#favion

“You mistreated my Sprout. You. Hurt. Her. And now Roatus,” his voice was distinctly softer on the Sprout and by the time it got to Roatus, it dripped with acid. “Has taken her away from me.”

“Us.” Cylion felt himself say, but it was hollow.

“Must I teach you to do everything? Pitiful thing. Speak up.”

“He took her from us.”

Favion growled.

It was beginning to rain, a low thunder that rumbled between the clouds like an angry and monstrous god lie just behind them; warning the little things below to vacate.

Cylion sighed. Incapable of dreaming as he was, he was clearly not immune to the siren call of the maladaptive daydream.

Though, he wondered, is it a siren call if it was something that the sufferer wanted desperately to gain some distance from? Probably not, but he didn’t want to dissect it. He wanted it to go away.

He turned his head up to watch the clouds crash against the previously blemishless sky, warring with the shine of the moons to cast the city into darkness.

Ailzea Roatus enjoyed rain immensely, he read that somewhere before, or maybe his father told it to him. As little as he spoke about their childhood together. So much did Roatus enjoy the rain that his congregation made a big deal of celebrating the first rain of a new season together.

Thanks to the Nymira-Persep situation, Cylion was there for that. Of course, he made himself scarce, lest he be guilty of some sort of sacrilege for having the audacity to join. Despite Archie having tried, for some reason, to invite him out into the courtyard for the festivities.

The light drizzle that started to paint the world around him was hardly worthy of a celebration. It made sense that he was alone on the fringes with only scraps to enjoy.

Though the rain was dismal at best, it dredged up that pleasant earthy scent that had a tendency to linger in the air in the warmer seasons.

“Petrichor,” he said to the open air as he moved in closer to admire the handiwork of the grounds’ gardeners.

A crack of lightning briefly brightened up the sky, illuminating the patches of radish sprouts he nearly trampled on in his aimlessness.

Crack! Cylion’s fist made contact with Favion’s face.

He’d taken advantage of being lifted to his eyeline and punched him square in the jaw, reacting unthinkingly to the anger that swelled from his chest all the way to his ears and fists.

The sudden movement took Favion off guard and he dropped Cylion in his shock, grinding his jaw again. This time no doubt in an attempt to get it working again.

Another growl assaulted the silence. He couldn’t tell whose chest it rattled out from.

Then he was swinging blindly in his rage. Another punch, this one in the chest, brought the behemoth to his knees. When they were eyelevel again, Cylion swung hard at his temple.

Favion tried to grab at his wrist, but he just swung and hit him from the other side.

Before he knew it, before his thoughts caught up to him, his ancestor was on the floor and bloodied.

“Us! She was taken from us! What claim did you have over her when we were the ones taking care of her?”

Something crunched under his fists, but he didn’t stop.

The garden was well taken care of, just like everything else on the grounds. How could this place exist on Alternia? Even just outside the steps of the church itself bad things, terrible things, happened, nevermind the rest of the planet. Did it really come down to Ailzea Roatus?

Cylion couldn’t fathom what was so special about him, he could sift through the sweeps worth of dreams he’d stolen from the patron for the rest of his life and still never come to the answer. Special enough for the Reverend to force into this life, for his own ancestor to stick around despite being killed by him at least twice. It couldn’t all boil down to his ability to take and return life.

He found cover beneath an overhang that jutted out of the side of a shed and watched the rain as it started to pick up, quickly saturating the soil as it struck. Out of nowhere, a pang of guilt struck him in the chest.

There he was just admiring nature while God knew what was happening to his sister. It was difficult to breathe around the idea. Persep Lycaon had his sister, and he was hellbent on doing what with her? Could he really force her into the mold that Cylion had a hand in building for her? It probably wouldn’t have been possible if he didn’t just follow orders like a good little soldier.

He rubbed a hand over his face and pulled away to find that it was wet, but before he could question whether it was from the rain or tears he didn’t realize were falling, the sound of squeaking drew his attention in the direction of the door to the shed.

It could have been a squeak, or maybe it was a hiccup, all Cylion knew was that the sound pulled him back into his mind — He was standing over his father, covered in his blood, and taking big heaving breaths. Beneath him, Favion was still, save for the occasional ragged breath that said that he was alive.

The source of the sound was Somnia, standing in the doorway to his bedroom with panic painted all over his face. He didn’t need to have pupils for it to be obvious that his gaze was trained on Cylion’s still balled fist, their father’s shirt gripped tightly in the other hand.

Anger thrummed all through him now, louder and louder. He could find out, once and for all, what the limits of this beast of a man’s mortality was. Give him back what he’d doled out for decades. Find out if he knew how to beg for a life that was over centuries ago. But Somnia was watching, unmoving, his big brother manhandle his father. Hesitant to make another sound.

Cylion already lost Nymira. Passed right through his fingers. He would lose Somnia the same way. Abruptly, he released his hold, not breaking his concentration on his little brother.

“I’m sorry.” He said after figuring out how to make his voice level, and stood up straight. “Can you clean him up?”

Somnia only nodded, stepping out of the doorway to collect their bloodied father from the floor.

Someone stepped out of the shed and was walking toward him, carrying a shovel and spade in each gloved hand. Sunflower printed, because of course they were. Just like her dress was.

Marrie Roatus.

“Oh! Sorry, did I scare you?” She asked, because he bristled.

“No,” he said, because that wasn’t it at all and they both knew it. “Bit wet out for gardening.”

“It’s good to move the soil and tease out the invasives while the soil is wet, actually! I was hoping to get to it before the rain got really bad. I think I can still swing it!”

Cylion nodded, turned his attention back to the garden.

Silence settled between the pair, save for the sound of the rain hitting the roof of the shed and ground.

“I can go.” He finally said.

“Why would you do that?” She beamed brightly, instantly striking the gloom of the evening out of the air. “Don’t you think you’d be happier giving me a hand?”

There was no helping that he cracked a small smile at the insistence in her voice. He wondered what that quality looked like when faced up to Nymira’s stubbornness.

Small wonder they gravitated toward each other.

"I'll ask the questions," Somnia grits, his voice lending far more gravity to the situation than it frankly deserves. "What were you doing in my sister's room?"

"Your sister?" Archie slurs, brows inching together in confusion as he racks his foggy brain for context. It washes over him slowly, more a trickle than a pour, and he chews each word thoroughly as it leaves his mouth. "That's right. I'uz lookin' for your sister."

Somnia's empty eyes narrow. "Funny. I remember telling you not to do that."

"And I 'member tellin' you I'd do it anyways," he bites back, evidently more irritated by the rejection than he'd realized. Really though, what kind of brother turns away help when his sibling is in trouble?

The memory is coming into focus now, though not as sharply as he'd like. Weaver had finished Marrie's arm, right? Then it was back to his hunt for the missing godling.

He'd teleported without checking the destination. After half a week spent battering his powers against the strange psychic block that seemed to be blanketing her, Archie wasn't going to risk waiting when a clear vision of Nymira finally appeared before him.

And then he woke up here, lashed in this asshole's kitchen with a knife against his jugular.

What happened in the interim?

He doubts he'll get any answers from Somnia. Even without pupils, Archie can tell the goldblood is glaring daggers at him. Nothing but drama, these guys.

He can feel Somnia's tension plainly, carried through his hands and straight into the blade that threatens him, but the purpleblood is shockingly nonplussed. In fact, Archie is about as relaxed as Somnia is stiff, a fact that only loosens him further.

"First time?" He croons.

"What?"

"Look, we can take it slow if y'need to. Your first time holdin' a guy at knifepoint, I mean... It oughta be special."

Somnia stares at him, doing little to hide his disdain, and Archie offers a salacious grin in response.

"S'matter, baby? Not feelin' it?"

He wrinkles his nose, though he has little time to rebuke the taunt before another voice joins the fray. Dressed down more than Archie has ever seen him and looking exceedingly fed up with the commotion, Cylion steps from one of the adjoining bedrooms into the kitchen.

“Don’t answer him,” the winged troll grunts as he passes to the sink. “He’s just being annoying.”

“Plenty enough to go around.”

Cylion rolls his eyes and turns his back on them, Somnia’s interrogation now accompanied by the quiet clinking of dishes and steady pulse of water from the faucet. 

“Do you have to do that now?” Somnia huffs, angling his head towards Cylion.

“You put him in the kitchen. I’m going to use my kitchen.”

Archie studies Somnia with an intensity typically reserved for admiring his father’s craftsmanship, trying to assess where exactly those tarry eyes are pointed. Is he looking at Cylion or at him?  Could he get away with using his powers right now?

“Sounds like y’want me outta your hair,” Archie offers cheekily, watching for a shift in Somnia’s focus. What does that look like? “How ‘bout we pick this back up some other time?”

Cylion tosses a sneer over his shoulder. 

“Couldja least call off Ringo here? This whole hostage game seems a bit excessive.”

“Does it? You’re not exactly predictable.” He turns his attention back to the sink and shrugs. “For all we know, you were behind Nymira’s abduction in the first place.”

“Man, c’mon.”

“It happened outside your church, didn’t it?”

“You think I’m in league with Persep fuckin’ Lycaon? I ain’t that kind of crazy.”

Cylion’s wings twitch slightly, though he neglects to respond. Archie sighs, glancing between the brothers as he speaks.

“Look, I see the play. I get it. You got no clue what you’re gonna do with me, right? But your hands’re tied. You warned me once n’ I still came back. Can’t let your threat be empty, so now you gotta play warden.”

Both Somnia and Cylion seem to stall, the latter raising his head as if to listen for something and the former’s grip becoming less incensed. 

“Let’s just skip to the part where you tell me to fuck off n’ stay there, yeah?”

As if to punctuate––or perhaps mock––his mild attempts at diplomacy, a thud spills into the room from outside, soon accompanied by a quiet shuffling by the door. Archie realizes then, all too late, that he is not the one giving them pause.

Favion must crouch to enter the kitchen.

Once he is past the threshold, the hulking goldblood straightens his shoulders and grinds his jaw, eyes locking onto Archie as if he is something to be consumed. The clown shifts against his bindings as Favion lumbers closer, his sons watching on with shocked faces and bated breath.

Despite the danger he knows Favion to pose, Archie greets the man with a glib smile. “Aw, shucks, a petting zoo? You didn’t tell me this was a party!”

One massive, clawed hand stretches forward to grab Archie by the chin, fingers pressing into his jaw with frightening strength. When he opens his mouth to fire off another taunt, Favion’s hold grows tighter, sending a flash of white-hot pain searing through his skull.

He grits his teeth, bracing against the mounting pressure of Favion’s crushing grip. Then something crunches, audible to Archie from the inside out, and the taste of blood floods his mouth. 

Archie grunts, a lipless noise set somewhere between pain and surprise, breath rattling as he tongues the bone fragment now sticking through his inner cheek. Favion rumbles his pleasure, jaw clattering in a crude mimicry of the break.

“No jibes this time,” he gravels, tugging Archie from the chair by his shattered mandible. 

The transition is less than gentle. The violent motion sends a mouthful of blood washing back towards Archie’s throat, and the purpleblood suddenly finds himself choking on it as Favion begins to drag him from the room.

With a sputtering cough, he flings his roped-up hands towards the monster’s wrist, scrabbling to dig his nails into flesh in hopes of alleviating at least some of the pressure on his broken jaw. He gurgles around the blood still seeking entry into his lungs, heart pounding more from adrenaline than fear.

Favion carries on unbothered, tugging Archie to the door in slow, lumbering steps. Cylion and Somnia, on the other hand, appear absolutely horrified, both pale in the face and looking more than a little sick. He still can’t tell where exactly those eyes are looking, but Archie is almost certain Somnia meets his gaze before he is unceremoniously pulled from their view.

He doubts either of them will get much sleep.

---

Archie is no stranger to pain. Hell, he sometimes goes looking for it––getting his ass kicked might as well be one of his favorite pastimes.

This, though… 

He can’t exactly call this fun.

A brutal pop echoes through Favion’s dungeon of an abode, one more in the long list of sickening sounds to come from Archie’s body tonight. The pain in his jaw has ebbed somewhat at least, fading into background noise amongst the litany of other injuries he’s incurred. Favion holds him to the wall with a hand against his throat, at this point doing more to keep him standing than his own legs, and Archie wheezes softly around the blood that’s made a game of encroaching on his lungs.

The lack of air has made him lightheaded––too much so to focus––but he’s fairly certain he has not suffered any loss of consciousness while Favion has had his fun. None of his injuries seem a mystery to him, at least.

The one he’s just acquired is a freshly mangled arm, bones snapped at the elbow and shoulder wrenched from its socket. It’s a miracle the thing is still attached at all. Favion releases the limb to fall limply to his side, and Archie brays at the sudden motion. 

This is a bit much, even for him.

Even without the man’s nullifying psionics in the way, Archie doubts he’d be able to activate his powers in this state. He can barely picture where he is, let alone imagine where he wants to go.

Being unable to see his family doesn’t strike them from his thoughts, however.

Sorry, pops. I think I really fucked up this time.

A wet cough paints Favion’s wrist purple. The other hand aims above Archie’s line of sight, and soon even his inner monologue is silenced by the excruciating pressure that blossoms through his skull. He barely has time to guess what the man is doing before a snap fills the air, sharp and crisp, and Favion draws both arms back to admire the bloodied horn within his claws.

Archie slumps to the floor, groaning as his battered body folds in on itself. 

Looming over him and shrouded in darkness, Favion works his jaw until it forms a smile, the hunger in his eyes finally replaced with cool satisfaction. He ponders his prize a few moments longer, then shifts his gaze back to Archie, voice low.

“Run home, little Roatus.”

Archie’s eyes widen. He wastes no time in staggering to his feet and limping towards the stairs, breathing heavily as a trickle of blood begins to blot out the vision in his left eye. He clutches his shoulder and braces his back against the wall, practically floundering up the steps as Favion calls after him once more.

“Run home.”

---

There is no moonlight on the street. 

A thick blanket of clouds stamps out both moons, and Archie is left with only the soft glow of the streetlamps to guide him back.

Does he know his way?

Has he ever needed to?

When has Archie walked anywhere?

He teleports. He teleports ten, fifteen, twenty feet at a time, flashing forward only as far as his unmarred eye can see and stumbling into each leap like he expects to collapse. Blood pounds in his ears, faster than he’s ever felt it.

Dad.

He can feel his breath picking up as his surroundings become more and more familiar. 

I need you, dad.

He sees it. Just a few blocks away, standing regal and proud, Archie finally sees the church. A guttural cry rips itself from his throat, and he blips onwards in a rapid succession of bursts to fling himself up the steps to his home.

There, standing at the threshold to the House of Restoration, Archie grips the ornate handle and, for the first time in his life, stumbles through the door.

The next minute is a blur. Someone screams. Another races down the corridor shouting for the Restorer. Archie barely acknowledges the whirlwind around him as he blunders on, mind dazed and body beaten. 

Then Ailzea is in front of him, collecting Archie mid-collapse with worried hands and a hurriedness that marks yet another first for the night. 

A million apologies rush to Archie’s tongue, all of them dying on his broken lips.

“Yes, thank you for joining us, Father Roatus! It is truly an honor to have you.” Clearly not one to let an opportunity slip through his claws, the yellow blood places those same hands down onto the lectern with gusto, and sweeps his gaze over the crowd in a manner that suggests hunger. He practically laps up their attention. “In times of uncertainty, even other religious leaders make the time to visit our Dreamer.” A quiet murmuring starts to spread among the congregation, from what Ailzea listens in on there is a range of reaction in the small gathering that ranges from doubt to astonishment. To him it seems that Cylion really grew into the perfect little priest that Ailzea’s own predecessor looked for within him. At least someone came to learn from the brute. A shame about everyone catching strays as a result of that learning.

“The dream world that you know of is a bridge between the divine and mortal worlds,” he continues, explaining what must be an introduction to the religion for new comers. There is a nervous edge to his movement as he gestures to the furnishings and decorations that resemble or allude to Nymira within the chamber. “And our Dreamer is a gift from the Divine, sent here to show us and teach in its name the ways we can become closer to it…”

Behind him the Goddess sits motionless, save for the swaying of her tail fanned out behind her. What a massive undertaking for such a young troll. The pair of them must be under tremendous stress.  Trollkind was never meant for the burdens of godhood, but damn do they keep trying.

Cylion continues to ramble on in his indoctrination and Ailzea finds himself drawn to the artwork of the young Goddess, allowing the light blues and dreamlike qualities of the pieces pull him away from the sermon. It is a wonder she doesn’t feel completely smothered with all of this attention, that the only pressure she claims to feel presently is the way her brother has started to behave.

He will not get a better understanding of the situation until the three of them sit down for a real conversation. Four if Favion chooses civility. Ailzea is unsure that it’s something he is capable of these days, however. A conversation to have with Weaver when this has all ended.

There is a sudden, almost flighty, tap on his shoulder that serves as a welcome interruption from the thought of his old friend’s descent into madness, and he turns to give his full attention to that disruption. He trades the view of beautiful artwork, depicting scenes of the whimsical and fantastical, for an uneasy looking troll with a bowl cut. Arkiro would find that juxtaposition hilarious.

“Can you come with me?” The disruption mumbles under the priest's lecture, and Ailzea can’t tell if those pupil-less eyes are on him or the speaker at the far front.

He casts a look to the Dreamer before he responds. Nymira gives him an encouraging smile. Somehow, despite the circumstances, she still believes her brothers operate on goodwill. He nods and stands to follow the troll that stands in front of him.

They walk until they reach a part of the compound that seems a bit more residential, their slice of land surely impressive and no doubt a result of Favion’s masterful use of manipulation tactics when he’s in his best mind. 

“Cylion will speak to you in here,” the troll with the bowl cut says as he leads him into a dining area flanked by two closed bedroom doors. It is all he’s said the entire trip. “In the name of privacy.” He explains.

“I understand. Thank you.”

Then his escort moves to exit the way they entered, but Ailzea speaks again before he can get very far. “Will the elder Lefera be joining us as well? 

He freezes in the doorway and seems to wince or shudder at the thought.

“Yeah, I’ll,” a pause. “I’ll check on that for you.”

A curious response, but not one the Restorer can fault him for.

Favion is not a troll to be invoked lightly.

Some time passes before the young priest finds his way to the room that Ailzea waits for him in. In that time, Ailzea has found himself regretting not bringing something with which to keep his hands and mind busy. Though he dares not craft under that savage of a man’s roof. The ghost of a horrible memory looms somewhere in the back of his mind. He sighs it away.

Cylion enters the room briskly, already having tugged the collar out from his shirt, the sunflower from his eye, holding each in his hand as he pulls the rest of his ceremonial garb up over his head to reveal a tanktop underneath. The ceremonial clothes seems to Ailzea to hide much of the bulk of the yellow blood’s wings, but his under shirt allows him the freedom to stretch them out. Which he does.

He discards his accessories on a counter on his way to where the Restorer sits. Finally, he gives him his full attention.

The eye contact fills Ailzea’s head with an uncomfortably pregnant fog.

“Father will not be joining us.” He asserts.

It must be that he is over the original shock of the Restorer’s presence enough for the coolness of his facade to have taken root again. Something tells him that it was in the name of that facade that he was sent away in the middle of the sermon.

“I am afraid my visit largely concerns your father and his recent behavior, regarding my children and otherwise. I would like him to be in attendance.”

Cylion’s nose nearly scrunches, almost twisting his face up at the mention of children, but he stops himself partway through. Ailzea imagines the protest of Marrie as a child dying on the tongue he sucks against his teeth.

Cool neutrality returns to his face. “We are deeply sorry for that–”

“Favion will join us. Nymira as well.” There is a level of force alien to even Ailzea that the words leave his mouth with. “Please.” He amends.

The younger priest’s mouth clamps shut with an audible clacking of his teeth, clearly unused to his authority being challenged. “Father is unwell. And Nymira must rest.”

“Cylion. I am no longer asking.”

Something familiar that isn’t forcibly repressed in the Restorer’s mind bubbles behind Cylion’s eye and just below the surface of his features. Ailzea’d seen that look long ago, hundreds of times, just before Favion would do something reprehensible.  The expression passes over the younger Lefera like a ghost.

At least he has some level of self control.

“Of course.” He grits, takes a moment to step away to give the instruction to Bowl Cut at the door, and returns to sit near the Grand High Blood finally tossing his weight around. “It would be easier with me.”

“I am not looking for easy. I am looking for finished.”

Cylion shakes his head and averts his gaze to his own perfectly manicured nails, tongue sucking against his teeth again. “You’re as stubborn as Archie.”

–

Nymira arrives first, also changed into clothing designed more in the name of comfort than presentation. She practically floats ahead of Bowl Cut as they enter.

The two yellow bloods exchange an indecipherable look as the godling crosses all the way to the side of the table the Restorer sits at.

“I’m so happy you made it, Father Restorer!” Her enthusiasm as palpable as one brother's dread and the other’s anger. “Did you enjoy the service?”

“I did, thank you for having me.” He looks at the brothers for a brief moment and then returns his attention to her. “I have been thinking about our conversation, my child. How does some time away from home sound to you?”

The silence that wraps itself around the room as the question leaves his mouth is as thick and impenetrable as the block that prevents Ailzea from properly focusing on the winged yellow blood.

“She can’t just–”

“I will not force you,” Ailzea continues once Cylion’s bewildered, close to the tipping point, voice pierces through the blanket of silence. “However, there is a space for you within my walls should you choose to take me up on that offer.”

Nymira stares back at him with eyes wide and shaking, bright shimmering pools of black that could suck him in with her desire if he wasn’t careful. She chews on the idea, her gaze shifting from the elder priest to the younger, then back again.

“Nymira-” Cylion’s protest is quelled as quickly as it starts by a wave of Ailzea’s hand.

The Goddess fidgets.

“Father Restorer,” her voice catches and he waits for her to find her balance. She chances a glance at her brother, he stares back as though he means to bend her to his will with his mind. She shrinks. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, I trust that your brothers will handle business while you are away.”

Now it is Ailzea’s turn to put the full brunt of his attention on Cylion, the younger priest does not flinch in the face of it, a stormy look taking hold of his own features. Both sets of wings flare and fold in on themselves in time with the breathing he fights hard to regulate.

Cylion exhales hard through his nose.

“Father Roatus,” he begins, silver tongue searching for a line to pull. “There are people here that rely on her here. She can’t be taken from her people.”

“That is a decision she will make when she has had her rest, should she choose to take my offer.”

Cylion opens his mouth to respond, but he pauses. His attention is somewhere else, brought toward the entrance to the room, by the sound of a low thud that spills into it. All eyes fall on Favion as he crouches into the doorway.

Immediately the elder Lefera’s attention is grabbed by the sight of Ailzea.

He breaks into an uneven grin.

“Favion,” Ailzea acknowledges him with a nod. “We were just discussing Nymira’s break from her duties.”

The hulk of a yellow blood stops just beyond the threshold and grips the doorframe, he works his jaw for a moment. Then he speaks.

“Interesting proposal,” he gravels, the words struggling through a rock tumbler before falling out of his mouth. “My sprout stays here.”

“It is not a request.” Ailzea asserts as he stands up.

A rattle of a growl shakes loose in the beast's chest, Cylion and his brother look between each other, Nymira takes a step behind the Restorer.

“Favion, I only asked you here so that your children are not made to explain to you what has occurred.” The Restorer turns his attention to the godling and nods again in her direction. “The decision is hers.”

There is a sharp snap, and a crack begins to form along the door frame from beneath Favion’s massive claw, then another silence descends on the group. The silence vies for dominance over the new wave of tense atmosphere that smothers them. Nymira says nothing, shrinking from her father and closer to the purple priest when he lets loose another growl and steps further into the room. This time the growl is punctuated by the sound of his teeth grinding together.

Cylion’s anger looks right at home on his father’s face.

Beyond the ferocity, Ailzea finds something else mixed into it. Something that he cannot place.

Not on Favion’s face, anyway, the way his lips always twisted into a fierce snarl ready to rip someone apart. Beyond that, there was something soft. A tenderness.

Love. He thinks. For his daughter.

And here she was hiding away from him.

“Nymira?” Ailzea asks softly, tearing his attention away from the hulk. “What do you say?”

“I would like to go with you.” She responds in a voice meant for a mouse, unable to rip her own eyes off of her father’s threat display. “Just… For a little while.”

“Sprout,” Favion advances, enough that Ailzea can make out the age which aids the deterioration that mars the yellow giant’s face. The ghost of a fearsome sneer finds itself locked behind the gentle expression he wears like a mask to look at his daughter with. “Why?”

There is a lull, the Restorer looks from Favion to his descendant behind him. The winged troll looks furious, staring coldly at his sister, once against doing his best to control her with that steely gaze.

Ailzea turns slightly to obscure her from his view.

Nymira breathes, he feels her grab hold of his robes from behind.

“Father,” her voice wavers. “You hurt my friends and everyone was ready to lie to me about it! Cylion has been cruel and he…” She hesitates, Ailzea imagines that she might’ve brought up Little Friend but thought better of it in present company. He is grateful for this. “He let a bad man take me away! To teach me some sort of lesson. He made sure I would forget things… That his words meant more to me than my own thoughts. That’s no way to treat someone you care about!” The words rush out of her quickly, a poorly made dam coming down in the face of her flood of emotion.

Favion stands statue still, teeth grinding all the while he processes the information. It would take a moment for him to catch it all even on his best day. Behind him, Cylion cannot help the growl that thunders from his chest. Bowl Cut fidgets with the edges of his shirt.

“I just need somewhere to breathe. Please, Father.”

Ailzea speaks before the broken yellow blood finds use of his mouth again. “Go, Nymira. Gather your things.”

“Okay. Thank you Father. Thank you, too, Father Restorer.” She says breathlessly and takes the long way around to the room’s exit so she does not risk crossing the path of her explosive brother and frozen father.  Her failed prophets.

When she is safely out of the room, all compassion leaves Favion’s face. His expression twists into one of pure animosity, then his lips part into a snarl that brings Ailzea back to all of those daymares where his children are mutilated right before his eyes.

One of the brothers makes an involuntary sound.

The yellow blood advances on him, claw angled to grab him up by the horn.

Ailzea sighs.

“Favion. I have had enough of this!” Once again, the force that Ailzea manages is alien even to himself. “If you cannot behave civilly, return to your chambers!” This time his own voice rings loud in his ears, leaving behind the echoes of all the times in his youth that he’d been on the receiving end of one of his predecessor's tyrades.

He sounds just like Matere Roatus. That man’s voice on Ailzea’s tongue leaves a metallic taste behind. How many times was that line used on him, followed by the destruction of something dear to his heart?

Ailzea would never stoop so low.

When he refocuses on the scene in front of him, the beast of a troll has already fallen still. He stands in a neutral position, perhaps awaiting an order. At the same time, the pair of brothers have found themselves on the other side of the kitchen, not keen on a bath of blood if it came down to it.

“Favion, you will let her do as she wishes.”

Favion grunts, and though he appears to comply, contempt poisons his features and taints the air between them.

Cylion opens his mouth to protest, anger paints him in a grim light, but Ailzea shoots it down with a glower of his own.

Almost as soon as the question left her mouth, the Reverend barked out a surprised laugh. One that was born both of shock and genuine humor. There wasn’t a soul in the whole wretched city that would use the word poor as a descriptor for that beast of a yellow blood. Not the young man that spent his evenings prowling after smaller and weaker willed trolls. It would be a delusion, a mistake, to consider that boy a poor thing by any stretch of the imagination.

Matere had a list of other, much more suitable descriptions: Repulsive, disgusting, vile— To name a few.

Weaver was clearly not as humored as he, signified by the way the witch fully pulled away from her partner to instead stand by his bedside, hands balled into fists at her sides.

“Matere, this is not a laughing matter.”

“I would hardly cast pity upon Favion Lefera, animal that he is.”

She shook her head and crossed her arms over her chest, with a nasty scowl a clear indication to her mate that she well and truly meant business.

“What did you do to him? Why is he getting more aggressive? Especially if you find such animalistic behavior to be beneath you.”

Matere felt himself grin, gloved hands clapping together to get the attention of the attendant from the hall. He, of course, did not consider the aggression of his little pet project to be beneath him. He was, in fact, extremely happy with the results of tampering with the boy. He wouldn’t give it up for anything, not even the peace of his mate.

Her ambivalence would be missed, however.

“I will show you.” He said when the attendant appeared in the doorway. “Bring Favion to us, quickly,” he commanded and watched as they practically flew down the hall in compliance. “You will not like it, and I sincerely do not believe that it can be undone.”

Weaver frowned at the taunt, but the pair were both well aware that even if it could be, it would only happen over the Reverend’s dead body.

—

The Restorer was not one for rushing. He never so much as broke out into a brisk walk, regardless of what it was he was attending to. That being the case, it was a head turning spectacle when he made quick work of covering the distance between his chambers and the front doors of the church upon hearing of Weaver’s arrival. Not quite a run, but enough to get the attention of any of the followers that happened to be along his path.

It was the juxtaposition of his typical placid expression coupled with the urgency that piqued most of the curiosity.

She met him at the door, before his arrival, she was nearly a statue, his only rival in a competition for stoniest expression, but her doe-eyed apprentice more than made up for her lack of excitement. The smaller of the two purple bloods was flitting about the entrance, gaping at the high ceilings and marveling wordlessly at the stained glass.

When Weaver saw the incesed priest approach, she broke into a grin of her own. “Ailzea, please forgive me that I could not come sooner,” she offered her apology quickly and enveloped him in a hug in the same instant, stooping a bit so that the hug was not distorted by their difference in height.

“That you found the time to come at all means all the world.” He replied in his usual cadence, unchanged by his mad dash to meet her at the door. “I see you bring a friend.”

“Ah, yes. This is Spider, my apprentice. The experience will be invaluable for her.” While they spoke of her, the pair turned their gazes to the young troll to find her staring up at the priest with stars in her eyes, mouth wide open. “I hope that this is alright with you, Ailzea.”

Never one to mistreat the youth, Ailzea untangled himself from his elder and greeted the young witch with a wave. “Of course it is no trouble.”

Spider pumped a fist up in triumph, much to the amusement of her mentor.

“Please, follow me.” He instructed as he began to lead the way back to his study, “My children are already waiting on us.”

The walk back to the study was uneventful. Beyond Spider’s occasional asking after what corridors would lead to which rooms and the priest obliging her curiosity, it featured only the elder trolls catching up on their lost time. Occasionally, Spider ran ahead of them to get a better look at a stained glass piece or old painting, ghosting fingers around their edges in reverence, then waiting for the entourage to catch up.

“She has quite an eye for the arts.” The priest observed.

“It is all she talks about outside of her studies.”

When they arrived at the study, Ailzea led his guests to where they were met by his children as promised. The two young Roatus’ were seated at his work table, scrutinizing the project he’d left abandoned when Weaver was announced.

“I’m thinkin’ it’s another mantis.” Archie said after straightening up from inspecting it closely.

”It’s not always going to be a mantis,” Marrie argued, letting her fingers trail at the base of the figure.

“A man can’t dream? Need another one to display my collection.”

Marrie rolled her eyes.

“It is going to be a giraffe,” the priest announced their presence with the clarification. “I will happily make you another display piece afterwards.” He promised and Archie grinned in response.

“You spoil him, you know.” Marrie said and gave her brother a playful shove. “That’s why he’s like that.”

“It cannot be helped.”

Archie only returned her shove with a mischievous grin. “Who’sat with you, pops?” He indicated the witch and appearance with a small gesture.

“This is Weaver, an old friend that may be able to help us with Marrie’s arm.” As he spoke, he looked down to then introduce Spider, but found that she’d already made it her business to inspect his daughter with gusto.

Though she did not touch her, she openly marveled at the craftsmanship with which she was put together.

“Please forgive my curious Spider,” Weaver said softly, stern gaze on her apprentice. “She finds the magic in everything.”

Marrie only giggled. “That’s not something to apologize for! It’s a good thing. I’m Marrie, this is Archie.”

Her brother leaned back against the table, his attention now on the witch that stood near his father. He crossed his arms over his chest. “Whadya gonna do for Marrie?” His inquiry was a simple one, but he was only successful in hiding the anxiety behind it from the pair he’d just met.

“Straight to the point. He is certainly a Roatus.” Weaver could not contain her smile as she moved in closer to get a better look at Marrie and the arm that she had in a sling. “I’ve not had the pleasure of doing this on one of your father’s creations, but there is no reason it shouldn’t work — Spider, the supplies — May I?”

Spider began to dig into her messenger bag and pulled out all sorts of odds and ends that Archie eyed as she set them on the table. It was nothing that Ailzea’d never seen before, so he busied himself clearing the table to leave space for her to work.

Marrie leaned in toward Weaver and offered up her arm, Weaver delicately undid the sling.

On the table in place of the wooden figure and wood working tools, Spider placed two jars of pitch black liquids, two needles, and a spool of purple thread. Archie raised his brows at the collection, but said nothing. Weaver continued.

“It is a simple enough procedure. I will stitch life into the arm,” with a soft click, she popped it out of the socket. “Then I will sew that force into Marrie.”

“And that’ll work?”

“I should have no reason to think otherwise.”

Archie casted a worried glance to his big sister, who beamed back at him.

“Never heard of magic like that.”

“You have my word, there is nothing to worry about.”

—

The Reverend was not a patient man. Even his matesprit could not wiggle her way around the shortness of that fuse. He sighed behind her as she examined the yellow blood.

“Matere, you need not breathe over my shoulder while I work.”

When he made no indication that he’d be leaving, it was her turn to sigh, but she continued moving. First she dipped the needle into the jar of liquid before her. Then she raised it to her eyes for inspection.

The entire thing and long trail of thread tied to it glistened in the light of the Reverend’s study.

“Favion,” he addressed the boy that sat obediently in front of her with the back of his neck fully exposed. The boy responded with a grunt. “How do you feel?”

It was not genuine worry with which the Reverend asked the question, rather it was purely scientific interest.

“Dying.” Came the gruff response. “Then undying. All the time.”

Matere hummed, one that sounded closer to a purr. He had not expected the results to be what they were, but they were a delight either way.

Inside of Favion the Reverend’s decaying voodoos fought for dominance with his descendant’s life giving voodoos, both of which dampened by the boy's own nullifying psionic ability.

Neither power, much to the Reverend’s entertainment, would stop coursing through the lowblood until they finished the job. And his natural defense mechanism would see to it that this never came to be.

He eyed the blackened vein-like fissures that crackled out in all directions on the yellow blood’s neck with a smug sense of satisfaction.

“Does it hurt?”

“It throbs.”

“Matere, your hand.” Weaver interrupted, and he complied.

She wasted no time, plunging the liquid soaked needle into his exposed flesh. It began to sting and he swallowed a wince when she pulled it out the other side, coating it and the full length of the accompanying thread in a slick of his blood.

The witch waited until it started to glow before she turned her attention back to Favion.

“This will burn the entire time, and it is not a cure.”

Favion grunted.

“But it will help with the deterioration and aggression.” It took a lot of convincing for the Reverend to even allow this level of intervention. Love being as powerful as it is. “Temporarily.”

He grunted again, which she took as confirmation that he understood. With deft hands, she began to stitch along the rotting mark left behind by her lover.

—

“S’it have to be our old man?” Archie asked, watching the witch saturate the needles and their attached threads in their own jars of the unknown liquid. She mumbled something over the set, leading them to start bubbling in their containment, before responding.

“Not necessarily. It just needs to be very fresh blood, but I imagine there is something special about Roatus blood that will be better for your sister in the long run.”

He held his wrist up to her face, when her gaze traveled up to meet his, there was something of determination in his eyes.

“Let me, then.”

Weaver smiled, then she tossed a glance to Ailzea, who nodded his approval.

“You love your family a great deal, is that right Archie?”

“‘Course I do.”

“And who am I to deny a love so fierce?”

Marrie was all smiles, hand clasped in her brother’s free hand.

“Spider,” the apprentice popped up by her side. “See to Archie.” She instructed as she lifted up Marrie’s severed arm and one of the soaked needles.

Spider fist pumped once more and very carefully took the remaining needle from its solution with one hand and Archie’s exposed wrist with the other.

“You’ll feel a little pinch!” She announced.

You lean into the mirror and sweep your bangs aside, glancing over your forehead for any new signs of horn growth. Once satisfied that you are still not an early bloomer, you wipe your face on your tank top and trudge across the carpet to topple back into bed.

You got her out in time. Nothing more to do.

“Send Ailzea my regards.”

Your palms fly to your ears as the memory resurfaces, as if you expect, somehow, to squeeze that rasping voice straight out of your skull. Your jaw is clenched so tight you might as well be trying to mimic him, the tension in your neck causing your head to shake.

He deserved worse than a single stab wound.

He still does.

“You must promise me.”

You roll over in bed, lips twitching against the snarl that tries desperately to make a home upon your face. You flex a hand, emptier than you like it, and remember the thunk of metal meeting flesh.

If you’d just aimed for the head.

More restless by the second, you turn over a second time, nostrils flaring with the effort of keeping your breathing under control. 

The way he grinned at you.

The glint in his eye.

“Send Ailzea my regards.”

He knew. He knew exactly how to hurt him, how to hurt your family, and he had reveled in it.

“Promise me.”

You have never known fear to grace your father’s voice before.

Once again, you roll over, mind flicking back to that dark, dingy room. The gouges on the walls, the claw marks, those claws he used to maim your sister.

With a growl, you slam a pillow over your head and squeeze your eyes shut, trying to will away the wet, labored breathing that permeates your thoughts. Despite your efforts, however, the sound only grows louder in your ears.

Another dash of cold water might be in order. Hoping to clear your head again, you toss your blanket aside and throw your leg out to plod back to the sink, foot coming down hard against stone.

Both the chill and the sound are enough to draw your attention, and your gaze is pulled to the floor, currently illuminated by a dwindling purple glow.

“Little Roatus,” a broken voice rattles just in front of you. “Back so soon?”

A number of thoughts buzz through your head, clambering to reach the front of the crowd, but only one can get there first.

I’m in my pajamas.

Funny. It’s always the least important thing that sticks out the most at times like this.

With that storm settling, you lift your eyes to follow the haggard form before you, stoic despite the dreadful anticipation that poisons the air. Stooped beneath shoulders that don’t line up quite right, Favion curls his lip into a delighted grin and regards you with something you can only assume to be glee.

Though you can feel your rage burning a hole in your chest, you manage to keep your voice and expression light.

“Ah, shit,” you gripe playfully, snapping your fingers. “Knew I shouldn’ta taken that left turn at Thorezille.”

His smile falters slightly.

Good. He doesn’t get your anger. You refuse to give him the satisfaction. Fuming can resume once you’re safe at home, away from this freak and the threat he poses to your father’s peace of mind. 

You don’t even bother finding something cute to say as you prepare to make a hasty retreat, far more concerned with upholding your promise than with cracking wise. A small step back places some distance between yourself and Favion, and you conjure Marrie’s image into your mind.

If anyone can keep your attention enough to prevent a repeat of this little mishap, it’s your sister. 

You’re picturing your sister.

Why is nothing happening?

You can see her face in your thoughts, as clear as ever, but much to your dismay, the world around you remains as still as death. Impassive, you wave a hand in front of your face. 

No glow.

The faintest crease finds itself a home on your brow, a mild movement lasting barely a second, but it spells your bewilderment all the same.

Favion’s face splits into a grin once more, jaw clicking as his lips part to reveal a row of flat, shiny teeth. He thinks he’s seen a chip in your armor. He’ll have to think again.

You waste no time in shifting tactics, diverting your attention from where you want to be to where you are. The yellow blood in front of you. The pull of the ground. You’ll crush the bastard under his own weight.

This time, the attempt bears fruit, proven by the faint purple light that spills out across the shadowed floor. Your adversary buckles slightly, misaligned back hunching further, and he must shift his weight to account for your intrusions in his gravity.

Then he shambles towards you, expending only as much effort as one might need to traverse a modest hill.

Again, your brows knit themselves together, confusion dancing plainly across your features. You take a step back, looking the man up and down. A question sits poised upon your tongue, lips pursing minutely to contain it.

Favion takes a rasping breath and chuckles to himself, the sound harsh in his throat.

“Is that what he would have looked like?” His smile widens, claws flexing at his side. “How intoxicating.”

One large step forward sends you back two. His movements, ragged and disjointed, are a stark contrast to your own, which remain fluid and relaxed even as he backs you towards the wall. You’ve made it through countless scuffles without using your powers, often against guys this size. The lack of a proper weapon is unfortunate, but you’re far from worried.

Hell, even if he does manage to get at you, what are the odds he actually ends it? He certainly seems the type to play with his food. And you’re a garnish if anything— what he really cares about is your father.

Speaking of your father, you oughta get back to work on popping home. Between your lackluster performance in upping his gravity and the fog that obscured Marrie the last she was here, It’s not hard to piece together what’s going on. Guy’s got psionics. They’re dampening yours.

But if you made it in, you can make it out. Might just need to work a little harder. You can manage that. 

He’s still just menacing you for now, and you use the freedom that affords you to pivot before you can be cornered, sweeping your gaze around the room.

“Pause-- is this a fucking dungeon?”

Now it’s his turn to look perplexed. You survey the room again, more obviously this time.

“I mean, shit, not even a poster or anythin’? Hell’s wrong with you?”

He grinds his jaw, something popping in the process.

“No, you’re right, that was rude,” you concede, raising both hands in supplication. “S’just not my preference is all. Different strokes, I get it.”

He grits his teeth, voice coming out in a hiss. “Annoying.”

“Hey, thanks. I get that a lot. So, like I’uz sayin’--”

You hear the hit before you feel it, the force of the strike enough to send you sprawling to the floor. Ears ringing from the impact, you raise a hand to cup your cheek and allow the sting to wash over you. When you pull your palm away, you find it slick with blood.

An ecstatic laugh bubbles from your chest.

“Fuck, brother, you pack a punch!” 

Favion halts, taken aback by your strange reaction. You pause too, realizing you’re actually going to need to get off the ground. Manually. What a drag.

“So, the aesthetic,” you start again, dotting a small purple smiley face onto the tile. “Was this always your thing, or’d that part come after you became whatever you are now?”

The growl that pours from the yellowblood is beastly, which is appropriate you suppose. He leans down to reach for you, filling the room with the cracking of bone.

“That’s one hell’uva coincidence, chief. Lucky you!”

Though his talons manage to graze your chest, you roll away before he can grab you proper and spring to your feet. A glance down reveals three small holes pricked into your nightshirt, a small purple stain spreading out across the largest gash’s edge. You prod at the cut for a moment, then lick a spot of blood from your thumb.

“You’re kinda slow, anyone ever tell you that?”

The yellowblood grunts and straightens, bracing himself with one clawed hand against the wall. He grinds his jaw again, tongue pressing against the back of his teeth while he reminds himself how to use it.

“Stop. Talking.”

“Ygot summ’na say?”

Another growl rattles out of his throat. You nod thoughtfully, eyebrows raised.

“Great point.”

The jibes are second nature at this point, mouth rattling off while your head floats elsewhere. In fact, throughout this dance around Favion’s dwelling, there’s been exactly one thing on your mind.

Now, that thing is finally coming into focus.

With Marrie’s delicate features sitting neatly in your thoughts, you lift your head and flash the man a grin.

“Let’s do this again sometime, eh, big guy?”