I meant to pick a few things from your Questions "want to read" answer that I could just do a few short/quick drabbles for in the interim while I work on the Pinterest Prompts chapter but then this turned out longer than I meant for it to...It's longer than what the Pinterest draft is at the moment, so Not Good Progress Happening There, mate. Or, conversely, good progress on this chapter. Regardless, something to read. I edited this on mobile, but hopefully I didn't miss too many typos...

Apologies for mostly angst.

"I still think about her sometimes." Anya flexed her hands, testing out the wraps she'd spent the last ten minutes securing around her wrist and palms, smoothing every crease until the strips of fabric were flat against her skin. Her hair was tied up in a high bun and she wore her usually workout attire, showing off the scars she'd gotten from field work and the Scholomance alike. "I wonder what she saw that made her lose it."

Jotting down a few things on a packet of papers from where he sat on the floor in the corner of the room, Connor didn't acknowledge her words, knowing better to indulge her when she was keen on reminiscing. It was never about anything pleasant either. Of course she had once been kinder and less willing to dwell on the things normal people would have boarded up, but she, like everyone else, had changed.

"Before the Hollow Place, she was...probably one of the nicest people there." She threw a few test punches at the air before looking down at her hands, turning them over to evaluate the wraps, seemingly satisfied with how they felt. "I guess you can't tell what lurks beneath the surface with some, though, if what she felt was that bad. She never seemed like the type to cave. Honestly, I thought you were going to be the first when I first met you. You just had that look."

That was more of a reminder than what Connor wanted. He leaned his head back against the wall, watching as she stretched her arms, preparing for the routine training he often accompanied her to, even if he didn't participate.

She sighed, looking over at him as she stretched her arms above her head. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean it like that. I know you were going through something difficult."

"...No offense taken," was all he responded, more casual about it than he felt. There it was again, that creeping grief that he had shored up for as long as he could remember, knowing he had gotten particularly good at pretending it wasn't there. It had been more difficult to confront that the weight had existed far before the Scholomance, before the Hunt, before New York, before the Academy, and before he could put it into words and when he could only feel its presence. Unexplainable melancholy exacerbated only by his self-imposed loneliness. It was a stain he could not scrub from every childhood memory he could ever recall, not understanding what it was fed its persistence.

"Though I never asked what you saw." Anya didn't mean any harm, but she was good at reminding him how just flimsy his barricades were. Thankfully, she looked away to pick up a practice wooden staff that she spun in her hands, particularly keen on various martial arts fighting techniques even if they weren't entirely useful in the field. With a training room like the one they had access to, he didn't blame her willingness to stay there for hours on end.

He set the papers aside on the wooden floor, watching her fully now that she was going through her drills. "I'm still here, aren't I?"

"I know you better than that, Connor. You should know this by now." Her bun had started to unravel with her movements, her hair falling down her back. She continued to fight an invisible enemy, having mastered each move and routine until it almost looked like dancing. "You pick up where I fall short and I do the same for you. And I like that."

It wasn't clear where she was going with her words and he just cocked an eyebrow subtly, waiting for her to elaborate. "But..?"

"But it's like you never think you deserve to be fine. Do you know how tiring that is?" she remarked more bluntly than he expected, not yet out of breath despite her commitment to not missing a step or a swipe with the staff. It had been awkward working with her at first for a number of reasons, and though that feeling had faded, working alongside someone else had never become quite as comfortable as it had once been. "It's why we would have never-...If I'm honest, I didn't think you'd come back after going to the Hollow by the way you acted but you did. I just-...It's a liability when I don't know where your thoughts are at."

"I am fine. You think someone who's...however you imagine me to be could have gotten...last week's project done as fast as I did?" he remarked, more inclined to brush her off than anything. If he didn't, it'd be like welcoming that tar to stick to his boots when he already knew exactly what it felt like to be trapped in place.

"Yes, I definitely think they could have," she said, whipping around to swing the staff until it was pointed at him, closer than he would've liked. "Suit yourself, Connor. You know I'll put up with you."

He kept his eyes on her even as he lifted a hand to push the staff away so it wasn't so close to his face, glad when she relented and returned it to her side. "I'm good. Made it this far, didn't I?"

She frowned, but nodded once in acknowledgement, stepping back to tap the staff against the ground. That look on her face was easy enough to read. She wasn't satisfied with his answer, but it was enough to stop her questions for the time being. Being reminded of that looming amorphous feeling had started to become commonplace as of late, and as familiar as it was, Connor had never gotten used to it.

Looking back at him, she tapped the staff on the ground again to get his attention before setting it aside on a far table."...My place tonight? Get a little drunk and complain about everyone else?"

"You already know the answer to that," he said easily, earning a small upward quirk of her mouth in response as she gathered her hair in her hands to put it back in its bun.

"Old reliable," she remarked in approval, fetching the staff to resume her routine again.

...

The world is a vignette. A hand on her throat pushes under her jaw. Lily gulps at the air when she can before the pressure resumes, the faint gasp of air she draws in smelling of blood. Not just her blood, though. The hand is damp and sticky from where she cut it. Warm, even. She remembers play fighting with her brother one night in the attic of her cousin's manor, crying when he put her in a headlock out of rough fun, remembering the panic of running out of breath. She'd elbowed him as hard as she could, no longer following the unspoken rules of the game, and yelled at him through childish tears even after his attempts to calm her before any adults came running to see what was wrong.

Now, there are no tears that rise to her eyes. She can feel herself pinned to the ground, one of her hands clutching a small knife even though her wrist is being held uselessly against the rooftop. This can't be it, can it?

The face above hers is blurred but she can see his pale, unblinking eyes that stare down at her as if to assure her that they will see their task through and watch every second of it. The panic of losing breath and gulping at nothing takes precedence. Her shoes scrape fruitlessly against the rooftop as she struggles against the weight, wondering whether or not the face she sees carries any pleasure in it or if it's just business as usual. Are these hands that enjoy killing and will that enjoyment be the last thing she sees?

A nearby snap and whistle that splits the silence finally diverts those eyes away from hers, and though the crushing pressure on her throat does not let up, the distraction is just enough to give her other hand some space to move. It is a clumsy attempt, but it is all she has as she frees her hand and swipes blindly at the figure with the knife, feeling something shallow connect but not sure what or where.

The recoil is enough to give an opening. She kicks her way free and scrambles out from under him, her palms scraped from pulling herself to a few lengths away so she can gasp and gag on her hands and knees. She half expects to feel hands in her hair and a blade at her throat, but instead all she can feel is breath coming back to her in short burning inhales, a string of saliva dangling from her lips as she coughs, lightheaded from the exertion. When she lifts a hand to her throat, she still can feel the phantom weight crushing her windpipe and she knows she will have to use an iratze or two to fend of the bruises and scratches.

"What is wrong with you? Are you trying to fucking kill me?" she accuses finally when she regains her voice, glaring at him from the side and ignoring the fact that her hair is a mess and she's still on her hands and knees. She shifts to kneel, too dizzy to stand, run, or fight. The scorn in her the other figure's expression muddies and he suddenly looks a little baffled at her accusation.

"Why wouldn't I-..?" he spits in a fragmented response before he curses in a language she can't understand, nursing his injured hand close to a bloodied spot over his ribs. There's an accent when he speaks, but she understands him easily enough, so she figures that he understands her just fine as well.

She's never seen an Unseelie faerie before. There are a thousand stories out there of dubious credibility that remark on their nature, emphasizing their bloodthirsty tendencies and ruthless personalities, but somehow the boy that stares back at her hardly seems like all the monsters she's read about. He's young in the face, a hint of immaturity in his posture as his gaze flickers from where her knife lays abandoned, the edge of the roof, and back to her eyes as a reminder of his watchfulness. She has seen feral alley cats less primed to pounce than he is.

Swearing again at the pain at her throat, she just sends a scathing glare his way. "By the Angel-..." she swallows through the soreness, knowing she must look like a mess. Her clothes are scuffed and her mascara is smudged under her eyes but her appearance is the least of her concerns at the moment, more intent on distracting herself from the pains and aches by reprimanding an Unseelie faerie for doing what Unseelie faeries are known for doing. "This is why we don't do politics with your kind."

There's something in his expression that is nine parts displeasure and one part entirely ambiguous. She tries to guess at what it is, but even he doesn't give much away. Confusion? Curiosity? Another shade of annoyance, perhaps, but he refuses to respond, just drawing a dagger in case she tries anything even though she's currently unarmed and on the ground.

Unseelies have never been known for being particularly noble, so she doesn't doubt they would kill her even in her current state. She has read about what they do to helpless nymphs and children, sometimes for fun, and she wonders what he enjoys more: the chase or the kill?

"Get off the ground, idiot," she mutters to herself finally, letting her gaze sink back to the rooftop so she can focus on pushing herself up, having to pause on one knee before she stands on shaky legs. When she looks at her palms, they are bloodied and sore and she takes a few weary steps towards her knife to bend down and pick it up. There are worse things to be than battered and bruised.

She barely registers a soft rustle behind her and when she turns around, the faerie is already gone. He's left smears of blood behind, an easy way to track him if she really wants to but it's hard to think of doing anything at the moment except cleaning up and letting an iratze do the rest. It is disappointing that he decided to slink away so soon, partially because she still has a few choice words to say to him, though it is probably for the best, having erred to close to something bad that could have been far worse.

"The chase it is," Lily says with resignation as she too makes her departure.

...

"I saw her again. You know who."

The stairs are uncomfortable to sit on, but it's the only quiet place to linger and Aspen doesn't want to stand. He doesn't think he can, anyway, and he doesn't want to stare at what used to be Nyx's home. One of the windows is broken in front and the weeds have started to creep up the walls, the Towns consuming what has been abandoned. It seems that even strangers do not wish to inhabit what Nyx had touched.

"She looked different than I remember." It is nice to not have to explain himself to the wind. She'd been radiant back in the day, and he would have given up everything to be like her if he hadn't already given himself entirely to Nyx. Her hand had never been gentle, orchestrated by Nyx's command, but it had guided him to every success he'd ever had while loyal to the group.

His chest aches, but he welcomes the feeling, knowing that he has too often felt nothing in recent weeks.

"In the moment, I thought I hated how she made me feel. It was muscle memory." He stares at his hands. They're smooth now, having not held a sword for more time than he cares to think about. "...I just pity her."

Lifting a hand, he touches his hair numbly. The night is colder than he expected and he didn't bring a coat, only wearing a thin shirt and a pair of tailored black pants, but it is nice to feel even the pain of a chill seeping into his bones, drawing the color from his hands. His wings brush against the stone steps, the rough edges almost making him recoil where they rub on the nerves, the discomfort heightened by the cold. This is what he has brought upon himself, though, and he knows he will simply sit there and take it. It is a greater mercy than what Nyx would have given him on a night like this.

He realizes he doesn't know what else to say so he just lingers until his eyes dry and it forces him to blink, laying back against the stone steps so his wings ache to an impossible degree, protesting the pressure. There are clouds in the sky that night and part of him yearns for a hint of a sea breeze.

"Maybe I should have begged. He might have liked that and stayed." There are moons in his eyes as he confronts the stars, waiting for a sign that never comes. A couple walks past him quietly, their shoes shuffling on the street as they give him a glance and ignore him, knowing better than to interfere with the rogue denizens of the Towns.

His thoughts return to Nyx, half-wishing he could turn around and go inside so he could be greeted with a warm embrace and a glass - or three - of whatever alcohol he was having for the night. Then they would resume business as usual and he would be reminded that the world could be his if he was willing to spend everything he had, including himself, to grasp it for even just a moment. But the sourness usurps those fantasies almost as soon as they surface, and Aspen straightens upright, his hands rested neatly in his lap. It is a familiar feeling, being afraid of himself.

"I don't...miss you anymore." He doesn't expect to be able to say it when he does. There is no reprimand from the silence even when he waits for one, and he rises to his feet to finally force himself to move on before his words can be used against him. It's not a stop he should have made, but it is one he doesn't think he could have gone without. "I miss me, I think. Whoever that might be."

It is a thought he loathes to linger on. He starts away before he has a chance to reconsider, knowing he has already been out longer than he meant to be, and he does not want to face a world that he has disappointed time and time again. Though he wants to see Nyx's flat one last time, he quickens his pace and refuses to look back.

...

Maar's group has long since learned to not question his attachments. Stopping by the village works out for them as well, as it grants them a bit of much-needed respite, allowing the group to hitch their horses and sit around a fire. They know the darkness will be warm and the residents will be kind, and it is nice to eat and rest in a place that has more creature comforts than the wilderness usually grants them.

The rest of the unaligned fae in the village greet them, used to their presence and happy to observe or talk with the ones that know their language, but Maar searches for a missing familiar face. He is discreet in his curiosity as he sweeps his gaze across the clearing, but he only briefly catches a smear of gold that disappears into the forest. His eyes narrow and all he can do is follow. It is strange to see the nymph venture beyond the safety of the village, knowing she scarcely leaves alone, and he pursues her through the shadowy brush, straining for the whisper of her footsteps.

He is inelegant as he gives chase and he startles a few birds from trees, his hand on his sword as he tracks her with the precision of someone who knows those forests better than himself. She would have been lost to anyone else, but he knows her. How many nights has he spent with her head rested in his lap as she tells stories of her village? She has curled up against his side countless times, never asking for him to stay longer but always reluctant to let him go when his group decides to move on. He has learned how to catch the wisps of her form that are visible in the shadows, even when she is intent on hiding. She had once been skilled at escaping his gaze, finding it amusing to vanish when he looked away, but lifetimes of knowing her means that she is no more difficult to catch than fireflies in a cupped hand because she burns twice as bright.

He halts in his tracks when he finally stumbles across her. Though his gaze first lands on her where she kneels in the grass, her back to him, he is quickly distracted by the corpse that lays in front of her, rotting in the grass. The body has already started to be reclaimed by the Faerie, but he can still pick out a stab wound in the chest, directly over the heart. It is a faerie of mixed blood, and though their attire holds knives of neither Unseelie nor Seelie make, it is clear that they knew how to fight. It is even more puzzling why it does not seem like they fought back.

Lowering himself near the nymph to look closer at the body, he doesn't coddle her when he notices her crying into her hands and she simply turns to press her face into his shoulder in acknowledgement. He has grown used to her insistent affection and welcomes it now, though his attention still remains on the corpse.

"This isn't one of your people," he says finally, not recognizing the faerie. "What happened?"

He does not rush her to speak. Though she pulls away from her shoulder and looks over at him, she doesn't respond and he knows better than to demand an answer. She just meets his eyes with her own - they are large, gold, and watchful - and stares. Perhaps she expects him to look closer at what she means to show him so he does, crouched in the grass as he studies the body. He knows what it means to kill but he is so rarely around decay; rot is a rare reminder of how vulnerable fae are to time when severed from life, already discolored and half-churned into the ground by creeping moss and wet fungus.

"It isn't safe to linger out here. The group will be wondering where we are." It is an inelegant remark given the situation, but Maar has already memorized everything about the corpse, and he lifts himself to his feet and gently pulls the nymph with him. "Why did you show me this?"

She slips under his cloak in a familiar gesture so the edge drapes over her shoulder and she grasps his arm in her hands, seeking the comfort that he so rarely gives. Maar bites back another question when he senses she's thinking, understanding that despite her fortitude, she is not so often confronted with death.

I didn't see them coming. I have never not seen them coming. Despite how troubled her voice sounds in his thoughts, she still keeps pace with him as he turns to start back towards their village.

There is a conscious attempt to keep an eye on the forest, knowing how alone they are in the darkness without any of the others aware of their whereabouts. "'Them'?" he repeats. "Unseelie?"

I know the dark warriors that ride on their steeds and raze the lands to flush us out. I do not know the warriors that lurk in the shadows. It is strange to strain to hear her unspoken words. They enter his thoughts at the fringes and he tries to not miss anything she says, knowing she will not repeat it. Like a disturbance in the mist. A viper. They escaped my senses - even your group does not.

"Disturbance in the mist?" he echoes as he leads them back through the trees, uncertain of her meaning. He knows her well, but even then sometimes she speaks vaguely. "...Invisible?"

Shrouded. There is a solemnity in her words. She has always been more skilled at magic than most, so it is concerning even to him if she cannot sense those who lurk in the shadows. When she straightens under his cloak and allows her expression to fall into one of concentration, it is the first time in a while that he is reminded how long-lived she is. Of course - she has survived this long, hasn't she? I cannot protect my people against an enemy that does not leave the shadows. Perhaps I can cloak our lands, but I do not know how many they are or the extent of their abilities. I bring you there to warn you.

His expression twitches into that of a frown, unable to help his instinctual pushback against her words. "Warn us? I am-...We always keep watch. We have never let your people get hurt in our presence, have we?"

The light of the village fire finally pierces the trees and the nymph's pace slows to a standstill, the cloak falling from her shoulders until it swishes against Maar's back. We have only ever been target practice to them. We are not their final mark.

He stops as well and turns to the nymph. Her hair and eyes are fractured in the firelight and he is met with her defiance. "...I understand," he says, his eyebrows furrowed as he considers the implications. The Unseelie has always been a threat and the Seelie has always been prepared, but it is a concern that they are innovating on their techniques in ways he had not expected. They have always valued war and the ferocity of battle, but he should not have underestimated the Unseelie's willingness to fight dirty.

She lifts her hands to take his face in them, standing on her toes to better reach even though he lowers himself slightly so she does not feel as small as others treat her. You need to protect your people and I will hide mine. Perhaps we will learn to fend them off together.

Maar just stares back until he can feel her prodding around in his thoughts as she hopes to draw some answer out of him. It is an innocent use of her magic that is fueled by her needy curiosity, he knows, but even then the induced desire to speak feels wrong for someone as clumsy in speech as he is. Eventually, she lowers her hands and the prodding ceases, allowing him to straighten up and rest his hand on the hilt of his sword. She has grown used to the timidness of his thoughts.

"I doubt they will make their way to our borders soon, but we will figure out a solution." His words are stilted and uncertain but he knows she doesn't mind. There is soft chatter, fire, and smoke and he watches what little he can see of the village, knowing they deserve a bit of respite before he approaches them about the nymph's findings. When he shifts his gaze back to where she stood beside him, he half expects her to be gone, knowing her tendency to vanish when not pinned down by someone's keen eyes. But she is still there with her head tilted up towards him, her hair falling back from her face.

Slowly, she reaches for the edge of his cloak to run her fingers across the embroidered edge, having always loved the feeling of intricate stitching against her skin. Let us sit by the fire is all she says, and he follows her without protest.