UMBRA

it’s over. this is it. it’s as taeyong coughs up tar-like blood that kana realizes she will never see him again. if she leaves here, every step she takes will be in a world without taeyong. how does she exist without him, and his unwavering strength and determination and devotion to his cause? he is the fire– the soul and core of everything. even kana is only here now due to following him. what does she do now? how does she continue on in a world where her best friend is the one to deal this blow, and send taeyong into death? what is left for her here?

{ tw: blood }

she sucks in a shuddering breath through her mouth, nose runny due to her tears. she instinctively wipes her own face with her free hand, uncaring of marring it with taeyong’s blood as she does. she isn’t afraid of the blood; she isn’t even afraid of the darkness here, but more the mortality of someone as powerful and unstoppable as taeyong. how? they fought so hard. how does it end like this? it’s so easy, like his life is nothing to them. her rage sets in before grief can even settle, infuriated by the injustice of people that used to fight by their side turning on taeyong so quickly. how dare they. jongin especially– how dare he.

her hand returns to taeyong’s face, and she cradles his head in her hands and lap, panic clawing its way from her chest to her throat and threatening to seep into every word she speaks. she knows this is the end. two minutes isn’t long enough. she doesn’t want to leave him. everything in her protests to this in agony, still processing– trying to paint taeyong’s final moments into her memory and trying to escape into the past of something better, too, with life still in his cheeks and his imperishable fighting spirit, still living on. she can’t accept this. there is so much to carry for his sake, but she doesn’t know if she has it in her. nothing will be the same as taeyong. she is not the same as taeyong.

he tries to speak, and all of her thoughts evacuate her mind, and she hangs on his words, even as her tears still flow, silent in her last dwindling shreds of willpower. she can see him fading into death as he fights for it, and she just wants peace for him. she wanted to believe there would be some rest in this, after everything the world put them through. she can’t fight a sob when the words finally leave his lips. 

was it? was it his fault? she doesn’t know. she doesn’t even really know what he means, but she doesn’t have time to wonder. everything? the remnants of the league were so eager to pin everything on him without acknowledging their own responsibility in the chaos earth plunged itself into. it’s not just taeyong, no. it’s her fault too, if anything. he didn’t do this on his own, and in this moment, it’s something she’s proud of– listening to taeyong and standing by his side when no one else would. she can grasp the importance of it, because taeyong was the only shred of understanding for her, too. maybe they are the same after all, or maybe they share the same heart.

“i don’t know,” she breathes. “but i know you were just doing what you thought was right. maybe we were wrong, but we aren’t the only ones that were. i’m sure of it. you were just trying to do what was right and you can’t be faulted for that.”

he scowls weakly, thoughtfully, his gaze glued to her face because it’s a sight he doesn’t mind having as his last one. he selfishly wishes ken were here, then realizes it’s better that he isn’t. he doesn’t want ken to see him like this, weak and suffering and fading.

he wants to believe her. somewhere, deep down inside of him, perhaps an apology resides, waiting to fall from blackened, pale lips. but it doesn’t matter. nothing matters anymore, and it’s almost a relief. somewhere out there is the friend who took his life, who drove his anger into his heart over and over until neither of them could breathe.

if it was, is, his fault, perhaps the world repairing itself is why his death seems to hurt more than any pain he ever endured in life. he thinks, if there is a hell, if he is going to it, he’ll go well prepared. 

his lips flap uselessly, quiver for words he can’t find, couldn’t say even if he could find them. he can feel the icy, tingling numbness of it all encasing him. she’s still here and she’s so warm and he realizes within an agonizing blip that he isn’t at all ready to die.

oblivion awaits him. it crawls into his vision, black and impenetrable. His ears ring with something otherwordly, inhuman, indecipherable whispers whirring past him, beckoning him toward the demise that awaits him. he thinks he hears his brother’s voice among them. his grip on kana’s hand tightens as black shapes loom tall and foreboding in every corner of his vision. they’re not real, they can’t be; whatever they are, it makes them no less terrifying. 

he misses the sun. trapped in the manifestation of his own darkness built in a world shrouded in ash and dust; sunlight would be a welcome repose from the eternal cold seeping its way, sharp and jagged, into his bloodstream, his very existence. he feels small and light, as if he’d float toward a perpetual ceiling if it weren’t for the writhing black limbs wrapping around him and trying to pull him through the floor.

there is no peace in death, a thought that crosses his mind when he glances just behind kana’s shoulder and sees the largest figure looming, a jagged, terrible grin splitting the shadow’s face. if she isn’t careful, taeyong knows that son of a bitch will hang her with him. taeyong squeezes her hand again, a warning, a plea; there are invisible fingers wrapped around his throat, pressing down on his windpipe, pulling the last of his life force from his lips, it is the only way he can tell her to run far away from here and never look back.

please, he thinks at her with his last moments of coherence, please make it out of h-

something razor sharp and white hot pinches at the back of his neck, slowly pries something invisible from taeyong, torturously slow, pulls a faint whimper from his lips.  he’d looked away from the biggest shadow in his desperation to see kana escape, missed the creature swirling to rest behind his head.

and then it’s impossibly quick. he sucks in a hard breath of air, painfully, uselessly, desperately as his soul is wrenched from his body. the world goes from faded black to a blinding white.

similarities run so close between them, that taehyun sometimes wonders if they were supposed to be related in another life. the younger male reminds taehyun of himself so often that it’s almost scary, because he doesn’t think anyone should have anything in common with him. his own view of himself isn’t the brightest. 

but this is why the cold reception from the the other male isn’t one that surprises taehyun. he has grown rather use to taeyongs prickly personality, and knows that he shouldn’t take it to heart. he might not have all the answers when it comes to the younger hero, but he knows taeyong has gone through a lot. knows that the aggression isn’t totally his own doing. so it’s easy for taehyun to ignore it. to ignore how harsh taeyong seems at first. 

it helps that taehyun is the same way. the artist is someone who never looks welcoming. he’s been told numerous times before that he always seems so gloom and doom. like there was always a rain cloud over his head, and that his emotionless face always made people uncomfortable. not that he cares. if someone really wanted to speak with him, they would get past that. it’s why he can understand taeyong a bit more. 

“i was looking for you.” he replies easily, hands slipping into the pockets of his jacket once he was in front of the younger male. taking in the others stance and expression, picking up on the almost negative energy wafting off the other. wondering what could have happened to set him off this time. 

and taehyun isn’t good with emotions. he doesn’t know how to comfort someone well, and probably will do more bad then good, but the least he could do is try. “what are your plans today?” 

everyone has bad days, and taeyong remembers coming home from his to the smell of his mother’s sugar cookies baking in the kitchen and the warm smile from junyong, looking up from advanced calculus or organic chemistry to throw an arm over his shoulder and ruffle his hair for sulking. it’s vivid enough in his imagination, bright and colorful, real in the sickeningly sweet burst of air escaping the open door of a nearby ice cream parlor. he’ll eventually be home tonight, maybe, and if he is it’ll be to the cold darkness of the empty family home, with no sugar cookies, because his mother’s working extra hours at the bakery for the holiday season, because his brother is dead.

it’s only when he turns around to give taehyun his full attention that he realizes wherever he was walking (walking, because in his haste to escape his own humiliation he’d left his bike chained up in the backroom), it was in the opposite direction of the route home. and maybe that’s for the better.

a father of two emerges from the ice cream shop with a little girl on his hip and an elementary-aged boy at his side. he’s playfully scolding them for their mess, dabbing chocolate sauce from the corner of his daughter’s mouth. something aches in taeyong’s chest, swells up painfully in his throat, but he coughs it out of the way, pretends he didn’t even notice the happy family as they stroll down the sidewalk, none the wiser of the strange hooded boy who resents their existence.

it’s not fair. to them? for him? he’s not sure, but nothing about it is fair.

“you were looking for me?” he responds uselessly, forcing tense hands to relax where they’re tucked away safely in the pockets of his sweatshirt.

“what are your plans for today?”

she can’t stand it. everything inside of her still screams: she can feel i can’t see him like this in her bones and this can’t be real in her blood. it roars in her ears and curdles in her stomach and she doesn’t know how she’s still breathing, really. maybe it’s all an illusion. maybe she’s the one that’s really dying– the one that took a spear to the chest. she feels it. she is drowning in grief and love and maybe this is a wound she’ll never recover from. surely her life will continue like this: the sole sensation of being gutted over and over. no healing for people like her.

she can’t stand it, so she inches closer to him– pulls his head into her lap like this can stave the reality of this loss off for a little longer. she wants to stop crying but she can’t, like a culmination of every repressed emotion bubbling up now in a leak she can’t patch up, but that doesn’t matter much now. maybe it’s better she can’t see him, and the graying of his skin, and the blood that stains his lips, through eyes made blurry through tears. he deserves better than last moments like this; maybe she does too. maybe she deserves to remember him better than this. (but she won’t. she’ll remember this forever. if she forgets she’ll never forgive herself.)

all she feels now is desperation– no hesitation, so she doesn’t think as she holds onto taeyong’s hand for dear life in her own and gently wipes away the tear the drips down his cheek, and then the blood it converges with. she touches him like he’s fragile, but not because she believes it to be so– because the entire world dealt with him too harshly. no one cared about him either. no one cared about either of them. why?

“it’s okay,” and it probably doesn’t sound very reassuring. she doesn’t say it with reassurance in mind, only because death is surely better than the life she’ll lead now. “i’m scared too,” she admits, quietly, voice cracking.

now she can put a name to the hole she feels opening up in her chest: it is living without him. the truth is, she lost the only two people on the earth she had any hope could understand her at once, as soon as jongin’s spear plunged into his chest. she doesn’t know how to swallow this sorrow– how to withstand this realization. she can’t endure it. surely there’s a limit; surely this is hers. 

time is running out. she can feel it, but everything moves in slow motion and maybe she’ll just stay. it’s not a matter of what she wants, it’s strength in her body. exhaustion seeps into her limbs and her heart and she is so close to total collapse. when will this be over? but something tells her this is only the start– of her pain, of the end of everything. the end and the beginning all at once.

take care of him. these words repeat and cut through her thoughts– permeate her existence. there is no kento to take care of anymore. taeyong doesn’t know that, but it still serves as a reminder that she can’t surrender– that he expects her to survive this. for taeyong. 

he’s running out of time, but he has no real concept of time anymore. his breaths are numbered, a number that gets smaller with every second that passes, and voices in the distance, voices that were screaming in fear minutes ago are calling, shouting, warning everyone still alive that their time is up. 

his time is up.

something hardens in the pit of his stomach, not the darkness that lived there for so long and encased him inside his own familiar, not the heartbreak of betrayal or the pain of stolen trust cracking his ribs open with every thrust. it’s a sob, he realizes, at the last moment, swallowing it back painful and coughing up a mouthful of blood and viscous black instead.

memories are distant. there is no life that flashes before his eyes, because he can hardly see through blood and salted despair. kisses and birthday parties and basketball games are swallowed whole by wax replicas and curling black claws and phantom shrieks. there’s a twisting at the top of his spine, the beginnings of the tearing of his soul from his body, like wallpaper from an abandoned asylum, and he gasps sharply, a painful intake of breath that tastes like stone and iron and despair.

he looks up at her face through a layer of tears, unblinking. kana, who fought by his side to rescue him from himself; kana, who never once feared him, not even when the darkness threatened to eat him alive; kana, who he would stay loyal to across seven circles of hell in back for, and who would do the same for him. he feels small, feels the imminence of nothingness crawling up his spine, and he wants to beg her not to go, not to leave him here to the crushing expanse of oblivion. but she has to go. she is scared here, she said so herself, and she is never scared. she shouldn’t suffer for him, not anymore. she’s too strong.

time is up. 

the empty hourglass of it all pulses within him, is him, manifests in the shallowness of his breaths and the pallor of his skin and the loss of feeling in fingertips still tangled in seulgi’s. this is the world ending within him. no, it is just him ending, his ending within the world ending. and it’s one final burning question that moves his paling lips one more time.

“wa-” he tries once, fails to dig his voice out from between the hoarse, broken vocal folds of death, his lips moving uselessly around a wordless rasp escaping his throat. then again, after half-blinking another pair of tears from his eyes alongside the images of the dying world still waiting for her outside a shrinking portal.

2TAE BRO BONDING HOUR   —- @ccxtaeyong​

there are maybe five people total in taehyun’s life who he can genuinely say he cares about. maybe six, if he really thinks. and thats only on his side, he isn’t the most sure if any of them return the affection. but without a doubt, taehyun would throw himself in the line of fire for them. 

one of those people just happens to be mister aggression himself. 

taeyong is someone taehyun admires. it’s a very subtle admiration, he doesn’t go around following the younger male like some kind of lost puppy. it’s more of a respect than anything. when they had first been transformed around each other, taehyun had been amused with how similar they looked. and really, taehyun doesn’t even know how they became friends. he isn’t sure when they got close, or when taehyun started being concerned with taeyong’s opinion of him. 

it’s why the artist is seeking taeyong out, going out of his way to actually initiate human interaction. something he doesn’t really do with anyone except a handful of important people. and taeyong, despite the other male being almost as stoic as taehyun himself, is on that list of people. “taeyong ah! wait up.” he calls when he spotted the other a head of him a bit. picking up his pace so he could clear the distance. 

being a hero might have not even been on taehyun’s list of things he wanted to do in life, but it helps having some people he cares for to keep him going. he might not mean anything to them. he might just be an annoyance in their day. but he’ll be there for them, as best as he can.

“take the rest of the day off.”

his supervisor’s words ring clear in his mind still, along with the annoying shrieking laughter of a group of children who were undoubtedly siblings. he remembers the way black seemed to frame his vision, like a permanent crawling vignette, left over from the choking blackness of the night terrors from that day before. he remembers his brother’s voice layering over one of the older boy’s, hang on, don’t run off, you’ll get lost.

they hadn’t been doing anything wrong, just playing the claw machines, over and over, knocking on the glass, fantasizing out loud about which plush toys they’d win next. 

shut up! he’d shouted at them for no reason, earning him frightened looks from the children and a stern, knowing one from his boss, whose voice had been laced with pity when he sent him home for the day. junyong’s death is no secret, he realizes when the manager gives him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder instead of the smack across the back of his head he deserves. it’s been eight months and he’s just now letting signs of grief slip through.

“taeyong-ah! wait up.”

he pauses in his tracks on his way out of the arcade, only having heard the voice because he hasn’t yet slipped his ear buds in to drown out the world. he half expects to see his boss when he turns around, but sees taehyun instead, scowls in confusion. he’s not in the mood to offer false smiles, even to someone he may very well consider a friend. he doesn’t even tug his hood from around his head to let him in.

The man idly tapped his foot against the ground as if counting the seconds it would take his former student to recognize him. Deep brown eyes wandered over the cast on his arm, then back up to the purple marks marring boyish features. The brooding teen looked to him with what seemed to be pain in his nearly ebony irises. His expression remained stoic, though hinted with a modicum of surprise.

Jinil could do little more than purse his lips and shake his head as the thought of Taeyong getting into a violent spat crossed him mind. The mere sight of him, the way he carried himself and spoke, were all reminiscent of himself when he was a rebellious young man. 

Perhaps it was such an observation that lead to a development of fond emotions of the smallest kind. After all, he did fight alongside the boy’s brother. However, Taeyong’s knowledge of it remained a mystery. It was one he would not dare pry from him. In the world of heroes, one could never be sure of another’s true identity. He was, unfortunately, unable to properly detect the vague aura surrounding him. Could it be possible they were of the same secret profession? (If one could refer to it with such reverence.)

“I’m surprised you didn’t notice the cane. And there’s my new artificial eye, of course,” he lifted his hand to point at his right eye. His finger lightly traced one of the healing scars masked with a concealer. The cane earned him stares enough. “Your teacher … got into an accident. Now, I’m just here for a check up.” It was a blatant half truth. The science teacher had become rather notorious for those. 

Lips parted momentarily, drawing in a quick breath of air before he continued speaking. “You know, I should be asking you the same thing, Taeyong,” a brief pause as Jinil tilted his head to catch a closer glimpse at the younger male. “You aren’t getting into too much trouble these days, are you?”

Although the smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth could easily be misconstrued as one of smugness, Jinil’s feelings were as sincere as could be. Taeyong seemed to be in desperate need of guidance if his assumptions were true, and he knew he would be more than happy to give it to him.  

“Ah,” he responded awkwardly, eyes darting around the room for anyone else for the man to talk to, for any excuse for Taeyong not to have to make conversation with a teacher he hadn’t spoken to since he graduated high school a year ago. There was none, no distraction, not even another person anywhere in sight (where had that pinched-looking front desk attendant gone?). 

He gestured vaguely to the cane with a slight nod, “I always thought it was just like...fashion...or something. People used to joke you’d beat bad students with it after class.” Only after that fact was left in the air between them did it occur to Taeyong how insensitive it probably sounded. Though it was notable that he’d never suspected Jinil of anything involving frequent clinic visits for as long as he’d been his student.

“Hell of an accident,” was his useless, and still remarkably awkward, addendum, as if somehow that would make up for how little he wanted to speak with his teacher (or anyone, for that matter) and how bad he was at masking that fact. He should’ve kept talking, regardless of his glaring lack of tact. Maybe if he had, the man would’ve left him alone, instead of asking about his own purpling face in that sort of round about way adults do when they’re trying not to scare young people off from telling the truth. 

“You should see the other guy,” he replied, a vague deflection of any telling truths, pulling his phone back out to scroll through aimlessly. The ‘other guy’ had come out of it none the worse for wear, and the humiliation of that fact was starting to tint his already blue and purple cheeks a notable shade of pink as well.

He could feel Jinil’s presence lingering, knew the unspoken would hang in the air between them until it was suffocating and impossible to ignore, knew his teacher wouldn’t leave until he offered him some kind of explanation (Jinil wasn’t the only one; it felt like it was all anyone wanted out of him nowadays: black eyes and explanations for them).

church? that’s unheard of. envy doesn’t even think taeyong has ever stepped foot in a church ever in the first timetime– but then again, it could be a way to cover up his hero duties or whatever. (is taeyong still a hero in this timeline? did the restoration card want to curse him that much?) as per usual, he’s overthinking things– but taeyong is ruining everything, restoring everything he’s desperately tried to get rid of.

feelings were fickle existences. even now, his heart is yearning, aching for him to reach out to his hero and welcome him back. but no, their bond never existed to begin with this time. there’s nothing that permanently ties them together.

he’s not sure whether to feel relieved.

“hmm– then i guess you’re in need of one of our more formal shirts,” he says, putting a finger on his chin in contemplation. he keeps his back to him for as long as he can while avoiding coming off as rude. “let me see here…” he’s glad he still remembers taeyong’s sense of fashion, even if it doesn’t extend far from dark colors and various hoodies, but he’s already grabbing shirts off the racks and hanging them over his arm.

“follow me please,” he says, soft-spoken, already heading towards the dressing rooms and grabbing a number tag, hanging it on the front of one of the larger stalls. “why don’t you try these on first? i think these would look nice on you.” he extends the small selection of button-up shirts towards the other, giving a small smile. “i’ll be happy to assist you further if need be.”

conceal, don’t feel.

he takes the handful of garments reluctantly, tentatively, as if they might catch fire or turn to dust just by being under the touch of his own hands. 

“thanks,” he utters, avoiding the obligatory intentness of the sales clerk’s gaze (it burdens him somehow, and he can’t for the life of him decipher why) and turning toward the fitting room.

it’s a mere curtain that shrouds him from the rest of the store, a fact that only adds to how out of place he feels within it. the lights within are a soft yellow, the mirror tall and long and unforgiving. he has no place here, in this place of richness and luxury and light. and yet, here he is, trapped with an armful of expensive shirts, a curtain and an attentive sales clerk and a heavy promise hanging between him and his normal, everyday freedom.

it’s strange getting undressed in a small space like this, with its eggshell upholstery and polished mirrors, when he can hear the rest of the world going past just outside of it. he doesn’t even catch himself peeking up across every edge of the changing room, as if someone might be watching him as he tugs his hoodie and then his plain white t-shirt over his head before dropping both to the ground in a careless heap. he avoids his reflection, afraid to see the growth of the darkness growing over his heart, reminds himself it’s only visible to those who already know the damage magic can do.

he reaches for the first shirt in the pile, which he should’ve hung up, but haphazardly perched on the cream-colored ottoman in the corner instead. it’s a crisp, navy blue shirt, with a stiff collar and subtle black flecks across the expanse of it and a row of tiny plastic buttons going up the middle. he struggles with these buttons, gets only two closed, gives up for a moment and attempts those on the sleeve cuffs instead, fails there as well. the fabric is stiff, brand new, freshly pressed, buttons sewn on tight. his fingers are calloused and clumsy, still broken on one hand, where he shattered it against the face of a friend, useless in a situation like this. he swears under his breath and reaches to pull the curtain aside, hesitating for just a beat for no apparent reason, his hand hovering over the gold filigreed fabric before tugging it out of the way.

+ @ccxtaeyong

when it comes to friendship, leon is pretty terrible at it. you give what you get, so they say anyway, and he doesn’t give that much at all – keeping up with the pleasantries, affection, whatever that most people demand of “friends”, is too much effort. most people choose to avoid hanging out with leon for that reason. and, for the most part, he thinks good riddance.

but there are a few who don’t really care all that much about leon’s attitude one way or another, and taeyong is one; maybe it’s partially because he’s kana’s friend, but he doesn’t find taeyong nearly as irritating as the other rookie heroes. with him, leon doesn’t have to put up as much of a front ( though his guard is never completely down, it never is ) and for a man who has to deal with the annoying nightshade members nearly every day, it’s refreshing, almost, to not have to waste extra energy on being an asshole.

maybe they aren’t exactly friends yet (leon doesn’t really know how to categorize those these days) but at the very least, he doesn’t mind having him around.

so when taeyong mentioned offhandedly during practise that he’s never really had alcohol before, leon didn’t hesitate when he offered to take him out. he spent most friday nights there, anyway, and maybe it would be nice to bring a friend this time; and honestly, he thinks taeyong could probably use a night out; leon isn’t the most perceptive person on earth, but he can tell when someone’s been through some shit.

he was actually a little surprised that taeyong agreed – but pleasantly so. ( he didn’t realize how badly he wanted to actually hang out with someone. )

“well, here it is,” leon announces as they leave his parked car, gesturing proudlu at the bright red sign hanging a little precariously over the entrance of the fairly seedy-looking bar, the sound of laughter, glasses clinking and muted rock music coming out from somewhere inside. “home sweet home.”

he glances back at the younger hero, grinning slightly. “you excited yet?”

there was a time where taeyong had too many friends to count, between school and the basketball team and his gamer peers. then he lost his legs, and then his father, and then his soul to a magical contract, and then his brother. there was a time he was boisterous and loud and full of life, the way any teenage boy should be, until he woke up one morning and realized his brother was dead and noticed the terrible black spot growing across the skin over his heart, veiny and pulsing and hideous.

the change was more gradual than it seemed. he hardly noticed a change at all, though his mother would worry to her colleagues that her son, her only son, the only thing she had left in this cruel world, was losing himself to grief. to him, it was life, which only had one way to be lead, the way he was leading it now. because he hadn’t pushed his friends away, his friends had drifted. there were friends who couldn’t handle seeing him in a wheelchair when he was forced to live in one, there were friends who couldn’t cope with the secrecy of his hero duties, there were friends who’d, like day and night, had been his best friend one afternoon and his enemy the next (the thought of the latter brought the image of jongin to the forefront of his mind’s eye, jongin who’d been so warm and kind, jongin who had been like a brother to him. jongin who was suddenly cold and cruel, as if taeyong held the weight of the world’s end on his shoulders).

he had so few friends left, it seemed. there were so many heroes he’d once seen as friends who had started giving him a wide berth, so many who drifted away from him on purpose to fall into the whispers of his family’s naturally inclination toward treason. so it was sort of a pleasant surprise when leon invited him on an excursion, as if reassuring him in fewer words that he hadn’t lost all his friends in the world.

but staring the dive bar in the face was starting to make him regret accepting the invitation. at least the music was good.

@ccxtaeyong

Pulling her black Katana out of the corpse of a slain monster with a grunt Liv searched her immediate surroundings with her golden eyes for another threat. Panting heavily she got aware of how a trail of sweat -and probably also some blood- was making its way down her back. This so-called easy training fight their higher ups had sent them too turned out to be way harder than planned. They were supposed to fight low level monsters only, but naturally things hadn’t worked out as planned.

Swinging her Katana to deflect a piece of flying debris which was headed her way, the ex-special class hero winced in pain at the lifted arm movement she had to make. Telling herself to get her act together, because this wasn’t the time nor place to worry about the slash in her right upper arm, Liv dropped said arm back down and willed herself to run forward. The cut in her arm wasn’t so bad, it only stung like a bitch when she had to lift her arm up. But with the way she fought she sadly enough had to lift up her arm quite a lot. Luckily for her she also had learned how to wield her Katana with her left hand. Her swings nor cuts were as powerful when she dealt them from the left, but it was better than nothing. Ten minutes into their fight a giant monster with an even higher power level had shown up. The Rookies had scattered and Liv had tried her best to save as many as possible and guide them to safety. That’s where she got the cut in her arm from.

Heading over to the place where a very brave -and probably also stupid- soul was fighting the beast on its own, Liv hoped she’d get in time to him to either help him defeat the monster or to get him the hell out of there. Looking closely at how he was fighting and taunting the monster, Liv saw how a slippery black tentacle of the monster was making its way around the Hero so it could attack him from behind too. Knowing she wouldn’t be able to reach the guy on time to pull him away from the surprise attack she shouted with all her might, “Behind you!” Praying to everything that he had heard her, Liv decided to make sure the beast wouldn’t be able to kill the Hero by charging at it with one of the few long-range attacks she possessed. A powerful single beam of black and gold sprouting out of the tip of her Katana, it moved with the speed of light and pierced right through the tentacle of the monster to cut it in half. The upper piece of the tentacle landing on the ground with a crash, the part that was still attached to the monster slithered away.

They’d send them on this hunt. They’d told them to track down monsters and destroy them for points. They’d sent them on this witch hunt fully aware that half of them were rookies and technically incapable of taking on such high level monsters on their own. Teamwork, they’d said, as if it were the simplest solution, the easiest way to avoided imminent death. As his teammates scattered, darting for safety and shelter as a monster the size of a clock tower teetered into a nearby building, clipping the corner of it and sending cement and metal and glass flying in every direction.

Powdered glass rained down on them, something sharp and metallic leaving a sliver of freshly opened red across his cheek, just below the spot where his black eye had started changing from reds and purples to greens and yellows. Dust clung to the bright whites of his hero garb as heroes and civilians alike scattered, colorful blips on an otherwise bleak landscape. He gritted his teeth, blinking away the cloud of destruction and shaking glass and cement from his hair. He could see the pulsing oil slick mass that was the heart of the beast, high up but not impossibly so and certainly not impenetrable. A few carefully placed swings, a few leaps and bounds, and he could cleanse the city of this abomination...and earn his team a few points while he was at it.

He dashed toward the monster, while a rookie clad in blue and red ran in the opposite direction, slashing away the end of a tentacle with a grunt, only for another to swipe at him from the corner of his eye. It was preventing him from getting closer, but he was determine dot see it destroyed, before it could cause any more destruction to the city than it already had. If Junyong were here, he would scold him for being too impetuous, for being too blindly offensive, for being too cocky and leaving his six wide open. A woman’s voice called out to him and he turned just in time to see one of the larger tentacles soaring down toward him, to crush him, to suffocate him, to destroy him, blocking out the sun in its determined path of murder-

The end of it flung sideways, then skidded across the ground in a sickening squelch of dismemberment, leaving a streak across the pavement the color of squid ink.

He turned his wide-eyed gaze from the detached tentacle to the hero who’d saved him, his chest rising and falling with the labored breaths of someone who’d, somehow, yet again, narrowly missed a brush with death. Stupid, stupid, stupid. How could he be so stupid? He could hear the lecture from Junyong already. Except the memories were starting to come out in Jinil’s voice instead.

it’s him. it’s really him.

envy swore to himself that he would never even take a step in taeyong’s direction ever again, ever since he woke up from his impromptu coma, still aching in the places the severed bond tore apart, and found his hero’s body nowhere in sight. the hatred for the young man who captured him had dissipated, now formed and reshaped into something fonder.

envy would rather not find out what it has changed into.

“shirts?” he echoes instead, for a moment scrambling through his mind to find words intelligible enough to let out through his tightened throat. he’s still in disbelief that taeyong’s here, that he knows his fashion taste enough to have confidence that he would never step into a place as fancy as this, where the clothes were had price tags equivalent to a day’s work of work, nine hours of income that would be invested in a single dress shirt.

“um,” he says intelligently, rubbing at his neck over and over and over. god, he didn’t expect this to be their first interaction. “i’m guessing you’re looking for something more formal? semi-formal? i can help you out with that.” don the small customer service smile cultivated after a month’s worth of training, conceal, don’t feel. “the men’s section for shirts is right this way.”

he nods his head at him, gesturing for him to follow as he makes short strides over to the other side of the store. he knows this store’s layout by heart at this point, and he relies on that rather than the pain that starts to form in his chest. he continues to smile on their merry way there, never faltering nor letting it strain, his smile getting softer. 

he starts striking up more customer-oriented questions, following the automated script drilled into his head. “do you have a specific budget on what you’re looking for? is this for a certain occasion? i can give you suggestions based on those if you want.”

he stares at the sales clerk as he rubs his neck, fumbles over his words. a scowl starts to form in the space between taeyong’s eyebrows, a natural reaction to someone who’s supposed to know what they’re doing very apparently not knowing what they’re doing at all. it bothers him, that he, already embarrassed after walking into this place he has no place being in with no idea where to go next, is being helped by an employee who looks just as embarrassed as he feels.

but the awkward moment passes, miraculously, a relief for taeyong, who can feel the cold, judging stare of lifeless mannequins on his back, even if some of them don’t even have heads.

he follows behind the young man, running a hand over the top of his head and tentatively pulling his hood down around his neck. he was, contrary to popular belief, raised on a certain set of manners, manners that only seemed to apply in places like this, where he might actively attempt to look a little less like a sore thumb, if only to avoid catching anymore unwanted attention. something about this place makes him feel lost and small, and clumsy, an afterthought added on when they pass by a row of shiny glass cases filled with sparkling accessories and fragile fragrance bottles, all probably worth more than he makes in a year.

there are more questions then, the answers to which he stumbles over, clearly out of his element.

@ccxtaeyong

Jinil was constantly in pain. Most knew of his predicament.

The injuries haunting him served as a constant reminder of his loss. He was so close to success he could almost taste it. It was ripped away with the claws carving into his flesh, tearing his dreams into shreds in the form a physical assault. Tendions, nerves, tissues, aspirations - destroyed. He was far from the only one, but he would never share his sorrow. Not willingly.

Not even with the therapists he was forced to see since the incident. The woman sitting across from him prodding his brain for answers had no right to tell him how to cope, and the man who helped him walk again, well, it was none of his business. They urged him to check back once a week, but the only place he found himself visiting was the clinic. Mainly to ensure the approval of his medications.

He was hobbling up the steps when he saw him. It was unmistakable. Lee Taeyong.The boy was the spitting image of a man he knew months before: his older brother. Their resemblance was jarring so much so that upon his first appearance in his classroom, he nearly called him the wrong name. He sat alone in the waiting room, hood pulled over his eyes, chord from his headphones barely sticking out against the dark color. Jinil could practically sense the teenage angst from the doorway. When he spotted the hand in his lap stuffed into a cast, his chuckle turned into a grunt of contemplation.

He inhaled sharply through his nose to stifle any lingering emotion from rearing its head. Every chair, padded lightly with matte blue cushions, was empty. The former hero could have taken any seat in the waiting room, but he chose the one next to Taeyong. 

“Hey, kid,“ How he hated calling younger people that, but something compelled him to do so regardless. He leaned forward to peer over the brim of the hood obstructing his view. It was unclear whether or not what he saw was a purple bruise peeking out at him. “Long time no see, huh?”

He hated this place. Nothing about it was better than a regular hospital. In fact, it only served to make him more uneasy, the fact that it was a League clinic operated by League heroes, which meant even in healing, he couldn’t escape prying eyes and hushed voices when they thought he wasn’t paying any attention. 

It was the same everywhere now, magical folk or not: people had plenty to say about the brooding adolescent with a cast on his hand and a bruise blooming purple and ugly under the shadow of his hood. At least it meant people were more likely to steer clear of him. He didn’t want to have to deal with people, not right now, not when Sen’s confession still sat bright and heavy in his mind’s eye. 

He’d even started avoiding his friends, because it was exhausting, having them ask if he was okay, what happened, how could they help, when he knew giving them the answers they sought wasn’t something he would do, even if he wanted to. It made the thoughtful scrawling of their handwriting, silver on top of the black of his cast, more weighty and prominent, a reminder that there were still people close to him he could (probably) trust:

                                                                           KANG DANIEL  🐱     

              You got hurt but remember                       to turn up anyway! ♡ ♡ ♡  -Jooheon   

   ♡ Jisoo

                            You’re an idiot.                                              -Kana

Well, she wasn’t wrong. But he didn’t regret any of it, even if breathing properly still made his ribs ache and the cast on his hand made training with his great sword cumbersome and improbable. If he hadn’t pushed, pushed himself, pushed Sen, to the brink, he may never have discovered the truth. Next to the truth, fractures and contusions seemed like frivolous concerns.

He hated sitting in this empty waiting room, wondering if there were even other patients they were seeing, or if they just kept him out here as some sort of power play, and not being able to decide which possibility was worse.

Some band no one had ever heard of was blaring through his ear buds, probably louder than what was safe. It drowned out the greeting from the figure next to him, which he only noticed when another face popped into his peripherals, peeked across the protective frame of his hood. He did his best not to look as startled as he was, tugging an ear bud free of his ear with a bored look that only just started to fade when he recognized the face in front of him. An old teacher, from his high school years. What was he doing here?

Sen wanted to end the act, a part of him hurting from doing this to someone he viewed as a close younger brother. He set the end of his pole arm down to the ground, exhaling the rage that took him in the moment. 

Mitsuji Sen. League puppet, coward, murderer.

Ice surrounded the blade of his pole arm, it crystallized into the shape of a ball. A step forward, ice bringing him once again quickly towards Taeyong. He swung his weapon like a batter aiming for a home run, the now makeshift mace traveling at dangerous velocity towards the younger’s arm.

That might have shattered an arm. Sen turning due to the momentum, yet at the same time, reading into the feedback of the weapon after striking Taeyong. Using the momentum, Sen brought the weapon up, and quickly struck down the airborne Taeyong to the ground. Spiderweb-like cracks appearing on the ground where Taeyong landed.

The ice ball shattered, revealing the blade once again. He flipped the handle in his hand, now holding it like someone ready to throw a javelin.

The blade sank into the floor, half an inch away from Taeyong’s neck. Sen’s boot pressed onto the younger male’s chest and he gazed down. A dome of ice appeared around them, and when it completed forming, it became deathly quiet inside.

“I killed your brother because they were about to send you to complete the deed. Where I’m sure you would have resisted and ended up killed. Your brother knew, because I told him. He accepted death because you would have chased after him if he managed to escape. You won’t last a minute outside on your own.” Sen whispered, the space echoing his voice loud enough for the other to hear.

“You know not the subtle manipulations the executive makes, and that the weak needs to know in order to survive. You possess not the strength to make any schemes useless against pure might. You wear your heart on your sleeve, a trait that I love about you. Yet, it will be your downfall in this dangerous game that you are trying to start.”

Sen lifted his feet off, the dome shattering as his armor faded off as well, reversing his transformation. The pole arm returned into his pocket, and the cold left Taeyong.

“When you can defeat me.” Sen turned to walk out of the training hall. “Either by tricks or by might, perhaps we can talk more about revenge.”

“Better a coward than to die achieving nothing.” Sen said, pausing at the exit.

“I’d send aid to you. Just lay there and think about what you need to think about.”

Ice, more ice, prompting Taeyong to deploy his defenses at the last moment, the tattoos down his arm glowing white-gold and shifting into a round shield, barely deflecting the frozen mace in time. His arm was intact, but the sphere slid off of the translucent surface of his shield and clipped him in the ribs on its way down, his nerve-endings screaming in response. A fracture, most likely, judging by the way the pain seemed to cling to ever breath. 

Stupid, he chastised himself for letting the hit get through, his body wanting to curl in on itself, shield his injuries from anymore provocation as he lay on the ground where he landed, So stupid.

When he started to sit up, his fingertips ghosting the hilt of his blade, he saw it, the way the spear sat poised in Sen’s hand, his own death lit at the end of it like the glint in a monster’s eye. He didn’t have a chance to react before it was flying through the air, only a split second to brace for impact, for his inevitable demise, for the pain of a blade in his jugular-

It landed, lodged in the training room floor a hair away from his neck, something warm and telling trickling down the back of his neck from the edge of his ear. 

Taeyong’s breaths were shallow as Sen approached, because every breath drew a sharp pain from an angry damaged rib, because it felt like his bones had turned to ice, because he could still feel the presence of a razor sharp blade a centimeter away from his neck.

He groaned in protest and pain when weight settled on his chest, right on the spot where the mace made of ice had clipped him. His gloved sword hand moved to rest weakly on the toe of Sen’s boot, a move to remove it accompanied by the split second realization that any such efforts would not just be futile, but painful as well. So he lay there, listening to Sen’s words, clenching his jaw to stop the shivering.

Each word, each sentence, none of it made sense on its own. But as his exhausted state seeped into his limbs and out of his brain, it started to come together in a haze of stark epiphanies. He searched Sen’s face for a lie, then realized he would probably not be able to tell the difference. 

But he’d spared his life, in spite of every opportunity he’d had to end it. Therein lay the truth of it all.

Heavy and unwelcome, a lump began to form in his throat at the thought of it all, at the knowledge that it was he who was supposed to kill his own brother. 

Then it was all gone: the boot on Taeyong’s broken rib, the impossible chill in his bones, the ice dome keeping them shielded from the watchful eye of the League. But Sen’s sacrifice, if that’s what it truly was, hung dark and suffocating in the air between them still.

“Sen,” he uttered when the elder hero first turned to walk away, over Sen’s words, surprised by how quiet and tired and small his voice sounded. His cape lay billowed out underneath him, dirtied, but miraculously unwrinkled and free of tears, like some kind of fallen snow angel.

“Sen,” he tried again, carefully rolling onto his uninjured side and attempting to sit up on his elbow.

Better a coward than to die achieving nothing. He was certainly no Junyong.

He wasn’t listening. He was leaving. The picture of his own brother’s face flashed bright and jarring in his mind’s eye.

Mark is quiet and aloof, he knows he always has been because people tell him so. He knows he’s like a crack in a high fence, people keep trying to peer through because it’s curiosity that sets them to do it– or kills them to.

But he feels like he’s the yesterday that people leave behind and forget, not that he cares enough for that thought to settle in his head. He’s a passing moment, the forgotten. The boy in the mansion with the white shirt, brown hair, pail skin. Playing on his own, waiting for his father who’s there at one moment, then gone the next. He needs someone, a brother for a brother. 

I won’t, he wants to reply, but he remains silent and continues to listen, continues to wash the blood off of Taeyong, A soft laugh escapes from his lips. 

“Wouldn’t it be great to have the league up on your ass and kissing it, think about it” he replies, like an oddity people never notice. He crosses his arms and watches him take his sweatshirt off, he sighs.

He nods at the right places, listens to his explanation as he continues to wash the other off. “Okay” he comments. “I’m not reporting you because it’s too much work, but at least be careful next time– easy?” 

He looks over the other’s chest, “And take your shirt off, I need to check you” he says, like a command. Because he needs to, to see if he’s okay, because Mark can’t afford Taeyong getting killed or hurt– at least, not now. 

“Sounds like a pain if you ask me,” he mutters after a beat of hesitation, a moment to take in Mark’s response. It’s strange, too casual, too easily thought up, as if he’s imagined it more than once, the scenario Taeyong’s never even considered. 

“Anyway, their too busy kissing their own asses to bother with anyone else’s.” His tone stays flat, as flat as the odds are of a League who turns its nose up at him and beats him over the back with a rod of discipline kissing up to him. He wonders what it must be like, to be someone like Mark, who can aspire for a different type of greatness because he’s already been born into another.

“I wouldn’t have to be careful if ‘the best of the best’,” voice bitter, sardonic, mocking, “weren’t slacking off long enough to let a monster threaten civilian lives.” Careful’s never been much of my specialty anyway, the silence following his words implies.

Mark’s command hangs in the air between them and Taeyong almost imperceptibly shies away, as if to reach for his sweatshirt instead of peeling another layer of clothing off, as he’d been directed. He’s suddenly hyper aware of the ominous black spot growing over his heart.

Many had the misconception that Sen was a master of magic, considering how he manipulated ice. If one were to look closer, they’d realise that his magic was not as great or grand as the rumours speak of. Sen knew his strengths and weaknesses, his greatest strength was that of his speed. His weakness, his endurance maintaining the strength, speed and magical drain that comes from his unique way of fighting.

Ice aided his movements, draw distractions, weaving between what is obvious to what is covert. 

The wall had drawn attention away from a thinner, much more transparent path from Sen’s feet to behind Taeyong. Gliding on an ice path like that will increase Sen’s speed magically. The moment Taeyong crossed the barrier, Sen would have seemed to have had disappeared from his eyes.

He swung hard, a combination of his speed, and diverting all that energy to the end of his pole arm. Naturally he aimed to strike with the flat side of the blade, the punk does not deserve to die so easily. There was enough force to send Taeyong flying to the corner of the training room, a spot Sen had particularly aimed for.

He spun the guandao violent around him, switching between hands as he completed each rotation. Each rotation created a ball of ice that was sent flying into the corner at Taeyong. Each the size of a tennis ball, they would bruise even with armour worn due to the speed that the ball is flying.

However, the speed was not as fast as Sen would have liked. However, he would have to make do with trying to alter a magic of his on the go. Usually, this move sent sharp icicles at his enemies instead. There were many monsters that had been converted into pin cushions due to his move.

The constant barrage of ice balls not only hurt, as they shattered, they reformed and slowly closed around Taeyong. Sen panting slightly due to the exertion, stopped finally when Taeyong was enclosed in a ice block.

“Bury” Sen whispered, triggering the next point. The ice vanished, turning into a mist that seemed to almost seep into the younger male’s body. Chances are, Taeyong would feel the chill in his bones.

Hopefully, hypothermia does not rob the punk too much of his cognitive function.

Sen was not done disciplining a spoil brat.

All he saw was a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye. But by the time his brain could even register it was Sen or his weapon, he was flying across the room, the wind knocked out of him by the impact of magicked steel against his ribcage and the subsequent collision of his back against the training room wall. Plaster crumbled like a crater behind him, his spine hitting the round metal of a pipe behind the wall before gravity started to pull his frame sliding toward the ground. His sword lay shining and abandoned feet away, where it’d slipped from his fingers on impact.

Taeyong glanced up, trying to regain his footing, starting to reach for his great sword, eyes widening in surprise and instinctual wariness as Sen’s spinning blade sent a ball of ice careening in his direction. The reach for his own weapon was halted immediately, the ice colliding with his armored arm and slamming it backward, freezing it against the wall in a block of ice. He struggled, his face scrunching up with determined strength as he tried to wiggle his fingers, pull his arm free from its frozen cast. Already he could feel the cold of it seeping through his hero garb and into his skin.

It was no use. His efforts were futile, a fact that was apparent once found himself encased in ice from the neck down, the pressure of it over his chest making it even harder to breathe. He kept his chin high, clenched his jaw to stop his teeth from chattering, ignored his body’s panic at being immobilized by solid subzero temperatures with no apparent way out.

When the ice dissolved, sinking into his pores, settling over his bones like a thin layer of death, the chill only seemed to get worse. He stumbled back onto his feet, the ice no longer holding him prisoner, his knees buckling dangerously. But he kept his footing, a hand on the wall to steady himself until he felt confident enough reaching for his sword again. 

His body had started to shiver against his will, his jaw trembling uncontrollably, his breaths shallow and desperate. He managed to get his fingers around the hilt of his sword, but he stumbled under the weight of it, weak under the first signs of hypothermia, his boot shuffling against the floor as he struggled to stay strong on his feet.

@ccxtaeyong

It was a warm day, just a touch of too sunny but it’s not like Aelius was complaining. The same couldn’t be said for the students though; since morning, the children whined and wailed for him to let them stay inside. It’s too hot they exclaimed. We want to be inside with the air-con!

But Aelius is nothing short of persistent. With promises of an extra ten minutes for nap time, he wrangled the little tigers out to the kindergarten’s outdoor playground. Grumbles were replaced with frenzied giggles and Aelius patted himself on the back, a job well done. He smiled to himself as he watched the kids run around the soft turf, making sure there weren’t any accidents or scrapes. Thankfully, the children were brought back into their classroom with minimal grumbling, bless their energy, and every tot knocked out the second their heads hit the mats. The head teacher switched places for his lunch break and Aelius found himself walking to the small park a few blocks from the kindergarten, his lunch bag in hand.

The cicadas were humming their summer tune, the height of summer, and Aelius stopped to breathe. He looked up and smiled at the greens and blues swimming in his vision, the sun heightening his senses more than usual. And, maybe, that’s what it was. His heightened senses, his timing, fate. Whatever it was, it caused a basketball to gently roll against Aeliu’s ankle, the sound of jogging footsteps interrupting the cicadas’ song. He bent down to grab the ball with every intention of returning it but the second he locked eyes with the stranger, a boy, really, his eyes widened.

The ball dropped and continued to roll on the ground as Aelius’s mouth slightly dropped, a sudden chill almost making him gag.

It didn’t matter that the sun was bright and happy and sweltering, heavy and fiery in the midday sky. He couldn’t shake the gloom sitting heavier on his shoulders, like a thick blanket, suffocating and sticky and awful. He shouldn’t have been throwing a ball around while his hand healed, crevices gluing together where a certain special class hero’s jaw had tugged them apart, but he didn’t care. He needed to get out of the house, where he was sometimes sure he still caught whiffs of his brother’s cologne wafting down the stairs like a phantom.

The bruising coloring his cheek and the delicate skin under his eye had darkened to a dull purple and was enough to dissuade anyone from approaching him as he tossed a basketball at a hoop over and over again, determined to keep it up until he literally couldn’t stand anymore. He didn’t care if he had training with Nightshade later on in the day, he didn’t care if he still had to walk home when the sun started to set. 

He dribbled a few times with his left hand, clumsy, unsatisfactory, before he clenched his jaw and switched back to his right, ignoring the sting of protest beneath the brace covering his wrist. His t-shirt clung to his body like a second skin, completely soaked with the sweat of such exertion under such an unforgiving summer sun. Even the trees seemed to still under the heat, watching him as if he were insane. Maybe he was.

Pathetic. He couldn’t forget the way Sen spat it at him with such disdain, such disgust. He fought back with all of his might and all he’d gotten in return was cuts and bruises and breaks. He missed his fifth shot in a row, a lack of concentration setting in alongside weariness and, perhaps, the very first beginnings of heat exhaustion. Junyong would’ve stopped their pickup match, reminded him to drink water, tossed a towel over his head and laughed about how much Taeyong needed a haircut. Pathetic.

He roared in frustration, giving up on making three-pointers and lobbing the ball full force at a nearby tree trunk with one hand. It hit its mark with a loud thud, then ricocheted, rolling past Taeyong and across a patch of grass. He sighed, more of a visible slumping of his shoulders than an actual exhale of air, approaching the stranger the ball had rolled toward with his hands up to catch it.

“Over here.”

But the man didn’t toss him the ball. He dropped it, pulling an annoyed scowl across Taeyong’s brow as it rolled across the paved road and away from both of them.

“Nice,” he uttered sarcastically, mistaking the man’s actions as deliberate and not bothering to mask his annoyance as he rolled his eyes and moved to pick up the ball on his own. 

Only now did Sen feel some sort of threat coming from the sword swung by Taeyong. A small part of him was glad that the younger male showed ability to threaten him, a larger part however was focused on how his form was breaking due to emotions. Emotions that Sen was guilty of triggering. Stepping back to avoid a swing, he watched as the sword tip narrowly missed his waist. It was going to be difficult, fighting against a transformed hero, when he himself had not.

Perhaps, he can pretend to be cocky, allow the transformed Taeyong to end his sufferings. The image of junyong’s glare if he did that stopped him.

Taeyong’s accusation however, changed everything.

A feet landed on the flat side of the great sword, white mist rolling off to reveal armor of pure white. Cold metal flew towards Taeyong’s head in the form of a kick. The kick added to the momentum of the giant polearm swing that Sen follow through with. An intention to place as much space between the both of them placed within the swing.

With space created, Sen caught himself. Here, he was thinking of lecturing the other on letting emotions getting the better, when he himself fell into the whims of his own emotions.

The blade drew a line over the ground, ice crystals forming over the line, creating a wall up to the knees. 

“If you have the guts to avenge your brother, then cross the wall.” Sen said, emitting the pressure of a seasoned veteran in his gaze. 

“Just know that it might be the very last step you take a living breathing human.”

Sen moved into a stance. “You know nothing of the sacrifice of others. The manipulation in the shadows. You’re too naive. The brightest lights cast the darkest shadows, kid.”

He didn’t quite dodge the kick in time, the weight on his sword heavy and cumbersome, rendering him only partially mobile as the metal of Sen’s boot cut through the space between them. It was a heel that clipped him across his temple, a ringing pain echoing through his skull before he fought for his bearings, his desperate two-handed grasp on his own weapon tightening as he waited for the ringing to clear.

Sen’s blade sliced through the air, Taeyong only moving out of the way fast enough because of the whir it made on its path, the tip of it narrowly missing the delicate skin of his throat (he’d notice later, while assessing his injuries, the tiniest of hairline cuts across his jugular and the skinniest trickle of dried blood, as if he’d been scratched by a cat).

There was a pause in the action, a breath of a beat, long enough for Taeyong to regain his footing, strengthen his stance, reconfigure his grip on his sword. But the muscles in his back stiffened when he steadied himself on his feet and realized the lull had been deliberate, Sen’s piercing gaze staring right through him as a wall of ice grew between them.

If you have the guts to avenge your brother, then cross the wall.

He started to imagine it, what it must have been like: Junyong wouldn’t have fought with all of his strength and power, not against a friend. Did he try to reason with Sen, between swings, in that level, impossibly wise voice of his? Did he let his feelings of betrayal and sadness show? Did they slow down his fighting? 

Did he suffer?

Just know that it might be the very last step you take a living breathing human.

Something in his chest squeezed so hard it felt like it might have been solid, like his internal organs turning to stone.

Sacrifice.

           Manipulation.

Naive.

“You’re a coward,” he growled, the steel of his greatsword heavy and comforting in his hand, “You kill the people who trust you. You killed Junyong, you killed your team. And now you’re here to kill me.”

His heart pounded painfully in his chest, his head throbbed where he was kicked,but he kept his nervousness (not fear, never fear. He’d be fearless in the face of death, with the chance at revenge brushing his fingertips, just out of reach beyond a wall of ice) out of his face as he took a step over the barrier.

“But you can’t kill me if I kill you first.”

Another step. He raised his sword, poised for battle. Just like Junyong had trained him.

Light.

           Dark.

    Shadows.