Black Haven, Logan told me, where the soldiers could get cleaned up and healed beyond what he’d been able to offer. After they rested, we’d take the nearest waypoint back to Divinity’s Reach. We did exactly that. By the time they’d healed and rested at the haven, Deborah and her companions were itching to go home. “We’ll see our families again,” said the man I’d spoken to before, with a smile, “and the Seraph, and probably the queen.” Deborah said, “Damned right we will.” FORTY-ONE 1 Had there been any meaningful distance to travel, we would have continued in the cart, for a particularly odd triumphal arrival; as it was, Logan and I led the Seraph to the Delanian waypoint just north of Black Haven, and emerged in the courtyard immediately in front of the throne room and Seraph Headquarters. Several of the Falcons wept at the sight—to the clear astonishment of the people milling around—before dutifully following Logan into headquarters. “Captain Thackeray,” began Lieutenant Groban, before catching sight of the others and nearly toppling over. “Can it—how—what—” “Lieutenant, sir,” Deborah said. She saluted him. “At ease, Sergeant Fairchild,” he said dazedly. 2 Whispers of Fairchild? and the Falcons! it’s them! raced around the room, and in an instant, every Seraph in the place clustered around, welcoming and exclaiming over them, a few wiping away tears while a handful of citizens watched in silent amazement. It took a good few minutes for Deborah to extricate herself. “It’s time,” she said, dry-eyed but smiling. After pulling on a hooded cloak that had been provided by the Lionguard, she followed me through the waypoint once again, the two of us stepping through to Salma. We climbed the stairs, Deborah refusing any help, and then—then we stood on the steps before our manor. She lifted her face, taking in the courtyard and the house’s façade, her breaths harsh and unsteady. Unnecessarily, I said, “Here we are.” 3 We made our way inside, Deborah still cloaked and hooded, both of us quiet. It was nearly evening, the tapers were lit, and the dim light of the entrance obscured what might have otherwise been glimpsed of her face. The handful of servants who passed by glanced at the mysterious figure in some bewilderment—but at this point used to my oddities, they simply continued about their business. She looked around, taking in the little changes and familiar arching lines of the manor, her breaths evening out a little. “Welcome home,” I told her. “Home,” she repeated wonderingly. “I’m home.” 4 We had only wandered about for a few minutes, Deborah trailing her fingers over furniture and ornaments, when we heard the front doors open, followed by our mother’s voice. “Yes, yes—that’s right—” My sister drew a sharp breath. “Come on,” I said, and led the way back to the entrance hall. Our mother had turned to slam the doors shut; she turned about again, catching sight of me—started to smile—then frowned at the cloaked figure beside me. “Who is this, Althea?” Deborah pushed her hood back. 5 Mother gasped. For a moment, she simply stared at her; then she took one hesitant step forward and whispered, “Deborah?” We nodded. “Deborah!” My mother ran towards us, and Deborah tore off the cloak and raced the rest of the way forwards, the two of them clasping each other in their arms. Mother ran her hands over Deborah’s cheeks, caught my sister’s face between her palms, kissed her hair and leaned her own face against it. She cried openly; and Deborah, at long last, sobbed too. 6 “My girl—oh, Deborah—how—” “Treason, Mama,” I said, drawing a little nearer. “Tervelan betrayed Falcon Company to the centaurs, but they sold Debs with some others.” “My poor girl,” said Mother, clutching Deborah tighter. Then she looked over her head at me. “You found her? You did this?” I hesitated, then answered, “Captain Thackeray helped.” 7 “Althea saved me,” Deborah insisted, sniffling. “Sweetheart,” said Mother, and I didn’t even know who she meant—I wasn’t sure she did, either—but then she tugged me closer and put her arms about us both, and we were all crying, and I’d never been so happy in my life. Once our tears dried, Mother led us over to her favourite parlour, sat us all down—though she kept her hands tightly clasped about ours—and urged us for an explanation. Deborah fell silent, and I could only imagine how little she wished to remember; instead, I quickly explained the plot and its discovery, and Logan’s role in all of it. “May Kormir bless Captain Thackeray,” said Mother. Then, turning to me, she touched my cheek. “And may all the Six bless you, Althea.” FORTY-TWO 1 For a week, Deborah slept on and off, while Mother hovered over her and I tried to quietly supply whatever she needed. It was easier for me in some ways; I’d grown used to something like the life Deborah had chosen, for something like the same reasons, and I’d been the one to rescue her. The mission, for all of its horrors, had given me a peace of soul—if not quite of mind—that our mother could not share. It didn’t stop me from occasionally haunting Debs’s doorstep, of course. But Mother was in torment, now that she knew the whole truth, and now that nothing could be done for Deborah except keeping her fed and letting her rest. “That’s exactly what she didn’t have before,” I said. It didn’t help; Mother flinched and looked away. 2 The week passed in a blur for me. I stayed at Deborah's side when our mother, very reluctantly, went about Ministry business; I talked to Deborah of nothing in particular when she woke, making her eat and drink; I obeyed periodic summons from Logan and/or Anise, who were orchestrating the official return of Falcon Company alongside new plans for the queen’s protection. When I had time to spare, I found myself unwilling to dwell very much on anything, yet unable to go out and attend events as if nothing had happened. Instead, I spent most of my free time in a training hall I’d fashioned (well, ordered fashioned) out of an abandoned gallery in the manor. I practiced creating clones that would rush up and attack, clones that would protect me, clones that would generate spells themselves, all as indistinguishable as possible. I adjusted the details of illusionary images I made up to confuse people before I blasted them. I turned clones on myself to practice with my sword, my skin damp with sweat—did anything but think of what my sister had suffered. 3 I was there at the end of the week, tossing my sword from one hand to the other, trying very hard not to think about centaurs, and then only about vengeance. I took up a focus for my magic—all the more useful with the chaos magic I drew on—and held my sword in my main hand, imagining Tervelan and then Caudecus. Slash, gash, stab. I ducked a bolt of chaos from the last clone and lashed out with a crippling curtain of light. Slash, gash, stab. Slash—the clone was down. And behind me, someone clapped. 4 I whirled around, one hand tight on the focus, the other already lifting my sword for attack. The stranger stepped out of the shadows— It was my sister. “Very impressive,” she said. Irrationally, I felt embarrassed. “I’m not anything to Anise.” “Nobody is anything to Anise,” said Deborah. 5 “That’s why she’s Master Exemplar, but what you’re doing is nothing to sneeze at.” She paused. “Your magic looks like hers, even.” “She trained me,” I replied, setting the focus down on a nearby table. Deborah was frowning a little, though I wasn’t sure why. I couldn’t read her. “You’ve changed, Althea,” she said quietly. 6 I sheathed my sword, unsure of what to say. Deborah headed for the door, gesturing for me to follow her. We walked a few steps through the high stone walls in silence. At last, I said, “I had to.” “No,” said Deborah, “you didn’t.” Puzzled, I glanced at her. I had made my choices, of course, but it often seemed that each step I took followed inexorably from the one before it—however far those steps might have taken me, might take me in the future. 7 “It felt like it,” I told her. “After you—afterwards, I couldn’t stop thinking of what you said when you joined the Seraph, about Ebonhawke and what it means to be a true Ascalonian, and I … I couldn’t ignore the rest of the world any more.” “I wasn’t talking about you!” exclaimed Deborah, her eyes growing wide. “I know,” I said, and I did, though that had never helped much, “but I just wanted to do something—I had to do something—so I asked Anise to teach me, and then the centaurs came to Shaemoor, and … and I couldn’t be you, but I did want to be someone you would have been proud of.” At her startled look, I hurried on, “But I still like the same things, clothes and mapmaking and—I’m still myself, Debs.” She grasped my arm and said, “You promise?” “I promise.”

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