#devi writes

It rained that night.

Heavy, choking rain that soaked through your jacket and dripped down your face like it belonged there. You stood still in the middle of the alley behind a crumbling tenement in Hell’s Kitchen, your boots sunk half an inch in oil-stained mud. Steam curled from the gutters. The wind carried the stink of iron and rotting brick.

Beside you, Frank Castle chambered a round.

“You ready for this, kid?”

You nodded once.

He didn’t say anything else.

You’d both waited years for this.

Three names had been on your list. Two were already rotting in the ground. But the last? The last one crawled out of hell and vanished when your father's empire collapsed. You were nine when they died. Nineteen when you found him again.

And tonight, you were going to bury him.

Frank moved first.

You followed close.

The door was already half off its hinges. The apartment above the corner laundromat was dark, no lights in the windows, no sound but the television bleeding static from the next floor down. You could hear him breathing before you saw him. Shallow, uneven. A man who never expected the past to catch him.

He was in the kitchen, slouched in a rust-covered chair. Bottle of bourbon in one hand, pistol on the table.

Too slow.

You crossed the floor in four strides and kicked the table across the room. The gun clattered, useless. He reached for it anyway.

Frank shot him in the knee.

The man screamed.

You didn’t flinch.

He dropped like a sack of bones, clutching his leg, blood already pooling fast. You stepped over him, grabbing a fistful of his collar, and slammed him against the wall.

“You remember me?”

His eyes were wild, yellowed with time and fear. He looked older than you expected. But the fear in his face brought it all back.

Your house on fire. Your mother’s scream. The gunshot.

Your father’s body shielding yours.

His hand reaching for you, telling you to run.

The man spat blood at your boots.

“I should have finished the job.”

You didn’t blink.

You drew your blade and drove it into his other leg. Deep. A clean slice across the thigh that sent another scream ripping from his throat.

“You want to try again now?” you asked, voice low.

He tried to swing at you. Frank stepped forward and broke two of his fingers with a wrench of his hand. Bone snapped like twigs.

You crouched down beside the man, your voice calm, like you were reading bedtime stories.

“You took everything from me. My home. My name. My family. You started a war you didn’t finish.”

He was choking on his own spit now.

“I was just following orders.”

“I don’t care.”

You grabbed the back of his head and slammed it once into the floor. Hard enough to crack tile. His nose broke with a splatter. Blood smeared across your knuckles.

Frank tossed a crowbar to your feet. You didn’t pick it up.

You straddled the man’s chest, pinned his arms down with your knees, and pressed your blade to his cheek.

“You killed my mother first, didn’t you? Made her watch before you did it.”

He sobbed something you couldn’t hear.

“I remember her eyes,” you whispered. “They were open when I found her.”

Then you carved the truth into him.

Slow.

Deliberate.

You cut until the blood ran like oil across the kitchen floor. Until your arms shook. Until he begged in a voice no one would answer.

Frank didn’t stop you.

He stood in the doorway and waited until you looked up, breath ragged, covered in the past.

Only then did he walk over, raise his pistol, and put one clean bullet through the man’s head.

Silence.

The kind that echoes in your teeth.

You stood.

Your knees were weak, but you stood.

Frank looked at you like he was looking at someone else now.

“You done?” he asked.

You nodded.

He nodded back.

You both walked out the same way you came in.

Rain still poured. The sky did not care.

You sat in the back of the old truck, the engine humming, rain hammering the roof in steady rhythm. The city outside had gone still, but the silence between you and Frank Castle was heavier than anything the night could carry.

He had always been quiet like that. Not silent. Just measured. Focused.

One of the last men alive who never bent the knee to greed or survival.

Frank wasn’t like the others. He didn’t serve your father for power. He followed him out of belief. Out of loyalty. When the empire fell and the rats scattered, Frank stayed. He held the line. He shielded you when no one else would. And when you were too young to speak vengeance, he promised you blood.

He gave it to you tonight.

And now, he was ready to leave it behind.

“I want out,” he said.

You looked at him then. Not as a soldier. Not as a weapon. But as someone who had earned the right to peace.

“I got my revenge,” he continued. “Same as you.”

He rubbed at the back of his neck. Rain still dripped from the collar of his coat.

“If I keep going, I’m gone. I’ll lose what’s left of me. My kids are gone. My wife is gone. I need to walk before this life eats me too.”

You were quiet for a long time.

When you finally spoke, your voice was steady.

“You were one of the loyal ones.”

He met your gaze, solemn.

“You were the only one worth staying for.”

You nodded, and something in your chest let go.

“You’re free, Frank.”

He reached for the door handle, then paused.

“If you ever call me again,” he said, “I’ll answer.”

Then he stepped into the rain and disappeared.

He never looked back.

But you knew, if the time ever came, he would come back for you. Because some bonds are written in more than blood.

They are written in war.

Harebourg takes a seat next to the princess starring outside of the bay windows, leaning onto the white wood that juts outwards of the window frame and letting his stripped shirt hang off the edge. He edges forwards enough for the Saddia to take notice of him, drawing her attentions from the view of the misty dusk of Frigost outside and onto the man. The Xelor does his best to hide his more dejected expression before asking the princess, "Are you having regrets of the arrangement, Amalia?" She notes of the more sodden tone of the man and shifts herself to fully face the Count, pulling the soft grey velvet of her fur necked nightgown with her. "No, I have no regrets for our arranged marriage, it's for the best of both of our kingdoms..." Amalia absentmindedly twirls her hair with an index finger as she continues, her husband listening intensely. "This is a lot to take in... From traveling with the Brotherhood of Tofu, almost singlehandedly leading my kingdom, and now, newly wed to the Count of Frigost." Amalia meets the eyes of the Xelor before her and straightens her back at the word of another hierarchy figure, remembering her own mannerisms as a fellow royalty.  The Xelor draws a hand to rub her shoulder, urging her to relax. “I understand you all too well,” reeling back, he averts his sights onto the world outside, recollecting memories of instances he’s been pressured by his title of Count. “We both know the hardships of watching over a nation on our own, the responsibilities entirely on us for the welfare of our people.” Amalia sighs at the truth the man spoke and adjusts her legs to lay flat and resting at her sides. “But now… we can carry the burden of our empires together, Amalia.” The Saddia raises her head at the call of her name, turning to see the man still watching over the villages below outside of the window with a soft, proud gaze.

Harebourg lets out a quick amused huff, commenting, “You should tell me about your adventures with the Brotherhood sometime. I’m glad that your life wasn’t always confined on your island and you were able to spread your wings in your youth.” The man takes a moment to properly phrase his next words. “And… if time allows, Frigost only needs one ruler, as proven for many years now; you could perhaps take the occasional time off to undertake another venture with your friends.”

Amalia perks up at the mention of the group that has become a second family to her, unknowingly beaming at the prospects that she may be able to adventure with them again. “Really? But is it okay for the Countress of Frigost to leave for trivial matters such as hanging out with friends?” She squeezes the bottom of her gown, anxious for Harebourg’s answer.

“You are a Countress in Frigost, but you are still a Princess to the Saddia Kingdoms. I’ve ran this kingdom by myself for a long time, I could always cover for you when you decide that you need some time away to reconnect with past companions, or if it needs to be discrete, a private meeting with old allies,” he lightly jokes to soothe Amalia’s worries.

“I want to make things easier for you, Amalia.” He turns to the woman with a faint look of wistfulness. “At least, to help you grow more comfortable in Frigost.” Harebourg shifts sideways closer to Amalia and gestures for Amalia to reciprocate.  She takes his lead and scoots to his side, close enough for their clothes to touch. The Count extends his arm across the back of the Saddia, letting his fingers brush over the soft textile of Amalia’s nightgown before stopping to hover his hand over her shoulder. “May I?” he asks as his eye meets Amalia’s. Feeling her face flush, Amalia turns back to the window and nods in small increments, stuttering, “Ah, y-yes.” The warm hand cups her right shoulder and gently moves her closer to the man beside her, the side of her head now resting on Harebourg’s collar. The Saddia picks at the lower half of her gown, shying away from how quickly things became intimate before letting a lighthearted smile cross her face. Contently sighing, she presses herself onto the man, prompting the Xelor to lower his head and rest his chin on her hair. “I… don’t know what to say. Thank you,” she whispers. The two lean on each other in a comfortable silence, letting the ambiance of the frosted continent lull the both of them into a sense of serenity. Harebourg lets his hand slide down to Amalia’s arm, if only to let the thin chill from the window reach her right side. Before the former princess could doze off, the thumb of the hand on her arm swirls on the fluff of her gown, wanting to keep her awake. “Ah… Were you just about to sleep, Amalia?” Harebourg leans downwards slightly to check, almost touching noses with Amalia who was looking upwards at him for the same incentive. She immediately averts downwards, inadvertently burying her face into Harebourg’s shirt. The Xelor lightly chuckles at the act before rubbing his cheek on the top of her head. “Forgive me, I’ll let you rest, Amalia."  "No…” Amalia muffles into the cloth. “I’ll be fine.” She lifts her head slightly, the furred neck if her gown beginning to tickle her. “Was there something else you wanted to talk about, Count?” Harebourg hums in response, loosening his embrace with Amalia momentarily. “I wanted to talk about that, actually. When in privacy, Amalia, I want us to temporally abandon the heavy titles of Count and Princess and the regalities that come with it…” Amalia looks up to the Xelor once more, a curious look in her eyes, wanting him to elaborate. Harebourg returns the look briefly before looking away, knowing that Amalia isn’t fully used to his presence yet. “I want you to call me by my first name, Jacquemart, or Astron, my middle name, if you prefer.” He lovingly looks down to Amalia again before nudging her to touch foreheads. Amalia runs the pronunciation though her mind a few times. “Alright, Jacquemart…” she mumbles, trying not to laugh at the feel of the thin silver hair of the Xelor’s as they graze over her cheek. Harebourg draws out a long breath and returns to his former position, pleased that Amalia is saying his more personal name. The Saddia stretches her arms and yawns, the night getting to her. She uses her feet to move a decorative pillow of the windowsill towards her to hold and moves up to snuggle closer to the warmth of her husband. Harebourg couldn’t help but to let a warm smile cover his face at the adorable gesture and uses his left hand to move her green bangs behind her ear as she slips into a more comfortable position closer to his neck. He adjusts a pair of pillows behind him and slowly leans down on them, keeping Amalia close to minimize jostling. The man pulls down his shirt for a flat cushion for Amalia to easily breathe as she uses his arm to sleep on.