A/N: This has been stewing in my mind for a little while now, so I thought it about time that I got it out and shared it. I hope you all enjoy it.
Her wings twitched, heavy and restless, urging her to take flight. She wanted to jump, to let them catch the air, then in one powerful movement, bring them down with all the force she could muster, letting them take her higher and higher, until her feathers kissed the clouds. In two beats she could clear the powerlines, in three, the houses, in four, the trees, and in seven, the planes. With the empty street stretching before her, the eyes of houses closed against the roasting summer heat, it was tempting.
A car drove past, forcing her to move out of the middle of the road. It whirred over the tarmac, then getting lost in the shimmer of the rising heat, faded into the distance. She sighed; it was tempting, but it was stupid - someone could see her. The unnerving summer quiet was a façade; life was everywhere - cats lingering under parked cars, neighbours eyeing the street through turned blinds, the adventurous driving to the mall, where the promise of crowds and air conditioning called them. Even now, a teenager emerged from a house, black plastic bag in hand, crinkling in protest as it was unceremoniously dumped into a trash can.
"Quinn!" the brunette teen called from the side of the road, spotting her meandering down the street. She plastered a look of boredom across her features to hide irritation, and let her wings melt into the network of black lines across her shoulders and back. The temptation still hung in the air, but tempered, like a fantasy facing the reality of day. The brunette girl was going to invite her in; the expectant smile said it all.
"Rachel," Quinn acknowledged as she approached, noting the girl's eyes twitch to her shoulder before sliding away.
"Quinn, what are you doing out? It's much too hot to be walking around in the middle of the day," the shorter girl admonished, before blushing, "sorry. What I meant to say was did you want to come in? I don't want to interrupt your walk, but I see you aren't carrying any water, and it's important to stay hydrated in weather like this."
Quinn suppressed an urge to roll her eyes. Despite the intense heat, she hadn't even broken a sweat during her walk; she didn't need water. But Rachel was staring expectantly, clearly not about to accept a refusal, so, relinquishing to the inevitable, Quinn accepted her offer. What would it hurt? Besides, it helped to keep up the pretence or normality, even if no one quite registered that there was something off about her.
Rachel led them up the porch, but paused at the door, the hand she had on the handle sliding off, as she turned to face Quinn. Her eyes again twitched to her shoulder.
"I'm sorry Quinn, I can't let you in," she mumbled, "it's nothing big, but you have a feather on your shoulder, and I couldn't have it falling on the floor inside."
Quinn glanced down. There it was, the offending black feather, perched on her shoulder as if it were a prized parrot. Her irritation multiplied tenfold; she hated it when she malted. She brushed it off with a single, annoyed stroke, raising her eyebrows at the brunette, letting her expression ask the question. Rachel smiled, the smile of the content ignoramus.
The cool of the house came as a welcome relief. Rachel almost audibly sighed at the temperature change. For Quinn, it lessed the hold of the temptation of being in the sky, a relief almost as great as Rachel's. She could hear the whir of the air conditioning, hear the sound of the cool wind battering the air vents as it valiantly fought to stave off Lima's summer. Modern technology - it truly was a gift. She could never forget the countless times in centuries past where the only option was to sit in the shade. She couldn't help but be glad that mankind had finally decided that the climate wouldn't control them.
"A glass of water?" Rachel asked, pulling two glasses down from the cupboard, already presuming the answer.
"Yes please," Quinn replied, playing along with the charade.
"And ice?"
"Thank you."
Quinn thanked Rachel again as a tall glass of icy water was plonked on the bench before her, the ice cubes clinking against the side. She again marvelled at the progress of technology, recalling a time when, to some people, ice was a completely foreign concept; those people would have died for something like this power to have it on an unlimited basis. They had died for much less in their time. She washed the memories away with a gulp of the water, letting it cool her burning insides. Her insides were always burning these days.
"So, were you walking anywhere interesting?" Rachel asked, breaking the temporary silence; any silence with Rachel was a temporary one.
"Not particularly. Just wandering. Lima's amazingly quiet in the middle of a heat wave," Quinn answered, deliberately vague. How could she describe the feeling that she was being called somewhere in the summer heat but not knowing how or where? How could she describe an impulse?
"It is hot isn't it? They're saying it's out hottest summer in two hundred years," Rachel said, grasping the opportunity for small talk. It was strange, the two of them in that house. Quinn had been there before, but never on her own - she'd never been the only one to fill the silence. At least the two of them had settled most of their past differences. Quinn had realised she was over exaggerating the high school student, head cheerleader persona, and had antagonised Rachel far more than the girl deserved, so she had toned it down a couple of notches - enough so that they weren't constantly at each other's throats.
"I heard. It's the worst heat wave we've ever had, apparently," she said, contributing to the conversation.
"They said there'd be a cool change in the next few days. I really hope they're right. You know the weather people, they're wrong half the time, but I hope they get it right this time. Daddy won't be happy if his flowers wilt. He's been tending to them all year," Rachel explained. Despite her pretend air of indifference, Quinn chuckled; of all the things to be concerned about, Rachel worried about flowers.
"I'm sure they'll be fine."
"I hope so. They're not suited to Lima's weather, but Daddy insisted on trying to get them to blossom. He's so stubborn sometimes. His heart will break if they die in this unrelentess heat."
"There's a cool change coming, you said so yourself. The flowers will be fine," Quinn reassured. On the inside, she wasn't so confident of her words; if life taught her anything, it was that heat like this was usually followed by a ferocious storm. She had almost no doubt that in the next few days, the tempest would break over their heads - she could taste the electricity in the air already, and the threat of thunder groaned in her bones. Oh yes, there would be a storm, and a mighty one, at that.
She took another sip of the ice water; a shiver crawled up her spine, leaving goosebumps on her arms, but she wasn't sure whether it was the cold water, or the notion of the oncoming storm which caused it. She didn't care to analyse it enough to find out.
As if hearing the conversation about his flowers, Hiram Berry slumped into the room, stopping short when he saw Quinn. She hadn't expected a welcoming smile, but the glare from the man was filled with more hate than she imagined. She almost flinched.
"Rachel, honey, may I ask why Quinn Fabray is sitting in my kitchen?"
"She was walking past when I took the trash out, so I invited her in for some refreshments. You know how hot it is outside, Daddy," Rachel scrambled. Her words came out apologetic, but whether to her or Hiram, Quinn couldn't tell. Hiram nodded, glancing at his daughter.
"I thought we discussed this, Rachel," he began.
"Daddy, not now!"
Quinn wasn't welcome. She'd known it the second she'd stepped foot through the door, seeing the simple, yet elegant furniture, the books and magazines so neatly placed on the coffee table. With her deliberately frayed jeans and equally as messed up pink hair, she look as out of place in the Berry house as a fox within a chicken coop.
"It's ok, Mr Berry, I was just leaving. Thanks for the water, Rachel. I appreciate it," she said, rising.
"Quinn, you don't have to," Rachel apologised, but Quinn was already halfway gone. Behind her, she heard the whine of Rachel's voice, "Daddy, that was rude!"
If Hiram replied, Quinn's ears missed it. She was blasted by the heat when she pulled open the front door; it was like walking into an oven. It wasn't a surprise, Hiram's reaction to her presence; she and Rachel may have moved forward from their past, but her father obviously, had not. She doubted either of the two Berry men possessed their daughter's forgiveness.
Before she had stepped off the Berry lawn and onto the street, a hand caught her arm. She jerked, throwing it off; she disliked being touched almost as much as she disliked malting.
"Quinn, I'm so sorry. Daddy was out of place. You could stay, if you like. It doesn't matter about him. He's just being childish. He knows perfectly well that you and I have laid our differences to rest and have turned over a new leaf - but he refuses to accept it. He can be so infuriating sometimes. But really, Quinn, you can come back inside, you don't have to feel like you have to leave. Rachel Berry is hospitable, even if her father refuses to be," gushed the brunette, barely stopping for breath. Quinn admired her bravery in running out after her considering her father's reaction, but she was resolute - she wouldn't return to the Berry household. And she told Rachel as much.
"Then neither shall I," she stated, falling into step beside Quinn. The pink haired girl barely restrained herself from groaning; so much for a quiet walk in solitude.
They made their way down the street, the sun burning their backs through the fabric of their clothes; it seemed the heat could penetrate anywhere. Quinn rolled her shoulders; now would not be a good time to give in to the itch which crawled across her back. She quivered, fighting the urge to leap into the perfect blue sky and leave the damn world behind. She hoped Rachel didn't notice.
"Did it hurt?" Rachel asked, glancing at the tattoo visible on Quinn's shoulders, disappearing beneath the thin black fabric.
"It was agony," she replied, in all honesty. Had it been an ordinary tattoo, she was sure that the pain would have been bearable - but it wasn't. The two lapsed back into silence, letting their legs carry them through the haze, to the horizon, wherever it wanted to take them. Quinn wasn't going to talk more about her tattoo. Instead, she drifted to the middle of the road, walking the broken line, grey from the dirt of tyres. Rachel stuck to the sidewalk. They were two beings, almost together, almost apart, walking parallel lives.
A car emerged from a side street, accelerating past as Quinn moved out of its path. The rev of the engine vibrated in her sternum. Or was that the approaching storm? She glanced at the sky - still azure. But still she didn't put the feeling all down to the car. She was too uneasy, too agitated. She had to fly, she had to get far away from here while she could. But she couldn't. Rachel kept pace with her from the footpath, shackling her to the earth. Quinn didn't like these new chains.
The nice houses became spotted, the further they trekked through their city, the silence binding them. Quinn didn't even know Rachel could go so long without saying a word. The houses around them were almost falling to ruin now, the paint flaking, the floorboards supporting the porches rotting. Every so often, they'd pass a house, pristine white - a mocking of its surrounds. These houses were like blinding beacons in the sunlight, hurting their eyes if they looked too long; seraphims among rusting suburbia.
The sound of metal clanking on concrete ran out across the street, and a child ran out from an alley, baseball cap on backwards. Sweat poured from his body, plastering errant strands of his hair to his face. He vaulted over the low iron fence of one of the houses and slunk through the barely open front door, as slick as a shadow. Quinn and Rachel watched him, fully alert; this wasn't a neighbourhood to be trusted - even the houses seemed to have eyes, following them as they hurried past.
The air crackled. Looking up, Quinn noted the first tendrils of cloud spreading their fingers over the city, ready to clamp it its grip. Perhaps the storm would arrive sooner than she'd expected. Reason warned her to turn tail and go home, but she was inexplicably drawn forward, onwards. Whether Rachel felt the pull too, or whether she was simply following her lead, the pink haired girl couldn't tell. Either way, they were going together, wherever their destination might be.
From nowhere, a gust of wind blew, picking up the leaves and making them dance in the air, swirling in and out of each other - an invisible puppeteer. And it was as hot as an inferno, buffeting the girls' bodies, scorching them. It was sudden, but that's how winds worked - they literally appeared out of nowhere and tore the world to pieces. This particular wind brought the iron grey clouds racing through the atmosphere. The storm had arrived. And it was fierce. In moments, the city had gone from as still as a cemetery to as restless as an open ocean. If the sky had a temper, its anger was being directed at Lima, and Lima cowered under its threat.
To their right, a woman collected her washing, throwing it into a laundry basket, ready to whisk it off inside. Further down, a man secured a blue tarpaulin cover over his car, tying it off with thin rope. A dark haired girl ran out from one of the few well kept houses, waving her hands at them.
"Q! Where have you been? We need you, right now," she exclaimed, hurrying back up the lawn, expecting Quinn to follow. She complied. Rachel scurried in her wake. The girl led them past the house to the garage in the back. It was more in place with the rest of the suburb, rusting and old, with a hole in the wall where a plank of wood had fallen away and the concrete had been chipped off. Quinn's hair stood on end as she pulled the door open after the girl, before it had had time to close.
"Quinn! You made it!" a blonde girl projected from the corner, "and you brought Rachel with you! Lord Tubbington says hello."
"Hello Brittany. Lord Tubbington," Rachel smiled.
"You're late. And you bring loud mouthed shortie with you. What is wrong with you, Q? Did the heat melt your mind or something?" the dark haired girl snapped. Quinn sat down opposite her, unfazed. This was where she was being called; a backyard in Lima Heights Adjacent. Of course. That's what the pull had been: this girl's voice whispering to her blood.
"Santana, it's ok. She's here now. And I like Rachel. Lord Tubbington does too," Brittany quipped from her seat on the floor. From her lap, the large cat purred, as if in agreement. Santana growled in response.
"Nice trick Santana. But you could have called," Quinn said. The Latina grinned.
"You like it? I've been studying."
"It would have been much more impressive if I knew what was happening."
"Well, it worked didn't it? You got here," Santana said, "late. As usual."
"Would have gotten here sooner if I knew where I was going."
"Whatever Q. You like being late."
Quinn rolled her eyes and lit up a cigarette. She inhaled, letting the smoke remain in her lungs for a few seconds, then let it out. It hung in the air, curling in wisps, trying to touch the ceiling. The trails diffused before they got the chance.
"The storm yours?" she asked, watching the smoke rise in the small space.
"No. That's why we're here. I wants to know who's impinging on my airspace," Santana said, pausing her work and grabbing the cigarette off Quinn. Quinn let her have it. A cough came from beside Brittany.
"Sorry, but did you say your airspace? Can someone please explain what's going on? I'm confused and it's hot and nothing is making sense," Rachel whined.
"Why is she here again?" Santana asked, glowering at Quinn.
"Because your new trick isn't as good as you thought and she heard you too."
"Goddamnit!"
"Santana, calm down. Rachel, Santana and I are witches," Brittany explained. Rachel stared for a second in silence, then burst into laughter.
"Brittany, witches don't exist. That's ridiculous. Magic isn't real, so witches can't be real. I think you've been reading too much Harry Potter."
"Mi Dios. Someone gag her already," Santana muttered.
"Isn't that the one with the aliens?" Brittany frowned, "but magic is real. I promise. We'll show you."
Rachel shook her head, still disbelieving, "And I suppose Quinn's a so called witch as well."
"Quinn's an angel," Brittany stated, rubbing Lord Tubbington's fur.
"I used to be. A long time ago," Quinn corrected. Rachel's jaw fell open, her eyes popping. In a matter of seconds, she'd recovered herself, getting to her feet.
"You're all crazy. I can't believe I'm hearing this. Witches and angels and magic. You're all insane. I'm leaving."
"You can't, Treasure Trail," Santana piped up, lighting a fire between herself and Quinn, "the meeting's begun. You can't leave until it's over. Trust me," she assured, catching sight of Rachel's face, "I wish you could too."
Brittany tugged Rachel by the hand, pulling her back down beside her on the floor. Lord Tubbington rubbed his face against Rachel's side.
"Lord Tubbington wants you to stay," the blonde girl smiled.
"I hate these things," Quinn growled, "it's a million degrees outside, and we have to light a fire."
"Quit your whinging Q. You're just as curious as I am, and a little more heat won't kill you. I'm surprised you even feel it."
The flames danced before her eyes, leaping up higher and higher, players in an ornate choreography, unique every time it was viewed. They drew Quinn in, enfolding her within their patterns, enticing her further. Their smoke mingled with that of her cigarette, filing even the darkest corner of the room with an exotic fragrance. Quinn closed her eyes and breathed it in. She almost floated away in it, her soul reaching out from her body, stretching its tethers, but not quite breaking free. It settled back into her corporeal self once she opened her eyes, forcing her to focus on reality.
Her eyelids were heavy, as though she were walking the line between two worlds, at any moment able to fall back into the other. She felt as if she were awake in a dream. But this was real - Santana sat opposite her, legs crossed, measuring out a fine white powder, Brittany and Rachel behind her, one stroking her cat, the other looking on with wide eyes. Their presences were solid, fixed, not at all like the wraith people in her dreams.
The wind from outside whipped past the slowly deteriorating garage, howling through the hole in the wall, like some ghost of a tortured soul. It fanned the small fire burning in the centre of the room, and the light flickered, casting multiple shadows of their figures on the walls. Quinn imagined that this could be a mortal nightmare - superficial with the never fixed, the ever howling, the threatening; real nightmares were worse.
Santana threw her powder into the fire and it flared green, the tall flames momentarily growing and licking the ceiling, illuminating the room with their phosphorescence. The sweat on Rachel's brow turned into a thousand tiny emeralds, and Brittany's skin took on a waxen sheen - she almost looked dead. But the fire died down and returned to their normal orange, everything returning to its regular hue along with it.
Santana was humming a song as she worked. Quinn watched her from her own side of the flames. The Latina's eyes were unfocused, but her hands were sure, scooping up two twigs and casting them into the fire. Pausing, she looked at Brittany, who coming forward holding Lord Tubbington, plucked some hairs from his coat, causing him to yelp in surprise, and added them to the blaze. They disappeared among the oranges and yellows and reds, burnt to particles before they had a chance to reach the wooden fuel. Santana added a pinch of ashes from an urn, continuing her strange song.
The sound wrapped around Quinn, pulling her further into the ceremony - whether she liked it or not, she was part of events now. It seemed to echo around her, as though it was emerging from the passage of time, sung by generations of witches as far back as memory could recall, and beyond. It lilted, it crashed, it inspired, it depressed; one moment it was the soft caress of waves upon the shore, the next it was a volcano, spilling the bowls of the earth into the sky.
"Quinn," Brittany nudged when Santana next paused. Time for her role. Without hesitation, she pushed her wings back and out, feeling them shoot from her back, extending into the small space. She ignored the pain of the manoeuvre - after centuries of it, she'd acquired a tolerance. She heard the gasp from Rachel as she unfurled them, the tips brushing the walls. Santana reached through the flames and plucked out a single black feather, dropping it into the fire as she retracted her arm. The place she'd pulled it from stung, but like the other pain, Quinn ignored it. Her wings rose and fell in time with her breathing, mirroring the movements of her chest. She left them as they were - it was the closest thing she'd had to freedom for a time; the chains around her loosened just a little bit, and the breaths she took seemed deeper.
Opposite her, Santana's hands found a dagger, glinting clean and gold in the firelight. She gestured to Quinn. The pink haired girl held her hand over the flames, palms turned up, letting them sear the back of her hand. Santana brought the tip of the dagger to her palm, allowing it to create and indentation in her skin. Quinn watched in morbid fascination as the indent became a rift between two halves of skin. For a fraction of a second, nothing happened, then blood welled up, a red so dark that it almost looked black. She turned her hand over and let a few drops fall into the blaze. Brittany imitated her movements, letting her own blood mingle with the fire. The three of them turned to Rachel. In a heartbeat, she realised why.
"No. I'm not letting you cut open my hand. I can only imagine what infections might enter my blood from that knife, and I for one am not ready to risk HIV because of some crazy mumbo jumbo. There's no way," she said, crossing her arms.
"You have to. Everyone has to. It's part of the ceremony," Brittany explained.
"Brittany's right. If you're present, your blood has to go into the fire. There's no way out of it Rachel, " Quinn added, "and trust me, you won't get a disease from the blade. We're all clean, I promise."
"Still no, Quinn."
"Don't make us force you."
"You can't."
"We can, and we will if you don't get over here."
"You absolutely have to cut my hand?" Rachel asked, and Quinn knew that she was caving.
"Yes. But I promise we'll take care of the cut. We'll clean it, we'll wrap it, whatever you want, but it has to be done. We need your blood. Just a few drops, that's all," she said. As she spoke, Lord Tubbington butted his head against Rachel, willing her to move. Reluctantly, she got to her feet and joined the three of them around the fire. Even more reluctantly, she imitated Quinn and Brittany's gestures. Santana made quick work of the cut, slicing open the skin in a second. As soon as Rachel removed her hand, she ministered the same gash to her own hand.
Her humming, growing louder and more violent as these motions were made, came to a crescendo, then stopped. The silence, marred only by the crackling and popping of the blaze was deafening, too loud after her song. She broke it in a quiet voice.
"We are Bound."
At the completion of her statement, the flames drew into themselves, swirling - a microcosmic universe. Quinn crushed her still lit cigarette underfoot, watching the spectacle of fire. It quivered, and paused. And then it started to writhe.