Tumgik
#ch: victor stone
dcmultiverse · 2 years
Photo
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
DC League of Super-Pets (2022) Directed by Jared Stern and Sam J. Levine
753 notes · View notes
avoxrising · 3 months
Text
The Feral One • Ch 29
Finnick x Y/N
Series Masterlist Link
Ok one more chapter after this one then the epilogue! I still haven’t written the epilogue but as soon as I do the series will be published.
Content Warnings - Descriptions of killing
Tumblr media
Finnick left for 4 after the doctors had gotten your seizures under control and you’d commenced the rest of your treatment plan. They explained that they were most likely a permanent side effect of the capital’s experiment but you could help lessen their occurrence using a medication. You were hesitant to take any medication from the capital, but both Finnick and Beetee assured you it was safe.
All of the victors went back to their districts except for you, Johanna, and Peeta. It seems like the three of you were trapped in the capital all over again. You did have some freedoms, such as the ability to go outside and the ability to socialize freely, but it still felt like a prison.
Dr. Aurelius noticed how you were regressing in the capital and recommended the doctors release you early back to 4 where you could continue to meet with him over the phone. They were hesitant to agree but you promised to come back if your health worsened.
At the news of your release, Finnick hopped on the first train back to the capital. His project wasn’t 100% finished but he was glad you were coming home.
“Finn!” you squeal as he enters your room. Your stuff was already packed and ready to go with you to 4 in the morning.
He pulls you into a tight hug, inhaling the smell of your freshly washed hair.
“Hey love,” he smiles. “Are you ready to go home tomorrow?”
“Yes!” you reply, staring into those deep blue-green eyes you had missed for weeks.
You allow him to sleep alongside you that night, knowing that he is a safe person.
He’s your safe person, and you’re his home.
The next morning, Finnick loads your stuff onto the train and you both head back to 4. Mags and Annie were already there waiting for you.
The two of you spend the train ride curled up together on the couch, watching the scenery pass by in silence.
When you arrive in District 4, your whole world seems brighter. Paylor had pardoned you of the crimes the capital had charged you with, meaning you were no longer confined to your house. You were free.
Finnick grabs your bags and starts to pull you along down an unfamiliar road.
“Finn, where are we going?” you ask him.
“It’s a surprise,” he responds, smiling at you.
After a long walk, Finnick finally reveals the surprise.
Finnick had spent his few weeks back in 4 moving all of your things to a new house in the north of the district, along with Mags’ and Annie’s things into a house next door.
You stared in awe at the beautiful garden that wraps around the house, as well as the cobble stone path leading down to the beach.
“It’s perfect,” you grin, pulling him into a hug. “Thank you.”
“Anything for you, love.”
Your first few days home were a breath of fresh air. You went on morning walks with Finnick to help increase your strength and would finish your days laying on the beach with him, watching the last of the sunset over the horizon.
“Annie seems better,” you mention to Finnick as you both stare out towards the dying embers of the day. “She can sit in the same room as me for an hour without screaming now.”
“I always hopped you two would get along,” Finnick hums. He had watched for years as the two of you avoided each other like the plague, scared that all sanity would be lost if an encounter were to occur.
It had been hard for Finnick to convince Annie at first that you weren’t going to kill her. He remembers how terrified of you she was before she even entered the arena.
“I think that’s my biggest fear,” Annie had admitted to her mentor the night before her games. “Watching someone you cared about’s head get hacked off right in front of you.”
She had been mentally scared by the image of your kill in the arena. She remembers watching you decapitate Floyd while his district partner watched in horror, unable to stop it.
Annie never blamed you for your kill, at least not after she left the arena. But, seeing her own district partner go out in the same way left her with trauma that was unintentionally linked with you.
Tumblr media
Taglist:
@randomgurl2326 @mystargirl-interlude @uther-pendragon-is-an-ass @yourdailymemedelivery @americanprometheuss @|3хі3luv @noisyalmonddreamer @nordicvxid @teaganthemorningstar @samatokisunfinishedcigarette @justtrying2getby @lvsticm @notplutos @innercreationflower @nexxus13 @kachelleee @helluvafire @haymitchabernathyslover @memeorydotcom @frostsword @meri-soni-meri-tamanna @giverosespls @honethatty12 @just-levyy @dd122004dd @nekee-lilac02 @impeterporker @nox-the-gay-nerd @redsakura101 @hopefulatrocity @eddiemunson4ever @fangirlvibez @kittimbo @zucchinimalfoy @sleepy-roman @secretsicanthideanymore @writerofadream @finnysmusic @mayonesavegana @lilifl0wer @finnickodaddy @abbersreads @fox-bee926 @ginger-swag-rapunzel @isasalom @yizhoutv @livingdead-reilly @coriolanussnowswife @faephoria @omwtkydttfym @iris1587 @sarcasm-and-stiles @10ava01 @impossessedbyjeongyeon @littleanubis21 @scorpiolystoned @maxinehufflepuffprincess
140 notes · View notes
tokiro07 · 4 months
Text
Undead Unluck ch.185 thoughts
[The New York Soup Stock Exchange]
(Contents: thematic analysis)
I've been thinking a lot about Tozuka's editor saying that Undead Unluck's slogan would be "let's enjoy life," and maybe it's a matter of translation, but to me, it seems like every word of that slogan has meaning
"Enjoy life" is easy enough to see the significance of, but I'm willing to bet most people who read that discount the "let's"
To me, though, that phrase isn't a command, it's an invitation: it's not telling you to go out and enjoy your life, it's asking you to enjoy life with others. We all should enjoy our lives, together, and this chapter illustrates that concept beautifully
In shonen battle manga, togetherness is most readily conveyed through standing united against a common enemy, but that's not really applicable to most people's lives. However, there is one way to show togetherness that I think pretty much anyone anywhere can relate to: sharing meals
Family gatherings, holiday parties, celebrating special occasions, or even smaller occasions like dates or regular lunch breaks, the number one way that people spend time together is just grabbing a bite to eat. Any given cooking manga, like Food Wars or Toriko, capitalize on this throughout their entire runs, but even manga without a focus on food like One Piece, Dr. Stone or even Cipher Academy often feature their cast savoring delicious food in each other's company
Undead Unluck is no stranger to this, like with the cherry blossom viewing as Spring died in the previous loop, but this is the first time that we've focused on the creation and consumption of a singular dish in this series. The cooking process is just as important as the dish itself, and while Enjin has experience, Fuuko has love: a group of friends who will face any challenge with her, and who she has a strong enough understanding of to be able to create something greater than the sum of its parts. In a way, that's what the Union is: a hotpot of disparate ingredients brought together and harmonizing to create something incredible
I've noted before that very few fights in Undead Unluck are one-on-one, but one-vs.-many is a pretty common setup: Union vs. Victor, AnFuu+RipLa vs. Autumn, and, most notably, AnFuu+ShenMui vs. Feng. Unlike Feng, Enjin definitely understands the concept of cooking/fighting with love, but just like Feng, Enjin operates alone, taking on every aspect of the cooking process by himself while Fuuko has split up the responsibilities based on everyone's strengths. This is exemplified best through his taste test, where the panel zooms out to show his single silhouette struggling to cool down his broth while Fuuko and friends continue cooking. The wide empty space and his one shadow vs. the Union's three felt so incredibly lonesome
I won't dig too deep into Enjin's mentality or reasoning just yet, as I'm sure the next chapter will give me more than enough to work with on that front, but it's plain to see that Enjin isn't just solitary, he's isolated. Just like Feng, just like Billy, just like Rip, just like Andy. Did he choose to be this way like the former three, or did he find himself here like Andy? Again, we'll find out next week, but I'm willing to bet it's a little bit of both - something happened that pushed him away from others, and he chose to continue on alone
I'm really liking this arc so far, but I think the clincher is going to have to be Enjin's backstory. I like his design and personality, but for him to solidify himself in my heart like everyone else has before him, his story needs to move me. With everything we've seen in these last two chapters, though, I have no doubt that Tozuka will do just that with ease
Until next week, let's enjoy life
22 notes · View notes
goldeneyedgirl · 3 months
Text
TwiFicmas NYE Edition: Variable Stars
Tumblr media
Okay, since I got some very desperate DMs, you all win and we'll celebrate the end of 2023 with Variable Stars, and the beginning of 2024 with STL snippets.
This is a few pieces from Ch 7 of Variable Stars. It's close to done, and the bare bones of Ch 8 has been set up. I look forward to getting back into the swing of VS because friends to lovers is just so damn wholesome.
I hope you all have a brilliant NYE and I'll see you next year ;)
She’s not sure when everything changed. 
When it stopped being the Cullen home and it stopped being Jasper’s home and it started being hers too. When she started seeing her own face in the photographs on the walls, when the other family members called for her, she wasn’t just an extension of Jasper. 
She knows the house (which step is cracked because one of them stepped down too hard, but there’s been a lot of damage lately, so they’re all gingerly avoiding it in the hopes it can hold out a few weeks so that Esme doesn’t get too mad. Which bathroom never has hot water after midnight. That Carlisle moved all the travel books from the top-most shelves in the library down  to her eye-level so she could take them without lingering. That the spinning chair in the living room is shoved in the corner near the window because it’s her favourite but she won’t sit in it if her back is exposed.)
She knows that Esme is fiercely protective of her garden, that the stepping-stones are there for a reason. There’s a greenhouse that’s about to be built; and that Bella sulks if anyone is in the hammock when she wants to use it. (She also knows that Emmett and Rose are banned from the hammock because of what they did to the last one.)
And the forest. She knows it better than anything. That’s where they hunt, where her and Jasper go running. Where he found her that day, washing off the blood. Where they play-fight and she plays on the ice at the end of winter and it’s all broken up in pieces.
Then there is Jasper. There are a million different ways to explain Jasper and who he is to her, how he soothes all the raw spots and open wounds just by being there. Everything is easier with him, and there's never a day when she doesn't thank whatever higher power exists that they crossed paths.  
(Peace is a funny thing; it feels solid but she’s so intensely aware of how easily it could shatter. Eight vampires in one place is a recipe for disaster; she never forgets that. But for now, she just savours every single moment.)
It’s home. She’s finally home.
//
Some things are inevitable; Alice knows this well enough. Her death, for instance - setting foot in that hospital when she was a newborn, where the doctor knew who she was… that was a place people went to die, not to heal.
Realising that the only thing her gift would bestow upon her was death, destruction, and the legacy of a monster was another. 
Oh, and Jasper being someone important. There had always been something about him, even when he was a nomadic grump. 
But Alice has accepted that certain things are inevitable and avoiding them, or pretending they aren’t going to happen. The only thing she can really do is accept them, and face them head on, no matter how nervous or uncomfortable she might be. 
That is to say, she’s heard about Peter and Charlotte before; Jasper’s got lots of stories about them and it’s nice to hear to his stories - she’d like to set Maria ablaze for some of the things she did to him, and she’s more than a little bit sorry that she never made it for enough into Mexican to make the woman burn for her sins, but Jasper seems to be mostly at peace with everything that happened to him. 
(He worries more over her stories, which she finds funny. A couple of bites is nothing, and she makes it abundantly clear that she walked away the victor in those battles. When she says that, he always relaxes, like he’s worrying for her in that actual moment even when she’s sitting opposite him playing Go Fish in pom-pom socks.)
Sometimes she wonders what he would say if she told him the real story about how she woke up. About the one named James and the woman with him, about what she did to him, about finding the hospital and going inside and decimating it, killing every single person she found. If he’d be mad at her, or disgusted, or angry for her or what. 
It’s purely academic of course; she’s never, ever going to tell him all of that. As much as the past doesn’t bother him, she still remembers how he used to look, how he used to carry himself all those decades ago. She doesn’t want to add more violence, more rage to the burdens he carries. 
(She never wants to become one of his stories, like Maria.)
//
There’s more and more talk about their next move. That makes Alice nervous, he realizes. For a second, that’s confusing because there’s no way that moving will change anything - it’s still their family, just in a new place (there’s a vigorous debate between Montana, Minnesota, and Maine - he’s hoping for Minnesota because the home there is on a huge parcel of land where they can roam without being disturbed. Maine is the most claustrophobic option, a place where they will be under the most scrutiny, and Alice isn’t ready for that yet.)
But he takes a second and realises, for Alice, this is a huge change. The utter unknown - this house is the only home she’s ever known. She might have heard about high school and college, and posing as human, but she’s never had to play that part. 
(He’s already cornered Carlisle and told him that Alice isn’t going to school yet. Her reading and writing are good, but not enough to deal with a high school class. Not to mention that he got almost a decade before he was forced to play his part in their charade; Alice deserves the same.)
Esme is making adjustments to the house model in the family meeting, her stylus darting over the screen as everyone throws out requirements (or demands) about their new residence - Edward wants a music room, Rosalie wants space for at least twelve cars, Carlisle and Bella had grand plans for the scale and design of the library. 
His requests are the same as always - his study, and a bathroom he doesn’t have to share. Esme is doting and amused as she confirms his space, the exact requirements he gives for every single new house. 
“Alice, what do you need?” she asks, and Alice has been very quiet; Bella and Carlisle are still debating the two-story library of their dreams. 
She looks like a deer in the headlights as Esme looks at her expectantly, and looks at him for help. 
“Another bedroom and ensuite, maybe with an extra-giant closet for all your clothes,” he says teasingly, and Esme is already nodding, already sketching. 
“I don’t have that many.” She’s trying to sound flippant but she’s already looking relieved as Emmett begins negotiating a gaming room of his own. It’s true, she rarely asks Esme for anything more complicated than help navigating the washer and dryer. It’s him that she goes to for money, with questions, everything. And it’s Esme and Carlisle that come to him when they need her to know something, especially if it’s a delicate topic. 
And he likes it that way, likes that he can be useful, be important for a purpose.
//
The thing that they all like to ignore is that Bella’s change wasn’t without its difficulties. The Volturi had hovered in the peripheral right up until she had reawakened; it was that tangible risk that had allowed them to form a formal, ongoing alliance with the Pack, and allowed Bella to keep Charlie in her life. It was messy and uneasy but Edward was convinced that Aro held no malice for the entire debacle - Bella was changed, her shield gift only interested Aro in how it had manifested when Bella was human, and everyone had parted friends. 
(Well, Caius and Jane were still looking for reasons to destroy the lot of them, but the linchpin in the whole thing was Aro, and he was suitably amused and affectionate towards Carlisle that they were safe.)
Alice had been bewildered and scared when they’d told her the entire story, her unease syrupy as they spoke about Volterra and the agreements, Victoria and James, the Pack. She was slack-jawed when Carlisle explained that he had been close friends with the Volturi for decades before he had his family. 
He has his arm tight around her as the story is told, and quietly reassures her that they have no reason to ever see Aro, the Volturi, or even set foot in Italy. 
“They only punish those that break the laws,” he says and she nods, but the fear is still there. 
11 notes · View notes
lullabyes22-blog · 4 months
Text
Mal de Mer - A Silco x Mel Piece - Ch: 1~ A Tide, Rising
Tumblr media
Summary:
A high-seas honeymoon. Two adversaries, bound by matrimony. A future full of peril and possibility. And a word that neither enjoys adding to their lexicon: Compromise.
War was simpler business…
Part of the 'Forward But Never Forget/XOXO' AU. Can be read as a standalone series.
Mal de Mer on AO3
Mal de Mer on FFnet
CHAPTER
I - II - III - IV
꧁꧂
A honeymoon, they say, seldom sets the tenor for matrimony.
Rather, that tenor is set by the bride: her willingness to be wooed by the ebbs and flows of fate—indifference, infidelity, intrigue.  Or, the tenor is set by the groom: his readiness to weather the storms—dejection, disharmony, despair. But in time, they say, life anchors itself to safe harbors. The sky may darken; the waves may crash the hull and splinter the timber. But soon a path is carved out and a safe berth is reached. 
And, at long last, the ship of marriage settles to a staid old couple, side by side on the porch, rocking together as the evening of life slides, like the day before it, into the gentleness of that good night.
In time, they say.
They, whoever they are, say a lot, don't they? 
They say even less that's worth hearing.
꧁꧂
For Mel Medarda, there was no they. There was only she: Ambessa of House Medarda, its illustrious lineage stretching back, unbroken, for three hundred years.
There was only her glory as the Immortal Bastion's most celebrated military strategist and its de facto Commander General. There was only her legacy of victories, from the Battle of the Black Mast, where she'd sent the Zhyunian warships fleeing with their prows between their legs, to the Siege of the Bel' Zhun, where, at the head of one thousand troops, she'd broken through the great sandstone gates of the Shuriman city like a knife through butter. There was only her legend, doused in blood and lit with flames, spreading as far as the sun, and as deep as the tides.
She, the warrior. She, the victor. She, the conqueror.
She, Mel's mother.
Since the nursery, Mel—who'd been schooled by the Grand Matron herself in the arts of Noxian womanhood—was dutybound to uphold her mother's heritage, to keep it burnished and blazing as a sun-stone. And, when the time came, she would pass the glory down to the next generation, and so forth, ad infinitum.
Pass down, too, her mother's lessons.
"I am your mother, little one," she'd say, after catching Mel sobbing into a pillow after a tiring day of mastering the art of the Fallgren blade. "I am your liege, not your friend. I am not here to kiss your tears or dry your sorrows. I am here to see that you survive life’s hardships, and one day, rise to greatness."
Or:
"There is no love in the world, child," she'd say, after catching Mel sighing over a Morrinese portrait of two young men, embracing beneath a trellis of flowering white magnolia. "There is only the prettied-up lie to hide the hungers we dare not bare, except behind the locked door of a bedchamber." 
Or:
"War is the natural order, girl," she'd say, as Mel stood trembling on the deck of her mother's favorite frigate, overlooking the Kalmanda port, its streets despoiled by Noxian soldiers eager to take and, when the taking was done, take some more. "It is the way of all things to grow, expand, consume. The only difference between the war of man and the war of nature is the tools wielded." 
And, always:
"Men will come, and go," she'd say, after Mel's first, second, third suitor had fled to the ends of Runeterra to avoid her mother's ire, leaving her wed to her work and her books, her art and her ambition, her loneliness and the long, sleepless nights where she'd cry into her pillow, having learned to do so without sound. "They will leave you for a pink-cheeked handmaid. Or a round-arsed boy. Or they will die on the field, leaving their seed in a stranger's belly. They will leave you because your beauty has faded. Or your body has failed. Or, worst of all, your power has outgrown theirs. They will always leave."
"But I won't," Ambessa would add, tipping Mel's chin up, her eyes alight with a pride that warmed her daughter from crown to soles—and yet left her cold, as if a ghost had passed through her. "I will always be here. And my lessons will always stand. So, too, must you. Stand, daughter. And carry on our lineage."
And, Mel, with a smile of spotless serenity, and a fire for better hidden deep in her heart, would say, "Yes, Mother."
And, on the eve of her wedding, Ambessa, her shadow filling the entire room, towered over Mel—who sat before her vanity, daubing her lips with blood-red Fallgren cosmetic, her bedroom wall adorned with Morrinese paintings of lovers' trysts in flower gardens, her carved-mahogany wardrobe stocked with sumptuous gowns of Kalamanda silk brocade, her escritoire heaped with dozens of letters from suitors devastated by her upcoming nuptials, her bedsheets still scented with her husband-to-be's cologne, before he'd dressed and departed with a kiss that hadn't left her skin for the remainder of the day—and she said:
"You will regret this."
"Perhaps." Mel stared into the mirror, her smooth visage and her mother's scarred one, twinned. "But I will never regret that the choice was mine."
"He is not worthy of you."
"He is the leader of a nation. A king—though Zaunites detest the term."
"If he's a king, then his kingdom's a cesspool."
"A cesspool of gold and gems."  Mel dipped her brush into the pot and dabbed it, expertly, across her lips. "The wealthiest cesspool in Runeterra."
"And he, an upjumped thug who'd slit your throat if the wind blew the wrong way."
"The wind only blows one way, Mother. Forward."
Ambessa's shadow grew taller. "Then I will sweep him off the board."
"You would start a war over a wedding?"
"You would shackle yourself to a shark to avoid it? I taught you better, child."
"You taught me wrong."
Ambessa's shadow darkened the whole room, like a moon eclipsing the sun. Mel's smile did not dim.
"We have shared interests, Mother," she said, setting the brush down: lips painted, poise perfect. "Shared enemies, too. We work well together. We understand each other. United, we'd protect our borders. Strengthen our cities. Secure our future."
"Future?" Ambessa scoffed. "What's a future steeped in slime, and tainted with soot? That's the world he will leave behind. And you, his willing accomplice."
"A world of equity instead of elitism. Of cooperation instead of conquest."
"So, you'd sell us to the lowest bidder, is that it?"
"I would unite us under a single banner."
Ambessa's eyes, two golden rings in the dark, glowed searingly hot.
"Marriage is not a merger, Mel. It does not seal two souls together. Marriage is a sea unto itself. Its tides are fickle. Its depths are unplumbed. There are dangers in the currents, and monsters in the murk. If you try to tame it, it will swallow you."
"I'm a strong swimmer, Mother."
"Your husband will be stronger. A shark never slithers to the surface to breathe. He stays, silent, waiting for the prey to come to him."
Rising, Mel smoothed out the folds of her gown. "We do have a ceremony scheduled today."
"That is not what I meant!"
"Then what did you mean, Mother?!"
Mel swiveled to face her. The general, the warrior, the legend. And she, the girl again: no more than a living vessel to hold the Medardas' lessons. Lessons too great for her small body to contain. Lessons that left cracks in the heart, and scars on the psyche.
But the mind and heart are strong muscles. They grow, through hardship and heartbreak.
And Mel's had grown to equal Ambessa's in every dimension.
"The sea," Mel said, "is no dark morass. It connects us all, shore to shore. Marriage is the same. It doesn't just bring two halves together. It takes them to horizons beyond anything you can imagine."
"I have imagined everything, Mel. I've seen all the horrors the world can conjure, and survived."
"And yet, you've learned nothing."
Silence. Her mother's eyes bored into hers. Searching for weakness; finding nothing. Mel's spine had grown equal to her mother's, too. She was, strangely, proud of that.
Nothing Ambessa had taught her would be forgotten. And nothing Ambessa had done would be repeated.  For better or worse, Mel had learned her mother's lessons.
And now, she'd make them her own.
"Mark me, child," Ambessa said, her deep voice charged as thunder, "This is no victory. You're sailing into uncharted waters. And he will drag you down until you never resurface."
"Then we will go together."
"To the grave?"
"To the future."
Ambessa's shadow shrank. Her smile was a thin, brittle thing. Sad, almost. A glimpse of the woman beneath the legend. "As you say, Councilor Medarda of Piltover."
"As I say."
"But remember. When you are drowning, and he leaves you, gasping, to die. Remember that I did not wish it to end like this."
"It won't."
"Remember."
"It won't, Mother."
"And remember, also," Ambessa stepped closer. With a callused hand, she cupped Mel's chin, the way she'd done when Mel was a child, and her touch was the only anchor in a storm, "if he leaves, as men always do, you will still have a home. With me. With our legacy. That, no one can take from you."
"I know, Mother."
"Remember."
And, saying so, she swept out of the room. And Mel, alone, was left to stare into the mirror: the bride’s serene smile a mask for the churning sea below.
꧁꧂
That was three weeks ago.
Now, Mel is a married woman, navigating the sea, with its currents, and its depths, and its monsters.
And the waters, she admits, are choppier than expected.
The SS Woe Betide—("A fitting name," her new husband declared, "for a ship bound for a honeymoon.")—is an ironclad warship built for the mercantile fleet of a Piltovan privateer, long deceased. After her owner's demise, the vessel was repurposed for diplomatic missions and state functions.
She is outfitted with the finest appointments: elegant cabins, sumptuous dining halls, and a grand ballroom for entertaining foreign dignitaries. The interior is decorated in the Art Nouveau style, which was all the rage in Piltover in those days: hand-etched moldings; marble and onyx floors; and a glass domed ceiling that evoked a celestial firmament, its colors changing with the time of day.
It is also, by Mel's count, a floating deathtrap.
She'd boarded the ship in the bloom of health. By high tide, they'd slipped past the Hex-Gates, and were southbound along the coastline. Their destination was a remote Ionian archipelago: a place of white sands, swaying palms, and aquamarine seas, where a private villa awaited the newlyweds.
The retreat was no passionate debauch. Rather, it was an overture to Piltover's long-standing allies. To that effect, Mel had chosen invitations with the same care as Ambessa's military campaigns chose artillery. Each passenger was a heavy hitter hailing from the high-society circles of Piltover, Demacia, Ionia and Noxus.
They'd be joining her and Silco at the villa, where, over the course of a fortnight, they'd feast on the finest fare, toast to the sweetest wines, and, in time, forge lasting bonds of amity and alliance between Piltover—and Zaun.
She'd planned every detail: the itinerary, the entertainment, the ambience.
By nightfall, it had all gone to hell.
The onset was subtle. A touch of nausea. An ache behind the eyes. A fatigue she'd attributed to nerves—or temper. For years, she'd navigated the glittering circles of statecraft like a waltz.  She knew better than most how treacherous the steps could be.
But she'd not anticipated her guests' antipathy toward Silco.
Her husband's reception into their exalted sphere has been decidedly antagonistic.  Most of Mel's clique were accustomed to dealing with new money. New power was another matter entirely. For many, Zaun remained a mere extraction colony. The rest: its culture, its art, its innovations, was either begrudged or belittled.
Sometimes right in Silco's earshot.
Of course, they know his history as a firebrand. To some, it was an amusing eccentricity, something they'd boast about encountering in the same vein as a savage tribe from the jungles of the Targonian Steppes. To others, it was an affront to their stations, and a portent of just how close the world was to tipping out of balance.
On his part, Silco kept his temper. He'd played the part of the polished politician for a half-decade by now. In a social sphere where the smallest slip of etiquette could signal an irredeemable descent in station, his bearing was so faultless as to verge on parodic. He relished taking the elite's rules, and twisting them to his ends, like a street urchin filching food off a banquet table.
There's little to learn, he's often sneered to Mel, from a roomful of fools so far up their own arses, they'd mistake their wind for incense.
Zaunites, Mel thinks dryly, have a gift for metaphor. 
He'd held his composure admirably throughout the banquet. But when an over-served Noxian baron had slurred a disparagement about Jinx, spurred on by a tableful of sycophants, she'd seen that telltale switch in Silco's eyes: that flicker that transformed them from precision instruments to lethal crosshairs.
His reply was languidly polite. But the subtext was a dagger: barely felt until blood seeped through the doublet. Most guests were too thickheaded to pick up on it. The Baron and his retinue, on the other hand, took umbrage and returned the thrust, clumsily.
By the night's end, they'd made fools of themselves, and had to be escorted out—to Silco's dark satisfaction.
But the damage was done. 
A chill set over the rest of the dinner. It lingered long after the final course was served. By the time dessert was cleared away, Mel had felt the tension, like a lit fuse. Silco had retired early, citing a headache. And she'd let him go: a costly mistake.
They were married. She should have gone with him. Stood by his side, and shown solidarity—as a wife ought to.
Instead, she'd stayed to mitigate the fallout—as a diplomat must.
She'd smoothed ruffled feathers with a mot juste and doused smoldering tempers with a coy anecdote. She'd spun circles around the room, as a circus star spins plates, keeping fragile alliances from collapsing and precarious friendships from falling apart. She'd danced the dance she'd perfected, and won applause. Won handshakes, and smiles, and pledges of support.
All while the room spun, the lights dimmed, and the air thinned like a drowning breath.
By midnight, she'd retired to their suite.
Silco was idling by the porthole, a silhouette against the starless night. His cigarette cherry glowed and died with each drag. In the glow, his left eye was a depthless black.
That was the first sign, she'd learned. In his worst rages, the bad eye went dead.
A void that sucked in all light, and spat out nothing. 
Mel, daughter of Ambessa Medarda, was no coward. She was born to a family of warmongers. Her own temper was a high-spirited thing: quick to flare, quicker to fizzle. But years of playing politics had taught her the fine art of deflection. In a spar, it wasn't the force of the blow that counted; it was the grace of the parry. Her precision strikes, sheathed in cool courtesy, could disarm the strongest opponent. And her shield of charm, backed by steel conviction, could deflect the nastiest volley.
As a stateswoman, she'd cut down men twice her size, with nothing but a well-chosen word.
Her husband was no ordinary man.
In public, he was a study of calm. In private, he was a raging sea. Mel could neither deflect, nor disarm. The harder she pushed, the more he unbalanced her. The tighter she held, the more he slipped through her fingers. And when she let him go, she'd lose him for days: to schemes, to silence, to shadows. 
His anger was like his city. It took root and grew in darkness. And, once ignited, it consumed everything. It was the pyre that'd left hundreds dead in the wake of his revolution. It was the fire that'd kept his nation alive, against all odds.  
And her guests, Mel knew, were the tinder that lit the flame.
Now his city was a rising inferno, and their hostility was colored by fear. Fear of what they could not control. Fear of what they didn't understand. Fear that the world's tectonic plates were cracking beneath their feet, and the devils in the depths, ready to drag them down. 
And I will, Silco's eyes vowed. I will.
Marriage, Ambessa always said, is a tilted territory. If you don't stake your claim, the ground will slide out from under you.
And instead of a husband, you'll have an enemy in your bed.
And she, Mel, had failed to stake her claim. She'd let him down. Chosen sides when there should have been none.
Now she must weather the storm.
So, shoulders squared, she'd stepped into the cabin.
And they'd fought.
Fought like they'd never fought before. Not the fights that've become a kind of foreplay: the static between them, of sparring and subterfuge, melting into pure sensation. Not the fights that've defined their alliance: political posturing and personal grievance tangling into a web of illicit trust. Not the fights that've forged their bond: betrayal and blackmail spun in the dark, and the forgiveness that comes with the dawn. 
This was a fight to the death. A fight, conversely, for their very survival. The lastingness of their marriage. The legitimacy of their union. Their lives, and the future.
And it was a fight she'd lost.
By one o'clock, her head was spinning. By two, the room was spinning. By three, the room was gone.  She'd collapsed on the carpet in a heap of velvet and taffeta. Her last waking memory was Silco, kneeling over her, calling her name. She'd wanted to answer him. She'd tried.
And failed that, too.
Afterward, she'd learned that Silco had carried her to bed, and summoned the ship's physician. He was a stolid gray Yordle who'd outlived the Void Wars: more adept at patching up gunshot wounds than the ills of the mind. He'd checked her vitals, prodded and probed, and made dire pronouncements in his quaint parlance.
Mel had drifted in and out. But from the back-and-forth between Silco and the doctor, she'd gathered the gist:
—Mal de Mer.
—What in Kindred's name is that?
—You know: seasickness.
—The treacherous bitch.
—Your wife?
—The sea. We never should've crossed her.
Mel, half-drowning, choked on the irony. For weeks, she'd prepared for their journey. She'd reviewed the manifest, vetted the menu, stockpiled the supplies. She'd known, in advance, what each guest's preferences were: aversions, allergies, indulgences. The Demacian dowager's penchant for sugar cubes. The Noxian duchess's fondness for a good red. The Piltovan Exchequer's craving for a dirty blonde.
She'd accounted for every contingency.
Except her own.
The doctor's prescription was straightforward: a week of bedrest. No wine, no spirits, no salted fare. Only silence and sleep.
A bride, Mel thinks, bedridden on her honeymoon. 
Her mother would've laughed herself sick.
Politics and warfare, Ambessa always said, are zero-sum games.
So, Mel is learning, is marriage.
In both cases, the honeymoon is the loser.
꧁꧂
The SS Woe Betide is in its last leg, a day away from the archipelago.
The slant of evening sunrays fills the promenade deck. The air is balmy; the scent of frangipani wafts in the breeze. Tinkling music floats up from the ballroom. The revelry of the passengers, enjoying the last night of their cruise, is in full swing.
Inside the cabin, Mel's body is a languid starfish on cool sheets. Her ivory chemise—which she'd packed with the full understanding that it'd be worn precisely once, before her new husband ripped the gauzy lace to shreds between his teeth—has been reduced to a makeshift hospital gown. Her hair—loosely swaddled in a silk scarf to keep her locs off the pillow—is a frizzy nimbus. Her complexion is ashen; her eyes dulled to a feverish sheen.
Three weeks ago, she'd wedded the lord of Zaun's underbelly.
Now she's the color of the underworld.
The porthole window admits the barest golden streaks of light. They fall across the foot of the bed, leaving the rest of the chamber in shadow. Not an hour's conjugal bliss has passed between the elegant paneled walls. Not a single sigh has echoed off the brocaded wallpaper.
The groom's devotions—shockingly—have gone unsung.
He'd left at noon, as he does every afternoon, to oversee the ship's affairs. Her husband is a hands-on taskmaster. Or, put differently, a tyrant. Never once does he raise his voice. Yet he steers the voyage as surely as the tides. Everyone, from the quartermaster to the chief of security, snaps to attention at his barest word. 
His command of the ship is absolute. But so is his competence. If there's trouble to be sorted, he's the first to wade in and the last to leave. He's a man accustomed to a degree of chaos; wrangling a hundred souls in a single vessel is a breeze compared to keeping a city alive.
The crew, habituated to the idleness of aristocracy, are shocked by his exacting standards. But in short order, they've come to respect him.
And, Mel suspects, fear him.
Fear, Ambessa always said, is the most efficient way to run a household.
Or an empire.
By daytime, her husband's a force to be reckoned with. By nightfall, he's a presence without form. He comes and goes; sometimes slipping in before midnight, other times gone until dawn.  In her absence, he's taken over her social duties.  At dinner, he greets her guests, engaging in small talk and steering conversation adroitly through the minefield of snobbery and class politics.  He fends off inquiries about her condition. When pressed, he demurs, citing privacy.
The gossip, Mel's certain, is that she's either with child—or dying. 
Silco's behavior doesn't dispel the rumors. Once the night's agenda runs late, he retreats, like a shadow slipping through cracks. No cigars. No card games. No after-dinner drinks. No company, save his own.
Which, Mel knows, is a dangerous sign indeed.
A tide, rising.
And yet, in its own way, the tide is tender. He never coddles or cossets her. But his vigilance is unceasing. Every morning, she awakens to the scent of sweet teas and steaming broths. He keeps her carafe filled with fresh lemon-water and the fruit basket stocked with her favorites: tangerines, pomegranates, figs. Thrice a day, he's by her bedside, plying her with strange Zaunite tonics: bitter rosemary tinctures; pungent eucalyptus balms; salves of aloe vera that leave cool tingles wherever his fingers trace.
His touch—gentle, impersonal—is that of a medic, not a lover. And yet Mel can't help but be aware of him, in this space, in these hours.
His rage is a slow burn.
But so is his devotion.
Her own mother, Mel thinks ruefully, would've jettisoned her to the closest shore. She would've left Mel to the mercy of the doctors, and the ministrations of her servants.
Or, lacking either, to fend for herself.
Adversity, Ambessa always said, is an education. It hardens the character. Steels the will.
And, above all, breeds success.
Since the cradle, Mel has been bred for success. Now she's the color of failure. Five days of fever, and her marriage is yet in its infancy. She can't afford to let it falter. Not when so much rides on it. Her career. Her reputation. Her city.
The weight of a world.
And yet, for all that, she feels so very light.  Her only constants are the sway of the ship, and her husband's return.
At the porthole, the glass glows gold. The last wisp of sun sinks into the sea. Mel's eyes are drawn to a flash of light on the horizon. A streak of red brightens the twilit skies. A signal flare, launched by the SS Woe Betide, alerting a nearby freighter of their approach. A beat later, a second flare rises in the distance.
The call-and-response is an old one, shared by ships everywhere:
I am here.
"Mel."
She starts.
A silhouette fills the doorway. A lean man: sharp-cut, spare. The angular peaks of his shoulderblades jut beneath his suit jacket. His eyes, like two-toned crosshairs, catch the flare's dying light like an inferno on calm sea.
The Devil, cometh.
With her supper.
"You're back," Mel says, a little muzzy.
"I am."
"It's not yet six."
"We're a day from the island. All's in order."
"But—"
"Hungry? Here's soup."
The soft click as the door shuts. The softer sound of his footfalls. The rest is shadow. But Mel's senses, attuned, feel his proximity the way a compass feels the North. Instinctively, her body shifts, seeking. The hairs on her nape rise. Her skin pebbles.
A primordial instinct that whispers: Beware.
She'd felt the same sensation during their first meeting, in Zaun's fire-gutted harbor. In a single step, he'd filled the space. And she'd looked him in the eye, and known:
This man will change everything.
Including me.
Now, here he is, changing her again. His silhouette reappears at the vanity, then the bedside. His movements are languid, liquid, predatory. There's a rustle of fabric, then the delicious scent of tobacco, bergamot, and of him. A moment later, something is set down on the side table: a tray, judging by the clink.  
The lamp clicks on. In the sudden buttery glow, Mel blinks. There he is: a loom of living color.
The Eye of Zaun.
And, as of three weeks, her husband.
He's dressed with his usual sleek austerity: a sable-dark suit, a silver-embroidered waistcoat, and a white cravat pinned with a crooked blue jewel in the Zaunite fashion. His good eye, with its glowing twin in the scoured socket, is a half-lidded blue-green. The rest of him is a cipher.
Before their first meeting, Mel had read his dossier, cover to cover. A Fissure-bred industrialist with a chip on his shoulder. A criminal kingpin with a taste for bloodshed. A ruthless, uncompromising zealot who'd razed a city, and reclaimed its ruins as an independent state. 
Not a man, she'd been warned. A monster.
A warning, Ambessa always said, is often an invitation.
And the devil is in the details. 
Mel's first impression was of a man whose life had left its marks. Her second was of a man who wore the marks well. Her third was of a man who'd lay his own. Across her city, her skin, her self. Marks that would sear, and stay, and shape her future.
Her fourth impression—her last—was: 
I want this.
I want him.
And I will have him.
Now, she watches as he lifts the lid off the tray. Steam spirals. Supper, unveiled, is a light fare. Fish broth. Steamed dumplings. Fresh mangoes. From a tall carafe, he pours a drink—hot lemon-water infused with honey.
Placing the glass in Mel's hands, he perches at the edge of the bed. 
"How are you feeling?" he asks, in those silk-on-gravel tones.
"I believe Jinx has a term for it."
"Oh?"
"The blahs."
He smiles. She likes his smile, the barely-there crook of lips. Likes his lips, cool and dry, and how they feel against her skin. She'd like to feel them now. One touch, and she's sure her fever would break. One taste, and she'd be anything but blah.
Except she can't recall the last time they kissed.
Not since—well, her collapse.
"I've a few terms myself," Silco says. "Profane ones."
"I suspect you and Jinx have that in common."
"We've a mutual dislike for doctors."
"They do tend to be tedious."
"Especially the incompetents."
He presses a hand against her breastbone. Mel hitches a breath. It's a light touch, but his palm is heavy. The coolness seeps deliciously into her skin.
"I believe," he says, "the doctor has misdiagnosed your malady."
"Has he?"
"Your seasickness is not the root. It is the symptom."
"Of what?"
"Marriage."
She laughs, weakly. He does not.
"Marriage," she repeats, "has given me Mal de Mer?"
"Mal de Matrimonium."
"I don't understand."
"Marriage," he says, "is a singular affliction. You'll find the symptoms vary. For some, the first sign is a case of jitters. For others, the it is the absence of jitters. For the rest, there are no signs at all. Just a quick drop, and a sudden death."
"You're being dramatic."
"Am I? You believe you took ill the moment we set sail. You didn't. You've been in a fit of nerves for weeks. I should've understood sooner."
"Medardas are not known for nerves," Mel retorts. "We are a very steely stock."
"Even steel has limits." He drops his palm. "Fortunately, there's a cure."
"What?"
He's already up and off. From the nightstand, he fetches a vial of Shimmer. Medicinal—a special dose distilled by his chemist for treating tropical fevers. Deftly, he uncorks it, then pours three drops into her glass. The liquid turns a pale shade of violet, and begins to fizz.
"Drink up," he says. "That'll put color into those wax cheeks."
"And a roiling stomach. No, thank you."
"It's not a request."
He's so very serious, her husband. All his features are sharpened and elongated, as if drawn to extremes. It's not a handsome countenance, or a tender one. But there is something compelling about the asymmetry of it.
"If," Mel counters, "my ailment is Mal de Matrimonium, as you've diagnosed, then why aren't you affected?"
"Because I'm an old hand."
"You've never once been married."
"I've known my share of bondage. Poverty's an institution. So is matrimony. Your choices, your freedom, your fate. All bound, as surely as Zaun's old chains."
"The chains of Zaun, if I recall, were made of gold."
"So's your ring."
It is. Twenty-four-carat gold, to be exact. It is from Zaun's richest seams; cast into its first bullion. The band is engraved with the sigil of her family crest, and Zaun's dagger-winged emblem. A union of two cultures, forged in blood. The setting is a brilliant cut of emerald, tinted blue, the same hue as his eyes.
The symbol, Mel knows, of loyalty.
Silco's own, a cool platinum band, is a near twin. The only difference: the gemstone. A deep, iridescent ruby. It's a Medarda heirloom—her great-grandfather's. Ambessa had gifted it to Mel on her sixteenth birthday.
A symbol, she'd said gravely, of your proud heritage.
Mel had never worn it, much less coveted it. The Medardas' legacy of strife, treachery, and warfare wasn't one she wanted weighing on her finger.
Or her soul.
And yet, when she'd met Silco, it had felt fitting. His was a world of hard choices and harder lines. A world, like the Medardas, where blood was the currency. But a world, unlike the Medardas, where the true bonds were not blood, but will.
Hers, and his, entwined. 
She hadn't expected him to accept the ring. He was a proud man, and not one for trinkets. But when she'd slipped it on his finger, it'd fit as if made for him. And she, Mel, had felt a heady thrill she could only liken to how Ambessa must've felt after a battle: the sheer, sublime pleasure of conquest.
I have him, she'd thought. He is mine.
And I am his.
"If matrimony's the affliction," she muses, "perhaps the cure's more of the same."
"Hair of dog?"
"No dogs," she purrs, a hand straying across the coverlet, to his thigh. "Just the man."
He catches her wrist.
"Drink the potion."
"Not even a kiss?"
"Your lips are chapped enough to start a brushfire."
"So?"
"So, you need to replenish your fluids. Drink."
Checkmated, Mel sullenly takes the glass.
He's an unyielding opponent, her husband. Her wiles have little effect. And it's frustrating, when the prize is so close. So close that she can see his pulse, ticking slowly in the hollow of his pale throat.  So close his body-heat bleeds between them. So close her temperature spikes, a sweet throb low in her belly.
She wants to be touched. To be held. To be made love to.
She's never been a woman in thrall to her appetites. She's certainly never pined for a man.  Seduction is her art, but sex is merely the medium. The satisfaction comes not from the act, but its orchestration: the first chords of desire plucked, the leitmotif of longing threaded imperceptibly through the words, then rising in pitch, octave by octave, until it crests in a crescendo of erupted passion, followed by a coda of mutual relief.
Only then does she claim her prize.
Her husband bypasses the prelude altogether. He hits a raw, primal nerve: one that sings at his barest touch. It's not a dynamic Mel is accustomed to, let alone one she can account for.
But the aftermath is real as her desire.
Except he'd rather nurse her fever than her fantasies. He'd rather sit by her bedside, plying her with illicit potions, than slide under the sheets, and give her a taste of his own. Worse, she can't tell if the denial stems from pure perversity—or if he is playing the long game.
A Medarda, Ambessa always said, revels in a good challenge.
And she, Mel, will revel in her victory, when she has it.
She always does.
"You're smiling," Silco says, a touch suspiciously.
"Simply appreciating the humor of my predicament."
"Sick wives are a feature of tragedies, not comedies."
"I'm a wife of great contradictions."
"That, I knew."
"What? That I'm your wife?"
He laughs. She likes his smile; she loves his laugh. It's a once-in-a-blue-moon bassline: dark, deep, full of grit. Like his city. But it's his eyes that intrigue her most. The red one, all brimstone and shadow, unblinking in its web of scars. The blue one, the ordinary one, that, when the light catches it, is in fact extraordinary.
The window of the soul, the ancients used to say.
Mel believes it. She can see his, even if it's a window to the underworld. When he's guarded, it's a cold and twisting maze. But when he laughs, she glimpses the best parts of him: his ferocity, his ambition, his wit.
He's no fairytale prince. Not by half. More a subterranean beast, his cruel visage shed only by slow degrees. And yet, there's a delight in each discovery. She's always adored puzzles.
And Silco, by law and oath, is all hers.
"I'm thinking," she says, "that the guests likely believe we're locked inside, making mad, passionate love."
"More fool them."
"Oh?"
"You're weak as a kitten," he says flatly. "I'd get more action out of a washrag."
"A washrag? What a thing to say!"
"And yet the washrag proves sturdier, when pressed for service."
"If such was the only service I could offer, I'd give it."
"The only thing you'll give me," he rejoins, "is your empty glass."
"Or?"
"Or—" He looms in, "—I'll pin you down and pour the lot down your gullet."
It's no idle threat. He's a singleminded man, her husband. Once his course is set, he sails it, no matter the obstacles.
A good strategist, Ambessa always said, knows when to pivot.
Mel holds his stare, and lifts the glass.  Tipping her head back, she downs the drink in three gulps. The Shimmer hits like a thunderbolt. Lights pop before her eyes. Retching, she doubles over.
The room deliquesces. The bed disappears. She slips, and is suddenly enfolded in a steady embrace.
"Well," Silco says, somewhere above her, "I've seen that look before."
"You—you have?" she says dazedly.
"In the mirror."
Her laugh is nearly a sigh. The warmth spread outward. From her gut, to her fingers, to her toes. From her skin into her blood. Nuzzling Silco's neck, she threads her arms around his waist. He's all hard angles and taut lines, her husband. A man without an ounce of give.
But he's giving her this: the cool cradle of his arms, and his cool palm circling her nape, and his cool breath on her temple.
"Better?"
"I don't know." She licks her lips, a dark sweetness lingering. "It tastes... like you."
"Does it?"
"Mmm. I like it."
His stare goes a little dark, a little eerie. "Never say you've a taste for Shimmer."
"Isn't it Zaun's proudest innovation?"
"For the desperate, it's also bondage. Worse than Mal de Matrimonium. I'd see you die before I see you addicted."
There is no gentleness in his voice. But the graveled intensity pours down her spine. She shivers, eyes closing. She wants, nothing more, than to stay like this, her cheek nestled in the smooth curve of his neck.
By nature, she's tactile; they both are. It's only in the intensity that they differ.  He's a man who holds on to his desires, like his rage, like his city: a grip that relinquishes nothing. And she's a woman who's always had her desires at her fingertips: her pleasures, her power.
Betwixt them, there's no middle ground. Only a question of the inevitable: her will, or his. 
Against a well-matched opponent, Ambessa always said, your only ally is patience.
Hold your ground, and wait for the tide to turn.
"We have all night," she says, stroking his lapel, "to test your theory."
He doesn't stir. But his voice drops a decibel. "What theory is that?"
"The cure for Mal de Matrimonium."
"There's no antidote to marriage." His notched lip twists. "I only know Shimmer works because I've seen worse cases."
"Of?"
"The blahs."
"Jinx?" she guesses.
The barest nod.
"Was she..." Mel hesitates, "ill, often?"
She senses his withdrawal. It's a subtle thing, the slithering retreat. He's no longer in the room with her, though his body hasn't moved an inch.
It is how he gets when his family is mentioned. 
Slowly, he breaks the embrace. She clings, but weakly. The languor is bone-deep.  Laying her against the pillows, he nudges the tray closer. The message is plain: Eat.
She does, if only to appease him. The broth is light, satisfying. The dumplings are a burst of ginger and chives. The mangoes, juicy morsels.
It's an intriguing paradox. A full belly and an empty need: coexisting.
Compromising.
Silco, rising, crosses the room. He doesn't go far. At the sideboard, he pours himself a measure of brandy. In the umbra of the lamplight, his features are remote. But he stays, and that, too, is a compromise. It means something.
Something, Mel hopes, that will bridge the gap of fury before her collapse.
"Jinx," he says, "was a strong girl. But not always. Not at first."
Mel waits. She doesn't want to miss a word. His past is a private space, and Jinx, his most precious sanctuary. To breach that sanctity is a risk. To be granted a glimpse is a gift. One she dares not squander. 
A single misstep, and he'll close off completely.
"There were... episodes. The first one, I didn't recognize. Or refused to." He swirls the glass. "She'd been in my care a month. She was yet a shadow. Skittish. Sad. Never smiled. Rarely spoke. But the night the sickness took hold, she was a shrieking banshee. I was out. I came home to her thrashing and raving in a fevered stupor."
"What was it?"
"The illness? Mild pneumonia. But the root was something else. Her mind was a battleground. She'd fought, night after night. A war without end. Now she'd succumbed to the wounds, and was losing. I sat by her bedside, and made sure she didn't."
"You took care of her?"
"Who else? Sevika's a competent right-hand. But her maternal streak's as pleasant as my face is pretty. The crew? They're loyal. But they've their limits." He knocks back the brandy, and kisses his teeth. "A child, a girl, alone in the world. That's a degree of vulnerability that invites exploitation."
"By the wrong sort."
He nods. "And there I was: the worst. The only difference was that I understood what she could become. How she could thrive. So I took her in. And when she fell ill, I did whatever was necessary. I fed her, cleaned her, comforted her. When the fever spiked, I kept her cool. When the night terrors came, I chased them away. I did it all for her."
He stops, the shadows gathering.
"And, I confess, I did it for me."
"Silco..."
"It was selfish, really. But when her fever broke, it was the first time I felt... at peace.  She was so small. So vulnerable. I'd keep her tucked against my chest, her heartbeat to mine. I'd watch over her, hour after hour. I'd feel her breathe, and I'd breathe, too. In that moment, she was my world. My little universe. My everything."
He stops, refilling the glass.
Mel, touched, imagines young Jinx. A little girl, with scabbed knees and tangled blue braids, and a gap between her teeth. She'd have been a dynamo of energy. An exhausting one, too. Nursing her at her sickbed would've been an act of monumental forbearance.
And love.
"She was lucky to have you," she whispers.
"I was lucky to have her." He shrugs, with the air of a man who's stopped parsing out the threads of fate. "A daughter's a rare thing. It took me time to understand. To see past the complications, and accept what I had. She was a gift. Unexpected. Unlooked for. But she was mine."
His eyes, both, seem to drift. He might be looking at the portrait above the mantle. Or his reflection in the mirror beyond. Or nothing at all.
Nothing but Jinx.
"Her fevers," he says, "were a symptom of her grief. It took time, but she fought them off. The closer we grew, the stronger she became. And soon she'd outgrown the spells. Soon, the nightmares were just that: nightmares. Now she's a grown woman. A capable one. She's still my world, but she's also her own."
He downs his drink: a solo toast.
Something constricts in Mel's chest, affection and envy tugging the same strings. She's never been the maternal sort. Too selfish; too headstrong. Too much her mother's daughter. She's better at finding loopholes in trade disputes than untangling knots in little girls' hair.  Better at wielding power like a bonbon on a tray, than baking a birthday cake or kissing a skinned knee.
And yet, Silco makes it seem easy.
He's a father in the same sense that Ambessa is a mother: a force of nature, implacable. He's shielded Jinx, as she's shielded Mel. And yet, for him, fatherhood is neither a foible nor a liability. It's an extension of his steeliest self.
He's a man who, once he loves, loves with everything in him. Even the darkest parts. On the backbone of that darkness, he's forged his city. He's stopped at nothing to give his child everything. 
And, the past week, he's shown Mel the same devotion, if only a drop.
But a drop, like any, turns the tide.
Mel whispers, "Thank you."
"What for?"
"For staying. For... taking care of me." She bites her lip. "And, yes, for the Shimmer. It's working, I think. My head is clearer."
"Good." He's silent a moment, as if debating whether to add more. Then: "It's funny."
"What is?"
"When Jinx fell ill, she'd always apologize profusely. As if she thought I'd be angry at the time and trouble. As if a father, doing his damn duty, requires an apology."
"It's a hard lesson to learn." Mel shivers, and not from fever. "Believe me. My mother taught me the same."
"Not tolerant of sniffles, was she?"
Her fingers pluck at the coverlet; a girlhood tic bubbling to the surface. "Not a single tear. I learned, very early, not to cry. And if I fell ill, not to let it show.  Else she'd take the pain, and make it worse."  A shadow of Ambessa passes over her: a ghost-chill. "She had a way of doing that. She'd twist everything—my hurts, my fears, my failures. Until the pain was the worst thing I knew."
A shadow crosses Silco's face too. The bad eye gleams like old blood.
"How old were you?" he asks. "When she twisted your first fear?"
"Old enough to remember. Young enough to never forget." She smiles wanly. "I'd helped my handmaid hide a stray kitten in my chambers. It was a sweet thing, a tiny tabby. But in our household, there was a rule: no strays. They carried vermin. Plagues. Sometimes, a rival house would slip a sickly mouser into the Medarda stables. The next thing we knew, death was on the hoof." Her smile fades. "I'd found the kitten in the garden. He was caught in the stablehand's trap. Taking pity, I'd freed the poor thing, and given him a hiding place. My handmaid, bless her, even smuggled in a little dish of milk."
She takes a shuddering breath. "I was clever enough to keep it a secret. And foolish enough to pay the price. Soon, the handmaid fell ill. A fortnight later, she was dead. Poisoned, our chemists found, by a toxin in the kitten's claws. I'd survived only because he'd never scratched me. When Mother learnt what I'd done, she was furious. I'd put our family at risk, for a silly whim. I'd cost a loyal servant her life." The bedclothes twist in her fists. "She had the stablehand put the kitten down. Then she made me watch as they burned the handmaid's body. Afterward, I cried myself sick. When I'd finished, she told me: Remember, child. There is a cost to kindness. If you cannot bear to pay it, don't be kind. For the kind are fools. Only the cruel survive."
"Kindred's bones."
Silco looks the way he always does when she talks of Ambessa. Like he isn't sure whether to gut the woman, or to shake her hand. Half-revulsion, half-recognition. 
Ambessa, Mel knows, feels the same. Their antipathy is mutual, but so is their respect. Two monsters on opposite polarities, who will not cede an inch to the other. And who, yet, understand each other as no one else can.
And here I am, Mel thinks. 
Trying to navigate my way between them.
"Don't misunderstand," she says. "I'm grateful for my childhood. Whatever the cost." For a moment, she smells the ash of her handmaid's funeral pyre. She sees the smoke curling like a black halo around her mother's silhouette. "I had everything a child from a noble family could desire. Clothing. Servants. Luxury." The barest smile. "All the things, as you say, A right proper bitch is bred for."
"Yet here you are," Silco says. "On the far side of proper."
"Here I am." She cradles her elbows in her palms. "My mother is a warrior. A survivor. And the survival of a dynasty is a hard-won thing. In her eyes, my softness could be its downfall. That's why she tried, so hard, to mold me. Why she pushed me, and pressured me, and punished me. So I'd survive." A breath. "And I did. Just not the way she'd hoped."
Silco is silent. He does not do mercy. But he listens. And it's the same, in its way.
"Small wonder," he muses.
"Small wonder, what?"
"Small wonder you turned out the way you did." He tips his near-empty glass. "All that pressure. It can either crush a spirit, or forge it into diamond. It's the same with Jinx. You're as different as night and day. And yet, you're a similar breed." 
Mel's smile wavers. "Are we?"
"Driven. Strong. Willful. But you've the same void. All the glitter poured inside won't fill it." He sets the glass down. "Fortunately, the cure's simpler than you'd think."
"Is it?"
"A full belly, and a full night's sleep."
Her tray of supper is taken away. From her armoire, he removes a silk paisley blanket. The fabric, midnight blue, shimmers as it unfolds. It's her favorite; imported from Kalamanda. The weave is impregnated with hyacinth oil, rose hips, tea leaves, sea-salt and spilled ink.
It's the scent of Piltover: her city. Her newfound heart.
She'd packed it with a vague fantasy of sprawling across it, a picnic blanket on a sun-drenched Ionian hillside. With her husband's arm draped around her, his cool palm cupping her skull. His cooler fingers tangling in her hair. The rest of him, tangled in her.
Now, they're together, and there's no fantasy. Only pragmatic hands and a practiced touch. He enfolds her in the blanket, not like a babe but like a meal left to cool.  His lips are cool too. They avoid her mouth, drop a kiss to her temple, then withdraw before she can thread her arms around him.
"Rest," he says. "The night's a balmy one."
"Where are you going?"
"To bath, and ready myself for dinner." 
He turns, and begins unthreading his cuffs. The vest follows, tossed onto the vanity chair. The cravat is tugged free; the buttons at his collar undone. A pale triangle of skin bares itself. There's no deliberation to the strip-tease. Just a man, methodically disrobing.
And the sight, Mel thinks, is almost unbearably intimate.
The Shimmer is a pooling heat in her body. The silk of her blanket—a light thing—teases her skin. His nearness torments the rest.
She is still a little sore. A little achy. But it's a savoring ache.
A hunger that needs filling.
Catching her ogling, Silco quirks a brow. "Eyes up."
"Can't I admire the view?"
"No." His tone is stern. "This is not a performance. You're meant to rest."
"And what about you?"
"What about me?"
"Five days of nothing. And you've not once complained." She lets her lashes fan down and up. "Surely you don't expect me to believe the washrag's proving equal?"
"Not yet," he says, a bitter crook to his lips, "but it's not a bad substitute."
"Is that why you're hurrying? To take matters into your own hands?"
"Better my hand than a guest's."
"A guest?" This is a perturbing pivot. She half-sits up; her chemise strap slips down her left shoulder. "Have you been propositioned?"
"With a missing bride, the groom's fair game."
"Let me guess. The Demacian Countess, dripping in diamonds and innuendo—" 
"—a vapid harridan, of whom I am thoroughly sick."
"—the Piltovan exchequer's wife, who's not above a bit of bed-hopping—"
"—an insufferable busybody, whom I plan to toss overboard."
"—the Vastayan princeling, who's famously partial to men with scars."
"That one's partial to anything with a prick." He stops, a glint of slyness in his eyes. "Why? Are you jealous?" 
She shouldn't be. It's irrational and foolish and beneath her. She is not a woman easily threatened. Her desirability is her stock-in-trade. She is used to being measured as the superior of the most celebrated sirens, and the brains of the outfit, besides. It's a point of pride.
Yet there is a gut-wrench of possessiveness. The thought of someone's hands on Silco. Of him, touching someone else. A stranger undeserving of the gift. 
My husband, Mel thinks, and it's a fierce and terrible burn.
Home territory, Ambessa always said, is to be defended to the last drop.
Else the rot sets in, and the foundation crumbles.
Softly, Mel says, "And if I were jealous?"
Silco's hands still on his buttons.  His good eye, in the lamplight, is a green-lit spark.
"I'd tell you," he says, equally soft, "that you're mad."
"With jealousy?"
"With fever."
"Mal de Matrimonium, after all."
"A shared affliction, I can abide." Wryly, he shakes his head. "The clap's a different matter."
"Silco—"
"Sleep it off, petal. Tomorrow, you'll laugh at your silliness."
The endearment—a rarity outside of their pillow talk—pierces through her. She dares a smile: a little teasing, a little raw. 
A lot wanting.
"You could," she stretches languidly, and a smooth thigh bares itself from under the coverlet, "join me?"
"The party will start soon."
"Not to sleep. Just to talk."
"About what?"
Silco sits, again, at the foot of the bed. It dips beneath his weight. The mattress, a wide affair, is more than big enough for the both of them.
His palm rests on her ankle. The touch, impersonal before, lingers. Emboldened by this small intimacy, Mel lets her fingers itsy-bitsy-spider up the cuff of his shirtsleeve. The weave is cool; the arm beneath deceptively lean in an armature of sinew and bone.
She thinks of the rapiers her mother kept on display in the gallery: honed, fine, deadly.
But a deft touch, she knows, can disarm even the sharpest blade.
"We could," she says, "talk about our itinerary. The island we'll be staying at is renowned for its beauty. There are waterfalls a stone's throw from our camp. And ruins, where the locals say the gods themselves used to frolic. Or the villa itself: designed to merge nature with civilization. The rooms are like gardens, each with their own sunrooms and fountains. All of it, with a view of the turquoise seas." She toys with his cuff, and watches his face. "I know you like the water."
"I'd like it better if I weren't sharing the villa with a half-dozen parasites."
"Don't think of them," she says coaxingly. "Think of me. Think of you. Think of the possibilities."
"Their security detail? Paid for by my dime. Their staff? Paid for by yours. And the bill?" A scoff. "We're footing that together"
"It's a modest bill. Barely a pittance." Mel's fingertips skitter up his forearm. "Meanwhile, we'll have a wing entirely to ourselves. The most luxurious in the villa. Its own beach, white as snow. Its own grotto, with a natural sauna. Its own garden, full of exotic blooms and birdsong."
"And mites, and mosquitoes, and yet more parasites."
She ignores that, continues to speak in that satiny tone she uses for closing deals. "At night, we could light the bonfire and dine beneath the stars. We could take the yawl out and anchor offshore." Her fingers creep higher, and so does her smile. "We'd make love on the deck, and listen to the sea, and make love again, and listen to the sea."
"And all our guests, with their telescopes, would watch, and lay bets on the size of my cock."
"Let them," she husks. "They'll be most impressed."
His mouth, the unscarred side, crooks. He can smell the game a mile away.
"And in the morning," he says, "if the yawl's not capsized, we'll row ashore. Where we'll join our guests for a breakfast of freshly-squeezed Navori plums, and rashers of smoked Sudaro pig. And you, glowing like a sun goddess from your night under the stars, will query the Demacian countess on her favorite spots for birdwatching. And the Noxian baron, eager to ply his charms, will offer to guide you along the nature trails. And you, with your far superior wiles, will steer the talk toward the fresh air, and the healing properties of the ocean, and how healthy living is the key to a long life. And then, while everyone's chiming their agreement, you'll ask if the guests will be so kind as to invest in Zaun's new filtration plant. The plant you've banked so much coin on." His stare, heavy, settles on her. "Am I wrong?"
Her fingers go still. "How did you know?"
"Because I know you." His thumb circles the jut of her anklebone. "Because I know the playbook. A good con needs three things. The place, the pitch, and the pigeon. You've got the first: a tropical paradise full of freshwater and sunbeams. You've got the second: a roomful of rich marks high off their gourds on said freshwater and sunbeams. And the third, well—" His circling slows. "The third is the least obvious."
"Is it?"
"And the most difficult."
"How?"
"Because he's no pigeon. He's a sly sumpraker who's never tasted freshwater, and is immune to sunbeams. And who's already been played, and paid in full." His fingers curl around her calf. "Am I wrong?"
Their eyes meet. His bad one is edged black. It's the smallest, most subtle shift. The first ripple of the tide. His moods, his temper, his impulses: they're all beyond her. Only the undercurrents are tangible, the secret push and pull.
Mel feels it now. A warning.
Her pulse stumbles, nearly slipping. Her smile does not. "Pigeon? Hardly. You are my husband."
"And the difference? You invited our guests to show them Zaun's a rising star in the constellation of Progress. But you'd not anticipated the frosty reception. They're not ready for the union between Piltover and Zaun. Much less the honeymoon. That night—the night you took ill—it hit you like a gut punch. You realized your sea-legs weren't ready for the voyage. And so, the Mal de Matrimonium set in." He tilts his head. "Or am I wrong about that too?"
His gaze is like his grip: a soft, cool pressure. The heat of her chagrin congeals between them.
"It isn't like that," she says. "Not exactly."
"Tell me how it is, then."
"That night... I should've handled it better. I should've taken a stand. For you." The admission is like an anchor lifted. All at once she's unmoored. "I know I made a mess of things. And you were... upset. The past week, you've cared for me, and now I need to pay you back. I'd planned our stay at the villa to be a diplomatic mission. For you. For your city. But if I can sweeten the deal with a few charitable donations, well—" Her teeth scrape her lip. "It's a bargain, I'd say."
"You'd say?" He seems almost darkly titillated. "Or your mother?"
"Does it matter?" she retorts, a little sharply. "You'll have your honeymoon. Your city will have coin."
"And I, Mel? What's my role to be?"
"Nothing." Her fingertips rest on his knuckles. "Only... play nice? Turn the charm on, a little? Let them see the side of you that I do."
He does not withdraw. But his fist, unmoving, feels suddenly like iron.
"You," he says, "want me to play your pigeon."
"I—"
"An exercise of social reform." His bad eye flickers, the red inked black. "Take the sumpraker to the villa. Where the blue skies will temper him, and the sun will burn away his shadows. And at breakfast, you'll show them the tamed beast, and how civilized he is. You'll make your sales pitch: Invest in Zaun. Turn the hellhole into your next holiday destination. And if they refuse, well, at least they'll go home, and spread the word that Medarda, Janna bless her, keeps that lowborn beast on a short leash."
Mel, stung, drops her hand. "That's not true—"
"Isn't it? These guests you're so eager for me to impress: they're the ones who made a mint off the Council's neglect. They've profited for years from the Fissures' degradation. They'd have let us die, if we hadn't fought tooth and nail for our freedom. And now you expect me to not only play their game, but pretend their coin—their condescension—holds value?" His scoff is sibilant as a slit throat. "It's a fine world where you believe I owe those rats anything but a gutting."
"It's a world," Mel retorts, "that's made of trade."
"Trade is an accommodation. A negotiation between equal parties. My city is not a thing to be traded."
"Your city, or your pride?"
"My city!" he erupts. "The city we built from the ground up, with our bare hands. Now it's a jewel, and they'd try to make it a bauble. Their notion of investment is the same as their notion of progress. They'll buy up acres of real estate where Zaunites live, and overhaul it into luxury condos. They'll bulldoze the bazaars where our commerce thrives, and erect monuments. They'll flood our markets with their gewgaws and bury our goods in the dirt. Until every last inch of Zaun's soul is sold, and its body is a carcass, and its corpse is turned into a carnival!"
The words echo like a thunderclap. He is the sea. He is the storm. And Mel, who is neither of those things, still knows that if the world were the two of them, and only the two, she'd hold her ground. 
In safeguarding their cities, they are equal. He is the Eye of Zaun. And she is the vanguard of Piltover. It's a duty she'd embraced from the beginning. But it's been a forked road, full of twists and temptations. A path where her own ambitions were at odds with her duty.
And those who've suffered are those she'd hoped most ardently to save.
People like Jinx, cast to the bottom of the pit. People like Silco, risen up from the dregs.
She's seen the underbelly of Zaun: the sickness and squalor. But she's also seen its beauty. The resilience of spirit. The creativity that burns like a bonfire.  Silco and Jinx are living proof. Their survival is a triumph against the odds.  
But the odds, sometimes, need a helping hand.
She can be that hand. Silco has the drive to take, and the cunning to hold. But not the pliancy to wield. Whereas she, with all her guile, can take, and hold, and wield. She can be ruthless, but not cruel. She can temper the fires, and sweeten tempers, without the horizons set ablaze.
She can be the force that holds Silco steady, and keeps his city safe. 
She believes that. Truly. But if she cannot persuade him to believe too, then she will have no recourse but to fight.
Diplomacy, Ambessa always said. Works best with a large sword at the enemy's throat.
"They'll do none of those things," she says. "Not if I have a say."
"You mean your word? Or your name?"
"One and the same."
"Ah, but what's in a name?" Silco drawls, without rancor. "A word, by itself, is meaningless. A drop in the ocean. Even marriage, my dear, is just a paper bobbing on the waves. There are no contracts beyond the ink. Water will always seep through."
This jabs a sore spot between her ribs. Her mother's voice rings, an ironclad echo:
"When you are drowning, and he leaves you, gasping, to die. Remember that I did not wish it to end like this."
And her reply: "It won't."
"Ours isn't a contract," she says quietly. "It's a partnership."
"A partnership, like trade, is between equals." His voice, too, is quiet. But it is an icy quiet. "We'll never be equals if you keep thinking of me as the shark who's scales need sanding."
"I don't."
She squeezes his hand in both hers. It is a gesture she uses to soften a hard sell. But never has she been so earnest in her entreaty. 
"Zaun is not the problem," she says. "Nor are you. But the two of you are caught in a bind. What was done in the past was wrong. But what will be done is right. I'll see it done, by changing hearts and minds. Because that is true progress. Once the upper echelons are educated, they'll see the wisdom in change, too. They'll understand that Zaun's wellbeing is theirs. That the pollution is their pollution, and the sickness is their sickness. If only you meet them halfway, they'll see the future. And they'll want to join you." 
"Diplomacy in action, hm?"
"Diplomacy is compromise. And compromise, by definition, is a dilution of what you set out to do. The question is not whether you'll compromise. It's how far. At least, if your cards are played right, there's the chance of a mutual win."    
"The chance. Never the certainty."
"Nothing is certain." She summons a smile. "But I believe in our chances. I believe in us. Do you?"
Silco says nothing. In his eyes, the void is banked. But still there. Still hungry. Sometimes she thinks he's staring down, not the past, but a path yet to come. The future, where his daughter will grow up in a city resurrected. Where his people will live without humiliation or hunger.  
Where they will truly be free.
"Belief is a luxury," he says at last. "In Zaun, the first step is survival. Everything else is a bridge to be crossed. Or burned." He leans in, a cold, dark flame. "So: no. I don't believe. I act. And it's not by prostrating myself before the privileged. Their pity will not keep my city alive. Their profit will not keep it safe. For Zaun to survive, it must upend their rules, and play by a different set." 
"You've done that once," Mel cautions. "And it nearly burned down both our cities."
"Fire is a cleansing force."
"Fire is a monster, with no regard for who it consumes."
Their stares clash. The air crackles.
Deliberately, Mel softens her tone.
"There was a time when I was a girl full of ideals. But ideals are fragile company. All it took was a single stroke of my mother's sword, and they broke. All I had left were the splinters. And they hurt. Oh, how they hurt. If I can save a person, even one, from enduring that hurt, then it will have been worth it. It will have been worth the compromise, the dilution, the diplomacy."  
Silco smiles. It is a strange smile: soft and yet utterly devoid of softness. 
Her mother, Mel thinks, would've smiled the same way.
"Compromise," he says. "A beautiful fever. Like Mal de Mer."
"What?"
He kisses her.
It's a quick, fierce thing. Like the snap of a blade. The air cuts from Mel's lungs. His mouth is cool, his tongue hot. When he draws away, she finds herself clutching his shirt, her fingers knotted in the lapels. His hands, likewise, slide beneath the hem of her chemise.  
"Beautiful," he breathes against her lips. "Like the idea that two cities, and two souls, can be one."
He kisses her again. The next thing Mel knows, he's on her, a long leg sliding between hers. And she is already liquid. Already aching. She can't help it. The fever was only a fever. But his distance was hell. Always a footstep away. Always was a thousand miles beyond reach.
And she, cut adrift: a shipwreck in the night.
Now he's here, and the tide has turned. His body, lean and hard, is an anchor. And his stare, unblinking, is an ocean's depth.  
"I've seen the truth," he murmurs. "Of the world. Of its heart. And it's always torn in two. It has a thousand wants. And it wants them all at once. There's no middle ground. No compromise." He palms her breast through the chemise. She bites back a gasp. "Only a war, fought until one side burns the other. And the victor? Gets the spoils."
"It's not the only way." Mel's lips find his throat. His jaw. His mouth. "We can—"
"There is no 'we.'"
"What—?"
"I've lived in a city of we's. Piltover and Zaun. Two cities. Both bound together, and yet pulling apart." His teeth trace her earlobe. She whimpers, and his thumb, deftly, circles. "The only 'we' is the two of us. Not because of our marriage. Not because of vows, or trust, or fairydust. This will work only if we make it. And we can't make it if you take my ring, then trade my city for a price."
"I did not take your ring for a price!" Mel snaps, her temper fraying. "I took it because I wanted a future with you. Whatever that future holds!"
He pushes her back. Pins her wrist to the mattress. It's a gentle manacling, and yet the effect is electric. His eyes take their time, moving languidly up her body—the hem riding high on her thighs, the silk taut across her breasts, the tendrils of her hair a corkscrewing darkness on the pillow. 
Mel's skin hums beneath the scrutiny. She's been looked at a thousand times: by artists, by admirers, by aesthetes. But never, she thinks, so closely. As if her flesh were pure gold. As if she were something worth coveting.
Worth keeping.
He meets her eyes, with something like witfulness. And then, with a sigh, he kisses her, everywhere through the silk. His lips on first one breast, then the other, weighing them in his hands. Mel sighs, her fingers tangling in his hair. His kisses drift lower. Down her belly, across her navel, then down further still, soft kisses pressed in a circle around the place that aches the most. Mel's thighs fall open. Her sighs unravel on a moan. 
She's missed this. She's missed him. His skin on hers is a balm.
Then his mouth reverses its journey. Higher, higher, higher, until he reaches her throat. Its soft, unguarded pulse. He kisses there: a hint of teeth like a brand. Mel hopes he will go further. Bite deeper. That this, the barest tease of friction, is not all he's willing to offer.  
But it is.
He drops a parting kiss to her forehead. Then he is gone.
Mel, bereft, opens her eyes. "Silco?"
"You're still feverish."
"But—"
He's already rising. His shadow, cutting across the wall, is a shark's fin.
"Sleep," he says. "Dream of a future. For me. For you. Full of spoils, and no compromise."
"Where are you going?"
"Dinner's begun. Your precious guests await." He begins unbuttoning his cuffs. "I'll make sure to play nice."
"But—"
"As it happens, I have an inkling how they can be made to play nice too. Zaun's version of nice. Industrial-grade, chemically-clogged, toxin-fueled."
Mel, warily, "What do you mean?"
"An excursion."
"Where?"
"Why spoil the surprise?"
Stripping his shirt, he steps toward the adjoining bath. The lamplight limns the dips and angles of his torso. He's a lean man, her husband, and the delineations of his body is stark as whipcord. The skin is lashed with old scars. A life in the streets etched into his flesh.
Mel knows every inch. And every inch fascinates her.
"Tomorrow," he says, "We'll dock on the island. With luck, you'll be well, with roses in your cheeks, instead of sealing wax.  We'll dine at the villa, all our cabbages and kings. But before—"    
"Before?"  
"Before," he says, a sideways flick of red and black, "we'll see whether pigs have wings."  
The door swings shut. The sound of running water starts.
Mel, propped on her elbow, is left to simmer in the silence.
Her new husband, it must be said, is like Mal de Mer, too.  He creeps in: sly, stealthy, secret.  And before she knows it, her body is aflame.  
Except she can't say whether tomorrow bodes a cleansing cure.
Or a blaze that leaves nothing but ash.
19 notes · View notes
Text
[CN] Spoilers From Victor’s West Moon Split Route
His Confidant, His Wife, His Queen, but most importantly, His Dummy – in every version of reality or dream.
Tumblr media Tumblr media
HE ADDRESSES MC AS HIS WAIFU!!! ಥ⁠‿⁠ಥ
NO I’M CLUTCHING MY CHEST BECAUSE VICTOR’S SPLIT ROUTE!!! AGAIN!!! BLESS BLESS BLESS VICTOR’S WRITERS—— ಥ⁠‿⁠ಥ
This is just me dropping some random screaming, since I’m not sure when I can and how I want to proceed with translating the chapter ahah~
Just to make it clear – I will translate the split route fully whenever I get the time to breathe, I’m just not too sure about translating the full chapter (extremely important for the split) prior since it’s VERY LONG ಥ⁠_⁠ಥ
•─────⋅◍♡◍⋅─────••─────⋅◍♡◍⋅─────••─────⋅◍♡◍⋅─────••─────⋅◍♡◍⋅─────•
[Chapter Summary]:
ANGST ANGST ANGST PAIN PAIN PAIN
but we still get the classic Victor x MC moments, their light-hearted fun, deep conversation, “I’ll accompany you to death and beyond” pledges and putting them in actions (!ofc !duh)––
Tumblr media
And of course, MC is revered as the “Demon Queen”~
[Split Route Summary]:
(FEELS FEELS FEELS) ^ MAX
Loads of stuff happen, and of course, they face it together as they have always done——
ONTO THE JUICY STUFF:
In WM CH 4, a demon with special stone discerns Victor as MC’s destined lover in previous lifetimes, but Victor tells MC she is simply seeing the thoughts of her conscious mind in the stone (we see you MC  ͡⁠°‿⁠ ͡⁠° ), jokes aside, it was a foreshadowing too ——
In the split route,
MC and Victor are introduced to lifetimes where MC is still the Sorceress and Victor is still the General –– and they are in fact betrothed / married, a fact constant in other realities / dreams too. They are forever regarded as “MATCH MADE IN HEAVEN”.
And here, a ceremony is being held where MC is in fact sending Victor off to the war——
Tumblr media
Palace Maid: I heard that when the General returns from this war in triumph, he will marry the Sorceress!
All Officials: This marriage has been approved by the Oracle and His Majesty himself! The two of them are truly a match made in heaven, incomparable in all of the lands under the sun. This is a blessing for the West Moon!
Common People: The young General and the Sorceress indeed are an ideal couple. The two of them look like a painting!
The two of us got to know each other at the HeavenBright Academy, we went through countless twists and turns, and finally, we are blessed with the good fortune of tying the knot, we are the lovers the entire world envies...
Tumblr media
MC: It’s... how should I put it... I hope that we can always be together, even if not as the Sorceress and the General...
MC: Wherever Victor goes, MC will follow him.
Back to the present,
Victor and MC break free from this “said” dream.
Then MC is given the choice where she can choose this life for Victor and herself, the ideal utopia where they are still together, but without any pain and suffering.
Though tempted, MC chooses not to reset the past, because all these memories they experienced together have built the relationship they have today, and she can’t make this choice for the rest of the world either–– MC uses her power to pave the path for a future where no one has to suffer from the demonic energy ––
(though only Victor gets this utopia world in the splits, MC has to make a choice in other boys’ splits too, under different circumstances of course).
——
Back to Victor x MC, a conversation very similar to S1 CH 37 happens–– “I did it for you, and I will do it a thousand times over. We are in this together, we have always been.”
Tumblr media
MC: I understand. I just don’t want you to be the hero and shoulder all the responsibilities alone.
– [West Moon CH 10]
MC: Although you act to be strong every time, I know that the most powerful Demon King must have the most raging demonic energy inside him. You must have suffered incomparable pain... I don’t want you to keep it all to yourself all the time. Tell me about it, will you?
– [West Moon, Victor Route]
AND Victor addresses MC “HIS WIFE”, not only because she ALREADY is HIS QUEEN through the “Demon King’s Oath” in CH 3 but because THIS TITLE HAS ALWAYS BELONGED TO HER, “HIS DUMMY”, IN EVERY VERSION OF REALITY / DREAMS 😭❤️
Tumblr media Tumblr media
Victor: It was indeed very painful to bear before. But I feel very good now, in fact, I have never felt better than I do now... it’s all because of you, my wife.
The girl’s face is red almost to the base of her ears, but the corners of her lips perk up in an extremely triumphant smile.
MC: Hehe, this time you didn’t use the term “dummy.” Instead, you used the other title.
Victor: These titles have always belonged to you. As has the “dummy”, and so has “my wife.”
MC: The pact is settled then.
MC: Victor, I’m a bit sleepy now, and I might sleep for a long time...
Tumblr media
MC: You must remember to call me that even when I’m asleep... and remember to call me that when I’m awake...
The girl’s voice becomes increasingly softer, but her hand still stubbornly holds Victor’s hand, tightening more and more.
Their finger joints are tightly clasped. This is a pledge even more indestructible than the “Demon King’s Oath.”
The way she tells him to call her “his dummy” and “his wife” in every moment!!! And, THEIR HANDS THOUGH, FOREVER 🥺❤️
[Ending]:
The two of them rule the demon kingdom together AS THE KING AND THE QUEEN, enabling the entire West Moon to return to prosperity, peace, and their love story,—
Tumblr media
– is passed on as the storytellers enthusiastically tell the tales of The Demon King and The Demon Queen.
And, by the way, THE DEMON KING VICTOR IS ALSO A MASTER-CHEF 😂🫠😭❤️
97 notes · View notes
cantsomeoneelsedoit · 16 days
Text
Ch 20: Keep Your Hands Off Planet Earth
Tumblr media
UMA Galaxy has been unleashed! And it's the last chapter of this arc! And we get multiple double page spreads! And I have ridiculous theories to share!
Tumblr media
Move is an UMA under control of the Union that looks like a monster with a body made of board game parts. It looks kind of like The Game of Life.
His head is a die that has Roman numerals on it. Do they refer to the Negator seats numbers?
Move is such a weird and abstract concept. Like what is a world without Move like??
Our characters can obviously move without Move's help, but when they use his power, they can be moved to a new location anywhere in the world. It looks like Move creates pathways or portals to other parts of the world.
Move allows the author to break normal rules of physics and have characters that appear out of thin air instantly for various plot reasons. The concept of "Move" seems like a really basic aspect of storytelling and world building, so he must be important.
The Union is transported to Uluru in Australia. IRL, this rock formation has a lot of cultural stories about world-creation, ancient history, animals, and people. It makes sense that it would be the symbolic location for Earth to make a stand against aliens.
Nico's helpful assistants fill the Negators in on what physical and cultural changes have occurred. (So now we know Victor was from a place that already had Galaxy!)
Tumblr media
and we get this wicked double page spread:
Tumblr media
They're the Acks! And they have axe armor! And their ships have axes on them! And they blow up Uluru!
Tumblr media Tumblr media
Juiz is so badass here
Tumblr media
Juiz was probably going to destroy them no matter what crazy ultimatum they gave, but she handled it with such grace and simplicity. I adore this spread:
Tumblr media
Damn, Juiz can reverse someone's ideal justice. That's wild. And since the Acks wanted humans to be wiped out, her ability makes them turn their weapons on each other and wipe themselves out. Brutal.
Moving on, I'm about to get weird.
The Acks fit neatly into my theory that UU is a story about writing. The threat from Acks and their axes were a grave danger to our characters' world. And what's the greatest threat to a manga writer? Getting axed. It would mean that the story wasn't allowed to continue.
This Axe/Acks thing sounds good, but I might be totally wrong. For one, "Axe" and "Acks" are spelled with different katakana. Plus, I don't really know if "to axe something" is a known English phrase in Japan. The verb used for manga cancelled suddenly is more likely to be 打ち切る uchikiru, "to cancel, to terminate." I don't even know if Tozuka speaks English.
But he does use a lot of foreign words in his manga, and the aliens clearly have axes on them, and it fit the theory too well not to mention it.
ANYWAY, Juiz reveals the existence of a stone tablet that's keeping track of the number of penalties. We're now up to 99, and there are 101 slots. The 101st slot is labeled Ragnarok.
I think it's weird that the stone tablet doesn't have a name and isn't mentioned as being an artifact. Juiz says that they found it at the same time as Apocalypse.
Is it possible that Apocalypse isn't just the book, but the book and tablet are a set named Apocalypse?
Fuuko, Andy, and Tatiana are sent to seek out Unrepair. Andy seems to agree to the mission simply to pay back his favor to the Union rather than to actually do his assigned duties. I need him to commit to the Union! Because if he's still intent on dying, then they'll have to recruit even more members!
Tumblr media
Masterpost
5 notes · View notes
edupunkn00b · 10 months
Text
French Kiss: Tale of the Revolution, Ch. 19: Save Him
Tumblr media
Colorized version of Fighting at the Hotel de Ville, 28th July 1830 by Jean Victor Schnetz. (embedded image description)
Prev - Save Him - Last - Masterpost - [ AO3 ] Rated T - WC: 3476 - CW: major character death
spoilers for the previous chapter below the cut
Patton wanted to shake Logan awake, convince him to lift his head, open his eyes again, just say something. Maybe all he needed was a moment of rest or some water or…. Or Patton could curl around Logan and simply stay there holding him. Let the fighting go on around them, this pointless battle where no-one was right and both were wrong, both had killed, both had hurt.
But he had a promise to keep. "You knew I'd need a mission, didn't you?" he whispered, voice cracking.
He laid Logan down with his hands folded over his waistcoat, Patton knelt next to him for as long as he dared. He ignored Remus’ pacing, ignored the distant rattle of boots running down the halls. Ignored the even more distant pops and bangs of gunfire. His hands were covered in Logan’s blood, so he cleaned them the best he could with his apron, then pulled it off and draped it over Logan’s face and torso.
Bending over him, he pressed a kiss against his forehead through the heavy cotton cloth. Then Patton pushed up to his feet, and dried his face with his sleeves. he nodded at Remus, “Let’s go find your brother.”
They moved quickly through the wide parts of the tunnels, almost sprinting down the dark stone corridors. When the tunnels narrowed, though, with thinner walls running parallel to primary halls around the palace, they slowed, quieting their footsteps. Neither spoke. Likely neither had the strength for it. Patton certainly didn’t.
As they drew nearer to the exit, footsteps—footsteps that didn’t belong to either of them—echoed against the stone walls. Patton tugged at Remus’ sleeve and looked for a place to hide. Perhaps they could double back and find a room they hadn't already tried? But Remus stood still, listening. Patton’s heart beat hard enough he was certain whoever was coming would hear it even if they had managed to keep their steps silent.
Remus held up one hand, stilling Patton, then whispered, “Roman?”
“Oh, thank God,” Roman’s voice sighed in the darkness and the footsteps hurried closer until the younger prince emerged from the shadows and flung himself into his brother’s arms. “You’re alive!” He looked more closely at each of them and his voice warbled. “But where’s Janus and—and your friend?” he asked Patton. All at once he seemed to notice Logan's blood on his clothes and pulled him closer, feeling for a wound. "Mon héros, you're hurt!"
Patton shook his head, blinking against the sudden rush of tears. Now was not the time. Remus gripped his brother's shoulder, and Patton wasn't sure how much was to give comfort and how much was to take it. “Janus is… negotiating with the rebels.”
“Jacobins,” Patton muttered. “Violent ones.”
“We must leave the palace.” Remus squared his shoulders and smoothed down his sash with one hand. The lantern he held with the other shook and swayed, but his gaze was steady. “And then we’ll find Janus once the guards take back control.”
Prince Roman caught Patton's eyes. They both understood how hopeless that would be. The palace guards were outnumbered, out-gunned. Out-passioned. The people were fighting for their lives. The guards were fighting for their salaries.
Remus had to know it, too. But like Patton's promise to Logan, sometimes you needed the lie to keep going.
“The exit closest to the stables is blocked.” Roman pointed at another juncture in the tunnels.
“Can you get us to the kitchens?” Patton asked them both.
Roman nodded, but Remus frowned. “Of course, but—” 
“There’s a door at the far end of the larder,” Patton shrugged and followed where he pointed. “It will take us to the stables.”
Their journey took even longer than before, with frequent pauses at each sound. If they could hear the boot falls in the carpeted corridors, the guards or rebels on the other side of the wall would surely hear theirs echoing off the stone floor.
They waited, pressed flat against the door as they listened for a break in the noise outside the tunnels. After an eternity, Roman nodded and pushed open the door.
Right into a musket barrel.
“Your Highness!” the guard nearly dropped his musket in his haste to move it away from the prince. “My deepest apologies, Prince Roman. We’d had word there were insurrectionists in the walls.” Remus slipped through the doorway.
“Mon Dieu! You’re safe, Your Majesty! When the steward returned to the guest rooms and you were gone, we feared the rebels had—” The guard cleared his throat and bowed his head smartly. He looked up just in time to see Patton slipping through. “You’ve arrested one of them!”
Patton squinted against the glare of the brighter lights lining the main hallways. “No,” Roman’s voice insisted. “No, he’s not a rebel. He’s… he’s from the kitchens.”
“All the more reason to arrest him now,” the guard nodded and stepped closer to Patton. Roman moved between them.
“You will do no such thing. Stand down!” he snapped. A slamming door, followed by jeering laughter and shouts somewhere in the palace echoed down the hall. He pointed toward the ominous sounds. “There are real rebels out there you should be arresting. Patton is on our side!” 
The guard shook his head, his voice laced with pity. "He has you fooled." No, not pity. Condescension. “Everyone loyal to France and her King already left the palace. I put the last of those who couldn’t fight on a wagon to de Choisy myself. The servants who didn’t flee or pick up His Majesty's arms have joined the rebels. If he’s here, he’s one of them.” He grabbed Patton’s shoulder and shoved him against the wall. “Stay there.” Footsteps echoed toward them, faster, chaotic. Rebels. “Your Highness, Your Majesty, I’ll personally take him down to the dungeons.”
Even as Patton winced under the guard's grip, a palpable jolt of hope rattled through Remus, his face twitching into a smile. “The dungeons? That’s where the rebels are being taken?”
“They’ll get a fair trial, just as any other citizen.” Apparently the guard misattributed Remus’ smile and he pushed Patton harder against the wall. “Unless, of course, we’re out of room in the dungeons,” he half-whispered to him. “Then we’ll give you a shorter death than most.”
Cheek smashed against a tapestry, Patton didn’t quite see what happened next. There was a blur of movement and Roman roared, wordless, and angry, and maybe a little fearful. The guard shifted, then released him. Patton turned around and pulled out his dagger.
“Don’t touch my brother!” Remus shouted. Roman’s lip was split and there was blood on the guard’s knuckles as he grappled with the younger prince. Remus pulled him off of Roman, swinging wildly. A blow caught the guard across his face and he hit the wall with a wet thwack and slumped to the carpet.
“I—I—” Remus stuttered and dropped to the floor, hands hovering over the young guard. Finally, he rolled him over onto his back. Glassy dead eyes stared back at him, his temple smashed. Blood pooled on the carpet beneath him. “No, I—I didn’t mean…” The walls shook with the force of another door banging open, and the shouts were growing louder. Closer.
"Remus, we have to leave!" Roman pulled at his arm and Patton helped haul him to his feet. "They're coming!" he hissed. The crackle pop of fire and the stench of smoke filling the air jarred Remus free from his daze and he nodded silently.
All semblance of stealth abandoned, they ran toward the kitchens. The shouting was near enough now they could understand the rebel’s taunts and promises of what they would do when they found anyone hiding. “We need to slow them down,” Roman cried.
They turned a corner and flickering light spilled from the other end of the corridor. Torches. Another group of rebels was just ahead. “Wait, stop,” he yanked Remus and Patton into an alcove. “We need a plan, we won’t simply outrun them.” Bracketed by rebels, voices and stomping feet growing louder every moment, Roman dragged his hands through his hair, eyes wild. Remus' hand rested on the hilt of his sword as he peered around the corner, watching the shifting shadows at either end of the hallway.
Suddenly Roman looked at Patton and his panicked face stilled. “How much can you carry?”
The determination in Roman’s eyes froze Patton’s blood, then his eyes widened. He looked Remus up and down, then nodded at the younger brother, jaw set.
“Mon héros petit,” he whispered, then cocked his arm back and punched Remus in the face.
There was a sickening crack and he fell against Patton, unconscious. Patton hefted him up and over his shoulder. “Merde!” Roman swore, holding his fist. “I broke something. Wait!” A little awkwardly, Roman tugged off Remus’ green velvet coat and sash and stripped off his own. He buttoned Remus’ coat to his chin, concealing his own red waistcoat beneath it.
“One last time, eh, brother?” he muttered, Remus' sword in his hand and a mix of fear and resignation in his eyes.
Something snapped in Patton's chest. “Roman, no, what are you—” Patton shook his head and tried to pull Roman with them. Royalty or not, he was a good man. Enough good men had died today, for whatever the cause.
“Mon héros doux.” He gently pried Patton’s fingers off the green coat he now wore. “When all of this is over, France will need her true King.” Roman cupped Patton’s cheek and smiled down at him. “Keep him safe, cher,” he whispered quickly. “Keep him away from the palace until the mobs are gone. Then when it’s safe, return.”
“But what if they just—” ‘Kill you’ lodged itself in Patton’s throat, choking off the rest of his words.
“The King will live,” Roman answered what he couldn’t ask and—gently—shoved them both around a corner. “Longue vie au roi,” he murmured after them. “Longue vie a France!”
With one last look, Patton ran from the growing sound of the mob as fast as he could with Remus flopping against his back. The new King groaned just as they’d made it to the kitchen. “Wha—where?” Remus mumbled, shifting weakly against his shoulder. He sounded dazed and Patton hurried to the larder to get them out before Remus came to completely.
“Shh, Your Majesty, they’ll hear you.” Remus fell lax again in his grip. Good. Patton couldn’t imagine Remus willingly leaving Roman behind. The voices in the hall grew louder until they fell away at a shrill whistle.
“What do we have here?” A loud, commanding voice rang out over the mob. Colére. Dozens of voices laughed in response. Patton remained frozen, halfway down the larder stairs as he strained to listen. “Your Royal Majesty,” he cooed and the crowd cackled.
“Oh, and look at this…” The crowd laughed again. “A bit of red for the revolution, Your Majesty? Thought you could pretend to be one of us?”
Colére’s boots echoed against the walls, growing louder, then fading as he paced. Leisurely, mockingly slow, like he no longer feared the King. With dozens of armed rebels at his side, he didn't need to. “You know, Your Majesty… I have had my fill of traitors today. Isn’t that right, Lord Robespierre?” Patton’s muscles jerked, stopped from charging them all by the weight of the future king slung over his shoulder. What could he do against dozens of rebels? “The guillotine’s too quick for them. Take them both to the dungeons. They’ll hang in the morning!”
Tears filling his eyes, Patton pushed through the door. Remus heavy on his shoulder, and the dark woods in front of him, he fled east, toward Paris, and away from the setting sun.
~~~
The sky had darkened as they’d scuttled like rats through the palace’s hidden tunnels. Patton led them deep into the woods, as far northeast as he could manage.  “Just a little further, Your Majesty,” he urged. “When we’re clear of the palace, we can try the roads and use the horses."
If Patton had still believed in miracles, he would’ve prayed at his first glimpse of Naif nibbling the ferns a few dozen feet on their trek the woods. Petit wasn’t far, and she whinnied at the sight of him. Their ties had been cut, the ends frayed and sawed through with something dull, and Patton was grateful he hadn’t had the time to remove their saddles. They followed Patton until he could set Remus down and hold their leads.
Remus was on his own feet now but stopped repeatedly, staring back at the palace and wincing at every distant crash and cheer. After a while, the noise faded away, swallowed up by little creatures rustling in the leaves and the distant babble of a stream.
“Did he say why?” he finally asked, stumbling after Patton and the horses. His hands twitched, dancing up to his throbbing nose. Each time he forced them away before he undid Patton’s efforts to reset the fracture.
Patton watched the ground as they walked. It was easier than looking at Remus’ deadened eyes. “He said France needs her King.”
“Roman could be King,” he muttered. “It doesn’t have to be me.”
“He seemed to think it did. And if you go back now, then the mob will just have the both of you.” He slowed when they reached a tiny break in the trees. “We should stop here for the night.” He pointed ahead, “There’s water, and we’re far enough from the palace that we won’t attract much attention.” Patton led the horses to a patch of clover then gathered some rocks for a fire ring. Once he’d arranged them in a small circle, he knelt next to Remus.
“Give me your waistcoat,” Patton muttered. “Tights, too. You’re too conspicuous like this. You’ll be recognized.” He started to rub dirt into Remus’ pants and sleeves. Even ripped and snagged from their hike, his clothes were too fine for an everyday Parisian. Remus had ditched his shoes somewhere in the tunnels. But that was a problem for later.
“What are you doing?” His protest was weak, and he made no real move to stop Patton’s work. 
“We have to disguise you, Your Majesty.” Patton's hands moving up to fight with Remus’ waistcoat. “Or they’ll drag you to the gallows, too.” 
“Maybe they should.”
“Don’t you dare!” Patton hissed, voice thick with unshed tears as he attacked the ornate buttons. He stabbed a finger at his chest. “Don’t you dare let them have died for nothing! Logan gave his life for you! Janus and your brother are going to be executed for trying to save your life! You get to live so you… damn well better make it worth something. Don’t you dare just throw it away.” The fire built from loss and fear and grief fizzled away and Patton’s hands shook as he stripped off Remus’ waistcoat. “Y-Your Majesty.”
“It’s simply ‘Remus,’ now,” he muttered and let himself be maneuvered out of his finery, like when the dressers insisted on helping him with his formal court garb. Wordlessly, Patton tore out the lining and pulled off as much of the frills as he could and used it as kindling for a small fire. Once the flames were high enough not to be smothered, he pushed the rest of waistcoat and tights into the fire.
They sat in silence and watched it burn, the edges curling in on themselves in a bath of smoke until yellow and red flames licked the fine silk and linen and consumed it. Patton gradually added twigs and dried leaves, camouflaging the ashes until it looked like any other cooking fire.
“You’re rather strong for a kitchen scullery,” Remus said after a while.
“I’m not a kitchen scullery,” he said. “I’m a member of the Jacobins, the Society of Friends.” As their fire grew, so did the fires in Versailles. Orange flames glinted between the trees, a warm, almost inviting glow. It could have been a sunset. “Well, I had been, at least.” He leaned back against a tree and continued smeared more dirt on Remus’ breeches and down his legs, improving the camouflage. “It had been my job to look out for Janus on his mission. Help him escape if you discovered his secret and—”
“And ordered him to be executed?” Remus shook his head and examined the dirt under his nails. “I never would.”
“Janus knew that,” Patton said. “Knows that.” He worked in silence a little longer, then rubbed away the excess, leaving the future King’s skin dingy and the finery of his clothes concealed. “Even Logan saw it in the end.” Patton’s voice broke, his words falling away in a whisper and he concentrated on his work.
After a few minutes, he jerked his chin toward the trees. The glow was growing brighter and sharper. “People are coming,” he whispered. “Follow my lead and don’t speak unless you have to.”
Patton smeared mud over his own face, then dragged a bit through his hair. Scrubbing at his cheeks and forehead, he cleared most of it away and settled close to Remus. At the last moment, he remembered and tugged his red scarf out from under his shirt.
The voices grew quiet, too quiet to clearly understand, something about a fire. A voice broke out, loud and confident. “Ah, it’s just an old man and his kid.” The voice laughed. “We’ve probably terrified our poor brothers.” They drew closer, the small fire illuminating their faces. Patton had seen a few of them around the city, but none were regulars at de Foy. “Don’t worry, amies.” he called to them. “What are you two doing out? It’s cold for July, in the woods, at least.”
“It was hotter in Paris,” Patton agreed with a little shrug. “We thought I might find work in de Choisy. It’s been a long journey and my father’s unwell," he lied, rubbing Remus’ shoulder. “I thought a bit of rest might help and then we’ll continue on in the morning.”
“You haven’t been to the palace?” The one with the brightest torch laughed.
“What business would we have at the damned King’s palace?” Patton muttered, arm looping around Remus’ when he flinched at his tone. “Besides, we saw robbers on the road and heard screams, so we hid.“ He hung his head and didn’t need to hide his shame. “I was afraid they’d hurt my father.” 
“Oh, dear frere, no…” He crouched down and tugged at Patton’s red scarf. “Not robbers! It’s the revolution come to Versailles! Here, ami, take these." A pair of sturdy leather boots, polished like the ones worn by the palace guard, hung from his shoulder by their straps. "These look to be your size," he passed them to Remus, looking down at his bare, dirty feet.
"And here…" He fished something out of a pocket and held out his hand to Patton. In his hand was a thin gold band, dotted with citrines glittering in the firelight. "There's plenty more where this came from. Their jewelry won't save them from the gallows, oui?" The men around him guffawed.
He held the ring Janus had been wearing the last they saw him. “I pulled that off some noble claiming he was one of us. Our dear Dauphin seemed to recognize him, though.” He laughed and nudged Patton’s hand, nodding. “Go on, it’s yours now. He won’t be needing it.”
Patton’s hand shook as he cradled Janus’ ring in his palm. I’m so sorry, Logan. 
“Where are they taking them?” Remus asked, his voice rough as he stared at the bit of gold. Patton’s eyes widened, afraid his accent would betray him, but the rebels only saw dirt and torn clothes. They didn't suspect the future King sat in the midst. “I wouldn’t mind seeing the damned royals’ heads roll before I die.”
The man drew close and clapped Remus’ shoulder. His breath stank of wine and meat. “We’re taking them to Paris in the morning. Let them enjoy a night in the Palace’s dungeons.” Raucous laughter erupted from the band of lackeys behind him. The man with the torch hadn’t been the only one to sample the Palace’s wines.
“Fiston,” Remus muttered to Patton, his movements sluggish but his eyes clear behind his dirt-smudged face. “Son, I’d like to see that. Do you think we can make it to Paris by…”
“Ten o’clock,” the rebel said.
“Ten?” Remus’ jaw was set, his intentions clear. Either Patton went with him or he’d go alone.
“If you rest tonight, Papa…” Patton poked at the fire with a long stick, sending sparks up into the breeze. “We’ll rise with the dawn,” he nodded. “We can make it.” We can save them.
8 notes · View notes
twobraincellkentwell · 8 months
Text
Words and Other Weapons
[A Game Called Revenge]
Part Two
Series Masterlist Part One. Part Three.
Summary: The day following the announcement is likely one of the rainiest days on record in District Two, and it just so happens to be the day of the usual tribute trials. The same three trials competed in every year by perspective tributes, yet this time it's slightly different.
Warnings: strictly 18+ due to the nature of content in some of the chapters. Mentioned death of children. Violence. Weaponry (Knives, Swords, Spears.) Older victors being assholes. Probably a power imbalance in there somewhere.
Word Count: 6.5k
A/N: I think this is one of my favourite chapters I've written, and I want to see if any of you can tell me what you think my favourite line is! Lemme know what you think :)
Tumblr media
The morning after the announcement, thick black clouds cover the sky, the mid-spring morning engulfed by thick darkness and cold icy winds, acting as a shrieking, keening omen of the carnage to follow. Any last hope of a peaceful, easy day was gone. Incessant rain pounds against the solid stone pathways of the capital of the district, streaks of water sheeting over the windows and puddling in the sparse patches of grass outside the houses. The streets are lifeless as no one dares to leave the security of their houses for the extreme weather outside, only a handful of peacekeepers stand frozen under the cover of the training centre as they await the arrival of eleven victors.
Door slamming behind them, two peacekeepers flank Clio and Cato as they escort them the short distance to the training centre and they can feel the curious gazes of several small children whose dorm rooms they pass on their way; the children scrambling over each other to get a good spot at the window to watch each victor leave their house. Large white umbrellas erected above their heads shield them from the elements, but a surprisingly cold drop of rain hits her shoulder due to the height of the cover.
Once they reach the white, cinder-block building one of the peacekeepers removes their helmet and leans towards the security system, placing their eyes level with the eyepiece and holding still for the beam to illuminate and scan their identity. The scanner flashes green as the magnet releases the heavy stone door, slowly swinging open and the other peacekeepers nudges the two young victors into the building. The building is deserted as they walk up the white-stone stairs, the usual clangs of weapons and chatter of children replaced by an eerie silence until they reach a small conference room above the main floor of the training centre where the other nine victors are sitting; the four older victors sit in red metal chairs while the other five stand at various points around the room as the pair enter.
All eyes turn to the door as it swings open, revealing the two to the group; and Lyme wastes no time before silencing the group and opening the floor to discussion around the yearly confirmation of tributes. The older members of the group were used to this, their age meaning they had more practice in identifying the children for the academy and selecting the tributes to represent the district each year. Clio is fully aware that as both the youngest and most recent victor, she is the bottom of the victor food chain - that is her opinion is the least respected - and she knows she'll have to try her hardest to convince the elders of her views. District Two has the most living victors, the most victors overall, and with eleven victors to choose from she knows that their chances of emerging victorious from this Quarter Quell are high but she also knows that the chances of her and Cato being put back into the arena are even higher. "I suggest that we proceed as usual but instead of our multi-day tournament, we conduct the trial today. I can have everyone here by early afternoon, and we are all skilled enough to skip the basic trials and focus purely on weapon performance."
"The best chance for the district to redeem itself after the last Quarter Quell is to send in our latest victors." An older man suggests, his arms crossed as he defiantly leans back in his seat.
Another older man nods his head in agreement, pointing at the couple standing by the door but refusing to directly address them, "We need not waste time with our usual procedure Lyme. We shall send the two of them in. They are the ones with the least to lose and they have graduated from our training school most recently after all."
"You have to be joking," Clio scoffs, the bite in her voice causing a few raised eyebrows.
"This is no joking matter, young lady." The older man sitting in the corner replies, leaning forward onto the table. "It should be an honour to represent our district for a second time. Just think one of you could be the first two time victor in Panem's history. It is a true honour to be selected as volunteers."
"Then why won't you do it?" Cato asks. The older man rises from his chair, stalking across the room to stand before the blonde. He raises his head to meet Cato's, seeing rage simmering in the younger man's eyes and swiftly deciding against his attempt at intimidation.
The room erupts in arguments, the older victors shouting vague threats at the younger individuals, reprimanding their attitude; deeming it unfitting of a career tribute. Various different voices remind them that they're not potential tributes anymore; that regardless of the power hierarchy within the room, the young victors had still earned their spot at the table.
"As much as you try to deny it, the two of them have earned their freedom." Enobaria snaps, "they have their entire lives ahead of them, just as I do."
A short blonde woman is the next to speak up, "We all have lives here, Enobaria."
Remote coldness comes into her eyes as she exhales noisily through pursed lips, "I have a family here."
"You aren't giving us time. Two years isn't enough time to build the things you have and you're going to rip the chance from us? Half of you only have about two years left." Clio interjects, angry at the lack of respect the older victors have for her. They still view us as children, she thinks as her eyes shoot daggers into the back of the blonde woman's head. "We trained our entire lives for this and now we don't even get to live in the luxury we were promised. Some fucking life that is."
"And we're sorry but this is just the way it has to be. One of you will return and get that chance." The older man's eyes show no sign of the remorse he claims to feel.
"We really aren't being given a choice are we?"
"The Hunger Games is an-"
"An honour I know, but I've already brought pride to the district three years ago. I deserve a life." Cato slams his fist on the door frame in anger, bringing the attention to him as the older man he was speaking to objects to his words once more.
"We have families, son," another woman reiterates, "Children who need us."
"Ahh because we're all so against killing children."
The room breaks into shouts, the older victors all standing from their seats in protest, but Cato continues to shout over them, pacing the room as he gestures wildly, "You cannot seriously be telling me that because you're all old I don't get the chance to have children. Has it occurred to you that I don't get that chance either way? If you put Clio and I in there together, no matter the outcome I'm never going to be afforded the same opportunity. Besides, I have a family too, you've all met my parents. My sister. Do they not fit into your skewed definition of family?"
"You're all just scared," Clio rolls her eyes, "None of you want to chance it against the bitch from Twelve who can get you at range when you've not touched a spear in at least twenty years. If you were really worried about bringing pride to the district you'd be jumping at the bit to go again."
An almost smile quirks at Brutus' lips as the older victors cower in their chairs, looking around the room as they wait in deafening silence for someone to defend themselves. "Very well, the usual trial it is. I shall gather the district officials and announce to the Academy's children that they are to learn from today's showing." Lyme, their unofficial leader leaves the room without a second thought, her eyes catching the fury burning in the two youngest victors as they follow after her; Enobaria and Brutus not far behind.
"We'll throw the trial. They won't send us in if we perform badly." Enobaria whispers to Brutus, loud enough for the pair walking in front of her to hear.
"Yes they will."
──────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────────
The rain still pelts the stone flooring of the plaza in the middle of District Two's capital, harsh and unrelenting while the Academy's children are seated under two large makeshift canopies on either side of the square as they await the arrival of the eleven victors for this year's tribute trials. Applause sounds as the eleven victors emerge from the tribute centre and into the downpour on the square. Clothes become saturated in seconds, sticking to their skin and sneaking their way under their collars. Hair becomes heavy, ponytails crying from their shoulders as they stand in line and await their instructions. They've all done this before of course, they know what they're doing but still, they wait; backs straight, chins high and faces emotionless.
"Greetings!" District Two's mayor shouts over the sound of the rain, silencing the chatter of the children in the audience, "It is our honour to hold the seventy-fifth tribute trials. Today is an especially exciting occasion for we are assessing the performance of our beloved victors."
Cheers erupt as the mayor instructs the victors to stand behind a line marked on the stone floor; somehow not been washed away yet by the heavy rain that is drenching the prospective tributes. The oldest victor immediately goes to the front of the line and as Clio reluctantly takes her place she isn't sure if it's his arrogance or desire to get this trial over and done with that influences his decision; but this is quickly answered for her when the other older victors push her behind them as they file in after the grey haired man. Following suit, Enobaria gives her a sorry smile as she moves to stand ahead of Clio, pulling Cato in between herself and the short woman. They wait as several of the older Academy children place a selection of dummies around the square, and move the rack of swords in reach of the procession line; then when the preparation is complete the mayor speaks again, "Due to the experience and advanced skill of this year's tributes as well as the sudden circumstances, we will be bypassing the customary stamina and survival trials. We shall begin with sword prowess before moving to the lighter weapons."
"Ignoring the stamina trials is completely unfair, there's no way the old men can do them." Clio mutters under her breath, but her opinion changes when Cato quietly reminds her that if they included the stamina trials then the chances of the older victors being chosen would drastically decrease and they're all wishing for the complete opposite.
"For our first trial, potential tributes must choose a suitable sword from the rack and incapacitate each of the eight dummies within the square. Competitors can take any path around the course, but all targets must be completed and it is in their best interests to choose an efficient path given that this trial is ranked upon time. Tributes, it is also worth noting that you may not change your choice of weapon, and that the weight of the sword chosen will be accounted for. Finally, in a change from previous years; once a tribute has completed the course, their weapon cannot be utilised by another tribute."
Oh fucking brilliant I'll have to use the left overs, Clio thinks to herself as she realises the rack holds exactly eleven swords and given that she's last it's obvious to her that she'll be forced to use whichever one remains on the rack, and that the older victors will have the advantage in this trial; but then again is that a bad thing.
"Begin." On the mayor's instruction, the grey-haired man moves from the start line and rushes to choose a suitable sword from the weapon rack as he progresses along the course. Once the man's time is announced, the panel of District officials can be seen printing the result on a giant scoreboard, and the next tribute starts the course and the process repeats. Clio keeps her eyes trained on the line in front of her as the older tributes complete the course, not watching their performances until she realises that it's Enobaria's turn. She watches the later half of her mentor's display, watching the woman sprint the distance to the last dummy, slicing upwards into the chest and crossing the finish line to stop her time.
She then receives her time, and it becomes obvious that the woman is still proficient in her skill and this was not the skill she chose to throw, as her time rockets her up into first place - so far. The older girl glances between the scoreboard and the two young victors who are yet to go, giving the latter a semblance of a smile as she rejoins the back of the line. Clio watches the mayor beckon Cato to the starting line, following his line of sight to the weapon rack where he assesses the two remaining swords on the rack; a longer, heavier blade at the top of the rack and a shorter, curved blade on the middle rung.
She pays close attention as Cato presses the button to start the timer before swiftly plucking the smaller blade from the middle of the rack, leaving her with the heavy blade resting on top as he moves quickly around the course. Her eyes follow his movements, making a mental note of the order that he attacks each dummy for herself to follow on her turn and watching as he turns with ease to slice three dummies in quick succession in the top right corner of the route. Skirting quickly around the dummy, he steps towards the sixth target, slashing across the chest before bringing the sword downwards again as he moves closer to the seventh and runs towards the marked line on the floor; severing the head of the final dummy effortlessly as he passes. As his body crosses the line, his score flashes at the top of the electronic scoreboard, causing cheers from several of the children in the audience whilst one of the district officials rushes to replace the head back on the last dummy and Cato places the sword in the pile on the floor, lips quirking into a smile as he passes his girlfriend on his way to join the back of the line. "Do your worst."
Slamming her hand down on the button, Clio looks up at the weapon rack and extends her arms upwards to pull down the heavy long sword that remains on the top of the rack only to find that she has to jump slightly to grab the hilt; something that will undoubtedly slow down her time. As her feet return to the floor, her shoulder pulls backwards as the blade is yanked from the rungs and she adjusts her grip to hold the weapon in her left hand. Fuck this is heavy, she thinks as she momentarily assesses the weight of the sword and turns her body towards the first dummy. She swings upwards but the blade barely makes contact with the mannequin as it's weight is far more difficult to control than Clio expected. She swings again, slashing at the lower torso before pivoting her body to slice at the next dummy and replicate the path she watched Cato move along earlier. Running as quickly as possible, she reaches the top right corner of the square where three dummies await her actions. She swings to her left, hoping to catch two of the closer dummies with one strike, but having to adjust her stance once it only barely grazes the stomach of the nearest target. Losing balance slightly she presses her right foot firmly back onto the ground, bringing her right hand onto the hilt to stop her wrist from going limp as she swings for the first dummy again before stepping forward to slash at the other two nearby. Side-stepping around the target she moves towards the sixth dummy, slashing quickly with both hands as she keeps walking nearer to the seventh. As she reaches the seventh dummy she can feel the weight of the blade weighing her arms down; her biceps burn as she tries to hold the long, heavy weapon above hip height, and rather than slash at the target she decides to pull the weapon back with both arms and plunge the sharp edge into the torso.
This is so much quicker, she thinks as she tugs on the hilt to remove the blade from the torso and runs towards the last dummy. She cannot see her time as she runs but she is aware that it will be slow, the extra time taken up by her lack of control over such a heavy weapon - one that she would not have ordinarily chosen for herself - and her sheer disinterest in sword handling, something she knows is evident to the children in the audience and the District mayor. She also knows why Cato left her the heavier sword, this station was the easiest one for her to sabotage; if she did badly at throwing knives or spears it would be too obvious, but it doesn't mean that her arms don't ache from lugging the weight across the town square. As she runs, she uses all her co-ordination to lift the sword over her left shoulder, her left hand gripping the hilt of the sword while her right rests lightly on the edge of the blade, then thrusting the sword forwards with as much force as she could muster and watching as the weapon flies through the air and pierces the foam of the dummy while she takes a shorter path to the finish line.
The town square is quiet as she throws the sword atop the pile, the only sounds that can be heard are the quiet murmuring of the front rows of Academy children. If she strains she can make out whispers of her incompetence but as she spins around to find out her time, she is shocked to find herself in fifth place overall and slotted in third behind Lyme when the scores are split into gender. Fuck sake, throwing it hasn't even made a difference, she thinks.
Fifth position is about right for her abilities but much higher than she wished to be when the older victors are all further down the scoreboard. There are smug smiles on the faces of the old men at the front of the queue as she moves to the back of the line, and Brutus gives her a pitiful smile when she passes him.
"You were supposed to fuck it up!" Cato exclaims in a hushed whisper as Clio stands behind him.
"That was me fucking it up." She shrugs as she watches the older Academy children move the butchered dummies out of the square, replacing them with eleven new dummies in a random formation around a centre line. These dummies have two targets imprinted into the fabric, one at chest height and the other at the head.
"To test the reaction time and throwing accuracy of our potential tributes, this trial comprises time measured by the seconds it takes for a knife to make contact with the target once the desired figure has lit up, and a points system. Five points are given for contact with the bullseye, which reduces for each ring until one point is given for the outer ring. A tribute's points hold more weight than their time in this trial." The District mayor informs the younger children who have now been moved forward a few rows for a clearer view. As Clio looks to the children who must be no older than seven, she remembers the admiration in her eyes when she watched her first tribute trial twelve years earlier, and now she can pinpoint a few of the faces who witnessed the tribute trial for her games now sat a few rows back.
Once the district mayor resumes his position at the head of the judging panel - a place he must be thoroughly enjoying given he had never had such responsibility in all the time Clio could remember - the oldest man is once again instructed to take his place on the line.
The oldest man's performance is abysmal; fourteen points and an incredibly slow time and it's clear that knives were never his speciality in the Academy. His performance is followed by the two other grey haired men, and the oldest woman and all three score slightly higher than the last, the woman's time much faster than the men's making it clear to the children watching that she won her games at least in part due to her knife skills. Lyme is up next, her time a few seconds slower than the woman before her but she shoots up to the highest point on the board due to her better score. Brutus, the short blonde woman and the other middle aged man then give their performances, and when the short blonde woman beats Brutus there is gasps throughout the audience. The other man falls to the bottom of the pile after his turn, scoring a measly thirteen and the panel of district officials whisper amongst themselves once the score is totalled up. When Enobaria is called up she rushes through her turn, the high speed causing a few of the knives to enter the target off-centre and resulting in a collective gasp when her score sits below Lyme.
"What?" She poses the question to the district officials opposite her with a menacing smile, "I have no need for knives."
The officials nod rapidly, averting their eyes from her glares as they return to scribble on their sheets of paper in preparation for Cato's turn. Once his name is called, Cato grabs a knife from the rack and turns his head left and right in anticipation of the first target. Clio doesn't watch his technique, instead she locks on to the scoreboard as his points begin to accumulate and his time starts to run up. 2. 5. 7. 9. 10. 12. 15. 17. 20. 24. 28. His total of twenty-eight points shoots him into fourth place behind Lyme, Enobaria and the blonde woman, but the officials and older children whisper conspiratorially due to his score being lower than three years ago.
"Clio." The district mayor calls out as she moves to the line in the centre of the square. Picking up two knives, her head swivels side to side to anticipate which target will light up first. Suddenly a target flashes at chest level on a dummy to her left and without a second thought Clio launches her first knife at speed directly into the centre of the target. Five points. Almost immediately another target nearby is illuminated and Clio pivots slightly, landing the knife directly in the dummy's head before slotting three more knives into a pocket in her training leggings. She hears the ding of another target, spinning as she reaches across her body to grab a knife and throw it into the chest before another two light up in quick succession. Knowing that this is a test of her anticipation and her recognition regarding the order the dummies were illuminated, Clio wastes no time in holding a knife in both hands, her left slightly higher to aim for the head of the dummy and her right steadied at chest level. Using a split second to steady her hold and line the knives up with their target, she flicks both of her wrists at the same time, the weapons leaving her fingers simultaneously and embedding themselves in the centre of their respective targets; reminiscent of the manner in which she took down the tributes from District One in her games. She doesn't register the cheers that ripple through the audience, instead focused on the task in front of her. Already on twenty points, she's already ahead of half of the older victors and with seven targets still remaining she's quickly working her way up the scoreboard. As she sheaths another three knives, a head height target lights up on her right side, almost imperceptibly due to its location in the peripheral vision; and so she draws another knife from her right pocket across her body with her left knife and launches it into the target. Immediately turning around she completes the same action twice more across her body. Thirty-five points. She plucks another knife from the rack, pocketing the final three as she spins slowly to predict the position of the next target. Hearing the ding behind her once more she spins on her right foot, and whips her left arm forward to plunge the knife into the chest of the dummy. Forty points. The final three targets light up in quick succession; as soon as Clio's knife pierces the foam, the next is quickly illuminated and knifed.
With a score of fifty-five points, Clio rockets to the top of the standings and when she looks at her time, she can see that as well as getting the highest points total, she also achieved the fastest time. The district officials whisper again, but this time the tone of conversation is different - they are impressed with her performance; a stark contrast from the disappointment at the various other victors. Although Clio has always been confident with throwing knives, she is surprised to see herself receiving the perfect score since in her game year she only received fifty-two points. As she begins the walk to the back of the line, she fears she has proven the older victors correct - both her performances have been leagues above the sub par demonstrations of the older people. Maybe the best chance for District Two to win this Quarter Quell truly lies with herself and Cato. The sly smirks on the faces of the older men at the front of the line unnerve her as she passes by, smiling briefly at Brutus before the district official begins to explain the next weapon station.
"Our penultimate trial will once again test the reaction times and throwing accuracy of the potential tributes. One by a one a randomly allocated dummy will rise, and each tribute has five seconds to throw their spear into the chosen target. Two points will be awarded if the tribute makes contact within the allotted five seconds; one point will be given if contact is made after this and no points will be awarded if the spear does not hit the desired target." The younger children in the audience look on in excitement as the course has now been set up; the older ones can be found conversing with each other about the officials decision for this to be the penultimate trial.
The rain continues to beat down on the town square as the oldest man steps up to the marking to begin his trial. Clio's hands fly up to tame the hairs that fall across her forehead as the rain intensifies. Running her hands along her hairline she can feel the water flow from her head as the grunts of the oldest victor fill her eardrums. She can hear the faint dings of the dummies as the older victors progress through their trials and she mindlessly takes a couple of steps forward every few minutes. Focusing on the small puddle of rainwater that has formed at the front of the plaza, Clio tries not to pay attention to her clothes sticking to her back as she hears the officials announcing the awful points totals of the older members of the tribute line. Once she hears Brutus, another man and Enobaria all receive under the perfect score of twenty points she realises that herself and Cato both need to perform badly in this trial to decrease their chances of being chosen, but throwing badly is a risky strategy on her part - projectile weapons were her specialty in the Academy and everyone is aware of this. She watches as Cato stalls for a few seconds on some of the dummies, causing him to receive one point instead of two on some of the targets and she can see out of the corner of her eye the perplexed expressions on the faces of some of the district officials.
As his score of sixteen points is announced, the older Academy children retrieve the spears from the chest of the dummies before resetting them into the floor as Clio is called to begin. Plucking one of the spears off the weapons rack, she adjusts her grip as she weighs up the item in her dominant hand. Soon after, one of the dummies on the far right rises from the floor and Clio angles her body to face that direction, using all her upper arm strength to throw the spear into the target. Two points. As she picks another spear from the rack, another target in the middle of the row rises and is pierced by the spear. One point this time. Clio then decides to remove a few of the spears from the rack at once - they're lighter than the heavy swords and far easier to control by her side. The dummies sequentially rise to standing position, each swiftly receiving a spear through the chest and awarding Clio a mixture of one and two points for each dummy. When she too receives a total score of sixteen points the panel of district officials whisper amongst themselves as her score shoots her up to top of the standings - somewhere she didn't expect to be given that many of the other victors were more proficient in spear handling.
"Fuck sake," she mutters under her breath as she rejoins her place at the back of the line and the district mayor speaks up again. "Our final trial is a new addition this year. Given the skill set of last year's victors, it was a unanimous decision to consider our potential tributes' skills with a bow. As this is a skill not commonly incorporated into our Academy training, a singular target will be placed at a suitable, predetermined distance where each tribute will be provided with three arrows and instructed to fire. A similar points system will be used to other projectiles, five points for a bullseye reducing per ring to zero for failure to make contact."
What the fuck, Clio thinks but she knows it makes sense to test everyone's ability with a bow considering that the girl from Twelve will undeniably be in the arena this year also. She watches the oldest man's hands shake as he takes the bow from the rack and attempts to draw back one of the arrows. He fires the bow and the arrow flies downwards immediately only inches from his feet. Laughs wave through the audience as his shoulders drop and he defeatedly takes another attempt. The arrow travels a little further this time but is still a large distance from the target. The line of victors snigger under their breath as his third attempt fails to make contact, again falling straight down but those at the back of the line can tell he's throwing the trial - looking useless with a bow is a sure way to not be selected. Although the weapon hasn't been part of the Academy's training so far, all the victors here have had access to bow training in their games so they at the very least understand how to shoot one.
She watches as the older victors at the front of the line all progress through the trial. The three oldest men miss all three of their shots, sending their arrows into the floor. Lyme and the other older woman again miss their shots but are much closer to catching the target than the men before them. Brutus manages to clip the right arm of the dummy with his third shot, causing the arm to be replaced by one of the Academy officials. The short blonde woman and other shorter man also miss the target with their shots, whereas Enobaria manages to embed her third arrow into the foot of the dummy on her second try and the lower leg on her third. Cato is up next and he grabs the bow, and shoots immediately without attempting to line up the arrow. Surprisingly, the arrow travels a fair distance but due to lack of accuracy it flies straight past the target. On his second attempt, he takes a moment to aim the arrow but this time the arrow pings upwards from the bow and into the sky - flying up for a few seconds before plummeting towards the ground. Reaching for the last arrow and steadying it against the bow, the arrow flies through the air and this time, he manages to hit just below the knee of the dummy. As Cato passes, he flashes Clio a small smirk and as if she can read his mind, she knows he is at least a bit satisfied that he manages to hit the dummy, even if it means his chances of being selected have increased.
Once Clio is called to the line, she holds the bow in her hand as she feels the weight of the arrows and thinks it would be so much more lethal if I could just treat the arrow as a smaller, lighter spear. Examining the arrowhead she tries to recall the things that she had overheard at the archery station in training for her games and what she had heard mentioned about bows since Katniss won last year. Choosing one of the arrows she attempts to line it up with the target as she pulls it back with her right hand. The arrow flies downwards and into the floor when she releases the slightest pressure. For her second attempt, Clio decides to adjust her positioning, holding the bow in her right hand this time so that it frees up her left for better control of the arrow. Drawing the string with her left, she unhooks her fingers and the arrow shoots at a fast speed past the left shoulder of the target. Learning from her previous attempts she carefully rests the arrow beside the string and draws the bow, holding her position before she releases it.
Clunk.
Clio's eyes remain locked on the target as the heads of the district officials snap up at the sound of contact with the dummy. An arrow sticks out from just above the left collarbone; the shot is likely not enough to kill but enough to cause some damage. Shit, she thinks, I'm the only one who's managed to hit anywhere near the target. Knowing that she picks up weapon techniques quickly she wonders if she should have deliberately missed the target to decrease her odds of being selected. Ignoring the stares of the other victors behind her, Clio dismisses herself which forces the others to join her side by side in a line in front of the officials to await their decision.
After what feels like hours being drenched in the heavy rain but it is really only a quarter of an hour, the district mayor stands from his position at the head of the panel and walks towards the line of potential tributes. "Now for our decision."
Clio subconsciously takes a breath in at the words of the district mayor, eagerly awaiting the news of whether she would have to uphold District Two's long standing tradition of having a volunteer for each games or whether the burden would fall on someone else. Peering to her left she can see Cato's chest puffed in an attempt to portray pride and confidence, and she can see glints coming from Enobaria's teeth that reflect in the minimal sunlight that is trying to peek through the dark clouds.
"The other district officials and I found ourselves incredibly underwhelmed by your performances in each trial. Your intentions became increasingly obvious the further the trial commenced and the trials were completed for the sole purpose of assessing mindset. Although I was largely impressed by our younger players in the final trial, it seems that only the younger individuals were playing to the true rules of the trial. However, it is incredibly unbecoming of such a large group of talented career victors to behave in such a deceptive, coordinated manner and as such we have come to an unanimous decision."
The mayor pauses for a moment, his eyes lingering on each individual in the long line opposite him. As he makes eye contact with each person, they meet his stern stare until he moves to the next person. When his eyes move to Clio she sees a slight smile on his lips as she stares him down - refusing to be the first to look away.
"Given that this quarter quell has given us a phenomenal opportunity to show the depth of talent in our district, it has been decided that this year there will be no volunteers." Gasps ripple through the audience. This is unheard of, Clio thinks, District Two has had volunteers since the games began; especially in Quarter Quells. The mayor silences the crowd of children with a raise of his hand, "since you all decided you wanted to sabotage your trials, we have chosen to leave your fates up to the odds. It would be in your best interests to return to the training facility immediately."
With that, peacekeepers escort the district officials from their place at the table, no doubt protecting them from the furious figures that stand before them, and the Academy children are ushered from their seats to return to the dormitories. One by one the line of victors begins to disperse, several of the older individuals deciding to head directly to the centre to brush up on their training while others including Brutus and Enobaria head to their homes in Victor's Village. Eventually, only Clio and Cato remain in the square. Clio tilts her head backwards to the sky, letting the rain fall on her face and drip down the sides of her neck before turning to face Cato who was already watching her. Silently, the man grabs her hand and pulls her along the stone flooring of the plaza to reach his house.
Pushing the door open, Cato walks inside the large hallway and engulfs his girlfriend in a tight embrace. Clio rests her head on his chest, hands wrapped around the large muscles of his back, not wishing to speak about the implications of the officials decision, "Happy fucking birthday to me." 
──────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────────
Part Three. Series masterlist.
2 notes · View notes
teaplease1717 · 2 years
Text
Tumblr media
Title: Ashes of Love and War - ch 25
Relationship: Todoroki Shouto / Yaoyorozu Momo
Rating: Mature
Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21638800/chapters/97865025
Commission: Flndahf
And, as always, big thank you to my betas FlourChildWrites, AOwinterOA, and Wind_and_Sky22!
XXXXX
Chapter 25: We Are (Not) Victors
XXXXX
Curses and the sound of scrapping metal pierced through the dark, as pungent odors of blood and burned wood overlaid the calming scent of Dicaea’s seaside breeze. While men continued to clash outside the burning tavern, the wind picked up, spreading the scent of soldering iron mixed with rust throughout the city.
A giant dagger whistled towards Shouto. He ducked, avoiding the enlarged blade. It sliced past him and embedded itself into a slaver’s chest behind him. 
 The slaver cried out in pain, but Shouto didn’t pause to check on him. He raised Endeavor and rushed forward. 
 Trumpet’s guard unleashed more daggers. The small blades pulsed and grew five times their normal size as they accelerated towards him. 
 Shouto skidded to a stop, and swept Endeavor up into a wide arc. The sword blurred as it cut through the air, colliding with the metal blades and tossing them aside. The daggers smashed into the stone street around Shouto’s feet, cracking the ground and throwing pebbles into the air like hail. 
 The attack had thrown Shouto’s momentum off.  As he readjusted, the guard pulled a long blade from a holster at his waist. 
 Years of experience took over. Shouto spun, bringing Endeavor up in time to parry the attack. Over the mayhem winding through the street, there was a metallic shriek of swords colliding. The force shoved Shouto and the guard apart. 
 Shouto swept back. Not hesitating, he jutted out his left hand. A burning sensation spread along Shouto’s palm; bright luminescent red and gold flames poured out, engulfing his opponent.
 The man screamed, writhing in agony. The guard stumbled backwards. He slammed into the side of the burning barn.
 There was a loud roar as if a beast hidden inside the wooden structure had awoken. Red and amber flames turned a livid purple as the beast devoured its sacrifice. The abrasive smell of burning flesh gushed out, stinging Shouto's nose. He stepped forward and slid Endeavor across the man's throat, silencing his piercing screams. 
 Breathing heavily, Shouto wiped at the sweat dripping down his forehead and looked up.
 The fire had spread. Flames licked up into the air from the barn, reaching out with red tendrils to catch onto anything within reach. The fire had climbed over to the main tavern. It had eaten up the sides of the walls and crackled along the roof. Within a few minutes, it would spread to the other houses.
 He had to find Yaoyorozu. They needed to leave.
 Shouto glanced towards the tavern's front door. The ice used to jam the doorway was broken and melting; shattered pieces of verglas lay in crystalized shards across the ground. 
 Yaoyorozu must have escaped. Shouto turned to see where the others were. Bigshot was across the street, holding his own as he defended himself against two slavers. His other men were battling back to back. The road was covered in blood. 
 A cold creeping sensation settled in Shouto’s chest as he swept his gaze over the battle. Where was Yaoyorozu?
 Shouto's throat tightened. He turned, eyes darting around the periphery of the battlefield, hoping to catch a glimpse of Yaoyorozu standing safely away — keeping her promise not to join the fight. And Shouto’s stomach dropped.
 It felt like the day Troy had fallen. 
 The claustrophobic panic was almost tangible. A few men scampered around like ants, holding vases of water, trying to stem the fire's wrath to little success. Others were stripped of all social conditioning; they raced away from the scene, each person for themselves. 
 The blood drained from his face, and Shouto's stomach lurched with a sudden pang of sickening nausea. Yaoyorozu wasn’t there. 
 His heart pounded faster and faster in his ears as he scanned the crowd again. She couldn’t still be in the tavern, could she? But then, who had shattered the ice coating the door? 
 Shouto felt dizzy with panic. It was like his stomach had turned to acid, dissolving him from the inside as fear clawed up his throat. 
 Behind him, there was a sudden sickening crunch. The ground trembled, and a few men and women within the crowd lost their balance and fell, screaming.
 Shouto turned sharply. His eyes darted towards the body lying indented into the stone road, and he almost collapsed with relief. 
 It wasn’t Yaoyorozu. 
 The worry twisting in Shouto's stomach uncoiled slightly as his gaze skimmed over the bloody, limp body of a giant. Suddenly, a shadow spread over the man’s bleeding, cracked limbs. Shouto raised his head to follow the side of the burning tavern up to the roof, and the world stilled.
 Shouto knew it was impossible, but for a moment, it felt as if he forgot how to breathe as his gaze locked on the figure of a woman illuminated by pearlescent moonlight.
 Yaoyorozu. 
 She was beautiful — that was the only thing Shouto could think as he gazed at her standing on the roof of the tavern, spear in hand.
 Fire burned around her feet. Yaoyorozu’s hair was messy but still held in a high ponytail that curled around her pale face. Blood and ash smeared her cheeks. Against the moonlight, she looked as if she were a vengeful goddess of victory standing over the battlefield in judgement.
 Shouto’s heart shook. His legs felt weak, and he found it hard to breathe as he continued to stare at her. 
 He wanted to go to her. 
 He wanted to kiss her hand in reverence and offer her his devotion. Shouto swallowed and took a step forward.
 To the left, there was a violent crack as something landed against the stone street. Shouto jolted out of his trance. He twisted around, brought Endeavor up, and paused.
 The street was covered in a gooey white substance. In the middle of the slime, there was a woman with pink skin and curly, short rosy hair — the wood nymph.
 Standing up from a crouch, the nymph looked at Shouto. Her black eyes hardened, and she raised her hands up as if to fight.
 “Ashido!” Yaoyorozu's voice called from the roof.
 The nymph instantly stilled.
 “Stay right there! Todoroki is on our side.”
 The nymph looked back at Shouto. She crinkled her nose before abruptly spinning and kicking a slaver Shouto hadn’t noticed in the stomach. The man shot backwards and into the crowd.
 The attack wrenched Shouto back into the present. The fight was still going on. Bigshot and Mick were the only ones still standing of the four that had come to save the innkeeper’s brother. The other two men were crumpled on the floor along with a number of slavers.
 In the distance, the sound of heavy footsteps hurried closer. The city guard, Shouto realized belatedly. His mouth went dry.
 Shouto spun back around. He sheathed Endeavor and rushed forward. “Yaoyorozu!”
 Her eyes darted down. A flicker of emotion softened her features. “Todoroki!”
 “Are you okay?”
 “I’m fine.” She glanced behind her with a worried expression and then back at him. Her face tensed. “But I’ll have to find another way down. The fire is spreading too quickly.”
 “We don’t have time.” Shouto held out his arms. “Jump!”
 Yaoyorozu jerked back. “What?” Her voice caught in alarm.
 “I’ll catch you,” Shouto said with more force. He stepped forward, arms extended. “Hurry!” When she still hesitated, he added, “The city guard is almost here.”
 Yaoyorozu glanced behind her and then back at him, her expression stiff. She swallowed visibly. “You better catch me.” Her voice wavered.
 Shouto looked up and met her gaze. 
 “I will.”
 Yaoyorozu took a deep breath. Then she threw her spear from the roof. It clattered as it hit the ground. She took a half-step back and, hesitating only for a moment, vaulted off the roof.
 It happened quickly; Shouto stepped forward, arms raised. Yaoyorozu’s body dropped through the air like a downed bird. Then the world seemed to stop, and Shouto found Yaoyorozu in his grasp. One of his arms wrapped under her legs as the other circled around Yaoyorozu’s back. 
 Shouto let out a breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding as Yaoyorozu’s body melted into his arms. She leaned her head against his chest, her arms twining around his neck. A flicker of warmth spread through Shouto’s body before being doused by the nymph’s cry.
 "Get back, or I'll melt you!" 
 Shouto spun, fingers tightening around Yaoyorozu. Around the perimeter, soldiers pushed through the chaos to encircle the battle.
 The fighting abruptly ceased; both slavers, Bigshot, and Mick lowered their weapons and stumbled backwards as the group of soldiers advanced, spears raised.
 Shouto’s stomach twisted. It was what he’d feared — the city guard had arrived. 
 A tall man with a droopy dog-like face stepped forward from the soldiers. “Lay down your weapons! You are in violation of city laws and will be held responsible before a jury.” His voice snapped with authority.
 Yaoyorozu’s arms tensed around Shouto’s neck. He felt her heartbeat reverberate through his chest, matching his own. Shouto took a step back, his gaze sweeping over the men surrounding them. They needed to find a way out of the situation and fast.
 “Todoroki,” Yaoyorozu whispered; her voice wavered with uncertainty.
 His fingers twitched. It was obvious just from holding her that Yaoyorozu was exhausted. She might even pass out again if Shouto put her down to fight.
 Close by, Bigshot and Mick were panting heavily. They wouldn’t be able to fight the city guard either. The only one who seemed in relatively decent shape to continue was the nymph, but Shouto didn’t know if he could rely on her.
 He ground his teeth in frustration. He needed to keep calm. It would be difficult to fight their way out of this. He'd have to find another way to get free.
 He had to. He’d never let them take Yaoyorozu from him. Shouto clenched his jaw and tried to think.
 If he were alone, Shouto wouldn’t have cared about facing punishment. Most crimes ended in monetary payment or, worst case, expulsion. However, it was the former punishment Shouto was most worried about.
 If he was heavily fined for the damages and released slaves, Dicaea could take Yaoyorozu as compensation. They would beat her, maybe even call for her death. And Shouto would never allow any of that to happen. 
 His stomach burned, as if his flames had been lit inside his gut. The only option was to make a run for it.
 As Shouto was thinking, the nymph growled and stepped forward. “How dare you! I demand me and my saviors’ release!”
 The head guard looked down at the nymph, and his expression flickered with hesitance before smoothing out. He lowered his head slightly as if in respect. “Nymph, you may pass. I do not have the power or wish to hold you, but unfortunately, too much destruction has been caused to let the others leave.” He looked to his men, and his voice turned hard. “Send them to the desmoterion.”
 The nymph’s pink face darkened, flashing crimson.
 “Wait! Ashido!” Yaoyorozu called.
 It was too late.
 Ashido stepped forward. Her hands coated themselves with the wet, slippery magic she had used earlier. She unleashed the enchantment. It hit the head guard directly in his droopy dog-like face. 
 He stumbled back with a cry of alarm. “Arrest them!”
 The city guard stepped forward as one, their spears pointed out.
 Shouto took a careful step back as the soldiers moved closer. He had to think. There must be something he could do to defuse the situation. Over the oppressive silence, the sound of wooden wheels could be heard.
 The guards stilled. Men and women, who had calmed down with the guard’s arrival and were standing along the periphery of the street, began to shift and grow restless as the sound of a racing cart amplified. 
 Then there was a scream of terror. People dived out of the way, and in a scene similar to what Shouto had experienced earlier in the night, an oxen-drawn cart smashed through the throngs of onlookers.
 Shouto stared wide-eyed at Tetsu-Tetsu and Kendo’s wooden wagon appeared. His heart felt as if it had jumped into his mouth. 
 The cart stopped right at the edge of the soldiers with a heavy pitch. The crowd screamed and pushed to get away from the street as the situation devolved.
 “Todoroki! Get on!” Tetsu-Tetsu’s brusque voice screamed over the mayhem unfolding.
 He stood at the front of the cart, like a beacon among the chaos. The soldiers froze, eyes wide and shocked. The dog-faced captain snapped out of his confusion first.
 “Stop!” he roared in outrage. 
 The captain grabbed a spear from one of his men and launched himself at Tetsu-Tetsu. But before he could take two steps, a small man with gray speckled hair and beard jumped from the cart and slammed his feet into the guard’s face, sending him backwards. 
 The old man turned and began tearing through the soldiers, breaking their formation. Shouto’s eyes widened as a flash of hooves appeared, kicking out and pushing the soldiers back. It was Gran Torino and he was —
 A satyr? 
 Shouto didn’t have time to process his confusion. Gran Torino slammed a hoofed foot into a guard's stomach, then flipped back, landing in front of Shouto. 
 “Go! Son of Eres! Get the nymph out of here,” Gran Torino shouted over his shoulder. 
 “We'll cover for you,” Bigshot said, before he and Mick lunged forward, swinging their weapons as well. 
 “Wait!” Yaoyorozu cried after them. She squirmed in Shouto’s grip as she tried to get down. He tightened his hold and pulled her into his chest. “Your brother! He- he saved our lives!”
 Bigshot’s feet faltered. He turned and gave Yaoyorozu a thumb’s up. His expression was a mixture of sadness and acceptance. A small forced smile tugged across his lips, and Shouto realized he had already known that his brother wouldn’t make it. 
 Shouto spun around. “Ashido! Grab the spear.”
 The nymph darted towards Yaoyorozu’s weapon and scooped it up. They took off towards the cart, darting through the pathway Gran Torino opened for them.
 Hagakure scrambled to the side and pulled the nymph up. Shouto hoisted Momo in before climbing up after her.
 “We all good?” Kendo asked, glancing behind her. 
 “Yes, we’re ready,” Yaoyorozu said.
 Tetsu-Tetsu snapped the reins, and the oxen took off. They hurried back the way they had come.
 The sound of screams and weapons sliding against each other rang behind them as the cart lurched forward, and they began moving towards the mountains in the west.
 Shouto jerked his gaze back.
 The city commander roared in rage as the cart sped away. One of his subordinates rushed forward, spear held up. He threw it at the cart.
 Shouto’s stomach tightened. His hand dropped to Endeavor as the spear left the man’s hand. It whistled through the air at the cart and then missed — by a large margin.
 Shouto stared for a moment before his shoulders dropped down in relief. He sank down into the cart next to Yaoyorozu and leaned back against the wooden boards as the cart continued careening forward through Dicaea’s streets.
 The houses thinned, and the stone street grew uneven as they reached the edge of the city. Then they rattled over a stone bridge, and they were out of Dicaea. 
 It was over. Shouto drew in a deep breath and then noticed a muffled noise next to him. He looked over. Yaoyorozu held a hand to her mouth as her body trembled.
 Shouto blinked before his eyebrows pulled down in confusion. Was she… Was Yaoyorozu laughing?
 Yaoyorozu’s body continued to shake, and a strange feeling began to bubble in Shouto’s stomach, working its way up to his chest. It was warm. Buoyant. Foreign. The feeling filled his heart, and suddenly Shouto was filled with laughter as well. 
 It wasn’t a closed mouthed laugh that Shouto had become accustomed to, but a full laugh — something he hadn’t experienced since childhood. Shouto pitched forward as his body trembled, and he laughed without restraint.
 They had done it. They escaped.
 Yaoyorozu turned to him. She pressed her forehead to his bicep, her hand dropping away from her mouth to grasp his forearm as she continued to tremble with laughter against his side.
 “When you two love birds are done with whatever you are doing, why don’t you introduce me?” Ashido said grumpily. Her voice held a hint of haughtiness and exasperation as she, along with the other three, watched them.
 But even that didn’t bother Shouto.
 Yaoyorozu pulled back slightly, wiping at her eyes. “Sorry,” she said, sitting up with a wide smile.
 The warm feeling in Shouto’s chest spread when Yaoyorozu didn’t correct her.
 “The one driving is Tetsu-Tetsu, and that’s his wife Kendo; they are weaponsmiths. And this is Hagakure, who I met right before you,” Momo said.
 “Yaomomo saved me as well!” Hagakure cried.
 Ashido’s expression morphed, and she smiled, obviously happy to no longer be ignored. “Nice to meet y’all. So, where are we going anyways?”
 Tetsu-Tetsu huffed. “As far away from here as possible.” 
 “Kaminari said he’d meet up with us somewhere outside the city,” Shouto explained, looking back at the nymph.
 “Kaminari said that?” Ashido’s eyes lit up. “Oh! I can’t wait to get back home! I’m still feeling funny…” she sighed dramatically, slumping over Hagakure, who squeaked out in surprise.
 Shouto chuckled and then tuned out the nymph as she continued on. He leaned back against the wooden panels and settled in. Yaoyorzu scooted closer before leaning against his side.
 A smile pulled at Shouto’s lips, and he wound an arm around her waist, pulling Yaoyorozu closer.
 She glanced up at him, eyes wide before her body relaxed, and she smiled in a way that Shouto had never seen before.
 His chest tightened. Shouto glanced away as heat spread up his neck. He felt breathless and intense exhilaration at the same time. And a voice in the back of his mind — that Shouto had been absentmindedly ignoring — reasoned that it may be okay if the curse was never lifted. 
22 notes · View notes
themurphyzone · 2 years
Text
Til the Last Petal Falls Ch 16
AN: This is the chapter I’ve been wanting to write for a long time now. 
Ao3 Link
Ch 16: Heaven’s Light
The night was pleasant and cool, a gentle breeze ruffling their fur as they stood on the balcony together. The moon and stars shined, but they paled in comparison to the ethereal glow of Pinky’s golden dress. 
The columns of the balcony had been lovingly decorated with flowering plants and climbing ivy, and two large vases with carefully trimmed bushes sat on the stone railing. One by one, the servants exited the ballroom, leaving the Beast alone with Pinky. 
They’d done their part. Now it was the Beast’s turn. 
Bold and daring. I have to be bold and daring. 
King Arthur had Lady Guinevere. Robin Hood had Maid Marian. 
He’d always skimmed over the details of how his literary heroes confessed their love, if it had been mentioned at all. Most of the time, the tales simply mentioned that they met, had an adventure or two, and married when all was said and done. 
Had they been bold and daring when they wooed their love interests? Or had they been just as anxious and terrified as the Beast was now? 
“Narrrrf…” Pinky said in awe as he climbed effortlessly onto the stone railing, even with his slippers and heavy dress. “The stars are so pretty tonight, don’t you think so, Beast?” 
The Beast’s throat was dry, his stomach twisted in knots. 
Pinky saying narf had to be a good sign, right? 
The Beast followed Pinky onto the railing, who danced with lithe, graceful steps under the silvery moonlight. He hummed and twirled and swayed, and even the tiniest movement was mesmerizing. But he was venturing a little too close to the edge for the Beast’s liking, so he reached out and captured Pinky’s hand in his, bringing him back to the side that faced the balcony. 
Pinky tugged on his hand eagerly. “Wanna dance some more?” 
"Not right now, Pinky. I was hoping we could…sit and talk?" the Beast said, declining the invitation with a shake of his head.
“Okay, but if you feel like you’re up for another dance, just say the word,” Pinky replied as he sat next to the Beast, his dress fluttering in a graceful arc around him. “So what do you wanna talk about?” 
The Beast stared down at their clasped hands. Pinky’s silk gloves framed his hands beautifully, in contrast to the Beast’s rugged claws.
You’re a fool if you think you actually have a chance with him.
But Pinky only had a soft smile on his face as he waited for the Beast’s response. Even the night couldn’t dull the shine in those sky blue eyes. 
“Pinky…how has your stay been so far?” the Beast asked, trying to ignore the mocking voice in his head. 
He winced at how impersonal that sounded.
But Pinky didn't seem to notice. He hummed thoughtfully. 
"Oh, everyone's been absolutely wonderful," he smiled, tail swishing happily. "I've never had this many friends in all my life. There's you, Pharfignewton, the Warners, Mindy and Buttons, Marita and Flavio, Hello Nurse, Rita and Runt…" 
Pinky continued to rattle off names of the servants, and even some of the gargoyles like Goliath and Victor. 
See? He only considers you a friend, the voice sneered. And that's the best case scenario. 
But Pinky calling him a friend was good, wasn't it? 
Did that mean, was there a possibility…they could be more than friends? 
This wasn't just a confession to break the curse.
This was a lifelong pledge, all wrapped up in three little words. 
All he had to do was clear this hurdle, and he could spend the rest of his life with Pinky. No more claws to prevent him from combing through Pinky's soft fur, no more fangs to prevent any…kissing. 
That's what lovers did, right? 
Did his parents ever kiss? He doubted it. Neither of them were the affectionate sort. 
So far, they'd held hands, embraced, and cuddled in the library, but they'd never progressed to kissing. 
He wasn't sure if he was ready for that sort of thing, even though his tolerance level for Pinky's exuberant displays had grown. 
It just seemed so much more…intimate than what they were currently doing. 
But he wouldn't mind having Pinky's hugs, his kindness and optimism, and his smile every single day for as long as he lived. 
"Pinky?" the Beast said cautiously, and those innocent blue eyes looked at him like he hung the moon and stars himself. His cheeks heated up as he wondered what he did to get Pinky to trust him so easily. "Are you…happy here with me?" 
"Of course," Pinky said softly. "You're my best friend. Nothing makes me happier than that.” 
Upon hearing Pinky’s words, the Beast felt relieved, happy, and surprised all at once. Maybe…this wouldn’t be as bad as he thought? Maybe it was just the anticipation that was getting to him, and Pinky would react more favorably than he expected. 
“L-listen, there’s something I wanted to-” the Beast began, his heart pounding from hope and terror as he forced the words from his throat. 
But Pinky looked away, staring off into the horizon. His ears drooped against the back of his head, and his blue eyes were downcast. 
It wasn’t from lack of interest. He was just preoccupied. 
The Beast held back his confession. Something was worrying Pinky, and the Beast could not confess in good conscience when Pinky was troubled.   
Carefully, he squeezed Pinky’s hands to remind him that he was still here. Slowly, Pinky glanced down at their clasped hands, then into the Beast’s eyes. 
“Sorry, Beast,” Pinky said quietly. “I…I just realized Papa’s never seen me dressed this fancy before. I was wondering what he’d say, and if he’s thinking about me too. If he’s missing me just as much as I miss him. I wish I could see him again, even if it’s just for a moment.” 
When the Beast first met Pinky, he’d never considered that Pinky was close to his father. At the time, it shocked him that neither one was trying to use the other as a bargaining chip, but rather offering to stay imprisoned if it meant one of them could escape unscathed. 
He’d thrown the old mouse into a broken carriage without a final goodbye, believing that he didn’t care about his son as much as he claimed to. 
But then he stumbled across Pinky crying in the lonely tower, screaming at him for denying an opportunity to say goodbye. He’d felt a pang of remorse then, realizing too late that he’d acted rashly without giving them a chance to explain themselves. 
He’d been cruel and thoughtless. He knew that now. 
As time wore on and Pinky somehow found in his heart to forgive him, the Beast learned a lot about Pinky’s family and their circumstances. Pinky spoke fondly of his parents, and always with the same wistful, sad expression. 
And though the Beast had never experienced the concept, he'd realized that Pinky had come from a loving family, though they'd been split apart by the cruel hand of fate. 
And his own as well. 
But unlike fate, there was something he could do to help. 
Pinky had never harbored a grudge after his first night in the castle, but the Beast still wanted to make it up to him. 
"There's a way for you to see him again," the Beast said, hauling Pinky to his feet. Though Pinky seemed surprised at first, his shock quickly gave way to a trusting smile. "Come, Pinky." 
They climbed down the stone railing, and Pinky linked his arm with the Beast's as they headed back into the ballroom. 
They passed several featherdusters and buckets who'd stopped their clean-up duties in the ballroom to watch them. There was a silent 'so did you do it?' question in their inanimate bodies.
The Beast ignored them as he steered Pinky towards the set of stairs that led to the West Wing. 
He'd confess after he helped Pinky see his father again. 
He just didn't know how to convey that out loud without making it seem like he was stalling for time. 
Once they were finished climbing the stairs, Pinky nestled against the Beast's side and closed his eyes with a contented hum, trusting the Beast to lead him to their destination. 
Pinky's shoulders were slim and bare, the silk framing them so beautifully that the Beast nearly gave into the temptation to touch his fur, without any clothing as a barrier. 
He had to remind himself that his claws would likely make it an uncomfortable experience for Pinky. 
Fortunately, their arrival at the West Wing corridor drove all those strange urges from his mind. 
"We're here," the Beast announced, and Pinky opened his eyes. He took in his surroundings, blinking up at the red ribbon tied around Hugo's horn. The Beast moved towards the door, but stopped when Pinky released his arm. "Pinky?" 
The sudden absence of Pinky’s touch startled him. 
"I can wait here, Beast," Pinky said, pointing to the ribbon that formed the barrier he'd promised he wouldn't cross. "I know you don't want me in your room. I don't mind." 
If only he knew how much the Beast wanted to stay by his side. 
The Beast reached for Pinky’s hands and tugged him past that silly barrier he’d imposed for far too long.  
"Come inside with me," the Beast reassured him. “It’s alright.” 
Pinky hesitated for a moment, but at the Beast’s insistence, he relaxed and allowed himself to be led inside the West Wing. 
“You really cleaned up in here,” Pinky said as the Beast swept a curtain aside. The last time Pinky had seen the West Wing, it had been a total mess with broken furniture and tattered curtains everywhere. 
Since that day, the Beast had spent some time clearing the debris, though it was a slow process. While he preferred to handle most of the time cleanup himself, occasionally he’d allowed a few servants to sweep as long as they didn’t venture anywhere near the rose. 
Despite all their efforts to clean up the West Wing, there were still markings that couldn’t be erased. Broken furniture too large for even the Beast to move and clawmarks on the wallpaper. The portrait of his younger self that he couldn’t bring himself to throw away, even though the reminder hurt. 
But with Pinky around, the sting was more bearable. 
The Beast led Pinky to the table that held the enchanted rose and mirror. The rose’s stem was bent over, the petals drooping lower than ever before. A pile of dead, black petals laid on the table. But the Beast picked up the silver mirror instead, ignoring the rose for the meantime.  
The Beast held the silver mirror out to Pinky, who took it with some trepidation. “This mirror will show you anything you wish to see,” the Beast said. “All you have to do is ask.” 
Pinky had never seen the mirror in action before, but he gave a trusting nod to the Beast. 
“Hi, mirror. If you don’t mind, I’d like to see Papa again,” Pinky told the mirror. 
He quickly averted his eyes, unused to the magical green flash that accompanied a shifting image. 
He peered into the glass and let out a sudden cry, his eyes widening with horror as the mirror slipped from his grasp and tumbled to the floor. 
"Papa!" Pinky cried.
The mouse in the mirror coughed weakly, his thin clothes whipping violently around him as a harsh, cold wind howled. 
Warm sunlight hadn't yet hit the dark forest, and the ground was still covered with thick snowbanks despite the beginning of spring. 
The mouse's clothing was ill-suited for the cold. His fur was a pale, sickly white, his mustache unkempt. 
He tripped over a gnarled tree root and tumbled to the ground. 
"Pinky!" he screamed. "Pinky…hang on…Pinky…" 
His desperate cries were becoming weaker, and the only thing he could do was crawl forward, having no more strength to stand. 
A harsh sob made the Beast look up from the horrific image. 
Tears were streaming down Pinky's face, his hands tightly clasped around his mouth. He was petrified by the image, ears drooping at the constant cries of his name. 
"...vanish," the Beast whispered, and the image disappeared. Only their reflections and silence remained.
They'd seen enough. There was no point in prolonging it. 
"He's sick!" Pinky choked out, blue eyes wide with horror. "What if he's dying? And…and nobody is around to help him!" 
The Beast turned to the enchanted rose, unable to bear the sight of Pinky's distress. His claws scraped against the glass dome, the ethereal light pulsing as it beckoned him to make a choice.
Though he wanted to comfort Pinky more than anything, he knew there was nothing he could do or say that would make him feel better. 
Not when he caused all their distress.
Pinky's father thought he had to rescue his son from the clutches of a monster, willing to brave the elements and risk his life. 
Behind bars, he never pleaded for his life at Pinky's expense. He'd been willing to stay imprisoned if it meant Pinky could walk free. 
He could see who Pinky had gotten his self-sacrificing tendencies from. 
They cared about each other. They were ready to throw their lives away just to give the other a chance for freedom. 
And for the first time, the Beast realized just how wrong, just how shortsighted and stupid and completely, utterly selfish he'd been, separating a family who clearly loved each other and would go through hell and high water to save anyone but themselves. 
The rose was wilting further. Its stem, once a vibrant green, was now brown, thin, and dry. The crimson petals were slumped over, sadly pointing down to the table. 
There wasn’t much time left. 
But he couldn’t confess. The entire castle was counting on him to finally do it, to finally break the curse and give everyone their bodies and livelihoods back. 
And for him, breaking the curse wasn’t just about reclaiming his royal title anymore. 
It meant that he could finally be with Pinky without barriers or restraints, that he’d never have to worry about losing his mind or giving into his primal instincts ever again.
That Pinky wouldn’t have to be bound to a monster. 
Confessing would only further distress Pinky after the horrific image he’d seen. The Beast couldn’t do that to him. 
There was only one solution, one that would cost him everything. His servants would never trust him again. He would be throwing away all his hopes and dreams, his life, and his mind. He would never return to normal, never see the light of day again. 
And most of all, he would never see Pinky again. His kindness and warmth would only become memories to hold onto, if he would remember Pinky at all once the final petal fell. 
He wasn’t ready. But it had to be done. 
“Go to your father, Pinky,” the Beast whispered, and the words he desperately wanted to say were buried forever, sealed within him and never to be spoken out loud. 
There was a gentle, comforting hand on his shoulder. The Beast leaned on the table for support, unable to bear how this would be the last time he would ever feel Pinky’s touch. 
“Beast?” Pinky asked, his voice soft. 
He was good at sensing when something was wrong, but this one instance where the Beast couldn’t tell him. Pinky would be torn apart if the Beast admitted the truth. 
“I release you. You’re no longer my prisoner.” 
Prisoner wasn’t the right word to describe Pinky. Not anymore. He’d become so much more than a prisoner, a guest, or a friend. 
Pinky made a soft, surprised noise. “You mean…I’m free?” 
The Beast looked up from the rose and into those beautiful sky blue eyes. Pinky’s golden dress was a ray of sunshine in the dreary West Wing, but he couldn’t be kept here. 
Sunshine was meant to warm and touch the earth, not locked away and isolated in a dark and lonely castle. 
“...yes.” The Beast’s voice trembled, despite his effort to keep it steady. 
Pinky gave him a tiny smile before bending down to pick up the mirror he’d dropped. “Thank you,” he said, offering the mirror to the Beast. “Sorry I dropped your mirror.” 
The mirror was indestructible anyway, or it would’ve shattered a long time ago. 
But the Beast didn’t care about that. Instead, he gently pressed the mirror against Pinky. “Take it with you,” he said quietly, his hand hovering near Pinky’s cheek as he tried to work up the courage to touch his fur for one last time. “So you’ll always have a way to look back…and remember me.” 
Would Pinky want to remember him? 
He wasn’t the type to store a precious item and let it gather dust from years of disuse. Maybe he’d use it to check in on the Beast and the others from time to time? 
With Pinky and the mirror gone, he would lose his only connections to the world at large. Any proof of his existence, save for the enchanted mirror’s image if Pinky chose to look, would be lost. 
Nobody would remember him except for a select few, a consequence he had no choice but to accept.    
He didn’t want to fade into obscurity, nor did he wish to live a life without Pinky. But he had to make that sacrifice in order to ensure Pinky’s happiness.
There was a light touch on the back of his hand, and his fingers brushed against Pinky’s cheek. His fur was soft, fluffy, and warm, and the Beast committed these sensations to his memory. 
Pinky met his gaze, and there was nothing but gratitude in his eyes as he held the Beast’s hand against his face. “Thank you so much, Beast,” he said, and that same hand shifted towards the Beast’s cheek, nimble fingers gently caressing his thick fur. 
This would be the final time they ever touched, the last time Pinky’s presence would bring the sun into his life. 
Pinky’s soothing hand slipped down the Beast’s cheek, and the Beast tried to reach out, some selfish part of him still fighting tooth and nail to keep him for just a moment longer, but Pinky turned away before he could touch him again. 
His clawed hand only grasped empty air as Pinky walked out of the West Wing, the mirror tucked under his arm. 
Another petal turned lifeless and dry, sadly fluttering down to the table. It wouldn’t be long before the rest followed suit. 
He barely had a minute to mourn his loss when the Warner siblings slipped through the open door without waiting for an invitation. They wore identical, cheery expressions as they whooped and hollered and congratulated him on a job well done even though he hadn’t done anything of the sort. 
“Great work, Romeo! Knew you could pull it off!” Yakko laughed. 
The comparison to Romeo only made him feel worse. Romeo never got his happy ending with Juliet, after all. 
He used to dismiss the play as an annoying star-crossed romance whose tragedy could’ve been avoided if the characters had been smarter, but after all he’d been through with Pinky, he had no room to be scathing to the lead couple anymore. 
Dot hopped onto the dresser, admiring her reflection. “I’m still on the fence about changing my style once I’m back to normal. It’s so hard deciding between coral pink and bubblegum pink for my regular outfit, you know! But I’m sure I can work it out once I finally get my limbs back. So does anyone know if the transformation back is an overnight thing or does it take a few minutes to kick in, cause I can’t wait much longer!” 
But she would never regain her limbs. Nobody would ever be normal again.  
“So now you and Pinky get to be king and queen of France and live happily ever after!” Wakko cheered. 
Except happily ever afters were never meant for beasts. His entire life had amounted to one enormous Greek tragedy instead of a fairy tale. 
“...I let him go,” the Beast admitted, turning his back on them so he didn’t have to see their crestfallen expressions. 
A hush fell over the room. Yakko and Dot stopped bouncing, and Wakko’s pendulum quit ticking.   
Yakko cleared his throat. “Maybe we didn’t hear you correctly there, boss. Did you say escargot or ‘I let him go’?” 
The Beast tried to repeat himself, but his answer was barely coherent even to his own ears. 
“YOU WHAT?” Dot screeched, and the furious teacup planted herself right in front of him. “We had the perfect setup! The romantic ambience! The outfits, the food, the venue, the music! The entire castle put in all that work! All you had to do was have a good time with Pinky! So why didn’t you follow through with the plan?”  
The Beast only bowed his head. In another time, he might’ve snapped back with excuses of his own, but now he was only numb inside. 
“Well?” Dot demanded. Despite her impatience for an answer, she was startled by the Beast’s lack of response.
“Pinky’s needed at his real home. His father was in trouble. I had to let him go.”
If teacups could cry, then Dot would’ve done so right then and there. But she was robbed of that ability, and could only make a sniffling noise. She glared at him fiercely. 
“We needed him too,” she spat. 
And she charged out of the room without another word. 
Yakko’s candlelight died away, leaving the West Wing dark once again. “You were almost there,” he said with a carefully controlled tone. “Too bad almost won’t end the curse.” 
Though he was more sympathetic to the Beast than Dot, he was still just as frustrated and angry as she was. He went after his sister, leaving Wakko and the Beast alone in the West Wing.  
“You can still break the curse,” Wakko urged him. “Pinky isn’t gone yet. You can’t give up!” 
But the Beast shook his head. He was always stunned by Wakko’s faith in him, even through the darkest nights.
“...I have to, Wakko,” the Beast whispered. 
“Why?” Wakko asked, and the question was more out of not understanding than anger. 
He was giving up because he cared too much, because he wanted to be with Pinky for the rest of his life, because the time they had together was too short, because he wanted so much more, because he wanted to feel Pinky’s compassion, his spark, his touch, his heart and soul, because…because….
“...I love him.” 
It was the first time he’d ever spoken those words, but Pinky would not be around to hear them. They were released into the emptiness of the West Wing instead, and no wind would ever carry them to their target. 
Wakko’s clock face ticked as he stared up at the Beast, mouth open in surprise. Then he scuttled out of the West Wing, and the Beast shut the door behind him. 
He didn’t want to face the rest of the servants right now. The Warners had surely spread the word, and everyone would be demanding answers and mourning their losses.  
In the distance, he heard the creak of the large iron gates. He hurried to the balcony just in time to catch Pinky riding into the forest atop Pharfignewton, traveling cloak billowing around him as he fled the castle grounds for good. 
A pang of sorrow and despair built up within the Beast, and he released his feelings into a deafening, mournful roar.
End: “I knew I’d never know that warm and loving glow, though I might wish with all my might…”
8 notes · View notes
dcmultiverse · 3 years
Photo
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
ZACK SNYDER'S JUSTICE LEAGUE (2021)
6K notes · View notes
Link
Chapter 11: Collateral
.  .  .
Vic’s PS2 was plugged into the television to the left, and Dick hadn’t realized how much he missed racing Vic for high scores until now. One of Raven’s robes was draped over the chairs across the room, and Dick noticed that a good third of the cloth was charred black.
He let his gaze linger numbly over the designer sneakers Gar had left strewn across the carpet as he stepped over them, and he took in the greenery Kory had so lovingly nestled around every window. In the space of three short days they had already marked the empty safehouse with their fingerprints.
That wasn’t fair to them.
He had finished. He couldn’t risk the Titans returning before he left, or afford to give Slade another excuse to accuse him of disobeying orders. He swung himself onto the windowsill, clutching a framed picture against his chest almost tightly enough to crack the glass.
It had been an impulse to grab it. The picture was of the many patrol selfies Gar had taken of the five of them together after a tiring night. Dick stole another glance at the captured moment, at their weary, dirt-smudged smiles with slices of pizza in their hands and a blazing sunrise rising over the city at their backs. Kory had framed it herself. He’d found the picture on her new bed stand, and--he hadn’t been thinking clearly. Despite his silent comm, he knew it was just another in a long line of risks he would regret taking. But it was nothing short of a miracle that the picture had survived the tower’s destruction.
Not that he could keep it. If he took it back to the base, Slade would destroy it anyway.
Dick didn’t bother resetting the security system. He dropped from the grapple line to the dark alley below, and stooped to rest the picture against the opposite wall. Deathstroke was the one playing lookout for once. Dick just needed to give the word, and they would both be long gone before the Titans returned.
Gar shouldn’t have been there.
Slade hadn’t given Dick warning--but there was Gar, standing in the gated alley entrance, staring at him. The momentary shock wore off.
“It’s him!” Gar yelled, already charging at him. “Robin! He’s here!”
Beast Boy was shifting into something with thick green fur and fangs when Dick’s grapple yanked him up to the next rooftop.
Even racing at top speed he didn’t make it across the roof before swirling smoke cut him off. It parted to reveal Raven’s blue-cloaked figure. Dick skidded to a halt just as a pterodactyl screech signaled Beast Boy’s arrival behind him.
“We don’t want to hurt you, Robin,” Raven said soberly. “Stand down before--”
A blast rang out behind Dick, followed by a bloodcurdling animal shriek. Raven’s cry of pain echoed it. She clutched her head, slumped to her knees, and Dick whirled to find Deathstroke standing over a twitching pile of angular green wings that was rapidly reverting to Beast Boy’s human form. Slade’s energy lance was smoking in his hands.
“Keep moving, Renegade,” he barked.
Raven was staggering toward Gar. If Raven still felt his agony so acutely he had to be alive, she was moving to heal him.
For Dick to obey Slade’s order would be for him to turn his back on his friends, abandoning a deep-rooted instinct that was already far weaker than it once had been. But Slade was the one with a weapon in his hand and every threat Slade had ever made was ringing in Dick’s ears.
Dick dove into the next alley, kicking off the opposite wall and rolling to soften the landing before he ducked around the corner. He needed to find shelter, whether it was the nearest safehouse or just a shadowed corner. All he had to do was make it a few more blocks.
A shockwave threw him off his feet.
Its source was an energy blast shot directly across his path, and an instinctive twist only barely landed him on his feet facing his attacker. Cyborg.
“This is on you, Rob,” Victor yelled, aiming his weaponized arm for another blast. “We’ve all given you more chances than you deserved, and boy,” his voice cracked, “maybe you didn’t even deserve those.”
Dick dove away from the next blast and threw an explosive disk in Cyborg’s direction. The toss landed a few careful yards short of Cyborg’s feet, but the explosion forged precious distance between them and flooded the street with the smoke shield that Dick desperately needed.
But Cyborg came hurtling toward him through the screen. “That trick won’t work on me, buddy!”
Dick dodged a swipe at his head, buying time.
The diversion came with sickening punctuality. A thundercrack explosion echoed across the buildings surrounding the safehouse and then the asphalt beneath their feet. Vic’s gaze snapped toward the black, swelling smoke above the safehouse. His slack, sickeningly horrified expression showed that he knew exactly what it meant.
“Oh God,” he breathed. His wide, functioning eye turned on Dick, who, with his intended diversion forgotten, found his feet uselessly rooted in place. “What have you done?”
Slade had said this wasn’t a punishment. That disbanding the Titans was the only way for everyone to move on, one final push to take them out of the line of fire (and out of your way, Dick could read between the lines). When Slade had murmured “No one will ever use them against you again,” he hadn’t needed to add ‘No one but me.’
Still, exhausted and bleary-eyed--but even that wasn’t excuse enough--Dick had caught himself nodding.
In the middle of a lamplit city street, where he could have sworn that even from a block away he could smell the acrid stench of his friend’s last shred of faith in him going up in smoke, Dick watched the disbelief on Vic’s face twist into fury. The guilt cut him to the bone.
“Vic,” Dick’s mouth said before his head could catch up with him. “Vic, listen--”
A blur of orange, black, and blue flashed between them. Deathstroke landed with his sword brandished--and Cyborg’s forearm clattered to the asphalt. Vic stared down at the sparking remains of his mechanical arm.
“Need a hand?” Slade asked innocently.
Cyborg whirled on him, his other arm rapidly re-shaping into another weapon. “Deathstroke,” he growled, “You’re gonna pay for this! For everything--”
Slade knocked his blast sideways and severed the second weapon before he could finish his sentence. “You kids talk too much,” he said dryly, and kicked into Victor’s chest. Vic went sprawling. “We’re splitting up,” he ordered in Dick’s direction.
Dick shot him a venomous look.
Vic, still on the ground, coughed. Dick looked at him, and Vic’s disbelieving stare pierced him all over again. “What is wrong with you, man?” Vic rasped. Dick wheeled and ran before he had a chance to do something stupid, but he didn’t move quickly enough that he didn’t hear what Vic screamed at his retreating back.
“We were family!”
‘Were’.
Dick thrust the fresh wave of pain to the back of his mind, and he tried not to think.
For them. It was for them.
He used a drainpipe to scale a building and from there followed the rooftops toward the tracks. A train was scheduled to pass by within the next few minutes, one that could carry him to a safe distance before he’d have no choice but to call Slade or find his own way back to the base. He could see the tracks, just beyond the edge of the roof ahead. He wasn’t Thinking; he couldn’t afford to. But perhaps something should have been nagging at him--something or someone that he hadn’t seen, and should have.
Starfire. She swept across his path and stayed there, her feet hovering inches above the ground and her hands resting still at her sides. One of them clutched a familiar--but now damaged, cracked, and sooty--framed photograph.
Oh. He met her green eyes, which were brimming with tears, and utterly, utterly resigned.
They had done this before. They both knew that she wouldn’t strike the first blow; they both knew that he already had.
The train was coming. He could hear it racing toward them, past the rooftop, but only when she lowered her gaze was he even capable of moving, and only then because he had recognized unspoken permission.
He raced to the edge and leapt, catching hold of the train’s roof and letting it send him hurtling away from Kory and the others. The distance was good. It was safe.
She’s safe. Dick blinked to clear his vision, blurry from the wind against his eyes. They’re safe. For now, at least for now, they’ll be safe.
   + - + - + - +
   Batman was crouched over a soot-stained piece of rubble, turning it over in his hands with a scowl. Kory stood behind him, looking over his shoulder to study what he studied, and maybe see what he saw. Her teammates milled around the rubble listlessly, stirring up dust that bloomed in golden street lamp-illuminated clouds against the night sky, but Batman had yet to send them away. A despairing part of her wondered if he believed that there was no evidence for them to disturb. Her fingers tightened around the picture frame clutched against her middle.
Then Batman stood without turning to face them. “The neighboring buildings were untouched by the blast.” His voice was low, and flat, and even though she didn’t know him well, she could tell that it was wrong. “The care taken with the placement of the explosives indicates that the blast was engineered to damage only this building.”
“So he only wanted to hurt us,” Gar muttered sourly. “Good to know.”
Kory’s grip tightened until the fragile frame began to crack.
Batman didn’t stir. “You returned to the safehouse fifteen minutes before you had intended to. If you hadn’t deviated from your schedule, it would have placed you at a safe distance away from the blast when it occurred.”
“But we were living here!” Vic broke in. “This is the second time he went out of his way to destroy our home and everything we own. I’d say he damn well meant to hurt us.”
Batman whirled, his cape billowing out like sharp wings behind him, and stalked toward the gaping hole where a window used to be. “I’ve wasted enough time here already.”
“So that’s it?” Vic asked incredulously. Batman paused at the opening.
Raven stepped forward, her cowl obscuring her face. She had stopped pulling it back, recently. Kory realized that she missed seeing her friend’s face. “Batman, we had expected help from you,” said Raven’s low voice.
“I have helped you, and that was an error on my part. The Watchtower will prepare safer lodging for you until your situation is sorted out. When it is, I hope you find it in yourselves to become a team that doesn’t put its leader’s memory to shame.”
“You treat us unjustly,” Kory exclaimed angrily, stalking over to speak to his face. “Each of us love Robin just as dearly as you do.”
Batman turned just a fraction, just enough to level her with an icy stare.
“Is that why you let him escape?” he asked.
Kory’s confidence wavered with her gaze before she lowered her gaze to the floor.
“You...let him go?” Vic asked incredulously.
“You’re kidding me,” Gar growled. “He and Deathstroke nearly killed me, and you did what? Nothing?”
Shame bloomed across Kory’s cheeks. She wasn’t sure that she could explain her decision, and she wasn’t sure they would understand it. She wasn’t sure she understood it herself. In that moment of weakness had she doubted his innocence? But he had so clearly wanted to escape them. If that did not mean his guilt, he must have a good reason for wanting to. Robin had always had a reason behind his decisions, even his poor ones.
Tentatively, she looked up again to see that Batman’s gaze was still cutting into her accusingly, as though she had failed Robin.
Without another word, he leapt off the edge, his caped wings billowing out behind him until the night swallowed him and left only her friends to look at her with such unbearable disappointment.
She looked up into their faces, her eyes pleading for understanding. “Please, look,” she pushed out the picture that had until then been clutched to her chest for them to see. “Robin saved this picture of us. I found it safe in the alley, and he didn’t need to do that, and he wouldn’t have if he...”
Gar’s accusing scowl deepened. “You let him go because of a stupid picture?”
Kory blinked at him, disbelieving.
“It’s...it’s not...” she protested, but her voice cracked, and she felt the tears spilling down her cheeks. She hiccupped, her hands pressed over her cheeks, and then she felt a hand on her shoulder. She looked over through swimming vision.
Raven. Her dark eyes, usually so reserved, mirrored Kory’s pain. She gently took the picture from Kory’s hands and studied it herself.
“I remember this,” she said quietly. “Garfield, look. You took this one.”
Gar hung back sullenly a few moments before he reluctantly walked over to see it. He stared down at it without speaking. He swallowed, and blinked, but didn’t look away.
“Let me see,” Vic said quietly. He leaned over Gar’s shoulder, and they all stood clustered together for a long moment. “Yeah,” he said at last, with a slight grin, but with a rough edge to his voice. “That was a fun night.”
“Even Rob was smiling,” Gar murmured. “He always looked like a dork when he did. Do...do you think he stopped ‘cause I teased him about it?”
Vic dropped a heavy arm around Gar’s narrow shoulders. “Nah, buddy. I don’t think that was it.”
Kory’s finger traced Robin’s dirt-smudged, grinning face beside hers in the image, and felt a smile pull at the tears drying on her cheeks. “We were happy,” she whispered, and looked over at Raven earnestly. “Weren’t we?”
With the slightest of smiles, Raven nodded.
Her eyes lowered for a moment, and then drifted toward the boys to her left with something like disquiet. Kory followed her gaze to see what had distracted her, and saw Vic’s distant gaze fixed on the dilapidated opposite wall. He noticed their questioning looks, and smiled a little sheepishly. “Sorry, I was just thinking...you guys talked to Donna Troy earlier, right?”
Kory bit her lip. She didn’t want to think about that. Not because she hadn’t liked the other girl--she had--but the talk she and Raven had had with Robin’s former teammate only drew her back into the reality of how their world was falling apart.
“We did,” Raven said tightly, and Kory could tell that the reminder had left her equally troubled. “She offered to let us stay with her for a while. She’s been staying in Washington DC. Gar could have come, but he already has a home to go back to.”
“As if I wouldn’t rather go with you,” Gar protested miserably. “We’re a team. Don’t we need to stick together?” He looked around the group expectantly, but no one expressed agreement. “Hello? Anyone? Vic?”
Vic was silent for a moment, distant eyes fixed on the floor. “The Justice League offered me membership,” he said quietly.
The news that would once have been wonderful was received with deafening silence.
“So that’s it,” Gar said dully. “You won’t be a Titan anymore.”
Vic let out a long, weary sigh and shook his head. “I’m not sure any of us are Titans anymore, buddy. Maybe its time we all moved on. For now, at least.”
He squeezed Gar’s shoulder gently, but the younger boy didn’t seem to notice.
“We can’t do this city...or Robin...any good as we are now,” Raven said in a strangely strained voice. “Or as...I am, now.” Kory saw her friend’s pale fingers twisted together, shaking, before she swept them back under her cloak. Her eyes twitched sharply toward Kory, uncharacteristically unrestrained in their plea. “I wouldn’t abandon him, Koriand’r, believe me. I of all people wouldn’t have the right to.”
Kory could feel her insides pulled out and trampled all over again, and again it rendered her shamefully mute. Another family was being ruthlessly torn from her stubborn fingers, though this time it was not she who had been sold. But her tears were spent.
Raven was trying to regulate her breathing, with evident difficulty. She sank to the floor and assumed her usual meditative position, where she breathed for long moments before she spoke again. “Everything has felt so...strange to me, so off, ever since that night...as though this were never meant to happen. I can’t help but feel as though we...missed something. Something terribly important.”
Kory’s arms tightened crushingly around her chest, the shattered photograph pressed against her with a death grip she did not intend to relinquish.
   + - + - + - +
   “Do not ask me to let this go,” Batman growled in warning. “My work here isn’t finished.” Alfred’s silence on the other end of the line was deafening.
The incriminating video of Renegade sneaking toward Titans Tower looped on the Batplane computer, scanned again and again for inconsistencies. Batman was bent over it, lending his own eye for detail to the task, and he could not focus on his task with Alfred’s disapproval in his ear.
“The young Titans,” Alfred said once two long minutes had passed. “...are they well?”
“No serious injuries. None that haven’t healed, anyway.” He could just barely make out Alfred’s quiet ‘thank the Lord’ on the other end. Not feeling particularly thankful himself, he pretended not to hear. “They will be cared for.”
“But not by you.”
“The safehouse was a mistake. I put a target on their backs. I should know better by now.”
“It wasn’t your fault, sir--you had only hoped to protect them.”
“I need to focus on exposing the forgery,” Bruce said briskly. “It’s a skillful forgery. It will take time.” And he knew that even with absolute proof the media wouldn’t publish a retraction. The League, however, might.
“You might consider requesting Barbara’s assistance,” Alfred offered significantly. “She has an uncanny knack for that sort of thing.”
Batman scowled at the unsubtle nudge. “She’s busy enough.”
In the dangerously building silence that followed, he nearly switched off the comm again. “The Joker has claimed another victim, sir,” Alfred said softly. “I...wish you would--”
“If I was here earlier, I could have found him,” Batman burst out. “He was so close, Alfred. So--” He caught himself, drew a steadying breath. “Batgirl is fully capable.”
“I have no doubts about Miss Barbara’s abilities. But I wonder whether you would have left young Master Dick to handle an Arkham breakout alone?”
Batman did consider it, and his teeth ground together with frustration at the undesirable truth. “I’ll return within a few hours.”
He might have heard Alfred sigh in relief. “You have been sorely missed, sir.”
   + - + - + - +
   The sun had risen and set again behind mountains and dark evergreens by the time Slade brought their plane to a landing in the broad, moon-silvered field. The trees were looming shadows against the clear star-lit sky. Slade had refused to say as much, but Dick recognized Canada when he saw it.
Silently, he went through the motions of helping Slade unload the equipment and haul a camouflaged tarp over the plane, but his thoughts were miles and miles behind them.
Maybe Clark was flying over New York right now. Or maybe it was Bruce. Whoever it was, and wherever Slade had just taken them, Dick knew it had to be to weather out the storm. Of course, that was what he wanted to believe, but it could still be true.
He waited shivering, kicking at the stiff waves of grass under his feet as Slade reached into the storage compartment again. The frigid wind whipped his uncombed hair across his eyes and transformed his breath into silver clouds.
Slade emerged from the compartment--and he pushed a jacket into Dick’s surprised hands. It was black leather, with a lining of soft plaid wool. Dick pulled it on over his suit and gloves. It fit well.
For whatever reason, Slade hadn’t taken one for himself. “We hike the rest of the way,” he answered Dicks unspoken question, pulling the straps for his equipment--and he was packing a lot of it--over his shoulders. Dick had geared up too, though less excessively, and Slade had required him to take that gun strapped to its new home against his hip.
They walked past the plane’s tail to penetrate the wall of trees. Dick tipped his head back to catch one last glimpse of the clear sky before the trees blocked it from view. He missed it immediately, with a pang in his chest that had no right to come then of all times, but life in Gotham and then in New York had made starry nights a rare, spectacular thing.
They hadn’t always been. Once upon a time he had lived in a trailer and his family’s circus life had carried them across the country and back again and sometimes beyond, and more often than not, there had been stars.
The trek stretched on and on until his limbs grew heavy and he wanted nothing more than to drop on his feet, but Slade’s pace showed no sign of faltering, so on they went. The underbrush was sparse and manageable as they followed the seemingly unending, and completely unmarked, rising and falling russet carpet of pine needles.
Hours passed and Slade had yet to speak a word. The silence was less agonizing for the forest that stretched out endlessly around them, with its icy breath and wild, tangy scent, but it was still maddening enough for Dick to be seriously tempted to break it himself. He might have if Slade hadn’t halted suddenly, raising his arm to block Dick’s path.
Dick looked quickly at Slade for an explanation. Slade had his head cocked slightly, as though listening for something. He pushed back against Dick’s chest before creeping forward, his tread utterly silent as he approached one particular tree, and then stopped. Only when Slade pushed up his sleeve and tapped into his wrist computer did Dick understand why.
A motion detector. And Slade must have...heard it. Wherever they were headed, they had to be close.
Slade tapped something into his computer. There was a faint beeping from the tree, probably confirming that the sensor had been deactivated, and then Slade straightened.
“The forest should end roughly two hundred meters ahead of us. Shall we take a look?”
Dick followed Slade to the abrupt clearing and crouched beside him to survey the broad expanse of moon-lit field, rows upon rows of military vehicles, and, more distantly, a vast brick warehouse. It was rigged with lights so blindingly bright that they reduced the surrounding area to a grey-bright haze, but after blinking a bit, Dick could just make out small parties of sentries patrolling the roof.
“You see that section of the east wall?” Slade asked, pointing toward the left side of the building, one of the few areas left in shadow. He looked pointedly at Dick for a response. Dick resisted an instinctive grimace and nodded. “At the next changing of the guard we will have a three minute opening to deactivate the cameras and scale that wall, and then we’ll get into position to dispose of the next wave of security as soon as they check in. That should grant us twenty minutes to get in and out before their absence is noticed.” Slade looked over at Dick again. “Repeat what I just said.”
Dick huffed at the implication that he hadn’t been listening, but then Slade’s eye narrowed. Word for word, Dick recited exactly what Slade had said in a monotone that made Slade’s eye narrow even further before he finished.
“That’ll do,” Slade said, still holding him with a warning look until he turned to retreat back into the woods.
Dick spent a few frustrating minutes chasing Slade’s brisk stride until Slade pulled the strap over his head and unceremoniously dropped his equipment on the ground. He turned, tugging something out of one of his belt pouches.
He held two ration bars out toward Dick, who stared blankly at them.
Slade waited, and then sighed. “Don’t starve on my account, kid.”
Only a little reluctant, Dick took them. He ate them hungrily as he watched Slade scan their surroundings.
“We have a few hours to spare before we set out,” the man said. “You can rest if you like. I’ll keep watch.” Slade didn’t wait for a response, and settled down some ten feet away to rifle through his equipment.
Dick searched the root-ridden carpet of needles for a flat area to settle down himself. He hadn’t slept a wink the previous night.
He curled up on his side with his head resting on one arm and his back to Slade. Even with the jacket in addition to the uniform’s thermal protection, he shuddered. He tucked his knees into his chest, pulled his jacket collar closer around his neck, and stared at the forest around him.
The trees were silent, ghostly grey pillars watching him in a lifeless sanctuary--or maybe not so lifeless. The forest breathed a rich aroma of winter, mulch, and evergreen.
He should close his eyes.
He should sleep.
They’re safe, for now.
Another day had ended, and he was still waiting. For an answer, for a weak link in his chain.
He was tired of waiting.
And he couldn’t wait for a rescue. Unless they found the probes it was just a selfish daydream, and what terrified him most was that he kept dreaming it. He was tired of giving away pieces of himself every day, every hour, never allowed to spend himself completely because Slade couldn’t allow his new weapon to break.
But he wanted to break. He wanted to curl up and die on the hard, root-knotted forest floor, and let it all be someone else’s problem.
It was selfish, but couldn’t he be selfish, just this once?
He...missed them. Everyone.
He wanted to go home.
He just wanted to go home.
Was that so much to ask?
He glared his question up at the sky, winking stars glimpsed between the dark swaying boughs and whoever might be beyond them.
The forest answered with meaningless whispers. He heard nothing. Not in his ears, his head, or his heart.
Telling himself that he had expected nothing more, he slumped against the hard ground, clenched his eyes shut, and willed himself to fall asleep.
  . . .
  Brick alley walls bent over his shoulders. He was hurtling down a narrowing passage. He couldn’t make out the end, but as much as the sight of the dark set his heart hammering even harder against his ribs, it was far, far safer than what lay behind.
He threw a glance behind him only to be blinded by the spotlight. His foot caught on something. He slammed face down into dusty concrete.
He froze, held his breath, and listened. Nothing.
The dust scattered across the cement was clinging to everything, to his face, his hands... He rubbed the fine dust between his fingertips, and spat out the taste that had got past his teeth. Something palm sized shifted under his hand. He picked it up, turned it over.
A badge, rimmed with ragged threads--and a golden R in the center.
He tasted ash.
Suddenly the badge glowed hot--scalding hot. He dropped it, sucking in a sharp gasp, and heard the leathery flap of wings. His head whipped around, and he saw a familiar silhouette stark against the spotlight--the broad shoulders, the curling cape, the speared cowl--he knew that shadow, but never before had it terrified him.
It stretched up and over him until it blocked out the sky.
Dick ran.
The beating wings multiplied by thousands into a hurricane that whipped at his stumbling steps.
“Please,” he pleaded between heaved breaths, “Please, stay back.”
The shadow flickered and vanished. And then it stretched along the walls. The ground slipped out from under his feet again and again and again, and each time he scrambled up again the hurricane grew more deafening--each time, the shadow flickering closer.
From somewhere distant yet still wired deeply into his brain, he heard gut-wrenchingly familiar screams.
He sobbed a protest. They were dying, all four of them were dying. He could feel it, feel them. Fleeing the shadow quieted them, but only until the next time the it swiped at his heels. He tumbled head over heels, with the screeching, dying voices pitching into a single shriek.
He curled into a ball on the alley floor, clapped his hands over his ears, and screamed.
  . . .
  He woke to a hand clamped over his mouth, and Slade’s unmasked face staring down at him.
“Must have been quite the nightmare,” he said softly, pulling back.
When Slade’s gloved hand let go, Dick gulped icy air that cut straight down his throat and jolted him into crystallized wakefulness. “It was nothing,” he said hoarsely.
Slade only gazed at him a moment longer before standing to lean against the tree beside them. He wiped a cloth along the barrel of his rifle. “Anything you’d like to tell me?” he asked.
No.
“...I’d rather not.”
Slade rubbed the cloth studiously over a section of his weapon. Dick watched vacantly. Still lightheaded from the interrupted dream, he wondered how much time remained until they had to leave, but Slade volunteered nothing, single-minded in his task. He finished the weapon in his hands and chose another from the pile at his feet.
The mist was sifting through the trees around them, mingling with their breath’s icy curls. He saw out of the corner of his eye that Slade’s attention had shifted to their surroundings as well.
“I used to teach my boys a thing or two about the wilds between contracts.” Slade mused, almost to himself. “Once Grant knew his way around a rifle, I even took him hunting.” A quiet chuckle rumbled in his chest. “I’d expected him to enjoy it the most, but it was always Joey. He would disappear for hours at a time, and then I’d find him just sitting beside the river, singing. He had such a sweet voice...”
Slade fell silent.
   + - + - + - +
   The Gotham downpour had long since soaked through the clothing Barbara had thrown on over her costume, and it had been all she could do just to dress and stagger home in hopes of catching a few hours of sleep. After days of patrol and research she was still no closer to pinning down the Joker than before. It only made it worse that she had succeeded in tracking him down only to let him slip through her fingers.
Pausing at the edge of the sidewalk, she tugged the collar of her knee-length trench coat closer around her throat and let her weary eyes close for just a moment. She regretted it immediately. Every time she closed her eyes she saw him. That sadistic monster had wormed his way into her dreams these past few days, and her brief encounter with him hadn’t helped any.
That monster had murdered Jason.
Dick was gone now, kidnapped or worse, and just thinking about what could happen now, the fully realized horrors that had happened to their youngest, poor, sweet Jason, made the newest nightmare so much more horrible.
She had thought she’d finished crying herself out over the past few months, but the thought that it could happen all over again was too much. And if she could barely stay on track with that knowledge sitting in the back of her mind, it really was little wonder that Bruce had fallen apart at the seams. But that didn’t mean she didn’t blame him.
Jason. Of all people...The poor, poor kid... Her throat tightened and she shook off the thought. She couldn’t afford to let herself be distracted and fail to save the other Jasons, the other innocents that would be at risk so long as the Joker ran loose in the city.
She shook heavy drops of water out of her soaked hair and strode purposefully across the rain-slick street that was glimmering with puddles that reflected the amber street lights. This was poor weather for rooftop patrolling, but she had done enough of that already. Her next plan was to use the batcave computers to dig up whatever form of data she could find. Apparently Batman hadn’t been too resistant to the news that she’d be assuming his usual duties--he was, in fact, far too willing to allow it--but the end result was that she had been granted free run of the cave and its equipment.
She’d been staying with her dad for the past couple weeks on the pretense of a much needed vacation when she was in actuality experiencing the exact opposite. She made her way through the building, unlocked and pushed their door open; she sighed in relief at the wave of warm air that washed over her...and the faint smell of hot chocolate on the stove.
She smiled at her dad, who was sitting on the couch facing her, gluing newspaper clippings to some kind of scrapbook. “Hey, Dad,” she called as she kicked the door shut behind her.
“Sweetheart, I told you to bring an umbrella.”
She had forgotten it on a rooftop. She gave him a tired smile. She would get it later--if it hadn’t already been stolen. It was Gotham, after all.
She hung up her coat, kicked off her shoes, and went over to plant a kiss on her dad’s head and peer down at his work. The clippings were all of the Joker, she realized, and her smile faltered.
“I’m trying to figure them out,” her father murmured. “The missing Batman and the Joker that won’t shut up about him. I don’t know if it’ll do this case any good, but I just--” He sighed. “I’m sorry, honey. This burden isn’t yours.”
“If it’s yours, it’s mine,” Barbara said firmly.
“It just...it isn’t like him to abandon us like this,” he continued, louder, more frustration seeping into his weary voice. “But if...I suppose if the rumors about what’s happened to Robin are true, I would...understand.”
Barbara sighed, and nodded against his shoulder. If she were in Bruce’s position, if her father was missing, would she act differently? She would like to think so, but maybe neither of them were as strong as they liked to think.
She stood and skipped toward the kitchen. “I’ll get us some of that yummy smelling cocoa,” she said lightly. “Gordon brains run best on hot chocolate.”
She had just picked up both steaming mugs when the doorbell rang.
She bit back another sigh. But her dad was wearily rising from the couch. “Dad, no,” she chastised, chasing him back to his seat and handing him his cocoa. “You stay there and relax. It must be Colleen. I, er, forgot to call off Yoga practice tonight.”
She’d had a lot on her mind.
She opened the door distractedly, and saw a Hawaiian print shirt. A camera. The glinting barrel of a gun, and a grisly red smile that gleamed starkly against the shadows behind it.
In the fraction of an instant before the gun fired, Barbara Gordon’s eidetic memory recalled the Joker’s parting taunt. She hadn’t taken it as a threat; she should have understood--her desperate mind raced too slowly--she should have anticipated--
“What’s a clown gotta do to get the Big Bad Bat’s attention these days?”
16 notes · View notes
squiddybeifong · 5 years
Text
Trek to Themyscira, Ch. 3
On Ao3 here!
--
Lounging about in the kitchen, Victor let out a sigh as he reread his updated notes. Their entourage had come within less than an hour’s travel of Themyscira, but the fog was thick enough to make their captain hesitant. No use in shipwrecking before any exploring could occur, anyway.
Raven shifted against his side as she reached for one of her graphs, a sound escaping her as she hastily scribbled something in her notebook’s margins. Victor leaned back as she corrected a line that would have affected his calculations and downed the rest of his tea. Rubbing at his temples, he stood and barely bit back a smile as the bird nearly toppled at his not-so-sudden movement. Victor grabbed their cups and strolled to the kettle, glad that the sea’s rocking didn’t turn his stomach as it had a month ago. He lifted the kettle from the heat and was refilling his and Raven’s cups when Zatanna came into the room.
The engineer didn’t say anything as the two quietly spoke for a moment, his eyes flicking from the steaming liquid to the way Zatanna scribbled something in his sister’s margins. Victor’s brows jumped as Raven smiled at the older woman; surprised, his mindlessly kept up his tea preparation and nearly added three lumps of sugar instead of his usual two.
Zatanna flipped her hair over her shoulder as she stood again, patting Raven’s shoulder once and nodding at him before she left the room, obviously searching for Constantine.
Victor called out to her back, “He’s bothering the captain about our methods for transporting any live specimens. They should be on the deck, portside unless he’s been thrown overboard by now.”
The anthropologist let out a snicker as she stepped over the door’s step, “Much appreciated!”
Raven’s smile faltered and she let out a sigh as she rubbed at her temples, her face grateful as Victor set her cup down in front of her. “Thanks,” The zoologist didn’t hesitate to take a quick gulp of the tongue-burning liquid, unfazed by her long-time companion’s incredulous head shake.
Deciding to comment on her tea dependence later, Victor murmured, “You two have been getting along well.”
Gray eyes flicked to him and a lazy, curious smile came upon his features, “In fact, neither John nor myself have heard a single argument since around the time our seasickness ended.”
Raven chuckled, hiding the sound with another sip. Closing her eyes as the much-needed warmth slipped through her, she admitted, “We’ve come to an agreement of sorts.”
“In the name of science?”
Had her eyes been open they would’ve rolled at the cheeky grin he inevitably sported, “In the name of ensuring another expedition, Vic.”
“Hmm,” The engineer ignored the gray gaze that settled on him. Victor rubbed at his jaw, taking in the stoicism that concealed her face. Enough to throw off most (if not all) of the rest of the world, but he knew her far better than that.
“Promise me something?”
Raven raised a brow and he shrugged, “You and Zatanna are obviously hiding some idea that’s dangerous and probably incredibly impulsive.” He held up a finger and gave her a soft smile before she could argue, “In the name of science or not.”
“But just,” Victor shook his head, “Just let me know before anything has a chance to really go wrong, alright?”
The girl set her tea down, her lips settling into a soft frown at the worry in his voice, “Victor…”
His pointed look made her falter. The inventor shook his head, a quiet laugh escaping him, “I know you don’t believe in half-attempted preliminary searches, but don’t go rushing into things.”
“It usually works for us.”
“Yeah, but you’ve brought Zatanna into this,” Victor immediately countered. He rested an elbow on the table, his smile spreading into a grin at the memory, “We don’t need her almost getting mauled by a bear for her first mission.”
“Well we should be able to handle any animals for this,” Raven held up her tea again, her face bright and her shoulders less tense as he clinked his mug against hers. “I promise.”
As if solely to counteract her words a booming, haunting howl cut through the air, slicing the monotonous slap of the waves on the boat’s hull.
Raven let out a gasp at the sound, her neck snapping to gaze out the open door. Victor immediately stood and jogged onto the deck, the salty air clinging to his skin as he tried to squint through the fog. The zoologist didn’t pay any mind to his quiet conversation with the few sailors that came to the same railing as he did; no, her heart was in her throat.
She didn’t know the species, but she knew that only a primate could make such a sound. Raven closed her eyes and bit back a squeal, wondering if Zatanna was aware of what a call like that truly meant. Her hypothesis was right!
Standing shakily, half due to her nerves and half due to re-adjusting to the ship’s slow tilts, Raven took out her handkerchief and dabbed at her forehead. She wiped at her glasses once before putting the cloth away, her lips silently mouthing their discovery over and over again, “An ape…”
--
“Alright,” The captain spoke, his voice booming and clear as he stood on the deck. It rang over the fog like a bell and the crew paused their work to pay attention. His eyes flicked to Raven then Zatanna as he addressed the whole group, “I already informed my first mate on our sister ship of our course of action.”
Constantine and Victor exchanged a look as the man continued, “She’ll give us a lifeboat with all ten of her guards and ten sailors. We’ll take our ten guards and three sailors, with myself and our scholars.” He tilted his chin towards the navigator, calling out, “How long to the island?”
“No more than a twenty minute row, Captain!”
Nodding confidently, his gaze settled on the four, “Pack your essentials and we’ll drop ship in fifteen, aye?”
Raven was the first to shoot off from the group, her boots practically skipping against the wood as she bounded to her quarters. Victor chuckled as he rushed after her, patting his pockets and mentally preparing a checklist. The older couple paused and Zatanna sighed, “Get it over with now.”
Constantine raised a brow, “You have a plan with Raven?”
The anthropologist ran a tongue over her teeth, “If we play this right, our expedition may last longer than the three months Mr. Wayne attributed us.”
John furrowed his brows and stared at her for a long moment. Zatanna rolled her eyes and started for her quarters and he followed. A curious hum escaped him, “Is it something that I would do? Because if so I need to advise you against it.”
Zatanna shook her head, a teasing tilt to her lips as she glanced at him over her shoulder, “Less drunken rationalization, more rebellious spontaneity.” Snickering as he decided to go along with the insanity that the afternoon was sure to bring, Constantine trailed behind her, wondering if he’d have time to roll a cigar before they left.
However, in not even a half hour’s time he and Victor were sitting with the women between them, the four wide-eyed as the lifeboats unsteadily maneuvered over the island’s surf. The water was cold as it splashed onto their laps, but it was remarkably clear. So clear, in fact, that the captain had no problem directing the ships away from the rocks that lurked below.  
The fog seemed to lift slightly as they washed up on Themyscira’s shores. At the sight of land Raven almost stood, her move halted by Victor’s arm across her midsection and one of the soldier’s palms raising. He grasped his rifle and crouched at the boat’s stern, listening as carefully as he could. When nothing alive, yet alone dangerous, seemed closeby he motioned for the other guards to follow his lead.
Just a few steps onto the beach and another roar sounded, same as the first. Everyone turned their heads and the captain let out a relieved laugh; the animal must’ve been on one of the other islands. “Check that everything’s clear, men. Then we’ll get these folks exploring!”
--
Raven and Constantine were in a frenzy as they traversed Themyscira’s grounds. The Amazons kept their island’s secrets for a reason; all the vines and flowers, all the beetles and spiders, all the ants and weeds were familiar yet undeniably distinct from the rest of the Mediterranean. A bird flapped its wings and took off, inky feathers glossy despite the sunless-sky; Raven let out an elated laugh at the sight, her amusement mingling with John’s gasp at a plant whose mechanics assured that it must have been closely related to the Venus fly-trap.
Victor and Zatanna were less excited than their companions, their faces solemn at the sheer ruggedness of the terrain before them. Themyscira must have been as tall as it was wide; even at the engineer’s incredible height, he had to crane his neck back to even try to glimpse at the top of the incline.
“Miss Zatara…” He murmured.
“I know.” Putting her hands on her hips, the anthropologist looked around the best she could. From what was known through records, the Amazons lived in a valley in the very center of the island. But at the moment fog was still clinging to the very tops of the trees and their carracks’ outlines were barely visible on the open ocean. The ground, full of life as it was, was terribly rocky; the carved steps had eroded to the point of being more a slide than a footpath, the vines and the mud were too soft to hold any weight, and the trek would take far too much time.
Not to mention the difficulty of going down to find the valley itself…
She pinched between her eyes, an annoyed huff leaving her, “This will be at least a month to navigate, and that’s without proper safety precautions. And another month more to set up any sites and create a path to bring specimens back to the boats.”
Sapphire eyes flicked to Constantine as he let out a “Marvelous!” She raised a brow at the fruit-laden flower he had found, so alien to most of what grew in Gotham, before turning back to Victor. He didn’t notice as he strolled up to where the incline began, lifting his foot and testing the rocks’ stability.
Zatanna’s lips quirked into a frown when he couldn’t even put half a step’s worth of weight, “We don’t have the time that we need, Mr. Sto-- Victor.”
He ran a tongue over his teeth as he watched Zatanna glance at Raven, the words escaping him quickly, “Then perhaps you should start your plan?”
When shocked sapphire eyes snapped to him Victor shrugged, “Raven hasn’t told me what you two have agreed to do, but it might be worth exploring.” His gaze flicked from where the fog reached the steep hill and went back to the anthropologist, “I’m not sure if a full report from Constantine and half of one from Rae will be enough.”
A low hum escaped the woman and she turned, meeting the captain’s eye across the beach. Zatanna motioned him to walk over and asked, “How close can we get to the rest of the islands on the archipelago?”
She glanced at Victor, “We could do a rough scouting, see if we can see anything from the carracks.”
Victor shook his head, looking completely unsurprised and letting Raven’s name slip out of him. The man stroked his beard, his chest rumbling in thought. After a moment he shrugged, “The fog appears to be clearing up the closer we are to the islands. We could do a quick check, although it’d take at least three, maybe four days off our time here.”
“Then can we split up? Have most of the sailors stay here and pack the specimens I know John wants to bring back--” She paused as the Englishman clicked his tongue in agreement without even looking up from the weeds he crouched over, “--and the rest go on to check.”
“Just a preliminary thing,” Raven piped up. She wiped the mud from her hands as she saddled up among the tiny group, her face lit up with excitement, “That roar obviously didn’t come from this island. Perhaps if we can see some evidence of it…”
The captain nodded, “I’ll prepare my men.”
--
Zatanna sighed as she looked out towards the fading sight of the third of the islands, grumbling with anticipation. Raven had taken to fiddling with the spyglass that Victor carried, trying to peek out past her glasses as they took the impossibly long way around.
Two days ago the captain’s voice had been remorseful as he explained the reef was far too shrouded to get to their preferred island first; no, instead they would be going around all of the archipelago, reaching Themyscira’s closest neighbor last. Nothing of much to note for the other islands, but now they were not even an hour’s travel from that second island; Zatanna rocked on her heels, Raven’s musings still reverberating in her head.
Who knew what they would find?
Constantine lazily walked up next to her, resting his forearms on the railing. He nudged her shoulder with his own, ashing his cigar into the ocean, “Excited?”
Chuckling, she tossed some hair over her shoulder, “The fog’s lifting and Raven is sure that the Amazons have been to the island before. We should be able to see something, especially with what the notes say of the topography.”
The blond’s brows furrowed, “New notes?”
“Apparently, Themyscira is the only one with massive inclines. The rest are mainly populated with hills and trees. Their boulders should rarely be larger than a carriage,” Zatanna grinned as his face lit up with recognition of where her mind was.
He blew out a puff of smoke, the cloud mingling with the salty fog, “You think we’ll see chopped down trees?”
Zatanna shrugged one shoulder, “At the very least ones that have been carved in some sort of way. Their weapons and twine have to had come from somewhere.” The anthropologist nudged his shoulder like he did hers, teasingly batting her lashes up at him, “That’s where you come in, John.”
His mouth opened to retort but one of the sailors cut him off, “LAND!!!”
There was a brief half-second of silence then the sudden flurry of motion from the sailors, directed by the man’s cry of “HALF A NAUTICAL MILE, STARBOARD!!!” Their surprised, eager gazes met and they rushed to where Raven was practically atop Victor’s back, desperately trying to peek out past the rapidly thinning fog.
“I can’t see anything!” Raven bemoaned. She huffed and handed Victor his spyglass back, leaning over the railing and squinting behind her glasses. A dark hand came to grab at her shoulder before she could accidentally topple over the edge, “The fog is lifting pretty steady.”
Victor rubbed at his jaw, adjusting the spyglass as he muttered, “This should be working despite any murkiness.”
He leaned back to give the other scholars more room as he started walking along the railing, trying to spot anything on the island. The clouds were clearing and after a few frustrating minutes the engineer let out a gasp as the island’s shore came into view.
Victor blinked, took the spyglass away from his eye, rubbed his face, blinked again and brought the glass to his face once more. His lips trembled and he shouted Raven’s name, urging her to come to where he stood, “Dear Copernicus in Heaven…”
He ignored the sound of Constantine skidding up and pressing against his shoulder. The carrack passed the fog’s edge and beside him the other three went silent, mouths falling agape at the structure that they saw. They couldn’t see the doorframe, the nails and steps that the spyglass allowed Victor to see so clearly, but all knew that they had found it.
Its rotting had started years, if not decades before. There was a corner that was blackened with fire, and as soon as they could get closer none would be surprised to see over a year’s worth of cobwebs. Dark brown and enforced with what must have been now-rotted away leaves, the cabin was more of a hut that anything. Armed with two windows and a door, some Amazon had once lived there.
Her eyes wide, Raven drummed her nails on the railing. She roughly swallowed the air in her throat, too astounded to bother pulling her glasses away as her flushed face made them start to fog up.
Pale fingers ran through her inky hair, uncaring as some pins fell to the floor and rattled on the wood. Overwhelmed at how much they would get to discover, stunned that her idea was just proven true, giddy at how much Mr. Wayne would back her and her future expeditions once he got news, Raven pushed her glasses higher up her nose. Her lips spread, her smile as wide as her heart was full and she whispered, “We may need to change our plan.”
4 notes · View notes
bonneibennett · 7 years
Photo
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
Justice League (2017), Official Comic Con Trailer #3
316 notes · View notes
littleholmes · 2 years
Text
I do a lot of writing & rambling! To keep things easy to find and semi-organized, I’ve linked my analysis posts, writings, as well as my AO3, below!
Notes: This blog and my analysis posts are not spoiler-free. I keep this post and the lists regularly updated! Also, if you send me an ask and I respond, I delete my responses at the end of the day if it wasn’t fandom or analysis-based.
Please do not repost or post on other websites, tiktok, etc. Please remove my tags first, or write ‘prev tags’ if you agree with my tags
🌸my analysis/ramblings main tags: idk I’m rambling || jjk analysis || bnha analysis || bnha meta || [see each series post below for more tags!]
🌸weekly manga thoughts tags (newest!* -> 12 June 2022): bnha thoughts || jjk thoughts*|| sxf thoughts*|| dcst thoughts || 19 days thoughts || bungo stray thoughts*
*this masterlist is retired on 13 June 2022, see new pinned post on my blog for new and current masterlist!*
Analysis by Series
🌸my Jujutsu Kaisen analysis posts: thoughts + analysis about Yuji, Megumi, Toji, Nanamin, Gojo, the Shibuya incident, the manga, & more (newest!-> 12 June/ Ch 187) 🌸my Bungou Stray Dogs analysis posts: thoughts + analysis including Chuuya's corruption, Dazai, the aftermath of Odasaku, Akutagawa's health, the current manga arcs, & more (new-> 2 June/ Ch 102)
🌸my BNHA analysis posts: thoughts + analysis posts including the recent arcs, villains, the Todoroki fam, & more listed here (new!-> 5 June/ Ch 355)
🌸my DCST analysis posts: Get excited! Thoughts + analysis posts about Dr. Stone including manga arcs, Stan & Xeno, Senku, Byakuya, and thoughts on the final chapter. (new/final ch-> 6 March 2022)
🌸my Sk8 the Infinity posts: *does the opening dance & ollies* thoughts + analysis posts on Reki, Langa, and the whole Sk8 fam
🌸Yuri on Ice analysis: Victor’s potential past injury
🌸Other series thoughts: Uramichi Oniisan || Food Wars || Tokyo Revengers || Link Click/Time Agents/Shiguang Daili Ren
Rather read a fic? My AO3!🌸
70 notes · View notes