A/N: At last, I rise from the dead. Thanks for your patience on this, there was a lot of re-jiggering timelines and moving pieces around. But hopefully it was worth the wait for a 10k word chapter. Hopefully. Maybe. Idk, let me know what you think.
Guest: I heckin' appreciate how you catch my little details and implications :)
As always, please fave/review/send paper airplanes/morse code. I love hearing from you all!
At some point, Bickslow and Talia had found an easy way onto the roof of the house, and the knowledge spread quickly. The group spent numerous evenings drinking and talking as they watched the sun set over the rolling plains. This far from a major city, the stars were innumerable. There were many nights of rolled blankets and pillows dragged onto the scratchy roof tiles, only to find that somebody else had the same idea.
This was how Laxus learned the extent of Talia's morning-person tendencies. After tossing and turning for half an hour, he gave up when the light turned silver. And with nothing else to do, wandered his way up to the roof. He found Talia there, wound up in a fuzzy blanket from her room and cradling a steaming mug of tea. The light was still a hazy shade of lavender and mist hung over the wheat fields. They were quiet as they watched the sun rise, just sat together and watched the colors of the sky burn from purples to pinks and tangerine, gilded lining of the fluffy morning clouds setting the world inside a living painting.
But that roof saw dark nights as well.
Freed sat with Laxus as he drank and silently raged through his shame of the Thunder Palace Games. Talia sat with Evergreen as she processed the pieces of life she had missed—her baby sister's wedding to a man she didn't know, her father's medical close call that she wasn't able to support. She missed them terribly, and had already planned to visit their home in a fashionable district of Crocus when the guild barreled through for the Grand Magic Games. Bickslow was the only one who didn't find inherent solace in the open sky; instead, he found it in the boisterous crowds of Mrs. McCleary's pub, from where he'd often wander home reciting bits of whatever stories he had picked up that night. Sometimes it was local gossip, but often it was local history and lore. Internal debates of how many points a horned god had on his head, rattling on about the lands the Fomorians stripped and burned, or twisting little diddies of fae sprites who dance along the candlelight.
The first month of their time in Blackthorne passed quietly. A simple routine that slightly differed for each, they would all convene in the afternoons to train together. Talia spent most of her mornings with Niamh and Orla at the farm, the long walk clearing her head and offering solace from the full house. In the afternoons, Laxus schooled her and the Thunder Legion in hand-to-hand combat, and nobody left his makeshift ring without the bruises to show for it. Each of them had their strengths, and they were used to the whole group's advantage.
But there were two specific things that Talia wanted the team's help with.
"I want you to teach me how to fly."
Evergreen looked startled, laden fork halfway to her mouth, and Freed blinked sharply over the edge of his book. Talia took a breath and repeated her statement.
"I think I can hold my new form for long enough now. I need to learn how to fly. Would you two please teach me?"
"You didn't seem like you had any problem with flying when we faced Acnologia," Freed noted.
Talia fiddled with the seam of her shirt. "That was. . . different. An emergency. I had help." She stood from the table and took her empty plate to the sink. "But I think I'm getting close to another safeguard, and once I reach it, I should be stable enough to really focus on flying."
The first few days were not pretty. Freed quickly realized that he needed to set a perimeter and a soft landing area, though often enough they just worked over the water. This led to more than a few dunks in the ocean, Talia walking back to the house dripping wet and encrusted in salt. It was the basis of much good-hearted teasing in the house. But slowly she improved, understanding now the angles of turns and the necessary speed of descent if she didn't want to go tumbling through the dirt. Freed was a patient teacher, and Evergreen provided the competitive spark Talia needed to push past her fear. She learned how to gauge the air pressure changes around detonations and how to course-correct for the updraft on the cliff face. But more than anything, she learned how much she loved to fly. The muscles in her back grew stronger and she found that the air tickled as it rustled her feathers when she turned.
And so they flew and flew until she could keep up with them, until the twists and turns and ducks through the air became second nature and they chased each other along the wind. But Laxus had a training for this, too, as he had training for everything else.
"Start over the sea and dodge my lightning," he ordered as the clouds rumbled overhead, "First one to land in front of me wins."
He stood on the edge of the cliffs, muscled arms crossed over his chest, a glimmer of light atop the gleaming black stone. None of them made it. Not the first time, not the third time, not the fifth time. Every run they made it farther, slowly evolving luck into intuition as they twisted around the slim, jagged bolts. But every time they were all struck down into the waves and left to trudge the winding path up from the beach. After the first run, they learned to fly without their shoes, though Talia had warned them of the inevitable ducking, the water-logged boots and sandals far more of a nuisance than they were worth.
It was run number six that changed things. True to her gut, Morrigan had dropped another safeguard two days prior and it had taken all that time for the new magic to fully settle. But now. . . she could feel it. The air shudder before the lightning strike. When she focused just right. . . she dodged a bolt, and then another. Bickslow was the first to go down behind her. She kept flying. Evergreen's shriek echoed behind her, but she—
Crack.
Lightning jolted through her as she was knocked out of the sky, slamming and rolling her into the water below. Her wings dissipated and she sputtered up to the surface in time to see Freed get so close. . . only to fall to his own bolt—one that mercifully pushed him back into deeper water rather than crashing onto the rocky black sand below. She slapped the water's surface in frustration before swimming back to shore. By the time she trudged up the path, she was seething.
"Run it again," she snapped at Laxus, who watched blandly as his three soaked companions made their way to the top of the cliff.
"Calm down, it was just an unlucky strike," his voice bored as he watched Freed squeeze out water from his long, dripping hair.
But it wasn't just unlucky. She felt the strike before it hit, she just didn't adjust fast enough and it irked her to no end. She was tired of that degrading freefall, tired of hitting the water again and again and again. Her eyes burned red as her black wings materialized again behind her. It was getting easier to shift straight to Morrigan's form, but the anger helped.
"I'll run again it with you," added Bickslow, irritation tinging his voice as well. Flying wasn't his specialty, but it was still irritating to fail at such a straightforward task.
Laxus looked them both over with a critical eye, his scar seeming deeper, his face colder. He was falling back into his power trip—allowing himself to create such massive storms always thrummed up his magic and gave it a life of its own. It burned for a challenge, and no matter how much time and shame had passed since the Thunder Palace Games, that wild want of power still clawed through him.
"Fine," he barked, "Once more before we lose the light. Hurry up."
Talia and Bickslow flew out to the starting point over the water, the waves kicking up in the wind as more than just Laxus's lightning storm brewed off the coast. One of Bickslow's soul casks had been damaged in the last strike and he had swapped it out for a sturdy piece of hollow driftwood from the shore.
Lightning crackled around them. They locked eyes, nodded, and shot toward the cliffs.
Talia flew fast and strong, snapping her wings in close to avoid hits to her massive wingspan. She dipped and twisted and turned as she felt the air shudder before a strike. Rain pattered lightly on the fibers of her feathers, but she focused only on her goal. Only on her target. She barely registered Bickslow's hit and fall, and his resounding crash into the ever-agitating waves.
She was close. So close. She could see the silver shine on the black stone. She felt the air spark again and jammed herself straight up, parallel to the cliff as a massive lightning bolt cracked right in front of Laxus. And then she aimed for him.
Her determination burned. He could feel it. His magic could feel it. And that wide, power-drunk smile came to his lips. The one he hadn't shown since the Thunder Palace Games. He watched her dodge his lightning, wings unfurling and clipping closed with such accuracy now. She dodged and weaved through his magic, a dangerous dance. And then she was close. So close. He sent a massive wall of lightning down the cliff face. But when it cleared, she was gone.
She fell from the sky and landed hard before him in a crouch, stone cracked under her feet and black wings spread wide. His magic jumped at the thrill, at those sharp red eyes bright with triumph. She slowly rose to her full height, eyes not leaving his for a moment. Worthy, worthy. His magic chanted, zipping under his skin. They stood there, staring at each other, that terrifyingly brutal amount of magic jittering between them—poking, prodding, wanting to. . . something. Devour each other, maybe. To burn with lightning and thunder and be stuck in the middle, to drown in the forces of light and sound.
And then she smiled back, and it was the most wickedly sinful thing he'd ever seen as she matched him. He watched those red irises dart to his lips and then jump back to his eyes, and something deep in his gut grabbed him low and pushed to shove him into her—
But he didn't move. They stood a moment longer, magic crackling and radiating enough raw power to make Freed and Ever back away so they wouldn't be sick on it. But then she blinked quickly, a slight shake of the head, as if she were pulled out of a daze.
Their power settled into a low hum on the cliff-top, and Talia broke the eye line first. There was a light flush on her cheeks from the wind and exertion as she turned to walk toward Freed and Ever.
"Good job, Tal," was all he said; she could have sworn his voice was lower than normal.
It was a quiet walk back to the house.
It was the halfway through the second month that the bad habits came out. Even for being friends as long as they had and the number of jobs they had all worked together, the first six weeks still had everyone on best behavior. But all that time of being tired and sore without a specific mission to focus on led to the less enviable parts of life slipping through.
Bickslow was horrible at laundry. He left it in the wash for days at a time and didn't bother to fold anything—just dumped it back onto a chair in his room. He claimed he had a system: "Clean on the chair, dirty on the floor", but unless his negligence backed up the rest of the house's laundry, they didn't fuss much about it.
Freed left tea accoutrements everywhere. Used tea bags on a coaster, empty mug on a bookshelf, diffuser dripping on the counter. The rest of the house was always scrounging for clean mugs because so dang many of them had been scattered across every corner of creation.
Evergreen slept in so late that it was amazing she had any time for training at all. And between her sleep schedule, her skincare routine, and her mandatory "morning zen" time never quite kept to the actual mornings.
Laxus brooded and grumbled and kept his chaos very much to himself. He cleaned up his own messes just fine, but never once stepped in to help the other with theirs. He had an irritatingly hard line of what he considered his problems. But after six months of living and wandering on his own, that stark delineation wasn't all that surprising.
Talia washed the dishes in the sink. Most of them were hers, but it was one of the tasks she hated most in the world. Sure, she liked to cook, but gods at what cost? There were so many pots and pans and plates and utensils, all stacked in a jumbled, slimy pile. But Bickslow had started heckling her about it and she knew he wouldn't shut up until she washed them. That, or until they got ants. And she hated ants even more. She heard someone in the room behind her, but paid them no mind—everyone shuffled around looking for something at some point. She let her hands on the sponge and plate move mechanically under the water, soap and suds bubbling up on the face of the dish. She looked out the window over the sink to a little red bird preening itself on a nearby branch.
Where in the fuck did I put that protein bar? Laxus grumbled to himself as he looked under couch pillows and over any flat surface he might've absentmindedly left it. Talia was in the kitchen, her hair up in a high ponytail. He could see the black Fairy Tail emblem on the back of her neck when she turned to place a dish on the drying rack, red hair swaying lightly against her back and exposed shoulders. She had gotten some color back, but not much with how cloudy it always seemed to be here. Little amber freckles dotted the tops of her shoulders where her tank tops left them to soak up the sun. Fairy footprints, his grandmother had called them, left from where the fairies had danced on her skin while she slept. The thought made him smile. And then the flash of a silver crinkled wrapper caught his eye, his lunch sitting on the organizer behind the sink.
Talia glanced over her shoulder to see Laxus rooting around for something. She didn't know what he was looking for, but some part of her followed his movement even as she turned back to the dishes. Why were there so many. She didn't even cook anything that complicated, so where the hell had they all come from? She vaguely heard him walk into the kitchen.
Her hands stilled. There was a broad warmth at her back, Laxus's chest, as he reached over her for the protein bar sitting on the rack. Did he always have so much muscle on his forearm? She could see the ridges of veins standing under his smooth skin. Little, pale flecks of old scars sliced and slithered over his skin, and the pale dusting of hair shimmered in the light. Power wrapped in satin and marked by his adventures.
Laxus grabbed the bar, but hesitated pulling back. He felt her ever so slightly lean against him, her shoulders pressing into his chest. This close, he could smell the mint in her hair, the sweat on her skin, the sharp lemon soap on her hands. The wide, pale plane of her neck was so close. Everything in him begged to press her into that counter, to run his hands up her sides and feel the shiver he knew would go down her spine at the touch. That moment on the cliff roared back through him, the challenge in her eyes, the burn of magic between them. He tried to will it down, but gods that feeling twisted his gut. He closed his eyes and bowed his head—a moment, just a moment, he told himself. The tip of his nose grazed the shell of her ear. He felt her stiffen, heard that light breath hitch. Gods, that little noise she made. He dropped lower, his nose just skimming the delicate skin of her neck. And then her head tilted back, drawing that neck even longer, a deep breath filling her lungs, her pulse beating so quickly next to his ear. He could feel the angle of her shoulder, his own breath arcing back up to him as it spun in the hollow of her collarbone. Fuck, I can't. He bit down the urges raging through him and stiffly pulled back and walked away, protein bar in-hand.
Talia had to grab the sink to keep from tumbling backwards at the sudden lack of contact. Her eyes snapped open and she caught her breath. The sink was still running, the plate still in her hand. She tried to will her heart to slow. But her stomach clenched painfully at the promise of touch, that lightest of contact. Damn it, Cana was right. She tried to unclench her body, to breathe into space that begged for something more solid. It wasn't really working. She could still feel the tingle on the side of her neck from where he'd traced, that point on the shell of her ear. Another shot down her stomach. Fuck, it may as well be his own damned lightning.
She took a shaky breath and turned the water off. Drying her hands on a nearby towel, she turned and grabbed the hamper of clean laundry and took it up to her room. She hoped he didn't notice how quick and stiff her steps were as he ate his lunch on the couch and she walked up the stairs. The door to her room snapped shut behind her.
Laxus ate in silence, focused solely on keeping his mind blank. Trying not to think about her pulse under his breath, the noise she made when he grazed her ear. He heard the shower turn on upstairs. That's what he'd need, too. A frigid one. Something to stop his imagination from continuing that little scenario. He shifted his seat on the couch, pants uncomfortably tight. Shit. Just a few minutes. Just long enough for her to get out of the shower.
He waited.
The water stayed on.
He crunched the empty wrapper in his hand.
Screw it, he growled to himself, I'll just deal with this now. He pushed himself off the couch and trudged upstairs.
He was just past her door when the scent hit him. His knees almost buckled.
She had turned the shower on to hide her sounds. So that he wouldn't hear her. . . Fuck.
He all-but ran to his room, and the door slammed closed.
"You want us to what?" grumbled Laxus in the living room. Talia could hear his irritation through the door. A slightly garbled voice responded through the communication lacrima. They had been in Blackthorne now for two and a half months, the training kicking all of their asses, but with good results.
"I need you all to do a job. You're the only ones within a day's travel of the client and by far the most capable." So it was the Master on the line. Talia scrunched out more water from her hair with a grey towel. Her blue t-shirt—collar cut off, as always—and black yoga pants clung to her and the warm droplets that lingered on her skin.
"Tch," Laxus sneered, "Why us. You know we're in training for the Games. I thought you wanted us to actually focus for a bit."
"Is there no other team able to handle the job?" came Freed's mellow voice.
"I ask this of you all partly because you're so strong already. I have no disillusions of the Thunder Legion's strength," responded Makarov, "And, truthfully, the client only requested two mages. I think the best suited would be Freed and Talia."
"Wha-what—but Master!" stuttered a flustered Freed, "I wouldn't dream to leave the rest of the Thunder Legion out of this."
Talia threw her damp hair towel into the laundry bin and opened the door to the rest of the house. She leaned forward and folded her arms onto the bannister, looking down into the open living room.
"What's the job?" she called down.
"It should be simple—the daughter of a Lord is having her engagement ceremony, and she would like a couple mages there in case her previous partner shows up to make a muck of things."
"So why Freed and Talia?" pointed Laxus.
"How good is your waltz, boy?" Makarov jabbed; Laxus grimaced in return, "This is a formal event, they need people to blend in with the crowd. The last thing the Lord wants is for there to be obvious bouncers. You and Bickslow are a little more ostentatious than I'd like. Evergreen is more of a plausible addition."
Talia chuckled. The two did kind of scream wizard at any glance.
"So you want to send in the guy with green hair?" joked Bickslow.
"You wanna risk stepping on my feet, Bix?" Talia said with a laugh. She walked gracefully down the stairs, her gliding steps smooth and elegant. She sat on the rolled arm of the large leather chair, left foot crossed over right ankle. "I'm in. This gig sounds fun." She looked to Freed.
"I'll do it if that is your wish, Master, but I would still feel more comfortable there with the rest of the Thunder Legion there in some respect."
"Good! Then it's settled—I'll contact the client and see if they're willing to support the five of you instead of the requested two." Talia could barely see his cheekily smiling face on the curve of the lacrima: "Have fun brushing up your dance moves, kids!" The crystal went dark.
Talia smiled and reached out her freckled right arm toward Freed, her long fingers gently outstretched. "Well, shall we?"
"N-Now?"
"Why not?" it was already dark outside and they had all had a productive day of training. She turned toward Laxus—"Do you still have that music lacrima? The one that gets all sorts of different channels?" Laxus nodded and rose from his seat to grab it from his room.
Freed walked the few steps to Talia and took her outstretched hand. His grip was warm and steady, reassuring for a dance partner. She stood and closed the distance between the two, her left hand coming to his shoulder as his right hand came to rest on her hip.
"I must warn you, I haven't danced in a very long time," Freed's voice was even more sincere than normal. Talia's eyes sparkled.
"Me neither. We'll knock off those cobwebs together."
Bickslow watched the two reacquaint themselves with proper posture. He was laid out on the blue couch, his plaid pajama pants and black tank only adding to his look of comfort. He smiled mischievously.
"So why do you two know all this fancy stuff?"
Talia glanced over Freed's shoulder toward the blue-haired mage. "You pick up a few things when you grow up backstage."
"My family is very posh and proper; I could have been a few steps down from a Lord, myself, if I had wanted it," he said, adjusting his hand placement on Talia's hip, "My brother got the honor, though, luckily enough. I would've hated it. But I still had to go through all the schooling."
Talia gave him a cheeky look, "Well aren't you spiffy." He smiled.
Laxus returned with a small metal device, and he placed it on the table. Talia broke away from Freed and went over to fiddle with it.
"I think Classical is channel seven," he said, "I'm going to go grab some beers, I'll be back in a bit." He grabbed his coat and slipped out the front door.
Talia turned various knobs on the small device, and eventually tuned it to the channel Laxus suggested. He was right—it was Classical. And they were even playing a waltz. Talia squeaked in joy and bounced back over to Freed.
"Ok, I'll try not to lead; it's a bit of a bad habit," she said.
"Why am I not surprised?" laughed Freed. His blue eyes were light and happy.
Evergreen appeared in her bath robe at the second floor bannister, apparently having finished her shower.
"What are you two up to?" she asked curiously.
"We got a job! And apparently, we're extra not supposed to break anything. Some debutant's engagement party. So Freed and I are brushing up on our waltz." Talia's voice was light and cheerful—she really was looking forward to this. She hadn't had a reason to get dressed up in so long.
Her hand in his, they began the basic three-beat pattern around the living room. She was slightly surprised to find him such a capable partner. His left hand held her hand securely, and his hand on her hip was strong and secure. His foot placement was precise, and Talia soon found herself relaxing into his hold and the movement. The music from the lacrima was slightly fuzzy from a stretched signal, but she still felt the string quartet wrap their harmonies around her.
"Why Freed, you're lovely at this," she said quietly and a little breathless, her face close to his. He smiled back.
"You're quite competent yourself," he responded. The hand on her hip released, and he led her into a twirl before bringing her back to him.
They both had soft, happy smiles on their faces. Evergreen watched a moment before heading back to change into her pajamas. Bickslow watched them for a little longer before feeling himself trail off into a doze. Freed and Talia continued to lightly pad around the room, quietly losing themselves into the music and the feel of the dance. The slight guide of a tensed arm, the relaxing of a turn, the warmth between bodies humming at the same frequency.
The waltz ended quietly, and they halted in the center of the room. They both enjoyed the moment—the pause between breaths as the strings tapered to the end of their tessitura. Freed's hand released hers softly and he took a step back. He bowed slightly toward her, a cheeky smile playing at his lips.
"You are a man of many talents, Scribe of the Thunder Legion," she gave a small curtsy, sweeping her hands out to her sides in the absence of a skirt. "Though we will have to be careful as to not simply dance the night away." She winked as she stood and put her hands on her hips. The song on the music lacrima had changed to something unsuitable for a waltz-step, so Talia went into the kitchen to make tea as Freed returned to his neglected book on the couch.
Laxus breathed deeply in the cool night air. He hoped that no one thought his departure odd—he just . . . suddenly felt like he needed to leave. No, that wasn't quite right. I felt like I was going to be sick. It was such a stupid reaction. They had all been training and living together for months. And he knew that Talia wasn't Freed's type. But seeing her in another man's arms, especially as close as a pair gets while dancing, the thought made his stomach drop.
He looked up to the stars—the sky was so dark this far north that the stars really were countless. Every time he tried to focus on a cluster, more would gather in his periphery. His footsteps on the pavement were the only sounds aside from the shivering tree leaves in the temperate night breeze. It had become clear to him, over these past two months, that he had a problem. A goofy, sweet, stubborn, redheaded problem. He huffed. This wasn't like when they were kids. He had a difficult time thinking of anything but her, now. Her eyes and smile crept into his meditations and his dreams, and he had so many versions of her laugh to choose from.
He had moments when he allowed himself to hope. Waking up on Tenrou with her by his side, commandeering her lap as a pillow on the long train ride to Blackthorne, even just the few times he felt her watching him around the house they all shared. Snippets and fragments of moments he stupidly clung to. He chuckled dryly to himself. Laxus Dreyer, never tied down, never wanting for company, stuck on his childhood friend. How ridiculous. He wanted to hate it. He wanted to scoff and roll his eyes, but he knew he couldn't. His world was warmer with her in it—and he didn't want to let that go.
But he couldn't push her. If anything at all were to happen, it couldn't start from him. Not after everything he had watched her go through. He didn't even know if she was ready for something new. What if she flinched when he touched her?
The thought struck him harder than expected. His step hitched and he felt as though he had been shot through with ice. Sadness and anger tried to fight for supremacy of the feeling, but exhaustion won out instead. He sighed and walked into the brightly lit convenience store.
Freed, Bickslow, and Evergreen had each gone to their respective rooms for the night by the time Laxus returned. But Talia was still up, if not fully aware.
She had settled down in her usual spot. Back to the wall and blue cushion underneath, her eyes closed and hands rested comfortably on top of her crossed legs. She was still, save for her breathing. Laxus paused a moment from putting the newly-acquired beer in the fridge and watched her—her stillness. Her meditation had improved over the past two months, and she was miles better from when they were kids. She used to hardly be able to sit still, her enhanced sound sensitivity making it difficult to block out the world. But here she was, still and quiet before him.
Knowing she was deep inside her own mind somewhere, he allowed himself a moment. Her hair was still damp from her earlier shower, but red strands glinted in the light from the kitchen fixtures. It curled a little more when it was wet, he noticed. Strands twirled up in the hollows of her collarbones and nuzzled her cheeks. She looked peaceful with her eyes closed, and with her chin slightly angled toward her chest, he could almost pretend the scars on her throat were just figments from a bad dream. This could be his Talia—without scars or fear or heartbreak.
His fist clenched. If only we both hadn't been such idiots. They had always been close, but he never thought that she would be interested. They had bickered like the children they were—pranks and jokes and goofy playfulness—but then the teenage years set in, angst and anger in droves. They still trained and worked together when they could, but with both constantly working separate requests, it became more and more rare. His frequent job companions became the Thunder Legion. He always loved it when she joined them for a job, though. No matter how long it had been, she was the one person whose teamwork and skill he trusted entirely. He loved fighting with her. The thrill in her face when they could both really use their proper strength, the see her revel in the thunder from his lightning—
"What is your interest in my Tithe, False Dragon?"
The sound hummed through his bones, the voice a thousand years of a tomb's echo. Her eyes were open now, cold and calculated—and they were red. Face still peaceful, the question belied a hint of irritation and wariness. He could feel her scrutinizing every fiber of his being. He stood a little taller.
"Why False?" came his sharp retort. Though he had trained with Talia in her Morrigan state, this was different. He did not know this thing, and most certainly didn't trust it. She gave a bored look and closed her eyes.
"You are not a dragon nor a traditional dragon slayer, therefore you are truly neither—and thereby," she paused and opened her eyes again, hard stare fixed on him, "false." She wasn't wrong, but he still didn't like her answer. "Now," she said, a little more sternly, "what is your interest in my Tithe?" Her eyes held him fast. This was a test and a challenge and he knew it.
"I have no intent to harm her," he stated flatly.
"So seemed the last. Until he did," the words slithered out laced with anger.
This surprised Laxus—he knew that Morrigan was somehow bound to Talia, but the exact nature of the binding eluded him. How much does she see? His eyebrows furrowed and he looked at the woman through a harsher glare. "So you knew and did nothing," he stated.
"I did more than you," there was no malice in her voice, she was simply stating a fact.
"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" he snapped back, jaw clenched and hands in fists. He could feel sparks dance over his skin in anger. What was he supposed to have done? He had tried to talk Talia out of dating Dimitri. He had pleaded with her to leave him. But he was always met with the same anger. He cherished her, and watching her walk into the guild hall with fresh bruises tucked under shirt sleeves or the smell of dry blood on her skin made him want to rip the man to pieces. But he couldn't. He couldn't risk losing her, even then.
She watched him coolly, eyes unblinking at his obvious rage. He's protective. Good. She cocked her head to the side slightly, studying him.
"Who, exactly, do you think killed him?"
Laxus's breath caught, and all the anger tensed in his body vanished. The blood pounding in his ears went quiet and his body felt cold and numb. That was not the response he was expecting.
"W-what?"
"It's quaint," she replied, "The idea that she murdered her betrothed never wavered your affection. You had forgiven her by the time you pulled her from the rubble." She still hadn't blinked, and her gaze cut straight to his soul. "Did you honestly think she would have done it?"
He didn't know how to answer. Nobody knew about Morrigan at that point, and even the Old One was an infrequent visitor in Talia's meditation. There had been no other explanation. The house had collapsed in on itself, and there had been no sign of an outside attack; he and Gramps had put around the story of a dark guild attack to shield Talia from scrutiny while she was so fragile. But he hadn't thought—no. He had. He just didn't care. He crossed his arms and glared at the woman before him.
"Where is she now?" he demanded. Morrigan sighed and closed her eyes again.
"The Crone is telling her—" she smiled slightly and opened her eyes to look back at Laxus, "—fairy tales. The Crone is closer in nature to the Fey than I, and never passes up a chance to weave wanderings of her brethren. I believe they're currently discussing the differences between kelpies and glashtyn."
Laxus released the breath stuck in his chest. But that answer just raised so many questions: "How many of you are there? How am I speaking to you now? As far as I know, you didn't even exist a year ago." Her eyebrow twitched in annoyance. It was a Talia movement, and it was unnerving to know he was looking at one person, yet speaking with another.
"Of course I existed. I have always existed. Before and during and after, and far beyond that. We have had many names throughout the centuries—Crypts, Fates, Weiyrd Ones. But we are The Morrigan—triplicate in shadow and in nature." He didn't understand. He didn't know the lore, he didn't know the history.
She was beginning to enjoy watching the emotions cross his face. They didn't sputter across as transparently as with most humans, and his brows knotted at curious angles. She would tell him more, if only just to spend the time to study him. She wanted to see how many emotions she could make bubble up to the surface. She started with the simplest:
"I am a God."
There it was, if purposefully checked: shock. His eyes widened and his eyebrows shot up slightly. The scar over his right eye narrowed with the stretch of skin. Though, it seemed more like a response of validation than that of absolute surprise.
"Together, we are called The Morrigan, though I alone use the name. We are a triad goddess—maiden, crone and warrior. We represent the three worlds: human, fey, and beyond; as well as the magical domains." The more she spoke, the more he sobered. He needed more direct answers than this.
"What are the domains?"
She leaned her head back against the wall and looked at him with a cocky, relaxed eye. "Human has a domain over the basic physical world—we have an attunement to sound, so our Tithe usually has an affinity for it as a magical subject. It depends on the Tithe, however; some have been horticultural mages, some earth, but most often it is sound. The Crone has domain of the half-world, the fey. She is the Banshee-the caller of the dead to die." She wondered if the slight change in his face was fear.
"And you?"
"I am Morrigan," she said simply, "I am a god of war and death from a time of lost magic."
He leaned back against the counter behind him, arms crossed. He would seem almost casual to most, but she could see his tells. His fingers pressed harshly to his skin with agitation on his muscled upper arm, and his jaw cocked slightly to the left; not gritted, but tense. He turned his head up and looked into the blank white ceiling. He sighed.
"Are you why she screams at night?"
It was Morrigan's turn to turn her gaze away. Her eyes softened and she looked down at her hands. She smoothed the pad of one hand over the back of the other, feeling the light calluses pulling against the milky smoothness. "Yes," she said quietly, "That is, sometimes, a side effect." Not all of her Tithes had suffered the nightmares, but more than she would have liked. While they slept, the separations between the three entities would sometimes blur, and memories of the most gruesome scenes of war would spill through on a river of blood. She was not proud of this. She loved her Tithes and was incredibly protective of them—the knowledge that her presence continually harmed them always sat heavily in her heart.
"Is there anything to be done about it?" he still didn't look at her, but she brought her eyes back up to him.
"No. It affects all my tithes differently, so I don't know a specific remedy for her." A half-truth, she thought, Sleeping near a trusted partner helps steady the realm separation, but I'll not push that.
He looked back to her with a scrutinizing eye. "How many 'tithes' have you had?"
"Dozens. Truthfully, I do not remember all their names. Though, many did not know that I was there."
"How could they not know that you were there?" he asked suspiciously. Hard to miss a god riding shotgun.
She raised an eyebrow, "Do you know how much magic power it takes for me to be on this plane? Not all my tithes have been able to wield even enough to reach me. It is a . . . complicated process." She studied him for a moment, examining the angle of his shoulders and jaw. "And you. . . are unexpected. It is rare for a dragon alpha to not be also the berserker."
"I don't know what you mean," he responded. She clearly didn't want to talk about her tithes—he'd have to bring that back out later.
She cocked her head, "You are the alpha of the dragon slayers, are you not? The one they look to for leadership and strength. Yet you are not the bludgeon. Most dragons favor strength over all else; it is unexpected for you to not necessarily be so."
"You know, someone keeps telling me that you don't always have to be the strongest in order to win a fight," he said, "Maybe it just finally stuck."
The Morrigan gave a small smile. "The Crone and your Master have taught her well."
It was midsummer and the festival was alight. Talia and the Thunder Legion took a seat on an empty log around the bonfire, the heat from the flames warming their skin and tinting the air with a delicious smoke. They each placed their drinks by their feet and settled into an easy comfort—conversation varied between the day's training and the snippets of history or gossip they had picked up so far at the festival, even to demanded rematches of board games they had found tucked away in the house. Evergreen had trounced them all at Operation, and Monopoly the week prior had left the team refusing to speak to each other for hours.
Talia lost herself in the vision of the bonfire flames, red and golds crackled in the cool, dark evening. She watched the flames dance about the timbers, twisting and dissipating into the hazy curls of smoke that made the stars twinkle all the more stubbornly. So caught up in the flames was she, that she barely noticed when a woman sat beside her.
"It's been too long, sister mine."
The voice pulled Talia out of her daze—there was something familiar about it. She turned to the woman, gracefully long and slim of stature with a blonde braid that trailed far down her back. Teasing eyes looked back at her: the grey glint of a spear tip, the shine of a tin-dipped shield boss in the sunlight. She knew those eyes—
May I? asked Morrigan. Talia wasn't sure she'd ever asked for anything before. It just made the situation feel even stranger. Talia agreed, and though she couldn't see it, her right iris tore and bled red through her usual green.
"Herja," Talia felt Morrigan speak through her, and it was an odd sensation. Like nestling two people onto a couch that was just slightly too small. The difference in voice timbre must've caught Laxus's ear, for he turned to the women from his spot on Talia's opposite side. "Whatever brings you here, my old friend?" A warm smile came to Talia's face.
"Travels and entertainment, mostly," replied Herja, "and you know I do so love your festivals."
"Ahh," said Morrigan, a knowing smile creeping wider, "so you're the one behind the mead. Never thought I'd see such grizzled cheeks so ruddy."
Laxus noticed the warmth in his veins and face—it was true, the mead was good and potent. He made a mental note to drink slowly. He watched them in his periphery, they rattled off names and events he'd never heard of, and he let the conversation slip into a low hum. Musicians began collecting beside the fire, a wide drum, fiddle, wood flute, and some sort of old single-reed instrument that looked vaguely like a clarinet. They struck up jigs and light tunes that danced along the firelight. The flute twisted among the embers that floated into the blackened sky, twinkling and twirling amidst the fading light. Somewhere underneath, a chanter added words he didn't know. It was all. . . magical.
He never really got religion or mythology. It always seemed too far removed from the tangible world, too mystical and full of whimsy. Gods, the creatures, he could comprehend, and clearly dragons too. But the mysticism always escaped him. Everything was solid—everything had an explanation. Yet out here, under the vast sky and stars, his friends lit by the warm glow of the fire, and that music wrapping itself around the wisps of smoke. . . he started to get it. Maybe there was some magic in the world that he didn't understand. Maybe it wasn't certain that the sun would rise on its own. Or that the rain would come simply by waiting long enough. And maybe those natural phenomena were just as fickle as humans, with personalities and humors all their own. He took another sip of ale.
"Your people are really the only ones to keep up the old ways," he caught Herja say, her voice a little softer, melancholy even. Talia nodded slightly. "Mine are lost into the complexities of the world—blood thinned out 'til barely a drop discerned. You are lucky to keep your home fires alight."
"I have a feeling I've you to thank for that," Morrigan said, her tone slightly teasing. Herja smiled and nodded in response.
"Aye, a bit. But there is little to remind of war in times of peace such as this. The dragons all but gone, midwives and healers practiced and learned, there are few opportunities to stir memory of unpleasant times. I call as a raven now and then, to confirm suspicion. And once in a while one of those black dogs of yours makes himself seen. But it is the stubbornness of your elders that truly keeps the old world near."
Mrs. McCleary came by then, and tapped Talia on the shoulder. It only happened that Talia's green eye was the one to turn toward her.
"D'ya still remember those old songs, lass? You and yer Mum always did make everythin' sound better with that magic o' yours. If ye give the boys a key, I'm sure they can figure somethin' out behind ye."
Laxus's right brow raised in curiosity. Music magic was one she rarely used—she never confirmed it, but he suspected that using it made her miss her mother. He watched her nod and politely accept. She excused herself from conversation with her friend and went to speak with the musicians. He watched her go, black clothes faded into the darkened night, but her hair caught the colors of the flames and danced as if it were a part of it.
He felt eyes on him and he turned to Herja. Her look was of playful curiosity—one eyebrow raised and eyes scaling his large form.
"So do you know Morrigan or Talia?" he asked. She smiled.
"The Old Crow is an old friend," she replied, "And I did not expect her to keep company with a dragon, even a shade of one as you are."
"So I've heard."
She hummed and took a sip of her own mead. "She seems to like her, your Talia. It is rare for her to have a Tithe with the potential to wield her proper power," she paused a moment. "Morrigan is cautious. She is a God of War. She has watched enough people and gods die, and I think she is tired."
This struck him as odd. "Can a god tire of their element?"
Herja looked to him with concern. "You don't know this history, or these people, do you?" He shook his head. "Ah," she breathed. "Northerners have a unique view of the world. Nothing comes easily—this soil is not rich, the land barely fit to graze, the fish small and wiry. To live well here is a struggle. It is a stubborn people. And that constant struggle created cultures that do not fear death—they revel in it." His brows furrowed in confusion, so she continued.
"In this landscape, death is not feared. It is known, it is a constant companion from swaddling cloth to cane. My people found honor in death—glory and purpose. To fight with everything they had, to give their lives for the betterment of their people: that was the true treasure. Morrigan's people find solace in it. They do not fear death, for they know her and she is kind."
Herja looked to Morrigan now, red hair glowing in the firelight, gesticulating elegantly as she conversed with the musicians. "My people once tried to conquer these lands—that is how we first met. But instead of frightened flocks to pillage, we found like minds and souls, And so we moved on. . . to find resources that did not feel as though we waged war upon our own people." Laxus now looked thoughtful, and she gave him the same smile she gave the children whom she told her tales.
Talia returned to her seat between Laxus and Herja. They had clearly been talking—an odd sense of apprehension settled in her stomach, but she put on a smile.
"I'll just support the songs from here for a bit, add a little imagery and such—they won't be playing my ballads for a while yet."
"Good!" cheered Herja, "That means the fun songs are first." Talia rolled her eyes. "What? You know I'll always take heralds of battle over your melancholy nostalgia."
"Heralds of battle?" Freed questioned, seeming to only now realize the new addition to their group. Bickslow and Evergreen turned as well.
Herja's smile grew ecstatic. "This is Litha! Solstice festival, yes, but it is a celebration of bounty—and that requires tales of heroes and conquest!"
"I like this one!" chimed Bickslow, tongue lolling out the side of his mouth.
"I had a feeling you would," grumbled Talia, but there was a warmth underneath. "Thunder Legion, this is Herja. Herja, you've already met Laxus, this is Freed, Evergreen, and Bickslow."
Herja nodded her head to each, but her smile lingered on Bickslow. "Careful with those eyes of yours, seith mage, they would get you into trouble," she teased, but there was a weight behind the words.
"How did you know I use seith magic?" he asked, un-helmed head quirking slightly to the right.
"Just a hunch," Herja responded, but turned back to the musicians as they started up in song.
Talia wove her magic around the plucked strings and under the heavy beat of the drum. She closed her eyes and felt the melody begin to take shape.
"We have bounty and peace," began the drummer over his beat, "but these things were not always so. In times of mist and legend, before the convergence of the great kingdoms, Blackthorne was here. Carved from the rocks off the sea and woven into the lands of today, it was a time of warrior queens and gods and heroes. We'll sing of those tonight, to light the fire that mead has kindled—" a hoot went up from the drunkest of the crowd, and glasses were raised in the air—"So let us start the night and set the scene with our own Raven Queen, The Morrigan."
More whoops and cheers resounded, and Talia's eyebrow perked up in curiosity though her eyes stayed shut. Freed, Evergreen, and Laxus looked to Talia in wary expectation, while Bickslow and Herja's smiles turned maniacal.
Over hills and over meadows
See the crow fly, feel her shadow
Over woods and over mountains
Searching for a war
Talia's magic brought the song into the mind's eye: black feathers rattled and shook along the breeze, a hooked beak and sharp black eye flickered across the land. It was vast and far and barren, the crags and stone breaking out of the earth like knives through flesh.
Her wings embrace each strife and battle
Where swords they clash and chariots rattle
Seeking out the one whose time
Has come to take the blade
The clatter of swords echoed between ears, and from the wings of the raven the battle below was cluttered and chaotic. Blade caught blade in the afternoon light, the heavy thud of hammer on wooden shield. A panicked whinny of a loose horse as it galloped the long way home—reins trailing and master long gone. And still the raven flew, circling now, turning its eye from one warrior to the next. Until it settled on one. The raven flew down.
Morrigan ancient Crone of War
I see your face, I'll cry no more
Morrigan ancient Crone of War
Come lift me on your wings
The raven landed on the shoulder of the fallen warrior. He was flat on his back, face skyward, a mortal wound cut deep through his leather armor. The tang of blood was sharp on his tongue and each faltering breath shot pain through his body. The raven looked down on the man.
But the man did not see a raven. A woman crouched over him, her long, black hair flowed gently around her—not held by the physics of his mortal world. Her black eyes were kind and her smile gentle. She placed a soft, pale hand to his whiskered cheek.
Morrigan ancient Crone of War
I hear your voice, I'll breathe no more
Morrigan ancient Crone of War
Come set my spirit free
He smiled to the woman, for he knew her. She had come to take him home. He leaned into her hand and closed his eyes.
The song beat fast and heavy, echoing the war drum in the soldier's ears. Ever forward, brave warrior, your home is not behind you, but there beyond the battlefield. The flute and fiddle twisted into chaos. The drum beat. The drum beat. The drum beat.
And then, quietly, the vision faded. The song tapered to its end.
The audience dazedly blinked the vision out of their eyes and haphazard clapping flittered between the guests. Nobody was quite sure what to make of it—they knew it was magic, but it had never felt that real before. The push of the air beneath the raven's wings, the shuffle and flutter of the feather fibers. The pounding heartbeat of the drum. Forward, forward, forward. Do not turn back. Home is yet ahead. Home and hearth and heart.
But while the rest of the crowd marveled at the magic, Freed thought. The song was. . . from Morrigan's point of resolved to note if the songs continued from the same set of eyes. And, oddly enough, they usually did.
Tales of heroes and their heroics, tales of conquest and victory—all through those proud black eyes. Charging in beside her kinsmen or flying high overhead, she was always with them. Always watching. Always calculating. And there to take her people home when the mortal path proved too much.
These weren't the tales of the war gods he knew. Not the Hachiman, the archer-god of his homeland. Or Tyr, the justice-minded war god of the Middle-North. Their tales were of butchery, annihilation, of hands dyed red all the journey home. But these weren't exaltations of dominance—she fought beside them. Not watching from a mountaintop, not just dropping in to make a point, but every step of the way. There when they needed her.
At least, until she couldn't be.
As the stars spun above and the night grew long and crisp, the ballads came. Love and loss and heartbreak; they were beautiful. Simple melodies, open chords. Just voice and word and memory. And that's when the pieces fell through. Not the ones that Morrigan wanted to share, but ones she couldn't keep from arising. Loving a man fiercely, completely, and then watching him struck down by shining blade. Wandering the shoreline and longing for a glashtyn to drag you under because the rhythm of the waves is just so beautiful, so perpetual, that it becomes the heartbeat, becomes the breath, becomes the everything; that muffled under the shimmering waves is where you were always meant to be. Feeling the cliffs and trees and rock cave in because you found your child, bloated and rigid in the water, eyes unseeing and lips purple. The violent obsession of new love—clamoring, tearing, burning for all that you have, but still he would not have you.
Emotions so raw and visceral, it made Freed's throat clench and his eyes glass over. He saw the burning of the town, the malicious black eyes of someone staring down, smiling, as something that should not be there hammered through his chest. Love and death and home and death and love and love, and death again. Lifetimes of it. Eons, ages, epochs. And somewhere in the background, a dragon's roar lit the sky.
The songs faded slowly on the night breeze, and the bonfire died to a low ember.
People hugged and shuffled their way home, the echoes of guitar strings long having stilled, yet somehow the notes still resonated. The Thunder Legion didn't move.
"It's been a long time since you sang like that, sister mine."
Morrigan nodded slightly, those songs surfacing things she had long thought buried. She suddenly felt so very old. So weary, so heavy in her bones. She felt Herja's eyes on her, assessing, but she didn't care.
"I still don't get how you knew I use seith magic." Bickslow's laughing voice cut through the stagnant air.
Herja's smile bled into her voice: "Use those pretty eyes of yours when I leave. Then see if you can figure it out."
"Just don't look directly at her," Morrigan mumbled.
"No, that would be a shame." Herja rose from her seat and stretched out her hand to Morrigan. Some of the light came back into those red eyes. It was a soldier's farewell, Herja clasped Morrigan's forearm, and Morrigan did the same. "Unto glory, Sister."
"Unto glory. Be well, Herja."
With a wink to Bickslow, she turned and walked into the night, blue cloak and blonde braid swaying in her movement. Not back to the town as the others had done, but out toward the sea.
"What in the hell—"
"What is it, Bix?" prodded Evergreen. Bickslow rubbed his eyes and then continued to stare. Not directly at the receding form, but somewhere just off to the side.
"Her soul, it's. . . it's like looking at a star." He winced and blinked rapidly. "I've never seen anything like it." He turned to Morrigan, eyes shining as a child who had discovered a new world. "What is she?"
"She's not human or mage, that's for sure." Laxus's voice grated. There was something about that woman. He had assessed her as he did everyone, but there was something in the back of his mind, deep in his gut, that shuddered at her presence.
Morrigan looked over the group. The girl, Evergreen, was interested yet more annoyed than wonderstruck like the seith mage. But the Scribe and the Dragon, they saw something. They felt the old warnings. She looked back as her friend's form receded into the blackness.
"She is a Valkyrie."