#basically i got cock blocked by covid

[redhoodedangel]

Fear Fever (Arkham! Jason Todd X Sick!Reader)

So, while I’m struggling at home with COVID, I need some comfort, feels and serotonin. Now, who better to write about than Arkham Knight!Jason Todd? Plus, I rarely do a self-indulgent/serotonin/ depression cure fic to get me through sickness (because I rarely get sick).

Basic premise, Reader is sick during the Halloween from Hell in Gotham. Unfortunately, she couldn’t make it during the evacuation of the city due to how tired and ill she was. The Arkham Knight then breaks into her apartment and, upon realizing who she is and that she’s sick, starts taking care of her.

Warning ⚠️ : None other than mild violence, description of illness and breaking and entering

~~~~~~~~~~~

~~~~~~~~~~

Out of all of the days of the years to get sick, Halloween was one of the worst times. Especially in the city of Gotham, when Scarecrow announced his takeover…

Unfortunately, given how tired and disgusting you felt, you couldn’t leave the city in time. The buses were full and already left and your car was demolished by rioters and thugs. You had no alternate but to stay home and rest, despite the risk of your apartment being broken into. But, you knew it would be a bad idea to go out into the criminal-infested streets while fatigued and plagued with illness. No doubt they would take advantage of your weakness.

You used to love Halloween when you were younger. The costumes, the makeup and face paint, the candy and scary movies. Unfortunately, that love for the holiday gradually diminished after the loss of your friend and crush, Jason Todd. No one knows what happened to him or where he went. You tried to get an answer from Bruce Wayne, the man who essentially adopted him. Only for the butler, Alfred, to tell that Jason had been murdered by the Joker. How it happened or why, they and you didn’t entirely know themselves and they didn’t really elaborate, either. All you knew was that Bruce was taking the loss very hard.

Popping a cough drop into your mouth, you let out a dry cough. A dull pounding shot through the front of your head as you did, causing you to groan. Laying back on your pillows, you placed a cool towel against your forehead to numb the pain. You could barely breathe through your nose because of how stuffy it was. It felt like you were breathing through two pieces of cotton. Or better yet, one nostril unblocked while the other was completely blocked off.

After a few minutes of dozing off and waking up, a loud BANG erupted from down the hall of your apartment building. Adrenaline overwhelmed your drowsiness and you immediately grabbed your two closest bags and started stuffing with what you needed. Including any medicine and remedies you had been using while resting and fighting off your disease.

Unfortunately, a series of footsteps came barreling up the stairs of the building. You knew that by the time you enacted your escape, they would’ve broken into the door to your condo and a chase would’ve ensued. Plus, if you attempted to fight through whoever was coming, you would probably be easily overpowered. So, you had to opt for the biggest and dumbest plan of all…

You hid under your bed…

As soon as you got under the mattress, the door to your apartment could be heard bursting open. You could hear the shouts of men, the cocking of guns and see the glow of flashlights under your bedroom door. Your anxiety spiked, your symptoms subsiding for the faintest moment. You were thankful that the drop you took earlier had temporarily suppressed your coughing.

“Alright, be on guard, men. She couldn’t have gone too far.” A digitalized voice flooded the deafening silence, disguising whoever was behind it. You remain silent, trying to stay calm with your fear spiking at every second of tension. Your eyes began to water from the migraine forming in your head and the prospect of getting caught.

A heavy set of footsteps came up to your bedroom door, forcing it open with a kick. You wanted to scream, but remembered that you were trying to hide. Your heart was thumping harshly against your rib cage, yet was unheard by the man in the room. You could make out the hefty, military-grade boots from under your mattress and your draped sheets and comforter.

Then came the tickling sensation within the bridge of your nose. You tensed up as you fought with yourself to dampen the feeling to get rid of the invincible result. Your frustration and hope to keep it down mounted as your panic escalated. The tickling grew and grew until it reached the tip of your nose. Then.. the impending exclamation of release and relief…

You sneezed like you’re trying to break the sound boundary. Your head throbbed as the sneeze worsened the migraine you already had. When you realized what you had done, you let out a swift and angry, “Son of a bitch!”

A force then grabbed you by the hoodie you were wearing, your anxiety now at its peak. Your entire being was forced to stand up and your eyes to look at the culprit. A blue-screened helmet with metal appendages, mocking Batman’s cowl, stared back at you. But, you felt like his real eyes were looking at you differently than the helmet was trying to convey. The rest of his suit fit perfectly against his frame, making him appear even more imposing. The Arkham ‘A’ was plastered on the chestplate and the logo on his shoulder pads.

Unaware of the cough you were holding back, you began to hack uncontrollably. The man holding you hostage seemed to react with a gesture of concern, cocking his head slightly to the side. You would’ve taken advantage of the momentary distraction, but you were too miserable to care.

“Sorry about this…”

No sooner he said that, you felt a punch strike you across the jaw…

~~~~~~~~~

You woke up to a dark room and a soft bed under you. A dam and cooling sensation was placed on your forehead, your bodily temperature a little more manageable now than it was before. Your headache was still present, but was more akin to a light pressure on your head than anything. Your fatigue was still there, no doubt along with the rest of your symptoms.

You were confirmed to be correct as a dry cough ripped through your throat. The cold cloth fought the pounding that came with it, making the pain more numb. The drowsiness from before started to kick in, your eyes becoming droopy. That was until the door to the room opened with a thud. Turning and picking up your head, you could see the armored commander from before, who came barging into your room. The towel slipped off your forehead, leaving a light chill on your skin.

“You should lay down your head back down or your head will hurt a lot more.” He said bluntly in that electronic voice.

“I don’t normally get kidnapped while sick. Pardon me for being curious.” You hissed, now laying on your side. The Knight laughed softly and humorlessly from under his mask. He then pulled out a thermometer from a pouch on his utility belt.

“Slip this under your tongue.” He requested, holding the instrument to your lips. You looked up at him, quizzical and a bit skeptical. He sighed, “Listen, I’m not gonna say it again…”

You did as you were told, taking the thermometer into your mouth and under your tongue. The both of you waited for a result to blink to life on the circular screen. It was only a few seconds when it finally flashed to life. The Knight pulled out the thermometer and examined the temperature on it.

“Hmmm, well, whatever fever you might’ve had before has gone down…”

“Yet, I still felt like crap…”

The Arkham Knight laughed humorlessly once more as he placed the thermometer on a nearby table.

“Even while sick, you still manage to be stubborn and blunt, (Y/N)…”

Your eyes widened as you realized that you hadn’t given him your name verbally. You began searching for potential ways that he could’ve learned your name from or where. You didn’t really have any personal items, displaying your name for all to see. No jewelry, no stitching into backpacks, no fancy keychains, nothing… you had nothing in your possession or in your apartment that would’ve given him your name…

So, how did he know…?

“I never told you my name…” you responded defensively, sitting up in the cot you had been lying in.

“Actually, you did… a long time ago…” he countered with a wit that was bigger than what you had originally thought.

“What do you mean? I’ve never met anyone like you before…”

The metallic click of a button suddenly followed your reply. The front of his mask began to lift up and reveal who laid underneath. A distinct ‘J’ marking was displayed on his left cheek, possibly a branding of some kind. You then caught sight of blue eyes as you looked further up.

The crystalline color was familiar to you…

Before you could stop yourself, the name spilled out from your lips…

“Jason?!”

“Hey, (Y/N)…”

Your jaw was practically on the floor by now. You had no other words to describe how you were feeling and even seeing right now. At first, you thought that the fatigue was finally messing with your head. But, you knew that would be a bit of a stretch as adrenaline was driving your every movement.

“Earth to (N/N)? You alright?” Jason asked concerned, snapping his fingers in front of your face.

“How? Bruce and Alfred told me that you were killed. By the Joker, of all people! How are you alive?”

“My death was a fake out. Joker made them believe that he had killed me. I’m surprised you haven’t put two and two together…”

The brain in your pain-riddled head began to turn and wind. You started putting an invisible puzzle together, trying to connect the dots. One by one, the picture became clearer and bigger. All at once, everything made sense and no sense at all. You softly uttered what your conclusion finally was…

“Bruce Wayne is Batman… and the others at the Manor are…”

“Yep…” Jason answered simply, confirming everything you had just figured out.

“Oh my god…” Your head suddenly began to spin and your stomach uneasy. Your arms was about ready to give out from under you.

“Hey, hey, take it easy. Don’t push yourself.” He said, clutching your shoulders in an attempt to help stay upright.

“How did you find me?”

“The rioters outside your apartment building. They were talking someone being inside and I realized that you were probably still in there. Thanks to the tech in my helmet, I saw that you were. Course, I didn’t know you were sick until I found you. So, I brought you somewhere where you could rest and recover without getting caught by criminals.”

You were relieved to know that him finding you wasn’t a coincidence. You were even more than happy to know that he was still alive. Though, a little darker and rough around the edges than before. You didn’t dare push him to tell you more or about his scars as you knew it would be painful for him to recall and retell the story…

So, instead, you just pulled him in a hug. He flinched for a moment before he calmed down and realized what you were doing. He returned the embrace, relieved that someone still cared about and haven’t forgotten him. You then said, “I’m really glad that you’re alive and that you found me. Your death was really hard for me to take… Nothing felt right again after you were gone…

“Thanks. I’m sorry that you had to go through all that…”

“It’s okay…”

You both sat there in the silence for a bit, just holding each other. Your head laid against the shoulder pad on his left arm. It was cool to the touch and was a welcome relief to your heated cheeks.

“Y’know, if I get sick, it’s your fault.” Jason said sarcastically, trying to break up the silence in whether way he could.

You laughed in response, appreciating the joke for what it was. Unfortunately, you had to pull away as another cough climbed through your throat.

“Hey, you rest up. I’ll be back later.” Jason said, moving away from the bed you were in.

“Be careful…”

Of course, you knew that with him as the Arkham Knight and his history with Batman, there was no such thing as ‘careful’.

You knew that too well…

Otherwise, you wouldn’t have gotten sick…

But, this time around, it was a bit more welcome…

Because it brought someone you lost back to you…

~~~~~~~~~

Hey, just a friendly reminder to wash your hands, wear your mask (if necessary or required) and don’t overwork yourself. Believe me, overworking yourself and burnout can easily end with you getting sick.

Anyways, have a good day!

#dc comics #batman #dc universe #jason peter todd #jason todd x reader #red hood x reader #arkhamverse #jason todd imagine #arkham knight #arkham knight x reader #reader insert #jason todd #self indulgence time #self indulgence at its finest #I has the sick #fuck covid

[mamamittens]

Get tested for the anemia friend, and other vitamin/mineral deficiencies. fatigue is a symptom for most of them. B12 deficiency for example causes one of the nastiest forms of anemia cause it's nessarily for the absorption of iron.

Yeeeeaaaaahhh lol, funny you mention B12 cause I usually feel just a little bit better when I take multivitamins specifically purchased for their high B12 content... When I'm not quite so broke I'll buy more multivitamins 😬

I've had issues falling asleep since highschool and usually feel ready to take a nap after being awake for 10 minutes. I usually can't actually fall asleep but the feeling persists anyway. After sleeping for basically 16-19 hours (mom called and woke me up lol) it took about an hour before the idea of a nap sounded tempting. I know damn well I wouldn't be able to fall asleep right now but the usual fatigue is there so 🤷

I've known there are shenanigans going on but I've just never quite been able to a see a doctor about them. Still got a phantom lump in my throat since before COVID that apparently only I can perceive but set off my asthma when it first appeared. (Literally had a camera shoved down my nose to no avail). It's weird but not as bad as it used to be so I just ignore it now.

Here's to hoping I can manage it though and I get some answers lol, but life is kinda funny about being a cock block so I guess we'll see.

#tw: medical talk #mittens answers #dont mind me just casually neglecting my health since 1996

[killer-beans]

My aesthetic is somewhere between Dr. Harleen Quinzel, the Richie Tozier from IT, and Fraggle Rock

#dr harleen quinzel #harley quinn #wlw #harley quinn reminds me of this girl i had a crush on #we both were into nerdy shit #anyway i was very close to asking her out #and then corONA VIRUS HAPPENED #basically i got cock blocked by covid #oops #sapphic #useless lesbian #lesbians #lesbian #it #it chapter three #it chapter ii #it chapter two #beep beep richie #richie trashmouth #adult richie #richie tozier #mokey fraggle #gobo fraggle #red fraggle #boober fraggle #wembley fraggle #fragglecore #fraggle rock

[pinkpastels113]

Give Me a Shot

In light of me recently getting my covid shot and @wolvezzz joining us on Tumblr, here’s a little Bechloe one-shot for you all…

(I had to basically rewrite this due to some stupid mistakes I discovered halfway through in the middle of the night, so I am so sorry if some parts do not seem to add up or are too unrealistic. **I tried**)

(Also, let us just assume that the guy that Stacie is talking about is quarantined with his sister, aka no covid.)

Rating: T

Word Count: 2,571

Pairing: Chloe Beale/Beca Mitchell

Summary: In which Beca is supposed to get a Covid shot but instead got a dose of something far more nerve-wracking.

End B/C if you squint. One-shot. Fluff? Covid AU.

On ao3 or ff.net or here...

(I have no idea what to put as an excerpt so here we go...)

Beca hands over the clipboard to the lady at the desk and smiles tightly behind her mask in thanks as she receives a post-it note in return. 

“Put this on the chair you’re going to sit in and come back to it once you’re done receiving the shot for the fifteen minute observatory period,” the lady says, bored but polite as she recites the practiced line Beca heard her give to several people before her. 

“Cool. Thanks.” Beca plays with the sticky part of the post-it note in her hands as she walks over to plop down into the plastic chair next to Stacie. 

“I hope we don’t have to wait as long as Amy did when she got her shot last week,” her friend says, rubbing her own post-it note onto the arm of her chair and crossing her legs as she leans back. 

“Fuck yeah. Me too. Amy’s took at least two hours.” Beca copies the taller brunette’s actions and sighs as she tilts her head back, blinking leisurely up at the ceiling. 

Stacie groans. “I will punch someone if we have to wait that long; I’m already hungry as it is.”

Beca snorts, despite being ninety percent sure that her hangry friend will do just that, “Why didn’t you get something to eat sooner?”

Green eyes flit to the side to look at her, “Boy from last night didn’t understand the definition of a one-night stand.”

Of course. Beca rolls her eyes and laughs, the sound muffled behind the piece of fabric covering her mouth, her chest quivering with mirth at the prospect of a guy refusing to accept that his “lucky shot” with her friend was over, “Seriously?”

“Yep.” The mask on Stacie’s face moves in a way that’s a telling of her pursing her lips, her gaze following her hand as fingers trace the unmarked portion of the arm of the chair her wrist is lying on, “He wouldn’t leave even when I told him that I had to go and get myself some breakfast with my mom before meeting with you to get my Covid-19 vaccine, even going as far as to offer to be my personal chauffeur.”

Beca lowers her head from the back of her chair and raises her eyebrows, “Wow. That’s like, a serious guy looking for a serious relationship, dude. Are you sure your friend would be okay with this?”

Stacie had informed her the night before that the brother of one of her most trusted friends would be staying the night with her doing some...choice activities.

“Yeah,” the brunette wrinkles her nose, “I had made sure that both her and her brother knew that I don’t do relationships.” She then brightens, as if suddenly remembering a thought, “Oh, he texted me too.” Stacie turns around and rifles in her purse for her phone, humming in her mouth as she pushes aside the keys and tampons within, and lets out a small noise of triumph as she whips out her device, “Aha.”

Beca chuckles at the scene but leans forward nonetheless, eager to spend the time waiting for her covid vaccine in doing something else besides counting the water spots on the ceiling tiles above her head, “What did he say?”

Stacie unlocks her phone, bouncing slightly in her seat in suppressed excitement as she goes to tap into her messages, “Look.”

Beca doesn’t think she has ever seen anything more desperate and pathetic in her life than the digital text glaring into her face, “Oh my god, he wants to know where you are at and wonders if he can take you out to dinner? Dude.”

Even through the mask Beca can tell that a sly and catlike grin had unfurled across her friend’s lips, followed by a mischievous wink, “Right? I don’t think I’ve ever had someone this desperate for another round right after the one the night before.” She then cocks her head, adding the next words almost as if it’s an afterthought, “And the one the early morning after.”

Beca shakes her head in disbelief, eyes scanning the multitude of text messages subsequent to the one she had just read aloud, “Maybe he just wants to see if last night and early this morning was a fluke.”

Stacie gasps in mock offense, yanking her cellular device away from Beca’s face, “How dare you, Mitchell. The Hunter is never a fluke.”

Beca just shrugs her shoulders in response, shifting her legs to accommodate the position for her to palm her chin.

She blinks innocently up at her.

Stacie narrows her eyes.

“Stacie Conrad?”

Both brunettes whirl around at the mention of the name, Beca taking in the blonde hair and blue scrubs standing at the entrance to the hallway of doctor offices hidden from view, and she sighs as Stacie grins and jumps up, practically skipping over to the woman holding a pen to another wooden clipboard in her hands.

They disappear from sight and Beca turns back around, pouting slightly as she waits for her turn, the foot that isn’t hanging uselessly in the air tapping impatiently on the floor beneath her chair. Just as she is about to delve into a full on sulk, a melodic voice chirps her name.

“Rebeca Mitchell?”

Fiery red hair and bright blue eyes meet her gaze, and Beca’s mouth goes dry as the woman waves cheerily at her, her entire body freezing in her seat as the organ in her chest decidedly unfreezes, and it is not until the cerulean pools has vanished into a blink that she has realized that she has stared too long and should probably get her ass up and over there.

Beca swallows and nods, and almost trips over her feet in the act of standing up without first uncrossing her legs. Blushing furiously and praying that nobody in the vicinity has noticed besides her awkward and idiotic self, she tugs at the hem of her blouse and quickly makes her way over.

“Hi,” the redhead greets, the smile lines on her cheeks creasing prettily as she crosses out her name with a ballpoint pen, “Rebeca Mitchell?”

“Beca,” she says, automatic in her response to the correction of the name that she has loathed since birth, “It’s Beca.”

She looks up at her, and Beca wants to slap herself in her haste to blurt out the two liner that she usually only reserves for people with whom she wants to be casual with, “Beca.”

Her fingers twitch at the way her name sounds rolling through the air in that sweet melodic tune, and she suddenly wants to find out how it sounds like rolling off her tongue, clear and without the obstacles of the stupid masks blocking its way.

Before she could do much more than tip her chin in acknowledgement, the redhead has twirled around in a flurry of red and blue, and Beca is dutifully following her down the hallway into the office attached at the very end. 

At the gesture for her to sit on the stool in front of the wall, Beca sat, and promptly stares as the redhead sets the clipboard on the table before reaching for a pair of new latex gloves, watching the way she snaps them on and pulls a card out of her scrub pocket, drinking in the sight of her tilting her head as she flourishes her pen over the newly revealed card. 

She is so fucking gorgeous.

Beca wishes that she is not in the middle of a fucking pandemic.

“So is that with one C or two C’s?” Her question snaps her out of her daze and Beca has to reluctantly pull her gaze away from the smooth expanse of her neck.

“Oh, um,” she gulps to lubricate her throat, sitting up taller to properly project her voice, hoping upon hope that the louder volume will drown out its slight tremble, “It’s actually Rebeca on paper. With one C.”

An inconspicuous murmur floats into her ears, and if Beca hadn’t known any better, she would’ve described it being accompanied with a teasing smile, “I see.”

Her heart pounds in her chest and it’s a big struggle to refrain from squirming in her stool.

The redhead finishes writing on the card and sets that and the pen aside, before slowly making her way towards her. Beca’s eyes stay determinedly on her face—or more accurately, on what she could make of it—her nerves growing more jittery and jumpy by the second, and she finds herself holding her breath as the redhead comes to a stop, feet away. She nibbles on the inside of her cheek as a gloved hand picks up a small package and tears at the seams, taking out an alcohol wipe and shaking it out, before placing the empty pieces of said package back onto the paper on the exam table from which it came from.

Sneakers step forward and then red hair and blue eyes are inches closer.

“Roll your sleeve up for me, please?” Her voice lilts at the end, Beca’s heart instantly mimicking the gesture, and she fumbles with the sleeve of her blouse on her left arm to comply. 

The redhead leans forward to rub at the uncovered skin with the cold wipe, causing shivers to emanate from the affected area and spread through and around every nerve ending in her entire upper body, and Beca has to clench her hand into a tight fist to hold herself still.

“Relax,” she says, not moving away even as she sets aside the used wipe as well, removing the cap from the needle from which contained the Covid vaccine. “You need to relax, Becs; the muscle will sore if you don’t.”

Beca’s gaze snaps up, sure that the redhead had just uttered a nickname of her already shortened name, but apart from the fact that her blue eyes seemed to twinkle even brighter—a fact that Beca stubbornly gives credit to the fluorescent light from overhead, in addition to their sudden close proximity—her expression betrays nothing.

She heeds the request and unclenches her fist, and as the prickling feeling signalling the intrusion of the vaccine starts from her arm, a glare on the breast pocket of the redhead’s scrubs catches her eye.

Dr. Chloe Beale.

Huh.

Beca grins, elated at the realization that she had just found out the name of the gorgeous woman standing before her.

She sends up a mental thank you to whoever had the intelligence and generosity of coming up with the invention of name tags. 

The prickling sensation resides, and Beca looks over to see that Chloe is done delivering the shot. She makes to lower the sleeve of her blouse, but a gloved hand brushing against her sensitive skin stops her.

“Hold on, I need to give you a Band-Aid.” Despite the blue latex covering her fingertips, Beca can still feel the warmth and tenderness of Chloe’s touch. 

Beca nods, dumbly, as Chloe quickly peels off the ends of the Band-Aid and pastes it carefully over the reddening spot. Gloved hands linger, taking the time to rub out every last inch of the two ends of the patch, fingers wrapping lightly against the circumference of her upper arm, and Beca stares with bated breath, suddenly afraid to look at any place else.

She is glad that she is in the middle of a fucking pandemic.

“There.” It is a soft puff of a sound, and if Beca hadn’t already been so close to her face, hadn’t already been close enough to wish that she had the ability to rip off her mask and smell her undoubtedly sweet and floral perfume, she wouldn’t have heard it. “You’re all set.”

Chloe finally steps away, and Beca wishes that she hadn’t spun around so fast because she is pretty sure that she had just sent her a wink. 

“So, here’s the card that I have filled out for you, and it’s really important that you bring it back when you return for your second dose,” the card that Chloe had written on earlier is handed over, covered in beautiful, curling black ink, “And you should receive a text in the next hour or so telling you when that second dose is going to be.”

“From you?” The words had left Beca’s mouth without her notice or permission, and it was not until an auburn eyebrow had risen into the air in amusement that Beca had realized what she had said.

“Fuck.” 

She covers her face in her hands, only to be embarrassed even further when the evidence of her forgotten boundary scrapes against her palms. She settles for letting out a groan and closing her eyes, laying her elbows onto her thighs and hanging her head in a full manifestation of her humiliation. 

Her body feels like it’s on fire and Beca wants the goddamn ground to open up and swallow her whole. 

Chloe giggles. “Not from me, silly. From the Department of Health of the state.”

Beca is positive that had she whipped her head up any faster, her neck would’ve snapped. Chloe’s laugh is like a drug. “Yeah, sorry. That was not supposed to come out of my mouth.”

Now that is definitely a wink. “What was supposed to come out then?”

Her jaw slackens, and if Fat Amy was there in the room with her, she would’ve made fun of her for looking like a fish. The heat in her cheeks burn hotter and Beca hastily shakes her head, hopping off from the stool, grateful that she had managed not to trip like the time before. The hard cardstock digs into her lines of her palm of her right hand further with each pulse against the side of her neck, and Beca wills her feet to power walk to the exit of the suffocating room lest she makes even more of a complete and awkward idiot out of herself in front of Dr. Chloe Beale.

Fingers tug on her wrist, and then something small is slapped onto her card. “Here,” Chloe looks like she’s chewing on her lip, “You forgot your sticker.”

Confusion furrows her brows, but something in her hisses at her to not to say a word, especially when sparkling blue eyes dart down the hall agitatedly as if its owner knows that she is doing something she’s not supposed to and if she is caught, she is going to be in major trouble.

There seems to not be enough air in the world for her to suck in, and Beca clutches both the sticker and card tightly against the space between her breasts and speeds down the hallway, her converse squeaking against the floor as she spins to beeline the rest of her way into her yellow post-it noted designated chair.

Stacie looks up from her phone from which 14:39 flashes across her screen and moves her foot out of her way so Beca can sit down, “So? How’d it go?”

Beca finally unleashes the death like grip of her hands, the side effect of her recent dose of something far from a vaccination of a worldwide virus causing her temperature to spike and her body to hyperventilate when ten beautifully, flirtatiously, unabashedly, confidently written digits wink at her from the back of the tiny sticker. “Like how it’s supposed to. I got a shot.”

I think this is gonna be my one and only covid related fanfic; it was absolutely exhausting to write, and I am still 98% sure that I haven’t fixed all the mistakes… XD.

#bechloe #bechloe fanfic #bechloe fanfiction #bechloe au #bechloe oneshot #pitch perfect #pitch perfect fanfiction #beca x chloe #beca mitchell #chloe beale #bechloe fluff #stacie conrad #covid au #mine #middle of the night #I don’t know what I’m doing #i need to sleep

[chroniclackofselfpreservation]

Creatures of the Night

Chapter 38 - something keeps trying but i'm not killed yet

Back to the Beginning   < Previous chapter / Next chapter >

AO3

Masterlist

(TW: graphic depictions of violence, blood/gore, panic, minor character death, malnutrition, self-sacrifice mentality)

(The title of the chapter comes from “Psalm 150” by Jericho Brown)

A/N: IMPORTANT INFO! PLEASE READ!

Hey, guys. Sorry for such a long wait for this chapter. Crazy how it took getting COVID for me to finally get my crap together and write this. I’m still not completely satisfied with how it turned out, but I didn’t want to keep you guys waiting.

I’ll be posting a new work to my COTN extras series right after this chapter drops with a bunch of new worldbuilidng stuff (for all you nerds out there, like me). Included is a map of the Witchlands. Due to changes in the city’s layout, I’ve gone back and changed the descriptions of the city in past chapters (specifically, section 3 of “heirlooms from sea funerals”, and section 3 of “make it make sense to make it better”) but nothing plot-altering. So you aren’t confused with this new chapter, basically: there are trains on bridges throughout the city now.

(also also: I won't be making these changes on the past tumblr posts, so if you want to read the updated versions, follow the AO3 link)

Two weeks later...

Roman slipped inside the blessedly cool interior of a tailor’s shop and leaned against the wall, wiping his face. Each day in the Witchlands was as hot as the last, like the dead of summer back in Wakeby, but far more humid. Thankfully, he was in the East Market, an organized, well-to-do grid of sixteen square blocks just south of the Djel Triba where the arcane district’s newest trinkets often made their first stop before the mass market. The source of the cool air was a thin wooden ring set up on a stand in the corner. Roman stepped up to it, sighing as a stream of cold air washed over him. Carved on the inside were four lines of alchemy, equally spaced apart around the ring. Roman couldn’t decipher it, aside from a few letters and numbers he recognized.

“You know, if I wanted my shop to smell like sweat, I’d invite the Wall Guard in here,” a voice said, and Roman turned. A man in all black stood behind him wearing a very stylish black scarf and circular glasses tinted a few shades darker, arms folded across his chest. It was the closest thing Roman had seen to normal sunglasses since arriving in the Witchlands. The tailor looked Roman and his gray uniform up and down, pausing on the gold insignia on his left shoulder.

“Working for Val, huh?”

He shrugged. “Community service, actually.” Roman riffled around in his satchel for a moment. “I’ve got a letter from the Chief Judge to… Rait?” he said, reading the name next to the address.

The tailor cocked an eyebrow. “You got a problem with my name, messenger boy? I’ll have you know it’s a family name going back ten generations.”

Unsure how to respond, Roman held out the letter. Rait plucked it from his hand and, unsheathing a pair of ornate metal scissors, sliced the envelope open. Roman waited politely, as was his duty, in case the recipient wished to send an immediate reply.

“These are all the same,” Rait muttered as he slipped a folded piece of parchment from the envelope. “Thanks, Rait, for designing me world-class outfits, even though I refuse to wear anything but that scaly suit of…” he trailed off. His face drained of both humor and blood as he scanned the letter’s contents. Roman’s interest piqued. Indeed, most of the mail he delivered for the Chief Judge consisted of complimentary thank-you notes to government officials or business owners. Only the truly sycophantic took time to send anything back.

Rait took a steadying breath, his expression carefully neutral. His quick glance at Roman’s hand, however, betrayed at least part of what he’d read.

It was about Roman.

Valerie had agreed that adding gloves to his uniform would keep him from getting mobbed in the streets by curious—or in some cases, pious—witches, though the ones he wore now were fingerless. Roman still wasn’t completely sure what his position as the Last Heir entailed, and Valerie only answered him with vaguery. Some thought he was destined to overthrow the Djel Triba and become a monarch. Some revered the old Witch Queen herself as a lower deity or handmaiden of Kaia, and considered him a sort of demigod. Roman tried to avoid these witches as much as possible. They tended to get weepy and try to grab his hands or arms. One man even started singing in the middle of the street. Thankfully, Roman had dashed off before too many people took notice.

Regardless, it seemed gloves would only hide his identity a short while longer. Rumors were spreading.

“Right. Well, um,” Rait said, pocketing the letter and composing himself. “I won’t be needing to send a physical reply, if you wouldn’t mind telling her my answer is yes.”

“Of course. Kaia cas de,” he said, giving a slight bow alongside the traditional farewell Valerie had taught him before he’d started his job. Kaia with you, it translated.

“O de,” Rait replied automatically, lost in thought.

Roman turned to leave.

“Hey,” Rait called, and Roman stopped with the door half open. The tailor fished around in his pocket, then tossed him two silver shils. Roman caught them and tried not to gape.

“I… I’m not supposed to get paid,” he said. “It’s kind of the point of community service.”

“Just get yourself something to eat, kid, witchgods,” Rait snapped, looking supremely uncomfortable at being openly kind. “You look like you’ll blow over in a stiff breeze. And don’t mention this to Val. She’ll never let me hear the end of it… because it goes against your sentence. Obviously.”

“Right,” Roman said slowly. “Thanks.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Rait muttered and disappeared into the back of the store.

Roman stepped out onto the street, a little stunned, pocketing his new wealth. He had seen little aside from gold shils, the lowest currency, since Valerie had sent Virgil and him clothes shopping when they’d first arrived. Roman looked down at himself. Sure, he’d lost some weight since being here, but he wasn’t sickly… right? It was probably from running all over the Capital six hours a day. Nevermind that the only meal he got was at the end of the night at Goldfire. Valerie hadn’t said anything about it, and Roman wasn’t about to. She was a busy person. He doubted she was deliberately leaving him destitute. Besides, he was getting by just fine.

Unfortunately, being “just fine” rarely kept his stomach from growling. On any other day, Roman would have snagged himself some nonperishable food to keep a stash of. Today, however, the small fortune would have to go to clearing a debt that had been looming over him ever since he’d taken it out to buy that muhlte—another gamble he’d had to take to make ends meet with no income coming from his messenger work, and the reason Virgil had insisted on taking up a job of his own as a clerk for that same clothing shop they’d visited on their first day in the Witchlands. He was just thankful he was a quick learner. Amaryllis taught him to play well enough to serve as nightly entertainment for Bodbyn’s patrons and earn himself dinner each night, as well as continued boarding once their two-week window from Valerie’s favor ran out.

Roman kept a hand in his pocket, fingers tight around the two silver shils, and glanced at his satchel. He had a handful of letters left to deliver. Thumbing through them, Roman found their destinations were around the south end of the West Market—a sprawling market district nestled inside the ruins of walls from when the Witch Queen had still been around, and the Capital had been a much smaller kingdom. If Roman hurried, he could finish his deliveries and run an errand of his own before reporting back to Valerie.

Content with his plan, Roman buckled his satchel closed and jogged to the nearest boarding station.

* * * * * * * * * *

The trains were, oddly, made of pale stone, rather than the hulking metal locomotives Roman was used to. Here, people called them railcars. There weren’t any seats either. Bars lined the ceiling—and the walls for those too short to reach—as handholds while the machine moved. There was a gap in the handles, forming a kind of aisle between people so passengers could exit more freely at stops, but otherwise, they all crowded together.

Roman stood near the exit alongside three other similarly gray-uniformed messengers in their designated seating area, one arm above his head as he gripped the support. Thankfully, messengers were exempt from rail fees, which meant there was one less thing he had to worry about paying for. The patches on their shoulders indicated which judge or noble family they ran for, though Roman was still having trouble memorizing them all. He glanced at the messenger to his right, who was about his age. The gold insignia on her left shoulder depicted an open book with a pen and a chisel crossed above it. She noticed him looking and gave an awkward smile.

“Sorry,” Roman said. “I’m still trying to learn all the crests. That’s Oberon, right?”

“Oh! Yeah, it is,” she replied, brightening. “Who’re you running for?”

For a moment, Roman considered lying. Too much of any kind of attention was precarious, for him especially. Unfortunately, the patch on his shoulder would reveal the truth no matter what. “The Chief Judge,” he admitted.

The messenger’s eyes widened. “Really? I thought—well, no offense, but I’ve heard she only lets the most powerful witches run for her because of all that classified information… and you’re so young!”

Roman fought a blush. “It’s really not that big of a deal. Just thank-you notes and—”

“You never know, Maize” one messenger from behind said, leaning forward between them, “he could be a warlock. I hear they’re allowed de-aging spells.”

“Whatever, Fentril,” Maize said, rolling her eyes. “I’m pretty sure those spells are illegal, even for warlocks.”

“You guys all know each other?” Roman asked, glancing behind him. There were six other messengers on the train. All eyed him with curiosity.

Fentril snorted. “Do you know how many runners there are in the Capital? Hundreds.”

“More like thousands, Fen,” one of the runners from behind them corrected.

“We know most runners from our own patronage,” Maize explained. “Maybe a few here and there that we see on the same routes,” she said, glaring pointedly at Fentril. “How long have you been running? I haven’t seen you around before.”

“I’ve seen him,” a different runner from the back piped up before Roman could respond. He turned. It was a tall woman, taller than him, with thick braided hair done up in a top knot. She leaned on the side of the car, almost sitting against it. Roman was sure if she stood, she’d have to hunch over. He was surprised he hadn’t noticed her before. The crest on her shoulder depicted two hands grasping overlaying a star of Kaia. The crest of Alecto, that daunting, all-white witch from the trial.

“Runs the noble neighborhoods and both markets. Pretty easy to recognize, wearing those strange gloves all the time,” she said, eyeing him. Roman’s chest seized, and it took everything in him not to hide his hands and make his secret even more obvious.

“Hey, a witch’s entitled their secrets, Hava,” Fen said, then stage whispered to Roman, “Don’t let her freak you out, kid.”

Roman cocked an eyebrow at the nickname, given Fen didn’t look that much older than him, but didn’t argue the point. Blessedly, before they could ask more questions about his gloves, the train arrived at his stop. He waved a tentative goodbye to his new acquaintances, muttering a quick, “Kaia cas des.”

“O de,” Maize and Fen said. A handful of runners exited the railcar alongside him, including Hava, who had to duck through the doorway. Standing to her full height, the woman looked at least seven feet tall, towering above the crowd. The boarding station was a fully roofed building encasing a section of the railway, arching up over the passing trains and letting down to the ground through an enormous spiral staircase inside the leg of the railbridge’s arch. There were alchemy-based elevators within the core pillar of the massive stairway, but those were reserved for emergencies.

Hava gave him a sort of salute—touching the side of her fist to her lips—and bounded down the stairs, out of sight. Roman had run up and down so many boarding stations in only the first two weeks of him being here, he couldn’t imagine how many the other runners had. He broke out into a jog, spacing his stride so three paces landed on each of the wide steps, careful not to trip. Runners like him kept to the inside of the stairway, making tighter turns, but traveling less distance overall. The crowd of ascending and descending witches recognized their uniforms and knew to keep out of the way.

In all his time here, he only seen other messengers stop running when they were on a train or at someone’s doorstep. Roman wasn’t about to look lazy in comparison. Besides, he quite enjoyed the running—now that he’d started acclimating, of course. The first few days, he’d nearly vomited.

By the time he reached the exit at the bottom, Hava and the other runners were long gone. Compared to the East Market, the West Market was a bubbling stewpot of taverns, merchants, shops, and the occasional street performer. The crowded streets made random, illogical turns, and most witches he asked for directions simply said he’d get used to it eventually, and gave him landmarks to look for instead of street names. Checking the last few addresses once more, Roman had a general idea of where to find their recipients.

Eyeing the setting sun, Roman ran down the street.

* * * * * * * * * *

The sun had long since dipped below the city walls, the sunset giving way to twilight. Roman strode through the still-crowded West Market, enjoying the cooler air. Nightlife in the West Market lasted well into the night, and the streets would likely be full for the next three or four hours. He’d finished his deliveries at last, wending his way along the ancient stone wall bordering the south end of the market. Normally, Roman’s assignments never took him this close to the noke slums—where the badge on his shoulder was more a target than mere identification—but it was a risk Roman would have to take.

My shift’s over. I’ll be heading back to Goldfire soon, Virgil said suddenly within his mind. Roman nearly jumped out of his skin, garnering a few odd looks from passersby.

Jeez, Virge, he thought back, slowing his breathing. Scare me half to death, why don’t you.

Sorry. I keep forgetting you aren’t used to it.

It’s fine. If you see Bodbyn, tell her I’m running late.

A hint of trepidation shot through their connection. Did something happen?

No, Roman assured him. I ran into some extra shils and thought I’d clear my ledger sooner than later.

Alright. Just be careful.

Always.

Their connection faded, though not completely. If he focused, Roman could sense Virgil’s emotions. Speaking through the bond had taken Roman a good few days to get the hang of, and it still wasn’t as natural for him as it was for Virgil.

Amaryllis spent most of her time at Goldfire. After one day cooped up in their room, she’d ventured out while the two of them were gone and somehow made friends with Bodbyn, the owner. Though unexpected, the friendship certainly helped smooth things over with them not technically paying for the room and all.

Roman passed a shop selling pigment pipes as contracted brownies scampered down the street, activating the alchemical streetlights as they went. Through the store’s front window, Roman could see clouds of multicolored vapor swirling near the ceiling. A patron exited and Roman could smell sharp spices and cinnamon as the man exhaled a deep purple mist through his nose. Roman held his breath as he passed. He wasn’t sure if someone could absorb the effects secondhand, but he wasn’t keen on finding out.

Turning a corner, Roman moved away from the well-lit streets and into the shadows. Climbing a set of questionable wooden stairs on the side of a rundown tavern, he approached a lone door on the second floor and knocked.

Nothing.

Roman knocked again, cursing his luck. Had he gone all this way for nothing? Trying the handle, he found it unlocked and slowly opened the door. It stopped after a few inches, as if blocked by something. Roman pushed harder, hearing something heavy scraping against the floor as the door gradually opened wider. He peeked his head in to see an enormous iron hammer hurtling at his face. Roman lurched backward, saving his skull by a hair’s breadth.

“Oh, it’s just you,” a cheerful voice said from inside. Roman put a hand to his chest, trying to calm himself, as two slender hands appeared from behind the door and pried the long-handled hammer out of the hole it had smashed in the wall.

Linda poked her head out and grinned at him. “Come on in, Roman.”

* * * * * * * * * *

Logan puffed as he ran down the sandy beach, watching the morning sky lighten out of the corner of his eye. His shoulders and back ached from hauling water down to camp—an early morning exercise Mikhail had integrated into his training—though the pain wasn’t as debilitating as it had been during the first few days. It wasn’t getting easier, per se, but rather Logan was simply growing used to the physical discomfort.

Mikhail jogged next to him, not even slightly out of breath. Both the water hauling and the running were methods, according to Mikhail, of increasing Logan’s stamina and endurance. Logan didn’t know the exact distance they ran around the island’s perimeter, but it was easily upwards of ten miles. They ran barefoot, as the homemade sandals weren’t robust enough to handle such treatment. It wasn’t much of an issue, though. They simply had to skirt around the rocky portions near Eudora’s cave.

Logan’s breath had steadily grown harder, and he began wheezing as they approached the driftwood log that marked the halfway point. Mikhail put a hand on his shoulder and slowed to a stop, holding out the canteen before he could complain.

“It’s not about speed, Logan.”

He fixed Mikhail with a look, taking the canteen from him. “Says the man who could run this three times over in under an hour.”

“We both know I’m no mere man,” he chuckled.

Logan took a swallow of water and handed the jug back, fighting to calm his breathing so they could start again. Running got ten times more miserable once the sun rose and began heating the sand. Despite his fatigue, he noticed Mikhail’s eyes glaze over a bit, a reaction that had been imperceptible to Logan at first. He was speaking with the abomination.

Mikhail blinked, eyes refocusing. “Once you can run the entire way without stopping, we’ll move on, I think,” he said. “Hopefully, by then, we could spar a few rounds before you’re tired out. Have you thought over what I asked yesterday?”

“Yes. Though, I’d like your honest opinion as someone far more experienced in this field.”

“Alright.”

“Assuming the battery theory works,” he began, “I’m fairly confident in predicting our escape from the island occurring within the next month or two. Of course, this is a best-case scenario, but I’d rather be ready sooner than caught under-prepared.”

Mikhail gave a nod, though his expression hardened. None of them enjoyed bringing up the escape, as if they still didn’t quite believe him. Patton was the one exception.

“I figure any martial discipline will take a significant amount of time to become proficient in, let alone master, and due to my lack of magical abilities, I believe it would be more practical for me to learn the use of some kind of long distance weapon, magical or otherwise.”

“I agree,” Mikhail said. “A bow, then?”

“Exactly.”

“I do have experience with archery,” he admitted, rubbing his beard. “You’re planning to use this weapon against the dragon witch, though. Arrows won’t do much to someone like that. What’s stopping her from forcing the bow away from you?”

Logan grinned. “I thought of that. When Jorryn located iron deposits for the batteries, we didn’t have Eudora extract all of it, right? There could be enough to forge a bow.”

“An iron bow? Doesn’t sound very practical. It would be extremely heavy, not to mention you’d need a bowstring that could handle that much tension.”

“That’s where alchemy comes in. I need iron for its antimagic properties, not its hardness or weight. I’ll have to ask Killian about the specifics, but assuming we could counteract the weight and rigidity of the iron, it could work.”

“And the arrows? They could easily be diverted with magic.”

“Same principle as the bow, hypothetically,” Logan shrugged. “We’ll know more once we make them and can run tests.”

Mikhail eyed him. “You really thought this out, huh?”

“We’re already building the forge to cast the battery casings,” he said. “And Killian was a blacksmith before becoming a carpenter, so he should be able to help us. It…” Logan noticed the sun peeking over the watery horizon. “I spoke too much,” he said, shifting on his feet. “We should probably get going.”

“No, let’s head back to camp. We can cut through the middle. I want to hear more of this idea of yours, te’kundi,” Mikhail said, smiling.

“What?”

“It’s witchtongue. A title we give to those smarter than ourselves.”

Logan flushed, following him into the trees. “I really don’t think—”

“Take the compliment, te’kundi,” Mikhail chuckled, slapping him on the back. “We’ve got work to do.”

* * * * * * * * * *

Linda held the two silver shils between her fingers, lifting them up and admiring them like a jeweler, letting out a low whistle. She leaned precariously in a chair, feet propped up on her desk. Her infamous iron hammer lay across her desk. Its thick square head tapered down to a wickedly sharp point at the other end, the handle about the length of Roman’s arm. Iron weapons were expensive and Roman rarely saw one outside of the iron-spear-wielding Court Guard, but they were some of the most effective weapons against witches. For a non-magical witch like Linda, it was the main reason she kept her more powerful clients under her thumb.

“Well, you were right. That’ll just about do it for your loan,” she said with a sigh, tossing the coins up and catching them in a fist. Linda eyed him with a grin. “Sure you don’t want to borrow some more?”

“Not at the moment. I’ll be sure to call on you again should the need arise,” he said with a bow and flourish.

Linda’s grin split, showing her teeth, and she sat up. “That uniform’s taught you manners, I see. Shame to see you go. You’re one of my best behaved clients,” she pouted, glancing around her office. It was a wreck—like someone had tried to rob her. Or kill her. The heavy object blocking the door had been a chest made of dark wood with brass fittings. Framed maps lay shattered on the floor, drawers hung at odd angles from dressers as if someone had yanked them open, and Roman was pretty sure that was blood spatter in the corner, though Linda didn’t look injured.

“Thank you, Linda. Kaia cas de,” he said sincerely, ready to put as much distance between him and this woman as possible. She was nice, yes. But something in that smile told him if he didn’t part ways with her now, he never would.

Linda’s face softened, but before she could so much as utter a reply, the door slammed open and three people rushed into the room. Roman whirled, only to get tackled to the floor by a short, burly man. Linda leaped atop her desk, swinging her iron hammer at one of the two, cracking the woman in the head with the flat end. The other hesitated.

A fist met Roman’s face. He saw stars as the man pinned him to the floor with surprising efficiency, clamping a grimy hand over his mouth.

“You just be nice and compliant,” he sneered. “Don’t try anything, and we might let you live.”

“You killed her!” the man left standing screamed, kneeling by the one Linda had struck. He was leaner than his companion, with a purplish birthmark across his face. He reached out to the bleeding, unconscious woman with trembling, hesitant hands.

“You’re both trying to kill me, Dossen,” Linda said, rolling her eyes. “It’s basic self defence. Now, I’d thank you to leave and tell whoever sent you to come themselves next time.”

Roman’s mind raced, trying to orient himself. The right side of his face throbbed, and the man’s fingernails dug into his cheek, keeping him from opening his mouth. They don’t know if I’m non-magical or not, he figured in the back of his mind. He’s keeping me from using witchtongue. Not that he would have used it, anyway. He’d only started learning more witchtongue from Amaryllis a week ago. Roman didn’t trust himself not to overdo it again if things got ugly.

“You know that isn’t how Kildev works,” Dossen sneered, retreating from his friend’s limp form and unsheathing two curved knives.

Linda’s flippancy wavered. “Kildev? Since when do you work for him?”

Dossen shrugged. ��Since he pays more.”

Roman? Virgil’s voice filled his mind. What’s wrong? Where are you?

Linda’s. The man squeezed Roman’s arms to his sides with his legs. Roman’s breath picked up through his nose even as he fought for calm. He couldn’t afford to make a scene here. He just had to wait it out and hope, for their sakes, they didn’t attack him.

Roman felt scales. He shivered, cringing.

“Vero Kaia,” swore the one holding him down. “He’s one of the Chief’s runners.”

Dossen backed toward where Roman lay pinned, not taking his eyes off Linda or her hammer. “Looks like I’ve got a hostage, and a pricey one at that.” He pointed one of the knives at Roman.

“Leave him out of this.”

“Drop the hammer.”

Roman, I’m coming. I’m coming. Hold on.

Linda charged, and Dossen yelped, clearly expecting her to have hesitated with his new leverage. Against a hammer, his close-range knives were practically useless unless he threw them. And he did. Linda barely dodged the one soaring at her face, though it scored a nasty gash from her cheek to her ear.

The other sank hilt deep into Roman’s thigh. One last-ditch effort to pull the hostage card.

Roman!

The sudden pain tore through any semblance of control he had. Roman’s ears began to ring. The man atop him gasped and yanked his hand back, like he’d touched a hot stovetop. Roman surged upward, toppling the man backward. He pressed a hand against the man’s chest. Through the haze of pain, every defensive spell Amaryllis had taught him since they’d arrived fled his mind, and he growled the first thing he could think of.

“Baesta.”

A deafening crack split the air as the wooden floor beneath them buckled inward. Roman lurched forward, his hand slipping through the gaping hole in the man’s chest. He was dead instantly. Blood ran from his nose and eyes, like he’d imploded from the inside. Dossen was nowhere to be seen. Linda stood with her hammer held limply at her side.

“Mother of magic,” she breathed, staring at the horrendous sight. Roman pulled back, hand covered in gore. His glove was gone. Torn apart. What was the word for healing again? He couldn’t think straight. He was too tired and hungry.

Something shot through his connection to Virgil. A sudden, far away surge of power. Roman, what’s going on? Please, talk to me. I’m almost there.

Roman was somehow numb and barely holding it together at the same time. He couldn’t meet Linda’s eye as he extracted himself from the bloody corpse. “Isumani,” he whispered. Heal everything. Just make it all normal again.

Magic burst out of him, filling the room. The floor creaked and shuddered beneath them as it knit itself back together. Blood flowed back into the man’s body, the hole Roman had punched through him slowly healing. His own leg sewed itself shut, the knife clattering to the floor.

And it didn’t stop there.

The room began righting itself, shattered glass coming back together, frames rehanging themselves. Linda gave a surprised gasp as the gash on her face closed without leaving a trace.

The woman Linda had bashed in the head shuddered and stumbled to her feet, wound still healing. She took one look around the room and fled. Linda did nothing to stop her, staring in astonishment at the scene unfolding before her.

The man beneath Roman gasped back to life. He scrambled away, shoving Roman away. The stranger was too shocked to scream, but his eyes were full of fear. Roman let him leave, squeezing his eyes shut against the fresh memories of what he’d done. All the healing magic in the world couldn’t fix the lingering feeling of blood on his hands. The fear in their eyes.

I’m supposed to be their savior, he thought numbly.

“Roman. You can stop now,” Linda said, sounding like she was trying very hard to remain calm. Confused, he cracked his blurry eyes open to see leafy branches sprouting from the floorboards and poking through the paint on the walls. Healing magic still flowed through him like an open faucet. Strange golden light dappled the room, flickering across Linda’s face as she stared at him.

He looked down at his hands and yelped in surprise. Amber splotches of light moved across his skin like air bubbles underwater. Roman’s pulse thundered in his ears as he tried to brush the light off of him, but it just felt like his skin. The moving patches were warm and sent tingles up his fingers when he touched them. Was this some kind of magic sickness? The idea sent a stab of panic through him. He couldn’t handle one more thing to worry about. Running for Valerie, and performing for Bodbyn, and learning from Amaryllis, and keeping his identity secret, and saving all his friends, and defeating Ursula.

He was so tired.

A monstrous thud shook the roof, and Linda swore. The building creaked under a mysterious weight that moved down toward the door. Of course, Roman thought half-hysterically, grabbing his head. One more magical beast I’ve got to defeat.

An enormous feline head poked through the doorway—now nothing more than an archway of curved branches. Roman, Virgil asked, blinking amber eyes the size of dinner plates at him. Are you hurt?

Roman couldn’t form a coherent reply—vocal or mental. The branches grew thicker and longer, a multi-armed helix of trees reformed from planks of wood, a crown of greenery blossoming high above them. It all sprouted from where Roman knelt. The trees responded to his thoughts, and at that moment, there wasn’t anything Roman wanted more than for Virgil to be close to him. The opening widened, and Virgil padded past a dumbfounded Linda. Leaves sprouted from the handle of her hammer.

It’s okay, Roman. I’m here. You’re safe now. Virgil curled up around him. Roman clung to his fur, trembling.

“What’s happening to me?” he breathed, looking at the strange light taking over his body.

Your core’s showing. It’s totally normal, Roman. All witches have them. I’m in my core form right now, and I’m not too scary, right? he replied, a thunderous purr rumbling through him. Take some deep breaths for me, yeah? Everything’s going to be all right.

Roman took a shaky breath, burying his face in Virgil’s fur. He could feel Virgil’s underlying fear and worry, kept carefully in control so it didn’t freak Roman out more. It was nice, however, not having to be the mentally strong one this time.

“I can’t do it,” he whimpered.

Can’t do what?

“Everything.”

You’re right—and you shouldn’t have to. I keep forgetting that none of this is normal for you. I’m sorry. We’ll talk to Valerie and figure something else out, okay? Trust me.

Roman, finally, relaxed. The lights across his skin faded away, and the trees around them stopped growing. His stomach growled petulantly, and Virgil’s ears perked up.

Have you eaten, yet?

Roman shook his head, exhausted. He just wanted to sleep.

Roman, you need to eat something. Can you climb onto my back?

He swallowed back a sigh and clambered up onto Virgil’s back, grabbing loose fists of his thick fur to keep himself from falling off. Virgil stood and padded to the exit.

“Sorry about all of this,” he said as they passed Linda.

Having recovered from her initial shock, she just laughed. “Are you kidding? This’ll be great for my new business!” she said, gesturing to the massive tree around her. “Now I just have to figure out what that business will be…”

“Right,” Roman chuckled weakly, feeling scraped hollow. “Good luck, Linda.”

She gave him a nod, already surveying the interior, muttering to herself. Roman turned his attention to the street below and his heart sank.

A crowd had formed around the tree. People pointed up at them, most shouting in excitement and wonder, though a thick-armed tavern keep standing atop a root as thick as his own torso looked particularly upset about the impromptu redesign of his shop. What made him the most nervous were the undeniable mutterings of “heir of prophecy” he could hear even from this distance.

You going to be okay?

Roman took a deep breath. “I certainly hope so.”

The climb down wasn’t easy, and Roman had to cling to Virgil’s back to keep from falling as they scrambled down the trunk. People backed away, clearing a spot for Virgil to drop the rest of the way to the ground, landing nimbly without jostling Roman too much.

He craned his head back and marveled at his towering creation. “At least it’s pretty,” he muttered. The experience sure hadn’t been.

A deep growl from Virgil snapped his attention back to the crowd, who had inched closer, curious.

“Stay back,” he warned, voice gravely and inhuman—similar to Dorian’s. Roman hadn’t heard him speak like this since their fiasco in the basement with Remus. It was comforting and unsettling at the same time. Thankfully, the crowd didn’t push their luck, remaining where they were.

“Is it true?” a voice from the sea of faces called. “You’re the Last Heir of prophecy?”

“He’s too young,” another retorted.

Roman swallowed, his throat dry. “Um…”

“No, no, look at his hand!”

“The Star of Kaia!”

“I want to know who’s paying for damages,” the tavern keeper said, arms folded.

“Quiet!” Virgil said, fur bristling. Everyone’s eyes went wide, mouths shutting. “The Heir has arrived, and he is very tired. So help me, if any of you disturb him, you’ll be taking your questions up with Kaia herself in the afterworld. Am I understood?”

Most either nodded or looked away, terrified. Resigned as he was, Roman couldn’t help but feel for them. They were just curious. He doubted they meant any harm.

“I’m sorry,” he said, raising his voice so hopefully they could all hear him, “for any damage I’ve caused.”

“Sorry won’t fix my ruined business!” the tavern keeper shouted. Several witches shot him dirty looks. One even elbowed him and muttered something. “What?” he said, rounding on them. “I’m just supposed to grovel at his feet cause he ruined my livelihood in a flashy way?”

Roman was so tired he wasn’t sure if he would start laughing or burst into tears. He didn’t know what to do. He was this supernatural hero who could grow mystical trees without a second thought, but couldn’t for the life of him fix what he’d screwed up.

Virgil let out a low, warning noise, and the man paled.

“Oh, stop your whining, Galphin!” Linda shouted down from the tree hollow, brandishing her leafy hammer. “Cut out a new door, or something. This witch just made your tavern the hotspot of the Capital and you’re crying like a Brownie over tarnished silver. Get over yourself.”

Galphin spluttered, face flushing red. A few in the crowd let out soft laughter. “You’ve got no right—”

“In fact!” Linda said, that same grin spreading across her face. “I’m the reason Golden Boy was even here to begin with, so looks like you owe me for the renovation.”

“Owe you? This is ridiculous. I let you run your shady little business above my tavern, noke!”

Linda laughed. “Oh, please, don’t you know the best way to get what you want is to let the other person think they’re making the deal? Now, there’s going to be a steady interest on the property tax I’m issuing, so I suggest you get to work before I call the Guard for substantial debts taken without intent to pay.” She shot Roman a look and winked.

Roman nodded his thanks, patting Virgil on the shoulder. The familiar started away from the tree, the crowd silently parting around them. He noticed a few cheeks wet with tears, and Roman desperately hoped no one broke out into some kind of religious preaching. Thankfully, they all kept a respectful distance. Roman did his best to sit up straight, despite wanting to pass out, and even managed a weak smile.

An adolescent, perhaps fourteen, reached a tentative hand out, brushing Virgil’s leg with their fingertips as they passed. Virgil looked down at them, and they instantly retracted their hand.

Be nice, Roman admonished, scratching his fingers through the fur between Virgil’s shoulders.

I am being nice, he said, tail flicking. We can be a parade attraction some other time, though.

Agreed.

It was a long walk from Linda’s place to Valerie’s estate. Nearly across the entire city. Roman couldn’t guess the distance, but figured at the pace they were going, it’d be at least an hour before they arrived. Thankfully, it was late enough now that the streets were somewhat empty. Roman couldn’t imagine having to make this trek in the middle of a bustling market. While the crowd that had formed around the tree incident had indeed remained respectful and quiet, Virgil’s threats hadn’t kept them from trailing behind as they made their way through the city.

The ride wasn’t very comfortable either, despite the softness of Virgil’s fur. Felines weren’t exactly meant to ferry around passengers, no matter their size. The bumps of Virgil’s spine pressed uncomfortably against him, and despite the fact that he’d removed his messenger’s jacket and bundled it up into a makeshift cushion, Roman was sure he’d be regretting it in the morning with bruises in unsavory places.

Still, he silently enjoyed the distance it put between him and the people, and despite the aches, the gentle swaying motion as Virgil walked lulled him into a kind of half-awake daze.

You should try sleeping, Ro. It’ll be a while before we arrive, Virgil said, glancing over his shoulder at him.

Yeah, he said absently, but made no move to lay down. This form isn’t… hard for you to keep up, is it?

Witchgods, Roman, just let me take care of you, he laughed, exasperated. After a moment, however, he conceded, explaining, I could stay like this as long as I wanted. It’s the transformation itself that takes magical energy.

Right, Roman said. How’s it going with Amaryllis and your talisman? They worked on Virgil using his powers without the talisman while Roman was busy playing muhlte for patrons at Goldfire, so Roman rarely saw the training himself.

She says I’m making progress, he admitted after a pause.

Roman’s head bobbed as he struggled to stay awake. That’s good… I’m proud of you…

Virgil said nothing, plodding along at a steady, hypnotic pace. Roman slumped forward, which distributed his weight and relieved some of the pain from sitting up on Virgil’s back.

He let out a tired sigh, and, at last, let his mind slip into unconsciousness.

* * * * * * * * * *

Most of the crowd had dispersed when Virgil reached the edge of the West Market, the last few stragglers only trailing behind for a few minutes more as he followed the rail lines through the arcane district—the most direct path back to Valerie’s estate. The Djel Triba came into view, and Virgil felt a measure of relief. He’d kept his worries in check as well as he could manage, not wanting to wake Roman up. But walking alone through a potentially hostile city at night, despite his current size, was paranoia-inducing. The scuttle of various city-dwelling fae in the shadows kept him on edge.

We’ll be fine, Virgil, Amaryllis assured him for what felt like the hundredth time since they’d picked her up from Goldfire.

We don’t know how Valerie will react, he said. Some of the judges wanted to throw him in prison. What if what just happened convinces her they were right?

Something’s got to change, Virgil. Roman has to master these powers in three months, and we’ve only covered the basics of witchtongue in the past two weeks. I’m sure Valerie will understand.

What if she doesn’t?

What if she does? she countered. Virgil sighed, dropping the issue. Roman snored softly against his fur, completely asleep. He had to be careful not to shift his weight too much, or he’d risk Roman sliding off his back.

Passing the Djel Triba itself, they made their way down a long cobble drive that split off every half mile or so, sectioning off the different judge’s estates. Valerie’s was in the back, a stately building of skilled stone masonry with tall, well-lit windows. Not nearly as big as Virgil had anticipated.

The two guards stationed at the front door looked at each other, confused.

“You’re… the Heir’s familiar. Right?” one of them asked.

Virgil turned a bit, revealing the sleeping Roman. He didn’t like speaking aloud in this form unless he had to. Reminded him too much of Dorian.

The two guards stiffened.

“Is he injured?” the other asked, stepping forward.

No. Let us in, Virgil snapped in both of their minds. The two of them jumped, startled.

Amaryllis floated ahead of Virgil, shooting him a chastising look that he met with defiance. “He’s perfectly fine,” she amended. “Just asleep. However, we have some pressing matters to discuss with the Chief Judge, if you would be so kind as to escort us.”

These guards, thankfully, didn’t look at Amaryllis like she was the undead scum of the earth. One nodded to the other and led them inside. The doorway wasn’t quite big enough for Virgil, but he was agile enough to slink through without displacing his sleeping witch. They were handed off to one of the house staff, who bowed silently to them and guided them down the hall. The servant was a short woman—or, at least, she looked short from Virgil’s perspective. She kept shooting glances at Roman’s limp form. He followed her line of sight and found she was interested in the gold mark on Roman’s hand hanging over Virgil’s side.

So was everyone, it seemed.

Virgil kicked himself for not realizing how overtaxed Roman was getting earlier. They shared a mental link, for Witch Queen’s sake. He still wasn’t sure what exactly had happened at Linda’s. The echo of Roman’s pain he’d felt still haunted him. Whatever had occurred, Roman had erased with healing magic. Maybe once he was awake, Virgil could pry the story out of him.

They stopped outside another large pair of doors. The servant pressed a hand against a small panel in the wall inscribed with lines of alchemy, and it sunk inward about an inch. The massive doors swung open of their own accord, revealing a spacious, but noticeably empty, sitting room. The servant strode inside and squatted near a fireplace on the left side of the room. Muttering a soft, “Merint,” a fire burst to life from her fingertips.

She stood, facing them. “The Chief Judge is in her personal quarters at the moment. Please wait here while I inform her of your presence,” the woman said with another deep bow to both Virgil and Amaryllis before exiting.

Virgil ducked through the doorway, once again careful to keep Roman balanced across his back. Amaryllis trailed throughout the room, looking at the artwork on the walls. A row of tall windows lined the back wall, revealing a lush garden lit by amber lanterns. Virgil positioned himself between the sitting area and window, giving him a good view of the entire room—doors included. He slowly lowered onto his stomach, resting, but ready to get up and run if he had to.

Amaryllis looked over. “You know, he’d probably be more comfortable on one of the couches.”

He’s fine where he is.

She conceded with a shrug. Truth was, Virgil wasn’t sure he’d be able to keep his anxiety in check if he didn’t have the comforting weight of his witch on his back, his soft puffs of breath across his fur, or the occasional shifting that reminded Virgil he was still alive and well.

His ears swiveled, picking up steady, clinking footsteps growing closer to the sitting room’s open doors. Valerie appeared in the doorway soon after, in her typical suit of scaled armor. Her smile disappeared when she saw Roman unconscious, and she stepped into the room.

“What happened?”

He’s just asleep.

She relaxed a bit, folding her arms. “While I’m glad to hear that, Virgil, it doesn’t answer my question.”

Virgil vacillated on how much to tell her. He still didn’t trust the woman, though he liked her more than the other judges. There was another incident. Similar to what happened with the Captain of the Guard when we arrived.

Valerie paled. “Is anyone injured?”

I don’t think so. I wasn’t with him when it happened, but if anything, he healed things a bit too much.

“What do you mean?”

I mean you’ve got a giant tree growing in the south end of the West Market, now.

“Oh, it’s gorgeous,” Amaryllis said. “I could see it from Goldfire.”

Valerie began pacing around the room. “As long as no one was injured… Wait, why weren’t you with him? Aren’t you two inseparable?”

Virgil’s tail whipped back and forth. That’s why we’re here. You realize you left us destitute, right?

She stopped, staring at him. “What? Did you not contact Bodbyn? She should have—”

She fulfilled her favor to you and let us use a room, but food was never a part of the deal. Virgil tensed, fighting to keep his anger in check in case he woke Roman. It wasn’t working very well. Roman wasn’t making any money from running for you, so he took out a loan to buy an instrument so he could work for one meal a day. I had to get a separate job just to help pay off his loan. That’s why I wasn’t with him.

“One meal a—why didn’t he tell me?” Valerie said, running a stressed hand through her hair. “I saw him every morning! I thought… I had no idea…”

He didn’t want to impose, Virgil sneered. And now, because he’s been so busy running all over the city for you, he’s wasted two weeks where he could have been learning to control his powers instead. You have no idea what’s at stake here.

Amaryllis came between them, holding out her hands. “That’s enough, Virgil. Valerie is aware of the situation now.” She turned to the Chief Judge. “We’ve come to rework the agreement. Roman needs time to study and practice using his powers, otherwise incidents are going to keep happening.”

“I agree. I’ll speak with the other judges. Hopefully, this won’t turn into another trial.” Valerie bowed her head in Virgil’s direction. “Regardless, I apologize for my ignorance, joka iskaia. It will not happen again.”

He nodded back to her, blinking slowly.

“I will have my staff prepare quarters for you immediately. You are welcome to the meals as they are served during the day—” she glanced at Roman—“but you may help yourself to our kitchen tonight, though the cook has retired for the evening. Myla, the woman who showed you here, will take you to your rooms once they are ready. Ask her for anything you may need.”

“Thank you,” Amaryllis said. “I’m sure Roman will thank you once he’s awake.”

Valerie shook her head. “He doesn’t need to. I’m simply doing what I should have from the beginning. Goodnight.” And with that, she departed.

Amaryllis turned to Virgil with a smile. “That went well!”

Yes, Virgil admitted. He may not trust Valerie yet, but this might have been the first step in the right direction they’d taken since arriving.

#graphic depictions of violence #panic #tw panic #tw blood and gore #tw violence #minor character death #COTN #creatures of the night