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darth-rainbow · 4 years

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Basically, I have a fanfic going on called 'The Traveler' and it follows Lucie, my main character through the multiverse. At this point, Lucie and Clary have been hiding in Narnia. The rest of the Shadowhunters crew finds them and basically, so does Jonathan & Leith (Lucie's brother, a well trained hunter) and they slaugher them. Do you guys mind reading and giving me some feedback?

WARNING : It's pretty gorey and blood filed.

ps : wooden mallets are because Lucie & Clary were playing croquet before they rejoined with the rest of the gang.

"Can you please stop pacing? It's frustrating me." Alec told his parabatai. Jace rolled his eyes but halted his steps, standing arms crossed next to Isabelle. The female was chewing on her nails, apprehension growing in her eyes. She had no idea of when that Clary had been taken from reality. But it was still Clary, her Clary. And knowing that she was safe, would be enough. It had to. Magnus fondly glanced towards his seemingly exasperated lover. Bringing a hand to Alec's face, he gently ran a thumb along the male's cheek. "Thank you." Alec said softly, mustering an exhausted smile. Magnus gave a silent nod, before pressing his lips against Alec's in a short kiss.

Wooden mallets in hand, Lucie and Clary entered the vast castle hall. The redhead instantaneously recognized her friends standing at the center and dropped the possible weapon, rushing into Simon's open arms. Clary tightened her grip around the male's neck as she felt Simon shake a little, recognizing the muffled pants against her neck. He was crying. "Hey, hey, it's okay Si. I swear, I'm okay." The redhead promised, glancing with confusion towards the rest of the group. Clary nodded when Isabelle mouthed the word 'later', holding her best friend just a little tighter.

Lucie stood a couple of meters back, a perplexed expression on her features. The female recognized none of these people, and she knew she wasn't supposed to, since she hadn't met them yet. But there was something disappointing in not being able to recognize a single face. Tightening her grip around her wooden mallet, she watched as the blond took a couple of steps towards her. "You're alive." He said, looking so relieved.

"Huh, yeah." The female replied, uncertainty coloring her voice.

The blond smiled, letting out a breath that visibly moved his chest. It was as if an invisible weight had been removed from it. "You're alive." He repeated, bringing a hand to Lucie's cheek.

"Jace, don't..." Too late. Out of reflex, the Traveler grabbed his wrist and twisted it, forcibly removing his hand. Clary sighed, untangling herself from Simon completely to face the blond. "She's from the past." The redhead finished, belatedly. "A past in which she hasn't met us yet. She's not even a Traveler." The blond rose his eyebrows at the information, eyes flickering from Clary to Lucie. Narrowing them, he took the time to examine the female's features. He saw the subtle shift, the greater roundness of her cheeks, and the missing spark in her gaze.

Lucie blinked at the visibly wounded expression on the male's face, her features loosing the animosity. "I'm sorry." She said softly, letting go of the male's wrist as if she'd been burnt. "Just don't..." She shook her head. "Don't do that."

After a beat, the blond nodded. "I won't." Jace's lips parted as he heaved a soft sigh, taking a couple of steps back. "You're from the," he wet his bottom lip. "the past." He finished, in a whisper. "Okay. I can, I, it's fine." He nodded a few times. The blond cleared his throat, visibly embarrassed. "Sorry. I, I didn't knew."

Lucie pressed her lips together, as she clutched the mallet with the both of her hands, protectively holding it against her chest. "It's fine." She repeated, before swallowing thickly.

Jace furrowed his brows. "No. It's not. It made you visibly uncomfortable. That's not fine. I'm truly sorry for invading your space. It's just that my Lucie, I mean, the one I knew, she—"

"You had a different bond. I get it." The Traveler said. "If anything, I'm sorry for you. But I'm just not your, Lucie."

Jace nodded. "Thank you for being so understanding." The female shrugged as a reply and the blond sighed, turning to face his brother. Alec instinctively grew closer to his parabatai, gently putting a hand on Jace's shoulder. The taller male nodded and the two exhaled in synch. This was fine. A minor set back. Jace could deal with it.

Clary and Isabelle observed one another, uncertainty mirrored in the gazes they exchanged. "Iz, I..." The redhead swallowed thickly, reducing the distance between her and the brunette.

Isabelle's gradually gently curled up, eyes filling with tears. "I thought," she breathed through her nose, trying to stop herself from actually crying. "I thought I'd lost you." She breathed out, as the first tears started to roll down. "I thought I'd never see you again." Clary shook her head, taking ahold of Izzy's hands and gently squeezing them. "Please," The shadowhunter looked down at their hands. "don't interrupt me. I need to say it. I know, you're not," She looked up, smiling. "you're not exactly the Clary I lost. But you're still my Clary, right?" She asked, letting out a short chuckle when the redhead nodded at the words. "I love you Clary. I truly do." She admitted, before squeezing her eyes shut.

Clary slid her fingers between Isabelle's, intertwining them. "Iz," She whispered out, lovingly. "look at me. Please." The brunette let out a long breath before obeying, her eyes meeting with Clary's. "I love you too." She replied. "I've probably loved you since you said 'You have me. And that's not gonna change.' I think." The redhead let out a short laugh. "I wasn't lying at the Seelie Court." Isabelle let out a breath she didn't knew she was holding, smiling at the female.

"Does anyone get a little bit of a gay vibe?" Simon interrupted, earning himself a chuckle from Clary. "Sorry, I had too." The redhead scrunched her nose, fondly shaking her head for a second. "The occasion was too great." Simon went on, seeing the glare Alec shot his way.

The two females focused back on each other. Tentatively, Clary reached out for Isabelle. Cradling the brunette's face in her hands, she wiped away the traces of tears left her cheeks. Isabelle stood, eyes wide and full of vulnerability as the redhead gently ran her thumbs on her cheeks. Clary leant in, smiling when Isabelle gave a short nod and met her halfway. Their first kiss was tentative, a way to translate both fondness and longing. There was no regret in there, no haste. The two had enjoyed their friendship. This made sense. This was the next step. And they'd gotten there very organically.

"I am deeply, deeply touched. Moved beyond measures, really." A male voice interrupted, seemingly coming from nowhere. Lucie stilled as she recognized it, drawing in a loud breath.

"I, personally am disgusted." Another male voice said. This one familiar to everybody in the room. "How could you, sister?" The voice asked, seemingly coming from closer.

Isabelle protectively stood in front of Clary, lifting up her seraph blade. "Magnus?" She called, hoping he'd have a solution to make their opponents visible again.

With a swift kick, Lucie sent the wooden mallet towards Clary feet. The Traveler's stance shifted as she anchored her feet to the ground, protectively holding an arm in front of her as she kept her weapon raised.

"You truly think that little toy of yours will be able to stop me, sister?" Lucie snarled at the voice, wildly swinging the mallet in front of her. He sounded so close, so uncomfortably close.

"You think you could stop us at all?" Jonathan asked, a whisper in Jace's ear. The blond flung his elbow backwards, to be met with nothing but a pleased chuckle having distanced itself.

Eyes shut as power seemed to flow through his ignited hands, the warlock was channeling his powers to create a growing sphere of energy. Being a warlock and not a seelie, the communion with elements, especially when it came to the generation of matter that wasn't there was difficult. But he was, the High Warlock of Brooklyn, and soon enough, the blue sphere was elevating itself in the air. Magnus reopened his eyes, the feline part of him in full display as his yellow orbs glowed. With a flick of the wrist, the warlock made the sphere explode, dousing everybody in water. With more ease, he then generated a yellow orb that grew as it elevated itself towards the ceiling, smiling, the warlock made it explode by lowering his hand towards the ground, covering everyone in the room with sand. "I couldn't think of a visibility spell, I don't know egyptian magic enough." He admitted, panting slightly.

Alec grinned at his boyfriend. "You're a genius, Mags." He told him, before his eyes trailed ahead, searching for masses with no body. "Jace!" He called, nocking an arrow. "Duck." He told the blood, before shooting. Sadly, the arrow went through nothingness, both Jace and their invisible opponent getting out of the way. Isabelle and Clary stood back to back, matching determined expression on their features as they awaited to be attacked. Using his enhanced speed, Simon lunged at one of their opponents, wrapping his arms around them. His teeth sank into what he hoped was a neck to be met with a burning sensation. The male withdrew as soon as possible, spitting out the black, viscous liquid.

"What? Can't handle a little ichor, Downworlder?" Jonathan asked, watching the vampire crouch forward as the acidic blood burnt his lower lip. "It's in your veins now." He pointed on, as Simon fell onto his knees. The male raised his sword, planning to cut off Simon's head when an arrow lodged itself into his wrist. Hurling in pain, Jonathan dropped the blade to pull it out. Working in tandem with his boyfriend, Magnus sent a blast of red magic in the direction of their opponent, sending him flying backwards.

Meanwhile, Lucie was struggling with her own brother. While she was able to distinguish a vague shape thanks to the sand clinging onto him, she couldn't actually see his weapon. Whomever had cloaked the two, had done a pretty darn good job. A hand grabbed her wrist as she flung the wooden mallet forward towards the level of his head. Jace saw an opening, moving forwards to stab the male's side with his blade, but Leith dragged Lucie to him, pivoting his body to face Jace in a swift movement. He watched as horror wrote itself on the blond's features while his blade sank in the female's stomach. The hunter pushed Lucie forwards with an amused chuckle, shoving her into Jace's arms.

"Magnus!" Jace called, catching the Traveler.

"I'm fine." Lucie hissed, applying pressure on her wound. "Finish him." She let out through gritted teeth.

Jace shook his head. "I've already lost you once." He weakly argued, his gaze gaining a certain glaze.

"You don't know me." The female replied, disbelieving. Her lips remained parted, short pants coming out. Jace bit his upper lip at the word, holding onto her still. The female furrowed her brows, wondering what could possibly make her worth any sacrifice? She'd handled much worse pain in her life. Had fought through much worse pain. But there he was, holding her as if she was fragile, as if she was worth protecting. Tears welled in the female's eyes as gently pushed him away. Lucie sucked in a sharp breath, forcing herself to stand tall. "I'm fine." She repeated.

Clary had rushed to her best friend, gathering Simon's head and gently holding it as she brought her wrist to his lips. "Simon, please..." She whispered, ignoring the burning sensation of ichor on her own skin.

The vampire weakly shook his head. "Protect you. M'fine." He spoke, struggling as the demon blood burnt in him. Tears welled in the redhead's eyes as she pressed her wrist harder, sensing fangs coming out. "No—" Simon's plea was cut short by Clary thrusting her wrist into his mouth, letting out a sigh of relief as teeth sank in. Izzy was hovering over the two in a protective stance, unfurled whip in a hand and seraph in the other. Alec carefully retreated to stand beside his sister as Magnus threw blasts of red energy towards an ever elusive target.

Forgotten to the group, was a certain Shadowhunter, infused with demon blood prior to his birth. After entirely pulling out the arrow out of his arm, Jonathan applied an iratze and forced himself back onto his feet. The male ran to the wooden mallet forgotten by Clary, dodging the arrows sent his way by a particularly skilled Alec. But the Morgenstern son was just as deft when it came to weapons, and with a well-aimed throw, he managed to hit Magnus in the head, temporarily distracting the archer who yelled his partner's name, and ran to him, in order to protect him against any assault of Lucie's brother. Isabelle saw an opportunity, her whip easily wrapping around Jonathan's. The male chuckled, wrapping his two hands around it and tugged the brunette to him. "When will you learn?" He asked, disbelieving and a little amused as he kept dragging her closer, barely affected by the burning sensation on his skin. The female let go of the weapon, laying face first onto the ground, a couple of feet away from him. Unsheathing a dagger, Jonathan chuckled, grabbing the female's hair and harshly tugging. "I wish you could see me, I would I could be the last thing you see before you depart for the after life." He chuckled. "But I guess there's no room for sentiment today." He finished, sinking the blade into the female's throat.

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" Clary screamed, planning to lung at the male. Simon held her back, firmly wrapping his arms around her as tears formed in the both of them's eyes.

Alec turned at the gut wrenching cry, facing away from his opponent. Just the second Leith needed to sank his blade into the male's back and harshly tug it out. The eldest Lightwood fell onto his knees as blood stared to trickle down his chin and fill his lungs. Tears welled into Alec's eyes as his body fell sideways, next go Magnus' unconscious form.

The air was knocked out of Jace's lungs as the blond faltered, the strength of the pain hitting much harder than he would've anticipated. Tears welled in the blond's eyes as the realization hit him : His parabatai, his brother, was dying. Confused, Lucie kneeled in front of him, forcing herself to him straight even if it meant releasing the pressure on her own wound. Cupping the blond's face with her hands, the female frowned, unexpected tremors moving her chin. "How, how can I help?" She asked. Jace shook his head as tears rolled down his cheeks. Because there was nothing she could do. The blond squeezed his eyes shut as he felt the parabatai rune fade away, taking with it Alec's last breath.

Seeing the shape that moved closer to the two, Simon vamp sped between Jace and Leith, not caring about the blade that sank in his stomach as his fangs pierce skin. Mundane blood, he noticed as a sort of hazy afterthought, as he felt the male go lax into his grip. Simon forced himself to keep drinking, with the intent to drain, with the intent to kill. Despite the blade lodged in him.

Clary had picked up Jonathan's own seraph blade, anger darkening her gaze as a determined snarled settled on her features. "Show yourself." She said.

"I would, if I could. But it's not my magic." The male explained. "It'll make things easier this way. For both of us, sister." He spoke, lunging at Clary with a dagger for sole weapon.

Leith's body soundlessly hit the ground, becoming visible again now that death had claimed him. Tears rolled down Lucie's cheeks as she glanced past Jace's shoulders. Pressing her lips together as Simon turned to face them, she saw the blade lodged there. She saw the despair of the male as his eye shot to Clary. The redhead seemed to be holding her own, anger fueled and driven, but how long would it last? Inhaling deeply, Lucie glanced down at Jace. "I'll buy you time." She said, before wiping away a tear that had rolled down the blond's cheek. "But you have to win." The female finished, before standing up. She marched to Simon, pulling out the blade in his chest and letting it clatter at her feet. "She'll need you. The both of you." She spoke, exposing her neck. "Don't bother fighting it. I'm already bleeding. I'm dead weight." Simon shot a final glance at Clary, seeing the female push forward against a much shorter blade, teeth gritted due to the strain and sank his teeth in Lucie's neck.

Upon hearing the redhead moan in pain, Jace was forced out of his transe, eyes glowing golden. Nostrils flared and teeth gritted, the blond picked up the blade a few feet away and leaped to Clary and Jonathan, every rune on his body possessing a match glow.

Simon gently laid Lucie's body on the floor, nodding as she mouthed 'win', a tired smile on her features. He glanced towards Clary, to see that the female had a cut on her cheek and another, seemingly deeper on her neck. Meanwhile, Jace and Jonathan were fighting each other, matching determination in their belligerent gazes. But Jace was still weakened by the loss of his family, and despite having a much shorter blade, Jonathan seemed to be doing a lot more damage. Simon vamp sped to the two, once again sinking his fangs in their opponent's neck, but with every intent to drain a lot more this time. So Simon kept going, despite the burning sensation filling his veins and sneaking under his skin. Simon kept going until Jace buried the blade he was wielding into the man's chest. He then let go, falling onto his knees as he started to vomit dark ichor, tears of the little good blood left in his rolling down his cheeks. The acidic venom seemed to be spreading everywhere, despite his best attempts to regurgitate it, and soon Simon was crying tears of ichor, the liquid asphyxiating him into he passed out.

Clary glanced around the room, pressing a hand against her mouth as she sobbed. "It's..." She struggled to take in a breath. "It's all my fault..." The female shook her head. "It's all my fault. They're all, they're—" She choked out on sobs. Tears freely rolling down his cheeks, Jace slowly marched towards the female.

A detail neglected by the blond, was that the invisibility spell placed on Jonathan hadn't been lifted, like it had been for Leith upon his death. The male had risen to his feet, and before Jace could actually embrace Clary, his head was neatly chopped off, stains of the blood spattering the redhead's face. "I'm truly sorry, sister." Jonathan spoke, seeing the look of utter horror on the female's face as Jace's body fell to the ground. Letting out a soft, satisfied chuckle, Jonathan crossed over it to stand in front of her. He reached out for Clary's face, running his thumb along her cheek. "But you'll be my princess soon." He whispered, to an unmoving Clary, tears freely rolling down her cheeks, the sheer shock paralyzing her. "I promise." He added, sinking the blade in her ribcage. The male's eyes fell shut as he let go of her cheek, watching the exhausted female not even bother to fight for life. "Ave, Atque, Vale." He spoke, tears rolling down.

https://my.w.tt/MnpQQYMAU4

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theweekinarrowfic · 3 years

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Completed Arrow Multichapters on AO3, December 20-26, 2020

NOTE: I’m now crossposting to https://theweekinarrowfic.dreamwidth.org. Also, I'm looking for volunteers to test out my fic recommender! Need more Arrow in your life? Why not try one of the multchapter fanfics recently completed by our talented fic writers?

Olicity

Initial Contact by sidhe_faerie (2/2, 21 Dec 2020) - Hacker and Assassin verse

Contac: Hiding: Out by sidhe_faerie (2/2, 21 Dec 2020) - Yahtzee Set 2 Large straight all five connected in one story,

my love had been frozen deep blue (but you painted me golden) by MagusLibera for damnsmoaky (4/4, 22 Dec 2020) - Twenty-five years after Sozin's Comet was used to wipe out the airbenders, the war is making it's way to the Earth Kingdom. After realising that the cause he was fighting for was a lie, Oliver defected from the army to fight against his own people with his team - an earthbender, two former army comrades and a girl from the Southern Water Tribe. But his mission is interrupted when news from the Fire Nation reaches him, forcing him to head home for the first time in five years.; Set during the Hundred Year War from Avatar: The Last Airbender. Knowledge of the show will enhance the story but is not necessary to read it as this is set before the first episode.

all I want for Christmas is a divorce (is you) by thecomebackkids99 (6/6, 24 Dec 2020) - Oliver Queen and Felicity Smoak divorced over a year ago. But just a few days before Christmas, the tabloids dig up a juicy tidbit: the divorce was never finalized. Which causes a few fights, an exasperated friend or two to say something crazy, and an awkward car ride that brings the bitterness, the pain, and the truth to light.; Because Oliver Queen and Felicity Smoak are technically still married.

The Trouble With Tabloids by starrnobella (24/24, 26 Dec 2020) - All that tabloids are good for is to spread rumors.

Other Ships/Characters

As Long as it Takes by mizar24 (Dinah Drake/Earth-2 Laurel, 2/2, 26 Dec 2020) - laurel thinks that if they date, dinah will eventually end up leaving her so dinah's going to prove her wrong - as long as it takes

Dysfunctional Families by KleptoElf (Laurel/Oliver, 3/3, 23 Dec 2020) - Oliver just wants to get away from his life for a few hours. Laurel just wants a distraction from having to spend another Christmas with her dysfunctional family. Maybe they can both get what they want.

Scientific Method by kitkatt0430 (Barry Allen/Oliver, 5/5, 21 Dec 2020) - Barry Allen arrives in Starling City intending to get his foot in the door on a particularly unusual and interesting case. Maybe find out a little more about the Starling City Vigilante if the topic happened to come up.; He did not expect to be saving that Vigilante's life, but the world is a weird place. Barry's known that much for a very long time, after all.

The scientist and the dog by 47652 (Barry Allen/Felicity, 6/6, 22 Dec 2020) - Basically a AU of the scientist where Berry Allen has a service dog.; This Follows the events of the scientist (season two episode eight of arrow)

An Arrow Christmas Carol by Xenia (Laurel/Oliver, 7/7, 24 Dec 2020) - Oliver is trying to make things work with Felicity. Tommy, his parents and Shado think that Felicity isn't right for him. And what better period for some friendly ghost visit?

Crisis on Infinite Earths by IAmMattis (James "Bucky" Barnes/Laurel, 10/10, 26 Dec 2020) - The time has come. Worlds will live, worlds will die and the Universe will never be same. Discontinued. Final chapter and epilogue are now posted.

Byline by Write_To_You (Barry Allen/Caitlin Snow, Oliver listed as character, 11/11, 25 Dec 2020) - “Flash Missing, Vanishes in Crises, by Iris West,” Caitlin repeated. “Thursday, April 25... 2018.” She stumbled a step back, blood draining from her face. “Oh my gosh,” she whispered. “That’s next week.”; OR the third installment in the Flux series, in which Team Flash realizes that Crisis is coming a lot sooner than they ever thought.

Attack on two earths by Stand_with_Ward_and_Queen (Steve Rogers/Caitlin Snow, Sara/Oliver and Thea/Roy among side pairings, 12/12, 21 Dec 2020) - Sequel to 'Torn between two timelines'. Two months after their engagement, Steve and Caitlin's closest friends all gather for their wedding. Unfortunately, ghosts from the past are unwilling to let the happy couple celebrate this moment in peace.

Bird in a Storm by Ray_Writes (Laurel/Oliver, 17/17, 26 Dec 2020) - The confrontation between the Hood and SWAT on the roof of the Winick Building goes differently, altering the course of Laurel's career, relationships and efforts to save her city forever, the shockwaves of such an altered path making themselves felt throughout her family and friends.

The Traveler by Darth_Rainbow_Queen_Of_Coconuts (OFC-centric, Oliver listed as character, 32/32, 25 Dec 2020) - Lucie Aconite ran away from home.; The trained hunter away from past traumas, ran away from dark memories, ran away from a twisted family. She joined the Travelers, an organization that exist outside of any temporal zones and made of people who will never matter. Their purpose? Lend a hand to heroes in need, make sure those are the ones history will remember.; So now, Lucie travels. To very, very, different places. Different universes, different worlds. Along her way, she met Shadowhunters, Demigods, Werewolves, Warlocks, Seelies, Emissaries, Vampires, Passlings, etc. But no matter how far she goes, something will always take her back right where she started...; I own nothing but Lucie and the adventures she will live.; [AU including Shadowhunters, Teen Wolf, The Chronicles of Narnia, TVD, The Originals, Charmed, PJO/HoO/Kane Chronicles, and others. Very freely inspired though.]

Vigilantes' Dawn by Kylia (Laurel/Oliver, 32/32, 20 Dec 2020) - What if Oliver Queen hadn't let his commitment issues sabotage things with Laurel? What if he'd invited Laurel onto the Queen's Gambit, instead of Sara? And what happens in Starling City when, five years later, The Arrow and the Black Canary, together, go after the List and the rest of the City's criminals? And what happens when Detective Sara Lance finds out her sister is one of the two Vigilantes that are bringing on the dawn of a new age?

#arrow #Olicity #lauriver #olivarry #dinahsiren

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liquidstar · 4 years

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I finally got around to giving birthdays to ALL my current established ocs in my main ocverse. Nextgen is included but just the main cast which is why I said “established”. I’ll update it for antagonists and side characters and stuff once I actually develop them more :p I’m putting it under the cut if anyone wants to see but for the most part its for my own reference lol. Note: It’s ordered by date order not age

Damask- Jan 1st

Rye- Jan. 2nd

Willow- Jan. 4th

Jatropha- Jan. 8th

Laurel- Jan. 10th

Dill- Jan. 12th

Thyme- Jan. 12th

Mace- Jan 16th

Nerium- Jan. 18th

Snowdrop- Jan. 19th

Anne-Lace- Jan. 20th

Liatris- Jan. 21st

Hyacinth- Jan. 28th

Violet- Jan. 30th

Wedellia- Feb. 1st

Myosotis- Feb. 3rd

Thistle- Feb. 4th

Nettle- Feb. 5th

Ironwood- Feb. 6th

Pinocchio- Feb. 7th

Freesia- Feb. 8th

Snowflake- Feb. 9th

Coriander- Feb. 14th

Kalmia- Feb. 15th

Protea- Feb. 21st

Celandine- Feb. 24th

Fungus- Feb. 29th

Fuschia- Mar. 3rd

Bluebell- Mar. 7th

Rowan- Mar. 10th

Tansy- Mar. 12th

Lily- Mar. 13th

Aconite- Mar. 14th

Arum- Mar. 15th

Clover- Mar. 17th

Geran- Mar. 19th

Elm- Mar- 20th

Althea- Mar. 21st

Hydrangea- Mar. 22nd

Pansy- Mar. 25th

Basil- Mar. 28th

Heather- Mar. 31st

Star- Apr. 2nd

Tulip- Apr. 4th

Anemone- Apr. 7th

Nemesia- Apr. 9th

Erigeron- Apr. 10th

Cornelia- Apr. 11th

Delphi- Apr. 14th

Aloe- Apr. 15th

Ivy- Apr. 16th

Maple- Apr. 17th

Broom- Apr. 23rd

Canna- Apr. 26th

Almond- Apr. 30th

Amary- May 1st

Celosia- May 2nd

Astilbe- May 4th

Yarrow- May 5th

Aster- May 8th

Weigela- May 10th

Calendula- May 11th

Cherry- May 12th

Oak- May 15th

Peach- May 16th

Lotus- May 18th

Chrysanthemum- May 20th

Gallica- May 22nd

Musk- May 22nd

Kale- May 31st

Mullein- June 5th

Zinnia- June 7th

Delilah- June 8th

Linden- June 9th

Coralline- June 11th

Juniper- June 13th

Mint- June 15th

Magn- June 18th

Morel- June 19th

Aster2- June 20th

Viscaria- June 21st

Jasmine- June 24th

Solidago- June 28th

Buttercup- June 31st

Sun- July 1st

Carnation- July 3rd

Narcissus- July 5th

Rosemary- July 7th

Strawberry- July 9th

Rose- July 12th

Senna- July 13th

Cowslip- July 14th

Ilex- July 16th

Jonquil- July 17th

Snowgum- July 18th

Ash- July 23rd

Clove- July 29th

Ambrosia- Aug. 1st

Poppy- Aug. 2nd

Tam- Aug. 4th

Hibiscus- Aug. 6th

Osier- Aug. 9th

Sycamore- Aug. 11th

Lupine- Aug. 14th

Azalea- Aug. 18th

Bamboo- Aug. 19th

Fir- Aug. 21st

Zephyr- Aug. 22nd

Clarkia- Aug. 27th

Tarragon- Aug. 30th

Wisteria- Aug. 31st

Cactus- Sep. 3rd

Sorrel- Sep. 5th

Nemorosa- Sep. 7th

Begonia- Sep. 8th

Cosmos- Sep. 13th

Plumeria- Sep. 16th

Daphne- Sep. 17th

Calla- Sep. 19th

Vanilla- Sep. 21st

Mallow- Sep. 23rd

Belladonna- Sep. 25th

Trillium- Sep. 29th

Cirsium- Sep. 30th

Fennel- Oct. 1st

Ginger- Oct. 4th

Angrec- Oct. 7th

Gentiana- Oct. 8th

Lucy- Oct. 9th

Gladiolus- Oct. 10th

Daisy- Oct. 13th

Nettle2- Oct. 16th

Valerian- Oct. 23rd

Primrose- Oct. 25th

Nepeta- Oct. 29th

Camellia- Oct. 30th

Brier- Oct. 31st

Marigold- Nov. 1st

Veronica- Nov. 2nd

Candy- Nov. 4th

Lisianthus- Nov. 7th

Rue- Nov. 11th

Olive- Nov. 14th

Cypress- Nov. 15th

Hazel- Nov. 16th

Vervain- Nov. 18th

Lobelia- Nov. 19th

Hosta- Nov. 21st

Heliotrope- Nov. 25th

Hellebore- Nov 30th

Phlox- Nov. 31st

Amaranth- Dec 2nd

Moon- Dec. 4th

Peony- Dec. 6th

Reed- Dec. 8th

Asphodel- Dec. 9th

Lavender- Dec. 10th

Kelp- Dec. 12th

Gaura- Dec. 18th

Velvet- Dec. 20th

Winter- Dec. 21st

Pine- Dec. 24th

Holly- Dec. 25th

Petunia- Dec. 29th

Iris- No birthday :(

Crocus- No birthday :(

#finn's ocs #so if i start doing those moodboards i said expect me to start from fennel on the 1st of october and go from there #i dont think ill do one for EVERY character tho . we'll see

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ryebecca · 1 year

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TV Tag Game!

List 8 shows for your followers to get to know you better. Tagged by @writercole! ❤️ Started a new post because the other one was getting too long.

Mad Men

The Golden Girls

I Love Lucy

House

Law & Order / Law & Order: SVU

Sherlock

Miss Fisher’s Murder Mysteries

Castle

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fafulous · 6 years

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New Orleans’ Auror (TOxHP) Chapter 12

Co-Author: @sweetpea-cc

Chapter 1 | Chapter 11

"Okay," whispered Willow to herself as she folded the letter. Elijah's eyes swayed from the letters to her nonplussed face, "Sir Carlisle, you do realize it's just-"

"A MINISTRY INSPECTION! Oh, goodness do you not understand the seriousness of the issue? What are they going to think of us? I told you not to get involved with these unmindful vampires-"

"CARLISLE!" Willow's eyes bulged out, as she had caught Carlisle's attention, eyeing the man beside her in hopes of making him understand that he was a vampire.

"Is that- you have brought that Mikaelson to this house?"

Elijah coughed as he saw Willow stand up, her eyes rolling in irritation. "Okay, that's enough Carlisle! It's not as severe as you think it is."

"Is that so my lady? The Minister for Magic, the Head of Auror Office and the Deputy Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement are visiting us for an official inspection!-"

"-Which is Kingsley Shacklebolt, Harry Potter and Hermione Granger respectively, who were part of the Order and my good friends!"

Immediately Elijah stood up, realizing it was ill-mannered of him to sit down while an argument was in smoothly undergoing.

"I don't know what you heard back at their offices, but they've mentioned it's an informal visit to check up on the weird happenings around here before they bring in the MACUSA," Willow paused as she looked up to Elijah who was standing beside her, sensing his discomfort, "Elijah, I am so sorry-"

"Should I go? It seems like I have interrupted something important."

"No no!" Willow said in a higher tone, grabbing his hand spontaneously, gesturing him not to leave, "I am going to wrap this up right away."

Willow glared at Sir Carlisle, "However, they have not mentioned when they are visiting. I suppose they will be dropping in tonight deciphering from your demeanor-"

"Uh," he stammered as he adjusted his Monocle looking at a white piece of paper, "they're visiting tomorrow at Three Post Meridian, American Timing."

Willow raised her eyebrow, heaving a sigh. "You were panicking about a ministry inspection, that was scheduled for tomorrow?"

"Why wouldn't I Willow?" asserted Carlisle, anxiety filling his face, "I know they are your good companions but look at your current situation. You're in a spot because of your interference with them and depressive too. I have never seen you like this ever since-"

"Shh Carlisle!" she hushed him quickly before he could spill any more beans.

"What?" questioned Elijah, dramatically turning his direction to Willow, his hands still being held onto by her, "Depressive?"

Willow side glanced at him and gave him a weak smile. It was true, the dreams have been nothing but depressive. But she did not want to talk about it now, not when Elijah was here.

"Carlisle. Thank you for your concern, but you see everything is going to be just fine. They will come tomorrow and I will talk about every single incident that took place BUT-" she interjected before Carlisle was about to interrupt her, "as they have mentioned here, you will not tell anyone in the ministry about the existence of the Mikaelsons unless and until I ask you to do so. Do you get that? Now, let us be please."

Carlisle nodded as he placed his monocle back into his pocket. Willow realized she was still holding Elijah's hand, as they both simultaneously looked down at their arms. She quickly removed them to reduce the awkwardness that was soon about to circle them.

"The possibilities are very high but are you in trouble because of us?" questioned Elijah.

"It is nothing really-"

"No," he almost closed the gap between the two and she had to look up at him, which slightly hurt her neck, "My family has a way of bringing people into problems where they shouldn't have been in the first place. So I am urging you to confide in me as much as you can." He was so assertive that there was no way of escaping his questions. Carlisle was still there in his portrait, making Willow not want to talk in front of him.

Willow turned around and walked to her yard, with Elijah following her behind. She stopped at the stairs which led to the beautiful greenhouse that Willow had just finished building. Inside she could hear Lucy arranging and moving things around. She noticed Elijah was now standing beside her, inhaling a particular cologne she realized that was unique to him alone. It stirred her heart with feelings she has never felt before and indeed, she was good at hiding those feelings.

"This is extraordinary. Is that your own Greenhouse?"

"Yes, it is. Would you like to take a look at it? I just finished it today."

"Gladly," he said, "Is that why you have a small mud stain on your the collar of your robe?

"Oh-" muttered Willow, not knowing that the collar of her robe was indeed dabbed with little, wet mud, "-I um must have missed that." She cursed herself, knowing that her clothes were soiled the whole time with Elijah.

Looking up at him, he handed over a pristine, white handkerchief to her. She thankfully took the piece of cloth and wiped her collars and her neck with it. Willow was too self-conscious, she didn't notice Elijah's eyes raking over her neck.

"I will return this to you once I clean this," her eyes twinkled, as she got down the stairs, leading Elijah to the greenhouse.

From the look on his face, Willow could pinpoint that he was extremely fascinated with the greenhouse. He tenderly placed his hands on a few of the plants he had never seen before and was surprised when they reacted gently to his touch.

"Will you ever cease to surprise me Willow?" he asked her, lifting his eyebrow at her. She responded with a chuckle that dulled her tired features.

"Never."

Elijah walked over to where Willow was standing, where she held a can of water. As she began to water her plants, she decided to talk noticing that he was right beside her, feeling the gentle brush of his suit.

"You must be knowing by now after meeting me that there are different magical worlds in every corner of this world," she stopped midway, putting her burgundy hair into a bun, which Elijah looked at keenly, "and each magical or wizarding world as we call it has a specific trace of magic. I think you can understand where I am going with this."

"There are traces of your world's magic in our world."

"Precisely!" she exclaimed. "Its common occurrence of it is bothering me and it is not supposed to happen."

"Common? It was just once, wasn't it? The night of Marcellus' party?"

It occurred to her that she hadn't mentioned Aurora to the Mikaelsons at all. She stopped walking, placing the water can near the Aconites.

"Elijah there is something you need to know," hesitated, Willow. His facial expressions did not change, piercing his eyes onto hers, "Lucy had found traces of our magic on Aurora."

"That's not possible," argued plainly Elijah, getting tensed, "she was bound to a sleeping curse that was of complex nature. So Klaus and I were assuming that if she has woken up, it must've been because of one of the coven witches."

Willow tensed, sensing him tense up too. "She was given a potion known to wake wizards and any kind of creatures from the deepest nights of sleep. Wiggenweld Potion."

Silence prevailed for a minute, Elijah being lost in thoughts about what she just said.

"I won't be surprised if you suspect me. Ever since I came here to this beautiful city all these things have been-"

"Nonsense," he furrowed his eyebrows, shooting a look at her "Do you think that low of me?"

"Not really," she said looking at him dreamily, "I just put myself in the shoes of a thousand-year-old vampire who cares about his family."

Willow resumed watering her plants, while Elijah was looking at her, speechless. He did not expect her to say that statement and frankly, he wondered if it had hurt her feelings when she said that. Centuries he has seen witches who would firstly defend themselves when found tangled in problems with the Mikaelsons. And here she was-

"I fear only one thing, Elijah. Someone or something out there is targeting your family. And as an Auror, I cannot and would never let anything happen to your family because of some lunatic who has no idea who he or she is messing with."

And here she was, an acquainted woman, who Elijah knew not less than a month worrying about his family just like he always does. He gave a small laugh at her statement, looking at her as she watered her plants again. There was something different about her. Something that drew Elijah to her all the time.

"How is Kol?"

He came out of his reverie as quickly as possible, "Kol? Oh yes, my brother doing well. However, he was genuinely worried about your absence. He even came to visit you, but it appeared as though-"

"Is he mad at me?"

"Mad at you? It would be insane of my brother to be mad at the woman who is the reason for him to stay with us." As Elijah said this, he may have felt a spark of envy at Willow's concerns for her younger brother. At a glance, they were invested in each other platonically, but luck was hard, especially for Elijah.

"Oh Elijah," she kept the can down again, "he came to visit me just like you did today. But I didn't invite him. I just wasn't in my normal state- OW YOU SON OF A-!"

Willow rapidly shook her fingers from the sting she received on her palm on which her scar stood proudly. Elijah didn't know to what to react - the fact that the woman he was subtly attracted to, though he was in utter denial, was on the verge of swearing or the fact that she was hurt.

"I'm still not familiar with the placements of these plants. If I am not wrong these must be the Nettles," she went on breathlessly looking at her wound, "they have stinging hairs that can really be a pain in the-"

She felt two large, rough palms cup her own. "The propensity for you to jabber is very high in the slightest of injuries is it?" His eyes twinkled at her, as he wrapped her palms completely in his, directing her outside the greenhouse.

"You could say that," smiled Willow, as she sat down at the bench right outside the greenhouse. In correlation, the small bench had the green tint similar to her greenhouse and right before it was a round table stand that conveniently had her wand placed on top of it.

He gently opened her palms, the sting which was now the size of a small lemon. Reaching out for her wand with her left arm with discomfort, her body inadvertently brushed Elijah, making her face completely a red color fruit. She heard him clear his throat as well, as she now held the hand with which she could never write with.

"Are you going to perform any spell?"

"Yes. It's a small one," she said, her hand shivering from the unfamiliar grip of her left hand. "Episkey!"

With a small wince, the inflammation decreased second by second. Elijah withdrew his grip as she flexed her fingers inwards and outwards making sure her hands worked the way they were supposed to, her eyes fixated on her scar, rekindling her memories.

"Are you alright?"

She looked at him instantly, "Y-yes, its healed so nothing to worry about."

Elijah stood up, startling Willow as she recalled her conversation to see if she had offended him in any way, just to see him removing his coat. "I'm not addressing to your physical wounds per se. The respectable person in that portrait mentioned something about you being depressive?"

Willow took in a deep breath and sighed. It appeared as though he was never going to leave the topic. It was an alien activity for Willow to confide in her personal happenings to anyone, especially to an acquaintance like Elijah.

Reading her expressions, Elijah spoke the words as he folded his coat and placed it neatly over the table.

"Unfortunately, I have not been my true self with you today, being inappropriately meddlesome with the questions. Please do pardon me."

But she wanted to tell him.

"No not at all, it's just- I find this too petty to be shared with a thousand-year-old vampire who probably has seen much more drastic stages of emotions. I have heard from Kol that emotions are heightened with Vampires. Isn't that correct?

He grinned and looked at Willow with warmth radiating from him, "A person's feelings are never petty, regardless of the magnanimity of the situation. And as far as the thousand-year-old vampire with heightened emotion goes, you wouldn't believe the slim similarity between us."

Willow gave a half-hearted smile at Elijah and turned her body fully towards him, her knees stuck together. "Elijah, since the night when we walked back home after the party, I have been having these dreams."

She looked at him, trying to decipher his reaction from her statement as he shifted his body towards her even more, his forehead wrinkling from the rapt attention he was giving her.

"They're not the ordinary dreams you see. I'm dreaming about certain episodes from my past that I have buried long ago. I feel so-"

"Trapped?" he interrupted as Elijah leaned back to the bench he was sitting on, looking at her with empathy. Willow would not know, but Elijah knew exactly how it felt to be caught in one's despised memories, all thanks to his mother's wrongdoings.

"Yes," Willow said slowly, "trapped."

Both of them didn't speak to each other for a minute, lost in their own world of thoughts. Willow zoned back to one of the nights held as a hostage with a group of ill-mannered wizards who misbehaved with her in ways she didn't even want to think of-

"Willow?" Elijah began to shake her, bringing himself closer to her as she pulled herself out of her trance as they both stared into each other's eyes, "your heart is beating at a rapid rate."

"You can hear the sound of my heart?" asked Willow, surprised by his skills even after the long conversations with Kol, but was thankful for him to bring her out of her thoughts.

"Yes," he responded gently nodding his head, hearing her heart beat against her scar studded chest. "What you're going through Willow is something I similarly more or less went through-"

Elijah who found himself unexpectedly opening up to her about something he never wanted to talk about was interrupted by a phone buzz that startled Willow even more.

"Who's there?" she shouted, grabbing her wand, standing up in a defensive stance. Looking around frantically she turned down to Elijah, realizing the incessant buzzing was coming from his hand, holding a black, shiny object.

"Nothing to worry, it's my phone," said Elijah, who was looking at this object that Willow was not familiar with initially. His eyes moved across the screen from left to right, reading words that appeared on that small screen.

"Is that a muggle device for communication?"

Elijah looked at her in fascination, almost about to break into a small laugh from the way she described a mere mobile, "Yes it is," he smiled, looking back at the phone.

"Oh," she whispered to herself slowly in thought, "The last time I used one, there were these really small buttons for each numeral. It was a terrible experience,"

Elijah left out a loud chuckle as he stood up, Willow curious as to why he was laughing.

"What's the matter?"

"Nothing. Just that my brothers need me," he heaved a sigh, "I have the tendency to forget that we come from different worlds with different perspectives,"

"But didn't you just say that there is that slim similarity between us? I'd like to begin from there."

Willow was so coy, she hadn't realized what she had said until she looked at him, giving her the look that melted her every time.

"I would like to begin from there too," he whispered, coming closer to her, "I think it's better you come out, explore the city instead of confining yourself to this house, no matter how exquisite it may be," earning a heartwarming smile from Willow from his flattering comment.

"I would really love that Elijah," she blushed, her cheeks flushing red. Honoring her last name, her cheeks became even redder when he lifted her palm and left a soft kiss to the back of her hand. He probably heard her heart zoom fast as a Firebolt.

"Until next time, Willow. Do write to me if you must."

Before she could say anything to him in a blink of her eye, he was out of her sight. All these 15 years of work made Willow a busy woman, as she rose to her successful position. The chances of her ending up with someone was always so thin, she would say to herself. But now it didn't look like it.

She took out Elijah's handkerchief out of her small pocket in her robe and looked at it. She held on to it firmly. Her day was made. Nothing from her past could ever bother her. Or so she wondered.

The next day arrived quicker than ever. The afternoon brunch was avoided, so used to controlling their bloodlust. Somehow, none of them didn't want to use their vampire speed. They didn't forget about it, it never just occurred to them.

"Nik! Stop!"

Klaus turned around looking at Rebekah and Elijah furiously. Somehow him being in threat was something that he expected his siblings to take in with seriousness.

"Don't you even think about it. Nothing can stop me."

Taking long striding steps, not caring about the muck around this filthy area of New Orleans, he reached the creaking porch, knocking the door furiously.

"I'm not going to fall for your tricks little witch, OPEN THE DOOR!"

Even after all that incessant banging of the door, Klaus was surprised by the fact that the door didn't break, despite the fact that it appeared to be old and splintered.

As though no one was banging her door as if their life depended on it, a calm Willow opened the door. She gave them a warm smile, as though expecting them to be there on her porch.

Taking a quick glance at Kol, Rebekah, and Elijah and nodding at each one with a smile, her gaze finally focussed on the one who was in front of them, trying his level best to enter the house.

"Klaus Mikaelson, why am I not surprised that it was you among the four who was banging my poor door?" she said, crossing her arms.

"Charmed. But you should know, I finally learned your tricks. I know why you're here and what you've come here for. I may have received some inside information from a passerby,"

"Oh?" she cocked her head, "Is that so? You told him about the meeting I suppose, Elijah?"

"Willow. I-"

"Don't worry, it was not only him," Klaus snarked, "If you're really not hiding anything from us, then let us in. I know we're two hours early, but we are patient."

"And why should I?" she asked, still calm and composed.

"Because I learned that this so-called meeting of yours is about us and the fact that the concerned party is not called really bothers me."

"This is absolutely insane" hissed Kol, looking apologetically at Willow.

"Actually. Guess what?" Willow's eyes twinkling, as she looked inside for a conspicuous amount of time and looked back at them, "You're not the only one who said that you should all have been called for this discussion.

"My friend Harry believes that too."

---

Chapter 13

Taglist: @sweetpea-cc @poemfreak306 @ranger-treaty @spunky-89 @kickasskittie23 @theroyalbrownbarbie @shanty-lol @bluetink2002 @henrietteoaks @leximarie66 @literally-anythin @naomi02hook @evyiione @heythereelejah @wolf-lover-bookdragon (Taglist is always open)

A/N: Y'ALL ENJOYING THIS I HOPE. IF YOU AREN'T THEN IM SORRY :(

ALSO, life's been a little busy so yeah the updates are a tad bit late these days :/

Have a good day my lil ones :) WHO IS EXICTED TO SEE HARRY?

#The originals #elijah mikaelson #elijah mikaelson imagines #elijah mikaelson x reader #harry potter #klaus mikaelson #kol mikaelson #rebekah mikaelson #hope mikaelson #the originals imagine #mikaelson #daniel gillies #elijah mikaelson x oc #the vampire diaries #tvd #the originals season 3 #fanfic #fanfiction #harry potter crossover

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moralhymn · 5 years

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▌FACE CLAIM : n / a . in game screenshots used for icons . ▌NAME : ardyn lucis caelum izunia . ▌AGE : well over two thousand ; forty five plus some change, in as far as he usually puts it . ▌HEIGHT : 6′ 8″ . him big . ▌SPECIES : unclear . formerly human . now a daemonhost . ▌GENDER : cis male , typically . he’s old . he doesn’t believe in gender norms . ▌NATIONALITY : unknown ; hails from insomnia . or at least what were the nascent territories of that state . ▌BIRTHDAY : unknown . he remembers it being in the middle of fall. but that’s about as close as he gets to it . ▌SUN SIGN : unknown . possibly scorpio . ▌RESIDENCE : verse dependent ; typically niflheim . ▌ALIGNMENT : unclear ; ranges from chaotic neutral to chaotic evil . chaotic chaotic . there we go . ▌DRINK : coffee , alcohol . does favor fruit juice , especially orange juice . water is good as well . ▌FOOD : custards . fresh fruit , especially strawberries , oranges , and clementines . meat-based dishes . pasta . seafood . ▌DAY OR NIGHT : late afternoon to night . ▌SNACKS : whatever he can get his hands on . flaky pastries , trail mix , jerky , whatever he feels like having . he usually has a few snacks stashed away in his coat . ▌COLORS : reds , black , golds . ▌FLOWER : spider lillies . peonies . orange lilies . aconite . ▌SEXUALITY : whatever he feels like . tends to favor men over women but he’s not overly picky . ▌BODY TYPE : large , heavily muscular . long of leg and broad of shoulder . ▌EYE COLOUR : rich brassy gold . even when showing the daemons within , they remain gold . ▌HAIR COLOUR : thick burgundy locks . people have asked him if he dyes it . he does not .

tagged by: @defial tagging: idk. do it.

#headcanon;#headcanon tag;#me putting this on the dash after forever and a day--

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velasdiscourse · 5 years

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Original Characters

Belial (Demon/Fallen Angel)

Veladryssa Aconite (Half Faerie/ Half Human)

Nikolai Barnes (Human)

Caiden Embers (Weredragon)

Phoenix Rivers (Human)

Luna Campbell (Werewolf)

Valerian Raullac (Vampire)

Freya (Ravenna’s sister)

Orion Storm (Siren)

Magnolia ‘Maggie’ Holmes (Cat Shifter)

Lucy Alcott (Doll Spectre)

Ravenna (Witch Queen)

Braxton Jones (Coming soon!)

[More coming soon, guys!]

((Please remember any characters posted with links to their info can be interacted with. I can guarantee more will come. Just wait and see! ~Mod V))

#original characters #ocs #quick access

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qqueenofhades · 6 years

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Starlight & Strange Magic, Chapter 20: In Which The Best Laid Plans, Etc., Etc.

Rating: M Summary: Lucy Preston, a young American woman, arrives in England in 1887 to teach history at Somerville College, Oxford. London is the capital of the steam and aether and automatonic world, and new innovations are appearing every day. When she meets a mysterious, dangerous mercenary and underworld kingpin, Garcia Flynn, her life takes a turn for the decidedly too interesting. But Lucy has plenty of secrets of her own – not least that she’s from nowhere or nowhen nearby – and she is more than up for the challenge. Available: AO3 Previous: In Which A Daring Rescue Mission Is Launched NOTES: Warning for some slightly gory medical scenes in this chapter. Nothing too bad, but our Garbage King has definitely done a number on himself.

As the transformation completes, as the creature that was formerly Wyatt Logan hits the ground on all fours and its jacket and trousers tear away, it lifts its head and lays its long ears flat back, its teeth bared in a frothing snarl. Its eyes burn with a hungry yellow glow, and it sniffs the cold air in hoarse gulps. It may be the first time that Wyatt has ever actually fully transformed, if he’s been on stiff anti-lycanthropy medicine to this point, trying to keep the furry little problem under control in hopes of a more permanent solution. In that, he’s almost surely deluding himself, since while medicine can control the condition, it can’t cure it. Only strong old magic has a chance, and certainly not Matija Korvin’s. Matija’s magic was made to destroy these creatures, scions of his mortal enemy Dracul, and if this is Wyatt’s first complete transformation, this is somehow – impressively – even worse. Older werewolves can regain some sense of themselves over time, but young ones, blind and terrified, given over fully to the monster, have no chance.

It’s Flynn’s first, long-conditioned instinct to shoot, even though he doesn’t have his special heavy revolver with silver bullets and thus might as well be throwing twigs. He also, of course, doesn’t have any wolfsbane, because it’s otherwise known as aconite and is one of the deadliest poisons going, to human or were-creature alike. Flynn’s bad leg is not going to hold up much longer, and there are too many people that he needs to get out of the way. The only one he can really see, however, is Lucy. He still doesn’t know if she set him up to be captured, though the vehemence of their reunion (he does not intend to think about that right now or possibly ever) would suggest not. But there is a werewolf on the loose, he can’t protect her, and it turns his battered, weary, bleary brain almost blank with terror.

There is no time for calculations of risk or sophisticated stratagems. As the werewolf decides on the nearest humans – Lucy’s adventuresome friend Rufus and an unknown lady companion, from the looks of things – as its most convenient targets, Flynn gathers his haunches clumsily beneath him and throws himself into an almighty leap. He hits the werewolf from behind, locking both arms around its neck, and it utters a horrible, strangled squeal as he wrestles it down. They roll madly in the snow, claws slashing at his legs, jaws snapping and slavering as he desperately tries to hold them away. If he gets bitten, he’s fucked too.

Flynn fumbles blindly for a soft target, somewhere on the underside, though he’s fairly sure the beast won’t feel it. He hammers his best attempt at a punch in anyway, which seems to make it mad more than anything. Flynn is a highly trained monster hunter and it’s not the first time he has had to fight one of these things mano-a-mano, but he has also spent the last twenty-four hours locked in a small box, lost a significant amount of blood, and hasn’t exactly been fed or tended to in that time. He has a lurid memory of tangling with the revenant, which he also took on himself rather than let it go after Lucy, as he grabs the werewolf by the ears and drags its head back, trying to expose its throat long enough for someone to get off a shot. It won’t kill it, but it might stun it, and then they can work out something else. “HEY!” he roars. “NOW!”

It is quite hard to see anything in his present predicament (so, similar to his last one in that respect, though the lack of a blood-maddened werewolf is making the box sound not that bad in comparison). He can hear yells and running footsteps, and a blast of blue energy sizzles overhead as someone, possibly Lucy, decides to see if tocker droppers work on werewolves. The answer is that they don’t, but they make their fur very frizzy, send an electrical charge jolting through Flynn that briefly stuns him, and he jerks his head aside in the nick of time as jaws close ferociously where it just was. Sparks sting between his fingers, and he sees double. If the ravens are here to help him, they really should bloody think about doing that right now.

Flynn doesn’t say that aloud, mostly because he can’t for obvious reasons. But the next moment, he hears a rush of wings, and the ravens descend on them in a swarm. They pluck and peck and tear at the werewolf’s muzzle and eyes, as it thrashes madly trying to dislodge them, and Flynn almost loses sight of his opponent in the whirl of black wings. It’s just enough for him to crawl out from beneath the beast, bleeding and breathless, and grab a dismembered iron arm off one of the broken tockers sprawled nearby. As the werewolf turns blindly toward him, Flynn winds up and swings it with all of his strength.

It might not be silver or any other special sort of weapon, but even a werewolf notices when it gets bashed very hard in the skull with a solid piece of metal. Its eyes roll back and it collapses in the snow with a crash, paws splayed and black blood trickling from the gash in its fur. It’s unconscious, at least for a few minutes, and Flynn can’t waste any of that time.

He lunges for the tocker, economically guts it of its piano-wire innards, and strips away the copper insulation to find as much of the exposed silver as he can. It’s sharp enough to cut his already-lacerated hands, but he doesn’t feel it. He used this trick once on an assignment in Montenegro, which held it long enough for him to get to his gun and finish it, but that is a fairly major missing piece in this case. He tangles the wire around the werewolf’s front and back paws, and yanks a winding mechanism out of the chest of another tocker, feeling like a mad scientist cannibalizing corpses for parts. He is, in a way, though these corpses are mechanical, not mortal. But some of the more upscale tockers have fancy silver clockwork, rather than common pewter or bronze, and he feels a brief and absurd relief that Rittenhouse sprang for the nice ones to serve as prison guards on the train, rather than send their own people up into this desolate frozen asshole. Flynn jams the silver clockwork against the werewolf’s throat, holds it in place with more piano wire, and yells again at Karl and the nearest members of his gang that he can see (Karl came to get him? Karl? He may have to give him a pay raise), “HEY!”

To their credit, the men run over, though they are justifiably extremely leery about getting too close to a werewolf, even a semi-conscious one. Following Flynn’s terse instructions, they drag it toward the ruined train, throw it in the most solid half of the crushed coal tender, and heap the heavy parts of the ruined tockers over it. It will serve as a makeshift prison, but not for very long, and does not address the question of either turning Wyatt back into a human or getting them the hell out of here. It is only as a thundering silence falls that Flynn realizes he is in fact bleeding a lot, and sits down heavily in the snow, losing his balance. He doesn’t think any of it is a werewolf bite, but that is not exactly helpful right now.

“Flynn?” Lucy runs over to him, kneeling down with a very worried look on her face. He appreciates her concern, even if he is still mildly stunned by its existence. “Flynn, are you – ”

“Just… give me a minute.” It hurts ferociously when he breathes, like a hot knife jamming under his ribs, and even in his eventful career, that one was too close for comfort. “Where is – are the Sokolovs here? How did you – ”

“The Sokolovs – ” Lucy jumps back to her feet. “Wait. Wait here.”

It’s on the tip of Flynn’s tongue to ask where she thinks he’s going, but given his last day or so, that’s a reasonable request. He duly waits as Lucy and the others return to the smashed-up locomotive of the train that they evidently used to pursue him here (that sounds like a fascinating story, but one for later) and pull an unconscious Anton and Gennady Sokolov from the wreckage. At least Flynn thinks they’re only unconscious, given the anxious way that everyone is treating them, which presumably would not be the case if they were already dead and past help. He feels rather numb and detached from the whole thing. Just a few hours ago, he was still locked in that metal cage, en route to Siberia for some horrible and unknown fate. Now he’s sitting in the middle of a snowstorm with two wrecked trains, a werewolf, two dozen broken tockers, the recent manifestation of the Raven King, and Lucy Preston, apparently of her own free will, just kissed him. It’s fair to say he’s a little stunned.

Once the Sokolovs have been carried into the train car out of the wind and Rufus and his lady friend are doing something to them there, Lucy returns to Flynn and crouches down, trying to pull his arm over her shoulders. “Can you stand up?”

“Mmm.” Flynn doesn’t stop her from doing it, but he also can’t get up the volition to help either. It strikes him that he might have more than a little hypothermia, the way the world turns milky and dreamy, groggy and slow, and if you don’t wake up from that pleasant reverie, you won’t wake up at all. “We need to get the trains off the tracks. This is the Moscow-Arkhangelsk line, there will be another service running through here tomorrow. If it hits those – ”

It’s plain that that would be an epic disaster (so, another one, then), but it’s also not clear how a ragtag group of less than ten people, none of whom are freaks of nature and several of whom are badly wounded, are going to get two wrecked trains off the line. For that matter, it’s not clear how they’re going to get out of here. The locomotive from Flynn’s train might still be somewhat operational, since it was the farthest away from the site of the crash, but the Sokolovs appear to be the closest thing anyone had to engineers, and they’re both unconscious. Flynn, still chivvied by Lucy, finally tries to get to his feet, then grunts and goes down, almost pulling her with him, as his leg gives out. “You go on,” he manages, grimacing. “Go on, just go and – ”

“You think I’m leaving you here?” Lucy looks absolutely ferocious, in what Flynn can dimly make out of her face. “After I came this far? Come on. Come on, one – two – three – ”

She heaves with strength out of all proportion to her size, ignoring the fact that she too has a gimpy leg, and somehow, Flynn rises up like a snowy phoenix, leaning heavily on her as they stagger toward the train. Its broken-out windows are blank and black as blinded eyes, the wind scouring it with an eerie, spine-chilling keen, and the presence of a bound-up werewolf in the coal tender doesn’t exactly provide any impression of a warm or welcoming refuge. Flynn heaves her over the tilted step, she reaches back down for him, and their cold fingers almost slip free. He crawls up, pushes the door open into the compartment where Rufus, the Sokolovs, and the others have taken refuge, and nods at it. “You go in there, I want to try something.”

Lucy looks at him anxiously, but decides to do as he says. She goes into the car, and Flynn, groaning every time he puts weight on his leg and having to grope his way along the crazily tilted walls, makes his way along the track to the locomotive of his train. It may be roughly functional, but the boiler fire has gone completely out, and he sees no way to get it going again. So that’s it, then. They just all get to sit here in the darkness and slowly freeze, or wait for the werewolf to wake up and kill them all.

Flynn gives into a moment of sheer and desolate frustration, shouting curses in all the half-dozen or so languages he knows, banging his hands on the iron plates and achieving nothing except bruising them up some more, and sliding to the floor of the cab, sitting in a crumpled huddle and wishing that he would wink out of existence on the spot. This wish, to his vast annoyance, is not granted, and after another few moments, he crawls forward, fighting the now-agonizing pain in his leg, and lies flat on his face. “Matija,” he mutters. “Matija, you brought us this far. Don’t leave now. Matija Korvin, Gavran Kralj, king of the darkness and the wild, of the night and the stars, the snow and the wood. Matija, moj gospodaru, help us.”

The silence remains deafening. Flynn stares into the abyss that he first discovered the depths of after Lorena and Iris died, after he spent several nights contemplating whether to just take his own gun and finish it off, to go and be with them, at peace, rather than face the hell of trying to exist without them. He came close a few times, but his burning need for revenge on Rittenhouse would not allow him to do it without a fight, to lie down and let them win. A monster hunter who missed the biggest monster of all, who has to make it right, and now –

He doesn’t know what this is, or what he is, any more. He doesn’t know if he even wants to keep fighting, other than that he knows no other way to live. He remains facedown, breathing in pained, wheezing gulps. He knows the Raven King will not come on command, like a dog being called to perform tricks, and you might anger him if you importune too repeatedly or frivolously for his assistance. But Flynn has believed in the man and his legend since before conscious thought, from his most fundamental beginning, and he has seen that power in indisputable action tonight. He knows that Matija’s magic is incompatible with technology, that in all this iron and steel and steam, there might simply be the impossibility of its existence. And yet. And yet.

Nothing tangibly changes, and yet, something does. Flynn has the brief, shadowed sense of someone stepping over him, though when he looks up with pain-bleared eyes, there is still no one else in the cab. Nothing more than a whisper of an old robe, vanishing around a corner. The next moment, he hears a strange rattling from the boiler, like coal being shoveled in, but there is still no heat or light from it. The whir sounds like a drone, like wings, as if the ravens are flying madly inside it, circling, circling, and slowly at first, then faster, the locomotive starts to move.

There is a jerk and a jolt as the momentum is transferred badly down the line of crushed cars, like a tangled wooden train on a string. Flynn doesn’t have the strength to get up and see if it includes the one that Lucy and the others are in, but somehow he does it anyway. One of the rear cars tumbles sidelong off the track with a horrible screech and thunder, sending up sparks as it somersaults into the snow, and he crawls in agony, hand over hand, down the length of the train to the carriage they’re in. He can tell that the coupler is tenuous, that they need to get into the next one, and jerks the door open. “Move!”

Lucy looks up at him, startled and white-faced. “What?”

“We need to get out of this car, it’s going to break loose. There’s an intact one a little further up.” Flynn braces himself on the wall. “Come on, hurry up. Now!”

Rufus, Lucy, Karl, and the others hop to their feet. It is a hair-raising production to heave the unconscious Sokolovs through the narrow door, across the gap between cars with the ground now going by fast beneath, and for Flynn to pull them into the next carriage, but they manage. Rufus and his lady friend crawl across, Flynn grabs their wrists and heaves them as well, and then Karl takes a running start, leaping clear, as the coupler is starting to rattle in an alarming fashion. That leaves just Lucy on the other car, and they have maybe thirty seconds before it breaks off. “JUMP!” Flynn bellows, holding his arms out. “LUCY, JUMP!”

He can see abject terror on her face – it’s not the easiest thing to do, in the dead of night and snow, with a good five feet to clear and the fact that she’ll instantly be dragged under the train wheels and crushed gruesomely to death if she misses. But sparks are starting to fly as the ruined car is dragged free, and she has no time to think about it. She backs up, lowers her head, then breaks into a full sprint, throwing herself into thin air, as he sets his feet and prays.

The next instant, Lucy hits him like a ton of bricks, knocking him backward into the carriage, as he wraps his arms around her and she wraps hers around him and he can feel both of them shaking like leaves, as he buries his face in her freezing hair and can hear her sobbing into his shoulder. He staggers back, still holding her, as the other carriage breaks away and likewise flips off the track, spinning down the embankment and blowing up in a spectacular fireball fifty yards below. Flynn kicks the door shut, rams in the bar, and doesn’t let go of Lucy the entire time. He staggers back, then collapses with her on one of the broken seats, the hard, ancient green velvet upholstery feeling almost as comfortable as a featherbed.

Wyatt is trapped in the coal tender, presumably (and hopefully) still unconscious, so that makes all of them, albeit in very bad shape, as they gain speed, rolling into the whirling snow. Flynn’s hands are cut from the wire, his leg badly damaged, and he has a splendid collection of bruises, cuts, contusions, and other decorations from the beating he took while getting captured. Lucy has done something unpleasant to her leg as well, the Sokolovs are still out, Rufus has managed to escape relatively unscathed but was not in tip-top shape to start with, and the rest of the gang has likewise taken weather from the train crash and the fight in the snow against the automatons. Rufus’ lady friend turns out to be named Jiya. Flynn struggles to recall if Lucy mentioned her before or not. He feels like she might have, but cannot pin the precise instance to mind. Everything is turning rather hazy.

Flynn hopes that they don’t barrel through some crossing too fast and cause yet another accident, or anything else of the sort that could occur when a bunch of injured people are trapped in a train essentially careening out of control, but he decides to leave that to the ravens. Lucy is curled up very close against his chest, it’s cold and dark and they have just been through a terrifying experience, and Flynn can’t summon the necessary volition to push her away. He reminds himself to do it later, then – finally, blessedly – passes out.

He has no idea how long it has been when he stirs, then immediately wishes he hadn’t. Everything aches from head to toe, with a nerve-shredding, eye-watering savagery, and he struggles to catch his breath. The inside of the train car is filled with wintry, watery grey-pink light, and they do not appear to have been gruesomely dismembered, whether by a werewolf or by another crash. Flynn struggles to get his thick, cottony tongue around a question – he is dying of thirst, will probably have to go melt some snow – and then through the frosted window, sees the train chugging slowly past a wooden sign, the Cyrillic characters half-obscured by icicles. Арха́нгельск. They’re here.

Flynn sits up, realizes that Lucy is missing, and has a sudden moment of panic, casting around to all sides and almost scrambling to his abused feet before hearing voices from ahead. The train rolls beneath the handsome iron portico of the Arkhangelsk railway terminal, venting blasts of steam, and hits the buffer with a thud that Flynn feels in his teeth. For once, after two days of chaos, the dull, ever-present clack of the train wheels and the hiss and blast of burning coal, there is silence. It rings in his still-ringing ears.

After a few moments, the compartment door unlatches, and Lucy limps in. Someone has fashioned a makeshift splint for her leg out of broken wood and handkerchiefs, which does not look comfortable, but at least it is allowing her to keep going. “We’re in Arkhangelsk,” she informs him, unnecessarily, breath gusting silver in the pearlescent half-light. “Can you walk?”

Flynn thinks about that, isn’t sure he wants to hazard it, and finally Shitmouth and Robert Taylor are called in to assist, hauling him upright and helping him hop the length of the car to the door. There are two platforms in the station, of which they are occupying one, and the other train must be awaiting its departure to Moscow shortly. Lucy goes to find the station master, and since he is the only Russian speaker who is either compos mentis or mobile, Karl has to go with her, which Flynn hates with his entire heart. This time, however, Karl refrains from anything ill-advised, and the station master appears with a look of alarm at multiple injured, scruffy, dirty men (and two women) suddenly descending upon his otherwise peaceful hamlet. “Who are you people? Where on earth did you come from? The service from Moscow does not arrive until much later.”

“We were… unscheduled,” Flynn answers, suddenly wondering what the werewolf situation is, if removal from the affected area of Matija’s magic has reverted Wyatt to human form. He needs to have a good shout at Logan for keeping that secret later, given as it very nearly killed the lot of them, though he grudgingly supposes that Wyatt could have had no way of knowing that that was going to happen. Poor bastard. It’s not a pleasant fate, and anti-lycanthropy medicine may be in short supply around here. They’d better bloody hope he doesn’t wolf out again.

It takes a while, and the requisitioning of several porters to help with all the walking wounded, but they finally get everyone off the train. The answer to the werewolf question is that Wyatt in fact human again, but has a nasty goose egg where Flynn clobbered him with the tocker arm, is naked and half-frozen, shivering and disoriented and confused, and the porters considerately fetch a quilt to wrap him up in and throw censorious looks at everyone else, evidently thinking that they kidnapped him. Flynn wants to explain that he is tied up in piano wire for everyone’s best good, including his own, but that takes too much effort. There’s a British diplomatic office, bank, and guildhouse in Arkhangelsk, due to the long-established Anglo-Russian trade through this port, but given their status as British fugitives-in-chief, that does not seem like a place from which they should expect succor or assistance. Maybe they can assist in getting Lucy (and Rufus and Jiya) back to England. Other than that, who knows. Flynn has given up guessing.

In fits and starts, lurching and staggering, they make their way out of the station. Arkhangelsk is bathed in that eerie pink-grey light like the inside of an oyster; they are too far north for the sun to get more than a few degrees over the horizon. They’re not quite at a high enough latitude to have total polar night, but the days are only a few hours long, and still have another month to go in getting shorter. Flynn devoutly hopes that they will not be here for another month, or even much time at all, but they are too battered to immediately race off again, and if Rittenhouse was bringing him here, there had to be a reason for it, something they need to find out. Despite the lack of sun, the day seems brighter than it is, thanks to the vast streaks of gold that dance and swoop in the sky. Aether in its purest, strongest form. The deposits around here must be unbelievable. That alone would get Rittenhouse’s attention, if they’re mining it.

Anton and Gennady are dispatched to the sailors’ hospital on the waterfront, since they’re more hurt than can be easily cared for, and Lucy wants Flynn to go as well, but he resists. Those places are usually of the rough-and-ready school of medicine that involves swift treatment (or amputation) of grisly wounds, and he doesn’t want them to get any damn ideas about hacking off his leg. Finally, he, Lucy, Rufus, Jiya, and Wyatt (since Flynn can’t think what else to do with him, doesn’t want him close, but also not out of his sight) find a boarding house that caters to the British merchant clientele, with a proprietor who speaks some English and proudly shows them the portrait of Queen Victoria in the hall. As his last memory of this woman is jumping out her drawing room window while her Munshi stabbed him in the arm, Flynn can’t help but choke.

Nonetheless, everyone is at the end of their rope and needs to collapse, and fortunately, news of the Buckingham Palace break-in does not seem to have gotten this far north. Wyatt is untangled from the piano wire and sent to the bedsit in the cellar, Rufus and Jiya take one room at the end of the hall, and Flynn and Lucy find themselves in the other. It is more comfortable than their bare-bones overnight setup in St. Petersburg, with handsomely papered walls, thick velvet curtains and a whitewashed fireplace, and a four-poster bed with a counterpane that looks as soft as a cloud. Flynn wants to fall into it and sleep for a hundred years, but he is absolutely filthy, and wonders if he should limp outside and empty several buckets of freezing water over himself first. If he could even make it that far. Just now, it seems unlikely.

After Lucy has shut the door and turned the key with a click, she removes it, puts it on the night table, and they finally turn to look at each other properly, which they both immediately appear to wish they had not done. A slow, dull flush steals up Lucy’s cheeks, she coughs, and then finally says, “So. We, ah. We’re here.”

Since this is obvious and does not require response, Flynn merely grunts. He supposes he should thank her for saving him, but he also wants to know what happened back in St. Petersburg. Either way, he’s not going to be able to do it standing up, so he sinks into the poufy chintz armchair, wondering if the owner’s grandmother decorated this place. They eye each other for another horrendously awkward moment. Then Lucy says, “I’m sorry about what happened at Sibley’s office. About John Taylor. I didn’t – I never meant for that to – ”

“Never meant for that to happen to him, but did mean it to happen to me?” Flynn isn’t really in the mood to beat around the bush. “Is that what you wanted?”

“No.” Lucy’s cheeks deepen a few notches in color, but she doesn’t take her gaze off him, cool and even. She’s apologized once, but she isn’t going to grovel or waste time on regretting something that is done and over, and Flynn is forced to respect that. He did just see this woman take on a Siberian snowstorm, a train full of tockers, a werewolf, a fell enchantment, and Christ knows whatever else, and it astonishes him all over again what a sheer force of nature she manages to contain in that slight frame. “I didn’t set you up on purpose. I didn’t know that Rittenhouse was going to be there. I should have, perhaps, but I didn’t.”

“Mmmf.” Flynn’s leg is hurting too much to think of a witty reply. Lucy’s eyes flicker to it, the crusted bullet hole and dried blood, the redness and swelling from – to judge from the thousand veins of fire in it – several hairline fractures, and the purplish-black bruising on his ankle and up the back of his calf. She visibly flinches, and Flynn feels a stupid masculine impulse to tell her that it isn’t that bad, he’s fine. Fortunately, he manages not to.

“You really should have gone to the hospital,” Lucy says. “Your leg’s a mess. I have a few field-medic skills, but I don’t think I can fix that. And after what happened with Wyatt – ” She hesitates. “Did you – know? Before?”

“No, I didn’t know before.” However much he may deserve it, Flynn is still rankled at the implication that he would let her run around in close proximity to a dangerous monster, and never utter a word of warning. “I did tell you that Dracul’s children can pass as human, even to someone like me, who used to hunt them for a living. I wondered once or twice if he was under some sort of spell, but I didn’t know for sure until he started changing. Matija Korvin’s magic must have forced him to do so, a sort of allergic reaction.”

“So that’s why he wants a cure,” Lucy says softly. “He came to this reality to retrieve you for Connor Mason, stumbled into a place under Dracul’s curse and was turned into a werewolf, and now he can’t go home unless he finds some way to get rid of it forever. He can’t go back to Earth – ours, our non-magical Earth – as a werewolf, or feel like he can properly find his wife and reunite with her while he’s – he’s this. Is there anything you know that could help him?”

“As I said, there’s medicine to control it, but nothing to cure it permanently.” Flynn, obviously, does not like Wyatt Logan much at all, but even he can admit that this is nothing to be envied. “You were the one researching how to disenchant a revenant. Maybe you saw something useful.”

“All the magic for that was Matija’s,” Lucy counters. “Since as you said, he was the one who made revenants in the first place, in order to fight Dracul’s children. Anything we could find from the Raven King would probably be meant to destroy Wyatt, not save him.”

Despite the pain and grime and other deeply undesirable aspects of this situation, Flynn finds it extremely arousing for Lucy to be standing there calmly talking about the Raven King and his magic and whether or not it is of any use to the monster they have become unexpectedly saddled with. She has learned a lot, he thinks, remembering her in Oxford, scoffing at the idea of anything actually being otherworldly or powerful enough to take seriously. Then he thinks again of her mouth on his, hungry and raw and wet and open, and swallows hard, reminding himself that that was just a euphoric, spur-of-the-moment reaction, helped along by the dark and the snow and the thick strands of enchantment that hung around them both. He tries to avoid looking at her lips, or entertaining any notion of a repeat. Why is she still so beautiful, hair down and face dirty and dressed in battered old men’s clothes, after the literal night from hell? It dries his throat and skips his heart like a rock pattering along the surface of a lake, over and over, over and over, until it falls. Her face is set and carved and bold and burning in the reflected aether glow through the window. Arkhangelsk. He’s suddenly not so sure it’s Michael.

“Maybe,” Flynn says, after a too-long moment, struggling to remember what they were talking about. Right, Matija, and whether his magic would be any good for Wyatt. “The full moon was recently, we shouldn’t be in immediate danger as long as there isn’t another incident, but we need to get our hands on some of his medicine. I’m not risking another train trip with the possibility of a total transformation. Especially since he has no idea how to control it.”

Lucy looks as if she’s not that eager to risk it herself, all things considered. There is another brief pause. Then she says, “If you won’t go to the hospital, I’m going to find you a doctor. I’ll take Karl. You stay where you are.”

“Karl?” Flynn still doesn’t like that. “There has to be a servant in the house you can send, or you could ask the proprietor. You don’t need to go off alone with that – ”

“Karl’s welcome to try something.” Lucy gives him a slightly feral smile. “We’ll happily see how that works out for him.”

With that, leaving Flynn frankly more shaken than ever, she whirls on her heel and exits the room, as he leans back and blows out a long breath. The proprietor comes up with some tea, which Flynn sips slowly, and he drifts in an uncomfortable haze until Lucy returns. She has indeed brought a doctor, a young, sandy-haired gentleman who sucks in his breath in horror at the sight of Flynn’s leg, enquires of Lucy in broken English if perhaps she would like to leave while he sees to her husband, and is oblivious to the blushes that result on both of them. The doctor sets down his bag, unpacks his things, and gingerly cuts away the ruin of Flynn’s trousers, as if not even sure where to start first. “How did you do this?” he asks in Russian. “Were you run over by a train?”

“Not that far off, actually.” Flynn grimaces. Lucy has taken up a position next to his chair, apparently intending to remain in the name of moral support, and he is about to tell her to go, like the doctor suggested. But he can’t quite do it, and this is going to be awful enough. If she wants to get some grim satisfaction out of seeing that he has in fact suffered for all his bad decisions, she might as well.

Suffering is, Flynn has decided ten minutes later, a gentle way to put it. He’s not altogether sure that he is not in fact dead, in hell, and the doctor is a cunningly disguised junior demon getting started on his eternities of torment. He has to first scrub down the leg with warm water and soap, trying to remove some of the calcified layers of grime, before he can get to work. Then he has to fish the bullet out, cauterize, clean, irrigate, and stitch the entry wound, and pack it thoroughly with gauze and bandages, as Lucy is drafted in as an extra pair of hands to cut thread or hold the raw edges of Flynn’s skin closed while the bastard stabs him repeatedly with a needle. Once that is done, the doctor is leery about the multiple fractures in Flynn’s tibia, which he has really managed to mess up, and warns him that unless he stays off his feet for at least a fortnight, he runs the risk of doing permanent damage and being lame for the rest of his life. Flynn is not enthused to hear that, but needs must. It feels like the Raven King could magically swoop in and fix that too, but he’s probably used up his miraculous intervention for several decades.

Flynn is even less enthused about the fact that the doctor decides that they’ll have to fully break the fractures, then re-align and set them cleanly, rather than having them jam together and knit badly. At that, he decides that his tolerance for letting Lucy get vicarious satisfaction out of his misery is at an end, and turns to her. “Go. I don’t want you to see this.”

“No,” she says. She helps the doctor lay his leg out straight, fix it in place with an iron collar, then returns to him and takes hold of both of his hands. “No, I’m staying.”

Flynn debates about that, and yet doesn’t have the will to force it. This is going to be more hell as it is, and she does seem worried. “Fine. But it’ll be ugly.”

Lucy has a pale, set look on her face as if she’s seen ugly and it doesn’t faze her, as if she has gotten well used to it, and doesn’t answer. The doctor removes his mallet and wedge, finds the displacement of each fracture, and places the wedge against it. He gives Flynn a knotted handkerchief to bite down on, promises that this will be quick but is really going to hurt, and then hits the wedge with the mallet.

Flynn lets out a strangled, roaring gargle, as it feels exactly as you would expect someone deliberately breaking your fucked-up leg with a chisel to feel, and hot red-blackness fizzes at the edges of his vision. Lucy has one hand in his hair, cradling his head against her stomach, her other hand still tangled in his, as he gulps and heaves and tastes bile in the back of his throat, trying not to throw up all over her. The doctor cuts strips of his skin back in order to properly align the broken fragments, drills in a few small steel screws that he assures Flynn will grow into the healing bone, and then sews the skin back into place. If nothing else, Flynn has become almost desensitized to the pain at this point, since his nerves have just up and quit, and he’s practically able to fall asleep from exhaustion as the doctor finishes his work and washes the wound thoroughly with a perhydroxic acid solution. Then he splints the leg, bandages it up until it looks like a mummified white club, and finally gets to his feet. “Well,” he says, taking off his glasses and wiping his face with his arm. “I advise a stiff drink and a long rest.”

“Thank you.” Flynn still feels like he’s about to die, and would not mind at all if he did, but he is able to recognize that the doctor did a very competent job under challenging circumstances, and might in fact have saved him from permanent crippling. “If you want to be paid, I have money. Not right now, but I can find a way to get it to you. However much you’d like.”

The doctor assures him that whenever he can find the money, that is suitable, and to send his wife by again if the wound worsens or develops any complications. Neither Flynn nor Lucy bother correcting him at this point, and he packs his things back into his bag, washes his hands, and removes a small, stoppered black vial from his pocket. “Laudanum,” he says. “You’ll want it. Good day, sir, ma’am.”

With that, as the door shuts behind him, Lucy steps in, slings Flynn’s arm over her shoulder, and helps him hop to the bed. She tugs the covers back and helps him underneath them, undoes his belt and unbuttons his dirty shirt, and he supposes there is some impertinent remark to be made about her tearing his clothes off, but he is weak as water and suspects it would backfire on him anyway. She eases him down onto the pillow, he wonders if it’s worth it to deny the laudanum when she offers it, and then decides that it isn’t. He takes a few foul-tasting droplets, chokes it down and dry-retches as his stomach revolts, but manages not to bring it back up. The world is already fading into a haze, and within moments, he is gone.

Flynn has tormented poppy hallucinations that flash in and out like carnival mirrors, until they finally subside long enough to let him properly pass out again. His waking from this seems destined to be even more unpleasant than his waking on the train, if that’s possible, but at least it doesn’t hurt right now, and he wanders in the opium mists without any sense of time or space or conscious form. Unlike his visions as a prisoner, where he saw the ghosts of Lorena and Iris flitting in and out, nobody is here at all. He is standing in the middle of a grey moor, the wind blowing hard in his face, the boggy ground giving way beneath his feet. He does not remember when he came here, or how he arrived. Doesn’t know if this is a dream, or if he has somehow been plucked out of bed in Arkhangelsk and carried on the wind.

After an indefinable passage of time, short or long or neither, Flynn becomes slowly aware that he is not, in fact, completely alone. There is someone standing on the far side of the fog, someone waiting for him to come to them. Black leaves twist and scatter, leaves that look like wings. He can hear a distant caw, and he knows who calls.

Slowly, step by step, Flynn crosses the moor. His leg does not pain him; it is of no concern at all. He is not in a place where the limitations of his physical body can touch him. He wades through the peat water, which slops murkily around his ankles, and climbs up on the far side. He can see the edge of a robe, the one that he glimpsed vanishing around the corner and into the train boiler, right before the locomotive began to move. This time, however, it is more solid, not merely an ephemeral scrap or half-seen shadow. It is embroidered in ancient runes that speak the language of stone and sky and field, of stars and moon and tree, and it rises up the body of a tall man, who stands there without a word and casts a shadow as vast as a forest.

Flynn looks up into the pale, carved, handsome face, the eyes as black as onyx beneath thick brows, the long hair somehow untouched by the wind, the mouth like a seam of granite and the iron crown that rises in sharp, elegant points. If he is honest with himself, he should have known this was coming, and he drops smartly to his knees, bowing his head and lifting the robe to kiss. “Matija Korvin,” he says. “Moj gospodaru, moj kralj. Pozdravljam te.”

Garcia Flynn. It is not quite a spoken voice that answers, but something like the sound of far-off thunder, somehow recognizable as words. It is an older dialect of Croatian, antique and formal, but understandable. You called me by the old ways and placed yourself at my service. I have come, I have delivered you from your enemies. Do you now pay the toll?

“Yes.” Flynn can feel the cold droplets on his face, the taste of salt on his lips. “Whatever you ask of me, you may have it. As I swore.”

You make hasty promises, boy. Matija Korvin sounds amused. Are you sure you would give anything I could ask of you, without a single thought or question? You are in my debt. The magic spent for you was grave and strong. I will need it back.

Flynn is aware of a chill that does not come from the wind, that seems to cut him to the bone. He is reminded of the reason why you only call upon the Raven King in the darkest hour, and of his earthly nickname, Matija the Just. He will give you what you need, but he will expect fair recompense, and he will not be swayed by pleading or petty mortal concerns in what he asks. He is old and fey and very strong, and Flynn has to fight a sudden and consuming terror. What if Korvin asks for not something, but someone? Is Flynn willing to defy his own gods, his ancestral master, the flesh and bone of his country’s existence and magic and pride, all the legends ever told and all the songs ever sung, and the debt that he clearly does owe, to be so insane as to withhold the King’s tribute from him? It is said that the Raven King must sometimes find a Raven Queen to rule Faerie with him, and Flynn has seen for himself what Lucy is. What if –

I will tell you when I have set my mind, Matija Korvin says. Then you will bring it to me, and the account will be settled. Call upon me again, and a second payment will be owed. I shall, however, strengthen your leg, as you will need it. You may thank me for this gift.

“Thank you, my lord.” Flynn takes the offered bone-white hand and kisses it, next to the black-stoned ring with a raven carved in its face. “I am your servant.”

Do not forget it. Matija Korvin’s rumble is becoming deeper, farther away, and his body is starting to become one with the mist, as the leaves twist and whirl and leap around his feet, spring from the moor and become birds taking flight. We will speak again.

With that, all at once, he is gone, and Flynn is aware of the grey field falling away, the world turning to darkness. When he slowly stirs back to consciousness, he is aware that he is lying in bed, his leg still hurts but not nearly as badly as before, and he is once more physically back in Arkhangelsk, if indeed he ever really left. He grimaces, pushes himself upright, and looks around. The room is quiet. Lucy isn’t there, but someone has left a tray of food, in case he feels up to eating. He considers, then decides that he does. According to the clock, it is four-thirty PM, and has probably been dark for at least an hour.

Flynn is polishing off the supper, and wondering if he feels up to hauling himself out of bed and to the WC, when the door opens and Lucy returns. She looks cold and windswept, as if she has been out for the day. “I’ve been to visit Anton and Gennady,” she says, by way of explanation. “They’re awake, they should be all right, but they were hurt fairly seriously, they’ll have to stay at least a few days. I managed to find a little medicine for Wyatt, I hope it’s enough. Rufus and Jiya are mostly all right, if banged up and confused. I sent a telegram to Ada in St. Petersburg to tell her that we’re alive and we rescued you, but I had to be very roundabout. Our last entanglement with telegraph operators in St. Petersburg going how it did.”

Flynn nods, thanking her for the explanation, and is yet again impressed at what she has managed to do within a few short and dark hours of being dropped into this place. “Sit down,” he says gruffly. “You’ve been running yourself ragged.”

Lucy looks about to protest, then for once, thinks better of it. She shucks her dirty cap, jacket, and shoes, sits in the chair, and lets out a long sigh, rubbing both hands over her face. Flynn manages to get out of bed and hop awkwardly to the loo, do his business without killing himself, and hop back, aware that the roles have been reversed in terms of who is in the bed and who seems self-conscious about sharing it. Maybe Lucy does not want to cuddle too close to his grimy invalid carcass, for which she cannot be blamed, or maybe she is already regretting the kiss. He should not have been so forward, the way he kissed her back with such starving, forceful insistence, the one thing he knew he would do if he let himself give in. She might feel sullied, assaulted, preyed-upon, though he does get the sense that things are different, socially speaking, for men and women in her world. But he isn’t sure he could bear the shame, the guilt, if so.

It continues to get darker, and Lucy gets up to light the lamps in the room. The window glows with green-gold light from the aurora and the aether streaking in great gouts of color across the night sky, more beautiful than the stars, and Flynn half-feels that he could stare at it forever. Lucy disappears into the bathroom, the water runs for a while as she evidently has a proper wash, and Flynn tries not to chase his head in circles. Should he ask her if she is all right? Apologize for his impropriety? Lucy is clearly a woman who is not affronted or shocked by the things that would cause other well-bred Victorian ladies to swoon, and Flynn doesn’t want to insult her by insinuating that she couldn’t handle it or must have been a fragile flower. But at the same time, he’s increasingly terrified that he did hurt her somehow, inside or out, and she’s been pushing it aside for the sake of taking care of him. He could offer for her to sleep down the hall, with Rufus and Jiya, or on the sofa. No, he should sleep on the sofa. Even if it means limping downstairs to freeze, he probably –

Flynn’s progressively more panicked rounds of self-recrimination are finally interrupted by Lucy opening the door and emerging from the bathroom, pink-cheeked and damp-haired, wearing one of the nightgowns from the wardrobe. She looks at him a little shyly. “There might be some hot water left in the boiler. I don’t think you could have a proper bath with your bandages, but I could find a sponge or a handkerchief.”

Some removal of his exoskeleton of filth sounds nice, even as Flynn is briefly unsure if she’s implying that she should wash him, and doesn’t respond for fear of choking on his tongue. He finally manages to answer that that would be good, thanks, and hops to the bathroom, waving off her offered assistance. There is a hand towel that he can use to scrub, and he hastily declines her suggestion that she fetch one of the gang from their lodgings a few doors down. He is not having them see him like this, or expected to act as a nursemaid for the boss.

Once the door is shut behind him, Flynn strips off the rest of his ragged clothes, climbs very carefully into the claw-footed tub, and picks up the towel and the bar of rosemary-scented soap. The water is lukewarm rather than hot, but he doesn’t begrudge it to Lucy, and with grunts and curses of pain, he manages to get the most egregious mess off. He has to prop his bandaged leg awkwardly on the rim of the tub to avoid getting it wet, and wonders what exactly Matija did to it, or if it’s a bad idea to go rummaging around trying to find out. He’ll take it not hurting like the son of a bitch for now. Everything else is gravy.

Having finished his makeshift ablutions, Flynn heaves himself painfully out, dries off, and discovers that a folded nightshirt has been left on the shelf. He shrugs into it; it’s slightly too small through the chest and shoulders, and clearly made for a shorter man, so that he feels afraid of inadvertently flashing passersby if he bends over too quickly. Not that anyone is likely to be passing by except Lucy, but flashing her would definitely be mortifying. Among other things.

Flynn opens the door and hobbles out, to discover that Lucy has curled up in the bed in his absence, but seems set to vacate it upon his return. “No,” he says quickly. “No, you can take it. I’ll – ”

“There is no way you’re going to walk downstairs and sleep on the sofa,” Lucy says. “None whatsoever. We’re just cutting that off right there.”

Flynn is miffed that he is apparently predictable, but relieved that he doesn’t have to make the trek down to a cold and empty parlor. Even he doesn’t think he could manage a night on the floor in his present state, so he gimps over and climbs in with a grunt of effort, assisted by Lucy. They end up very close to each other, his hand alongside her thigh and their noses almost brushing, and briefly get lost in the other’s eyes. Her hair has tumbled into her still-flushed face, and his fingers ache with the urge to brush it aside. To run his fingers along the fine bone of her cheek, to cup her chin with his thumb, to curl around her ear and draw her mouth to his. But that would take a determination, a conscious effort, a decision that he does not know if he can make, and he refuses to toy with her or jerk her around. Their gazes remain locked, and he can hear her breath hitch in her throat. It is a small, hungry sound, which seems to suggest that she would not necessarily be averse to what he has just imagined (or more), and it is murder on his self-control. How can she, how can she possibly, have done this for him? It is unfathomable. He has done nothing to deserve it. And yet, heart-shatteringly, unbearably, here she still is.

After an anguished moment more, Flynn pries his eyes off her, moves his hand back, and carefully, slowly lies down on his back. He settles his head on the pillow, letting out a jagged sigh, and after a brief hesitation, glancing at him through lowered lashes, Lucy lies down as well, curling herself into his side and nuzzling into the crook of his shoulder, the way they slept that night in St. Petersburg. She doesn’t ask permission, not that it would once occur to him to refuse her, and he wraps his arm instinctively around her. She lowers her head, and rests on his chest.

At that, Garcia Flynn’s fragile heart almost breaks altogether. He wants to take this moment and put it in glass, somewhere small and perfect and remote from the rest of the world, from all of time and eternity, and keep it safe. He knows it beyond all dispute, it slashes him like a knife, and only incidentally less painful. He loves, he loves, he loves, he loves her, and he can never let her go. Unless she asks, unless she tells him to, and if so, somehow, he will have to find the strength to watch her get into her machine, however she came to this reality in the first place, and leave it forever.

(He can’t, he can’t, he can’t. His heart and his head flee wildly from even the possibility of imagining it. And yet. He has always known she would not stay. Could not.)

Lucy closes her eyes, the exhaustion swiftly pulling her under. Flynn is just as tired, and yet he feels tempted to stay awake a little longer, to look at her like this, boneless and utterly trusting and fast asleep in his arms. He shifts a bit to be able to hold her with both, tugging her closer against him. When he is absolutely sure that she is soundly out and will not stir, he brushes the lightest, most gentle of kisses against her tangled hair, the soft skin of her temple and her cheek, and hopes they may stay there as an offering. God. His heart shakes.

Something drifts past the window, outside. Something neither snow, nor wind, nor passing traveler of the night. It fills Flynn with something closer to foreboding than relief, something more terror than gratitude. For he knows very well, as he has all along, that it was a raven.

#timeless #timeless ff #lucy x flynn #garcy #garcy ff #starlight & strange magic #steampunk au #and the people said Welp

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