#seere the six year old is the responsible one here at least in this

[bobombun]

Had a sketch day, here's an assortment of DoD1 sketches

#dod1 #drakengard 1 #drakengard #my art #leonard drakengard #manah drakengard #arioch drakengard #seere drakengard #don't mind the fact that i did not draw the arm that's holding the scissors i didn't wanna look up a reference #it seems like their journey was not long enough to need any haircutting maintenance but what if it was #i would not trust arioch with anything sharp and leonard would try his best but it might be function over form with him #caim would not care. he does not want to do this. caim will cut his bangs with a dagger and move on. #seere the six year old is the responsible one here at least in this #drawing the little heads i realised we have a lot of characters with hair that's about the same length #tbf it is a convenient length

[cheshiresartblog]

Demon/Angel Thing

Alright. Due to popular demand I’ll start with this one.  Also, straight up, I literally do refer to it as “the demon/angel thing” cause I don’t come up with titles until the end.  Also I started this entire thing when I was 14 years old. I’m 24. So this is my longest running world I guess. I have a lot of worlds I’ve made over the years. I will admit my dirty little secret here, but what jump started this for me was watching Black Butler for the first time as a kid. Got me interested in the whole demons and angels thing. That’s where the similarities end, though. 

Also, I will not be going really deep into the plot simply because Spoilers since I def wanna make something out of this. 

Stuff below the cut cause it’s  l o n g 

The World

Basically, there are three interconnected realms; Earth, the Heavens and Hell. Also, the Heavens and Hell are not related to the afterlife. That’s a whole other can of worms here that ya’ll already got a bit of a taste of with my BNHA Reapers Au a while back. But yeah. They’re three interconnected realms. The Heavens was made by the God of Order and Hell the Goddess of Chaos. Earth was made by the missing Goddess of Life. Angels are being of Order and Demons are beings of Chaos and Humans fall in between the two. Also I’ve been at a loss for names for the Deities here but I do have two for sure. The Goddess of Life was named Gaia and the Goddess of Chaos was named Lilith. 

Basically Heaven and Hell had always been at odd with each other and Earth was a common battle ground. The earliest I can go with the timeline that’s relevant would be what I call the Princes Era. 

Prince Era (World Statuses) 

Earth: Humanity is young, they are mostly just coming out of their hunter-gatherer stage of things. The planet is mainly used as a battle ground for the warring Angels and Demons, inspiring myths of old to come. Magic is wild and free in this time on the planet. When Lucifer fell it disrupted the ley lines of the planet resulting in a steady decline of the magical on earth for years to come.

Hell: Hell is in chaos itself. While dealing with the war with the Angels they are dealing with heavy infighting between the demon variations and Lilith being unable to completely control her creations. After much thought Lilith decided to choose seven(eight) demons with blood from the seven ruling families to become the first seven Princes of Hell and unite Hell into one unified force to defend themselves properly from the greater threat that are the Angels. 

The first seven(eight) Princes are the following: 

Baphomet of the Superbia family, the Prince of Pride and the next chosen King of Hell whenever Lilith decides to step down. 

Beelzebub of the Grykësi family, the Prince of Gluttony. 

Leviathan (Identical twins Via and Anthel) of the Invidia family, the twin Princes of Envy who both share the identity of Leviathan in the public.

Asmodeus of the Libidine family, the Prince of Lust.

Mammon of the Avaritia family, the Prince of Greed. 

Sathanas of the Ira family, the Prince of Wrath. 

Belphegor of the Tristitia family, the Prince of Sloth.

Notes 1: Prince is just a title here. Sathanas and Beelzebub are women Notes 2: The Princes were all granted the ability to use Hell Fire by Lilith personally after she assessed deemed them all worthy in one way or another. 

Heavens: A world ruled by the God of Order through the chosen King. At the time it’s extremely militaristic. Working under the King and God of Order are the four Archangels; Michael, Lucifer, Gabriel and Raphael. Though, under the surface there’s a rebellion brewing. (I will be honest, I always focused a bit more on the Hell as a world when thinking about this Era.) 

Notes: What sets the Archangels apart here from regular angels besides rank is that they were blessed with the ability to harness the power of Holy Fire, which is something more explained story wise. Just know it would kill the average angel if they tried to use it.

Modern Era

The Modern Era is marked by the a huge event. The destruction of Hell. In their ever going war, 100 years before present time, an attack by the Angels lead to Hell being rendered unstable, which resulted almost half of the population being killed and the other half escaping to Earth. Some kind of peace treaty was made and it allowed the Demons to stay on Earth but with conditions. Also, with this event the Angels too more charge on Earth than they were before and humanity was now pulled fully into the know about Angels and Demons existing. 

This also established something very important to the story itself. The Zones. Most high population areas were split into Human Zones and Demons Zones, with a few cities gaining a third Zone due to the humans refusing to move and/or being sypathetic to the demons. This is the Neutral Zone. Aka, a home for society’s misfits. The main setting of the story is one of these three zoned cities. Right now it’s called Half-Light City but that name is subject to change most likely lol. 

The Zones 

The Human Zone is fairly well maintained for the most part. It has it’s occasional bad section, but those are closer to the Neutral Zone’s border fence. All and all it is the most upkept part of the city and is home to Humans, Angels and Half-Angels. It is heavily guarded and you need an ID to get in from the Neutral Zone, along with the requirement of being human. Demons and Half Demons are not allowed unless summoned. The Human Zone is protected by the Hunters, a group that is somewhat a cross between the police and the military. This section of the city is run by a chosen Council which answers to the Angelic Council of the Heavens. The occupants seem rather ignorant to the going ons of the other parts of the city and seem to go on with life without a second thought. Most of them at least.

The Demons Zone has a surprisingly decent upkeep, but then again they usually have to do it themselves because the money given to them by the city is not that much. The zone is mostly populated with full Demons, with the occasional Half-Demon or Demon with a Human partner scattered about. The fence between them and the Neutral Zone is actually quite open and in a state of disrepair, though Demon Zone residents and Neutral Zone residents alike guard it, it is usually quite easier to pass between these two Zones than it is for either of them to pass into the Neutral Zone. The Demon Zone was formerly run by a Demon Council made of Noble family survivors or descendants but was recently overthrown by a shady organization that needs a new name so bad. I’m so embarrassed of the old name I will not mention it but I will say I abused Google Translate as a teen so bad.

The Neutral Zone is basically the slums with a few nicer parts of town. It's a dreary and gray place at first glance honestly, but underneath that is a sense of unity between its people. Humans, Demons, Half-Breeds of both sorts and Fallen mix fairly well. The Neutral Zone is home to swindlers, mercenaries and all sorts of illegal activity giving it and it’s residents a negative reputation in the Human Zone. The Zone is co-lead by the two leaders of the two biggest Mercenary groups in the zone; the Triad and the Freelancers.

A more detailed description of the Heavens and Hell 

Heavens 

The Heavens are a set of floating islands that float around each other similar to a solar system might. The middle Island is The Capital City, and the roads are literally paved with gold and as well as some buildings being made of gold as well. It’s where the wealthy and powerful often live and is the center of their government. It is the largest single island whereas each other section of the Heavens is more of a string of islands.

The closer a set of islands are to the Capital the more privileged and wealthy the citizens are, and the higher the rank. There are a total of six rings of islands around the Capital. The outermost two hold the most farmland, forests, orchards, etc. Those two rings are the most populated and are where the lesser angels live.

Most Lesser Angels will never see Earth unless they join the military or join missionary work.

There are two islands floating above the Capital. One is the prison and trial area of soon to be Fallen Angels, and the other larger one is for military training. They never move from their fixed positions above the Capital.

While there are trains and such, most Angels get around via walking or flying, though flying is more common.

Angels higher up either dress like royalty or business men/women. Depends on the family. Lower class Angels dress in things like tunics and kinda, you know, greek-type of shit unless their employer gives them a more modern uniform. 

Angels use portals that appear like a glowing mass of light to get around Earth.   Hell

Hell is a Realm that exists solely in an underground location. It is said that the surface is way too hot to even walk upon, let alone live. There are Seven Circles of Hell and each Circle is responsible for a different area of their government, with Pride being the most powerful of them all.

The First Circle is the closest to the Surface and the most resistant to the heat found there. That would be the Wrath Circle. Physically they are the most capable of the variations of Demons and their Noble Family is the one in charge of the Military.

The Second Circle is Lust. Lust demons are the ones in charge of the Magical Regulations in Hell. That being said, they have the most Mages born to them, and some of the most powerful Magic users. They also are in charge of any and all Seers born in Hell.

The Third Circle is Greed. Greed demons are the ones in charge of the economics of Hell.They honestly have the most boring job, but it brings in the most money. They simply don’t mind because hey, the like to hoard riches anyways. They are said to have the biggest hand in the slave trade in Hell though.

The Fourth Circle is Envy. Envy demons are the ones in charge of the Judicial branch of Hell, handling criminals, legal matters, and prisoners. The latest raining families of Envy Demon Nobles have been well known for being cold and unbiased.

The Fifth Circle is Sloth. Sloth demons are the ones in charge of the Health care in Hell to put it simply. Someone has to be in charge of it. It also helps that Sloth demons have the largest amount of natural Healers born in their variation.

The Sixth Circle is Gluttony. Gluttony demons are surprisingly the second in charge after the Pride demons. The Noble Family of the Gluttony Circle has a deep history with the Pride royal family. Other than being the second in command the Gluttony demons are the ones in charge of Education and History keeping.

The Seventh and most powerful Circle is Pride. The Pride demons are the ones that run things, they are in charge of all the other Noble Families, and contain the Royal Family and the current ruling King or Queen of Hell. They have the final say in everything, but normally let most of the Noble Families run their domain as they see fit to.

Demons have technology based around magic, so magic teleporters, communication orbs, shit like that, is pretty common place.

The Slave trade is common and highly accepted by older demons though the newer generations are beginning to be against it. The slave trade in Hell often consists of captured humans, half demons, Fallen and rarely half angels and extremely rarely angels.

They have a potion that can make a Demon appear like a human for 24 hours meant for spies but a lot of teenagers use it to sneak to earth to party.  

Jewelry is huge in their culture. Like, seriously, so much jewelry.

A lot of Circles are mixed with the type of demons that live there but they usually have a slightly higher population of the type of demon the ring is named after.

I will probably make a separate post going more into detail about the species of angels and demons themselves. Demons, btw, consists of 7 different races of demons separated by sin type. They all have different traits. 

Magic Stuff I guess

Angel Magics (From common to rarest)- Healing, Aura Sight, Defensive and Protective, Weaponry Enchantment, Runic, Elemental, Precognition, Holy Fire (this one is literally the rarest thing for an angel to have).

Demon Magics (From common to rarest)- Illusions, Elemental, Contract Magic, Enchantment, Energy Draining/Aura Draining, Binding Magics, Witchery (Jinxes, charms, etc), Healing Magic, Possession, Shadow Magics, Shapeshifting (Rare for non Gluttony Demons only), Hellfire (Super Rare, actually marks the next Heir of a Ring of Hell to have it.), Precognition.

Human Magics (All human Magics are considered rare)- Witchery (Gained naturally or through demonic contract), Healing, Aura Sight, Runic, Elemental, Precognition.

Everyone can brew things such as potions.

Demons have more magic energy than Humans or Angels tbh and mages are way more common with them, though Healers are more common with Angels, and less common with demons.

Technology is advanced and exists and is built to work alongside magic.

Weaponry such as swords are still used though with Angels and Demons.

--

Alright folks. This is basically a world info dump. I will do a species info dump like I said once I got some decent pictures or I’ll do it in relevant chunks. 

#chesh rambles #chesh posts #demon/angel thing #original world building #world building #original content #original concept #comic bullshit

[theredscreech]

The Seer’s Protector: A Snippet

Rochelle finds out exactly what her assignment is and everything it entails:

Here was what I knew about the house: 1. No one came in or out. All groceries and necessities were delivered. 2. Mr. Harris hired people who didn’t ask questions for the maintenance of the outside including the tiny patch of lawn, the windows and the gutters; they also took care of garbage and recycling disposal.

Here was what I knew about the assignment: 1. Time duration in the house was two weeks, after which I would receive an email from Mr. Harris with the details of delivering the child                                 2. Delivery would be at least an additional two days, since I would be moving this kid across provinces. 3. I was not allowed outside for any reason short of the house being compromised (e.g. on fire). 4. I was not allowed to contact anyone, except for Mr. Harris and the pre-approved online stores, for any reason. 5. I had the responsibility of feeding, bathing, and caring for the child’s basic needs.

Here was what I knew about the child: 1. She had no name. 2. She was six years old. 3. She had never set foot outside of this house. 4. She didn’t speak.

I had never been so enraged.

Tag List:

@owl-writes @phantom-stargazer​ @captainpenguin-fly​ @writinginslowmotion​ @ajbrooks-writes​

If you want to be added to the tag list for this work, let me know. :)

#the seer's protector #theredscreech writing

[rfjackaby]

something of an open book

title: something of an open book chapter: 1/6 words: 2054 summary: There are stages of intoxication: six, to be precise. Jackaby discovers four. Not that anyone is counting. (But he is definitely counting.) a/n: this fic was prompted by the jackaby discord server and is extremely self-indulgent. enjoy!! includes HEAVY SPOILERS for the dire king! ao3

pre-intoxication

There’s already a pretty pink blush spreading unevenly across Hank Hudson’s cheeks as he extends an arm and shakes an open bottle of ale in Jackaby’s general direction. There’s just enough amber colored liquid inside that it sloshes over the glass rim and forms small, bubbly puddles in the dips of his knuckles.

Scowling, Hank reaches across the kitchen table —  newly purchased, at Abigail’s plea — and uses his hook to snatch up a hand towel and dry himself off. He flings the towel behind him, and judging by the several thuds that follow, Jackaby suspects it must have collided with the fruit cauldron.

His suspicions are confirmed as an orange or perhaps an apple rolls across the floor, quickly disappearing from his line of sight. He gathers himself up to collect it, but is interrupted as Hank begins to whine.

“Come on, R.F.,” the hunter sighs, eyes widening to adopt a look more akin to a puppy than a 50-something year old man.

Jackaby arches an eyebrow, and there’s an amused hum from the far corner of the room. He glances over —  meets a sparkling pair of warm, soft eyes. Jenny grins as they lock gazes, her spectral hair twisting and turning around her in slow waves. Realistically, he knows his heart does nothing but begin to pound just a little bit harder in his chest, but he could swear it genuinely skips a beat at Jenny’s smile. Warmth floods his cheeks. After a moment, Jackaby purses his lips. He feigns annoyance in regards to Hank's begging, but narrows his eyes in what he imagines is thinly disguised amusement.

Dragging his attention back to Hank, Jackaby pushes himself away from the counter where he had been leaning. He shoves one hand into the depths of his pocket and uses the other to wrangle with the nest of black hair atop his head.

“You know I don’t drink —”

“To keep a clear head, blah blah blah. But ya’ don’t even need to have a clear head anymore, though, do ya’?” Hank leans forward in his chair, his hooked-arm resting on the table, and points rather dramatically to his widened eyes. He’s trying to make a point.

As if Jackaby doesn't already know.

Hank cocks an eyebrow when Jackaby neither says nor does anything in response, and then falls heavily back against the chair, folding his arms across the chest. Jackaby shakes his head softly, ignoring the weight in his chest. He backs up slowly until he's once more pressed up against the counter, then drops his attention to his shoes.

To his right, there’s a soft huff somewhere between amusement and consideration. Out of the corner of his eye, he looks toward Charlie, sat upon the kitchen table despite Jackaby’s complaints.

("That's where some of the faeries collect their honey!"

"We'll, there aren't any faeries here now, are there? Oh, I suppose you wouldn't... er, that is... there isn't any honey out, anyway... Abigail? Can I sit here?"

"Hm? Oh, yes. Do you think wine? Or champagne?"

“Miss Rook! Please! "

"Both...? Both.")

Now, atop the counter, Charlie grins sheepishly. It has been nearly five months since the man died (quite traumatically —  one of the things they have in common) only to be revived a few days later by the Twine.

The first few weeks of his revival had left Charlie drained and sickly, with an ashen quality to his skin. Stomaching food had been hard for him, and there had been several occasions where his canine side had abruptly appeared unannounced, startling the entire household. Abigail had refused to leave his bedside over those weeks despite Jackaby’s reassurances that this was normal, that he would be fine.

Apparently, there was something off about his aura.

Not that he understood what that meant anymore.

Charlie has long since recovered. His cheeks are now flooded with tipsy warmth and, as he leans over the edge of the counter toward Jackaby, strength ripples in his forearms. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to… but one bottle won’t hurt.”

“And,” cries a new voice from the doorway, “this is a celebration!”

The four of them turn to watch as Abigail swans into the room, clutching a bottle of red wine in one hand and champagne in the other. There’s a slight sway to her step and a flush to her cheeks as she hurries to the table and sets the bottles down with perhaps a bit too much force. She had insisted she wouldn't drink too much, but he suspects she's perhaps overestimated her abilities.

Jackaby looks away as she spins on her heels in an attempt to meet his gaze. Yes, he thinks, hunching his shoulders, a celebration. A celebration for another closed case…

He thinks he hears a huff of frustration, but if it was ever there at all, Abigail cuts it off just as quickly as it began. “You should relax a little,” she says softly.

Behind her, a gun fires off.

Or rather, the champagne bottle does. The cork shoots across the room with impressive force. It cuts straight through Jenny, who has floated to the opposite side of the table of Hank, and collides with the large skeleton hanging from the ceiling. The bones sway for a moment, and although Jackaby doubts it would ever fall, he still tenses up.

Hank breaks the silence with a snort, bubbles flowing from the mouth of the bottle in his grasp. With his hook, he pulls a glass across the table towards him, and begins to pour.

Jenny whips around, her face burning grey in anger; Abigail carries on the conversation before Hank loses his other hand.

“Really, sir,” she says, reaching for a bottle of wine and a clean glass. Jackaby watches the liquid splash around the rim, but ultimately settle back into the cup. Abigail holds it out to him; he eyes it with wrinkled nose. “We’d love to have you join... and, I don't know, you might enjoy it?”

For a moment, he considers it. Hank is right in saying he doesn’t technically need a clear head any longer. But then, there’s the cases —  he says as much. Charlie blows out his cheeks, a quiet but incredulous laugh following close behind.

“You don’t help with cases anymore, though,” he mumbles into his bottle of ale. It isn't a bitter comment; it's just a drunken statement, not meant to attack or accuse. Regardless, Jackaby feels the blow as if Charlie had physically struck his chest.

Abigail glares at Charlie, her jaw clenching. The latter avoids her gaze, ducking his head in regret.

Charlie’s right, anyways —  he doesn’t help with cases. But the next case —  he’ll help with the next one, for sure.

(Or at least, that’s what he's been telling himself for the last five months)

…It isn’t that he doesn’t want to help with cases —  honest, he does.

Fae knows he’d love to be back in the New Fiddleham streets. Hell, he might even enjoy speaking with Marlowe again. But ever since the battle with the Dire King… ever since his entire goddamn world shattered he passed the Sight on to Abigail, the idea of facing the world makes his stomach twist into knots and his throat clench until he can't breathe.

Instead of going out, he occasionally sorts through and organizes files while Abigail and Charlie run off to investigate. But if that isn't an option, which he often finds it isn’t, he typically spends the day in his chair with a cup of tea and a novel (enjoyable enough, but he can only read Wuthering Heights so many times) or he'll sleep the day away (the much preferred option —  it’s quiet, and he doesn’t have to think).

The thing is, when Jackaby was young, he adopted his job as a private investigator in order to put his role as the Seer to good use. It was his abilities that saved humans and creatures alike. Jackaby himself had been... a puppet, almost. As much as he loves being able to sleep, as much as he loves the lack of nightmares… he's nothing without the Sight.

Jackaby swallows around a thick lump welling in the center of his throat. His eyes flutter shut, his lips press together into a thin line.

“...Fine.”

The word comes out weaker than he intended, but if he’s being honest with himself, it really could never have come out any other way. What follows is a heavy silence that makes the wretched knots twist in his abdomen. His fingers dance impatiently at his side, and he nervously shifts his weight from foot to foot, hollowing his cheeks.

Hank finally breaks the silence, first with a short series of laughter, then with a hiccup. Then, finally: “What.... really?”

Out of the corner of his eyes, he sees Jenny drift towards him. He feels the weight of her palm on his shoulder. “You really don’t need to, dear,” she murmurs, squeezing once —  twice. The pressure is calming, and he leans into it ever so slightly.

When he looks up, he looks up at her; she almost seems to be more solid than usual. Jenny cocks her head, blinking at him and twisting her lips in uncertainty. Jackaby draws in a subtle but deep breath; holds it; releases.

“Of course I don't need to,” he agrees finally, plastering on a lop-sided grin. "But like you said, Miss Rook... time to relax a little."

At first, he tries to look Abigail in the eyes. But her stormy grey gaze cuts into him, and his heart plummets. Although he's beaming at her, he looks just over her shoulder. If she realizes this, she doesn't comment on it. Perhaps she's used to it by now.

At his side, Jenny makes a small noise in the back of her throat, giving his shoulder a gentle but insistent shake. He looks to her, hoping his eyes don't betray the hard rock that has formed in his stomach.

Her eyes search his; it always make him squirm when she does this. Before, his eyes were a locked door. Somehow, he lost that security, and became something of an open book. Before Jenny can find what she’s looking for, he twists on his heels, examining the options before him.

The left of the table offers him only one option. He tasted a drop of wine as a child; it had made him gag. Granted that was nearly 20 years ago now, but he still finds he's in no hurry to repeat the experience. The right side provides champagne, ale, and a half empty bottle of rum Hank brought. After a moment of consideration, Jackaby gestures to the bottle of ale that had started this mess in the first place.

Everyone likes beer, right?

Hank sits up a little straighter. It appears that he tries to adopt a stoic, or perhaps cautious look, but his eyes are dancing in anticipation. Jackaby can’t count the amount of times Hank has tried to get him to drink —  the hunter is finally getting his wish.

“You sure?” Hank asks gruffly, grabbing the bottle perhaps a little too eagerly. Jackaby starts to respond, but cuts himself off. Hank is already lurching to his feet and swerving around the corner of the table. Stopping by his side, he shoves the bottle into Jackaby's hand, then claps him firmly on the center of his back. The impact sends Jackaby stumbling forward; he catches himself on the table, huffing softly in amusement. He steadies himself, then looks down at the bottle in his hand, giving himself a final chance to back out.

If this had happened six months ago, he would never even have gotten this far.

He was a good person back then; he did things, he helped people.

What was he now? An empty shell?

If he scowls right now like he wants to, he suspects Jenny, or perhaps even Abigail, might snatch the drink out of his hands. They’re both watching him with furrowed brows —  he’s not used to people being able to read him so easily. No one ever used to be able to read him unless he wanted them to.

Well.

That’s not true.

She could.

In a few swift motions, Jackaby downs the entire bottle of ale.

#jackaby #william ritter #r.f. jackaby #rf jackaby #fic #my writing #jenny x jackaby #abigail x charlie

[ghostbustermelanieking]

praescitum chapter seventeen

chapter one, chapter two, chapter three, chapter four, chapter five, chapter six, chapter seven, chapter eight, chapter nine, chapter ten, chapter eleven pt 1, chapter eleven pt 2, chapter twelve, chapter thirteen, chapter fourteen, chapter fifteen,  chapter sixteen

casefile, season 10, season 11, pre-11x08 familiar. part of my series that i write as i rewatch the x files

Summary: As Mulder and Scully adjust to their reassignment to the X-Files and working together in the wake of their separation, they find themselves investigating a small town and a ghost that apparently warns people of bad things to come.

note: i finally finished this in full, all twenty chapters, so i should be able to post pretty regularly from here on out!! i plan to post the next four chapters every few days until i’m done, abiding to the schedule i failed to commit to in october lol. 

---

seventeen.

february, 2018

In the aftermath of the broken laptop, Scully seems to be very on-edge. Jumpy, tense, jerking whenever Mulder touches her shoulder. He suggests that he go out and buy a new laptop (he feels like the least they should do is replace Ryan's broken one), and she immediately insists on doing it herself, like she doesn't want to be left alone in the room.

After the laptop had flown across the room, he'd expected her to immediately come up with several rational explanations for how it had happened. He'd expected her to dismiss it as a normal occurrence. He hadn't expected her to be afraid, although he can't blame her. He is plenty spooked himself after everything. But it still throws him to see her reacting this way. In the aftermath of the crash, she hadn't said anything. She'd just stood there, fists clenched. As he went to go examine the broken machine, he'd thought he saw her fingers shaking.

They end up going to get the laptop together, simply because Mulder doesn't particularly want to be in the room alone, either. He'd expect her to tease him about being scared, just a little, but she stays quiet, winding a scarf around her neck under the sharp edges of her hair. They drive to the store together, taking the broken laptop, and pick one out that looks fairly similar.

Scully is unflinchingly stubborn about the entire thing. She doesn't want to talk about it. When Mulder brings up setting up some sort of device to monitor further paranormal activity in the hotel room, Scully says, “No, Mulder,” and that is that. No explanation as to why. She refuses to engage in further discussions on the subject. And he'd be willing to leave it alone if he didn't see the way she tenses up when they re-enter the room and her eyes fall on the dent that the laptop left in the wall. She's stiff, her hands clenched in her coat pockets.

Mulder steps close to her and puts a gentle hand on her back, murmurs, “Are you okay, Scully?”

She tenses even more, but when she turns around to face him, her response is less hostile than he'd expected: firm, but surprisingly gentle. “I'm fine, Mulder. Okay?” No room for argument.  

He rubs circles on the small of her back habitually; he doesn't believe her. “I'm a little on edge, too,” he says. “That was pretty unnerving.” Still nothing. Her gaze is somewhere between neutral and defiant. He runs his palm along her spine. “Do you want to get a different hotel room?” he offers. “Maybe at a different hotel?”

Her nose wrinkles, and she shakes her head automatically. “Don't be ridiculous. That's entirely unnecessary.” She steps away from him, setting her bag down on the little table. “So, what's the plan for tomorrow?” she asks, changing the subject smoothly. “I feel like one of us should go and see Joy Seers. Just to check in, maybe see what she remembers. Maybe talk to her husband, too, since he knew the girl who died before the Caruthers did in 2002.”

He doesn't push. He doesn't want to push too hard and drive her away. “That's a good idea,” he says. “I'd like to do some research, too, into ways to get rid of the ghost. Find out if there's some way to get rid of it without involving a priest.” He chuckles a little, and Scully shoots him a wry smile. But it comes out a little wobbly. “But we can both go to visit Joy, if you want,” he offers, sitting down on the edge of the bed.

She shakes her head. “No, you should focus on this research. I can pass on your well-wishes.” She bumps her elbow against his as she sits beside him. “Besides, we don't know if Skinner or Kersh are going to figure out where we are, and insist we come back,” she adds. “Tomorrow's Monday, remember?”

“Oh, nobody ever comes down there to check on us,” he says dismissively, wrapping his arm around her shoulders. She doesn't shrug him off, resting her cheek against his shoulder. He kisses the top of her scalp. He murmurs into her hair, “Are you sure you're okay, honey?”

He can feel the clench of her jaw. “I'm fine, Mulder. Really.” She lifts her head and turns to kiss his cheek. “I'm going to take a shower, okay? We should get some sleep.”

She stands from the bed and begins pulling things from her overnight bag. Mulder watches her go, a little wistfully. He wants to reassure her, somehow, but he doesn't know how to. She's stoic, closed off, and she doesn't even believe in ghosts.

---

Scully can't sleep. It's ridiculous, but she can't. She can't relax enough. She's tense, jolting at every little sound: the air conditioning, the floorboards outside of their room, the wind outside their window. It sounds just the way it did on Halloween night of 2016 in their hotel room; it sounds like a human wail.

Mulder sleeps through all of it, snoring softly beside her, turned over on his side. She wishes, now, that she'd taken his offer to move to another hotel, but she is too embarrassed to admit that he was right, that she is frightened. He admitted that he was on edge, too, he gave her every opportunity to confess her nervousness, and she still held back. She can't admit how much seeing the laptop fly across the room scared her, she can't admit how frightened she's been by the things she's seen ever since they started coming to Willoughby. And as much as she's tried to rationalize the whole thing, she just can't.

She curls up against the warm plane of Mulder's back, her nose pressed against his shoulder, and shuts her eyes. Whatever she's seen, she reminds herself, he's seen it, too. Halloween of 2016 in the school. The night the assassins broke in, the night before they went to Norfolk, both times in dreams. She's seen it twice in dreams, she thinks—definitely after they came back from Norfolk, and possibly the night before the fire in Willoughby, back in 2016 (she thinks she remembers it that way)—and twice in person. Once in this very hotel, and once in her own home. And then tonight, whatever tonight was. It feels like nowhere is safe. She doesn't know what it is—whether it's a hallucination or paranoia or really, actually a ghost—and she doesn't know why she and Mulder keep seeing it, but she knows that it is not good. She knows that she is starting to agree with Mulder: that this thing needs to be gotten rid of. She just doesn't know how.

She finally falls asleep, uneasily, her chest to Mulder's spine and her hand on his hip, feeling the rise and fall as he breathes. When she drifts off, she is telling herself that she needs to tell Mulder, that she has to find a way to be honest with Mulder. But she falls asleep before she can figure out how.

---

In the morning, they have breakfast in the lobby. Scully thinks that Mulder must notice the circles under her eyes, but he doesn't say anything about them. Instead, he talks about some articles he found online. “There's lots of different options for getting rid of hostile spirits,” he says, “but I'm not sure how many of those would help in our situation. I don't know what Ryan did to get the ghost out of his house, but I don't think we can sage an entire town.” He chuckles, and Scully offers up a half-hearted attempt at a laugh. He takes a bite of toast, adding, “I thought I could walk to the library today. Kick it old school. Isn't there some book with a section about the Specter?”

“Sounds familiar,” says Scully, taking a sip of her coffee.

“Could be useful.” Mulder tears off a corner of toast and folds it around his last bite of bacon. “You going to talk to Joy?” he asks around his mouthful.

“I think so. I need to call her.” She takes a bite of yogurt, staring at her plate. “It doesn't feel right to just drop in,” she adds quietly.

Mulder reaches across the table to pat her hand. And then he asks it. “Are you okay, Scully?” he murmurs. “It looks like you didn't sleep at all last night.”

She yawns, and tries to stifle it. Tell him, a small voice in her head urges. Just tell him. You need to tell him. But she can't find the words. “Guess I was just restless,” she says. “But I'm okay.” She smiles toothily at him across the table, forcing the corners of her mouth to turn up.

He doesn't look convinced. He squeezes her hand. She tries, lamely, to change the subject. “Anything from Skinner yet?”

“No, not yet. I'd say we're in the clear, but it's still early.”

He smiles wryly, and her forced smile shifts into a genuine one. She loves him. She loves him so much, it hurts sometimes, and she's missed him desperately for years now. And here he is. She squeezes his hand this time. “I'll join you at the library when I'm done at the Seers's,” she says.

---

Scully calls Joy Seers after breakfast, using a number she finds listed in the phone book (she has Joy's cell from 2016, but after well over a year, who knows if it's still in use?). Fortunately, Joy seems open to a visit, subdued but still somewhat cheerful on the phone. She remembers Scully, and she tells her to come on over.

Scully finds the house easier than expected and parks on the street. The door is answered by a bearded man with glasses, who gives her a polite but questioning look. “Can I help you?”

“My name is Dana Scully,” Scully says, offering her hand to the man. “I’m an FBI agent. I… know Joy. I spoke to her about coming here?”

“It's okay, babe,” a voice says from behind the man, and then Joy appears in the doorway. She's a bit thinner than Scully remembers, hair down past her shoulders, but she smiles broadly at her and motions her in. “Agent Scully, it's good to see you again,” she says. “This is my husband, Ben, by the way.” Ben nods politely at her, shaking her hand as she enters.

“It's good to see you, too,” says Scully, really meaning it. “Mulder and I were so… worried, when we heard what had happened. And very, very relieved to hear that you were okay.” She feels awkward, unsure of what to say; a part of her wants to reassure Joy, tell her, I was in a coma, too. I know what it's like to have missing time. But she feels like it would be hollow, considering how different the circumstances are; she spent much less time in a coma, for one thing.

“I can tell you that I was very relieved as well,” Joy says with a soft laugh, motioning Scully towards the couch she'd sat on during her last visit. She waves at her husband as he disappears further into the house and folds her hands in her lap as she sits opposite Scully. “So what's up? I guess you guys are back in town because of the Specter? Has something happened?”

“Sort of,” Scully says, shifting uncomfortably. She's not exactly going to disclose that they are in town partially because Ryan Caruthers thinks she is possessed. She gives her the least descriptive summary she can. “We’re… here, more or less, because of Ryan Caruthers. He seems afraid of the… ghost.” After all this time, she still finds it hard to say the word. “He wants us to find some way to get rid of it.”

Something flickers over Joy's face, some dark sense of agreement, before it's replaced by neutrality. “I can't disagree with that sentiment,” she murmurs, shifting uncomfortably in place. She clears her throat and continues. “So, I guess you want to talk to me about that night?”

Scully nods, uncomfortable herself. This always was the hardest part, after she'd had to endure countless interviews of her own about various traumas and losses. Just tell us what happened. She hates it. “If you don't mind,” she says softly. “Whatever you can easily recall.”

“No, it's okay.” Joy offers her a small, considerably muted smile. “I still remember… some things from that night. Some things since.” She shrugs. “I remember… my necklace breaking by some invisible force,” she says, and it's only then that Scully notices the empty space at Joy's collarbone. “I remember driving home,” she continues, a little unsteadily. “I was just driving along, and… the radio just came on. I didn't touch it. I couldn't turn it off; I was just frozen. And then, I-I felt something come over me.” Her jaw is clenched, her teeth tight, and she is practically shivering in place. “I couldn't do anything, or stop it,” she finishes. “I couldn't stop it. I looked into the backseat, and I saw something, and it lunged at me. And then everything went black.” She shrugs, a little shakily.

Scully doesn't say anything. She doesn't know what she could say. She doesn't want to ask the obvious question—What do you think that was? The answer seems obvious.

Joy clears her throat and continues. “I-I don't remember anything after that. I just remember waking up in the hospital.” She pushes curls behind her ear and offers Scully a muted, polite smile. “I assume,” she says, “that it had something to do with the hauntings. I know it sounds so silly, but… after everything that happened that night… I don't know what else it could be. All the things moving by themselves, all the things I had no control over…”

“I understand,” says Scully, and it feels like a confession, like the closest she'll come to admitting what she hasn't been able to tell Mulder. It almost feels like a betrayal, and that's what is truly silly. She should be able to tell people; she should be able to tell her husband.

Joy nods, running her fingers through her hair. “I don't know what to make of it,” she says. “I still have nightmares, sometimes, where I can't breathe, can't move… I still hear things sometimes that I think might be a ghost…” Scully is tempted to suggest sleep paralysis, but she keeps her mouth shut. Joy fidgets, nervously. “And things have been so strange, since I woke up…” she says in a soft voice, nearly a whisper. “I-I'm constantly on edge. I can't relax. I always feel like someone's watching me. And there are long periods of time that I can't rem—”

Joy stops, suddenly, mid-sentence, freezing in place. Her face goes stiff and expressionless; her eyes go blank. She quivers a little in place. “Joy?” Scully asks, and then, with more fear when she doesn't reply, she repeats, “Joy?”

The woman quivers again, blinks slowly, and shakes her head. “I'm sorry,” she says, almost delicately. “I am afraid I lost track of what I was saying.”

“Are you all right?” Scully asks, feeling Joy's forehead with the back of her hand. “Does your head hurt? Do you feel dizzy?”

“I am perfectly fine,” Joy says, surprisingly composed. She smiles, but there's something different about it. Something more biting. Scully removes her hand from her forehead.

“Is there anything el—?” she starts to ask, but Joy seems to have zeroed in on something else. She's staring at Scully's collarbone, her cross and her wedding ring, peeking up above the collar of her shirt.

Self-conscious, Scully starts to tuck the necklace away, but Joy reaches for it first, gesturing to her cross. “This necklace is very beautiful,” she says in a soft voice.

Scully shivers inadvertently. She vaguely remembers having a discussion with Joy about their similar necklaces, but she isn't sure whether or not Joy remembers that. She wonders if Joy's necklace was lost after the accident. “Thank you.”

“A lovely cross. And is that your wedding ring?” Joy traces the shape of the ring in the air with one finger. Scully swallows, nods. Joy looks up at her, her eyes dark as they meet. “I assume your faith in God is quite strong,” she says. “As is your faith in all other situations. That you trust your God to protect you. Am I correct?”

Scully swallows again, roughly, and looks away. “I suppose so,” she murmurs. She's uncomfortable, her spine crawling, her heart thudding. “I appreciate you talking with me like this, Joy,” she says, tucking hair behind her ear. She suddenly remembers something, a lame grab at shifting the subject. “Actually, do you think your husband would mind if I asked him some questions? I know that he knew the girl who committed suicide back in 2002—Holly Smith.” She has a sudden revelation and shifts in her position, away from Joy. “And he had the theory about the ghost being malevolent, right? The one you told us about last Halloween?”

“Yes,” Joy says, subdued. “You wish to speak to him?”

Scully's eyebrows raise. The change in Joy's demeanor, in her pattern of speech, is vaguely concerning, but she doesn't say anything about it. She's still unnerved by their earlier interactions. “Yes.”

“I will go get him.” Joy stands and starts for the door. To Scully's shame, she lets out a little exhale at her exit. She feels horrible, but Joy's shift in behavior threw her. After a nearly sleepless night, she doesn't think she can handle more tension.

A few minutes later, Ben Seers pads in, absently pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Joy said you wanted to talk to me?” he asks. “Agent Scully, right?”

“Yes. I would like to have a word, if you don't mind.” She starts to stand, but Ben motions to the couch, and she sits back down. He sits in the chair across from her. Scully clears her throat, picking at a cuticle, feeling awkward. “I wanted… to ask about Holly Smith,” she starts, and Ben's eyes almost immediately cloud over, a familiar look of grief. This is always one of the hardest parts. “You-you were close with her before she died, right?” she continues awkwardly

Ben laughs bitterly. “We were dating,” he says. “Is this because Jared Caruthers is going on parole this week? Or because of the Specter legend?”

Scully pushes at her cuticle. “Sort of both,” she admits uneasily. “Do… do you believe in the legend?”

Ben bites his lower lip, shifts in his chair. “Back then, I thought I did,” he admits. “It was… exciting, and mysterious, and I wanted to believe in ghosts. Hol and I, we both loved ghost stories. We did research together in our spare time, I was thinking about writing my thesis on local history, and it made sense… Joy told you about my theory, right? That the Specter is—was, whatever—demonic?” Scully nods. “That wasn't my theory, not exactly. It was Holly's. I found all the pieces, but she put them together. We kept digging further and further, to form a hypothesis; I know she was talking to Jared about it. She actually got excited when she told me that she was seeing the ghost, as if it couldn't absolutely destroy her.” Ben laughs again, rubbing his eyes wearily. “I don't know if I believe in the ghost anymore,” he says. “Fifteen, sixteen years ago, my girlfriend and I research the ghost, she starts seeing it, and then she commits suicide. A year and a half ago, my wife tells me about her classroom supposedly being haunted, and then she has a car accident and falls into a coma for a year and a half. Part of me wants to make something more of it, and part of me just wants to leave it alone. Jared tried to figure out why Holly died, if it wasn't her fault that she died, and he ended up killing his brother and sister-in-law. I may be selfish, but I don't want to look any further, you know? I don't want to risk anything else happening. I'm just grateful that Joy is okay.”

“I understand,” says Scully, because she does. She pushes at her thumbnail with her pointer finger. She tries a different approach. “Can I ask you about Jared Caruthers? I guess you must have known him pretty well in the time before he committed the murders.”

“I did.” Ben nods. “He was Holly's best friend. Since childhood. They hung out a lot, and I know they really loved each other. And to be honest, I liked him a lot, too. He was a good guy. He was absolutely devastated when Holly died. Tried to convince me that the Specter was responsible.” He rubs at his eyes again, his forehead. “I don't know why he committed those murders. At first, I didn't think he had committed those murders. I couldn't believe it; I thought he must've been framed. And now? I don't know. I hope he takes this chance on parole to turn his life around.”

“You didn't see any indications that he was going to hurt anyone?” she asks. She is trying to cover all of the bases. She still doesn't know if she believes that Jared Caruthers was possessed or not. “Any signs?”

Ben shakes his head. “I didn't. But then again, I wasn't really looking. I was grieving, and I didn't see a lot of him after I rejected his theory of the Specter's involvement.”

Scully nods. She has more questions she feels like she should ask—she thinks that Mulder would want to ask more questions—but she doesn't want to push. She understands the pain, the worry, the grief; she's seen it a thousand times, felt it a thousand times. She picks up her bag and stands. “Thank you so much for speaking to me,” she says. “You and Joy.”

Ben nods. “I hope I could help,” he says. “Although I'm still not entirely sure what it is you're investigating.”

Scully laughs quietly despite herself. “Neither do I, half the time,” she admits, and Ben smiles politely. She starts to walk off, but the sound of footsteps further in the house makes her pause. She remembers Joy's strange behavior, the sudden way she seemed to change: right in the middle of a sentence, something about long periods of time since she woke up. It's stuck in her mind, she can't let it go. She steps a bit closer to Ben's chair and says in a soft voice, “If you don't mind me asking… how has Joy seemed since she woke up?”

Ben looks surprised. “S-she's seemed fine,” he says. “Pretty healthy… maybe a little odd at times, but I figured that was to be expected, with the adjustments… Why do you ask?”

There are the footsteps again, heading towards the living room. Scully straightens up, replying, “No reason,” in an even voice, and hating the fearful tingle traveling up and down her spine. “I just wanted to check in.” You are being ridiculous, she scolds herself silently. There is nothing to be afraid of. There's nothing to be afraid of. She smiles brightly at Joy when she re-enters the room.

---

Mulder calls her en route to the library. Scully presses the Answer button and tucks it between her ear and her shoulder, answering, “Hey,” in lieu of her usual Scully. She admittedly loves the advantage of caller ID.

“Hey, Scully, it's me,” Mulder says, the same way he did twenty years ago. (Despite the caller ID.) He sounds stunningly solemn. “I just got a call from Skinner. He's got a case for us.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. It's, uh… it's a child.” His voice is grim now, almost apologetic. “The son of a local law enforcement officer in a little town called Eastwood, Connecticut. Found dead in the woods.”

Scully winces on instinct. “That's horrible,” she says.

“It is.” Mulder sighs on the other end, weary and emotional. She knows that emotion. She recognizes it as well as she did the things that Joy and Ben Seers were feeling. This is going to be hard.

She tries to change the subject. “So, why are we being called in? What's the X-File?”

“Local police are saying it's an animal attack, but the FBI thinks otherwise,” says Mulder. “Skinner wants us to take a look; he's sending the file our way. But I think the general theory is that it may be a murder, and Skinner seems to think it has the M.O. of an X-File.”

“Well, whether it's a murder or an X-File, I think it's worth looking into,” says Scully. As it much as it hurts to say it—as much as she knows it will hurt to work this case—she knows it needs to be solved. For that child, for his family. “Especially if the local police are ignoring facts.”

“I agree,” says Mulder. “And Skinner told me that no one else was available to fly out to Connecticut, anyway.”

Scully bites her lower lip and nods. She drums her fingers on the steering wheel, still tense and jittery. “When do we leave?”

“In a couple hours. There's a flight at one. I think, if you're up for it, we could probably take a look at the crime scene at maybe examine the body today. I'm headed back to the hotel to pack up.”

“I'll meet you there,” she says. “I'm on my way back from meeting with Joy Seers.”

“Okay,” Mulder says. “Oh, how was Joy doing? Did she remember anything?”

“She did,” Scully says. “It's a long story, I'll fill you in.”

“Okay. I'll see you in a few.”

“See you in a few,” she says, and he hangs up.

She exhales deeply, dropping her phone in the passenger seat. She's tired. She's very tired. And she knows this case is going to be incredibly hard. She's been thinking of her son frequently for years now, and almost constantly since December, and she knows that this case is probably going to just make it harder. Operating on almost no sleep and a fearful demeanor won't help, either. She's going to buy a cup of coffee at the airport and possibly try to nap on the plane.

Scully flips on her turn signal as she prepares to change lanes. Her eyes shift up absently to her mirror and note the car behind her. And then land directly on the dark, humanoid shape in the backseat.

Scully screams, shrill and fearful like a child, and slams down on the brake. The car screeches to a stop abruptly; a horn honks longly and indignantly behind her. She looks over her shoulder at the backseat, and then back at the rearview mirror. There's nothing there.

Her heart is thudding too hard against her ribs, she's breathing too rapidly. A tear wells in her eye, and she frustratedly wipes it away. Grits her teeth, takes a deep breath, and takes her foot off the brake. There's nothing to be afraid of, she tells herself. There's nothing to afraid of.

But the more she thinks it, the more it doesn't sound true.

---

After school, Ryan's doing homework at the kitchen table, trying his best to concentrate on that and not worry about his aunt at work, or wonder why he hasn't heard from Agents Mulder and Scully yet, when the doorbell rings.

Ryan clambers to his feet immediately and heads for the door, assuming it must be the FBI agents. But when he opens the door, he finds a kid standing there with rumpled hair and a Spiderman sweatshirt. It takes a few seconds, but he finally recognizes him: it's Robbie O'Connell, much taller than Ryan remembers. (He hasn't seen very much of the kid since the fire, for obvious reasons; the sheriff was pretty amicable about the whole thing at the time, and he knows that Annie is still friends with Bonnie O'Connell, but it's not like they're getting invited to barbecues anymore. And certainly, there are no more offers to babysit.)

“Rob,” Ryan says with shock. “What… what are you doing here?”

“Mom and Dad told me not to come,” Robbie says, rocking back and forth on his heels. Ryan raises his eyebrows at the kid, and he continues. “But I wanted to come. I didn't know who else would know what to do.” The kid looks up at Ryan, almost shyly. “And I don't think you set that fire to hurt Dad. You wouldn't do that.”

“Oh,” Ryan says awkwardly. “Um, thanks, kid.” Robbie is still staring at him with those little-kid eyes, so Ryan adds, “W-what's going on?”

“I'm seeing the ghost again,” Robbie says in a rush, bouncing up and down on his feet, fiddling with the hem of his sweatshirt. Ryan's eyes widen instinctively; in the back of his head, he thinks distantly: Oh, shit.

Robbie's still talking, nearly rambling. “I've seen it four times since Christmas, Ryan, and I'm really, really scared,” he says. “The last time that happened, my dog ran away, and my dad and my Uncle Kenny almost died. I don't want that to happen again!” His lip trembles like he is going to cry.

“Hey, hey, buddy.” Ryan leans forward and pats the kid's shoulder. He's never been great with kids—marked by both the fact that everyone in town thinks he's a criminal, and by the fact that he's never really been around them, anyways—but he'd always felt pretty okay with Robbie. He pats Robbie's shoulder, trying his best to be reassuring. “It's going to be okay,” he says, and hopes desperately that it's not a lie.

“D-do you know what to do to stop it?” Robbie asks softly.

Ryan meets the kid's eyes, and tries his best to look serious. To convey seriousness and comfort with one look. “I'm working on it, Rob,” he says. “I promise you, I'm working on it.”

He knows what Robbie is fearing. He's been seeing the ghost, too, and it's been more frequently than normal, which is saying something. He's worried about what it could do to his family. Jared is going on parole in a couple of days, and now Robbie is seeing the ghost again, and it all feels too convenient. His house is safe—he thinks, he hasn't seen the ghost inside the house since last December, but he can't really know for sure, can he? He's scared, too. He's scared, too.

Robbie sniffles, dragging the back of his wrist across his nose like it's running. And Ryan suddenly remembers something: Robbie didn't used to be scared of the ghost. Robbie used to think it was cool. Robbie used to want to see the ghost. “Hey, Robbie?” he asks tentatively. “What happened? Last I remember, you used to like the ghost. You thought it was really cool.”

Robbie looks up at him, his eyes huge. “The ghost always shows up before bad stuff happens, but he never tells you what to do about it,” he says—incidentally the same case Ryan has been making for years, but he lets it slide. Having just one more person believe him about the ghost being evil feels like a victory.

“And—” Robbie continues pointedly before pausing, licking his lower lip thoughtfully. “You remember how I used to feel when I saw the ghost? Real good, like it was an angel?” he asks, and Ryan nods. “Well, it doesn't feel like that for me anymore. It feels bad. It feels scary.”

It'd never felt that way for Ryan. He's been seeing the ghost since he was little, and it has never once felt good.

---

Ryan sends Robbie home, mostly because he hardly wants to be on the O'Connells's bad side. Before the kid leaves, he promises he's going to do everything he can to help him. “You remember those FBI agents who came to town when your dog was missing? The ones you called Men in Black?” he asks, and Robbie nods. “I called them,” Ryan says, feeling almost proud of himself. “They're going to help. They're going to try to get rid of it.”

But that isn't exactly true, he finds out a few minutes later. He calls Agent Mulder from the number he saved into his phone last year, to let him know that Robbie saw the ghost, and also to see if they've made any progress. But Agent Mulder doesn't pick up immediately. And when he finally does, it's with apologies. Apparently they've been called out of town to Connecticut. Some case that apparently takes priority over this one. “I'm sorry, Ryan,” he says, “but we were in such a hurry to get out of town, I forgot to get in touch with you…”

Anger rises in Ryan's throat—sudden, like bile—and he blurts, “That's bullshit!” Agent Mulder tries to say something on the other end, but Ryan keeps going, plunging like a freight train. “You said you'd try to help me. You said you'd do your best!”

“We will do our best, Ryan,” Agent Mulder says, his voice annoyingly patient. “We want to help you. These orders to work this case are coming from above us, and it's more or less urgent… it's a murder investigation. It's more of an actual investigation in general… We couldn't justify staying in Willoughby over this case.”

Ryan works his jaw back and forth, grits his teeth until his bones ache. “That's bullshit,” he mutters, quieter. It does make sense, he guesses, but at the same time, it doesn't. Why would they come here if it wasn't a priority? What will he be able to do if he doesn't have any help from them? The local police won't be any help—they’ll just laugh at him and tell him the Specter isn't dangerous—and he can't do it by himself. He can't do it by himself.

“Ryan, I'm sorry,” Agent Mulder says, and he does sound almost genuinely sorry. Almost. “There wasn't anything that could be done… How about this, okay? If anything happens… if anyone is in danger, or gets threatened, if anyone gets hurt… call me and Agent Scully and I will be there as soon as we can.”

Ryan shuts his eyes with frustration. He feels like a little kid, the way this guy is talking to him. It infuriates him to no end, the promise of help just to have that hope taken away. “Yeah, whatever,” he mumbles angrily, kicking a leg of the table. “Whatever. See you later, I guess.”

“Wait, wait,” says Agent Mulder before Ryan can yank the phone away from his ear. “What did you call to tell me about? What happened?”

Ryan thinks of Robbie, weepy and frightened on his porch. He thinks of the ghost outside his door, Annie's or Mrs. Seers's blank eyes, the scissors raised in the air. He thinks of the fact that they're pretty far away, and that they didn't seem to think they could help anyway. Especially Agent Scully.

“Nothing,” he snaps. “Good luck on your murder case, I guess.”

“Ryan—” Agent Mulder starts, but Ryan has already hung up. He drops the phone on the table and drops his face into his hands.

---

That night, Ryan can't sleep. Can't relax, can't stop thinking. He gets up and checks the salt lines along his windows, a habit he's developed in the weeks since the banishing incident. He replaces them weekly, all over the house, and frequently sages. Annie has stopped questioning it. She doesn't argue, but Ryan can tell she doesn't exactly approve. He doesn't know if she believes in the ghost, the danger; he doesn't care.

Ryan rechecks the salt line and notes, satisfied, that the line is still there, unbroken. He straightens up, looking out into the dark night as he reaches for the shade, and then he freezes. His eyes land on a hulking figure down by the tree in the backyard. A small light flicks to life, almost like a lantern.

Ryan clenches his jaw to keep from huffing in disgust and yanks the shade down, hiding the shape from view. He checks the line one more time: still unbroken.

He tries to scoff it off, tries to act like it's no big deal. But he can't stop shivering, as if freezing, as he climbs into bed. His hands won't stop shaking.

---

march, 2018

A few days later, Ryan gets a call from Jared, who is officially out on parole. They've more or less made up since their argument in December, although Ryan senses that Jared is still upset that he tried to banish the ghost, and he is still hurt that Jared scolded him for trying to protect himself. But whatever the case, Ryan has been trying to keep up with the parole process. He's scared to death about what's going to happen now that Jared is out. It has been something of an awkward process with his aunt's resentment for her brother, but he's somewhat been making it work.

“I just wanted to check in,” Jared says when he calls. “An old friend from in here who got out a few years ago agreed to let me stay with him; he lives in Winchester.” (The next town over from Willoughby.) “He's just picked me up, we're headed over now. I just wanted to tell you that you're welcome whenever—”

“No, no, no,” Ryan interrupts, waving his hands in the air frantically like he can erase the words. “No, you can't go there, Uncle Jared. You gotta come here. You gotta come straight here.”

There's a moment of empty silence on the other end, and then a nervous laugh on Jared's part. “Ryan, I-I don't know that that's a good idea,” he says. “Your aunt, she… she doesn't want to see me.”

Almost as if on cue, Annie walks into the room and sees him on the phone. Her eyes narrow, as if she's zeroing in, and she mouths, Is that Jared? Ryan nods impatiently, turning in his side so he doesn't have to awkwardly stare at her. “It doesn't matter. You've gotta come anyway. It's the only safe place; I've made it safe. The Specter can't hurt you if you're in the house.”

Ryan can sense Annie's discomfort behind hm. “Ry—” she protests briefly, but he ignores her. “Please,” he says, his voice husky. Ever since the FBI agents left town, he's been on edge. Worrying about himself, his friends, his family. Robbie O'Connell and his family. He can't stand worrying anymore. “Please come here.”

Jared laughs again, uneasy. “Oh, Ryan, I don't know…”

“Come here. Straight here.” He stabs the tabletop with his finger. “Aunt Annie is fine with it.”

“I have a hard time believing that.”

“She is, I swear.” Ryan turns in his chair to face his aunt again, and throws her a pleading look. She looks pissed, her arms crossed, but she's not shaking her head. She leaves a sigh, rolling her eyes, and shrugs. “It's fine,” he insists into the phone—it’s not entirely a lie. “Seriously. Please come here. W-we need to figure out what to do about this. We need to figure out how to stop it.”

Jared sighs, almost the same way as Annie did. “Fine. Fine, fine, fine. I'll come, but not permanently, okay? This isn't going to be easy, Ryan.”

“ I know. I know. Just please come here, okay? It'll be fine,” he says, irritated. “Be careful.”

“I will,” Jared says with a sigh. “Ryan, I don't want to doubt you… but are you sure it's this dangerous right now? You've been seeing the ghost for years, right? Why is right now so important, after everything that's happened over the past sixteen years?”

Ryan sighs, rubbing his forehead with his palm. He thinks of Robbie seeing the ghost, of seeing the ghost outside his window that night. That's not the first time it's happened, and that's not the last time, either; he's seen it several times since. It all coincides: Robbie seeing the ghost, him seeing the ghost, Mrs. Seers being possessed, Jared getting out of prison… He knows what people are saying around town. They're saying that Jared is coming back to kill him and take his final revenge, or that he's coming back to team up with him, and the Caruthers will go on a killing spree around town. It's the stupidest thing he's ever heard, but he's probably not doing a very good job of steering clear of those rumors, asking Jared to come here. But he doesn't care. He just wants to keep the people he loves safe, and with those FBI agents out of town, he doesn't know how else to do that. “It just is,” he says. “Trust me, okay? Let's not have history repeat itself.”

Jared chuckles humorlessly, bitterly. “That's a low blow, kid,” he says. “I'll be there in about an hour, okay?”

“Okay,” Ryan says, pinching the bridge of his nose between two fingers. “Okay, thank you. Thank you. I'll see you then.”

When he hangs up, he looks up to find Annie staring at him, eyebrows raised. “You know, kid,” she says, “I figured you'd want me to spend some time with my brother after he got out. I just didn't think it would be so soon.”

Ryan sighs heavily. “I'm sorry, Aunt Annie. I just…”

“It's not safe anywhere else but here?” she asks incredulously. “What the hell does that mean, Ryan? Are you still scared of the Specter?”

“It's a long story, okay?” he replies, nearly whining. “Can you just… trust me? Can you trust me about this? I'm doing all of this to keep us safe.”

Annie shuts her eyes with frustration, shaking her head. “I just don't get it,” she says. “I want to support you, Ryan… I want you to do what you need to do to get over what happened… but I just don't understand how you could feel safe around that man, after what happened. After what he did to your parents.” She groans, rubbing her temples as if she has a headache, and shakes her head as if to erase the words. “I'm sorry, I know I shouldn't say those things to you, but… I know something's going on. It's been going on for years. And I've never completely understood it, but… can you explain it to me? Can you try?”

Ryan's not looking at his aunt directly anymore. He's looking over her shoulder, through the kitchen window. By that same tree in the backyard is the familiar form of the Specter, sans lantern. He's turned away so Ryan can't make out his face but it's him, he'd recognize him anywhere. And then as Ryan blinks, he's gone. As if he was never there.

“I'd tell you…” Ryan says in a tremulous voice. “But… I just don't think you'd believe me.”

#xf rewatch #xf fanfic #i wrote this

[catrector]

The Goddess of Nothing At All: Chapter One

Author’s Note: I’m doing something daring while I have the guts. I’m releasing the first chapter of the story. I’ve been feeling anxious about it for a long time, but now that I plan on starting from scratch, it doesn’t feel so overwhelming. This chapter most likely won’t survive the rewrites, for various reasons, but then why shouldn’t you have it? Feel free to leave comments and critiques, either here or by PM. I hope you find some pleasure in it.

ONE My father had always been a conversationalist. He was a skald and a story teller. He passed his time recounting his adventures for anyone close enough to listen. The words he used were enthralling. They drew people in, compelled them to sit with him by the hearth and partake. Every story was a performance, flowing through his limbs as if it ached to escape his body. Some stories were told in huts in the dead of winter, in the guise of a wandering beggar. Others were told in great golden halls for the ears of his great armies. And a great many more were told on sunny days from the back of a horse.  

Father was a grey man; he’d seen his share of years. But even saddled on his mount in the snowy heart of Jotunheim, he seemed young, animated, alive. Despite the thick, silver wolf furs that he’d wrapped around his shoulders, covering his grey beard and time worn face, he acted out his lines for his audience with wild gestures. He rode in the middle of us, necessitating a consistent turn of his head from one side to the other. He had only one eye after all, and there was nothing as satisfying to him as the joy on his audience’s faces, and so his gaze bounced back and forth between his companions. Each time he turned away blessed me with a moment to stretch my polite smile. Someone had said something that vaguely reminded him of his heroic act at Mimir’s Well. He’d lost his eye at that well, damnit. Sacrificed it for the greater good, to receive all the wisdom in the nine realms. He’d done it to protect us all against the dark days of Ragnarok that always loomed somewhere in our future. His was a great, terrible sacrifice. Being invited along on an emissary mission was an honour, but it came at the price of keeping father company. I nodded along as he spoke, attempting to look enthusiastic, but too often I found my mind wandering away to more pleasant daydreams of warm beds and reading by candlelight.     “Sigyn, you never hear a word I say, do you?” Odin drew me back from my thoughts. I had no idea how long he’d been staring at me, waiting for a response. I scowled at him. “Of course I do. You said that you gave Mimir your eye, and Yggdrasil shade us, you’d have given the other one if you thought it would’ve helped.” He scratched his beard with his gloved hand. “Have you heard that story before? I know you weren’t listening.” I laughed. “Have I heard it before? Freya, how many times has the Allfather told you about his eye?” Freya’s harsh laugh was telling of her opinion. “Since my first day in Asgard?” She pretended to count on her leather gloved fingers. “Only once a week for the last half century.” A gust of wind blew back her hood, revealing her flowing auburn hair, whipping it this way and that. For some women, the tangle of the wind in their hair might diminish their beauty, but there was no such thing with Freya. Her crystal blue eyes and sharply cut cheeks were the desire of all the realms. No small wind could stop that. Odin laughed, his chuckle hearty and infectious. “You’re horrible, both of you. Shaming an old man like this. I suppose I should know better than to bring the two of you anywhere together. You’ve been causing trouble since you were children.” I tightened my white wolf pelt around my face as a gust of icy wind burned the skin on my cheeks. The cold coaxed tears from my eyes. “That would be my question exactly. Why did you bring me?” I fought to catch my breath, waiting for the wind to cease. “You needed a völva, a warrior, and a strategist, for which you have Freya. You don’t need me here to barter with the Jotun. I’m nothing but a glorified shield.” “You don’t want to be here?” Freya wrapped her arms around herself. “I hate this place. It’s cold and barren and full of frost-skins.” Odin’s single-eyed glare landed on her as soon as the word slipped from her lips. “You’ll stop with that kind of language immediately. If you let that slip out of your mouth in front of the Jotun, they’ll have your head on a pike for it.” Freya said no more, and he turned back to me. “As for the rest, I hope we won’t be needing your skills at all, my dear. If I can convince Frymir to accept a trade pact, we can all go home without blood on our hands.” Odin turned to look at the six einherjar riders behind us, their axes and blades hanging on their hips. I looked ahead. We’d just crossed the border into Jotunheim, where the tundra began, the cold killing off anything truly green. There was no dispute over this place; no Aesir was foolish enough to live that close to the chill and no Jotun would suffer being so close to the Gods. The path ahead started to incline, up toward the snow covered mountains in the distance, jutting from the ground like they were reaching for the clouds. Just ahead, two cliff faces nearly met. The narrow path that had been carved out between them was for travellers such as ourselves, one of the many doors into the frozen home of the giants. I looked back at Odin. “That looks like a trap.” “Come now, what kind of Goddess has so little faith? It could very well be a trap, which is why I have six of my best einherjar at my back. Or it could be a peaceful negotiation, which is why I’ve brought along two capable emissaries. In either case, we’ll soon find out.” Odin spurred his horse forward, racing headlong into the pass. I sighed and rolled my eyes at Freya. She made a playful face and I couldn’t help but snicker. We forced our horses forward to catch up to the Allfather. Odin slowed as he reached the pass, letting his horse come to a trot. We cut our pace to match his. The wind whistled as it rushed through the jagged cliffs above our heads. My stomach churned, uneasy with the prospect of what might come. Asgard had very few allies in Jotunheim. It didn’t seem likely that Frymir was one of them, but we had good reason to try. Frymir had promised us something that no other Jotun household would offer. They had access to herbs that only grew in the frozen wastes, and others that thrived in the hot springs under the mountains. Our völur could use them to create powerful healing agents, and salves to boost the effects of our runes, which was why no Jotun would dare trade with us. Odin was prepared to offer a great deal of wealth, if the offer wasn’t, in fact, a trap. “Did you consult the seers before we left?” I glanced up, checking the tops of the cliffs for trouble. He dismissed the question with a wave. “Of course I did.” Freya huffed. “Not with my seers you didn’t.” “And what did they say?” Odin looked at me, his earlier mirth gone. “They said you need to listen to your father and quiet yourself.” The scolding hit home like a slap to the face. I glared down at the mane of my horse. I was decades old and still being treated like a teen in heat. We rode ahead in silence, listening for anything out of place. The steady clomp of hooves echoed against the cliffs. Pebbles clicked against the stone, falling one by occasional one from the heights above. The passage was neither incredibly long nor incredibly wide. It would take only a few minutes to pass through by horseback and could comfortably fit five horses abreast. I still didn’t like the feel of it, but the closer we came to the exit, the more I allowed myself to breathe. Perhaps the Allfather was right. Perhaps I was no better than worried little child. An explosion sounded from above. Boulders loosened from the cliffs above our heads, crashing toward the ground behind us. They hadn’t been meant to crush us, only to block our retreat. The horses spooked, and I struggled to pull mine back into obedience. “Steady!” Odin cried, drawing his longsword. “Let them come for us! They wish to see the might of Asgard, we’ll oblige them!” Jotun troops poured in from the end of the passageway. I turned at the sound of rocks scrabbling behind us and saw more troops climbing over the barrier they’d made for us. The army was at least thirty Jotun strong. Each of them were dressed in leathers and iron, their pale, snowy Jotun skin peeking out from underneath. Half were built like houses, easily taller than I was on my horse. A couple were twice as tall as that, giants even among their kind. The fact that the rest were no larger than us didn’t matter; we were far outnumbered.   “Damnable frost-skins,” Freya muttered under her breath. “What brings this treachery? What happened to our trade agreement?” Odin bellowed. Frymir stepped forward, approaching Odin’s horse. He stood on the flats of his shoes and yet stood face to face with the God of Gods. The Jotun bore the pale, snowy complexion of his people. He clearly thought himself regal, his leather armour trimmed in furs and gems, though it didn’t distract from his heavily scarred face. “There will be no agreements with filthy Aesir. Surrender now or we’ll feed you to our dogs.” “How unfortunate.” Odin’s fingers moved slightly, giving the signal, and I began to whisper. “The woman!” One of the Jotun cried out. “She’s a völva!” I pushed back my hood and they knew me for who I was. My lips kept moving, the runes sliding off my tongue in well practised precision, a whispered song so powerful that it could bend even the wind to my will. And bend it I did. The spell was ready in seconds and the air in front of us burst, throwing the Jotun army backward. The einherjar stormed forward, their blades drawn and itching for battle. From their saddles they hacked at each Jotun they passed, ripping holes in their armour and flesh. Freya rode with the men, sword already drawn, while Odin and I dismounted and turned to the troops approaching from our backs. Nearly ten Jotun rushed toward us from the fallen rocks, their blades raised high. Any one of them was large enough to run us through with a single swing. I drew a long breath and began again, whispering a new string of runes into the air. I could see by the silent movement of his lips that Odin was doing the same. Before the first Jotun reached us, I threw up my hands. A flash of light burst forth and solidified in front of us. The warrior hit the barrier at full speed. He fell back, his face bloodied as if he’d run straight into the cliffs themselves. The barrier wouldn’t stand up to much abuse, but it wouldn’t need to. Odin had finished his own runes, summoning up a blistering wind tunnel. It whipped the snow in front of us into a frenzy, blinding the Jotun army. They became nothing but writhing shadows in the storm. Their screams echoed in the walls of the pass. Wind, ice and rock tore at their skin and brought them to their knees. A roar rose out above the rest. From the swirling ice came a stampeding warrior, her axe drawn back. The giantess was twice our size and barrelling straight toward us. I held my hands up, chanting the same runes under my breath, praying that the shield would hold. She swung, screaming in pure rage. The axe hit the shield and the sound echoed along the cliffs. A familiar scream drew my attention away, back to the fight behind us. The largest of the Jotun had picked Freya up and was holding her up against him like a shield. Her sword was missing, and her mouth had been covered. She was defenseless without her runes. “Hold!” Odin cried out, pulling my attention back to my own troubles. I tried to hold the shield in place above us, but I couldn’t leave Freya to die. I had to help her. My focus was slipping, and with it, the shield. The second blow sent a splinter down the length of it. I tried to reinforce it, to hold it in place, but the third blow cracked the surface like a spider web. I dug my heels into the ground, pushing up and away, as if my sheer force of will could keep it in place. “It’s coming down!” A shriek pierced the sky. I flinched, nearly taking my hands away from the shield to cover my ears. And then I saw the shadow above us.   A flash of talons and feathers flew down, shrieking once more. It was an enormous hawk. The bird’s wings alone were large enough to blow back the hair from my face with every wing beat. It barrelled down onto the Jotun, knocking her onto her back. We watched in stunned silence as the screaming warrior attempted to knock the bird away, but its talons were already buried deep in her face. When the bird rose, it came away with the Jotun’s white, dripping eyes in its grip. The bird screeched again, dropping the bloody mess onto the warrior’s mangled body, then flew down in front of us. It landed in a flurry of wind and wrapped its wings around its own torso. The feathers dissipated, tossed along the air through Odin’s storm. When they were gone, a man knelt where the bird had been. He panted as he stood, shaking the painful transformation from him with as much grace as he could muster. He was a head taller than I was, small for his kind, but a his snowy skin gave him away as a Jotun. He wasted no time in raising his hands above his head and loosing a torrent of teal-coloured wildfire at the nearest Jotun warrior. “Who in the nine realms is that?” I cast a look back at Odin, who was as pleased as could be. “Our reinforcements it seems!” Odin laughed, wiping the sweat from his brow. My barrier had fallen. The warriors who had lived through Odin’s storm were nearly on us. I cast forth another barrier, smaller this time, enough to shield only the space in front of us. A spear connected with the shimmering wall just as it appeared. The stranger took shelter with us, his emerald eyes lingering on me a moment too long, smirking all the while. His features were sharp and lean, and he had a wildness in his eyes that was foreign to me. He leapt up and lobbed a ball of wildfire toward the Jotun who held Freya captive. It hit the giant in the head, lighting his hair ablaze. The giant dropped Freya and scrambled to put out the sudden conflagration on his head. She landed with a dull thud and scrambled to get away. The einherjar were struggling to keep their lead against Frymir and his army. The stranger pointed to the tallest Jotun among them. “Get me up to his head and I can take care of that one.” “Who are you?” I hissed. He casually brushed his flaming red hair back behind his ear and grinned. “Does it matter?” “By the Norn, do as he asks!” Odin strode toward the fray, sword ready and muttering something about obedience. “Fine.” I stomped toward the other side of the battle, bringing the runes to my lips as I approached. One by one, I managed to summon up a staircase of small barriers to take the smirking newcomer skyward, toward the giant. I turned back to him with a threat on my lips. “I’m watching you.” His grin grew wider. “Oh, please do.” The stranger hopped up onto the first shimmering step, breaking into a nimble run across the air. Each step took him higher above the battle, until he was just above the Jotun’s head. When he leapt from the highest step, he landed square on the Jotun’s neck, blade in hand, and drove it down into the exposed flesh. The short sword was enough to send the Jotun reeling, but the stranger wasn’t finished. He held onto the sword’s hilt and kicked off, dragging the blade down the giant’s spine as if he meant to skin him.   “Yggdrasil above…” I breathed, both in awe and disgust. The Jotun toppled to the ground in a heap, crushing one of our horses and knocking the warriors from their feet. Freya used the opportunity to run back to my side and watched with a gaping mouth, trying to catch her breath. I rushed forward, casting short, simple runes to push back the enemy, to keep them from taking advantage of our einherjar. I could feel the wear of it, the way the energy was coming in spurts instead of waves. The demand was too much in too short a time. The flash of a long sword appeared at the corner of my eye. Father was beside me, cutting down a Jotun before they could ram into us with their wooden shield. A burst of flame rose into the sky like a tower, the smell of burning flesh rising in the wind. I gathered my strength and moved to help a fallen einherjar to his feet.   It didn’t take long for the men to cut down the last of Frymir and his army. Our forces were better trained and there hadn’t been any völur among them. It had barely been a fair fight. Freya immediately gave me a shove. “Did you see that? That frost-skin was using seidr. Transmogrification. Elemental runes. Who taught him that?” Here we go. “You’re overreacting. Be thankful he saved you from having your neck broken.” She patted the snow off her cloak and skirts. “I did not give seidr to the realms so some filthy male Jotun could taint it.” I dropped to the ground, exhausted. I could feel a headache coming, and not only from the exertion. “Freya. Please. Leave it alone.” Freya kicked the snow, covering me in powder before she trudged away. I sighed and looked to the others as they checked the Jotun for signs of life. I took it as leave to rest and laid back, taking in deep breaths of chilled air to calm the racing of my heart.   Crisp footprints walked toward me. I peeked an eye open and saw the stranger coming my way. His thick, forest green cloak was road-worn and tattered at the bottom, nearly dragging across the snow, the front spattered with blood. When he reached me, he let himself fall back into the snow, leaning back on his elbows next to me, catching his breath. “Well fought,” he said between breaths. “And you.” I avoided looking at him and stared up at the sky through the cracks in the cliffs. I felt like I could sleep for days. “Feeling a bit out of your element?” He sounded tired as well, but even so, his voice was deep, silky. I nodded, pressing my fingers into my aching head to numb the throb. “I feel horrible. “You Aesir will always be at a disadvantage in a place like this. It’s hard to draw your energy from the earth when it’s beneath all this ice. Such a pity they don’t teach you that.” He turned his head to look down at me, smug. “I don’t mind sharing some of my own energy, if you need a little help. The air here offers plenty.” “I think I’ll manage on my own, thank you.” I sat up, bristling at his critique. “But you do owe me your name.” He reached out a gloved hand. “Loki Laufeyjarson.” I shook his hand. “Sigyn Odindottir. Why are you here?” Loki sat up as well, leaning on his knees. “I was flying by when I noticed the battle. It looked as if you could use a hand.” I eyed him carefully. “Why turn against your own people?” “They aren’t my people.” His answer was immediate, icy.   “Come now,” Odin bellowed, walking toward us. “We need to get started if we’re going to make it back to Asgard before nightfall. We can walk the horses over the rock fall, it’s not so steep as all that.” I stood, brushing the snow from my cloak. Loki stood as well. “It’s been a pleasure fighting alongside you, Allfather.” Loki said, extending his hand. Odin took it and pulled him in for a hug. He slapped Loki on the back. “You say that as if we’re about to part ways,” he chuckled. Loki squirmed loose and looked Odin in the eye. “We’re headed in very different directions I’m afraid.” Odin put his arm around Loki’s shoulder and turned him back toward the horses the einherjar had managed to rescue. “Not anymore. Consider this an official invitation. Such an act of bravery and loyalty must be rewarded with a feast. Come, we have such stories to tell!”

WIP: The Goddess of Nothing At All: About the Book | Book Tag Tag List: @ashmitrano​ @wilhelminaab @elaynab-writing @angelwriteblr​ @bluewritesbadly​ @verazelinski​ @siarven @thewritingwarrior

#Writeblr #Writing #Loki #Logyn #The Goddess of Nothing At All

[clonerightsagenda]

#tuesjade #homestuck// #kat writes fic #sort of #it's a pesterlog bc i can write those in 30 seconds flat so sue me

[sonofkhaz]

The Savage Hero [Dreadnaught prestige class story]

Entry 78

I had to do night watch duty tonight. It’s not a hard job, but it can be dull. At times, I wished the enemy would attack us in the middle of the night so it would give me something to do. Then again, most of these dainty elves need their beauty sleep lest they get more ornery than a Plainstrider in heat.

It was a full moon, and the stars were out so I didn’t need a torch; too much light can ruin your night vision, you know. As I strode along the perimeter, I heard the crunching of boots behind me. I gripped my axe in anticipation, then whirled around to meet my follower. A Forsaken wearing black robes and a black brimmed hat looked up at me, his rheumy, undead eyes beaming.

“Well hello there,” he said in a raspy baritone, “my ostentatious oxen. Are you burning the midnight oil as well?”

“Braun,” I replied, pushing down the urge to pulp his skull like a ripe melon, “you should know better to sneak up on me like that. It will be your death sentence some day.” Despite my response, I knew that “Professor” Braun Bratosus was a dangerous sorcerer, even though he acted like an idiot most of the time. In the past, before joining the Sunspears, I had done odd jobs for him, collecting dangerous reagents for fruitless experiments. At least he paid well.

The undead rubbed his metallic jaw in thought. “I suppose. Guess they’d just have to stitch me up again. Try not to damage anything important when you kill me, okay?”

“Whatever you say, Braun.” I rolled my eyes.

“It’s a serious request, Muroco. I still have many experiments to conduct.” Braun tapped the butt of his staff on the ground. “Say, that reminds me, I had a question for you, one that is likely impertinent.”

“What is it?” I asked.

“What are you going to do when this is all over?” Braun paused. “Well, assuming that the Legion doesn’t triumph, enslave us all, and turn our dear planet into a ball of molten fel.”

“What do you mean what am I going to do? Fighting is a full time job. Even after the Legion’s defeat, there will be plenty of enemies to kill. Bank on it.”

“Ah, but my boisterous bovine,” Braun said, crooking a bony finger towards the camp, “even most of our elven compatriots have lives of their own. Some of them have families, some of them are craftspeople, and others have to lord over their lands. They don’t fight all the time.”

“I’m a Grimtotem exile,” I said, “fighting is the only thing I’m good at.” It was the only thing I was taught to do, even from a young age. The Grimtotems are never developed self-sufficiency, and only truly survive by raiding, pillaging, and killing everyone and everything that isn’t them. As such, the vast majority of Grimtotems are expected to know how to fight. A Grimtotem that wants to open up a general store is viewed the same way a street-goer might view an organ grinder’s monkey.

Braun and I continued our conversation, but I don’t think he understood my point of view. I don’t think anyone can.

-

-

Entry 104

I went to my “peaceful spot” today. It didn’t turn out to be so peaceful.

When I was still an Initiate, I found this pasture several miles south of the Dawnspire. It is nice and quiet; miles of plain with rolling hills and some trees. Silvermoon City is cramped, and sometimes I need to get away to stretch out.

While I sit underneath a tree on a hilltop and meditate, I sometimes see a little girl, about six or seven winters old, named Verina. She has a black cat named Olive, and I’ve helped her pull her kite out of the tree a few times. Despite her youth, she speaks to me without fear or hesitation - more that can be said about a lot of people I’ve met.

I made a stupid mistake today. My guard was down, and I didn’t hear my attackers sneak up on me. A robed man - some elf - approached me when my eyes were closed and cast a binding spell. As I stood up to attack him, I felt coils of fel energy ensnare my wrists and hold my legs in place. Struggle as I might, I couldn’t break free. I heard him snicker to himself as shimmering forms behind him coalesced into being. A felguard and a shivarra wielding wicked looking scimitars appeared, advancing on me. As they got closer, I could hear Verina’s high-pitched voice shouting, “Leave him alone!”

The cultist turned, saw her clumsy attempts at striking him with her fists, and kicked her to the ground.

I could feel the binding spells weaken as his attention was turned elsewhere...but something snapped in me. Something about seeing that girl being hurt drove me into a rage I hadn’t felt in years. Rage can be a powerful weapon; the dirtiest, flea-bitten peasant can be pushed into feats of heroism if everything they hold dear is threatened. With a roar, I shattered the cultist’s spells and rescued my axe from the ground. I beheaded the felguard with one chop, then turned my attention to the shivarra. Her blades nicked and grazed me, but I was too angry to care. I severed her, limb from useless limb, until she collapsed to the ground.

I turned my attention to the cultist next. He attempted to cast a spell at me, but squawked in protest as my plated fist landed square in his face, snapping his beak-like nose and knocking out most of his teeth. I grabbed him by the neck, ignoring his pleas for mercy as I slammed his head into the tree’s trunk. I bashed his skull in repeatedly, even after he was dead, his head nothing more than a bloody stump.

I only stopped when I heard crying.

I turned around and saw Verina cowering.

She wasn’t afraid of the corpses of the demons. She was afraid of me.

Before I could say anything, she turned and fled, her legs carrying her as fast as they could as she screamed in terror. With a sigh, I ripped the cloak off the cultist’s mangled corpse and heaved myself to the pond residing at the hill’s base. As I cleaned the grime off me, I looked at my distorted reflection on the pond’s surface. I wasn’t wearing my helmet, so blood had spattered on me.

I looked just as I did when I was still a Brave in the Grimtotem tribe, raiding orcish, night elf and tauren settlements with little care of who was in the way.

For once in my life, I felt disgusted with myself.

-

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Entry 105

I decided to stay the night in the countryside. The sun was setting when the cultist attacked me, and I didn’t feel like marching back.

A warrior learns to sleep lightly while outside, and this time I was not about to make the same mistake twice. As the sun began to rise, I heard someone moving towards me. I grabbed my axe and rose, preparing to cut down the intruder.

I paused as the man in front of me yelped in surprise and jumped back, his hands held up in supplication. He wore rough hewn clothes, and his tanned skin look weathered from time in the sun. A farmer.

“I, ah,” the man stammered, “thought I might find you here.”

“What do you want?” I asked.

“You saved my daughter yesterday,” the man said, his eyes glancing cautiously the edge of my axe.

I set my weapon down upon the grass and sat down on a nearby tree stump overlooking the pond. “It was nothing. You don’t owe me anything. What’s your name?”

“Gaeril. And it wasn’t ‘nothing’. My daughter is the most precious thing in the world to me. I am not a warrior like you, and I shudder to think what might have happened if you weren’t here.”

I rested my head in my hand. I wasn’t accustomed to praise like this. “I scared her off, you know. Horrified her with what I did. Don’t take this the wrong way, but I just don’t fit in with,” I furrowed my brow in consternation, “With…”

“With whom?”

“Elves. Especially ones that don’t fight. No offense.”

Gaeril frowned, taking a seat on another tree stump near me. “Then why are you here, if I might ask? Don’t you have a family? A tribe?”

“Not anymore. I’m exiled. I left Kalimdor to continue my pursuit to become one of the greatest warriors of the Horde.” I looked up at the sky and saw the towering parapets of the Dawnspire in the horizon. “Sunguard let me in because I’m useful for killing things. Doubt they did it out of charity. Otherwise, I’d just be another wandering mercenary, looking for fights.”

The farmer nodded. “Then perhaps, tauren, the Sunguard is your new tribe. Whether you want to admit it or not, I am sure many of them appreciate your combat prowess - they can come home to their families each day because you’re there to watch their backs. You may be...savage, as you claim, but you’re a hero to many in ways you don’t realize.”

I remained silent after that. I couldn’t think of anything to say. A simple farmer had just laid out the truth to me, an epiphany that no seer or sage could ever manage to elucidate in their best efforts.

“Maybe so,” I said at last, “maybe so.”

-

-

The Defense of Thalassian Pass

Muroco stood near at the front of the Sunguard’s lines, gazing at the advancing Legion forces. The pass connected the borders between the Eastern Plaguelands and Quel’thalas. A fel reaver thundered at the vanguard of the invading force, flanked by eredar, felhounds, felguards, and other demonic aberrations. The tauren lowered the visor of his helmet. If the demons made it through their defenses, they would pour into Quel’thalas, leaving a trail of death and destruction in their wake.

Muroco nodded to himself as the demons closed the gap. Let them come. Let them try. When he was younger, he strived to find every fight he could. As he got older, however, he understood that the best fights would come to him eventually. Being in the Sunguard would provide him the fights he craved.

The warrior jogged forward, his battle-axe in both hands, eventually breaking into a charge. He raised his weapon to strike as his bounding hooves brought him closer to the Legion. The elves might be an odd bunch, but they were his elves. His tribe.

And anyone who threatened his tribe would receive a brutal end.

#the sunguard #Moon Guard #My writing #writing #muroco rockhoof #muroco #World of Warcraft

[themanwhoran-archive]

Harry Potter and the Snarky Dick | Harry & Draco

@hawthorneandunicornhair | continuing our Skype thread here!  My reply is at the bottom!

January ate right through the old layers of fur and leather, through basically every garment Harry owned, through his skin and muscle right down to the bone.  Fuck January.  Fuck winter and France and everything in between.  And logic.  It was too cold for logic.

The only advantage was in the tracks.  Tracking was ridiculously easy in the snow and ice.  Especially tracking something moving as wildly as a werewolf.  He kept a careful distance from them, maintaining their integrity if he had to retrace his steps.  He didn't even consider using magic to preserve them.  Though he knew the spell.

His wand was sheathed in a magically hidden compartment of his pants.  It was there if he needed it, but it wasn't stiff and pointy against his leg as he moved.  No, that was the six-inch hunting knife.  Pure silver.  Dawn brushed the sky, and he had to hurry.  The morning sun on a snow bed like this was bound to blind him.  He forced his knees up, pushed them further, his eyes following the trail through the sparse trees until they broke, clearing the way for what looked like farmland.

No one was farming this time of year, but these looked long abandoned anyway.  If it hadn't been snowing, he'd have spent the whole damn day checking each dilapidated building.  But the tracks led straight to one.  He drew his knife before he went in.

The barn was little more than enough to break the wind.  He wouldn't be surprised if the werewolf was already dead, frozen in its weaker human form.  The straw in the shadowed corner had been dead for a long time, but he could see a pale shape in the dull brown mess.  He shut down the pang of guilt that threatened to twist his gut when he got close enough to see the man's shivering, the pink bites of cold on his skin, the damp platinum blonde hair, the--

...No fucking way.  He didn't even finish processing the thought before he was groaning out loud, "You've got to be fucking kidding me."

It was a known fact that werewolves body temperatures tended to run hot, especially around the full moon. But as Draco went through the painful process of turning back into…well…himself, the small part of his mind that wasn’t focused on the pain came to one conclusion: French Alps were fucking cold. No matter what kind of beasty you were.

Usually he didn’t change out in the open. He HAD a chalet complete with caged cellar on the Isle of Skye. It was far, far away from Malfoy Manner, which had become the new Death Eater Training Academy, and despite Lucius still being there, Draco had been sent away. It was for his own good. With Voldemort’s rising and domination after Potter’s assumed death, werewolves were a much different story. They were revered and feared, and didn’t Fenrir just love that. It led to brutal packs, with archaic hierarchal structures…brutal. The last thing his mother had done before her death was send Draco away. Because if he didn’t leave he would surely have been killed by the packs or lost his mind with the brutality enacted on muggles.

For months the blonde lived on the small island in Scotland, changing safely locked up and on Wolfsbane. But Fenrir had found him. Well, found the cottage while he was away. It was nothing more than ash and smoke when he had returned from the market. Thankfully he had escaped undetected via portkey, but it had taken him to his mother’s properties in France.

Draco remembered being in the area as a boy, and even as a teen before the bite he enjoyed the crisp air, the skiing, and especially the afterparties. Breaking every bone in his body and shedding an alarming amount of hair in the most painful way possible didn’t really hold up to the nostalgia. While he was not as cold as he would be if he were not a werewolf, the tips of his ears and nose were pink, and his hands shook as they stopped reaching for his clothing, alarmed by the voice.

It was the voice that stopped him more than the sight. For the man standing in front of him was NOT the gangly be-speckled brat he stalked and got in trouble at every occasion at Hogwarts. But the voice…

Drawing in a shaky breath, the blond lifted his chin in defiance…oh, Malfoy had changed, but he was still a Malfoy… “If you’re going to kill a man, Potter, you could at least grant the decency of allowing him to clothe himself. My mother may be dead, but she’d roll over in her grave if she knew her son was downed in the nude…”

Harry legitimately couldn't believe what he was seeing.  He had done so well covering his tracks that no one even suspected he was alive.  In five years,  he hadn't run into a single familiar face.  It was luck at first, combined with some of the tricks he'd learned from Sirius.  He'd been caught a handful of times, a couple by wizards, but none fast or skilled enough to catch him in time to identify him.  There had been sightings reported over the years -- he managed to tap into the Resistance frequencies when he had the power, and Lupin kept him informed when they had a chance to connect -- but none of them were true sightings.  Harry had gotten good at covering his own tracks.

Even with his curse scar unwillingly transmitting information to Voldemort, he'd found a way to escape detection.  If he didn't use magic, Voldemort couldn't pin him down -- and unlike most wizards (or at least most purebloods), he had been raised without magic.  He knew how to cook his own food, he learned how to suture a wound, he practiced using his weapons with his bare hands.  He couldn't keep Voldemort from knowing he was alive, though.  It just seemed in the Dark Lord's better interest to let the Resistance think he was dead.

He hadn't even been back to England since Sirius died.  He shut down that train of thought before it could get too far.  But he'd been hunting monsters all across Western Europe for years, without sending so much as an anonymous letter to Hermione.  (Which he did feel guilty about.)  But he hadn't once run into anyone who could look at him with scorn.  Who could ask him why he ran away.  Who could hold him as responsible as he held himself for the state of the world, for the fate of it -- for the destruction of it.

Until now.  And of all the people he could have found -- in France, why was he even in France? -- it had to be Draco Malfoy.  And he could process more of his own misery and fury over the unfairness of it all later, because for now, he had a hell of a lot of questions.  "What are you doing here, Malfoy?"  His arm, blade still in hand, fell to his side, though he didn't loosen his grip on it.  He didn't look away from his former rival either -- modesty be damned, he didn't take his eyes off of a target.  "Are you-- those tracks-- When were you bitten?"

Eyeing the knife in Harry’s hand, Draco ran his fingers through his hair, damp locks from the wet terrain outside evident in his features. His hair wasn’t as long as Lucius’ had been, and if he was being honest, never WOULD be, but the ends did kiss the edges of his angular face as he stretched to grab his pants. If Potter came after him, he wasn’t in any condition to fight. While he was stronger than Lupin had been by seer routine of savageness, he was still pretty weak and shaky. Harry would win.

“So is this what you do now?” Draco asked in a tone that was as indifferent as if they were discussing the weather. “Sneak up on werewolves after their change? Gut them while they’re weak? You always did have a knack for defense against the dark arts, ey Potter?”

Pulling his legs through, Draco hopped up onto his feet, a little wiggle as he settled into his pants, doing them up. Gone were the dress slacks worn under school robes and wizarding clothing. Hide breeches were almost too casual for the posh blond, but they were warmer than cotton, and in the mountains, that’s what counted. He had plush and soft at home. The trek there could be made in tough fun lined coats and thick pants – things made for winter travel.

Chuckling darkly, Draco shook out the coat hidden under the straw, picking a few pieces off here and there. “I could say the same for you? You’re supposed to be dead. I mean that’s what everyone thinks. Golden Boy Taken Too Soon. Our Only Hope Gone,” he said, quoting Prophet headlines. “As if they’d ever grow up and fight for themselves, but what do I fucking know. I’m just a werewolf.” The last part was grumbled mostly to himself, his voice turning dark, a growl rumbling under the words.

Looking back over his shoulder he gave Harry a pinched look. “Well you don’t see anyone else here, do you?” Flashing his left arm, where the Dark Mark would have been, a scar, silvery and deep, shown. “Courtesy of Fenrir himself. He did so like infecting children. Lucius’ punishment for failing.” Picking up his boots, Draco walked past Harry and out the way the brunette came in. Harry would follow…or he would not. Something in the blond told him that regardless of five years passing, in some way or another they’d orbit each other once again. Fate was a funny thing.

Harry felt heat rise in his neck as Malfoy spoke, bristling his temper as easily as he had when they were in school.  If he was being honest with himself -- which he rarely was -- the familiarity felt good.  You wouldn't know it by his attitude, but he'd been alone for so long that any conversation was like nourishing rain in desert, reminding him he had a voice of his own.  "It's none of your business, Malfoy," he snapped.  He wasn't going to sit here and defend his own actions to a werewolf.  He still had the silver blade gripped in his hand.

Finally, he did turn his eyes away as Malfoy tugged his pants on.  He'd swear that ridiculous wiggle was deliberately intended to get to him, and he hated that he was successful.  But he couldn't just stare at the man's ass without...  He was definitely not having those kinds of thoughts about Malfoy.  Definitely been alone too long.  So he scowled at the straw until the pants were fastened.  Malfoy looked... weird in such functional clothes.

Harry's expression was stony as it rose to meet the blond's again, not flinching at the headlines or the jabs.  He had to kill him.  It was strange to realize he didn't want to, but he had to.  He'd come too far, lived too long, for this spiteful asshole to bring all of that effort crashing onto his head.  And Draco knew it, too.  Knew Harry could kill him, and that twisted his gut with something akin to guilt.

His eyes followed Malfoy's gesture to his arm, watching the way the dull light shone on the old wound.  Before he was ready to make his move, the blond was striding right out of the building, and Harry spun to follow him without a moment's hesitation.  "Malfoy.  You know I can't just let you leave."

Draco’s bare feet stopped in his tracks, sinking down into the snow. The cold didn’t bother him very much, at least not enough to ruin perfectly good shoes by making them soggy, and the way his body regenerated the bite never turned into frostbite before he got home. Tight lips puckered a tad in a thoughtful pout as the blond turned, hands raking through his hair. The fur lined coat was still open. The werewolf wore it mostly to keep some of the wind chill away so that he wasn’t completely grumpy on the lonely treks back to the little cottage.

Eyes on the edge of feral stared Harry down. Draco had shown many emotion during school days, troublesome, mischievous, bratty, and pretentious...but this...this was something else entirely. Predatory. And for a moment, it was a wolf that stared back at Harry, waiting for the first move as an icy gaze framed by sharp features, far too gaunt bored into the brunette. It was Draco...but with the luxury of wealth removed. Thin, and pale, and having seen far too much.

After a moment, the blond blinked, a resolve coming over the way he held his body. “So then kill me, Potter,” a dry chuckle left parched lips. He needed food, and water, and fucking sleep. He pulled up the fur lined hood and tilted his head, the whole thing looking slightly comical on a frame remembered for expensive dress robes and school uniforms. Arms splayed from his side in an open invitation. “I’m hardly in the position to give much of a fight. Fitting, that you’d be the one to take me down.” A moment passed before Draco turned. “Never could beat you at Quidditch. This is just another game you’ll win.” The man started back the direction he was headed before, heavy limbs pulling him to the promise of warmth and food; a cottage an hour away hidden on the edges of his mother’s property.

Harry knew that werewolves' blood ran hot, and that ought to keep Malfoy warm enough to withstand the ice and snow outside.  But he hadn't really expected the blonde to take it as far as bare feet and an open coat.  It was absurd enough to catch his attention for a moment-- but the sight unexpectedly held it for much different reasons.  He'd sort of... not so much forgotten how gorgeous the man was -- or rather, how gorgeous the boy had been -- as stopped thinking about it over the years.  Most of the time.  But even tired and weak in the snow, Malfoy made a stunning picture.  Like the pristine and barren landscape was chosen as a backdrop for the man, who somehow managed to resonate with sophistication and pride even in his ragged state.

As Draco turned a predacious gaze onto him, Harry's gut tightened with his grip on the blade.  It was instinctive by now, his response to that visage.  It was normally enough to launch action into his muscles, but the commands didn't get that far.  It was surreal,  the way this piece of a life that once made him happy had somehow found its way into a different puzzle, this scourge that amounted to his existence now.  And dark realities had not left Malfoy unscathed; the rival he'd known was a broken shard, shining bright in a broken frame.

It made him wonder how much he'd changed himself.  He knew, in that distant way that everyone knows they're not fifteen anymore, but he'd watched the change happen.  Watched pain and loneliness and anger and fear etch lines into his face, watched the violence drain it all out of his eyes until they were empty and hollow, watched his muscles thicken and tone, watched scars bloom on his skin.  He'd even switched out his glasses for contacts -- much harder to lose in a fight.  A younger, more self-conscious version of himself had once felt a spike of insecurity and anxiety when Malfoy scrutinized him, but he was too numb to feel anything but... a detached sense of curiosity.

Harry's jaw tightened on the challenge.  Mostly because he didn't know why he wasn't taking it.  Malfoy was a werewolf.  He killed werewolves.  With one exception, the reminder nagged at him.  Lupin never failed to remind him, on those semi-annual occasions where he saw his former mentor.  He had a way of saying it that forced Harry to acknowledge the world in all its shades of gray, when all he wanted was the sanctuary of black and white.  His hand was starting to hurt, gripping the handle of the blade so tightly, and his jaw ached with the tension between his teeth.  Because he couldn't see anything but gray when he looked at his former schoolmate.

So he let Malfoy distract him.  With petty questions and jabs, in a way that felt so familiar and welcome that the relief almost stung his eyes.  Just the word "Quidditch" lifted his traitorous lips into a grin.  He hadn't thought about the game in a long time.  Finally, his vicegrip on the hilt loosened, though he kept it in his fingers as he followed the blonde, questions and retorts falling out of his mouth unbidden.

"It's no fun if you give up.  Where are you even going?"

A puff of warm air erupted into the winter surroundings from Draco’s mouth, creating white clouds around his face as he walked. “What do you expect me to do, Potter?” the petulant tone came as he didn’t turn. “Fight you when I’m starving and exhausted?” Turning, Draco faced Harry, walking backward. “Would that make it a sport for you? Run me through with your dagger while I struggle to just keep myself up? Sorry,” he said shaking his head, blond hair curling slightly from the dampness of winter. “I’m not here for your amusement.” He turned back around.

“I’m going home. I do have one. I’m not just some homeless monster lurking in the woods. I turn here so that I’m at least far enough away from civilization that I won’t hurt anyone,” he offered, though he didn’t particularly know why he did so. “There’s also a pretty healthy deer population here. They’ve been damaging the vineyards in the spring. It satisfies the hunt/kill instinct.” The last was said softly, quietly, as the words held much shame and guilt. He wasn’t even sure if Harry would hear them unless he had gotten closer.

Draco’s time in England after the change, after Voldemort returned and took the wizarding world…was brutal. Greyback was savage, and the “pack” he had created were encouraged to be monstrous. The blond felt much better, here in France, where the Dark Lord’s reach was not so encompassing. It was a comfort to know the blood he woke up in was deer and rabbit, not muggles from a town the pack had decimated. While logic dictated that he was not in his right mind without the wolfsbain potion, he still felt the shame of it in his bones.

For all of Draco’s snottiness, and honestly, meanness in his bullying days of Hogwarts, he wasn’t actually mean-hearted. Hurt someone with words and a simple curse, sure. That had been intimidation from a boy who felt his world out of control while his father, a man he respected above all others, bowed to someone Draco could only see as unworthy. It wasn’t lost on him that the wand that chose that 11 year old boy practically begged Draco to turn to the light, much like Headmaster Dumbledore did during his time in school. Now that he was without it, he missed his wand. An icon that if Draco had just chosen right, he could be good.

Well that choice was taken away the moment Fenrir’s fangs sealed into Draco’s flesh. And he had had to leave everything, everything behind when he fled, including his wand. It was fine. It didn’t work so well anymore, not after Draco’s first change. The blond walking in the snow chuckled darkly to himself thinking of it. Literal personification that he could never be good again. Now he had a stolen wand at home to do what a man growing up accustomed and reliant on magic needed.

Turning his head he looked back at Harry following him. “Are you going to be my shadow then, until you get up the nerve to actually do the deed?”

Every moment that he let Draco live, it became more impossible to kill him.  It was infuriating for Harry.  He was on a hunt.  The prey was right in front of him.  That's all his world was for him now:  hunter and prey.  With an exception.  An exception like this.  Because what Draco described... it sounded like Lupin.  How had they wound up here?

If Harry had ever expected to run into Draco again, it would've been as a servant of Voldemort.  And if there was anything it seemed Malfoy had distanced himself from, it was any sort of pack.  No pack would have left him vulnerable out here like this, waiting to be picked off by a hunter or a bear or even just a civilian with a trigger finger.  Malfoy was alone.  Like Harry himself.

That struck a strange chord for the former wizard.  He had always known, in some way that he had rejected in his adolescence, that he and Draco had... similarities.  Things they shared fundamentally, a chemistry they couldn't deny and yet couldn't consummate, so it became adversarial.  It defied the differences in their class, their status, their privilege and Houses and friends.  The opposite sides of a war they were destined for.  And it seemed it had surpassed time.

"You haven't seen me in five years, I just found you naked in the snow, and you're entirely content to just walk away from me?"  His voice sounded amused.  "You might be different, Malfoy, but I don't believe that for a second."

Because he couldn't turn back now.  He couldn't pretend he hadn't re-met Draco Malfoy in the wilderness in France.  This was more than he'd spoken to anyone in nearly a year, and he couldn't remember the last time he smiled, even if it was mocking.  That chemistry was still there.  Maybe it shouldn't be surprising that they'd both wound up outcasts from society, hiding out away from it and leaving the wizarding world behind them.  Arguing with Malfoy felt good.  Nostalgically good.

Growling, the blond rounded on him quickly. Blue eyes flashed with anger and annoyance as Harry talked, and internally Draco was trying to reign his anger in. So close to the full moon, vulnerable after the change, the wolf ruled, even subdued with wolfsbane potion. All Potter had done was talk and already Draco was more riled than he had been since he fled to France. No. Squatting in the “helps” abandoned cottage, instead of in the more proper Black cottage Draco was letting his life waste away...moping. He hadn’t moped since he had been bit but here in the snowy Alps, Draco Malfoy was resolved to die brooding.

But it had taken one antagonistic remark from a school day rival for all his emotions, all his passion to come to surface. Draco wondered for a moment what it would be like without the pacifying nature of the potion.

“Would you rather have found me clothed in Death Eater robes with a wand to your throat?” he spat, tone dark and low. "Because give me an hour and I can deliver.” Blue eyes turned thoughtful for a moment. “Well, not the robes. Those things are ghastly.” Draco stared Harry down, predator and prey facing off, but he doubted to hazard a guess as to who was whom. “I’m famished, and unless you’re content to let me eat you, which wouldn’t be half bad given the options, I suggest you let me on my way, Potter.”

Draco turned back around, trudging through the snow. “Food first, maybe sleep, and then I’ll be happy to trade belligerent insults and hexes with you.”

Harry didn't even flinch when Draco cracked back at him like a whip.  His amusement died down with the threat, but his eyes and expression were a trained kind of calm.  Distant but confident, like the wall of a fortress.  Behind it, some strange mixture of irritation and fun flared, but there was no outward sign of it.  Harry's voice was even when he responded, "You never could beat me in a duel.  No matter what you're wearing."

He kept following Malfoy when he turned to keep walking, keeping just a pace or two behind him.  "You know I can't just let you walk away.  What kind of hunter do you think I am?"  One who uses knives instead of sticks, obviously.  Having been away from the wizarding world for so long, he struggled to find even the idea of a wand to his throat genuinely intimidating when he had a blade in his hand already.  Or maybe he just didn't sincerely believe his old classmate would actually hurt him.  For some reason.

So he invited himself to go along with Draco.  He still hadn't decided what he was going to do, but the moon would be full again tonight.  And if nothing else, he had to see what would happen to his former rival when it did.  If he was worth sparing.  He tried not think about the fact that it was simply easier to kill him when he didn't wear such a familiar face.

Draco digested Harry’s words for a moment as he walked, turning them over in his head. So much had changed in five years, for both of them. And while normally the blond would use status and influence as an excuse for being better...things had changed. “You’re right. In Hogwarts I couldn’t. I spent three years with Fenrir, Potter,” he looked over his shoulder, throwing a dangerous glance at the brunette. “You couldn’t even imagine the things I’ve learned. You haven’t the...creativity.” It didn’t help that those three years were literally the worst in Draco’s life...the things he had done, as a beast, he was still paying for. The savagery that he was made to live in constantly. It was why he was alone in the Alps. No family. No pack. Draco Malfoy had come here to die; he just hadn’t worked the courage to do so yet.

At Harry’s question, the blond chuckled. “A pretty piss poor one, since you’ve let me dress and I’m currently walking away from you. What, Granger not here to carry your marks?” he asked, his tone snide and invoking nostalgia of stone halls and moving staircases. “Let me help you. Me, werewolf. You, hunter. Silver blade to the heart. Burn the remains. Believe me, you’d be doing me a favour.” The last sentence was muttered lowly, not really intended for Harry to hear, but not so low that it couldn’t be.

Draco stopped a moment, his mouth opening slightly as if he was tasting the air. Fresh snow had covered any tracks from last night, but he could scent the smoke coming from the hut for a couple miles. Turning left, he made his way through thick underbrush, stepping easily over fallen logs. Every once in a while he would look back at Harry, his fringe falling into his eyes before he pushed it out of the way. He wasn’t sure why Potter had decided the best course of action was to follow him, but he wasn’t in any condition to complain.

Harry’s mouth twitched into a slight frown at the mention of Fenrir.  He knew the stories.  There wasn’t a hunter -- not even an isolated one like himself -- who didn’t know the stories of Greyback’s pack.  Of who they were, the power they held, the things they did.  He didn’t have to “imagine” what Malfoy was talking about.  But the blonde was right; he didn’t have that kind of creativity.  Despite the threat, the implications, everything Malfoy was doing to scare him off, though, Harry had a hard time wrapping his head around the idea of Malfoy actually doing some of the things he was suggesting he’d done.  Voluntarily, at least.  But he remained quiet about that.

“It’s not like you can actually escape me,” he said with an almost bored tone to Malfoy’s breakdown of their new dynamic.  His brow stitched with irritation, though, at the borderline suicidal utterances.  “Self-pity isn’t a good look on you, Malfoy.”  Harry had no patience for that sort of thing, not even with himself.  He ignored the strange feeling in his gut, caused by hearing something like that from someone he’d never imagined in that state of mind.  Draco really had changed a lot.

The hunter had already determined what he had to do, but there was no need for him to explain that to his prey.  Besides, he didn’t really want to think about the kind of danger he was placing himself in just because... because he wanted Malfoy to be telling the truth.  He didn’t believe him, not for a second, about not being some kind of monstrous menace to the world that needed to be put down, but he wanted to believe him too badly to do more than glare at the back of the blonde’s leading form.  For now.

“I have to make sure you’re alone,” he responded stiffly.  It was a stupid excuse; any hunter worth his salt would already know that about a target, and he liked to think he was more competent than that.  But he was a lot better at tracking than he was at the social intricacies this conversation demanded of him, and he was already mentally exhausted of it.

#v: of monsters & men #p: harry potter and the snarky dick #long post #hawthorneandunicornhair #sorry this took aaaages!

[thejakeformerlyknownasprince]

Just found the age ask. You went off with the humans being 33 instead of 13, but what if they were 23 instead?

[If you are expecting anything cheerier than my other AU, stop reading now.]

It’s funny how different 23 is for some people than others.  How at 23 some people are adults, some are adolescents, and some are still children.  How some 23-year-olds are like Marco: they work two jobs, keep up with schoolwork while taking 12 credits at the local college, and still find the time to be the primary caretaker for an ailing father.  Some are like Jake: they live at home with their parents, play 60 hours of video games a week, and awkwardly dodge questions about when exactly they’re going to start applying for jobs.  Some are like Tobias: already married with kids, already headed for divorce, already adroit at ignoring the scent of unfamiliar cologne on Melissa’s skin or the hundreds of dollars that disappear from the bank account every month.  

Some are like Cassie: youthful and bright-eyed and drinking in knowledge, children at heart who never want to leave the safe haven of college to enter the real world.  Some are like Rachel: they move from interning to working full-time in a matter of months, always striving forward with one eye fixed on that corner office, hungry for excitement and recognition.  Some are like Ax: they get handed too much responsibility too soon and wallow there, unable to find the courage to lead, wondering all the while, what would my brother do?

 Anyway, it’s a funny age.

They go home, all of them, after they meet Elfangor.  Only this time when Tobias shows up at Jake’s house the next day, Jake looks him in the eye and says, “Sounds like a weird dream to me, but nah, I don’t remember any of that happening.”  Marco, standing over his shoulder, makes a dull noise of agreement.  After that, Tobias doesn’t dare ask any of the others for help.  

Cassie presses her hand to the warm flank of a skittish horse, two weeks later, and almost startles herself with how quickly he calms.  She continues to rest her hand there for a minute, wondering if she dares… And then her father calls from the house to invite her in for Sunday dinner, and the moment is forgotten.  (At least she tells herself she’s forgotten all about it.)

Tobias disappears a month after that.  Rachel smothers Melissa with blankets on the sagging couch of her studio apartment, cracks a bottle of merlot, and listens to her friend cry for the next three hours.  All the while she tries as hard as she can not to hope she’ll find a cat at her door, a bird tapping on her window, a fly on her windowsill, or another sign that Tobias can still trust her if not anyone else.  

Marco gets halfway through typing an online search inquiry: “alien + parasite + slug + brain - scifi” before he erases the whole chain without hitting search.  He deletes his browsing history as well, reroutes the keystroke tracking software from his computer, and uninstalls the internet browser.  He wipes sweat off his forehead, trying not to glance around at anyone else sitting in the internet cafe with him, and then he walks out the door.  

The Dome ship’s life support systems, never built to handle three months’ worth of corroding salt water and relentless ocean pressure, fail.  The only andalite left inside, whose warriors and arisths and parents and brother are all dead, watches the world collapse around him and makes no attempt to morph.  

Six months after Melissa has arranged a cursory empty-casket funeral for Tobias, Marco sees a woman through a crowd and sets off running before he even registers why he knows her face so well.  He chases her for over four blocks, loses her down a dead-end alleyway, and tries to tell himself after that he imagined the whole thing.  He buys drugs from a friend of a friend to make the hallucinations and nightmares stop, and they work so well that even Peter notices long enough to be concerned.  

Cassie morphs, exactly once, and even then only halfway.  Afterward, she dials Rachel’s number with shaking fingers, and dials it again, and dials it again.  By the time she finally has the right digits in the right order, she has already talked herself out of saying anything.  

Rachel, meanwhile, sleeps with her window propped open every night.  

Tobias tells her, and she listens.

One year to the day after that night in the construction site, Jake leans against the railing of his back porch, afternoon sun golden-hot on his skin, a sweating beer loosely clasped in one long-fingered hand.  Tom is there as well, his own beer neglected on top of the railing’s corner post, and they haven’t talked in what feels like ages.  Which is why Jake says, apropos of nothing, “Do you believe in aliens?”  He gets no answer (and, still looking toward the yard, doesn’t see the way his brother’s expression has gone hard and narrow) so he continues.  “Like, do you ever wonder if there’s any way they’re already here on Earth?  I mean, maybe if they had some way to look like us, or, I don’t know, hide inside us.  That’s crazy, right?  That’d be impossible?”  

He gets halfway through turning around for affirmation when there’s a sharp pain on the back of his head.  There’s enough time for him to register that it was a bottle that impacted his skull, and then his eyes are closing of their own volition for the very last time.

This is how it ends.

“Marco!  Hey, man, do you want to meet up for drinks after work today?  There’s a new place downtown I was thinking we could check out.”

“Cassie.  I know we haven’t talked in a while, not since… Well, you know.  Anyway, I’ve been feeling pretty down, and I was hoping we could meet up and talk this weekend.”

“Hey, Rach, Dad’s been bugging me to invite you to join us for dinner, it being Shabbat and all.  You’re still my favorite cousin, so you should come on by later, okay?”  

Check and mate.

Eight years later, the last free human on the face of the Earth has wings and a beak.  He has battle scars, andalite ancestry, and friends among the few hork-bajir lucky enough to be hosts for rebel yeerks.  Tobias lives to see the end of his species, just as Dak Hamee lived to see the end of his.  The humans don’t have a concept of seers, at least not any more, but Ket Halpak calls him one anyway.  Tobias always ducks his head shyly when she says this, pretending to preen feathers so he won’t have to meet her eyes.  There’s usually a pause in the conversation, and then they carry on: he tells her of Sharpies and Speed Racer, she tells him of Mother Sky and kaftids.  Just for a little while they keep their cultures alive, if only in the stories they tell.  

#asks #answers #magdalyn #animorphs #animorphs au #adult au #genocide tw #suicide tw #I'm a sucker for tragedy

[tashaleway]

KVAAFCRS: Chapter Four: Do Not Judge the Book by Its Cover

Karkat walked out of the bookshop as fast as he could, yet not quite running. His new books were under his arm, shrunken, in a little bag. He had only just managed to purchase them before his temper ran loose. He tried to take a calming breath, but the anger was still burning inside him like an Incendio. How dare he? Just insulting him without even knowing him! If Karkat had not been so angry, he would have snorted at the irony; was that not what he did himself? Insult people almost day in and day out, without ever knowing any of them.

Karkat crushed the traitorous little voice and tried to ignore the obvious point. But this is different! He thought. The older boy had been so cheerful in one moment, and in the next looked at him in blatant disgust, but with a tint of fear. As if… as if he was some kind of a freak… just like the bullies always called him. And here Karkat had thought that the magical world was better! Hah! How naïve could you be?! He let out a deep sigh, and tried to calm himself down. There was no reason to beat himself up over this. So what if others thought him a freak? So what if he never got any friend? He could handle himself… he was fine on his own… who needed friends anyway? Another deep sigh escaped him. Who was he kidding? He had always wanted friends. Yes, he could handle himself alone, but he didn’t want to. He didn’t want to be alone. It was all that Jake-Fucking-Idiot-English’s fault! ~Flashback~ The girl, Jade, continued to beg her father so Karkat turned away from the scene and was face to face with another boy, older than Karkat by five years or so. He looked a lot like the girl with the dog-book; black hair like her (but short hair instead), buckteeth, glasses (these on the other hand, were square) and the same facial structures. He had dark-green eyes and a huge, dopey smile that put Karkat on an edge. Nobody sane could be that ridiculous happy and show it. He frowned deeply. “Blimey!  What is such a little fella doing all alone here?” he asked, still smiling. How in the ever-loving fuck, was it possible to talk while showing so many teeth? The retarded kid was obviously years older than Karkat, as the fucker had the nerve to crouch in front of him, so the psycho could look him in the eyes without needing to look down. If Mr. Fucking-Fuckface had any idea, how much he pissed Karkat off, he would most likely have backed away, fearing for his life. Unfortunately, he didn’t have any idea, as the Great Idiot stayed in the same FUCKING position, smiling the same cheerful smile. “For starters, I am not alone, you fucking piece of shit, so back away, before I kick your balls off! And I am NOT a ‘little fella’, as you so nicely put it.” Karkat inwardly cringed at the word ‘fella’ and promised himself that he would never utter the word again. So if the other boy would just leave him THE FUCK ALONE! After, Karkat had calmed himself down a little; he realized just exactly, what he had just said. To the other boy that was much older and stronger than him. He was screwed. But instead of getting offended, the boy, who looked to be around seventeen or eighteen, laughed, causing him to get the attention of the begging girl and her father. “Sorry chum. You just looked so small, so I thought that you were lost!” “And you look retarded and insane.” Good retort, Karkat. Best insult. Karkat almost wished that the other boy would be angry at him, or something, as that would be more familiar to him, but the fool kept laughing. “What the fuck are you laughing at you dumb fuck?!” Karkat was getting really annoyed, most of the kids in their town, hated him, and even when they laughed at him, it was mocking and not like this, genuine, amused laugh. It was fucking weird. What would happen next? Would the other boy start sprouting rainbows out of his ears and leave for a magical (pun not intended… much) adventure on his unicorn? The fact that unicorns existed made this thought neither ridiculous, sarcastic nor amusing in any way… “Your anger, of course!” Karkat was about to attack this annoying, cheerful person, when another boy bumped into him. Another bucktoothed person. This one in blue clothes, though, but also with square glasses. Was it Annoy-the- Shit-Out-of-Karkat-Day, or what? “Oh my gosh! I’m so sorry about that! I wasn’t looking! I am really sorry! Are you okay? I’m John Egbert, by the way! What about you?” the boy that had bumped into him said and shyly held his hand out for a shake. Mr GoofyFace was almost forgotten. Karkat frowned. He didn’t know what else to do. He was surrounded by people, he didn’t know, and he certainly didn’t like them either. He took the hand, nevertheless. “It’s not nice to meet you, Egbert, but can you tell me, who that mindless fool there is? By the looks of it, I would guess that you were family,” Karkat was proud. That was the second time today that he didn’t swear as the first thing to do, after being introduced to a stranger. Insulting them? Well, it was better than nothing, so shut up! John frowned by the insult of the green-clothed boy, but answered anyway. “His name is Jake English and he is my cousin. He is going to be a seventh year here to September. The girl in blue, over there, is Jade Harley. She is also my cousin. Jake and Jade are siblings. They also have another sister. Her name is Jane Crocker, but she is not here right now. She is Jake’s twin, but who are you? You never gave me your name.” “One big, happy family, huh? Well, I’m Karkat Vantas. You’re a first year, right?” the handshake was about to have another round, when John was quickly dragged away by Jake, before anyone could do anything. Karkat only got a bit of the whispered conversation “-bad influence. Stay away-“ and then, they were gone, taking the girl, Jade, and her father with them, only sparing him a hostile glance. ~Flashback end~ Good riddance, Karkat thought angrily. Now he was here, outside the bookshop, waiting for his brother and “babysitter”, while he tried to cool off. ~naknak~ It didn’t take Droog and Kankri long, before they too exited the shop. Without any trouble of any sort, they bought parchment, new quills and inkwells for both of them, as well as their potion ingredients (Kankri got a re-fill). They only needed one set of crystal phials, a cauldron and a telescope for Karkat. It was when they was in Ollivander’s (an old, creepy man that even seemed to freak dear, old Droog out), buying a wand for Karkat that they ran into a bit of trouble; no wand seemed to want the eleven year old. Twenty-two wands were already lying on the desk, not one of them had accepted Karkat. The old man had measured him, just as if he was measured for clothes and asked which arm was his wand arm (his right), but even with these helping tools (did it actually help, or was it just for show? Karkat had no idea), they didn’t get any further a new wand, or so it seemed. Karkat was about to get nervous, okay, he was already nervous, so it would be close to the truth to say that he was about to panic, but he did his best to hide it. He was after all going to be a Gryffindor, and Gryffindor’s were brave. They didn’t fear anything, but why didn’t any of the wands want him? Was he after all a Dark Wizard? Could it be that he was not good enough for any of these wands? Karkat came back to reality, when Kankri stepped forward and whispered something in the old man’s ear that made Ollivander’s eyes snap wide and pierce Karkat with a stare. It would have been funny. The man that could scare even adults with his silver-pale eyes and his seer-like abilities was shocked over something. No one else seemed to find it funny and Karkat might only have found it funny because of his near panic attack. “Are you sure?” Ollivander asked and Kankri nodded in response. “Ah, yes I can see it now. Looks like his father, all down to the eyes. I knew both Miss Paint and this boy’s father, but I had never imagined that they would end up together. I remember the little girl, always caring about others. Yes, she was something special, even the wands that didn’t accept her, didn’t damage anything like normal wands. Not because of a low magical core, but because of the kindness in her that could sooth even unchosen wands. Defiantly different from your father that was nothing more than a troublemaker, was he, but cunning and sly enough to never get caught. No one ever guessed he could be behind the pranks and so-called accidents. No surprise that he ended up in Slytherin.” Ollivander said, looking like he was in his own world, apparently not remembering that he had a costumer in front of him. A wand would be nice. Karkat thought sarcastically, not caring an inch about his parents. In addition, why should he? They were dead and gone, with no hope of ever returning. It wouldn’t matter how much knowledge he gained about them, they would still be cold corpses, buried six feet under. A piece of him actually wanted to know more, get to know them, but he crushed the thought, before it became strong. At least, he had now learned the last name of their mother, which Kankri would never speak of, and Crabdad most likely knew nothing of. As if able to read the first of Karkat’s thoughts, Ollivander ‘came back’ to the present. “Yes, yes. A wand for young Mr. Vantas! I am sorry for the wait. I was lost in my own little world. I will be right back!” with those words, he went thought the door that led into the back of the shop, probably, a place filled with even more wands. “What did you tell him?” Karkat asked his brother. “Who your parents were, because he didn’t seem to recognize you. Sometimes it helps him to know, who ones parents are, when you get your wand. Sometimes a family helps Mr. Ollivander with a magical core for his wands and that special wand is for one of their descendants, maybe hundred years after,” just as the last word was spoken, Ollivander entered the shop again, holding a long box (like all the other boxes, hiding and securing a wand) covered in dust. The old man held the box, like it was a precious treasure to him, but Karkat couldn’t see anything special about it, not even when he took the wand out. The wood was a deep dark brown, but other than that, it didn’t look any different from the other wands he had tried, more the opposite. Some of the other wands had symbols engraved, a special colour, or a beautiful handle. This wand looked ordinary. Plain. Nothing compared to the others. Without another word, not even saying, what tree gave wood to the wand of or anything about the wand core, Ollivander handed the wand to Karkat. The second, Karkat touched the wand and he could feel something. Something was different about this one. He felt light like he could fly, he felt magical, as if he could do anything now. He felt powerful; nothing could stop him from reaching his dreams. He was whole. He was a whole piece again. While Karkat was occupied with his new wand and these new feelings, the others saw the magic sprout from the boy, though the wand like fireworks, lighting up the shop, before the magic settled around Karkat like dust in both red, green and black. “Magnificent… That I would ever live to see this day with my own eyes…” Ollivander whispered. Before Karkat could ask him, what he meant, the old wand-maker continued. “I am sure, we will see some extraordinary things from you, young Mr. Vantas,” he said, not whispering anymore. Karkat was sure; it wasn’t the intention of the wand-maker to let him hear his whisper. “Yeah, whatever. What is the wand made of?” Karkat asked, trying not to sound shocked. A lot of things had freaked him out the last weeks and an insane wand-maker, who wouldn’t tell him about his wand, but would instead ramble about how an eleven-year old boy was expected to do great things, was close to be the last drop for him. Soon he would lose his cool (liar, you have never been able to keep your head cool). “Oh, yes, yes! This wand, you see, is very special, indeed. It’s nine inches long and the wood is oak, which is not that abnormal, no, but you see, normally, I only use hair from a unicorn, phoenix feathers and dragon heartstring, but this wand has a core of scales from an ashwinder snake. A member of your family gave them to me and made me make a wand of it. He must have known that this day would come. And to see that amount of magic! It was everything worth! That will be seven Galleons, young Master,” shocked, Karkat handed him the requested money and without another word, Droog and Kankri dragged him out of the shop, apparently wishing to get out of there in a huff. Just as they were outside, they almost bumped into a man and a boy. Both had smooth, black hair and green eyes. The man was wearing a green suit and robes that matched his eyes, while his son wore dark green robes and pants with a black shirt with some red symbols that Karkat didn’t have the time to decipher. “Move out of the way, peasants!” the man said with a cold voice and without thinking twice, Karkat & co. did so.  This was clearly a man you shouldn’t stand in the way for. The little group of three had only managed to walk for about a hundred meters when, they heard shouting from the wand shop, which made many people turn around and stare. While being dragged further away, Karkat wondered, what happened inside. ~naknak~ Without Karkat’s knowledge, the man, named Calious Umbrage Uranian had had that wand in mind for his son, as soon, he heard about the rare scales in it. Uranian was furious. The core of the wand was very special and the old man had just handed the wand out to the first and best costumer! Uranian was mad, although none of it showed, except a tightening around his eyes, to show his displeasure at the wand maker, who countered by showing his worth of not cowering before him, but instead said, that ‘the wand chose the wizard, not the other way around’ with a raised eyebrow. The lord sneered at those words. Just because the wands helped wizards and witches to wield their magic, it didn’t give them a consciousness. That was just sheer idiocy, like saying that mudbloods could be equal and even stronger than purebloods in magic! Blasphemy! How could that ever happen, with dirty, muggle blood running through their veins? Uranian was very close to just dash out on the street, hunt the boy down and make him give up the wand, with force if he needed to, but he restrained himself. The wand had already chosen its master, there was no way he could make it accept his son, unless they fought and his heir won, which he would, of course, if such a situation ever arose, but that was plotting for another time. Instead, Uranian’s son, Caliborn Calious Uranian, got another wand that chose him for its master. Ash, eight and a half inches and Dragon Heartstrings. Not bad, but still not the desired wand. The red-eyed boy would pay. As well as the wand-maker. Soon, but not now.

#homestuck #homestuck fanfiction #karkat vantas #chapter four #kvaafcrs

[alexander-slander]

The Seer part six

“That’s only a last resort we’ll have you guys stay in the woods and then I’ll whistle and have you all come out.” He shrugged smiling at his best friend.

“Alright fine, but you owe me.” Scott said raising his head to glare at his best friend.

“Alright then it’s set. I’ll call Dean back and tell him I’m going to stop by to pick up a few things.” Stiles said with a smile on his face with a returning scowl from his friends.

Dean was sitting on the couch with a double bacon cheese burger he got from the little diner down town watching some cartoon on the T.V.

His phone went off and he set his burger down pulling it out of his pocket. “Hewwo?” He said with his mouth full.

“Dean are you okay?” Stiles asked pulling the phone away from his ear.

Dean swallowed and cleared his throat. “Stiles where are you?” he asked sitting up and getting Sam’s attention.

“I’m on my way to the house I need to pick up a few things.” He said shrugging to his friends behind him.

“Why don’t you stay here for a few days it’ll give us time to get to know each other.” Dean said putting him on speaker.

“I’ll think about it.” He said not wanting to say no just yet. “Hey what did you want to talk about when you called earlier?” He asked trying to get Dean to say something.

“I’ll tell you when you get here.” He said then hung up.

Stiles sighed and looked at the others. “Don’t give me that look, I know what you’re thinking at least I didn’t put collars or leashes on you guys.” He mumbled getting an answering growl in response from Erica.

They soon made it to the house and Stiles used his key to open the door. As he opened the door Sam and Dean pointed their guns at him.

“Whoa! Shit calm down it’s just me!” Stiles said holding his hands up and ducking. His friends not knowing what was going on jumped in front of him growling ready to pounce.

They turned their guns onto the wolves making them growl more and bare their teeth.

“Whoa easy. Isaac, Erica, Scott, Boyd, stand down.” He said recovering. “Sam Dean you two put the guns away.” He said taking deep breaths.

“What is this?” Dean asked waving his hand towards him and the wolves.

“These are Dereks’ wolves. Scott, Erica, Isaac, and Boyd.” He said gesturing to them in turn.

“Dean.” Sam said nudging Dean and looking at Isaac. “That looks like the wolf from earlier.” He said looking to Stiles.

“Well Isaac here decided to play Houdini and get out while Derek and I were on our run.” Stiles said leaning down and petting Isaac.

“So you’re telling me that Derek has four pet wolves?” Dean asked skeptically.

“Yeah his family used to care for injured wolves on the reserve. He took it over after they passed when he left. He brought them back a few years ago when he decided to move back.” Stiles said getting up and looking over at his cousins.

“I see.” Sam said looking a little skeptical.

Boyd whined at Stiles nudging his hand. He looked down and hid his smile as he jerked his head towards the back door. “Go on.” He said letting them go outside.

“I’m going to go grab some clothes and a suit for my dad.” He said as he walked up the stairs and went to grab some clothes and his dad’s uniform.

He came down a few minutes later with a bag of his things and his dads uniform in a dress bag to take it to the funeral home. He’d already told the corner where to send him when they had all they needed.

“Hey if there’s anything we can do just let us know okay?” Sam said walking over to him.

“Yeah thanks. His funeral will be held in a few days you guys should come. I know our dads didn’t have the best relationship but I hope we can have a better one than they did. It would mean a lot if you guys came.” He said rearranging the stuff in his hands.

“Of course your family. We know how it is to lose your parents.” Dean said clapping him on the back.

“Alright I better be getting them back to the reserve.” He said whistling to get their attention. They came in and waited at the door. “I’ll see you guys later.” He said before he walked out the door with them following.

Once they were far enough away he handed them the backpack he hid so they could change back and get dressed. They were glad they didn’t have to put on a show and Scott went with Stiles to drop of his dads uniform.

After they left Dean went over to his computer and opened it up. “What are you doing?” Sam asked walking over to his brother.

“I may or may not have put a bug on his shirt.” Dean said opening the app.

“Dean!” He groaned. “Can you go one day without thinking our cousin is hiding something please?”

“Look we came here on a case. Do you think it’s a coincidence that Dereks’ pet wolves happen to have the same name as his friends?” Dean asked looking up at his brother.

“Okay yeah that’s a little weird but, he did say that Derek’s family took care of them before Derek did. They could just be the last ones his parents took care of before the fire.” Sam explained sitting across from Dean.

“Sammy we talked about this. There’s too much evidence to not investigate. Those wolves have human names that just happened to correspond with his friends. Whether you like it or not there’s something going on here.” He said looking over at his brother.

“I know but can’t this wait till after the funeral. It doesn’t look like they’re going anywhere.” Sam said sighing.

“If I get a lead I’ll wait till after the funeral deal?” he said looking at his brother.

“Deal.” Sam said putting his hand on the table. “So what do you want for dinner?”

“I don’t know steak maybe or something else.” He said shrugging as he listened to what Scott and stiles were saying.

“Scott no. I’m not going to say anything.” Stiles said as they left the funeral home.

“Stiles come on you’re going to have to tell them at some point.” Scott said as they walked back to Dereks’.

“No Scotty. I’m not telling them yet. I know they need to know but can it wait until after my dad is laid to rest. There’s just a lot going on right now. I’ll tell them after everything settles down.” Stiles said as he shoved his phone in his pocket.

“I think it would be better if you told them now just so they don’t think you were keeping something from them.” He said stopping and turning to look at his best friend.

“Scott I know you’re trying to help and I appreciate it. I still don’t have full control over it and I want more answers before I tell them that I’m the seer.” He said sighing.

“Hey Sammy come listen to this.” Dean called taking off the head phones.

Sam wiped his hands on a towel and put the head phones on listening to the rest of their conversation.

“Alright I’ll back off. I mean it’s not like you’re hiding a secret relationship or something life threatening.” Scott said putting an arm around Stiles’ shoulders.

“Thank you I’m this omnipresent being who sees all. I want to know how this works is it in the family line or if it’s just by chance. I mean I don’t really have a choice in the matter but I do want to know the reason behind me being the seer.” Stiles said putting his hands in his pockets.

“I get it. You were always one to ask the more in depth questions. Usually the questions that got us grounded all through our teen years.” Scott said laughing.

“Okay that was a low blow you had some hand in those questions too.” He said nudging him playfully.

“Come on last one back to the house has to do the dishes.” Scott said before taking off with Stiles close behind.

Sam took the head phones off and sighed running hand down his face. “Okay I will admit that Stiles is a supernatural being but that doesn’t mean we have to be concerned about it.”

“I’m not saying we worry about him but we should at least look into it after everything settles down. We’ll see if he decides to tell us and if not we’ll talk to him about it.” Dean said closing the lap top. “Hey why did you decide to make dinner?” Dean asked tilting his head.

“Just felt like it. Got tired of eating out, it’s been a while since we’ve had a meal that wasn’t cooked at a diner.” He said as he walked back to the kitchen.

Dean got up and walked into the kitchen to reply when his phone went off. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and looked at the caller ID. “It’s Cas.” He said answering the phone.

“Hey where are?” He asked a smile on his face.

“Hey Dean I’m in this town called Beacon Hills. I stopped here so I could check in.” He said pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Wait you’re here?” Dean asked curiously.

“Oh right that’s where you and Sam went on your latest case.” He said sighing.

“Hey Cas are you alright?” Dean asked walking out of the room.

“Yeah I’m fine there’s just a lot going on with the angels. Hey how about I stop by the motel you and Sam are in?”

“About that remember that name we got? Yeah it’s the name of our twenty something year old cousin.” Dean said sitting down on the couch.

“I thought the only family you had was your moms relatives?” He questioned as he looked for their location.

“I’ll send you the address and I’ll fill you in when you get here.” He said leaning back into the couch.

“Already there.” He said from where he was from behind Dean.

“AHhh!” Dean screamed and dropped his phone as he fell from the couch.

“Dean!” Sam said bursting in with his gun ready to fire.

“It’s alright Sammy. Just my idiot boyfriend trying to get himself shot.” Dean said sitting up.

“Sorry, babe.” Cas said helping Dean up and kissing him lightly.

Dean kissed back moving his hands to rest on Cas’ chest fisting in his shirt and pulling him closer. When they pulled apart Dean smiled at him and pressed their lips together once more.

“God I missed you.” Dean said leaning their foreheads together.

“I’m always watching over you.” He whispered before pulling back.

Dean smiled and walked with Cas into the kitchen holding his hand as they sat at the counter.

“So you guys have a cousin?” Cas asked taking the water that Sam offered him.

“Yeah Bobby gave us the address and we came to talk to our uncle but he recently died.” Sam said passing Dean his plate of food.

“The kids name is Stiles well that’s what he goes by at least. His real name is something that really no one can pronounce.” Dean said taking the food.

“Mieczyslaw Stilinski. Parents Claudia, and Noah Stilinski. His mom died when he was just a child, from frontotemporal dementia.” Cas said taking a sip of his water.

“How did you know that?” Dean asked looking at him quizzically.

“When we were looking for the prophet his name was mentioned but upon further inspection we realized he wasn’t.” He said shrugging.

“So not only was he possessed by the Nogitsune he could’ve been the prophet and is now the seer.” Dean said stabbing his food with his fork. “Not to mention the guy he’s in love with could possibly be a werewolf.”

“Wait your cousin is in love with a werewolf?” Cas asked his face scrunching in confusion.

“They like each other, a lot, it reminds me of the two of you.” Sam said looking between the two of them. “I mean Bobby had to explain it to Dean and that seems like what someone might have to do with Stiles.”

They talked for a little bit longer before sirens started sounding outside. “What the heck?” Sam asked getting up and looking out the window. “Dean what did you do?” Sam asked looking over at him.

“Why do you assume I did something?” He asked tossing his hands in the air.

“This is the police, we have you surrounded, come out with your hands up.” An officer said from outside.

“I see your point.” Dean said grabbing his gun and going to the window next to his brother.

Stiles and Derek got in an argument so he decided to go home and spend a night or two there. He turned onto his street and saw that there were police cars outside his house.

He parked on the other side of the street and walked up to the acting sheriff. “Hey Jack what’s going on?” He asked looking at his house.

“We got a call from one of your neighbors that said they saw some suspicious people hanging around.” He said looking over at Stiles.

“Oh they must have seen my cousins. they’re staying here for a while.” Stiles said running a hand through his hair. “Long story.” He said at the officers quizzical look.

“So there’s nothing wrong going on in there?” He asked pointing to the house.

“Nope nothing dubious going on.” Stiles said putting his hands behind his back.

The officer nodded. “Alright guys false alarm lets head back!” he called to his men, getting back in their cars.

Stiles sighed and walked up to the door walking in getting a gun to his face. “Shit Dean will you stop that!” He called as he bumped into the door.

“Sorry kid thought you were one of the cops.” He said putting his gun away.

“Sorry about them one of the neighbors saw you guys hanging around and called the cops.” Stiles said tossing his keys on the table next to the door.

He walked into the kitchen and saw Cas sitting at the counter. “You must be Castiel.” He said holding out his hand.

#writing #writers #sterek #fluff #teen wolf #teen wolf fluff #supernatural #destiel #supernatural fluff #angst

[shapermarked]

The Shaper’s Mark. Chapter 1.

Chapter 1

The acrid smell of two dozen teenagers filled the small room as my classmates and I waited for our principal, Miss Apple. to finish droning. We’d heard the speech a thousand times of course, that every single one of us were complete and utter disappointments and that she felt nothing but embarrassment at our prospects. Of course, the vapid bitch had been directly responsible for our education in secondary school, so in a way our shortcomings were her fault.

Today was the day of the Melee. A no holds bar clash between every magically gifted eighteen-year-old in the region that decided if you were worth the investment of higher education. Considering most of my class was ranked in the lower D ranks, powers levels far below the C ranks where most people our age resided, it was an inevitability that most of us would end up beginning our compulsory military service. As the sons and daughters of merchants, the senior class of The Erickson school for practical and magical education, we weren’t expected to possess any magical potency. A fact that our Principal never failed to remind us of.

As Miss Apple droned on about how most of us would be cleaning latrines for the next two years her Seer’s mark glowed a bright blue on her forehead. A Mark was the symbol inscribed upon every mage at birth and determined how an individual’s magic worked. Miss Apple’s Mark was the Mark of the Seer, a Mark that granted her the ability to see past illusion and directly see a person’s aura. The color of a person’s aura was the easiest way to determine a mage’s power class.

Miss Apple was, as she loved to brag, in the upper ranks of the B class of power. As a class B mage, Miss Apple was magnitudes stronger than her class of lowly D’s. Of course, I wasn’t a class D, but she didn’t need to know that just yet. A mage’s power was measured on a scale of classes ranging from F to double S class with nine ranks in every class.

My own mark, the mark of the enchanter, glowed on my left palm as Miss Apple finished her lecture. She began calling students up for final inspections before being allowed on the teleport platform. When my turn came I approached Miss apple and her face contorted into a smug grin.

“Well look who it is.” She said as I stepped up to her. “My, my, my, what do we have here?”

She gestured to my equipment. I had spent the last month and my entire savings, meager as they were, on equipment for the Melee. I wore two metal gauntlets each enchanted with runes to cast focused bursts of kinetic force, my sword was a standard dueling blade I’d forged and enchanted in my forge, and my belt was lined with pouches containing an assortment of surprises for the other Melee combatants. If I was a measly D this arsenal would have taken at least a year to put together.

“Mister Eaton.” Apple said, her eyes going misty as her Mark activated. “Now where in the world did you get all of those enchanted items?”

“I made them Ma’am.” I said giving her my best grin as she examined my aura.

The locket around my neck warmed as her gaze fell upon the false aura that hid my true aura. For most of my life my mother, an illusionist, had kept my aura hidden my true power level with her illusions. Whenever I asked why she would use the same excuse that she didn’t want to attract attention and that we had nothing to prove.

My working theory was that I was probably the bastard of a nobleman. Considering that I was apparently the only child in Empire born without a father and my power rankings at birth were far too high for a commoner. As much as my mother insisted on keeping my true power ranking a secret she loved to gush about my level at birth. Though most people outside Nobility are born with a power level somewhere in the low F ranks, my power levels at birth were in the low C ranks. As far as I knew, only someone born into nobility could possess power levels like that at birth.

“Oh, really a D rank 3 made all of this with your meager amount of Mana,” Apple said a cackle escaping her thin lips. “Must have taken you the entire year to produce all of this. You know if you spent this energy focusing on your studies you might have amounted to something.”

The smile hurt on my lips as I strained to maintain composure. Thoughts of blasting her in the face with a force gauntlet filled my mind, but I forced the urge to maim the crone down. If only I could show her my actual aura than the vapid twit would stop chittering for once. But I couldn’t do that just yet, my whole strategy in the Melee depended on keeping my Aura hidden for as long as possible. As satisfying as it would be to put the crone in her place it paled in comparison to doing well in the Melee.

“Of course Miss Apple, as always your advice is just the best.” I said through gritted teeth.

“Perhaps you’re not as simple as I thought, Eaton.” Apple said before tapping her chin with one bony finger. “Didn’t your mother forbid you from participating in the Melee?”

“Oh, she changed her mind.” I replied. Truthfully my mother was halfway across the continent negotiating with a striking trade ship crew. It wasn’t so much that she changed her mind more than it was that she had no idea I was here.

“Really? Your mother doesn’t strike me as a woman who would change her opinion so easily” Apple said raising an eyebrow. “But if you wish to incur your mother’s wrath after being utterly decimated in the Melee so be it. Ascend the platform and join the other misfits and may the gods have mercy on your soul.”

I flashed her a fake smile and ascended the steps to the teleporter pad. Most of my class was already standing around nervously as the checked over their Marks and mismatched equipment. Despite most of the class coming from relatively wealthy merchant families, their equipment was substandard hand me downs. Considering most of us were just going to inherit the family shops and ships it was useless to invest in our magical education. A philosophy most of my class embraced considering that most hadn’t even bothered cleaning the rust off their weapons.

I came to stand next Marcus Vexen, a short man with the same ashy black hair and pale skin we northerners shared. I had very few friends in school, interpersonal connections weren’t really my forte, and Erickson Academy wasn’t the kind of school that fostered goodwill between its students. Marcus though, he was probably the closest thing to a friend I had, which I realize is kind of sad considering I don’t think I’ve ever had a conversation longer than a few sentences with him.

Marcus nodded to me as I took my place in our class’s sloppy formation, and I noticed he wasn’t wearing boots. Instead, he wore very comfortable looking sandals.

“Not very sensible footwear for a Melee, Marcus.” I said.

“Hey, I figure if I’m going to get knocked off the platform, why deal with wet socks?” Marcus said with a shrug. “At least I’ll float. Rowan, it looks like you’re carrying an arsenal.”

“Preparation is the mother of victory.” I said with a grin.

“You’re planning on winning?” Marcus asked with a raised eyebrow.

“I’m not planning on it. I’m expecting it.”

“Trying to skirt service by feigning insanity. Wish I’d thought of that.” Marcus said shaking his head.

As the last of my classmates joined our sloppy formation I felt the pad beneath us begin to vibrate at the teleportation enchantments charged. A green ring of light forms around us and the smell of ozone hit my nose. I rest a hand on the hilt of my sword and watch as Miss Apple makes a hand washing gesture before she turns to leave the room. With a whoosh of air, the room dissolves around us and is replaced by an open arena.

We found ourselves standing in the Melee’s arena on one of twenty similar pedestals that adorned the edge of a circular platform. Around the platform was empty space, and even though I couldn’t see it I knew water awaited anyone who went over the side of the platform. I scanned the rows of seating all around us and saw a thin crowd of parents and teachers watching with vague disinterest as the other classes were teleported onto the other platforms. At the center of the platform hung a large number ten written in frozen fire; evidently, the countdown that would commence the Melee.

The goal of the Melee was to use our skills both magical and otherwise to incapacitate other combatants. Every combatant dispatched would count towards a total that would decide our final grade. I was barely a duelist, the only reason I had any skill with a blade was because my mother forced me to practice for an hour every day since I was six, but with my enchanted gear, I was confident I’d be able to Manage.

A barrier spell flickered around us keeping my classmates and me on the platform until it was time to begin. The Melee itself wouldn’t begin for another few minutes, so I decided to take in the competition. Each platform was packed with kids from all over the northern and eastern territories. Unlike my classmates, whose parents had simply given them the cheapest equipment our opponents wore new dueling vests and shining swords. The groups near us were already eyeing my class with predatory gazes. This was going to get very interesting very fast.

I looked across the sandy surface of the platform and spotted a group wearing the dueling uniform of Athen academy. Athen was the premier private school in the northeast region of the continent, the opposite of my alma mater. The students on the teleporter pad stood with their backs to the rest of the platform and had their weapons drawn on a girl standing in the middle. A tall Karrocki girl stood at the center; inches from the drawn blades of her classmates.

The Karrocki were the strange dark-skinned people who occupied the eastern edges of the continent. Most historians agreed the Karrocki had arrived on the continent at some point several centuries ago; fleeing a massive dust storm that had consumed their own homeland. When the glorious god emperor, Pious the First, made to annex the east for his fledgling empire he found the Karrocki waiting for him. It’s been said that the God Emperor chose wisely to ally with the Karrocki instead of trying to conquer them. Looking at the girl I could see why he did.

 She was a prime specimen of the Karrocki people. Tall and confident with a strange predatory beauty that was obvious from even from this distance. Her long raven black hair was tied back in a braid that swung back and forth in the wind. I spotted her Mark glowing on the umber skin of her neck, but I couldn’t quite make it out. I wondered why her entire class seemed to be turning on her, but then again, I was about throw my class under an auto-carriage, so.

A chime rang across the arena and the fiery ten at the center of the platform changed to a nine and then an eight. As the numbers began counting down I brought my hand up and wrapped it around the locket on my neck. My other hand gripped the hilt of my blade as my classmates turned to size each other up. Many drew their weapons while a few edged closer to the drop off apparently hoping for a quick way out of the Melee. The groups nearest to us were doing the same while also casting glances towards the other groups.

As the countdown reached five, I pulled the locket and broke the chain and as I ripped it off my neck my aura blazed green around me in a momentary corona. Marcus’s eyes widened as the smell of ozone filled the air and he turned to look at me. His gaze met mine and I winked as the countdown reached zero.

“You’re a b cla…” he began before I drew my sword and grabbed him by the collar.

Now I’m not a warrior. I spent most of my time tinkering with enchantments or in my forge hammering at metal, but years of metalworking had imbued my muscles with strength and endurance. I shifted my feet and threw Marcus into the cluster of my classmates behind me and fired a burst of kinetic force with one of my gauntlets. The blast collided with the sprawling Marcus and sent him crashing into my classmates sending most of them over the edge into the waters below.

I didn’t have time to celebrate my easy attack because a blade whizzed by my head. When my attacker attempted another swipe, I raised my blade and parried before kicking my assailant in the groin. He crumpled to his knees and managed to yell out before I brought the pommel of my sword crashing into his temple. He fell to the ground unconscious, and I looked out at the battlefield before me.

It seemed to me that I stood in the eye of a storm. Magical energies collided and exploded as bolts of lightning clashed with blades of fire. Some fought with swords others with maces, but one thing was clear. This was all out war and it. Was. Glorious. I was just an enchanter, but something about the thrill of duking it out with another mage always got my blood boiling. I pumped Mana into my sword and watched as the force multiplier runes activated increasing the force of my attacks by a magnitude of ten.

I looked to my left and saw the remaining remnants of my class being dealt with by a group of three girls wielding glimmering maces. The Arsenal Mark glowed on their bodies like beacons as magical energy coated their skin like armor. The Arsenal Mark was so named because it gave the wielder the ability to shift their Mana into a physical state to forge temporary weapons and armor. A fascinating Mark by all accounts, but my academic interest in the Mark itself was somewhat tempered as a blade of pure Mana whizzed towards my head.

The three girls, all wearing the uniform of one of the church’s many girls only academies, glared at me as their maces burned brightly in their hands. The one who threw the blade charged forward with her sisters in arms close behind and I draw a small silver disc from one of my pockets. I forced some of my Mana into the disc and flicked it across the ground. It bounced on the sand and with high ring stretched with every revolution.

The leader jumped over it when was still the size of a manhole, but her battle sisters weren’t so lucky. By the time they could react the disc had already expanded to a diameter of several feet and they landed hard onto its metal surface. With a satisfying thud, the pair collided with the hard metal and were thrown by its spin. One skidded across the sand and crashed into another combatant while the other one was thrown off the platform altogether.

My victory was short lived however as their leader quickly regained her footing and had covered the distance between us in seconds. I raised my sword and blocked a brutal smashing attack that sent a stab of pain through my arm as our weapons met. Her mace flickered as she drew back for another attack and I slashed at her stomach. Even with my force multiplier enchantments my blade uselessly bounced off her stomach.

The girl brought the mace down and I brought my sword up, but I was a second too late as her mace knocked the blade from my hands. Her foot collided with my face and pain washed through my head as I was thrown backward. She brought the mace down again and I Managed to squeeze of a force blast from one of my gauntlets knocking the mace from her hands. It fell to the ground few yards behind her before disappearing in a burst of sparks.

“Oh, how I hate you fucking enchanters.” The girl said as a cutlass of Mana formed in her hand. “You must have thought you were so clever hiding your power level, eh? No matter how strong you are Enchanter, you’re still just Erickson trash.”

“M’lady you’ve already wounded my pride by disarming me.” I began, eyeing my blade behind the girl; slowly I put my left arm behind my back and began pouring my Mana into the gauntlet’s force rune.  “Yet you have the gal to insult not only my Mark but my school as well.”

“Save the noble speech for the water, Enchanter.” The girl said swiping at the air with her blade. “Say hello to your classmates for me.”

“Oh, come on we can talk this out.” I said sliding the now red-hot gauntlet of my wrist and grasping it in the still gauntleted hand. “You want a force Gauntlet? I’ll let you have it if you let me go.”

“So, this is what a worm looks like?” The girl said raising the blade above her head. “Bye Bye worm.”

“Catch.” I yelled throwing the glowing gauntlet at her.

Spinning around, I managed to throw myself forward as the gauntlet exploded in a mushroom of force. The blast carried me forward and I crashed hard into the sand before skidding to a stop. Opening my eyes, I looked around and saw that I was now at the center of the platform and my last attacker was clinging to the edge of the platform; her energy cutlass buried in the sand. She shot me a glare before her weapon fizzled out and she fell out of sight.

My ears ringing, I stood and retrieved my sword. My left hand was lightly burned where the gauntlet had overcharged. Should have packed some healing salve I thought but no you needed to bring lightning stones. Looking around, I saw that most of the combatants were now locked in small clusters of fighting. All except one. The Karrocki girl stood at the center of her now prone classmates with her sword buried in the sand.

I was close enough to identify the Mark on her neck now, and when I identified it my stomach dropped. Her Mark was the Mark of the Summoner, one of the strongest combat Marks in existence. A summoner could create a contract with monsters magical or otherwise and draw on their powers and abilities. If the contract was strong enough the Summoner could even summon a temporary copy of the beast they’d contracted.

The girl’s eyes locked with mine and for a moment I paused, her eyes were the same shade of green as mine and my mother’s. A sense of déjà vu filled me then and something deep in my memory nagged at me like a half-forgotten tune. A sliver of ice slashed down my spine and I shook it away with a shudder.

She smirked and raised her sword into the air and started to swing it in slow circles. The wind picked up around her and a cone of wind slowly formed around her, picking up speed as she swung her blade. A harsh wind snapped out from the girl in a sweeping cyclone, and I barely had time to drive my sword into the sand before the gale became deafening. My fingers gripped the hilt of my blade as the wind sped up to cyclone strength and pulled me off my feet and into the air.

My fingers burned as they gripped the hilt of my blade and I yelled out in exertion. All around me random weapons and combatants flew as the cyclone raged. Some tried to grab at me but I was too low to the ground and their fingers barely grazed my clothes as they shot past and over the side of the platform. It took every ounce of strength I had to keep hold of the hilt, and when the cyclone ceased I fell into the sand pins and needles stabbing my arms.

I took a breath and shakily rose to my feet looking around. Bare sand sat all around me and my eyes soon found the only other combatant left. The Karrocki girl stood a half a hundred paces from me, her sword balanced against her shoulder. She regarded me with an amused look and watched as I picked myself up and plucked my sword from the sand. It took a few strong pulls, but as soon as I managed to free it I raised it at her.

“I’ve heard that girls from the east were blowhards but this is ridiculous.” I said pumping Mana into my blade’s enchantments.

“Wow, I didn’t know a Northman could string a coherent sentence together.” The girl said with a grin as she readied her massive blade, wielding it effortlessly in one hand.

You know? I should probably be afraid of a girl who could wield a two-handed greatsword with one hand, but for some reason instead of fear, I felt anticipation. My sword arm itched and confidence filled my chest as I sized the girl up. Regardless of her power level, I was ready for this fight.

“One question before we dance.” I said as we started to circle each other. “That attack was from a beast under your thrall, correct?”

“If you mean under a contract, yes.” The girl said with a wink. “Show me a good time and maybe you’ll meet her.”

“I just love meeting new people.” I said reaching down to grip one of the pouches on my belt. “My name’s Rowan by the way. Rowan Eaton.”

“Kella Blackfire.”

Shit.

The Blackfires were the oldest noble family in the east and the de facto liege lords of the minor Karrocki lords and ladies. An entire noble line directly descended from the Karrocki warriors who conquered the eastern wilds of the continent; the Blackfires were said to possess extremely potent combat skills. If this girl was a Blackfire than I had next to no chance in a straight sword fight. Of course, I didn’t exactly plan on giving her a straight fight.

“I don’t suppose you’re a C rank.” I said pulling the leather pouch from my belt.

“B rank 4, you?” Kella asked eyeing the pouch.

“B rank 2.” I admitted with a shrug as I lightly tossed the pouch up and down.

“Wow. That’s impressive for a commoner.” Kella said taking a step forward.

“I try.” I replied taking a step forward myself.

We each take another step forward and after a single second of silent bracing we each break into a run. The wind whipped around Kella as she bounded across the sand, and I tossed the pouch at her sending a sliver of my Mana into as it left my hand. The leather burned away, and six bright blue crystals spiraled out of the burning mass before bursting into bolts of arcing electricity. The arcing bolts whipped around Kella and I, but as Kella made to turn her body away from the crackling energy I rushed forward.

I charged forward, ignoring the burning tongues licking across my skin I brought my dueling sword down on her. Ignoring the burning pain as the electricity arced through me I felt my sword collide with hers and felt the power of the force multiplier runes send a wave of force into her sword. Kella stepped back awkwardly trying to raise her blade to block my next strike, but I managed to drive the dull side of my sword into her temple.

She yelled out as the impact sent her sprawling. I raised my remaining force gauntlet and fired three quick bursts of force into her body. As they impacted, Kella was battered back to the edge of the platform and I yelled a war cry as I sprinted forward and used the momentum to back up my next strike. Her blade rose to block my attack and I felt the impact ring into my blade. As her blade locked with mine Kella looked up and smiled a predatory smile.

“Play time’s over.” She said through gritted teeth.

A cyclone of wind erupted from her blade and I was thrown backward as the torrent of wind circled around Kella. Her eyes glowed a bright yellow as a guttural roar shook the arena.

“GRRRRRRRROAAAOOOOWWWWW”

The cyclone lifted Kella into the air and beneath her feet, a massive draconic head began to materialize. Scales and feathers formed around an upper jaw lined with razor sharp teeth as Kella’s mark burned with emerald light. Holy Gods in heaven she was summoning something. If I had to guess, she was summoning a gods damned Air wyvern; an elemental beast.

“You have got to be kidding me.” I said backing up away from the slowly materializing monster.

I looked around frantically seeking any cover available but found nothing but flat sand. I briefly considered just jumping over the side to avoid being attacked by the elemental beast, but then Miss Apple’s smug decrepit face appeared in my vision and anger flowed into my mind like fuel into an engine. An idea formed in my mind’s eye, an idea so stupid it just might work.

A wise man once said that brave act and stupid act were indistinguishable until the results of an action are known. Well, let’s hope I prove myself a wise man. I ran forward and jumped upward onto the now solidified snout of the wyvern and once I got my footing I ran at Kella. Our blades met with crushing force as my overloaded enchantments sparked and hissed.

“Are you insane?” Kella asked a laugh on her lips and a twinkle in her eye.

“No just desperate for attention.” I yelled back.

Then we fought. I’d like to say that I put up some valiant effort as we fought across the massive serpent’s back, but I was caught between fending off her strategic strikes and keeping my footing. As the beast materialized beneath us I had to split my attention between Kella and where I was placing my foot whereas Kella moved like she did this every day. The wind whipped around us as the massive serpent released its power to help its mistress, and Kella showed me exactly what she’d meant by “play time’s over”.

Her strikes were vicious and calculated. Every strike bore into me with killing intent and with a vicious strike she struck down at my side in a vertical arc that ripped through the pouches on my belt. The enchanted items I’d spent months working on fell from my belt and down into the void below. An ember of anger burst into an inferno in my and I screamed at her as I brought my blade crashing into hers. Metal locked with metal and for just a moment our eyes met. Two beautiful emerald globes looked at me with amusement and then surprise as my anger gave me a second wind.

Crackling bolts of mana coiled around my sword turning the steel white hot as I poured every ounce of mana into it. Kella managed to block my blows but the sheer force of my attacks, augmented by the blade’s enchantments, were like a rocketing locomotive. She moved back with every blow, deflecting the force away with skillful pivots and sidesteps. Beneath our feet, the Wyvern coiled and roared sending whips of air around us in a maelstrom of sound and fury.

My vicious advance continued for two more strikes then with a shattering crack I saw Kella’s blade impact my own cracking it in two. The angry firestorm was replaced with cold logic and understanding as the impossibly quiet seconds ticked by. I had poured far too much mana into the sword’s enchantments and the steel had begun to warp and melt from the heat. All it took was the force of Kella’s counter strike to destroy it. I looked up and saw a devilish grin on Kella’s face, and she bowed her head slightly in mock respect before unleashing a flurry of blows.

It took all my concentration to block the attacks with my ruined sword. Every ounce of will was devoted to fending off her strikes, but it was a losing battle. She better than me, and was set on proving that point with shallow cuts into my arms and legs. Every strike was a taunting kiss of metal cutting skin, and I could barely focus as a barrage of small cuts blazed across my skin. I tried to block with my remaining force gauntlet and balked as Kella caught her blade in the cleft in the gauntlets plating and painfully ripped it off my hand.

I barely had time to register the pain of the gauntlet being ripped from my wrist as Kella spun and brought the tip of her blade across my chest in an arc. Pain slashed across my body as I felt my skin open and a scream escaped my lips. In a panic, I stabbed forward with my ruined blade in a blind rush and felt the sword be kicked from my hand before another kick collides with the side of my head sending me flying off the wyvern’s side.

I opened my eyes and saw with a primal sense of fear the massive serpent’s maw was wide open below me. Complete and utter fear took me then; my heart stopped and for just a moment time did too. I pushed my hands out to try and grab the beast’s massive teeth as I fell into the black void of its maw. Then a raging fire burst to life in my chest and every ounce of Mana I had left flowed into my left arm banishing the fear in a wave of warm green light.

For a single moment I seemed to glow bright green and then that green glow wrapped around my hay arm and shot forward in a bolt of green lightning.  My scream joined the crackling roar of the lightning bolt as it slammed into the wyvern’s waiting jaws. It screamed the horrible scream that sent icy knives into my stomach, as the lightning devoured it. A cyclone of ash and lightning wrapped around the beast’s body as it was devoured. I fell into this cloud and felt the ash and mana flow into me through my Mark.

It felt like fire coursing through my veins. Every nerve was on fire as more mana than I ‘d ever handled flowed up my arm threatening to burn me away. Yet, in that pain, I felt a pleasure I’d never experienced before sating a hunger I didn’t even know I had. Pure unadulterated power flowed into my core in agonizing ecstasy. I couldn’t tell if my screams were from the pain or the pleasure as that massive cloud of ash and mana caressed me like a hateful lover.

With the power came knowledge. It filled my mind like half-forgotten memory returning after a bit of prodding. In that instant, I knew everything there was to know about the wyvern. I knew how its muscles were structured to the composition of its bones and its dietary habits. With startling clarity, I rode down into the creature’s very memory; I tasted the delicious lifeblood of prey and the strange taste of air mana. I could feel a strong dark-skinned hand guiding my face to water and eventually the owner of that hand standing above me bind our souls together.

Then I was myself again and I was falling through the open air to the sand below me. With a sickening crack, I collided with the sand and skidded across the ground like a rock off water. Pain shot through me and shook me to my bones and I almost vomited as the wind was knocked from my lungs. When I finally came to a stop my every muscle screamed in pain as I sat up.

Then I noticed the crack. A long jagged crack in the skin of my left arm that ran from my palm to my cleft of my arm. Not a cut or rip but a crack as if my skin were a porcelain plate slammed against a table. With detached curiosity, as if this was all just a hallucination, I ran my other hand up the crack and felt the skin give wat and saw it turn white.

The crack spread out like a spider web and pure cold terror gripped my gut. My pale skin cracked and chipped away to reveal smooth umber skin. I opened my mouth to scream and I felt the skin of my face stiffen and shatter as my face contorted in horror.  A fragment fell into my hand and a piece of my face stared up at me like a porcelain mask. A pair of boots appeared in my vision and I looked up to see Kella standing over me with a delirious smile on her lips.

“Impossible.” She said before her foot shot forward to throw me into darkness.

#fantasy #magic #feedback #reviews

[themanwhoran-moving-blog]

Harry Potter and the Snarky Dick | Harry & Draco

Pulling my thread with hawthorneandunicornhair over here from the side blog~ My next response will be reblogged directly from your blog to this new one!

January ate right through the old layers of fur and leather, through basically every garment Harry owned, through his skin and muscle right down to the bone.  Fuck January.  Fuck winter and France and everything in between.  And logic.  It was too cold for logic.

The only advantage was in the tracks.  Tracking was ridiculously easy in the snow and ice.  Especially tracking something moving as wildly as a werewolf.  He kept a careful distance from them, maintaining their integrity if he had to retrace his steps.  He didn’t even consider using magic to preserve them.  Though he knew the spell.

His wand was sheathed in a magically hidden compartment of his pants.  It was there if he needed it, but it wasn’t stiff and pointy against his leg as he moved.  No, that was the six-inch hunting knife.  Pure silver.  Dawn brushed the sky, and he had to hurry.  The morning sun on a snow bed like this was bound to blind him.  He forced his knees up, pushed them further, his eyes following the trail through the sparse trees until they broke, clearing the way for what looked like farmland.

No one was farming this time of year, but these looked long abandoned anyway.  If it hadn’t been snowing, he’d have spent the whole damn day checking each dilapidated building.  But the tracks led straight to one.  He drew his knife before he went in.

The barn was little more than enough to break the wind.  He wouldn’t be surprised if the werewolf was already dead, frozen in its weaker human form.  The straw in the shadowed corner had been dead for a long time, but he could see a pale shape in the dull brown mess.  He shut down the pang of guilt that threatened to twist his gut when he got close enough to see the man’s shivering, the pink bites of cold on his skin, the damp platinum blonde hair, the–

…No fucking way.  He didn’t even finish processing the thought before he was groaning out loud, “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

It was a known fact that werewolves body temperatures tended to run hot, especially around the full moon. But as Draco went through the painful process of turning back into…well…himself, the small part of his mind that wasn’t focused on the pain came to one conclusion: French Alps were fucking cold. No matter what kind of beasty you were.

Usually he didn’t change out in the open. He HAD a chalet complete with caged cellar on the Isle of Skye. It was far, far away from Malfoy Manner, which had become the new Death Eater Training Academy, and despite Lucius still being there, Draco had been sent away. It was for his own good. With Voldemort’s rising and domination after Potter’s assumed death, werewolves were a much different story. They were revered and feared, and didn’t Fenrir just love that. It led to brutal packs, with archaic hierarchal structures…brutal. The last thing his mother had done before her death was send Draco away. Because if he didn’t leave he would surely have been killed by the packs or lost his mind with the brutality enacted on muggles.

For months the blonde lived on the small island in Scotland, changing safely locked up and on Wolfsbane. But Fenrir had found him. Well, found the cottage while he was away. It was nothing more than ash and smoke when he had returned from the market. Thankfully he had escaped undetected via portkey, but it had taken him to his mother’s properties in France.

Draco remembered being in the area as a boy, and even as a teen before the bite he enjoyed the crisp air, the skiing, and especially the afterparties. Breaking every bone in his body and shedding an alarming amount of hair in the most painful way possible didn’t really hold up to the nostalgia. While he was not as cold as he would be if he were not a werewolf, the tips of his ears and nose were pink, and his hands shook as they stopped reaching for his clothing, alarmed by the voice.

It was the voice that stopped him more than the sight. For the man standing in front of him was NOT the gangly be-speckled brat he stalked and got in trouble at every occasion at Hogwarts. But the voice…

Drawing in a shaky breath, the blond lifted his chin in defiance…oh, Malfoy had changed, but he was still a Malfoy… “If you’re going to kill a man, Potter, you could at least grant the decency of allowing him to clothe himself. My mother may be dead, but she’d roll over in her grave if she knew her son was downed in the nude…”

Harry legitimately couldn’t believe what he was seeing.  He had done so well covering his tracks that no one even suspected he was alive.  In five years,  he hadn’t run into a single familiar face.  It was luck at first, combined with some of the tricks he’d learned from Sirius.  He’d been caught a handful of times, a couple by wizards, but none fast or skilled enough to catch him in time to identify him.  There had been sightings reported over the years – he managed to tap into the Resistance frequencies when he had the power, and Lupin kept him informed when they had a chance to connect – but none of them were true sightings.  Harry had gotten good at covering his own tracks.

Even with his curse scar unwillingly transmitting information to Voldemort, he’d found a way to escape detection.  If he didn’t use magic, Voldemort couldn’t pin him down – and unlike most wizards (or at least most purebloods), he had been raised without magic.  He knew how to cook his own food, he learned how to suture a wound, he practiced using his weapons with his bare hands.  He couldn’t keep Voldemort from knowing he was alive, though.  It just seemed in the Dark Lord’s better interest to let the Resistance think he was dead.

He hadn’t even been back to England since Sirius died.  He shut down that train of thought before it could get too far.  But he’d been hunting monsters all across Western Europe for years, without sending so much as an anonymous letter to Hermione.  (Which he did feel guilty about.)  But he hadn’t once run into anyone who could look at him with scorn.  Who could ask him why he ran away.  Who could hold him as responsible as he held himself for the state of the world, for the fate of it – for the destruction of it.

Until now.  And of all the people he could have found – in France, why was he even in France? – it had to be Draco Malfoy.  And he could process more of his own misery and fury over the unfairness of it all later, because for now, he had a hell of a lot of questions.  "What are you doing here, Malfoy?“  His arm, blade still in hand, fell to his side, though he didn’t loosen his grip on it.  He didn’t look away from his former rival either – modesty be damned, he didn’t take his eyes off of a target.  "Are you– those tracks– When were you bitten?”

Eyeing the knife in Harry’s hand, Draco ran his fingers through his hair, damp locks from the wet terrain outside evident in his features. His hair wasn’t as long as Lucius’ had been, and if he was being honest, never WOULD be, but the ends did kiss the edges of his angular face as he stretched to grab his pants. If Potter came after him, he wasn’t in any condition to fight. While he was stronger than Lupin had been by seer routine of savageness, he was still pretty weak and shaky. Harry would win.

“So is this what you do now?” Draco asked in a tone that was as indifferent as if they were discussing the weather. “Sneak up on werewolves after their change? Gut them while they’re weak? You always did have a knack for defense against the dark arts, ey Potter?”

Pulling his legs through, Draco hopped up onto his feet, a little wiggle as he settled into his pants, doing them up. Gone were the dress slacks worn under school robes and wizarding clothing. Hide breeches were almost too casual for the posh blond, but they were warmer than cotton, and in the mountains, that’s what counted. He had plush and soft at home. The trek there could be made in tough fun lined coats and thick pants – things made for winter travel.

Chuckling darkly, Draco shook out the coat hidden under the straw, picking a few pieces off here and there. “I could say the same for you? You’re supposed to be dead. I mean that’s what everyone thinks. Golden Boy Taken Too Soon. Our Only Hope Gone,” he said, quoting Prophet headlines. “As if they’d ever grow up and fight for themselves, but what do I fucking know. I’m just a werewolf.” The last part was grumbled mostly to himself, his voice turning dark, a growl rumbling under the words.

Looking back over his shoulder he gave Harry a pinched look. “Well you don’t see anyone else here, do you?” Flashing his left arm, where the Dark Mark would have been, a scar, silvery and deep, shown. “Courtesy of Fenrir himself. He did so like infecting children. Lucius’ punishment for failing.” Picking up his boots, Draco walked past Harry and out the way the brunette came in. Harry would follow…or he would not. Something in the blond told him that regardless of five years passing, in some way or another they’d orbit each other once again. Fate was a funny thing.

Harry felt heat rise in his neck as Malfoy spoke, bristling his temper as easily as he had when they were in school.  If he was being honest with himself – which he rarely was – the familiarity felt good.  You wouldn’t know it by his attitude, but he’d been alone for so long that any conversation was like nourishing rain in desert, reminding him he had a voice of his own.  "It’s none of your business, Malfoy,“ he snapped.  He wasn’t going to sit here and defend his own actions to a werewolf.  He still had the silver blade gripped in his hand.

Finally, he did turn his eyes away as Malfoy tugged his pants on.  He’d swear that ridiculous wiggle was deliberately intended to get to him, and he hated that he was successful.  But he couldn’t just stare at the man’s ass without…  He was definitely not having those kinds of thoughts about Malfoy.  Definitely been alone too long.  So he scowled at the straw until the pants were fastened.  Malfoy looked… weird in such functional clothes.

Harry’s expression was stony as it rose to meet the blond’s again, not flinching at the headlines or the jabs.  He had to kill him.  It was strange to realize he didn’t want to, but he had to.  He’d come too far, lived too long, for this spiteful asshole to bring all of that effort crashing onto his head.  And Draco knew it, too.  Knew Harry could kill him, and that twisted his gut with something akin to guilt.

His eyes followed Malfoy’s gesture to his arm, watching the way the dull light shone on the old wound.  Before he was ready to make his move, the blond was striding right out of the building, and Harry spun to follow him without a moment’s hesitation.  "Malfoy.  You know I can’t just let you leave.”

Draco’s bare feet stopped in his tracks, sinking down into the snow. The cold didn’t bother him very much, at least not enough to ruin perfectly good shoes by making them soggy, and the way his body regenerated the bite never turned into frostbite before he got home. Tight lips puckered a tad in a thoughtful pout as the blond turned, hands raking through his hair. The fur lined coat was still open. The werewolf wore it mostly to keep some of the wind chill away so that he wasn’t completely grumpy on the lonely treks back to the little cottage.

Eyes on the edge of feral stared Harry down. Draco had shown many emotion during school days, troublesome, mischievous, bratty, and pretentious…but this…this was something else entirely. Predatory. And for a moment, it was a wolf that stared back at Harry, waiting for the first move as an icy gaze framed by sharp features, far too gaunt bored into the brunette. It was Draco…but with the luxury of wealth removed. Thin, and pale, and having seen far too much.

After a moment, the blond blinked, a resolve coming over the way he held his body. “So then kill me, Potter,” a dry chuckle left parched lips. He needed food, and water, and fucking sleep. He pulled up the fur lined hood and tilted his head, the whole thing looking slightly comical on a frame remembered for expensive dress robes and school uniforms. Arms splayed from his side in an open invitation. “I’m hardly in the position to give much of a fight. Fitting, that you’d be the one to take me down.” A moment passed before Draco turned. “Never could beat you at Quidditch. This is just another game you’ll win.” The man started back the direction he was headed before, heavy limbs pulling him to the promise of warmth and food; a cottage an hour away hidden on the edges of his mother’s property.

Harry knew that werewolves’ blood ran hot, and that ought to keep Malfoy warm enough to withstand the ice and snow outside.  But he hadn’t really expected the blonde to take it as far as bare feet and an open coat.  It was absurd enough to catch his attention for a moment– but the sight unexpectedly held it for much different reasons.  He’d sort of… not so much forgotten how gorgeous the man was – or rather, how gorgeous the boy had been – as stopped thinking about it over the years.  Most of the time.  But even tired and weak in the snow, Malfoy made a stunning picture.  Like the pristine and barren landscape was chosen as a backdrop for the man, who somehow managed to resonate with sophistication and pride even in his ragged state.

As Draco turned a predacious gaze onto him, Harry’s gut tightened with his grip on the blade.  It was instinctive by now, his response to that visage.  It was normally enough to launch action into his muscles, but the commands didn’t get that far.  It was surreal,  the way this piece of a life that once made him happy had somehow found its way into a different puzzle, this scourge that amounted to his existence now.  And dark realities had not left Malfoy unscathed; the rival he’d known was a broken shard, shining bright in a broken frame.

It made him wonder how much he’d changed himself.  He knew, in that distant way that everyone knows they’re not fifteen anymore, but he’d watched the change happen.  Watched pain and loneliness and anger and fear etch lines into his face, watched the violence drain it all out of his eyes until they were empty and hollow, watched his muscles thicken and tone, watched scars bloom on his skin.  He’d even switched out his glasses for contacts – much harder to lose in a fight.  A younger, more self-conscious version of himself had once felt a spike of insecurity and anxiety when Malfoy scrutinized him, but he was too numb to feel anything but… a detached sense of curiosity.

Harry’s jaw tightened on the challenge.  Mostly because he didn’t know why he wasn’t taking it.  Malfoy was a werewolf.  He killed werewolves.  With one exception, the reminder nagged at him.  Lupin never failed to remind him, on those semi-annual occasions where he saw his former mentor.  He had a way of saying it that forced Harry to acknowledge the world in all its shades of gray, when all he wanted was the sanctuary of black and white.  His hand was starting to hurt, gripping the handle of the blade so tightly, and his jaw ached with the tension between his teeth.  Because he couldn’t see anything but gray when he looked at his former schoolmate.

So he let Malfoy distract him.  With petty questions and jabs, in a way that felt so familiar and welcome that the relief almost stung his eyes.  Just the word “Quidditch” lifted his traitorous lips into a grin.  He hadn’t thought about the game in a long time.  Finally, his vicegrip on the hilt loosened, though he kept it in his fingers as he followed the blonde, questions and retorts falling out of his mouth unbidden.

“It’s no fun if you give up.  Where are you even going?”

A puff of warm air erupted into the winter surroundings from Draco’s mouth, creating white clouds around his face as he walked. “What do you expect me to do, Potter?” the petulant tone came as he didn’t turn. “Fight you when I’m starving and exhausted?” Turning, Draco faced Harry, walking backward. “Would that make it a sport for you? Run me through with your dagger while I struggle to just keep myself up? Sorry,” he said shaking his head, blond hair curling slightly from the dampness of winter. “I’m not here for your amusement.” He turned back around.

“I’m going home. I do have one. I’m not just some homeless monster lurking in the woods. I turn here so that I’m at least far enough away from civilization that I won’t hurt anyone,” he offered, though he didn’t particularly know why he did so. “There’s also a pretty healthy deer population here. They’ve been damaging the vineyards in the spring. It satisfies the hunt/kill instinct.” The last was said softly, quietly, as the words held much shame and guilt. He wasn’t even sure if Harry would hear them unless he had gotten closer.

Draco’s time in England after the change, after Voldemort returned and took the wizarding world…was brutal. Greyback was savage, and the “pack” he had created were encouraged to be monstrous. The blond felt much better, here in France, where the Dark Lord’s reach was not so encompassing. It was a comfort to know the blood he woke up in was deer and rabbit, not muggles from a town the pack had decimated. While logic dictated that he was not in his right mind without the wolfsbain potion, he still felt the shame of it in his bones.

For all of Draco’s snottiness, and honestly, meanness in his bullying days of Hogwarts, he wasn’t actually mean-hearted. Hurt someone with words and a simple curse, sure. That had been intimidation from a boy who felt his world out of control while his father, a man he respected above all others, bowed to someone Draco could only see as unworthy. It wasn’t lost on him that the wand that chose that 11 year old boy practically begged Draco to turn to the light, much like Headmaster Dumbledore did during his time in school. Now that he was without it, he missed his wand. An icon that if Draco had just chosen right, he could be good.

Well that choice was taken away the moment Fenrir’s fangs sealed into Draco’s flesh. And he had had to leave everything, everything behind when he fled, including his wand. It was fine. It didn’t work so well anymore, not after Draco’s first change. The blond walking in the snow chuckled darkly to himself thinking of it. Literal personification that he could never be good again. Now he had a stolen wand at home to do what a man growing up accustomed and reliant on magic needed.

Turning his head he looked back at Harry following him. “Are you going to be my shadow then, until you get up the nerve to actually do the deed?”

Every moment that he let Draco live, it became more impossible to kill him.  It was infuriating for Harry.  He was on a hunt.  The prey was right in front of him.  That’s all his world was for him now:  hunter and prey.  With an exception.  An exception like this.  Because what Draco described… it sounded like Lupin.  How had they wound up here?

If Harry had ever expected to run into Draco again, it would’ve been as a servant of Voldemort.  And if there was anything it seemed Malfoy had distanced himself from, it was any sort of pack.  No pack would have left him vulnerable out here like this, waiting to be picked off by a hunter or a bear or even just a civilian with a trigger finger.  Malfoy was alone.  Like Harry himself.

That struck a strange chord for the former wizard.  He had always known, in some way that he had rejected in his adolescence, that he and Draco had… similarities.  Things they shared fundamentally, a chemistry they couldn’t deny and yet couldn’t consummate, so it became adversarial.  It defied the differences in their class, their status, their privilege and Houses and friends.  The opposite sides of a war they were destined for.  And it seemed it had surpassed time.

“You haven’t seen me in five years, I just found you naked in the snow, and you’re entirely content to just walk away from me?”  His voice sounded amused.  "You might be different, Malfoy, but I don’t believe that for a second.“

Because he couldn’t turn back now.  He couldn’t pretend he hadn’t re-met Draco Malfoy in the wilderness in France.  This was more than he’d spoken to anyone in nearly a year, and he couldn’t remember the last time he smiled, even if it was mocking.  That chemistry was still there.  Maybe it shouldn’t be surprising that they’d both wound up outcasts from society, hiding out away from it and leaving the wizarding world behind them.  Arguing with Malfoy felt good.  Nostalgically good.

Growling, the blond rounded on him quickly. Blue eyes flashed with anger and annoyance as Harry talked, and internally Draco was trying to reign his anger in. So close to the full moon, vulnerable after the change, the wolf ruled, even subdued with wolfsbane potion. All Potter had done was talk and already Draco was more riled than he had been since he fled to France. No. Squatting in the “helps” abandoned cottage, instead of in the more proper Black cottage Draco was letting his life waste away…moping. He hadn’t moped since he had been bit but here in the snowy Alps, Draco Malfoy was resolved to die brooding.

But it had taken one antagonistic remark from a school day rival for all his emotions, all his passion to come to surface. Draco wondered for a moment what it would be like without the pacifying nature of the potion.

“Would you rather have found me clothed in Death Eater robes with a wand to your throat?” he spat, tone dark and low. "Because give me an hour and I can deliver.” Blue eyes turned thoughtful for a moment. “Well, not the robes. Those things are ghastly.” Draco stared Harry down, predator and prey facing off, but he doubted to hazard a guess as to who was whom. “I’m famished, and unless you’re content to let me eat you, which wouldn’t be half bad given the options, I suggest you let me on my way, Potter.”

Draco turned back around, trudging through the snow. “Food first, maybe sleep, and then I’ll be happy to trade belligerent insults and hexes with you.”

Harry didn’t even flinch when Draco cracked back at him like a whip.  His amusement died down with the threat, but his eyes and expression were a trained kind of calm.  Distant but confident, like the wall of a fortress.  Behind it, some strange mixture of irritation and fun flared, but there was no outward sign of it.  Harry’s voice was even when he responded, "You never could beat me in a duel.  No matter what you’re wearing.”

He kept following Malfoy when he turned to keep walking, keeping just a pace or two behind him.  "You know I can’t just let you walk away.  What kind of hunter do you think I am?“  One who uses knives instead of sticks, obviously.  Having been away from the wizarding world for so long, he struggled to find even the idea of a wand to his throat genuinely intimidating when he had a blade in his hand already.  Or maybe he just didn’t sincerely believe his old classmate would actually hurt him.  For some reason.

So he invited himself to go along with Draco.  He still hadn’t decided what he was going to do, but the moon would be full again tonight.  And if nothing else, he had to see what would happen to his former rival when it did.  If he was worth sparing.  He tried not think about the fact that it was simply easier to kill him when he didn’t wear such a familiar face.

Draco digested Harry’s words for a moment as he walked, turning them over in his head. So much had changed in five years, for both of them. And while normally the blond would use status and influence as an excuse for being better…things had changed. “You’re right. In Hogwarts I couldn’t. I spent three years with Fenrir, Potter,” he looked over his shoulder, throwing a dangerous glance at the brunette. “You couldn’t even imagine the things I’ve learned. You haven’t the…creativity.” It didn’t help that those three years were literally the worst in Draco’s life…the things he had done, as a beast, he was still paying for. The savagery that he was made to live in constantly. It was why he was alone in the Alps. No family. No pack. Draco Malfoy had come here to die; he just hadn’t worked the courage to do so yet.

At Harry’s question, the blond chuckled. “A pretty piss poor one, since you’ve let me dress and I’m currently walking away from you. What, Granger not here to carry your marks?” he asked, his tone snide and invoking nostalgia of stone halls and moving staircases. “Let me help you. Me, werewolf. You, hunter. Silver blade to the heart. Burn the remains. Believe me, you’d be doing me a favour.” The last sentence was muttered lowly, not really intended for Harry to hear, but not so low that it couldn’t be.

Draco stopped a moment, his mouth opening slightly as if he was tasting the air. Fresh snow had covered any tracks from last night, but he could scent the smoke coming from the hut for a couple miles. Turning left, he made his way through thick underbrush, stepping easily over fallen logs. Every once in a while he would look back at Harry, his fringe falling into his eyes before he pushed it out of the way. He wasn’t sure why Potter had decided the best course of action was to follow him, but he wasn’t in any condition to complain.

Harry’s mouth twitched into a slight frown at the mention of Fenrir.  He knew the stories.  There wasn’t a hunter – not even an isolated one like himself – who didn’t know the stories of Greyback’s pack.  Of who they were, the power they held, the things they did.  He didn’t have to “imagine” what Malfoy was talking about.  But the blonde was right; he didn’t have that kind of creativity.  Despite the threat, the implications, everything Malfoy was doing to scare him off, though, Harry had a hard time wrapping his head around the idea of Malfoy actually doing some of the things he was suggesting he’d done.  Voluntarily, at least.  But he remained quiet about that.

“It’s not like you can actually escape me,” he said with an almost bored tone to Malfoy’s breakdown of their new dynamic.  His brow stitched with irritation, though, at the borderline suicidal utterances.  “Self-pity isn’t a good look on you, Malfoy.”  Harry had no patience for that sort of thing, not even with himself.  He ignored the strange feeling in his gut, caused by hearing something like that from someone he’d never imagined in that state of mind.  Draco really had changed a lot.

The hunter had already determined what he had to do, but there was no need for him to explain that to his prey.  Besides, he didn’t really want to think about the kind of danger he was placing himself in just because… because he wanted Malfoy to be telling the truth.  He didn’t believe him, not for a second, about not being some kind of monstrous menace to the world that needed to be put down, but he wanted to believe him too badly to do more than glare at the back of the blonde’s leading form.  For now.

“I have to make sure you’re alone,” he responded stiffly.  It was a stupid excuse; any hunter worth his salt would already know that about a target, and he liked to think he was more competent than that.  But he was a lot better at tracking than he was at the social intricacies this conversation demanded of him, and he was already mentally exhausted of it.

Draco’s body hardened at Harry’s tone. Sure, the once-Slytherin had an ego that stretched for kilometers, but Potter thinking that he could best Draco in every way still rubbed him the wrong way. Idly, Draco wondered if the adage rubbing fur the wrong way now literally applied to him. A hand reached up to rub his cold, bare chest under the openness of the coat, everything was smooth…if slightly thin. He wasn’t eating and it showed in the pale flesh that had begun to stick to rib and bone. A scant hour ago he couldn’t have said the same though; fur had covered him tip to toe. Lost in his own thoughts, Draco shook his head.

       ❝Neither is lycanthropy, but what can I say, Potter. It’s all the rage with the rich kids these days and one does have to keep current. I’m only trying to fit into the lovely little box everyone expects me to fit into, you included. Though I would like to know how you found me. It looks like there’s a fresh snow, and tracking on fresh powder is quite a feat.❞

       Maybe it was because Draco was annoyed with Harry’s presence. Maybe it was the way Potter spoke that brought up school rivalry. Maybe it was Draco’s self preservation of not wanting a hunter to know where it was that he was hiding out. He had come to the barrens of the French Alps for a reason…to not be disturbed and the brunette man’s presence was definitely disturbing. The most vexing thought that tumbled into Draco’s free-associated consciousness was that Harry certainly didn’t seem to see that a werewolf, still fresh from the full moon, was a threat.

       Draco hopped over snow-covered fallen trunk, its length blocking a path that seemed obvious to the blond even if nothing around gave way to the hint of one. He turned slightly, catching the bottom of it to kick it up into his hands. The thing probably wasn’t more than a foot in diameter, a young tree likely felled from the lightning storms in the late summer, but the length of it was quite sweeping. Calling up on supernatural strength, Draco wielded it as though it was nothing more than a fallen branch as he brought it across sharply, aiming for Harry’s torso. The chill wind arched and slit with sound as the trunk split through it with a low whistle.

Harry’s attention was torn between Malfoy’s words and the trail the blonde was leading him down. It wasn’t marked, so he had to be following something else to give him direction. Maybe memory, but probably that sense of smell that far outstripped Harry’s own. He tried to remind himself, with every log or rock they maneuvered around and every nondescript turn they took, that Malfoy was a werewolf now, and no amount of nostalgia made him redeemable. It wasn’t like he’d had many redeeming qualities to begin with.

His only response to Draco’s mockery of himself was a scoff. “So the last time that you saw me was probably at the feast after the Triwizard Tournament,” he said. “And the last anyone heard from me was after I ran into some Death Eaters – your father included, mind you – in the Department of Mysteries.” His jaw tightened as he held back the words to conclude that story. “Five years ago. Everyone assumes I’m dead, even my closest friends and the Ministry’s best investigators. I wake you up with a silver blade in my hand – in the French Alps – and what you want to know is how I tracked you in the snow.” With a harsh laugh, he said dryly, “I have a knack for it.”

The moment the foliage rustled and the powder on the ground sank in to fill the new gap left by the log, Harry’s instincts kicked in. His eyes were sharp, following the movements of Malfoy’s chest as he brought the fallen tree around in a whistling swing. He had to duck low to avoid it, and he felt it swipe through his hair, but once the arc was complete, he shot back up. Grabbing the wrist that carried Malfoy’s momentum, he struck the man’s elbow hard enough to force it to lock and release the oversized weapon.

As the log fell to the ground with a thud, Harry’s eyes met his opponent’s. They were glinting with a dark kind of exhilaration. Though the adrenaline in his blood was unsatisfied, he shoved the werewolf’s arm back into his bare chest, satisfied that Malfoy knew that he could have broken it. He didn’t realize he was smirking until he opened his mouth to say, low and calm, “You’re going to have to do better than that, Malfoy.” He gestured to the path ahead for the blonde to keep leading on.

#v: monsters & men #p: harry potter and the snarky dick #hawthorneandunicornhair

[ghostbustermelanieking]

praescitum chapter nine

chapter one, chapter two, chapter three, chapter four, chapter five, chapter six, chapter seven, chapter eight

casefile, season 10, season 11. part of my series that i write as i rewatch the x files.

Summary: As Mulder and Scully adjust to their reassignment to the X-Files and working together in the wake of their separation, they find themselves investigating a small town and a ghost that apparently warns people of bad things to come.

note: happy halloween! i actually started posting this story when i did to post this chapter on halloween, since it’s probably the most festive. but since i didn’t get as far in the story as i wanted to by this point, i’m going to kind of slow down my posting a little bit by waiting until i finish a later chapter to post the next one. i’m hoping to still be able to post at least one chapter a week, but idk if i’ll be able to keep up with that lol. those are the hopes!

warning for discussion of death in a (false!) historical context. i included fake historical people/historical battles in a real historical war.

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nine.

october, 2016

If there's anything that Mulder and Scully are not used to, it's having a third presence on their stake outs. Back in the day, if they were staking out with someone else, said someone probably wasn't very happy about being stuck on a stakeout with them. (They've both heard plenty of “third wheel” gossip over the years, right along with the gossip about them being together long before they actually were.) Luckily, Scully notes, this time, they have what seems like a perfectly nice woman as their company. As much as she relishes the chance to have time alone with Mulder and inexplicably get paid for that time, it's better to share the time with someone who doesn't hate them. And Joy Seers seems like halfway decent company.

She gets takeout for everyone, fighting streets abuzz with Halloween traffic, cars and costumed pedestrians alike. She stops at a gas station and grabs a couple bags of M&M's as an added bonus for Mulder—in honor of the holiday, and because she's guessing they'll be here a while without much paranormal activity to entertain them. (She's still convinced that Ryan Caruthers, and maybe a few friends, are behind the whole thing. It makes much more sense than a diabolical ghost tormenting the entire town.)

Scully picks her way back to the school through streets crowded with pint-sized monsters, ghouls, and pop culture characters. Houses festooned in cobwebs and streamers and plastic skeletons. Kids in costumes holding onto their parent’s hands. At a stoplight near the school, she notices a kid on a bus bench. A familiar-looking kid with an Orioles cap pulled over his face.

She finds Mulder and Joy Seers in the classroom: Mulder setting desks and chairs upright, Joy propping a video camera up on the righted bookshelf. The room has been swept, most of the debris cleared; it looks like an empty skeleton of a room, bare walls and bare floors. “I brought food,” Scully says, sitting the plastic bags of containers on a desk.

“Thanks, Scully.” Mulder grins at her briefly overtop of a graffitied desk. She can tell he's enjoying this. He's probably been waiting for a case like this to fall on Halloween for a while. (“How do we always end up staking out haunted places on holidays, Scully?” he joked earlier, and she rolled her eyes, pointed out that this particular place is not haunted, absolutely not. Not the inn, not the school, not the town. She knows he's remembering their conversation last night, and she's hoping he won't bring it up. She feels silly just thinking about it.)

“Were the roads too bad?” Joy asks politely, squinting as she adjusts the angle of the camera. “I know they can be a little crazy on Halloween, especially in the fancier neighborhoods.”

“Not too bad,” says Scully, sitting at the desk. “Anything happen while I was gone?”

“Nothing yet,” Mulder says, sitting down at the desk beside Scully and smirking a little at her. She smirks right back.

“I was relying on our security system to prove whether or not there's any paranormal involvement, but it shorted out today,” says Joy with a touch of irony in her voice, climbing down from the chair and smoothing messy curls absently. “Convenient, huh? Principal thinks someone messed with it to cover up the crime, but we couldn't prove it; it just seems like a system malfunction. And he couldn't get anyone in here to fix it. So I'm setting up a camera in here since this has been the primary location of the activity. I'm hoping to catch some proof as to what this is, if anything happens.”

“That seems smart,” Scully offers. “Although it's strange that the security cameras would mess directly after a break-in.”

“It is,” Joy says, crossing her arms, “but the fact is that it was still working last night. Since my window lock was fixed, anyone who broke in would've had to use the halls. And the cameras showed nothing.”

“Someone could've been planning another break-in for tonight,” Scully comments.

“That's true.” Joy shrugs. “But everyone I talk to says it's just an issue with the computer system. We have the shittiest system, I swear. Anyways, we have this camera to catch anything strange that happens, paranormal or B&E's alike.”

Scully looks at Mulder, who shrugs. It does seem convenient to her—too convenient, especially considering Ryan's technical reputation—but she decides to let it go. She says, “Do we have any sort of plan past the camera?”

Mulder shrugs again. “Not really. I think we're just planning to… sit here.” He smirks at her a little, teasing her as he unwrapping the plastic silverware. “You are familiar with the method of a stakeout, aren't you, Scully?”

“Very much so,” she says dryly, resisting the urge to stick out her tongue.

Joy joins them in the clusters of desks, taking her food gratefully and thanking Scully. “I'm hoping that we'll be able to get something out of tonight,” she says, screwing the cap off of a water bottle. “I really am. Ryan's a good kid, and I hate that everyone's been putting the blame on him.”

“You really don't think there’s any possibility Ryan is behind this?” Scully asks, picking at her salad.

Joy shakes her head. “I never have. Aside from the fact that it seems improbable that a kid—albeit a pretty smart kid, but still—could pull this off, Ryan's always seemed like a good kid to me. I'm not close to Annie Caruthers, but she's always spoken highly of him whenever we see each other… And besides that, he's a model student. Aside from a bad attitude, I haven't seen any signs of delinquency from him. I almost can't believe he really set that fire.”

Scully bites her lower lip in consideration. “I think I saw Ryan outside on my way in,” she says carefully. “The intersection a block over.”

“Really?” Mulder asks, his eyebrows shooting up.

Scully nods. “I think,” she says, somewhat uncertainly. “He wears the Orioles cap, right?”

Joy taps her fingers on the desktop absently. “Probably just a coincidence,” she offers.

“It's a small town,” says Mulder helpfully. Scully pokes at a leaf of lettuce silently.

Mulder clears his throat awkwardly. “Have you ever considered that this… activity might be the result of possession of some sort? Some mixture of Ryan Caruthers and the ghost?”

Scully swallows back the urge to scoff.

“You think Ryan's possessed?” Joy asks, almost incredulously. “By the Specter?”

He shrugs. “Possession can sometimes give humans a power they wouldn't normally have. I've seen it before. That would explain how Ryan was able to get in and out of the school without being detected, how he would be able to move those heavy desks.”

Joy Seers looks uncertain, skeptical. “I suppose that could be the case, but I doubt it,” she says. “I've never heard of any possessions in the history of the legend. And I still just don't think Ryan's involved. Besides his prior history with the ghost, of course.”

Scully hmms in response quietly, sticking the fork in her mouth. She hasn't known what to make of this case since they got it a year ago, and she certainly doesn't know what to make of it now. Mulder shrugs, surprisingly nonplussed, as if he doesn't know what to make of this either.

“I guess we just wait now,” Joy says, and it's almost a question, a clarification. “Wait to see what happens next.”

They nod, nearly in unison.

Their forks scrape at the Styrofoam containers in the new quiet. The setting doesn't seem to align with the stunning silence all around them, the echoey hallways and dim classroom. As a child, Scully used to get scared in big empty buildings, especially in the huge church they used to attend in San Diego, all the looming, empty halls and the almost eerie paintings of Christ. She's gotten past that now, of course, but the oddness of being in an empty school has nearly brought it back. Right now, in all this empty and quiet space, with the small sounds in the hall as the sun sinks below the horizon, she can almost understand why people might think this school—even this town—is haunted.

---

It's getting dark now, the familiar October chill in the air. Ryan clenches his chattering teeth, beginning to regret not wearing the skeleton costume from last year. It's dorky as hell, but it's warm, he sweated buckets at last year's party. And it helps with appearances. He's just wearing a hoodie and jeans right now, no costume of any kind.

He got some candy earlier, even with the disapproving looks (either because he's too old to trick-or-treat, or because he set a fire), and so he unwraps a mini Snickers bar now and takes a bite. He's thinking about turning around and going to the party he told Annie he was going to. He should probably go to the damn party. He still has friends somehow, despite everything, and this is not the right way to spend Halloween. It might be spooky, but honestly, Ryan got tired of the horror movie bullshit at about six or seven. (He hates scary movies, scary stories, any of that stuff that makes him think about the empty eyes of the parents he'll never know and ghostly light on his bedroom walls.) He's nearly convinced, gets his bag up off of the bench and is about to walk away when his fingers brush over an envelope sticking out of the top. The letter from his Uncle Jared.

He swallows, sits down so hard his legs hurt. Shakes his head hard until he's good and resigned. He has to do this. He doesn't have a choice.

He rummages in his bag until he finds the stick-on tattoos and the bottle of water. Follows the directions as he applies them to the back of his hands.

---

Scully will admit, once again, that she's really, really not used to sharing stakeouts with other people; some of her favorite memories of working with Mulder are when they were alone on a stakeout. But they've been sitting in the school for several hours, and she has to say, it's a lot better than she expected. Aside from their opinions on ghosts, it turns out that she and Joy Seers have a lot in common. They discuss their college degrees—biology and pre-med are vastly different, but they took similar grueling science classes and can exchange stories about hellish professors—and Joy asks about the cross around Scully's neck, the one similar to her own. “Oh,” says Scully in surprise, reaching down to touch the cross, and the ring that hangs beside it. (Thank God she didn't ask about that; that'd be a fairly awkward conversation for all of them. Mulder doesn't wear his ring that she knows of, which she has no idea how to take, but at least it fields the Oh, are you two married? questions. A little.) “Oh, my mother gave my sister and myself these necklaces the Christmas I was fifteen. I've worn it ever since.”

She leaves out the occasions where she'd given it to her daughter and it was the only part of her They left behind, and when Mulder had worn it through both of their abductions. (She put the ring on the chain beside her cross when she stopped wearing it because it felt stunningly appropriate, that it lie beside something that had meant so much to both of them over the years. Sometimes she felt like she could feel Mulder in her cross as much as she could in the ring.)

Joy smiles a genuine smile. “Oh, that's wonderful,” she says. “Mine was a family heirloom. It was my grandmother's.”

Scully smiles back, a little easier than she might've a few months ago. It's getting easier to remember her mother, and concentrating on the happier memories does help. “It's beautiful,” she offers.

“Thank you—so is yours.”

Mulder stays politely quiet through most of these interactions, but he speaks up sometime in the fourth hour of their vigil. “Ms. Seers—” he starts.

“Call me Joy, please,” Joy says immediately.

“Joy,” Mulder says. “I remember when we met yesterday, you said something about there being more than one way to interpret the Willoughby Specter story.”

“Oh, right.” Joy throws out an absent grin. “That famous touchy spot. Especially around here.”

“I sense that people don't agree with you?” Scully asks, thinking of Robbie O'Connell's and the sheriff's claims that the ghost is angelic. Ryan Caruthers's claims that the ghost is anything but. The disdain she's seen in response to that skepticism. Personally, she can't really tell why the demeanor of the ghost matters, one way or another.

“I don't know if they do or don't. I haven't made any particular claims about the skepticism.” The other woman shrugs. “My husband is a historian, though,” she adds. “He's done some research into the subject, and we've discussed it before. The origins of this ghost aren't quite as black and white as everyone would like to believe.”

Mulder's interest is piqued—more than piqued, Scully can tell. “Would you mind sharing?” he asks.

Joy shakes her head. “The fame of the ghost just so happens to be intertwined with the origin of this town,” she says. “The name Willoughby comes from a Revolutionary War leader, General Samuel Willoughby. He's hailed as a hero, especially around here, considering he led his soldiers to victory in a battle right around this area. The legend got started when Willoughby published a book of his journals and letters during the war. In the journal entry dated the night before the battle, he speaks of seeing a 'specter’ who brought about feelings of foreboding and dread. This convinced him that he was doomed to die on the battlefield the next day, and his soldiers doomed to lose. So he changed his plans.”

“He survived the battle,” Scully says knowingly—she knows how these legends always go. “And he led his men to victory, and people attributed that victory to the Specter. Which is where the legend originates."

Joy nods. “But what most people don't acknowledge is how costly that victory was,” she says. “Over half of Willoughby's soldiers lost their lives, including his brother. As well as several civilians who unfortunately lived in the area and got caught up in the battle. And that's not to mention the British casualties. Personally, that's not my definition of angelic, especially considering the death of his brother.”

Mulder chuckles briefly, rubbing thoughtfully at his mouth. “It's not exactly mine, either.”

“People see what they want to see,” says Joy. “Someone comes to warn them of something bad coming, people want to think they have good intentions. That there's some way to be prepared.”

Scully hardens her face until it is stony, trying not to show her cards. Spreads her fingers out flat on the table and tries to think of anything but that night before her mother died. Mulder is nodding in agreement, and she's glad that he's distracted by this story, that he won't notice and start asking questions again. “So you don't think the ghost has… good intentions?” he asks Joy.

“Does a ghost have intentions?” Joy laughs. (Along the same line Scully has thought on in this case.) “But no, I don't. Personally, my husband and I have discussed it before, and we think that the ghost is demonic.”

“Demonic?” asks Mulder.

“Yeah. My husband has studied a lot of local history, and he found a court record corresponding to a diary entry from the judge in the early settlement that more or less became Willoughby. It speaks of a man who was convicted of the murder of his wife. He was scheduled to hang, but he disappeared from his prison cell the night before, despite two guards being posted outside. The man had been fairly wealthy and prosperous, and he had a fair amount of money stored away in his house, where they'd also found many signs of what they considered witchcraft and devil worship. All the more reason to execute him, they'd said. But after he disappeared, so did the money.” Joy takes a sip of her water bottle. “They found him two months later, dead in the mountains with no clear cause. All of his money on him. A lantern burning beside his body despite the snowstorm raging around him.”

Scully raises her eyebrows in a halfway interested response—it’s an interesting story, even if it sounds false. Mulder says, “And you think that's the Specter?”

“A ghost has to come from somewhere, right? It makes sense to me, especially that lantern detail. The details about his escape and discovery, as well as the trial records, lead me to believe this man had made a deal with the devil, for lack of a better term. And this is more or less his due he has to pay: bringing bad luck to the inhabitants of Willoughby.”

Mulder hmms under his breath. “That's a great theory,” he says. “And it makes a lot of sense, at least in my mind. It would be consistent with Ryan Caruthers's claims.”

“There’s discussion of 'the local devil worshipper’ in local folklore, but it's not as widespread. And since it took place a full century before, no one in the town ever connected the story with the Specter. But I've always thought it made a lot of sense,” says Joy. “And with everything that's happened here at this school, I've got to say, it makes even more sense to me now.”

“What do you think, Scully?” Mulder asks, and his hand is suddenly on her arm. He's noticed how silent she's been.

Scully grits her teeth and shakes off the thoughts of her mother and her cross and that fucking hallucination or dream or whatever she had before her mother passed away. Forces a smile. “I suppose it could be plausible…” she says, “... if ghosts were real.”

Mulder scoffs jokingly. “I can understand your skepticism, Agent Scully,” Joy says kindly. “Even i—”

They're cut off by the sound of distant crashes, somewhere in the building.

Scully's eyes dart to Mulder. “Did you…”

“Yeah,” he says, already standing. “Joy, do you have any idea…”

“I'm really not sure,” she says. “Maybe the cafeteria?”

More crashes, louder this time. “Split up, clear the halls?” Mulder asks, and Scully nods.

“Joy, you stay here, okay?” she says, standing and reaching for her gun, just in case. “Keep an eye out, call us if you need help.”

Thankfully, Joy doesn't argue; she just nods. “Do you really think you need that?” she asks, gesturing to the gun with her chin.

“Hopefully, no,” Scully says. “But it's a good precaution. In case whoever—or whatever—is destroying your classroom is dangerous.”

---

Mulder and Scully split up outside of Joy Seers's classroom; she goes through the west wing, and he goes through the east. The school is stunningly dark, the halls admittedly eerie, and Mulder is inadvertently reminded of the case years ago that he can barely remember the details of outside of the fact that a satanist PTA tried to kill him and Scully in a high school gym shower. He shudders involuntarily; that doesn't seem like a good line of thought after discussing a ghostly devil worshipper.

He's most of the way down the hall when he hears it: the creaking of a door hinge behind him. He whirls around to see the door of an English classroom hanging open in the circle of his flashlight.

Immediately, he sweeps his flashlight up and down the hallway, but it's completely empty.

Mulder swallows roughly, ignoring the chill spreading over him. He starts to turn back around when the door slams closed hard. He jumps, his hand flying to his holster automatically. Still nothing there; no signs of life, or things notably not alive.

“Hello?” he calls out, sweeping his flashlight up and down the hallway, feeling equal parts silly and determined. He's about to make some plea for the ghost to show itself when he hears another slamming sound, almost smaller than the last one. And then another, and another. The lockers lining the hallways are opening and closing, their slams cacophonous and engulfing. Mulder scans the hallway in frantic confusion, looking for any signs of the Specter, not sure if he really wants to see it or not, considering its legacy. But he still finds nothing, invisible hands moving the lockers as they slam, the cabinets shaking and rattling in place as if affected by an earthquake. Fascinated, Mulder stares, not wanting to look away, wanting to call Scully to get in here and see this. But before he can do anything, his flashlight flickers once, twice, and dies in his palm.

The lockers’ motion fades out as Mulder's breathing grows more erratic, maybe even fearful. The hallway seems darker without the flashlight, pitch black. He smacks the flashlight against his palm in an effort to get it working again, to no avail. “Shit,” he mutters, dropping the flashlight to his side and rubbing at his temples with his free hand.

And then from behind, he hears the scritching sound of a lit match. Golden firelight, small but unquestionably the brightest thing in the room, comes to life behind him, reflected on the metal lockers.

His heart in his stomach, Mulder whirls. He sees it almost immediately, it's unmistakable. He can't make out a face, but he doesn’t have to. It matches every description he's ever heard.

The Specter stands at the end of the hall, lantern held up like some kind of lamplighter.

Mulder's breathing is shallow, erratic; where the hell is Scully when stuff like this happens? He's dying to take a picture, but he knows that will likely only cause problems.

Instead, he draws closer, flashlight dead and useless in his hand, heart thudding against his ribs. The Specter doesn't move. He seems to be surveying Mulder, sizing him up, but somehow, Mulder can't allow himself to worry about that. He goes closer and closer, carefully, as if trying to calm a stray dog. “I know what you are,” he calls. “I know what it is you do.”

The Specter seems unaffected by this. He stands still, his face shadowed, his lantern flickering.

“Do you speak?” Mulder asks, thinking of the ghosts in that haunted house that one Christmas Eve. (If that was real; he and Scully have disagreed about it forever.) “What do you want?”

The ghost remains silent. Mulder's shoes creak on the tile floor as he steps closer, his palms sweaty around the flashlight. The Specter seems to be regarding him, considering.

When Mulder is about three feet away, the ghost's mouth contorts, dipping into a frown. Disapproval. A sudden fear plunges through Mulder's chest, nervousness—what does disapproval mean?—as he remembers Joy Seers's theory that the ghost is demonic. He is about to ask, again, what the Specter wants, when the lantern flickers out.

In a completely impulsive move, Mulder stumbles forward, absurdly swiping at the space where the Specter is. He feels nothing, and he doesn't know if it has disappeared or is still there. Breathing hard, he stands awkwardly in place, his hand curled around the useless flashlight.

And then he hears a pained yelp, down the hall the way he came from.

---

Scully is in the ninth grade wing when she hears it again: the crashing sounds down the hall to the right of her. She follows the sound, flashlight held out in front of her and gun held down by her side. There's a sound almost like banging, a clattery sound like something being dragged over the floor. Scully comes face to face with the double cafeteria doors, where the sound is louder, and pushes it open with a loud clang.

There's a startled shout, and then the smack of a body hitting the floor. Rounding the table blocking the body from view, Scully shouts, “Freeze, FBI!” completely on instinct.

“Shit!” The kid—Ryan Caruthers, Scully notes with an emotion somewhere between satisfaction and disappointed—scrambles to his feet, his ankle caught in a cafeteria chair. His face turns up towards Scully, full of regret and panic as he curses quietly under his breath: “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

Scully puts away her gun with a sigh—somehow, she doubts she needs it. “Ryan?” she says, somewhat sternly. “Ryan Caruthers?”

“I had no idea you'd be here,” Ryan says miserably, untangling himself from the chair.

“So you wouldn't have come if you'd known?” Scully asks. He doesn't answer, just rubs at his face with the heel of his hand. “No one's ever been here when you've done this before, right?” she prods.

“I haven't done this before,” Ryan snaps, glaring at her. “I know what you think of me—believe me, I know what everyone thinks of me—but I swear to shit, this is the first time.”

“How did you get in?” Scully asks, still firm. “The window in Mrs. Seers's room is fixed.” She remembers in a split second, as Ryan answers, that the window was fixed before the destruction of the classroom the night before, and mentally curses.

“I jimmied open another window,” Ryan says, sounding disgusted. “The windows in here are shit, the locks are awful… And I'm telling you, I've never done this before.”

“Then why did you come here tonight, Ryan?” Scully fixes the kid with the sternest look she can muster up. “Knowing that people believed you had broken in before?”

Ryan's face turns red, and he ducks his head. His hand shoots through the air as he reaches down to untangle himself from the chair, and Scully sees the same cross tattoo on the back that she remembers from last year. “I… was worried about what was going to happen,” he nearly mumbles. “Because of the ghost. I thought something bad might happen to someone, and I wanted to come here and try to stop it.”

Scully's stern demeanor falls, just a little. She doesn't know why, but it does. She asks gently (not too gently, of course—only a bit more gently), “How did you think you could stop it, Ryan? What did you think was going to happen?”

“Does it matter?” Ryan snaps venomously. “Aren't you going to arrest me now? Agent Sully, or whatever your name is?”

“It's Scully,” she says automatically, and is ready to say more, when she hears a distinctly female shout from somewhere in the building. Joy, she thinks immediately, and mentally curses herself and Mulder for leaving a civilian alone in a potential crime scene. Even if she doesn't believe in the ghost.

Ryan jumps at the sound, startled. “What was that?”

Hoping briefly that Mulder will get there sooner, that Mulder is okay, Scully says, “You know what, Ryan? I should take you in, but this is all very juvenile, and Mrs. Seers has vouched for you multiple times. So I'm going to look the other way.”

The kid looks stunned. Beyond stunned. He says, “Are you serious? Why are you doing this?”

She doesn't know why, she really doesn't. Outside of the face that is stuck at the back of her brain, along with pain and death and visions of the end of the world. Her son out there, somewhere, and she shouldn't let it affect her work, but… She says, “Look, I need to go. If you're still back here when I come back, I'm taking you in. If I ever catch you doing something like this again, my first call will be to Sheriff O'Connell. Do you understand?”

His face white, Ryan nods. Unwilling to wait any longer—unwilling to linger or analyze why the hell she did that, she really can't believe it—Scully turns and heads the other way, back to Joy Seers's classroom.

Inside, she finds all the fluorescent lights flipped on, Joy sitting in a chair heaving air like she is going to run out and Mulder crouched on the floor. Scully runs straight to her side. “Are you okay?” she asks, kneeling to examine the prominent red line on Joy's neck. “I'm a doctor, I can help you.”

Joy waves her off absently. “I'm okay, I'm okay,” she says, her voice only a little rough. “My necklace… it was being tugged, by I don't know what. It was choking me, and then it just broke.”

Mulder stands, the broken silver chain in the palm of his hand. “I saw it,” he says, and his voice is filled with some panicked emotion that Scully can't quite place. “It was being pulled by an invisible force, Scully, she was choking and it was just held up in the air. By nothing. And then it just snapped.”

Joy takes the necklace, muttering, “Damn,” under her breath. She rubs at her forehead, her eyes, in a tired sort of way. “I'm okay,” she reassures Scully again. “Scared me more than anything. I guess I have my proof now that the Specter is hostile.”

She laughs briefly, but Mulder doesn't, and Scully doesn't know how to ask why. She stands up a little reluctantly—she’d have preferred to check Joy a little more, but she really does seem fine, she's waving  her off insistently—and dusts her palms off on her pant legs. “Deep breaths,” she says gently. “Try to stay calm.”

Joy clears her throat a few times, rubbing her neck with her empty hand. “So did you find anything, Agent Scully?” she asks raspily. “I heard more sounds in the cafeteria.”

Mulder looks at her curiously, but Scully doesn't know how to tell them what she saw, much less explain what could've convinced her to let Ryan go. She lies, “I think some furniture may have fallen over. I didn't see anything.”

---

They leave the school after that. There doesn't seem to be much point in staying. They have the video in the classroom, and therefore proof. Joy seems spooked by the whole encounter, seems to have lost interest in all of it—she thanks them profusely in the parking lot, but says that she doesn't see any need for them to stay if they don't want to. “I guess I can call you if anything else happens,” she says, “but I don't know if there's anything else you can do. And I'm sure you have more important work to get back to.”

Mulder doesn't bother telling her that they probably don't—he’s almost sure that Scully shares Joy's opinion, that the lack of an actual crime here doesn't justify their position. They shake Joy's hand and get in their car to head back to the hotel.

They're both quiet on the drive. Mulder can't get past what happened in the hallway, his encounter with the Specter. At the time, he'd mostly been fascinated, caught up in the excitement of seeing an actual ghost, but now, all he can think of is the other part of the legend. The part that promises that something bad will happen if you see the Specter. He drives back to the hotel with a precise carefulness that Scully doesn't seem to notice—she seems as lost in her own thoughts as him, fidgeting with her hands in her lap. He keeps sneaking glances at her, as if something is going to steal her away, because by his count, the only two people besides him who could be affected by the Willoughby Specter and his bad omens are Scully and William. He doesn't relax until they get back to the hotel, and even then, it is a cautious relaxation. He's extraordinarily glad that they are sharing a room.

He waits until they get up to the room to say it. He nearly blurts it out—he says, “Scully, I saw it,” and it feels like an exhale.

Scully, in the act of peeling her coat off, freezes. He can see the muscles of her back, can tell how tense she has suddenly gotten. “What?” she says.

“The Specter,” he says. “I saw the Specter, Scully, in the halls. It disappeared just before something pulled at Joy's necklace.”

Scully isn't looking at him. She drapes her coat over the back of the chair, her knuckles nearly white as she clutches it. “It's not that I… don't trust what you saw, Mulder,” she says carefully, her nails scuffing the side of the jacket. “But… are you sure that's what you saw? That it couldn't have been some kind of… projection?”

Twenty-odd years ago, this skepticism would've driven him mad. Now, he pretty much expects it. But it feels like there's something different here, some unusual emotion. The familiar stubbornness, and then something else layered under it. Almost fear. He wonders if it is because of the legend, the implication that something bad will happen to him. He swallows, reaches out and brushes a slow hand over the small of her back as if trying to offer comfort. “I really think it was,” he says. “It couldn't have been a projection, it was too… It couldn't have been.” She's still not looking at him. He flattens his palm against her back, rubs a circle with his thumb. “I don't know what that means, Scully,” he says softly. “Whether or not it's…”

“It probably means nothing, Mulder,” Scully says immediately. She finally turns towards him, and her expression is guarded, but she reaches out and squeezes his arm. “It'll be fine,” she says softly, firmly. Leans forward and kisses his cheek. “I'm going to take a shower, okay?” When she draws back, she won't meet his eyes. He watches her go into the bathroom, until the door closes behind her.

He showers next, tries to shed the thought of more misfortune, but he can’t quite shake the thought of it. After everything they've been through, he can't imagine going through more, even if it is a bit inevitable at this point. He doesn't know if he could bear it. Especially if whatever misfortune the Specter brings involves losing his wife or son. (He is praying it's something trivial, like a flat tire, or someone breaking into his house.)

When he exits the bedroom, Scully is lying in bed on her side, facing the wall. He climbs in behind her, touches her shoulder gently and briefly before settling in. He's ready to fall asleep and try and forget the whole thing, give Scully her space, but she rolls over first, rolls towards him until they're facing each other. “Ryan was in the school,” she says. “In the cafeteria. All that crashing around was probably just from him breaking in.”

His eyebrows raise in surprise. “Seriously? What happened, did he get away?”

“No.” She bites her lower lip, looking away from him. “Sort of. I… I decided to give him a warning.”

His expression shifts to confusion. “A warning?”

“Yes.” She is almost squirming, avoiding his eyes. “I… I don't know why. It just all seems so silly, the whole thing. And he insisted that this was the first time he had broken in. But I told him if I ever caught him doing that again, I'd call the police without hesitation.” She rubs at her forehead with embarrassment, her voice full of shame. “The security system was out, though. We hopefully don't have to worry about it ever getting back to Skinner.”

“Do you believe him?” Mulder asks, astonished and trying like hell not to show it. He's more surprised than angry, it doesn't really matter to him, but he can tell how foolish Scully feels and he hardly wants to make that worse. “That it was his first time?”

Scully rubs her forehead again, presses her palm over her eyes. “I honestly don't know, Mulder. I really do think that he's involved in this… it makes the most sense. I don't know how or why, but I hope he gets his act together. I… I hope that I've made this better instead of worse.”

“I definitely think Ryan has something to do with this,” says Mulder quietly, reaching out to squeeze her shoulder, “but I don't think it's the same way that you think so. I think he's a… catalyst of sorts. I think he has a connection to this ghost, and I can't put my finger on it. But I think Joy Seers was right. I think there's more to the legend than people take at face value. And I don't think that Ryan was responsible for what was happening in that school.”

Scully yawns, burrowing down into the covers. “Whether there is or there isn't, it doesn't really matter, does it?” she mumbles, sounding like she wants to drop the subject. “We're going home in the morning. I just hope that no one finds out what happened.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, quietly, and reaches over to turn out the light. They settle in next to each other in the dark, their arms pressed together, hands side by side. Mulder swallows, bumping his finger against hers absently. The adrenaline of the night hasn't completely left him, the implications of his encounter in the hall, and he's grateful that she is close by. As if that can prevent everything bad from happening.

“Do you think I made the wrong decision?” Scully asks softly, and that shame is still in her voice. “To let Ryan go instead of taking him in?”

“No, I don't,” he tells her honestly, covering her hand gently with his. “I think that isn't nearly the worst thing we've gotten away with on the job.” She chuckles at that, and he grins. “I don't see why anyone ever has to know about it,” he adds. “The cameras are out, and I'm not planning to tell anyone. And I'm sure Ryan will keep it to himself. You may have given that kid another chance that he'll take.”

“Mmm,” Scully says, and he can tell by her voice that she is tired. “It feels so convenient, the cameras. Especially considering how much I asked about them earlier. Mulder, I bet Ryan either knew about the system being down or took it down himself, if this really was the first time he'd broken in.”

“Hmm,” he says softly. “Maybe.”

“I guess I just didn't think he was dangerous,” she whispers. “I feel so foolish. I feel like I haven't done my duty as an FBI agent. I don't know what I was thinking.”

“You don't have to know,” he says, and he intertwines his fingers with hers. “You don't.”

She makes a small sound that indicated she disagrees with him, but she doesn't argue. Their elbows bump together companionably. Her palm is cool under his. They fall into quiet again, hands clasped together under the sheets.

Mulder matches his breathing to hers, calm, and he is nearly asleep when he hears a low whistling sound, akin to a moan. The shutters of the windows rattle.

A sudden panic shoots through him at the noise. “Scully, did you hear that?” he whispers.

“It's the wind,” she says, her voice sleepy but hard. “Just the wind, Mulder.”

The wind howls against the glass again and Mulder shivers, crawling closer to Scully. “You sure?” he asks, and she nods, almost growly in her delivery. Scully does not fuck around when she is tired, and he senses she's already in a bad mood from the Ryan Caruthers thing.

But the sound is too human, too eerie, and Mulder can't ignore it. He never thought he'd be this much in regret because of a supernatural encounter, but this is the kind of thing that is too hard to let go. He's as embarrassed as Scully about tonight—embarrassed about how badly he wanted to see the ghost, and embarrassed (and fearful) of the repercussions it will bring.

He drops a light, impulsive kiss on Scully's hair before curling up closer to her than before. He doesn't particularly want to leave Scully anytime soon, not if he can help it. Not with the wind howling like that and with the eerie figure of the Specter hovering at the back of his mind. It's silly, but considering how their last run-in with ghosts went, he doesn't think he's overreacting. He holds her hand tight and lays close to her, and she doesn't protest, and he thinks that is what gives him the courage to say what he says.

He says, nose against her hair, hand on her waist: “Scully, do you want to come back to the house with me tomorrow?”

She says nothing; the only sign of surprise is the slight lilt in her breathing. He adds quickly, “Just… to look over that tip I got last week. The one about the river creature?”

“Oh?” Scully asks, and her voice is very nearly coy. “It doesn't have anything to do with what happened tonight?”

He rubs his nose into her hair; he is moving entirely on impulse now. “If it did,” he says softly, “would it change your answer?”

She's quiet. He can hear every breath. It goes on for so long that he begins to consider pulling away, but she hasn't let go of his hand yet.

Finally, she says, “I hope you're ready. I've been thinking of lots of rebuttals for your river creature theories.”

He laughs, a little nervously, a little relievedly. She squeezes his hand once before letting go. She shifts a little in bed, turning over on her side, but she doesn't move away. His chest is against her back, his arm against her hip, and she doesn't move away.

The wind wails and the shutters rattle, and he thinks that the heat must be broken because he's freezing, but they're together, and she's warm. She is so warm, and she's here, and he loves her. He presses his cheek briefly to the back of her head before settling in to go to sleep.

---

Joy leaves the broken necklace on her desk. It's so dark out, she'd probably just lose it, and she couldn't do anything with it tonight, anyway. She feels nearly naked without it around her neck, but she feels equally relieved at the absence. Her breaths are still ragged, her neck still stinging, her heart still pounding. She can't quiet leave the fright of the moment, sweat slicking her palms, a shivery feeling up her spine. She just wants to get home and fall asleep for a few hours before she'll have to wake up and go back into school. She realizes that tonight hasn't exactly made any progress in the way of getting this ghost out of her classroom, and her temples throb. Tonight seemed like an ending, but she doesn't see why it would be. The ghost is likely still there.

She rubs at her eyes with exhaustion, texts her husband to let him know she'll be home soon and starts her car.

The streets are dark, orange and black streamers hanging limply from street lamps and candy wrappers littering the streets. Joy yawns, making a left turn. Driving in the dark has always given her the creeps. She likes to think it's the product of moving to the country after growing up in the city: no lights, no noises, just endless black and silence. She turns on her brights, just because no one else is on the road, and hums absently to herself, drumming her fingers on the dashboard.

All of a sudden, out of nowhere, the radio springs to life. It's playing Monster Mash, and Joy never thought a goofy song like that would bring as much terror as this one does, because her hands were nowhere near the dial.

Spooked, frantic, Joy tries to reach out with her right hand and turn it off, but she can't move. Her hands are frozen, her wrists achey and her fingers spasming around the wheel in her attempts to move, but it's to no avail. She can't reach over and turn off the radio.

Her eyes yank from side to side frantically, the only part of her body she seems to be able to move. And then her foot moves without her meaning to. She presses down harder on the gas, increasing her speed far past the limit.

Joy tries to thrash, tries to break her hands free from the wheel or her foot from the gas, but she still finds herself frozen, helpless. She can't decrease the pressure. The bouncy sound of Monster Mash continues, too loud, echoing in her eardrums. She whimpers, just a little, as she shoots past 70 in a 35 zone. At least there are no other cars in front of her.

Her eyes jerk again, almost painfully, and land on the rearview mirror. There's no one on the road behind her, but there is a shape in the back seat. A hulking, humanoid shape that seems to be watching her.

Joy's breath catches in her throat, unable to take her eyes away, unable to look away. She is helpless. She can't make out the face of whoever, or whatever, is in the backseat, but she thinks it may be smiling. Smiling maliciously.

The next thing she knows, the shape seems to be lunging at her. Her hand suddenly moves, not of their own accord, swerving the wheel hard to the right.

The next thing she knows, everything is going black.

---

November 1, 2016

Willoughby Daily Press; Willoughby, Virginia

SEVERE CAR CRASH ON PINE TREE ROAD LAST NIGHT

Last night, a car swerved off Pine Tree Road and flipped in the adjacent field. The accident was estimated to take place a few minutes before midnight.

The car belongs to a Mrs. Joy Seers, who was reportedly driving the car when it crashed. Mrs. Seers reportedly obtained major injuries, and was transported to Willoughby General Hospital from the scene. No one else was harmed in the wreck.

Seers's husband was contacted, but declined to comment on his wife's condition. According to a source who requested to stay anonymous, Mrs. Seers is in a coma at Willoughby General, and it is unknown when she is expected to wake up.

The Willoughby Police Department declined to comment on the accident. It is assumed that no foul play was involved, although this is unconfirmed.

#xf rewatch #xf fanfic #i wrote this