A/N: Well damn. Officially cracked 100k words. That's nuts. And we're not even to the GMG. . . lol whoops.
Hope I didn't scar any of y'all with the last chapter. I did say we would earn that M rating. And I initially planned to put a chapter break before they woke. . . but that seemed mean.
Next chapter takes us back to Crocus and back onto the main story line. Thanks for coming on my wacky little sidequest with me.
As always, please fave/review/message/carrier pigeon. It makes me do a silly, stupid giggle when I see messages/reviews.
There was a heavy quiet among the Thunder Legion, the air taught between Talia and Laxus, but the whole team covered it with a stoic professionalism. Bickslow took it upon himself to make sure the distracted air didn't reach Captain Tryst—he asked questions about the rest of the night and plans for future parties. They discussed the current schedule of extravagance and joked over the nonsense display of wealth.
Ornate hallways wound by, gilded molding blurring from room to room. The chateau was a labyrinth in its own right, and the tension in the air gave just enough distraction for the mages to not really pay attention to where they were going.
If they had, they would have noticed that it wasn't just their distraction blurring the halls—they were actually blurring. Cherubic faces melted and bled down the walls. The inlaid floor twisted into patterns that no mortal artisan could ever achieve. The chandeliers overhead reached and scratched at them with long, gnarled arms—poking, tearing, searching.
There was a prickling at the edge of Talia's mind. Something she was forgetting. Something she forgot. Her eyes felt dry—like she hadn't blinked in a very long time.
Tryst led them through the passageways, down, down, sliding through floors of wood and stone. And Bickslow had stopped responding to the conversation—the Captain carried a conversation solely with himself, as if nothing was wrong.
Because, of course, it wasn't.
A smile too wide broadened over his teeth—glinting like the last reaches of light below the waves.
His hand reached out and glided along the wall, fingers running smoothly through the dripping plaster.
"As much as I've enjoyed your company," his words twisted through the mages' minds; a hair's breadth from nonsense. He turned back to them, his head tilted at an odd angle. His teeth flashed too sharp. "Bored now."
An eye opened in the center of his forehead—pale and unused to this plane. But at the sight of the mages, it stretched open past the sightless pale blue iris, past the colorless sclera.
White light scorched everything.
And then there was none at all.
Laxus's eyes felt sore, which was odd. Groggy he knew, even strained. But not sore. He pinched his eyelids shut and tried to rub his eyes, but his hands couldn't reach. A sharp clang of metal reverberated through the stone holding cell. Laxus frowned and pulled harder, but the shackles kept his arms outstretched and pinned to the walls. That's when the nausea hit him. He gagged and took steadying breaths of the cool, damp air. His skin was clammy, and his knees hurt from bearing his weight on the hard floor. But this was a familiar nausea—this was magic deficiency.
He weakly lifted his head and looked around the room. Iron bars stared back at him in every direction, and he could just see snippets of the Thunder Legion in the cells surrounding. They must've been in the basement of a turret, for the walls were rounded stone at his back, and the bars faced inward to an open center. A lone door stood opposite him, set into the wall, and there was some sort of painted sigil on the floor in front of it. A figure crouched before the sigil, seeming to close the circle and finish the inscription of white paint.
Laxus watched the figure stand and brush off dust from his blue nobility guard uniform. He pushed his sandy hair back out of his eyes, turned, and walked to the open center within the cells.
"Tryst. . ." Laxus's voice was half a groan. He rarely used enough magic to feel this awful, but he had barely used any today. It made no sense. "What are you doing?"
Tryst's eyes were wild and dark—in a way, they reminded Laxus of Talia's Banshee state. Slightly twisted, pupils small and flickering. This wasn't Tryst.
"I'm going to catch me a god," his voice spun with a barely-contained laugh. His smile stretched too far.
"You're—you're not Tryst," Laxus ground out. It was hard to keep his eyes open, and his voice was hoarse. Tryst's head cocked to the right in interest.
"No, I am not. I am Balor of the Evil Eye, King of the Fomorians." His tongue ran across his teeth.
"And you will bring me The Morrigan."
A cough came from another cell. "Whatever you have planned, it won't work," groaned Freed, his voice strained and only one eye open, "You can't beat her."
Balor smiled menacingly and gestured to the white circle he had painted on the floor. "Of course not. Hence the binding spell."
"Tch. Good luck," Laxus's voice was tired, but his words were strong, "like any binding spell will hold Talia down."
Balor threw his head back and laughed. "It is not for the Tithe!" his voice bubbled like a cauldron and his eyes flashed menacingly, "I seek the Crone. She who cast my people down into the darkest of the shadows."
"That still sounds like Talia to me," replied Laxus,, his voice a harsh grind, "And you won't be able to hold her."
"Who said anything about holding her?" Balor spread his arms wide, "I will tear the Crone out of her and bind her as the fae she is."
Bickslow gave a dry laugh. "Souls don't work like that, buddy," his usually bouncing voice was steady, if hoarse: "Tearing a soul from its body is near impossible, they're too tightly bound. Especially from someone as strong as Talia."
"Fae have rules," snapped Balor, "They can be twisted and turned and spun about, but the rules remain." But his smile returned, bloodlust in his eyes. "I want to watch her soul fracture and split as I rip the Crone from her."
A shot of icy panic surged through Laxus's veins. Split her soul? That can't—
"FREED! BICKSLOW! EVERGREEN!" Talia's voice echoed through the adjacent hallway.
Balor's smile grew too wide again. His predatory eyes flashed as he faded into the shadows.
Talia's breath was heavy as she ran through numerous hallways in the belly of the chateau. Her footsteps echoed down the hallways and reverberated back into her ears, bouncing against the pumping of her own heartbeat. She had woken alone in that hallway, dazed and confused and desperate. She stopped at a door and threw it open, only to find an empty cell. She dashed to the next door down the hall but, again, nothing. She continued calling for them, only to hear her own echoes return. She couldn't even use echolocation through the thick stone to find them. She'd just have to try every door.
The creaks and slams of heavy wooden doors preceded her as she tore through the hallway. Laxus fought through the nausea to try to warn her: "Talia! Get out of here! He—" Balor materialized from the shadows in his cell and kicked him in the gut. Laxus thought he was going to be sick, and he drooped against the shackles, exhausted.
"Enjoying those cuffs?" taunted Balor, "They're a prototype in from the capital. Made of magic-sealing stone." Laxus weakly turned his face up to him and glared between ragged breaths. Balor kicked him again.
"LAXUS? WHERE ARE YOU?" came Talia's desperate voice in the hall. She was closer now. Only a few doors left. Balor bared his teeth in a predatory smile and slipped into the shadows. Laxus's cell was immediately in view of the door, across from the central open space. He'd be the first one she saw. And, gods, he hated every moment of it.
The heavy wooden door flew open, and Talia saw Laxus—chained to the wall with wide arms, forced onto his knees, and barely conscious. She rushed into the room.
CHILD, WAIT—
"STOP, TALIA!" Laxus tried to yell in warning, but it was too late. In her desperation, she stepped right into the sigil and immediately froze.
The paint on the floor glowed white, and magic swirled about her. Something felt wrong. She vaguely heard Laxus and Freed yell, but they were so muffled that she could barely even tell it was them. The light from the sigil shone into the air, creating a shimmering white cell around her. Everything felt wrong. Talia put her hands over her ears as they strained painfully to discern sounds, but everything was muted and jumbled past the point of recognition.
And then she truly felt it. Her eyes went wide in shock and pain as she fell to her knees. White hot and searing, something sliced her chest open—straight down her sternum. It reached into her, into a place it was very much not supposed to go. Every fiber of her body howled. She felt that something root around inside her chest, searching and clawing as it went. She forgot how to breathe. Her whole body burned. And then it tore something out.
Talia screamed. Laxus pulled against his chains, his blue eyes wide with terror and helplessness. Her scream had no power behind it. He felt no pulses and no echoes; just a scream. But the pain carried. He felt his stomach drop, and he watched her as the shriek sliced through him. She had fallen to her knees, her green eyes wide. He struggled against his restraints, but they held fast.
Moments dragged too long until finally the sigil's light faded. Talia fell forward, barely catching herself with her right arm as her left pressed tightly to her chest. She was shaking from the pain and couldn't think straight. Even the air sounded. . . wrong: muffled and stuffy, like hiding under too many blankets. She focused on the grey stone beneath her, trying to slow her erratic heartbeat and regain her breath. But everything burned. Whatever that light had done, something was very, very wrong. She reached out into her mind, calling for Morrigan and the Old One.
But there was only dark silence. Her breath caught again, and her eyes desperately darted around her.
"What have you done. . .?" she croaked. She saw a man in blue materialize from the shadows. His smile flashed and his eyes were dark. But from his hand, silver glinted. A pocket watch sat neatly and quietly in his palm.
He has. . . taken the Crone. . .
Joy was momentary, but horror echoed. She still had Morrigan.
"I really wasn't expecting you after all these centuries, Morrigan," it was Tryst, but the sound was shadowed, a voice underneath.
Balor. . . came Morrigan again in Talia's mind, slow and pained: a Fomorian—their king. He has. . . bound the Crone to that watch.
Talia had never heard Morrigan in pain before and it scared the breath out of her. But she met Balor's eye and glared as hard as she could. She felt her anger pushing through.
"Give. . . her. . . back," she growled through clenched teeth. Her left hand still pressed against her chest as if pressurizing a wound, but no cut surfaced.
Balor smiled wickedly. "I don't think I will," his voice was cocky, "Too long have you held my people under the shadows. It is long past time for our day in the Sun!" His eye was malicious. His fist closed around the pocket watch and silver light shone between his fingers. He hummed, that cocky smile still on his face, "And why would you want her back? It seems that she and Morrigan made quite a mess of your little life. What was his name? Dimitri?"
Laxus felt panic and rage fight for superiority within him, but the exhaustion weighed both down like soaked cotton. Not now. She doesn't need this now.
"It was nice of Morrigan to leave his face; it really was quite pretty."
Talia's eyes pinched shut and she curled into herself.
"Oh wait!" Balor's eyes were wide with laughter, "Did you not know? Hah!" The silver light from the pocket watch grew brighter. "I can feel The Crone's memories through the binding. They never told you? Fascinating. I wonder, Morrigan, was it pity or did you just not want to deal with her pathetic wailing?"
Laxus's eyes held only Talia. She was curled practically fetal, one arm in front for stability, the other clutched tightly to her chest. He couldn't tell if the shaking was her or his exhaustion from the cuffs.
"No," her voice was heavy and thick; weighted, but not with swallowed tears. "I knew."
Morrigan forgot to breathe. Not that it mattered, functionally, for her, but the realization dropped like a stone. You knew? She asked shakily.
"And you know what?" Talia looked back up to Balor, red hair parting over her face, those green eyes dark and angry, "I've decided that I don't care."
There was a moment where Morrigan was stunned. Eons on this Earth, and this managed to surprise her. She felt a smile grow, pride welling. Let me through. She commanded, though her voice still creaked.
What? What do you—
Trust me.
Talia forced herself to calm and focused inward, bringing forward Morrigan's presence. There was an emptiness around her, and the space pulsed like a raw nerve. But she pushed through. It terrified her, but she trusted Morrigan. And she had never felt this kind of rage and determination from her before. Whatever she was planning, heaven help the target.
Red eyes opened and caught Balor in their fury.
"No. . ." his voice wavered, "that's not—you shouldn't be able to reach her. . ." fear shot through his body, but he willed himself to still. He plastered a transparent smile on his face and stitched his courage back together with reason. "You have no power over me, Morrigan, and your own is fractured. Accept your defeat and crawl back to your crypt-shadows."
"You're right," her voice was quiet, but it cut the air between them, "I am not of the Fae. You do not follow my call. But," she paused, a slight smile danced along her lips, "There are others who may."
Her eyes closed and she spoke strange words. They rolled and growled low in her throat, and the air became heavy.
The silence in the room was thick when she finished.
The creakings of an old wagon came from the hallway, squeaks and protests of the wood and iron an ancient and dreaded call. Balor's eyes shot open in horror and he spun around the room, eyeing every shadow suspiciously.
A black figure ducked through the door, his wide-brimmed hat seeming to glide through the stone doorframe. He was tall and shrouded, entirely spun from shadow; it dissipated and swirled around him devotedly. He walked slowly. The specter turned toward Morrigan as he strode in, and tipped his hat slightly in acknowledgement. Though he had no eyes to see, she looked into him resolutely and nodded her thanks. He turned forward and continued into the dungeon.
Every hair on Laxus's body, every inch of sinew, screamed for him to escape. Louder, even, than his concern for Talia had been. This was visceral. This was old. And this was dangerous. With no feasible escape, Laxus tried to still his shaking and swallow his terror. Whatever the creature in black, Morrigan trusted it. And though that wasn't much to go on, he clung desperately to the sliver of hope.
The black form continued in toward a panicking Balor.
"You—you owe her nothing. She has no power over you, you are not conscripted to her bidding." He backed away as far as he could, his spine pushed against the bars of Laxus's cell. "The time of the old Gods is over!" Balor shouted in desperation, "Wouldn't it be better to realign the worlds? To make them better, stronger, safer?"
The black figure paused briefly.
"My people," Balor continued, words falling over themselves, "Have been shut out of the light of the world. The Sidhe refused to let us even try to live among them. I want to make a world where they are welcome." He turned to glare at Morrigan, still on her knees and clutching her chest painfully. "The Sidhe took everything from us!" he yelled, "They cast my people under the rocks and seas, the most desolate of voids to fill. And then they neglect the humans anyway. What good have they done that earns them their power?"
The wide hat of the cloaked figure turned back toward Morrigan, the eyeless façade black and unyielding. She said nothing, but jutted her chin proudly despite her obvious pain. The darkness turned back toward Balor. Its voice was a fading cry on a midnight breeze.
"Your words are false to heart," words whistled through thorned shadow, "You do not seek peace. I know the call of a lie." It was in the center of the room, now, and stood quietly. A black arm raised, wisps of shadow melting off the appendage, and fingers-skinnier and longer than any human's-extended toward Balor. They drew the man toward him, despite his best efforts. He desperately tried to hang onto the bars of Laxus's cell, but the pull was too strong. He was ripped from the bars and dragged to the center by invisible talons. He began to scream.
Balor was pulled to stand before the dark figure, his eyes wide with panic. There was no escape. Those black talons bit into and through his chest with a sickening crunch—Laxus could see the wisped ends protruding out the back of his blue uniform. The scream that tore from his throat was like nothing Laxus had ever heard before: the sound of foundation rock cleaved in two and pulled against itself, peeling away under the weight of a mountain. The scream of a sea wind as it rips past your ears in the middle of a storm. The black figure stepped through Tryst's body and disappeared out the other side, shadows dissolving in its wake. He was gone.
Tryst staggered, desperately straining for breath, and crumpled onto the stone floor of the dungeon. The last of the white light around Morrigan faded, and she slowly pulled herself along the floor toward him. She didn't trust her body, everything felt on the verge of collapse. But still, she hauled herself to the fallen man and threw one leg over his mid-section, straddling him. Her right hand fumbled to open his cramped fingers around the watch. But finally, it came free. She brought it to her lips, those old, twisted words returning in a whisper—a call home. The pocket watch glowed a warm silver before returning to quiet simplicity.
Talia finally could take a real breath. Morrigan receded and green eyes opened to look down upon Tryst. His breath was ragged and skin pale. His eyes could barely focus.
"We need to get you to a healer," she said quietly, "I'm sorry, that must have been horribly painful."
"No," he coughed a laugh. "I'm done." He looked past her and into the stone ceiling. "When I went through the Tithe ritual. . . I never thought that something like that. . ." His eyes closed. "Please. . ." his voice was quiet, "just end it."
"No."
A weary sigh left him. He slowly brought his arm up, and weakly pulled off one of his long black gloves. Beneath it, the skin was raw and decaying, and the stench of rotting flesh almost made Talia gag. "This is what his power has done. Ten months, and I can't even pick up a pen without the pain."
Balor allowed his power to burn through him. Morrigan's voice was quiet, remorseful. Many still view Tithes as a vehicle or object to be used. It is an incredible waste.
"Did you not have an anchor? Someone to guide your way?" Talia whispered, horrified.
Tryst shook his head. "There was no one. I thought I could handle it on my own—I didn't realize that things other than Gods and Fae could take a tithe. I had just been promoted and all I wanted was to do the best I could—protect my home and my people. I hoped that the extra power of being a Tithe would grant that." A cough shuddered through his body. "He said that he was a king of forgotten lore, strong and loyal and who only strove for the best life for his people."
Talia sighed in resignation. Fae didn't lie. They twisted and played with the truth, but very rarely lied. Balor was, indeed, all of those things. That and so much worse. Who knows what horrors he saw when he closed his eyes at night. All he had wanted. . . and to twist it so painfully. . . her heart sank into her stomach. But Balor had lied. The same lie he told to the creature of black—an un-truth, splintered and sharp.
"I cannot kill you." Talia's eyes were sad. She closed them, tightly. She knew what would happen. "I won't kill someone who isn't a threat." She looked back down to him, resigned.
And that's what he needed. A way out.
He took it.
Faster than one would expect of someone so injured, his gloved hand found the knife in his pocket. He brought it up with every intention of sheathing it between her ribs. Except he knew she would be faster. He was counting on it.
The flash of a blade caught the corner of her eye, and she retaliated mechanically. The heel of her palm smashed the bottom tip of his sternum, cracking the bone and couching the point into his own heart. The sickening punch of a sound wave breaking the surrounding ribs echoed grotesquely throughout the stone chamber.
"Thank you." The words barely registered, even to her. And she watched his eyes darken as hers burned with tears. The knife clattered uselessly against the stone. A sob broke its way out of her chest, the droplets falling onto his uniform. She rolled off of him and curled into herself. She cried for him. For the life Balor stole from him. For the pain he had suffered. And for the relief of understanding, finally, the type of god within her.
A clatter of footsteps echoed from down the stone hallway. A hound of black smoke turned sharply into the dungeon, tendrils pulling from its back and paws, eyes of silver glowing in the gloomy room. It whined and loped to Talia, still on the floor where she had wept over Tryst's body. It nudged her lightly with its black snout.
Amelie appeared in the doorway, and from the state of her it was very clear that she had come in a hurry. Flushed and disheveled, she took in the scene before following the dog and crouching beside the fallen sound mage.
"Shit—" she snapped. Her delicate hands moved Talia's hair back from her face, despite it sticking to her still-damp cheeks. Amelie looked around the dungeon, the other mages still strung up and barely conscious. "What in a sprite's coffin happened?" she jabbed to anyone who was conscious. Her hands pulled Talia into her lap. She snapped her fingers and the dormant lanterns in the room all sputtered to life.
Freed groaned from the far cell. "The Captain of the guard. He was. . . the Fomorian, or the Fomorian had him."
"Tryst? Shit." She glowered over the still body next to her. "Idiot. Proud, foolhardy, tail-feathered fledgling." She gently placed a ring-laden hand on Talia's brow and muttered a few words, a warm light glowing under her palm. After a moment, Talia took a deep breath and roused. She looked confused to see Amelie's face above hers, much less cradling her so carefully.
"You called and I came, Lady of the Ravens. Though apparently not as quickly as another."
Talia's eyes finally focused. The room was brighter now. There was a nudging nose at her arm.
"Dreaded thing came screaming into my quarters and showed me the way. They always did take to you."
A weak, pale hand came to stroke the dog's face—like stroking a midnight mist. The dog smiled, pink tongue lolling and sharp, white teeth shining in the light.
"Gallowglass. . ." Talia noted weakly. The woman above her smiled.
"What the fuck are you doing here, courtesan?" growled Laxus from his cell behind them. It would have been a good show if his face hadn't been the color of a raw oyster.
"Saving your asses, apparently, Dragonling." She looked down to Talia, who was slowly coming back to light. Her hand hovered over her red hair. "May I?" Talia nodded, and Gallowglass plucked four strands from her head. She closed them in her hand: her skin seemed to calcify into the bark of a birch tree for a moment, but was back to porcelain by the next blink. She opened her hand, and where the strands had been laid four wooden keys. Not carved or chiseled into shape, but grown.
Talia moved off her lap, now able to steady herself. She still felt the echoes of the cleaving in her chest, as if the massive rift had been cauterized and was still raw and aching. But she didn't feel empty—and that was a comfort.
Gallowglass went to each strung mage and cut open the shackles with her keys. Their magics flooded back quickly and pounded into their temples as a very pointed headache.
"What was that?" asked Freed as he rubbed his newly-freed wrists. Talia's brows furrowed in concentration. She wanted to properly relay Morrigan's answer.
"That was Ankou," she said slowly, "He is. . . Death. The Collector of the Dead. Watcher of Graves."
"Ankou? Ankou was here?" Gallowglass gaped. Talia nodded.
"But I thought you were the god of War and Death," said Laxus. Talia shook her head.
"Death, the action, yes. But he is the conduit."
"You brought literal death into a fight?" shrieked Evergreen. Talia gave a bashful smile.
"We were very lucky," she stated. "I don't think Morrigan's call was directed to him. It felt more like an open channel. It's interesting that he's the one who answered."
"Lucky doesn't even begin to cover it," snapped Amelie, "Since the Great War, the only time anyone has seen him has been on the edges of life itself." She gave a quick glance to the black dog that still lingered by Talia's side. "Does explain the Grim, though." The Grim licked Talia's cheek in answer.
"You know what it doesn't explain is why you're here, Amelie," came Evergreen's sharp, tired voice.
With a flourish of skirts, Amelie gave a sweeping courtesy.
"Amelie deGréine, Tithe of Gallowglass," she winked at Bickslow, "a pleasure to meet you all properly."
Evergreen gave a huff of understanding: "So that's why Ranavi warned us about bargains with you—she knew you were Fae."
"Near but far, little wantling. Ranavi does not know what I am, but she is smart enough to suspect that I am beyond a simple human." Her warm brown eyes turned harsh as her gaze turned to the Captain's body. "But this one," she crossed her arms, "How did I not know it was him? Especially if it was Balor, I should have had some keening."
Freed had regained his feet, and though his steps were wobbly, he made his way toward the center of the dungeon as well. "He said he didn't know that things other than gods and Fae could take a Tithe with the ritual—so Fomorians are different?"
Amelie shook her head. "No. Fomorians are a middling Fae, just as I am. Before the Great War, they were wanderers—or so they said. They came to the Sidhe crying that their land had wasted and dried: unlivable. What they didn't mention is that they were the ones who had run it to breaking. And once they were accepted to our shores, they attempted the same here. They stole and cleaved and ravaged the land and peoples." She gestured toward Talia, "It was just unacceptable and impossible to live amidst. Despite the Sidhe's many attempts, the Fomorians refused any attempt at compromise and conflict turned to war. When they were defeated, The Crone bound them beneath the bedrock of the sea."
"All we wanted was for them to live quietly," murmured Talia so low that Laxus barely caught it, "Why couldn't that have been enough?" There was a sadness in her face that was new—she looked. . . old. Weary. The Grim nuzzled against her.
Amelie nudged Tryst's cooling body with the toe of her shoe. "You've got a few major problems here, Lady. I'll take this one off your plate, but I can't help the mess you made for yourself."
Talia's head snapped toward her in confusion. Amelie's brows furrowed.
"That call you sent out—the one that brought Ankou and me and the Grim—that was an open call. Anyone who knows to listen heard it. Not just Fae."
"Other Gods?" interjected Laxus. Amelie nodded.
"And God Slayers." There was a gravity to Amelie's words, and Talia felt the weight of each. "You just told the world that Morrigan wanders the plane of earthen road. Are you prepared for that?"
Talia swallowed the fear and nodded. "Guess I'll have to be."
Lightning crackled along Laxus's fists as he stood in the doorway of the cell he had been bound in. Talia breathed deeply as the sound waves rumbled off the stones. "They better have a coffin ready if they're stupid enough to try."
A hint of a smile quirked Talia's lips, and one of Ameie's eyebrows raised delicately, but she said nothing.
Amelie said she would take care of Tryst, and after some stern words from Talia that his reputation was not to be tarnished, the Thunder Legion returned to the gatehouse for one final night of quiet before embarking to Crocus in the morning. Talia all but fell into bed—barely even taking the time to strip and put on an old tank top before the blankets dragged her down.
Morrigan and the Old One laid quietly somewhere in the far reaches if her mind, but aside from noting that they would be resting, neither gave any additional information or context on what Amelie had said. And Talia wasn't complaining—every part of her felt raw; emptied, filled, and then dripped dry. She just wanted to forget the world for a bit.
The Thunder Legion, magic returned and headaches abated, stayed downstairs. They discussed the Grand Magic Games, logistics for the morning, ways to help the Guild regain its footing—but there were two things they did not discuss: the previous night and the Amelie's warning.
Bickslow and Evergreen distracted themselves with packing and cards. Freed tried to lose himself in his book, but given the number of times he flipped both forwards and backwards, it seemed he was having difficulty. Laxus didn't distract himself. There was no point. He nursed a pint of beer slowly, dissociating from the world around him. There had just been so many emotions, so loud in his body in such a short time. The emptiness was welcome. And as long as he kept his thoughts from straying too far from that quiet, he was fine.
But there was one thing that broke through. They kept a kettle of water hot on the stove for her, and every time Laxus heard Talia stir in the room above, he'd motion to Freed to bring her a fresh cup of tea. But the trips to her room grew numerous. She couldn't stay still for more than half an hour. After the fourth trip, Freed came back with the steaming cup still in his hand.
"She asked for you," he said to Laxus as he kept the tea for himself and sat down in a high-backed chair.
Laxus looked up from absently tracking the bubbles rise from the bottom of his glass. Freed gestured lightly up the stairs and Laxus looked up to the cracked door on the second landing. He left the drink on the counter and made his way upstairs.
The room was dark, but yellow light from the streetlamps outside made its way through the blinds. She was sitting up in bed, blankets bunched around her waist. She had the knuckle of one finger pressing into her temple, and she looked pretty darn awful.
"Hey," he said softly as he closed the door behind him. She tried to give a smile, but the movement was too exhausted to be anywhere near realistic.
"Hey," she replied. Her hand dropped back to meet the other in her lap. She took a long breath. "I know it's. . . it's entirely unfair of me to ask this, but it works with Mira and I think it worked last night and I—"
"Tal—" he stepped toward the bed, "What do you need?"
She sighed. "I need to sleep. And the dreams, they're. . . everywhere. They don't bother me all that often anymore, but I think today just jacked them up. Everything is so disjointed that my head spins every time I close my eyes." She looked so small. "Would you just be here beside me? I think. . . I. . . it helps," she finally managed to say.
He gave a tired smile of his own. "Yeah. I can do that." He kicked off his shoes and socks and pulled off his shirt. He heard her sputter about from the bed.
"Not like that, I—"
"You're a godsdamn furnace under the covers, Tal," he shot back playfully as he threw his shirt onto a nearby chair and unbuckled his slacks. "I'll melt if I get in there with you fully clothed."
She could feel the heat in her cheeks, she just hoped he couldn't see them in the low light.
He hoped she didn't notice how he almost jumped out of his skin at the chance to be beside her again.
She scooched to one side of the bed as he settled in, but he left a good six inches between them. Something in her chest clenched at that space.
"You said this works with Mira—is it just being in the same space or what?"
Talia blinked at the question, not really expecting it.
"I—um—she usually tucks in behind me."
Laxus laughed. A real one, not the little huffs of humor he usually gave. But real and round and full. It almost made her heart stop.
"You mean to tell me that tiny little monster is your big spoon?"
Talia's pride huffed and shuffled her under the covers, turning away from him. He laughed again and settled under the blankets. His broad arm wound around her waist and he pulled himself flush behind her. She gave a squeak of surprise but said nothing else.
"Sleep, Tal," he whispered, "I'm right here."
And when she closed her eyes, the weight of his arm, his warmth at her back pulled her down to the depths of a blackened sleep.