Breathe. Everything in her suggests nothing but I will burn this to the ground if I must.

There he was, minding his own business, scrolling through some kind of webcomic when someone had the absolute audacity to touch him.

with no one else willing to reach out to her, she makes a creed to the one person who keeps her accountable: to fight once more, always his protector, ready to stain her hands where he cannot. however, there’s one condition—freya must die as she is destined to: a warrior, bleeding, relentless, drawing her last breath alongside one final arrow.

"Will you hold my hand?"

He quietly steps closer to her and in a rare instinct, moves to wrap his arms around her in a hug. The act of genuine affection was foreign to the dragon, and yet, everything within himself had been pulling that this was what he needed. What she needed. Closeness like this was ... not something he allowed of anyone. Elliana is an exception, the candle in the dark that steadily melted away the ice.

Ia flutters into consciousness as she’s lowered gently onto the grass. The noise confounds her without penetrating her understanding: a roar wrenches the very air and she shivers, but she doesn’t scream.

“—if you have to.”

Ia attempts to hoist herself upward on her left arm. Immediate pain; she whimpers. Body leadened, she shifts over slowly and levers into a seated position with her right.

Wind whispers over the grass. Shouts are swallowed by the sky. Students scream and irritate the faint ringing she hears. There’s a white sheet in the middle of the grass, a little ways beyond. Ia peers blearily at it. What an odd thing to see in the middle of the grass.

So let me rest, and let me dream,

And let me break my bones into the salt of the sea.

'You are my samurai. And I am your kami. You will be able to do this. You will defeat him, and take back your honor, your power over him. You have me. So use me. Claim my power as your own, and take back what's yours.'

They have always said that cornered beasts were by far the most vicious. Adrenaline courses through Icarus and sends his instincts wild, smashing past his fine-tuned control for sheer self preservation. He had no way of running and so the flight instinct was clearly out of reach. Icarus had never been the type to freeze under pressure, and thus that really only left one reaction logically possible. To anyone who had known Icarus, they might not have recognized him now, as he resembled a feral creature far more than a civilized person.

and elijah may have seen worse, truth be told. to him, the striated portraiture of chu-e's past is pretty. it meant he had survived— or is surviving: mapped on the man's skin is perseverance made physical.

even this deep under the waves, the cold indigo of night reaches their abyssal abode. no watch is needed. elijah can feel the evening weigh like sediment in his joints. he leans against the bar counter by his mug of beer, still frothy from a clumsy pour: a cold monolith of indecision.