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WIP Wednesday/Snippet Someday

A big HUGE thank you to everyone who's been tagging me in stuff while I've been out on vacation!!! I'm finally back, and I have so much to catch up on! (I'll be trying to post every single one of those tag games and asks as soon as possible!)

Please have a snippet of Chapter 7, going up this Sunday 9/8!!! I know some have been looking forward to it (you have no idea how over the moon that makes me!!!)

Anywho, please enjoy this hefty offering!

“His rules were absolute- it’s why I can't turn you into a vampire, Ofelia. I’m only a spawn- I’ve no freedom or thoughts of my own. I was nothing but a slave, forced to survive on vermin and hide from the sun. To enact his twisted will on the city without any say- he had total control of me and my siblings, I was on a leash at all times,” He barks a laugh, her eyes wide and her voice dead in her throat. “Then I was abducted and this is the best thing that’s ever happened to me- I can’t feel him constantly choking me, constantly watching me. This parasite may have stolen you all away from whatever lovely lives you’ve been living, but for me…” His voice is strong and deep, her chest caving in as she listens. “It’s the best thing that's happened to me since I died.”

She sits silently for a while, her mind a cyclone of emotion. Pity, compassion, sadness. All of it swirls around inside until they lock eyes again. He doesn’t look receptive to a tearful hug or anything of that sort, but she mouths the I’m sorry that’s been echoing in her skull since his pained confession. His jaw clenches and he nods sharply before looking away again, her tongue heavy in her mouth.

“You just have to ask me, and I’ll give.” She says, twisting her fingers around. That look of surprise is on his face again, in his eyes. It fills her with some kind of purpose- she’s not been able to do much in combat here, or really offer their party that much… but at least she can do this. At least she can give someone a hand. At least this way she can be useful.

“Why? Why do you offer so freely? What’s in it for you?” She stills at his words, the razor edge of wariness making her chest ache. Oh distrust, the ever flighty bird she’d once grown accustomed to.

“Nothing’s really in it for me, Astarion. I’d just like to help… I can tell you don’t really care for pity. So let me help in a way you’ll at least appreciate.” She doesn’t look up to meet his eyes. It feels strange somehow, like the things she’s saying are something to be bashful about. She’d do this for anyone. She’d bend over backwards for anyone. She’s just like that.

“You won’t try to suffocate me with embraces and heartfelt words?”

“Can’t promise the latter- space I accept. But you’ll have to put up with me caring.” When she looks up, his head is cocked as he appraises her curiously. His lips twist in discomfort at her mention of “caring”, but otherwise he doesn’t look angry. “If you want to keep drinking from me, you’ll just have to put up with the compassion. Got it?”

“I… suppose.” He grinds out through his teeth, fangs flashing in the sunlight. They’re smaller when he isn’t trying to bite her, just barely peeking out from below his upper lip when he speaks. When he’s about to drink, they’re long- an inch or two, if she’s right.

“Have your eyes always been red?” She asks after some time has passed, mind lingering on some of the finer details.

“No… that’ll be another symptom of vampirism.” He mumbles, and she turns to look at him lazily again.

“What color were they before?” His brow furrows and he looks genuinely lost- almost adrift. It’s replaced by a grim look of anger just as fast as she can blink.

“I don’t remember. I don’t remember a lot of things, actually…” She wants to say something, but he’s so closed off. She can tell he’s barely allowing this bit of conversation between them, and she doesn’t want to press… but she did tell him he’d have to endure a bit of her tender understanding, and what better time to pester him than now?

“I think the red looks really nice,” She says, watching his face stray into awe before settling on confusion. “And the fangs- they look good too. The paleness. It kind of suits you and all that… you’re not going to stop me, are you?” He smirks, lips lifting over one fang, and she can’t tell if he’d always done that or if he’d been hiding it before his identity had been revealed to her. Or if he’s only showing them off because of what she’d just said. Everything feels like a churning ocean in her gut and she doesn’t like the way staring at him twists up her insides and makes her sound stupid. Well. Stupider than usual.

“Do go on, not enough people mention my good looks.”

“Oh, I’m sure you haven’t heard a compliment in ages. Let me pull out all the stops for you.”

“I’m listening,” He analyzes his nails.

“Snobby.” He snickers. “Pretentious.” He grins. “Ungrateful.”

“Now I’m insulted, I came and thanked you, didn’t I?”

“Not since last night.”

“You need another reminder? Greedy.” They’ve leaned in close, so close she can see every pore on his face. She stiffens and pulls back, hiding the warble in her voice with a light cough as she’s sure her cheeks paint her in an embarrassing scarlet.

Tagging all you fine folks- can't wait to catch up on all your updates!

@khywren @verbenaa @inkymoonbunny @ladyduellist @elinorbard @preciouslittlebhaalbae and maaaaaaany mooooore ❤️

(Long) Excerpt from The Last Wrath:

@lassiesandiego @lyutenw @rickie-the-storyteller @writernopal 

This scene belongs to my current medieval dark fantasy WIP - The Last Wrath. The characters in the scene are brothers, Zephyr & Jamie, one of which has been cursed and now grapples with what it might mean to their lives.

“[...] “What’s happening to me?” Zephyr whispered, a sound trapped between disbelief and a sob, holding one trembling hand in front of his eyes as he watched the bleeding cuts on his fist heal - and pitch black tendrils, glimmering in a dead grey hue, spread from within, pulsing from his arm towards his hand like rotten, dead blood. He could feel the magic in his blood, and it wasn’t his, it wasn’t right. It hurt like searing fire, but only at first, before everything turned numb. 

In front of him the shattered mirror, bloodstained, stood like a condemning monument. Only, Zephyr didn’t remember doing this. He didn’t even remember coming here. He watched, in terror, as even the blood on the shards of clear glass turned from normal red to black as tar. Zephyr couldn’t move, couldn’t scream. Like there was an invisible barrier that kept him in place. Even his thoughts seemed like whispers in a hurricane, they seemed like someone else’s. It felt like he wasn’t here, but even worse, it felt like he wasn’t himself. Not anymore. 

Everything was as if underwater, blurred, distant and suffocating. And he was the one drowning in it. Frozen, he was an spectator to the strange flashes that crossed his mind. He saw a kingdom besieged, a familiar one. The smell of the world burning around him assaulted his nose, and he heard the distant clash of swords that haunted his dreams every night. He saw the day they were betrayed, felt the blood gushing out of his wound like it once had, as a blade ripped through his side. The blade that would have killed his brother otherwise. In the mirror, a familiar face stared at him, accusation and disdain written in his eyes behind a strands of white and black hair, an otherwise handsome face destroyed by hatred. 

Zephyr’s breath caught in his throat. He tried to step back, but his feet were locked in place. The young man in the mirror smiled, and Zephyr swore he could hear his laugh. The same laugh as that day, so many winters ago, when death had been so close to them, as the figure suddenly started to morph … into himself. The darkness in his blood pulsed stronger, colder, as it called to him. Zephyr heard a bloodcurdling, horrifying familiar scream as his doppelganger laughed. The image twisted, and he saw his little brother lying dead on the ground. He couldn’t breath.

Before he could  lose himself any further, a pair of arms wrapped around his chest, holding him as if someone dragging him from the bottom of an icy lake would, and awakening back to reality.  A gentle, familiar voice was calling out to him, but he couldn’t yet hear the words.

He saw himself back in his room, a floor filled with toppled books and the welcoming sounds of the early morning wind. Home, he was still home. Kneeling on the floor, he barely realized his throat was raw from screaming. The black tendrils in his hands dissipated slowly, until only his pale skin remained. In front of him, a figure knelt between him and the shattered mirror, shielding him from its sight. Kind brown eyes, ridden with worry and guilt, met his.

“Jamie” Zephyr wept in a weak, hoarse sound, his arms shaking as he lunged into his brother’s arms, desperately clinging onto his shirt, because he was alive. His brother was still alive and they were safe, they were home. He wasn’t a monster, at least not yet. Jamie didn’t say anything, allowing the older boy to hold on as tightly as he needed to as he gently returned his embrace. Tears fell unbidden from Zephyr’s eyes and into the younger’s tunic, as his hands dug panickedly into his back, as if he might disappear at any moment “Jamie, I’m losing myself. I - I saw you die, I can’t… I couldn’t protect you. I’m becoming a monster.”

The words were desperate, a strained line of thought panickedly strung together. Jamie held him tighter to his chest, before pulling away and getting the older boy to calm down. He placed his hands on Zephyr’s shoulders.

“Listen to me. You’re the best man I’ve ever met, you’re not going to lose yourself like this. We’ will find a cure.” Jamie said, every word spoken with utter sincerity as he willed the other to meet his eyes, like Zephyr had done so many times when the roles were reversed “I will make things right, and everything will be fine like it used to be.”

Zephyr scoffed gently, tired irritation seeping into his voice.

“You don’t know that. I could be dangerous and I wouldn’t even know how to stop before the worst already happened”

Jamie sighed, noticing how Zephyr’s eyes flitted between him and the broken mirror behind them. He hated how that day had made Zephyr hate himself so much and how uncertain it had made him. 

“Yes, I do know. You would never hurt me, not even if that guy or his magic tried to force you to, I know you wouldn’t let that happen. You’re my older brother, I will never be afraid of you. [...] ” 

Out of Context Line SnippetTag!

Thanks for the tag, @willtheweaver (here)! I'll go with a snippet instead of a line because I really like this one!

From The Forgotten Ones Ch.1!

"Our House has stood for centuries. What right has that army over our people?" Vivaldah protested, gesturing towards the window. Beyond it, on the courtyard below, stood the heralds of the foreign Inquisition. Invaders in their land, as far as she was concerned.

Lady Noemie, standing in front of the mirror, did not turn around. Instead, she coldly adjusted the tiara upon her own brow as she answered, pragmatic "None. But they have the power to wash our fields away with the blood of our people. And that is something I will not allow."

Vivaldah glared at her sister's reflection "So you will marry the enemy? That idea is worse than surrendering. That's letting them win."

Noemie remained unfazed, and after analyzing her attire for a moment more, she finally moved, dress chiming like a million sharp diamonds as she walked. Vivaldah had never seen her look this frigidly determined.

The Queen, her sister, placed a hand on her shoulder, "And letting them win is the only way our people will live, Viva. Has the fall of House Velinad taught you nothing? Times have changed."

"At least the Velinads died fighting." Vivaldah rebuked through gritted teeth, though her voice betrayed more sadness than anger.

Tagging (gently): @your-absent-father @ray-writes-n-shit @diabolical-blue, @saltysupercomputer @agirlandherquill

@sleepy-night-child, @kaylinalexanderbooks, @smol-feralgremlin, @oh-no-another-idea, @littleladymab,

@winterandwords, @cowboybrunch, @eccaiia, @sarahlizziewrites, @illarian-rambling

@agirlandherquill, @anoelleart @sm-writes-chaos

@leave-her-a-tome, @writernopal, @anyablackwood, @unstablewifiaccess, @forthesanityofstorytellers

@i-can-even-burn-salad, @cakeinthevoid

@lassiesandiego, @thepeculiarbird, @clairelsonao3, @memento-morri-writes, @starlit-hopes-and-dreams and OPEN TAG

So are you going to write me a piece of romantic poetry? She had giggled, looking at him. Full of metaphors comparing me to the prettiest flowers in the land or comparing my eyes to the titillating moonlight?

He didn’t reciprocate her smile. When some exaggerates love too much, he had said softly, they haven’t really loved. Not truly, no.

Now thinking back he seemed to realise at that moment, she hadn’t really cared about his thoughts, nor him; had only been standing for pretty praise.

Better late than never.

- excerpt from a story I’ll probably never complete (original pls don’t copy)

Just a snippet

"While slowly standing up, coughing up blood, she could only think of her regrets. Why had she left without telling her parents? Why was she forcing herself to be some sort of hero? Why was she making her friends watch her die?

As her friends pounded on the wall of force, they yelled and screamed and begged for her to come with them. She could not, and she knew that. They wouldn't be able to leave if she didn't stall that indescribable horror of a man, her friends would never be able to escape. She turned to them one last time, and smiled.

The girl told her friends one last thing, 'Don't cry because we are saying goodbye. Please just don't forget me. Otherwise, I'll cry.'

With a single tear, that glistened in the flickering light of the flames around them, she turned towards monstrous man. She steadied her shaking hands and quivering boots, and charged at the man."

"As I sit on this cold bench, I am eaten by the coursing gales who wish nothing more than to freeze me. I shouldn't have told them to keep going without me, but... I really wanted to look cool. God, this shit hurts... but at least I get to see these beautiful stars one last time. These dim parklights, this dusty gravel... there are worse places to die. Margaret, I hope I'll see you...wherever I go..."

"The wind whipped and slammed on the cabin walls. The crippling cold was desperate to break through, but to no avail. A pyre, held harnessed by simple brick, offered a gentle warmth to the room. Your eyes pierce through the moth-cursed curtain and are greeted with inky darkness. A feeling of anxiety course's through you.

'Where are they? Are they okay?' More and more terrifying thoughts ate your heart slowly. The desperate urge to run out into the veil of night and search started as an intrusion but was gradually swaying the crowd.

Suddenly, the cabin door squeaks open and standing there, it's them! You feel your heart melt off the anxiety as you let out a relieved sigh. You both smile at each other, perhaps they were equally worried leaving you there alone..."

“Wait—you’re the bridge troll?”

The little girl fiddled with the ends of her dress, lace curling over her fingers. Her hair fell in perfect ringlets, tied with a pretty bow. The darkness turned her hair to the deepest of blacks.

She smiled, all innocence.

“Yes. I could be something more scary, if that would help?”

Seraphina blinked.

“What?”

The smile took on an edge sharper than blades. Seraphina was afraid she might reveal a second row of teeth—she hated fae, especially the ones with too many teeth to count.

“I can be anything,” the little girl stated simply, and then she rose, twisting, bones cracking, until a cloud of darkness encompassed the bridge. When she spoke again, her voice echoed with the promise of pain and the sound of thousands pleading for help. “Is this form better?”

Seraphina choked on her own tongue, spine twinging as she grabbed for her dagger.

“No, no it was fine—“

“Or maybe,” came a voice she had long since laid to rest, “you’d prefer this?”

And then the bridge troll was wearing the face of her dead lover. Seraphina forgot to breathe for a moment, caught on the edge of tears. It was a blister that hurt, it was sticking your hand into the fire, it was breaking all your ribs. Seeing that face—even if the expression was all wrong, like spelling someone’s name with a different letter—hurt.

If Seraphina couldn’t feel her own breathing, she’d assume she was dead.

“Take off their face,” she said after a long moment, and the bridge troll obliged.

“Better?” The little girl said, and Seraphina nodded mutely. “Now, for prices. Most people give up one of their favorite memories, or maybe the voice of a loved one—“

“How much,” Seraphina began, clearing her throat. She eyes the coursing river below. “How much would all of the memories of a loved one be worth.”

The little girl paused, mouth open.

“I’m sorry?”

“How much would it be worth. How many passages across the bridge would all of my memories about someone be worth.”

The little girl blinked, then drew herself up, as if she had surprised even herself in her lack of calm.

“It would pay off years worth of passages.”

Seraphina nodded.

Below, the river thrummed with empty promises.

She had loved them, and they had died. They were supposed to both make it out. And now, here Seraphina was, alone but for a bridge toll, on a bridge in the middle of nowhere.

Well. Not nowhere. She was in that place her lover had always wanted to go.

She figured maybe if she went, her lover would feel it, wherever their soul was.

Now, though, her love simply felt like an arrow between her ribs.

“I’ll pay it.”

The little girl paused again.

“You don’t mean that.”

“I do. Take it. Pay off as much as you can so nobody who passes through needs to worry.”

The little girl fell silent. If she had any emotions, Seraphina hoped she would understand the enormity of the sacrifice.

Really, though, it was just a selfish need for the pain to stop.

“Alright,” the little girl said. “Give me your hand.”

Seraphina obliged. Her hand was warm in a way she hadn’t expected, and soft.

“Whose face are you wearing?” Seraphina whispered.

“Whose soul are you releasing,” the girl said back.

Seraphina looked once more at the river.

“The love of my life.”

As soon as she said it, as soon as she thought of his face, it was snatched from her mind.

No pain.

Just a neatly cut hole where something should be.

In front of her, a little girl held her hand.

She frowned, puzzled. She rubbed her eyes.

“What are you—“ when she opened them, she blinked again. The most handsome man she had ever seen was holding her hand, smiling roguishly.

“You took a bit of a fall. Are you feeling okay?” His voice sounded like home, and his face looked like it, like warm summer breezes and laughter at the hearth. For a second, something throbbed in side of her, a quiet I remember, before it whisped away.

“Yeah,” she said when she realized she had simply been staring at his face. “Yeah, sorry, i’m fine.”

His smile broadened.

“My name is Edrian, by the way.”

She blinked once more.

“Seraphina.”

The edges of his smile softened.

‘Seraphina’ he mouthed, as if testing it out.

“Can I buy you something to eat?”

Her hand was still in his. For some reason, she didn’t want to let go.

She studied his face, and was filled with such love, such longing, that she almost choked.

She felt like she had loved him for years.

“Sure.”

Edrian squeezed her hand, gently, then murmured her name once more, tugging her gently into town.

Behind them, the bridge was abandoned, and tucked between their clasped hands and traded memories, stolen love bloomed.

“I love you.”

A dying man’s confession of an admission.

The villain clenched their jaw.

“I’m aware.”

A broken laugh escaped the hero’s lips.

“What kind of answer is that?”

The villain pursed their lips.

“The one that keeps me alive.”

The hero reached for their hand. For some reason, the villain let them take it.

“You are alive. But are you living?”

The villain curled the ends of their fingers around the hero’s, just barely.

“I have everything I could possibly want—“

“Except me.”

It sat between them like a terrible truth, a dead body, a broken promise.

Don’t go falling in love with me, the hero had joked amidst battle, sarcasm and flirtations trading between them with their blows. The villain had scoffed.

Don’t overestimate yourself, hero.

They had both failed. They had wonderfully, horribly, failed.

The hero swallowed.

“Everything, except me.”

The villain’s eyes hardened.

“Would you like me to keep you, then? Lock you up in a pretty little cage, as an object of my affection. Is that what you want from me?”

“I would like for you stop pretending this is nothing—“

“Careful, hero. Falling for a monster like me? How masochistic.”

“Stop talking to me like you hate me.”

Unspoken, between them—

You don’t hate me, do you?

Something softened in the villains face.

“You are a weakness, and yet I cannot shake you.”

Tears welled unbidden in the hero’s eyes.

“Please.”

“Loving me will be your downfall,” the villain warned.

“Then down I shall go.”

The villain studied them for a moment, then dropped their hand.

“Down we shall go,” they murmured softly.

Down they went.

The door creaked open, golden light spilling from within.

It looked like heaven—as if a slice of something glorious had been tucked away.

Mythria reached a hand for it, but Ella got there first, swinging the door open with a grin.

“After you, m’lady.”

The room was warm when she stepped into it, Ella’s boots echoing after hers, and the pedestal in the center beckoned.

She gasped.

“It’s real.”

Beside her, Ella looked close to tears.

“It’s beautiful.”

And it was—the leather bound book was bracketed by a delicate over cover, twisting leaves and furling branches stretching across its length.

They stopped in front of it, climbing the pedestal.

Mythria wanted so badly to hold it, but couldn’t bear to touch it.

Hello, it seemed to say. I’ve been waiting.

Ella sniffled, and wiped a tear.

“You should do the honors.”

Mythria blinked at her as Ella wiped tears from her cheeks.

“Are you sure?”

Ella nodded, and Mythria turned back to the book.

It was so pretty. She hadn’t known anything could be this pretty—and after all of these years of searching, all the pain, she realized it was worth it.

Her fingers closed upon the book, and she cracked it open.

As soon as her eyes read the first line, her body seized, crumpling to the floor.

She shook, pain lancing through her, iron twisting along her bones.

Above her, Ella simply watched curiously.

She took a handkerchief out of her pocket, wrapping it around her hand in order to pick up the book.

Mythria let out a keen, panting, before she was able to push herself up.

“You knew that would happen.”

Ella raised a brow.

“Of course. I’ve done my research.”

“So then why—“

“I’m honestly surprised you’re still alive,” she continued, as if Mythria hadn’t said anything. “I thought it would kill you.”

Mythria snarled, legs too shaky to stand.

“Traitor.”

Ella hummed.

“I did tell you I was from the Golden Ones. You just assumed I had renounced them.”

“What? So you’re stealing priceless artifacts for some unknown gods? Ella, please—“

“We are the gods,” she corrected, and with the light shining down and the book clutched against her side, she looked like one.

Mythria pulled her knees to her chest as something warm stirred within her.

Ella made for the door.

“One day,” Mythria called, “I will come for you. And you will rethink your own godhood.”

Ella stopped at the threshold.

She grinned.

“I look forward to it.”

Inside her, the power of the book thrummed.

You are the god now.

Mythria smiled, and after a long moment, stood.

She hated traitors.

“If I am a god,” she said to herself, “then it is time for a reckoning.”

The vault trembled, as if it could sense the power growing in her, and delighted in the empty book being stolen away, now simply a book and not a power container.

Mythria was the power container now.

And she was going to show them exactly what a god looked like.

“You’d be nothing without me,” she snapped. Hailey stopped in the middle of slicking on her trademark red lipstick.

In the mirror, she raised one prom, perfect, brow.

“I’m sorry, have I not been giving you enough attention?” Her tone dripped with condescension.

“I’m not a dog,” Leah said, and Hailey pursed her lips.

“Then don’t act like one.”

Leah scoffed.

“For someone loved by millions, you certainly are hard to be around.”

Hailey stood, pulling herself to a stop in front of Leah. She hooked two fingers into Leah’s waistband, and tugged her flush against her front.

Leah’s face went red.

“Oh, darling, I know. They love me because I sing about being hopelessly in love. And who writes those songs.”

“I do,” Leah said, indignation warm in her chest.

Hailey hummed.

“Mmm. And who are you in love with? I certainly haven’t seen anyone holding your hand. No, your life revolves around me,” she grinned, teasingly. “Like a planet to a star.”

Leah spluttered, face going even warmer.

“I am not in love with you—“

Hailey tipped her head so their lips almost brushed, and Leah froze, chest caught between a breath.

Hailey smiled, and Leah swore she felt it against her mouth.

“Thought so.” Hailey stepped away, slinging her jacket off the back of a chair and onto her shoulder. She strode for the door, and stopped halfway across the room.

“Oh, and love? Write me another love song, and next time, maybe I’ll bring you out onstage. Introduce you as my pretty little girlfriend, my wonderful mastermind.”

Leah choked.

“I am not your girlfriend—“

Hailey simply smiled that red lipstick smile, and sauntered out the door into the middle of her screaming fans.

Leah touched her still hot cheek with one finger, absently.

Girlfriend.

She smiled, slightly.

She kind of liked it.

“I love you,” they pressed a kiss to their lovers temple. Their lover smiled sleepily at them, beneath blankets and pillows and bandages.

“How are you feeling?”

Their lover smiled, reached for them, and pulled them into bed.

“Better, now that you’re here.”

“I never left.”

“Don’t ever leave.”

They pressed another kiss to their forehead.

“Promise.”

Their lover winced, and blinked wearily.

“Kiss it better?”

They smiled.

“Of course.”

They kissed every wound thrice times over, until their lover was dead asleep in their arms, coated in their love.

“I love you,” they whispered into their hair.

And despite the bruises, despite the wounds, in their sleep, their lover smiled.

“I just—I don’t think I love you anymore.”

It hurt—like a thousand suns burning in his core, a million white lies, a rockslide in his gut.

He swallowed, and tears threatened to spring to his eyes.

“What do you mean, you don’t love me. I made myself for you. Is the witty humor not enough anymore? The undying devotion? The kindness, all of it, I did it for you.”

Lila bit her lip.

“I’m sorry.”

“Tell me, did I not change quick enough, or did you change too fast?”

His voice was bitter, a winters cold bite, even to his own ears.

“Matt—“

“It’s Matthew.”

Lila paused.

His scoffed, angrily.

“You don’t love me anymore. I became Matt for you—I created myself around you, built myself upon you. I became the picture you painted in your mind. You can’t say you don’t want it and have it the same.”

A flush rose to her cheeks.

“You’re being ridiculous—“

“You stopped loving me!” He shouted, and after a moment, softer, “how could you not love me?”

A tear slipped down Lila’s cheek.

“You’re perfect. I just—I’m sorry. I don’t know. I’m sorry.”

It wasn’t enough. How could it ever be enough? He had taken classes to be with her because she didn’t like to be alone, had started the track to become a vet because she loved animals and wanted to work with the love of her life, hd cut his hair, and changed his posture, had gotten superpowers, had been sexy and cute and smart and kind and wholesome and dorky and funny and yet—

He was perfect. And still, she had stopped loving him.

Somewhere between Matt—Matthew—he had remade himself in the negative space around her, and somehow, as he changed himself, she had changed too.

“I still love you,” he offered weakly, and she turned her head, as if slapped. “I could change—“

“Stop.”

A tear dropped off the end of his chin.

“I’d do it well—“

“Matthew.”

His name, a plea. No more Matt.

Lila had killed him.

Lila sniffed, as if steeling herself, then drew herself up.

She looked him directly in the eye.

“You need to stop changing for others.”

“You liked it when I changed for you,” he murmured, voice raw.

She swallowed.

“That was different.”

“How, Lila. Different because it was you? Because me changing was romantic, not sad, when it was you? God.”

“Matthew—“

“You didn’t love me for me,” he threw an arm out. “You don’t love Matt, and you don’t love whoever I am now.”

Lila closed her eyes.

“I said I was sorry—“

“I became a new person for you, and you relished it, and now you’re sorry?”

She pursed her lips.

“It’s not like that.”

“You know it is.”

And whatever was left of his heart broke.

A match lit itself inside his chest.

Lila opened her mouth, and he cut her off.

“No. Just—stop. Stop apologizing when you aren’t sorry. I am going to go out, and I am going to find someone who loves me, not for Matt, not for Matthew, but for me. And when I do, I am going to love them harder than I have ever loved anyone else. Even you.”

Lila looked like she didn’t know what to say, as if she had expected the collapse but hadn’t expected him to bare his teeth.

“Go.”

When she left, she slammed the door behind her.

Eight months later, he met a girl named Kaylie in a coffee shop.

They ruled the world, together, five years later.

“We’re going to die,” the hero murmured, and the villain slammed their hand onto their mouth.

“If you keep talking, yes.”

The hero glared at them out of the side of their eye, and hissed against their palm.

“Let go of me—“

The super villain laughed, and it echoed through the warehouse; a place they had turned into a sprawling labyrinth of death traps and riddles.

“Little birds,” they sang, and in that moment, the hero hated their chosen profession.

Behind their back, the villain fiddled with the lock to the door.

Their other hand remained firmly fixed upon the hero’s mouth.

The super villain began to hum.

“Come out, come out, wherever you are…”

The villain began to move faster.

“Please,” the hero mouthed against the villains palm, sweat and desperation coating them. There was blood cooling on their abdomen.

The villain simply clutched their face tighter.

The super villain turned the corner, gun propped on their shoulder, and smiled.

“Found you.”

The lock clicked, the door swung open, and together, they tumbled into freedom.

Two hours later, the hero was swaddled in a fluffy blanket on the villains couch. There were so many safe guards on the villains house that they should have felt trapped. The hero just felt safe.

The villain carefully taped a piece of cloth over their wound, a pristine white bandage covering a neat row of stitches, put there by the villain.

“Thank you,” the hero’s mouth was dry. “For. You know.”

The villain looked up at them, and by god, if they didn’t look like a fallen Angel.

They smiled.

“I couldn’t let you die, now could I,” they said. They tipped the hero’s chin up, and when they spoke next, it was a whisper over their lips. “I’d miss you.”

The hero shivered, and the villain’s smile curled wider.

A moment later, the settled onto the couch beside the hero. The hero stiffened.

“Oh, come now.”

The villains arm fell, lightly, around their shoulders, and then they were pulled, blanket and all, onto the villain’s shoulder.

“You—“

“Hush, hero. That’s the blood loss talking.”

The hero did not nuzzle further into the villain’s chest, and the villain did not tuck them closer.

Absolutely not.

The news report flicked on, and they watched it idly, together.

“We’ll kill them together, yes?” The hero said, voice small.

The villain hummed, then laughed, voice tinged with something dangerous.

If the hero had looked up, they would have seen something akin to murderous. The villain tucked a careful hand over the wound, as if to make sure it was safe, and protected, and no longer bleeding out.

The hero did not look up.

“Yes, hero. We’ll kill them together.”

But for now, they stayed there, huddled together, warm and safe and dry.

And if the hero didn’t leave, even after they had killed the supervillain? If the hero moved in, took up a place on the villain’s bed?

Then that wouldn’t be anyone’s business.

(The villain delighted in it, though.)

(The hero was just happy to no longer be alone.)

(The hero learned the Villain knew a startling amount about the human body, their body, and was especially adept at causing pleasure—)

(The villain delighted in that, too.)

“Hey,” the hero panted. “At least I’ll make a pretty dead body?”

The villain hissed at them beneath their breath.

“I don’t want this. You know that, right?”

The hero stilled. The chanting of the crowd grew louder.

“I know.”

The villain looked down over the edge of the stage, eyes cold and calculating as ever.

Their eyes caught on something.

When they turned to the hero, they smiled.

“Hold your breath.”

The square erupted in smoke, and everything was lost to the blur of unconsciousness.

“You’re an idiot.”

The hero blinked, half asleep.

“What?”

The villain made a low noise of irritation, and behind them, someone laughed.

“I told you not to breathe.”

The hero half smiled, vision blurry.

“Next time, say something sooner.”

“God, why did I save you—“

The hero shifted to laugh, and felt bandages wrapping around their wrists. They frowned, pulling it up to their face.

The villain watched them, carefully.

“Bandages?”

The villain nodded.

“You were bleeding.”

“I don’t remember—“

“Suppressants affect the ability to feel pain. A mercy, if you were to be executed, but a curse if you get wounded.”

The hero made to unwrap one, see the damage, and the villains cool fingers closed around their wrist.

“Stop it.”

“You didn’t tell me they were reckless,” the same laughing voice as before said, and the hero snapped their gaze to them.

They grinned.

“Hello, there.”

The hero’s power sputtered to life, as if pushing past the final dregs of the suppressors, and slammed out into the room, exploring every nook and cranny. It slid along the skin of the newcomer, testing, as if figuring out what power they held.

A moment later, the hero gagged, retching.

The villain simply watched them, unconcerned, hand still on their wrist, but the newcomer frowned.

“Are you—“

“I hate fire wielders,” the hero gasped, covering their mouth. “You taste like smoke and feel like suffocation.”

The newcomer stilled, and their power told them with no shortage of glee that their name was Alex, and it the hero wanted the flames wreathed within their skin, they could have them.

Alex glanced to the villain. “How did they…”

The villain examined the hero’s hand, before pressing a nail into their skin.

The hero’s power practically purred, sliding back into their skin. When the villain smiled, it was feral.

“Their power is a loathsome little thing. Just too far on this side of sentient. A curious thief and magic rolled into one.”

The hero made to yank their hand away, and their power protested.

The hero left their wrist in the villains grasp.

Alex’s eyebrows pinched. “So why aren’t you affecting them?”

The villain’s smile, if anything, grew sharper.

“Could be the gas, from when we saved their life,” With their free hand, the tipped the hero’s chin up to examine their eyes. “Or, could be that they like me, and their power likes me too.”

The hero flushed.

“It does not—“

The villain swiped a finger on their forearm, and the hero’s power glowed at the contact.

They didn’t even realize they’d copied the villain’s powers until they tasted the stardust and wind that came with telepathy and teleportation.

Right. Suppressors.

If the hero hadn’t been so hopped up on suppressors earlier, teleportation would have gotten them out much easier than gas. From the look on the villain’s face, they knew that too.

People had learned the hard way not to teleport those who have been suppressed. Magic didn’t like it.

The villain snorted.

“You’re an asshole,” the hero bit out, and their power curled around their newfound toy like a baby dragon, hoarding it in their chest. Alex’s thoughts were unimaginably load.

“God, how can you be around anyone, ever?”

The villain cocked their head. It wasn’t the first time the hero had asked that question.

Behind them, Alex left. Blessedly, it got quiet.

“Practice,” the villain admitted. “A lot of it.”

The hero wanted to shove the telepathy out of them, but their power simply held on tighter.

“It won’t let go.”

“Mm. Quite the noxious creature.”

“I’m the one living with it.”

The villain hummed, hand tracing along the edges of the bandages.

“I would never have let you die.”

The hero simply thought, I know.

The villain smiled.

I love you, the villain’s eyes bore into them, thought flung across the void between their brain and the hero’s.

The hero took their hand. The villain let them. “I know.”

In their chest, their power finally, finally settled, as if it had been waiting for this all along.

Trapped Hero

The hero slammed into the villain’s chest so hard their breath left their lungs.

The villain didn’t have the decency to look phased as the hero scrambled away.

“You can’t keep me here.”

The villain smiled, a gentle thing, like the hero was a wild animal and they were the valiant rescuer.

Trapped in this cage, the hero felt a little wild.

They were used to cages. This wasn’t the first time. And yet, with the look on the villain’s face, with the power dampeners twined around the hero’s wrists, they were more afraid than they had ever been.

“Of course I can,” the villain said simply. “How would you stop me?”

They cast a pointed look at the hero’s wrists, and they stumbled a step back.

Something twisted in their gut.

“You have no right,” the hero began, and something shuttered in the villain’s eyes.

“You’re so innocent.”

The hero paused.

Innocent? The hero had never associated themselves with that word. Not with their childhood, not with their power, not with their job.

Try to save a city, and spill blood in the process. The only who seemed to care about the spilling of criminal blood was the hero.

Good work, the agency called it.

The hero simply wore it as guilt.

“Innocent,” the villain murmured once more. When they stepped into the hero’s space, closed any distance the hero had managed to create, the hero froze.

“I’m not innocent,” the hero spat, and it felt like a confession.

“You wear the guilt beautifully, I must admit. But you shouldn’t have to.”

The villain ran a hand along the hero’s jaw, and they jerked away.

“Don’t touch me.”

Impossibly, the villain’s eyes softened. The took a step back, watching as the hero relaxed minutely.

“I’m doing this for you.”

“If you’re doing this for me, let me out. Take these damned things off, and let me out.”

“No.”

The hero reeled, and the villain watched that, too.

The city needed them, their people needed them, and they couldn’t help if they were trapped in this tower.

Behind the villain, the door remained closed.

“Please.”

The villain blew out a slow breath.

“You’re too kind for this city.”

The hero took a step forward, hand stretching towards the window.

“That’s why it needs me,” they pleaded. “Don’t take me from it.”

The villain’s eyed them with reproach.

“Does it need you,” they said gently, “or do you need it?”

The hero scoffed.

“What difference does it make—“

“I read your file,” the villain said, and the hero stiffened.

Their childhood, the pain, the hurt, the curses and uttering of freakwrongburden that they kept oh so carefully buried was laid bare in front of them.

Of course the villain had. Of course the villain knew.

The hero swallowed, and it hurt.

“You had no right—“

“They had no right to hurt you.”

The hero stopped. Across from them, the villain was closest to anger as they had ever seen them.

Their power lashed out, and the cuffs shoved it down with all the grace of a falling building.

“Your parents,” the villain began. “Your siblings. They were awful people. If they weren’t already dead, I’d kill them for you.”

The hero shuddered. That night, those deaths, the gravestones that haunted them, tattooed on their mind in ways they knew that they could never erase.

They had been too slow then. They hadn’t been that slow ever again. They made sure of it.

“I don’t need you to—“

“You will not protect yourself, so I am doing it for you.”

The hero jerked their head.

“You call this protecting?”

The tower sat silent around them.

The villain’s jaw clenched.

“This city, your precious people,” the villain grit out. “They would destroy you, if you let them. If I let them.”

The hero took another step forward, and their power hummed, furious within their veins.

Too slow, their body whispered. Danger.

The villain smiled, and this time, it wasn’t gentle, but vicious. The hair on the back of the hero’s neck rose.

“But for you, darling? I’m going to destroy it first.”

They were out the door faster than the hero could grab them.

Even when they screamed their throat raw, scratched their nails bloody on the edges of the door, the villain did not come.

Too slow.

The city burned.

Trapped Hero Pt. 2

For the lovely person who asked (you made my day!)

Pt. 1, if anyone wants it.

When the hero woke up, the villain was bandaging their hands.

For a moment, it was simply the soothing smell of numbing cream, the careful glide of fabrics around their fingers.

Their brain, lagging far too many seconds behind, jerked, and they tried to tug their hands from the villain’s grip.

The villain looked up at them, eyes betraying nothing, and continued their work.

Even with the power dampeners, they should have been able to pull free. They hadn’t felt this weak since before their powers had set in. They had been young, five at most when the genetic mutation had finally kicked in. To any of the other families across the city, it would have been heralded as a blessing. To the hero’s, it was a betrayal, made by the hero on purpose.

Never mind that it was their parents DNA.

Never mind that they were a child.

The villain glanced up at them once more, scanning their face, before they softly said “I drugged you.”

The hero blinked, and their head pulsed with pain.

“Why,” their throat cracked so badly, raw and aching, that they stopped.

Why did you drug me?

Why all of this?

And dully, that final question, just a stark, why.

The villain seemed to understand anyways.

“You were hurting yourself.”

They slicked a piece of tape around the hero’s fingers. When the hero struggled to sit up, they pushed them back down with a firm hand to their chest.

A bed. They were on a bed. The loss of their memories, the absence of how they had gotten to this point, was a hole in their rib cage. They hated it. They hated drugs.

After the concoction their mother had fed them throughout their childhood, first to make them normal, then, when that hadn’t worked, to keep them docile, how could they not?

The villain knew that, too. And they had drugged them anyways.

“Stop pretending like you care.” It came out more broken than the hero had wanted it to.

The villain hummed, examining the hero’s hands. After a moment, they tucked them together, lacing a firm hand around the hero’s wrists. Their fingers were warm.

“If I didn’t care, I wouldn’t have locked you in this tower.”

The hero froze. 

The tower. The city. Their city—

The hero bolted upright, and the villain caught them. After a moment, they tucked the hero against their chest, grip tight on their wrists. 

Over the villains shoulder, the edges of the door were chipped, surface smeared with the hero’s blood.

Escape had not come easy. Really, it hadn’t come at all.

The hero shuddered, and the villain rubbed a soothing hand on their back, as if it wasn’t keeping them pinned in some awful version of a hug.

As if this wasn’t another form of a cage.

“The city,” they gasped out, and the villain traced a slow circle on their back.

“Is gone,” the villain supplied.

The hero didn’t realize they were keening until the villain hushed them, low and soothing against their ear.

“It was for your own good, can’t you see that? It was for you.”

If the villain released them, they would see the tears on the hero’s cheek.

They didn’t release them.

“They can’t hurt you any more.”

But that wasn’t true, was it?

The bruises of their parents, the cuts of their siblings and past had twisted in their nightmares for their entire life, long after they were little more than eulogies and grave markers.

They were dead, but the ghosts of them remained.

The city was gone, but the ruins of it weighed heavy on their shoulders anyways.

“You know that isn’t true. Gone doesn’t mean it stops hurting. Gone never means—“

The hero bit back a sob.

The villain carded a hand through their hair.

“No,” the agreed. “Gone does not mean it stops hurting. The ghosts of the past are vicious, aren’t they?”

Their grip tightened in the hero’s hair, to the point of pain.

“With time, I think I can fix that too.”

The hero reeled, shoving against the grip on their wrists, and the villain let them scramble backwards. They slammed into the headboard, shaking like a newborn fawn.

The villain tapped an idle finger. “You saved me, once. You didn’t know who I was, or that I was covered in someone else’s blood as much as my own—you saw me, bloody, bearing a gunshot wound, and tried to help. I could have killed you, but I didn’t. How could I ever hurt someone who radiated such kindness? That’s when I knew you were a blessing on this wretched place. That’s when I knew I was going to save you, no matter the cost. Do you remember that?”

The sickening thing was, they did remember that. They had learned later that there had been dead body ten feet behind the villain. They had learned later that the villain had an extensive record of revenge killings, dating back years. 

But in that moment, it had only been about the person in front of them, covered in blood, with a wound.

So the hero had healed them, their telekinesis rushing over them and adjusting their tousled clothes as they went, until the wound was gone and the blood was half vanished from the villain’s clothes. They hadn’t realized it had been more than the villain’s blood staining their jacket.

When they saw the villain again on the battlefield, they recognized the face, but couldn’t place why.

Now they knew.

“You’re a monster,” the hero spat, and the villain raised a brow, as if it hadn’t hurt them the way the hero wanted.

“Maybe. But at least I’m the monster who covets you.”

“You are no better than anyone who has hurt me—“

At this, the villain jerked forward, grip bruising on the hero’s chin. Their eyes burned with that quiet rage.

After a moment, they smiled, just barely.

“I am not your parents,” they said cruelly,  “drugging you until you were too much of a zombie to be special. I am not your siblings, seeing how long they had to drown you before your powers would lash out. I am not this city, covering you with blood and calling it righteous.”

The hero had stopped breathing.

“Everything I do, I do it to protect you. And if protecting you sometimes means hurting you, then I’ll take the weight of that.”

The villain released them, and stood.

They corners of their smiled smoothed into something pleasant. Fake, like plastic.

When the hero tried to speak, all they could manage was a strangled, “Please.”

The villain tipped their head.

“I will not give you a freedom that will bring you pain.”

“But you’ll give me captivity?”

“This is a blessing. No more pain. No more hurt. No more guilt.”

The hero scoffed, chest tight.

“A life in a cage will never be one without pain.”

The villain narrowed their eyes, but their voice remained soft.

“We’ll see.”

“I hate you.”

The villain nodded.

“Oh, love. I know.”

When the villain left, the hero curled in on themself and tried to pretend they weren’t in their mother’s darkened closet once more.

This time, the hero didn’t bother screaming.

At least the villain caged them out of love, instead of hatred.

Somehow, even with the knowledge that this was some twisted form of protection, the walls still suffocated the hero all the same. 

Atticus pulled his sleeve down over his fingers,hiding the glimmer of skin twisted beyond recognition by magical backlash and curses.

The mother, horrified, tugged her child away before they could reach out and trace his scars, fingers thick with wonderment.

Sawyer appeared from behind a shelf, hands holding a too bright colored cereal box, in time to watch a mother flee in horror and Atticus withdraw into himself like a soldier retreating from bloodshed.

Three pieces on a chess board playing a game Atticus had never wanted to play. Destiny, they had called it. Fate. They mixed his name with Chosen One until the lines between them blurred, until he was no longer Atticus, yet not quite a savior, and ended stuck miserably between. Never a pawn, never a queen, but still utilized as both.

A bottomless rage flickered in Sawyer’s eyes, a reminder of prophecies and villains and ‘to do what must be done’, and then it was gone.

He laced his fingers into Atticus’s as if he couldn’t feel the places where his skin was warm with magic.

“Do you want to try this cereal?” He asked. Atticus took the box from him, found a wizard smiling up at him.

He wanted to light the box on fire—he could, if he willed it. Just one thought and he could rewrite the atoms of the world.

Magic doesn’t like to leave a host when it’s found a good one, the healers had promised him. They said it like he was lucky, blessed, like he should rejoice that his skin was now marred by ever changing swirls that glimpsed into other universes, like he should be pleased that his body was no longer his but instead a vessel he co-inhabited.

Atticus was not pleased. Atticus was scarred.

He gave a little hum. “Sure. Looks okay.”

Sawyer chucked it onto the shelf without a glance, tightened his palm around Atticus’s, and abandoned the shopping cart.

“What are you doing?” Sawyer tugged them through the sliding doors, feet sure as they slid closed behind them. “We have grocery shopping to do, we can’t just leave—“

The child spotted them and let out a shriek of glee, eyes training on the swirl on the side of Atticus’s neck like a bloodhound. They smiled wide, and innocent, and bubbled to their mother. “Look mom, magic!”

A tone so reverent, that their mom paused as they set a jug of milk into the trunk. Her mouth twisted as she saw Atticus. The child stirred restlessly in the cart.

Blessed one. Savior. Pariah.

Sawyer smiled at the child and Atticus let himself be shoved into the passenger seat of their old SUV.

The engine trilled, and he avoided touching the dashboard.

Technology and magic were two siblings that fought viciously,and he was tired of the squabble.

Sawyer seemed content to let them sit in silence forever. Atticus was all too aware of his scars changing shape beneath his shirt.

“Why’d you have us leave?” Atticus said finally. Sawyer turned sideways in his seat to look at him.

“Because you were uncomfortable.”

He said it like it needed no further explanation. Maybe to anyone else it wouldn’t.

“Right, but I was fine. I could handle some horrified stares. I’ve fought villains before,” he gestured to a mass of glittering stars whorling around the skin of his knuckles. “I can handle a perturbed middle aged woman.”

Sawyer shook his head.

“I know you can. And I do not want you to take this as me disregarding the actions of others—because believe me, they are fucked—but I think maybe somewhere along the way of learning how to handle others you forgot to learn to handle yourself.”

Atticus sat back against the door.

“Sawyer, what the hell is that supposed to mean,” he bit, and Sawyer ran a nervous hand through his hair.

“Atticus, I love you, and this hurts to say, but you hate yourself.”

Atticus blinked. Then blinked again.

“What?”

Sawyer’s eyes bore into him, jade green and love and sorrow.

“You hate your scars. You hate your magic. And somehow, along the way, that started meaning you hate yourself too.”

Atticus tried to swallow around the stab wound in his chest. It felt too hot in here. He turned on the A/C.

“I don’t—“ he tried, and then stopped as the magic purred at the lie. Such a wretched thing, collecting promises, lies, and favors like candy. A petulant child always begging for more.

Sawyer took his face gently.

“Atticus,” he said softly. “I love you. And I want you to love you, too.”

Atticus was certain he did not remember how to breathe. Sawyers callus’s sat soothing on his skin.

“I hate them,” his voice cracked. “I hate it. ”

His scars twisted across his abdomen like they could hear him. They likely could.

Tears threatened to spill down as Sawyer reached down, and took his hand.

Atticus closed his eyes to ward back the onslaught, and then blinked open when he felt Sawyers lips brush over the scar on his forearm. A second later, they glanced over his elbow.

“What—“ Sawyer shoved up his sleeve, and Atticus’s voice broke as he kissed the magic undulating on his bicep. “What are you doing.”

“I love you,” Sawyer murmured against his shoulder. He tugged Atticus over the console. “And if words do not work to convince you of your worth, your beauty, how wonderful you are.” Sawyer lingered on the scar on his neck, before sliding up to whisper the last words into his ear. “Then I’ll just have to show you how beautiful you are, won’t I?”

They didn’t get the grocery shopping done. But somehow during the night, Atticus grew to like the warmth of his magic sliding slick across his skin. Because it was his—it was a part of him as his hair. And really, wasn’t it beautiful to have galaxies contained within your skin?

“I love myself. And my magic. And you,” Atticus murmured in the late hours of the morning, and Sawyer sat back like a house cat, pleased, above Atticus. Sawyer rested his hands under Atticus’s shirt as he lay entirely too flushed and sweaty on their bed.

“You sure?” Sawyer grinned, all reckless youth. “I think you might need some more convincing of how pretty you are.”

Atticus blushed.

“I think you’re right.”

Sawyer kissed him and he made a noise that made Sawyer grin further against his mouth. Atticus was beginning to like this “self love” thing.

Sawyer tasted like summer.

He never wanted to taste anything else.

“What would you give,” the villain drawled. “To save the world?”

The hero swallowed. Their arms hurt in the binding, pressed too tight against their skin.

“Everything.”

The villain tipped their head.

“Mmm. Lovely. But I have everything. Try again.”

The hero did know, they didn’t know what the villain wanted and the world was going to burn and people were going to die and it hurt—

“Whatever you want,” the hero blurted. “Take it.”

The villain smiled.

“You panic so pretty, darling.” The villain crouched down in front of them. They tipped the hero’s chin up with one elegant finger. “What I want,” they said slowly, like a secret. “Is you.”

“I—“

“You think yourself worth the world, then? I release you, and the world burns so you can stay free and live the rest of your meaningless life. After all, what’s a hero without anyone to save?”

The blood drained from the hero’s face. Their powers lay aching, stolen in their chest.

“No,” they said, and they weren’t sure if it was a plea or a command.

The villain stood.

“You or the world, hero. I’d take either, given the chance,” their eyes burned into the hero’s. “Choose.”

A tear, one, traitorous tear, slid down the grime on the hero’s cheek.

“Me,” they whispered.

Something dark simmered in the villain’s gaze.

“Look at you. Such a good hero, saving the world,” they cooed. They motioned a guard to haul the hero to their feet. “I’m going to have so much fun watching you break.”

The hero never saw the outside world again.

They just hoped it was safe.

Lilly’s hand clutched into hers so hard it made her wince, but not enough to distract from the fire lacing its way up her nerves.

“It wasn’t supposed to end like this” Lilly murmured into her hair, and Zora tipped her head back to look at her, spine protesting at the movement.

“It was always supposed to end like this, darling,” her lungs seized and Lilly tucked her further into her lap, curling over as if she could shield Zora from wounds long since inflicted. “We just didn’t want it to.”

Lilly had blood streaking through her eyebrow. She still looked as beautiful as Zora had ever seen her. Like an avenging Angel.

Her Angel.

“Zora, we can fix it. I can fix it—“

“I was born to die,” Zora said simply. Lilly’s face shattered.

In the echoing and lonely silence, Lilly’s watched beeped.

Three minutes to midnight.

There was blood pooling on Zola’s stomach.

“You know what the prophecy—“

“Yes.”

Lilly slid a hand to the side of Zora’s face, fingers a blessing on her feverish skin.

Zora had hoped she would never see Lilly’s face look like that again. If she was supposed to stay in this world past midnight, it never would.

She would give Lilly everything.

Lilly’s breath shuddered through her chest, and Zora wished there was less pain and more time and no gods damned prophecy—

“We were supposed to fix it,” Lilly whispered with a mouth of broken glass.

Zora swallowed.

They had tried. Lilly had called to the scholars of every continent, scoured texts and old rhymes. And Zora had gone along with it.

She had known they’d end here though.

Lilly crying. Zora dying.

The watch beeped two minutes.

Lilly sucked a breath in, as if steeling herself. Her eyes glimmered with tears.

“Zora—“

“I need to tell you something,” Zora could look into Lilly’s eyes forever. She would get a minute and a half.

“Don’t.”

“But—“

“Don’t say it. Okay. That’s the cowards way out, saying that right before—Well. Right before. So don’t say it. Okay?”

Lilly’s voice broke on the last word, lips quivering.

A tear slipped down her cheek and onto Zora’s, and it hurt more than anything else ever had.

“Okay,” Zora agreed softly, and Lilly let out a shuddering sob and buried her head into Zora’s shoulder.

Zora breathed in the smell of Lilly and tried to memorize it.

Battle field tinged smoke and the dust of libraries.

Her chest hurt with a cry that was working its way out, but it was okay, because she didn’t have the hard part. She was leaving. Lilly was the one who would be left behind in the aftermath. She had not right to be hurting this much inside.

“Lilly.” Lilly’s arms shook around her with the contained force of a thousand hours of research and no answer.

“Zora.”

“It’s okay. I promise. It’ll be okay.”

The watch, mournfully, beeped.

One minute.

Tears made trails through the blood and dirt coating Lilly’s face.

“You told me not to say it,” Zora whispered.

“If you wanted to say it you should have said it three weeks ago,” Lilly said, voice breaking.

“I know.”

Lilly gave the soft sort of smile that only crossed her face when she looked at Zora.

She hadn’t let herself think about that until now.

Lilly’s lips quivered and she tipped her head back as if it would stop the onslaught of tears.

The watch beeped fifteen seconds, and Lilly looked down at her, face flushed with the rage of a broken heart and the anger of a warrior who could not save someone—and kissed her.

Zora’s hand flew up to Lilly’s cheek and Lilly tightened her forearms under her back, even as Zora’s gear no doubt bit into her legs.

Lilly tasted like stardust and wonder and old, secret filled libraries, tasted exactly like Lilly lived, and it felt exactly like loving her had felt like this entire time.

Zora whimpered into her mouth and Lilly clutched her tighter, silent unspoken ‘don’t leave me don’t leave me don’t leave me’ and behind Zora’s head the watch beeped five seconds, but it didn’t matter because she had Lilly, she finally had a Lilly, and everything would be okay because Lilly never let anything be less than okay—

The watch beeped midnight.

Lilly felt the exact moment that Zora went slack against her, muscles loosening and relaxing. She sobbed into Zora’s lips, forehead tilting to rest against hers.

Her hand pressed into Zora’s chest, searching for that beat, the song of that heart that tried to save everyone and fight monsters and unearth stolen gods.

There was nothing.

Lilly sobbed again, and then she was murmuring the same three words over and over again, words she had said not to say, three beats for every second Zora’s heart lay silent against her palms.

Lilly pulled Zora’s head back, running her thumb over the edge of her face smoothed into serene emptiness, and she sobbed again and crushed Zora to her.

Three words.

No response.

Two girls, in the middle of a war torn field.

One death. Prophesied to end a war.

“Zora.” Lilly said hopelessly. “Please”

The sounds of war horns filtered into the air.

Lilly memorized every detail of Zora’s face to the sound of marching boots. Categorized her injuries. Committed her scent and laugh and smile into a locked box deep within her.

“I love you,” she breathed, hands gripping into Zora’s arms as if she grabbed hard enough she could yank Zora back into her body.

Instead, Lilly simply slid Zora’s jacket awkwardly off Zora’s limp arms and onto her own shoulders.

The watch beeped one last time.

And then she turned and fled.